#(it's not too-hot-to-touch though so we are not in the real danger zone yet)

[a-commas-a-pause]

feeling my computer's temperature with the back of my hand like it's my sick child and I'm checking its fever

[noteguk]

danger zone | knj | m

— summary; in which namjoon lives a dangerous life and sometimes you can’t really stand it. Still, you can’t step away either. 

— contents and warnings; smut, a little spark of angst and a fuckload of fluff, criminal!namjoon x reader, established relationship, dom!namjoon and sub!reader, breast play, fingering, oral (f rec), dirty talk, begging, Namjoon has a big dick, unprotected sex, creampie, a bit of possessiveness, multiple orgasms, overstimulation 

— words; 4,5k 

— author’s note; this was supposed to be a quick pwp drabble but here we are… 

Words could not explain the relief that washed over you when you saw the headlights peaking through the diaphanous living room curtains, blasting inside your house like beacons of divine hope. You ran to the front door faster than ever before, stepping into the cold mist of the night as he closed the car door behind him. You managed to see his friend, Hoseok, waving you goodbye before he pulled out of the driveway and you started balling your eyes out. 

And then you couldn’t really see anything else. 

Namjoon did not hesitate to walk toward you, wrapping his strong arms around your lower back and pulling you closer to his warm chest. He smelled of vanilla and cigarettes, and your knees almost buckled at the thought of losing that scent forever. 

“Baby, you’re gonna catch a cold,” he mumbled, placing a soft kiss on the top of your head. Namjoon positioned one hand on the nape of your neck, playing with your hair as you whimpered against his hot embrace, fists clenched over his pecs. You were wearing only pyjama shorts and a tank top, and the gelid breeze of the night showed you no mercy. “Why don’t we go inside?” 

For a moment you thought that your legs would fail you, but, to your relief, it was just a feeble impression. Namjoon held you tightly against him as you two walked back inside your house, mumbling how much he missed you, how much he couldn’t wait to see you again. All that you could do was to listen, with your nose stuffy and eyes tearing up, as he started telling you about his past few weeks.

You had been sure you had lost him that time. Namjoon had never stayed longer than a day without talking to you (or at least telling you that he would be a bit M.I.A. for the following weeks, because of the secretive nature of his work), and the fact that you had gotten nothing but silence for almost three weeks was enough to make your mind go wild. It wasn’t hard to imagine that the worst had finally happened. 

There was no one you could call — as in, you had a few numbers, but you were prohibited to get in contact with them. Namjoon had made it clear that he didn’t want you to get involved in his business, and something as simple as a phone call to the wrong person could be enough to get you wrapped up in an official investigation. He had made special efforts to make sure that, in case all went to shit, the feds could never prove that you knew anything about his illicit schemes. If something happened to him — prison, death, something in between — Namjoon would be at peace knowing that you were safe and taken care of. 

So, you had been good, and you didn’t call. You had just waited, fighting through your normal routine and forging fake smiles towards your coworkers. By the time that the second week rolled around, you were considering calling every morgue in the country — and then quickly melted down once you realized he was probably not even using his real name. There was nothing you could do but wait. For god knows how long. 

Times like those made you want to give up on everything. You and Namjoon had a chemistry that you never felt before, you understood each other in levels that you never thought possible. He loved you with all of his heart and you felt the same. And yet, you were exhausted from being so scared for him, from feeling so helpless in the face of his unstable and unpredictable job. 

You had told yourself that, if he came back, you would end it all. 

But now that he was standing in front of you, things weren’t so easy. 

Your boyfriend took you to the kitchen, where he warmed up a drink for you as he told you about how he had spent those last few weeks. Namjoon explained that one of his shipments had been stolen (of what, you didn’t dare to ask), and he had to take care of it himself. During that time, he and his crew were being attacked and watched constantly, and he would never risk the idea of pulling you into that mess. It was an unspoken truth that having you as a hostage would make all of his defenses crumble. Expressing any sort of weakness in his business was like bleeding in a sea full of sharks.  

You understood, because of course you would. And he understood when you told him about how terrified, how overwhelmingly worried you had been. 

“I wanted to call Yoongi, Hoseok… I don’t know, anyone,” you said, taking your cup of tea closer to your face. The heat emanated in waves, warming up your lips as the thin lines of smoke curled up in the air. You took a small slip, and the coldness of the night was just a memory then. “But I knew that I shouldn’t do that, so I just… Joon, I thought you were dead.” 

“I’m so sorry, love.” Namjoon pulled you in, wrapping one arm around your back and pressing a kiss against your forehead. You always felt so safe in his arms, like nothing could ever touch you. “I know how you feel, it’s unfair making you go through this.” 

“It is.” You sniffed, looking down at your tea cup. “But it’s all for you. And I love you, Joon.” 

There was a second of silence as the words floated in the space between the two of you, a deep sigh from your part as you placed the cup on the marble surface of the kitchen island. That house felt too big for you, too spacious and filled with expensive stuff, and it whispered doubts in your ear. You didn’t know where all that money came from, you often didn’t know what Namjoon was doing or what he was thinking about. You had no idea what kind of dangers he faced every single day, or the hoops he had to jump through to keep you safe. 

You could have given up on everything already. You knew that he would understand. But you didn’t. Time and time again, you would realize that all your momentaneous bravery towards a breakup was short-lived: you loved him more than you feared losing him. You wanted Namjoon and no one else. You knew that ending things and stepping into an ordinary life, with an ordinary guy and ordinary worries, would never cut it. You had learned to live in the danger zone that was your relationship with Namjoon, and you doubted you could ever truly step away from it. 

Namjoon knew that too. He looked down at you with a deep mixture of tenderness and devotion in his dark eyes, caressing your cheek as he dove in to place a kiss on your lips. “I love you too, baby,” he murmured. “I missed you so much.”  

You melted in his hold, surrounding his waist with your arms and pushing yourself against his chest. “Missed you too,” you said. “I know why you keep these things secret from me, but it fucking sucks.” 

Namjoon chuckled, his calloused hands caressing your hair. You realized that he probably was just as worried as you — not knowing if you were safe, if you hadn’t gotten yourself in a messy situation trying to find him. Needless to say, he was filled with pride knowing you did everything he had asked you to. “I’m gonna tell you a secret, but you can’t tell anyone.” The suspense in his voice was enough for you to pull away from his chest, looking up at him with expectant eyes. Namjoon cupped your checks with his hands and smiled. “You're the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” 

You could not fight the smirk that crawled up on your lips. That simple sentence was enough to shift the weight of the atmosphere around the two of you, allowing for your hurt to slip away. “Bullshit,” you said. 

“I’m serious.” He raised his eyebrows, lowering himself so he could place another pec on your lips. “Inside and out.”

That time, you could not hold back your laugh. “You’re so cheesy.” 

Your comment seemed to light up something inside his head, because, the next second, Namjoon was pulling away with a click of his tongue. “Speaking of cheesy, I almost forgot,” he started to say, turning around. “I got you something. It’s in the bedroom with the rest of my stuff.” 

You stood still for a second, trying to understand his words. “You... got me something? In the middle of all of that mess?” Then you were rushing behind him, going up the stairs as Namjoon simply hummed in agreement. “Joon, it’s okay, I—“ 

“Accept my gift, baby.” He stopped as he reached the second floor, waiting for you to catch up. “It’s not gonna make up for the time away, but I want to make you happy.” 

“What is it?” You asked, wet eyes blinking up at him, but he only smiled and turned around, gesturing for you to follow him into the bedroom. 

~ 

Namjoon’s present was a dress — or, rather, the dress. It was this beautiful long gown you had seen a few months back during one of your trips to the mall, a grandiose red thing that wrapped around the mannequin’s upper body before expanding just beneath its thighs. You remember feeling overwhelmed by its beauty, holding Namjoon’s hand tighter as you shared your amazement with him. Your fascination was short lived, though, because soon the price tag scared you away and you made yourself forget about that overpriced dream. 

Until that night, that was. Namjoon told you he had the gift ready to go before it all went down with the shipment situation, and the image of you wearing it was one of the few things that managed to keep him sane for so long. The glimmer of happiness in his eyes was enough for you to silence yourself before you could argue about the dress’ ostentatious price, instead choosing to thank him. 

You changed in the large bathroom of your master suite, eyes lost in the way the red shade, pure as sin, clung to your body like it was made for you. There was a wave of love gushing out of your heart, a joyfulness that only came from those little surprises that Namjoon would give you. You loved it. You loved him. 

“God,” Namjoon mumbled to himself when you stepped out of the bathroom, his figure sitting on the corner of your large bed. There was a moment of silence as his eyes ran all over your body, trying to memorize every little detail of you, his mind going blank and his mouth dropping in awe. “I might as well fall to my knees and ask for your hand in marriage now.”

You giggled, stepping closer to the bed. “Careful, I might say yes,” you told him, placing your arms around his shoulders. Namjoon looked up at you with so much devotion that you thought you could collapse at any given point. “I loved it. Thank you, Joon.”

He hummed, taking his large palms to rest on either side of your waist. You could feel his heat emanating through the fabric of the dress, sending waves of anticipation up and down your body. “I’m glad you did,” he spoke, his voice much lower than before. You knew Namjoon enough to know exactly what he was thinking, and there was nothing you wanted more than that. “My girl is so pretty…”

His lips were on your neck soon after, nipping and sucking your skin like they were made for that. Namjoon’s hands were trying to explore everywhere at the same time, moving from to your breasts to your waist, then back down your thighs and up your hips and toward your ass — where he placed a strong grip. 

“So fucking pretty… all mine,” he was speaking to himself at that point, his breath heavy around your collarbones. Namjoon tugged at the sides of the dress, completely ignoring the zipper as he tried to take it off of you. 

You laughed at his eagerness. “Careful with the dress, Joon.” 

“I’ll buy you another one.” He tugged at the fabric again, harder that time, and you were afraid that he was actually going to tear it in half if you didn’t act soon. “I’ll buy you any dress you want, don’t care if I ruin this one.” 

“I don’t want any other dresses, though.” Your hands left his shoulders and moved up your back, finding the zipper and swiftly pulling it down. Soon enough, the dress was just a pool of redness circling your feet. “I just want you.” 

Namjoon swallowed hard at the image of your bare body in full display for him — he should’ve known you wouldn’t wear any underwear with that piece of sin, and he couldn’t say that he was disappointed. All that it took you was one glimpse at his pants to see his hard cock already straining against the fabric, needy for you. 

“So beautiful,” he said, reaching out to place his hand on your hip. Namjoon’s eyes were everywhere at once, drinking you up. You knew he was holding back, he could flip you over and fuck you into the mattress at any second he wished to. “Is this all for me, baby?” 

“Yes,” you told him, taking his hand and guiding it to your breast. Namjoon squeezed the soft flesh, making you whimper at the feeling. “All yours, Joon.” 

“All mine,” he repeated, finally breaking out of his trance and meeting your stare. Namjoon was probably stressed out of his mind, and you just managed to turn all that negative energy into pure sexual stamina. Not that you were complaining. “Want you to lay down for me, baby.” 

You did not hesitate to do as he requested, moving around the large circular bed and placing your head against the soft pillows. There was a fire of expectation burning at the pit of your stomach and accumulating between your thighs, which only grew as you watched your boyfriend undress for you. 

Namjoon was quick and objective with his movements and soon enough he was naked, his golden skin shining under the warm lights and his big cock standing erect and flushed, ready for you. Just by looking at him you could feel your walls clenching, a sigh perishing on your lips at the memory of his member inside you, stretching you out like no one else could. Your boyfriend didn’t only have one of the biggest dicks you had ever seen, but he also knew how to use it — a dangerous combination that mostly explained why you couldn’t walk straight after a good night by his side. Again: not that you were complaining. 

The mattress dipped under his weight, your eyes following his movements as Namjoon placed himself between your legs. His eyes were hungry and focused, more than you had seen in a while, and when he commanded you to “Open your legs for me, love,” you couldn’t obey fast enough. 

Namjoon hummed in content as he leaned down between your thighs, one finger lazily dragging upwards between your soaked folds. He barely touched you, but you were so on the edge that the motion was enough to make you sigh. “Such a pretty cunt,” he said, and the finger moved back down, tenderly rubbing around your sensitive entrance. You flinched at the feeling, biting on your lip to suppress a moan. “So wet for me. Did you touch yourself while I was gone, baby?” 

There was no reason to lie, he would know regardless. “Yes, but only once.” 

It was true: after Namjoon had stopped contacting you, you were so scared that you didn’t even think about anything sexual — nor were you in the right mindset for that. 

He seemed to like your response, humming for a moment before he took a second digit to your entrance — never going in, though, only teasing its surroundings. “Was it good, baby?” 

You knew exactly what he wanted to hear, “Not as good as you,” you said, leaning on your elbows so you could hold his gaze better. Namjoon was looking at you like a starved man, and you knew it was just a matter of time before his own self-control ran thin. “Your cock is so much better.” 

He chuckled — a deep, melodious chuckle that sent heat straight to your core. “Needy girl,” he said, gaze flickering towards your face. “I can’t give it to you just like that. What’s the fun in doing something so fast? You have to earn my cock.” 

Patience was not a virtue you shared with your boyfriend, though, and that was why Namjoon loved to push you to the limits of your self-restraints. You had been foolish to think that things would be different just because he missed you. “How?” You asked, ready to do whatever he asked. 

Namjoon hummed, pretending to think for a moment. His fingers left your opening behind and he moved closer to your pussy, taking a long look at it before saying, “Cum on my tongue and I’ll think about giving it to you.” 

Before you could even think about what to respond, his mouth was on you and your head was spinning. Namjoon repeated the same motions of his fingers — licking a thick stripe up your folds and then back down, protruding the wet muscle against your entrance, swirling his tongue around it. You whimpered at the feeling, body crashing against the bed and fingers intertwining on his hair as he decided to move back up, lips wrapping around your clit as he gave you a gentle suck, humming when you started to moan out his name. 

“Right there, please,” you asked, your voice nothing but a pathetic plea. 

Namjoon, however, was marching to the beat of his own drum. He ignored your request and neglected your clit so his mouth could return to your opening, this time allowing his tongue inside you, drinking every drop of wetness you were giving him. A tremulous breath got caught in your throat when he pressed two of his fingers on your hole, coating it with his saliva before plunging in. 

You cried out, your back arching off the mattress as he continued with his ministrations; his fingers stretching you out as his mouth returned to play with your clit. Namjoon had you the way he liked it: a hot mess sprawled on the bed, seeking your high like it was the most important thing in the world. And he, of course, wouldn’t mind giving it to you as many times as you wanted it. 

The sounds you were making were lewd, mixing with the noises of his fingers pumping in and out of your clenching heat. Namjoon was only human: his cock was so hard that he was losing his mind, and the gorgeous sight of you fumbling under his touches was making him wish you could just cum so he could fuck the soul out of you. 

And because you two were in sync, that was exactly what you did. Namjoon watched in awe as you came around his digits, tightening around him so perfectly that he swore he was about to spill himself on his pristine white sheets. But he managed to keep it together as you continued to roll your pussy against his face, milking the last drops of your orgasm as your wetness dripped down his fingers. 

Namjoon moved away when you started to produce those high-pitched whimpers that signaled your sensitivity. He climbed up over you and crashed his lips on yours, humming as your tongues danced together, filling your mouth with your own taste. His cock was enlarged and heavy against your lower body, barely brushing on your sensitive clit. 

He pulled away so he could speak, his voice was a devilish low groan swimming in the hot air. “Want my cock inside you, baby?”

You were spent already, both of you knew that, and yet there was no hesitation in your tone when you promptly answered with a timid, “Yes, please.”

No matter how much you loved Namjoon’s mouth and fingers on you, there was nothing in the world that could compare to the feeling of having his cock thrusting inside you, filling you up so perfectly. You could fight against a bit of pain, you had done that a few times already, and you knew how fast your boyfriend was to turn everything back into pleasure. 

“Can you cum again for me?” He asked, lowering his hand so he could align himself with your pussy. You swallowed at the brushing of his head against your hole, heartbeat quickening in anticipation. “Can you do one more, baby?” 

You nodded, looking deep inside his eyes. “Yes, as many times as you want.” 

“I don’t deserve you,” Namjoon spoke gently, honest as ever. He leaned in and kissed you slowly, savoring the caresses of your lips as he sighed against the kiss. “You’re too good for me.” 

And then he was pushing himself inside you, spreading you open like he was meant to be there, filling you up to the brim. You heaved and held to his shoulders as Namjoon reached incredibly deep inside you, getting used to his size. No matter how many times he fucked you, every time still felt like the first. 

“Fuck, your pussy feels perfect, like it was made for me,” he cursed, slowly thrusting inside you. You whimpered at the delicious drag of his cock against your walls, already experiencing the switch of pain to pleasure. “Keep your legs up for me, baby.”

You could only nod, pushing your legs to the level of your chest. That small change was enough to give Namjoon just a bit more space to slip into, a grunt exploding on his throat. 

“Joon,” you called. Namjoon looked up at you, his eyes dazed and unfocused. “Fuck me, please.” 

That was all that he needed. Self-control long forgotten, Namjoon buried his face on the crook of your neck and went to town — fucking you so fast and hard that you swore you had never moaned so loud in your life. Suddenly, everything was becoming too much: the bouncing of your breasts, the pressure of his hands on your thighs, the drilling of his hard cock inside you. Every worry you had those past few weeks were washed away just like that, barely an echo at the bottom of your head. 

Namjoon was a mess above you, grunting and moaning out as his cock fucked you open, your walls clenching around him like you were his personal brand of heaven. “Fuck, you feel so tight,” he cried out, already recognizing that familiar pressure at the base of his spine. “Such a perfect pussy for me, baby.” 

“Feels so good, Joon,” you said back, tugging at his hair. “Look at me.” 

It seemed to take him an herculean amount of force, but Namjoon did as you requested, meeting that fucked-out gaze he adored so much. “What is it?” 

You smiled tenderly at him, a timid moan falling from your lips. “I love you.” 

Now Namjoon was absolutely sure that he was in paradise, floating in the clouds above. He could not hold back the smile that crossed his face. “I love you too, baby.” He kissed you. “Are you close?” 

You nodded. “Really close.” 

“Cum on my cock for me, then,” he urged you on, not stopping with his advances. He felt so good inside you; your mind was consumed by all of him: his smell, his warmth, the deepness of his voice and the lust in his gaze. At that moment, Namjoon was everything in the world for you. “Come on, I wanna feel it.” 

And you did as he requested, clenching around his cock not even two minutes later. You sobbed and whimpered at the feeling, calling out his name again and again until Namjoon found his own high, spilling himself inside you, milking his cock in your pussy until you were full of him. He thrusted a few more times, trying to make that moment last a bit longer, and he only stopped once he started to grow soft inside you. 

Namjoon turned around and crashed next to you on the mattress, his arm curling around your waist as you fumbled closer to him. With a happy sigh, you nestled against his chest, drowning in his warmth as his fingers caressed your skin. 

The instant of peace was glorious, and you had almost started to drift away into a tranquil sleep when his voice broke the silence. “I’m gonna have to travel again next week,” he said. 

Your heart started hammering against your chest, stomach curling in anxiety. You raised your head from his chest and stared at Namjoon, your lips opening and closing before you finally found your voice. “But… You just got home.”

“I know, that’s why you’re coming with me.” He smirked. You must’ve shown him the most confused expression, because Namjoon could not hold back his laugh. “It’s not business, baby, don’t worry. You and I are just going to have some well-deserved time together. How does that sound?” 

Relief washed over you for the second time that night, calming your anxiety instantly. “Amazing,” you admitted, resting yourself back against him. You could really use a vacation, you didn’t know the last time you had a proper one. And even better if it was with him. “Thank you, Joon.”

“I should be the one thanking you.” He breathed out. The caresses on your skin were calling the sleepiness back into your body, and you knew it wouldn’t be long until you floated into the land of dreams. It has been a long time since you had a proper night of sleep — you had been too restless waiting for his return. “I know this is really hard for you. You know I’d understand if you wanted to leave.” 

You smiled lovingly, placing a kiss against his chest. “It’s worth it if it’s for you,” you mumbled. 

And you knew he felt the same. 

[showrunnerihardlyknowher]

26 for the prompts? perhaps w the cat n mouse lads :3 (also look danny i did it i sent a prompt are u proud)

I...actually don't remember what the prompt was for this one, but I'm 87% sure it was "I'm not that scary, am I?"

So fine since y'all keep asking for 'em, here's more of the cat and mouse bois. Shoutout to @gabbydafurry and an anon for finally giving them names.

--

“C’mon.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“I said no.”

“I’ll make pollo asado for dinner, we can eat it together while we watch!”

Aaron sighed and rubbed his hands against his forehead, trying to ease the dull throb that had yet to wane over the past two days. His headache certainly wasn’t being helped by the constant badgering of his...roommate, for a lack of better words (as well as being a title so eagerly self bestowed by the cat in question) but much like many of their other interactions, his resolve was starting to wear thin. Usually, he was able to hold his ground for at least a week until he was bribed into giving the other some type of social interaction with the promise of his favorite foods. Today, however, the poor mouse just wanted a moment’s peace free from knocking on the walls or calling through the cracks until he answered, and if that meant watching some stupid movie then fine.

Plus, Lucas did know how to make some incredible Mexican food.

“...fine,” Aaron conceded after a pause, the pressure behind his eyes giving him a sharp pang before fading to its usual ache, almost like his own body was projecting how horrible of an idea this was.

As soon as the mouse slipped out from behind the curio, he came face to face with the massive grin of the cat mere inches away from the opening. Seeing the grin only split wider when he was fully in view of the other normally would have instinctively sent a shiver up his spine, it was kind of difficult to be intimidated seeing how Lucas had strangely contorted his body to lay on the floor between the curio and the bookcase. Most cats seemed to be fairly flexible, so it probably wasn’t too uncomfortable for him to be so bent and curled up, but he definitely lost some of that hunter’s prowess with his back twisted sideways and one leg leaning against the shelving.

In a flash, Lucas had managed to untangle his strange positioning to instead be crouched on his knees, now looming over Aaron in a way he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to. He flinched back when his hand started to reach out towards him, fully intending to scoop him up to dizzying heights without a second thought, but the appendage stopped just short of touching him at all. Instead, he dropped his hand palm side up and waited, smiling all the while. At least he was getting better at remembering Aaron’s explicit request to not be grabbed without permission, though he did always apologize with a sheepish look and some little treat whenever he forgot.

Once Aaron climbed onto the awaiting hand that radiated a delightfully intense warmth into his already aching muscles, Lucas was already jumping up a chattering a mile a minute about how much the mouse was going to love the movie he picked out, how dinner would be ready soon, how he wasn’t expecting him to actually agree to watch a scary movie with him since he never seemed like the type who would be into that sort of thing but--

“It’s a scary movie?” Aaron interrupted, the noise finally registering beyond the headache. Truthfully, he tuned a lot of what the other said out for almost every conversation, not that it ever seemed to make a difference. Yeah, sorry, I’m a bit of a chatterbox, he admitted once, but it’s less weird talking to someone who doesn’t respond than to talk to yourself, right?

Debatable.

Lucas tilted his head and snorted. “Uh, yeah? That was one of the first things I told you about. You know that one actress who’s in almost every one of those Christmas movies we watch, who’s always the jealous best friend?” Aaron has no idea who he was referring to given that he never absorbed anything from those stupid romance movies he was boarderline forced to watch, but nodded anyways, “Right, this is supposed to be her big break out role, or something. It’s the first thing she’s doing as a lead actress, and you know, good for her! I’m glad she’s getting out of that typecast she’s been in forever. Horror probably wouldn’t be my first choice for her, but I guess since she has those singing vocals it could carry over to being a scream queen. Kind of like when--”

And Aaron was out of the conversation again.

Lucas continued to drone on about the actress’s entire film career, or at least that’s what the mouse was assuming he was doing when he occasionally zoned back in to pick up a stray word here and there. The headache he had been staving off to the best of his ability was starting to come back with twice as much force as it often did in the later days. He probably could have just asked the other for some aspirin, maybe even some cold medicine as that was no doubt what this bout of illness was turning into, but asking the cat for anything was always out of the question. Of course, Lucas tried to sway him numerous times into thinking it most certainly was not and that he could always ask for whatever he needed, never to his avail. Aaron was indeed willing to prolong his suffering if it meant not having to stomach the dreadful embarrassment that would come to being indebted to the feline, no matter how insignificant.

Unfortunately, he was only setting himself up for failure in thinking this “agreement” would be providing him any sort of relief. His headache was treading dangerously close into becoming a full fledged migraine and the flashes of light and screams from the television would not be doing him any favors. His only saving grace was that, after he had been settled on the couch and Lucas scampered off to get the dinner he promised, the cat turned off every other light possible to, as he put it, really get them in the spooky mood!

The smell of the food was delicious and nauseating. His stomach both wanted and revolted at the idea of anything filling it, which would only serve to worsen his headache no doubt. Damn it all, he wanted to throttle both himself and this illness, the first for agreeing to watch this stupid movie when he was already feeling under the weather, the second for preventing him from getting his half of the deal. These movie-dinner dates deals were the only reason Aaron continued to stick around, even if he thought the torment of being forced to watch awful romcoms in exchange for a hot, homemade meal was a little unfair. No, that wasn’t entirely true, Lucas was a freaking culinary genius as far as the mouse was aware. It was a wonder why he wasn’t majoring in a cooking field.

“I’m not hungry right now,” Aaron lied when Lucas had asked why he wasn’t eating. “I’ll try some later.”

The cat looked at him strangely before shrugging. “Alright, just let me know. If you don’t like it, I can always make you something else.” There he goes again, offering things he knows the other can’t accept. At least he could let it slide this time as he had no appetite to think of any other dish.

Lucas finished his own meal in silence, completely fixed on the television as the opening scene carried on, introducing the canine main character that Aaron did, in fact, vaguely recognize. This was fine, he figured, the dark apartment coupled with a painfully slow movie, a warm body moving to curl up behind him as it so often did during these deals, he could probably get a few moments of real rest in before the credits rolled. As much as he loathed to admit it, the cat was actually rather...comfortable to be forcefully cuddled by. He wasn’t like other movie goers that needed to make a comment on every character’s decision, steady breathing and the occasional purr helping the mouse slowly relax.

That relaxation was cut short as soon as the romcom actress tore her tiny avian neighbor to shreds by the end of the first act.

Aaron had hardly been paying attention to the storyline up until this point, something to do with the girl being bitten and experiencing insatiable hunger lately. The sudden carnage of the otherwise trusting little prey creature made both of them flinch in surprise, though Lucas was quick to laugh it off. From then on the mouse’s unwavering attention was glued to the screen, but not by his choice. A chill ran through him each time she claimed another unsuspecting victim, always a prey animal, and ripped them apart with her teeth and nails like a starving animal. The way the tiny’s incredibly realistic viscera was slurped into her bloody mouth made him queasy, all too easily imagining himself in their shoes.

Eventually, her hunger became too strong and she began attacking fellow predator species as well. Ripping into throats and soft bellies was far messier than snacking on a tiny creature in three bites, making her feast all the more gory. While the violence still unsettled him, it was a touch more bearable now that he couldn’t picture his own body being mangled between the teeth of a predator he thought he could trust. Speaking of…

The mouse gulped and risked a glance behind him at the other who had hardly moved, save for a few jolts and snickers whenever a particularly good jump scare managed to startle him. It didn’t go unnoticed that every time Aaron had physically reacted to a sudden screech or attack, the cat would curl just a little bit tighter around him, hiding a laugh behind a rumbling purr. He wanted to believe this was meant to be an act of comfort and not something equally as nefarious as the canine plotting her next kill. Regardless, Lucas was equally transfixed on the movie, except he seemed to be enjoying every minute of the horror aspect. His tail would flick in interest during the high tension scenes, even more so when a chase sequence was underway. It made sense, considering that was his favorite game to make Aaron play.

Whatever the case may be, the mouse couldn’t help but be unnerved tenfold that the other had the audacity to enjoy a fictional movie he was interested in seeing. The last thing the mouse wanted was for Lucas to get any more ideas when it came to chasing him around the apartment, much less awaken any sort of primitive instinct to maim his prize after it had been captured. To this day, it remains a deep seated fear in the back of his mind that every time the cat cupped his hands over him, his teeth would be quick to follow. Natural instincts were hard to shake for a reason when it came to prey animals such as himself, he could only hope the same wasn’t true for predators.

His imagination was running rampant, enough so that he completely missed how the movie ended. Something about a cure, something about being put down, whatever. The only thing on his mind was the morbidly hilarious thought that if Lucas were to go feral like the canine, would he eat him raw or would he cook him up in another fantastic dish?

Aaron jumped when Lucas moved to sit up behind him, only now registering the credits scrolling across the screen. He stretched a bit, the quickly fading warmth that had been surrounding the mouse making him realize just how tight the other must have been snuggled around him. How did he not notice?

“Wow,” Lucas said, pursing his lips. “That...was one of the worst movies I have ever seen in my life.”

That wasn’t the reaction Aaron had been expecting him to have, but it was certainly better than to hear him go on about how it was a brilliant masterpiece. He got up to flick the lights back on, still laughing as he recounted each poorly written scene and cheesy effects. “I mean, oh my god, right? The mail man saved everyone? Seriously? I actually feel bad for making you watch that, you totally have dibs on the next movie night.”

He turned around to look at the mouse who was still huddled tight on the couch, wide eyes glued to the screen even if it was just names moving along with ominous background music. Lucas gave him another quizzical look, smirking.

“C’mon, even you have to admit those tinies had zero survival instincts. Like, who goes up to a rabid dog and asks for directions? I get suspending my disbelief and all, but they could have made it just a pinch realistic. This is so going to tank her acting career…” The cat shook his head and moved closer to the couch so that he stood right in front of the television, finally drawing the other’s attention to himself. “Hey, you hungry now?”

Oh, absolutely fucking not. An hour and a half of being tensed up gave no relief to his aching muscles and now that the lights were back on, so was his pounding headache. His stomach rolled, the nausea a mix of dizziness and disgust from the special effects. He didn’t even want to think about food, he didn’t want to be out in the open anymore, and he most certainly did not want to spend another minute in the cat’s company right now.

“S-sure…” Aaron finally squeaked out. He just needed Lucas out of the room, distracted somewhere so he could make a break for it. In some instances, he would have just darted off whether the cat saw him or not, but that always resulted in a game of chase that had a 50/50 success rate, the other loving it anyways. All he wanted was some peace and quiet to rest up and heal and not think about how easy it would be for the other to bite off his head whenever he felt like it.

Lucas stood there for a minute, studying him, and just when Aaron genuinely feared he was going to pounce, he flashed an innocent smile. “Cool, just give me a couple minutes to get it heated up.” And with that, he disappeared into the kitchen.

Aaron decided to be bold and waste a few precious seconds of his head start to collect himself. Deep down, he knew he was being ridiculous. Lucas had been nothing but kind to him. Aloof, but still kind all the same. But as a prey animal that spent the better part of his life living in walls and stealing to survive, trust was a risk he simply couldn’t take. There was hardly any benefit to keeping up this con if the end goal was simply to eat him. For all he knew, though, Lucas was nothing more than a merciless sociopath that was willing to milk every ounce of fear he could before chowing down. A sociopath obsessed with romantic comedies and wore an apron when he cooked and had begged Aaron for two months straight to tell him when his birthday was so that he could make him a miniature cake.

...okay, so maybe Lucas wasn’t a sociopath, but that didn’t mean he was trustworthy. Evolution gave him sharpened fangs and agile reflexes for a reason and the mouse was not about to find out what it was like to be on the receiving end of those one day.

With his head as clear as it was going to be for the time being, sans the dull throb behind his eyes, the mouse finally pushed himself up to make his way over to the couch arm. Slowly, as to not overwork his stiff joints, he climbed his way down to the floor and skittered under the couch for a little extra protection. Strangely, he noticed that he didn’t hear any noises coming from the kitchen just up ahead and when he stopped by the doorway, he couldn’t see anyone either. Losing track of the massive cat should not be possible, especially considering this was a one bedroom apartment and there was literally nowhere else for the feline to go without coming back through the entryway. Aaron should have taken it as a blessing, but of course he couldn’t leave well enough alone.

He proceeded to be daring and come out from under the couch completely to peek into the kitchen, confirming it was empty. Again, that shouldn’t even be possible for Lucas to slip out without having to directly pass the living room to go somewhere else. Unless he had, which would mean Aaron missed him somehow. He had been in quite a deep thought process on the couch...but he could have sworn he was only collecting himself for a minute!

The answer became glaringly obvious when the mouse took a few hesitant steps back and turned to retreat under the safety of the couch, only to come face to face with Lucas. He damn near jumped out of his skin, slamming his back against the wall in an effort to gain another inch of distance between himself and the face taking up his entire view. Really, this was nothing too out of the ordinary for the cat, he loved to sneak up and pounce whenever the opportunity presented itself and Aaron wasn’t too obviously close to heart failure. What made his heart stutter, however, was the fact that Lucas didn’t look like...well, Lucas. There was no smile, no warm eyes, no words being talked a mile a minute about nothing.

No, there was just a frowning cat with his ears pinned back and pupils slit, stalking closer with a terrifying rumble in his throat.

Instinct overtook him as soon as he saw the other’s lip twitch, trying to dart under the couch for safety and having his path immediately blocked by a hand being slammed down, claw out. Aaron couldn’t even yelp, the bile in his throat threatening to turn into vomit if he idled around too long. So, he didn’t. Instead, he turned on his heel and scampered in the opposite direction with the cat hot on his trail. He very nearly dodged a swipe, Lucas hissing that his blow didn’t land while Aaron only tried to speed up his sprinting. They circled maybe half of the living room, the mouse weaving under furniture while the cat knocked into them in an effort to jarr his prey into taking a misstep.

It worked, unfortunately, when Aaron took a sharp turn at the bookshelf and caused Lucas to clip it with his shoulder. The small bump did nothing to deter the cat on his hunt, but the two books that came tumbling down were enough to make the smaller skid and trip to avoid being squashed under the novels. He ended up twisting his ankle awkwardly, stumbling flat on his face while the momentum of his running made him roll twice until he landed on his back. Despite being winded and the additional pain in his leg, he knew there was no time to waste, trying to pull himself. It was too late, though. The cat was already on top of him, hand coming down to pin him under his palm while only his head poked free from between his fingers.

That cold, terrifying face came nearer, eyes tunnel visioned on its prize. Oh God, Aaron would give anything to have the other Lucas back right now. He’d watch a thousand sappy movies, do a date night for every meal, actually move into his bedroom like the cat had suggested he do a dozen times. He wanted...fuck, he wanted his friend back. What he thought was his friend, anyways. Not this killer, not this predator who was baring his teeth and was now mere inches away from biting off his face and--

The growling above him broke off into a snort shortly before turning into a full blown laugh. Aaron wasn’t sure when he had closed his eyes in preparation for his certain death, but when he dared to open them and blinked away the budding tears, he saw that smile he had been wishing for again. Kind and warm, just like eyes, and it was like Lucas had never even taken the form of a starving hunter in his life. Like he hadn’t been moments away from devouring his beloved roommate.

“Oh, come on,” he howled with laughter, “You can’t be serious! That movie actually scared you? I mean, I thought you looked a little freaked out by it, but wow!”

The movie...so this...this wasn’t real. Lucas was just pretending, just playing a prank on him. He thought that the movie had simply wound him up and made him jumpier than usual, no different than watching a zombie flick and popping out from behind a bush at your friend later on.

Except it was different. It was different in the fact that zombies aren't real, but predators are. Predators didn’t need an excuse to go feral and maim and consume their tiny cohabitants, they simply could by the laws of nature. And yes, it may be illegal and have several laws in place to protect prey species, but if no body was ever left behind, who could say if foul play was involved? That was the whole plot point in the otherwise dull movie they sat through together, the reason why the woman was able to avoid suspicion of her sickness by feeding on tinies that could only be reported missing at most.

Lucas’s laughter had tapered off, still clearly enjoying himself. “Alright, note to self, no more horror movies.” Finally, he released Aaron from under his hand to sit back on his haunches. “Man, I really didn’t think you would scare that easily, especially from a B-movie like that. Anyways, are you actually ready to eat now? I put your stuff in the oven so it would reheat better, but it should be done by now….Ronnie?”

Aaron hadn’t moved an inch since he was originally pinned, not even after the hand had been lifted off of him. He just stared up blankly at the cat, trembling and wide eyed, unable to do anything as the rapid succession of events sunk in. The cat’s humor died down a little, smile hesitating.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t resist, you know?” He shrugged a little sheepishly. “You didn’t even notice when I came back so I thought...I don’t know, it was funnier in my head. I almost broke character and started laughing before you ran!” With still no verbal response, Lucas reached out a hand. “Aaron? You good? Come on, I’m not that scary, am I?”

The reaction he got probably wasn’t what he was hoping for with Aaron suddenly scrambling to push himself away from the outstretched hand that might trap and tear apart his limbs. He gave a sharp squeak, managing to find his footing only to come crashing down as soon as he took the first step, his ankle noticeably swollen by this point. His cry of pain was muffled into a desperate grunt, trying so hard to drag himself away as a last ditch effort to avoid the same fate as the bird and the squirrel and the mole in the movie.

Lucas gasped. “Oh, Ronnie, your leg!” Both hands were reaching for the mouse now, aiming to cup around him and scoop him up before they surely put him out of his misery. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t...oh my God, I hurt you.”

Yes and no. In truth, Aaron had been the one to hurt himself by making his body move in ways it physically shouldn’t. But that didn’t change the fact that Lucas had shown his true colors. Perhaps in hindsight, that wasn’t a fair assessment, as he really did think he was playing a harmless little joke on a skittish friend. The pain came from knowing that the cat could turn feral, though, no matter how genuine he was being. There was still clearly an instinct within him, one that knew how to hunt and bare his teeth and hiss, one that knew deep down where they both ranked on the food chain. It hurt in knowing everything he thought about his friend, everything that kept him from really letting down his walls like the other so desperately wanted, was right. Cats and mice were not friends.

“Get away from me!” Aaron shrieked when the hands came too close. Though they withdrew quickly, he didn’t bother to watch if they would move again as he forced himself up to stumble back to his nook behind the bookshelf.

“Aaron, wait!” It was a fruitless request and Lucas knew it as he didn’t even try to stop the mouse from disappearing behind the furniture back into the walls. It would only make matters so much worse. “Aaron, please, you’re hurt, just...at least let me help you. Please. I...I’m so sorry! It was an accident, I promise!”

The cat shuffled closer, leaning down in hopes that the other could at least hear his pleas better, could hear how sincere he was trying to be. “I would never hurt you, Aaron. You’re one of my best friends. Look, it was a stupid prank and I’m an asshole and I’ll never do it again, just please come out. Just let me know if you’re alright?”

It didn’t matter how hard or for how long he tried, Aaron was long gone within the walls.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Prompt for youuuu (they’re pulled from lists)

“Don’t you touch a hair on his head!”

For Lambden? 💗💗

this is especially for you because you're my K-Drama buddy

modern au - actor au - mutual pining - vaguely based on an episode of Boys Over Flowers

(this was written before I made my break announcement)

yes I made a poster for season 2 of a fake show

tw: blood mention (tv show special effects), injury (also special effects), depictions of fake angst with a real happy ending!

---

Aiden groaned, trying to muffle the half-involuntary sound by burying his face into the side of his enormous red wolf plushie. He sat back on the couch and crossed his legs beneath him, staring the toy wolf straight in the eyes.

“Good gods, Milly, what am I going to do with myself?” he whined. He tugged his hood up to cover his curls and pouted. “I can’t just waltz back onto the set and pretend I’m not head-over-heels for that stupid, sexy asshole. I may be an actor but I’m not that good.”

It was his first day back on the set of Love in the Wolf’s Den, and Aiden wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself; a side character coming back for an episode here or there was pretty normal but he had somehow become a fan favorite, so the writers invited him back to join the regular cast. Under normal circumstances it would have been a dream come true - Wolf’s Den had turned out to be the network’s largest commercial success in the last decade - but he was co-starring with his celebrity crush and that was turning out to be a bit of a problem.

Without really thinking about it, Aiden pulled up the video app on his phone and searched Wolf’s Den Leo Rescue Scene. When the all-too-familiar thumbnail appeared at the top of his search results he tapped it eagerly, perhaps a little too eagerly. He pulled his favorite fleece blanket over his head to make a half-hearted fort and zoned out, staring down at the back of his own head as the clip played on the tiny screen.

“I’ll never tell you where they’re hiding!” Aiden heard himself cry, voice hoarse. He’d been tied to a chair with his hands behind his back and his ankles fastened to either leg, leaving his legs slightly spread; the director had called it ‘innocently sexy’ and Aiden had unfortunately agreed. He spent the day focusing a Herculean amount of self-control on not embarrassing himself in front of Melitele, the cast, and everyone. On the screen the villain backhanded him, sending his head snapping to the side, brown curls bouncing rather majestically.

It had taken them ages to get that shot.

“Oh you’ll tell me everything I want to know, pretty kitty, or you’ll get much worse than a slap,” the villain, portrayed by the famous Cahir, sneered down at him. Cahir grabbed Aiden’s curly brown hair and Aiden winced in real life - that had actually hurt. “Nobody knows where you are. Nobody’s coming to your rescue, Leo. Give it up, kitty cat, and perhaps I’ll be kind enough to let you live.”

“Don’t you touch a hair on his head!” one of the three lead characters shouted as he kicked the warehouse door open. Aiden melted further back against the couch, sighing dreamily into the otherwise empty trailer as Lorenzo (depicted by the love of Aiden’s life, the apple of his eye, his sun moon and stars: Lambert O’Rory) raced to his side. Lorenzo pulled a knife from his pocket and waved it at the villain, eyes frantic. His hand rested firmly atop one of Aiden’s thighs and the Aiden watching the video remembered that sensation vividly.

The heat of Lambert’s hand had burned through the thin denim of Aiden’s acid-wash jeans and into the skin of his leg. Aiden had wondered - as he remained tied to the chair for the following three re-shoots of Lambert’s entrance - if there would be a perfect outline of the actor’s hand somehow imprinted there when he took his pants off later. Unfortunately it wasn’t there when he peeked. No marker remained to hint that Lambert’s hand had ever been there at all, even though the phantom sensation of that too-hot palm continued to haunt him over the summer filming break. Aiden bit the inside of his cheek and shook his head to clear it again: “Fuck.”

Someone knocked at his trailer door and Aiden practically threw his phone across the trailer in surprise. He bounced to his feet and grabbed the counter when one foot got stuck in his blanket, nearly tripping him to the floor. “Sorry, it’s unlocked! Come on in!”

Aiden was just pulling his hood back away from his face when none other than Lambert O’Rory himself poked his head in through the door with a grin, “Hey! Good to see you again, Aiden. Heard from Jask that you’re going to be a regular this season.”

“Uh, yeah,” Aiden nodded, swiping a lock of dark hair behind his ear and fiddling with the ringlet nervously. “I hope you don’t mind!”

“Well honestly I was coming to check in and hear how you were feeling about it,” Lambert admitted. He was rubbing one hand up and down the back of his neck looking almost nervous about something. His long coppery hair shone like a crown in the early morning light and Aiden wanted nothing more than to reach out and run his fingers through it; his burgeoning daydream was interrupted when Lambert said, “I hope you’re alright with the direction they’re taking our characters and our, uh… relationship.”

“Wha- huh?” Aiden blinked stupidly. He’d been so distracted by the thought of seeing Lambert again that he’d totally forgotten to see if the Script Manager had his Pages ready yet. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, well…” Lambert half-grinned. “I hope you don’t mind being my love interest.”

Aiden can only nod and send a quick thank you to whichever god grants wishes to foolish B-list actors.

"It'll be nice to have a friend on set," Lambert added. "I won't have to watch Geralt and Jaskier make out while I try to eat lunch."

"Are they really that affectionate all the time? I thought they just turned it up for the tabloids."

"Oh no... it's terrible. But their on-screen chemistry is honest."

"Yeah..." Aiden thought about the way Lambert had cradled his 'unconscious' body against that strong, broad chest at the end of last season, sobbing for him to wake up after an accident knocked him out. "Maybe we can outshine them this season, really shake up the ratings."

"You think?" Lambert asked, leaning into Aiden's space.

Aiden squeaked and blushed an even brighter shade of pink. "Maybe."

Lambert grinned wolfishly - appropriate, Aiden thought - and turned away towards the set. "See you later, babe."

"Yeah," Aiden muttered, heart palpitating dangerously in his chest. The whole world felt tipped sideways in a wonderful, glorious way. "Later."

[anthropwashere]

deadfic: Get Out, Get Gone

Yet more deadfic for @goodintentionswipfest! And also another giftfic I never finished, because that’s just who I am as a person! \o/ 

@ghostfiish did this truly excellent art of Danny’s transformation rings as a galaxy way back when that I promptly lost my whole entire shit over, and also took it as an opportunity to get some kind of manic with the writing style. That, combined with my sort-of accidental, sort-of intentional smashing yet more rad headcanons into it until the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. Still, I remain very fond of this one and what I was trying to do back in 2014, so here we are. 8.7k’s nothing to sneeze at, at least.

Oh, and! While we're at it, have an old Danny playlist I never got around to sharing that fits the mood this fic is going for. Title comes from To Kill a King's "Bloody Shirt (Bastille Remix)," which is unfortunately not included on the Spotify playlist.

=

There’s a weight to you now that wasn’t there before. You’d think with your powers—

(and doesn’t it feel strange to call them that, when you shake and shiver at the sight of your bones under your meat, when you walk down the stairs and your feet don’t touch anything at all)

—you’d weigh less, be less. A thing of smoke, and ectoplasm, and all that awful electricity arcing through your nerves. But that's not what happened. 

You remember that day with a surreal nightmare quality, memories fuzzing and skittering like white noise in your skull. Pain and green light and being so, so certain that had been it. Zap! That’s all she wrote. But it wasn't, and here you are, hovering three inches off the grass and praying no one will see, that no one will know.

You aren’t less for all that’s changed, for all that’s changed in you. Tucker and Sam haven’t said anything about it, and it’s clear they don’t have a clue. Your first—

(disastrous, embarrassing)

—fight against the Lunch Lady knocked you right out. They had to carry you all the way home from school after you failed to stop her. It’s a wonder nobody stopped them, dragging your sorry carcass across town. If either of them had noticed, if either of them could have noticed, they would have told you. Or worse, they wouldn’t have managed to get you home at all.

You noticed it when you changed. Not the first time, in the shadowed, silver throat of the Portal—

(electricity cooking you from the inside out, the Portal writhing, burning, tearing itself into existence, a physical hole ripped so cleanly between realities even your parents don’t understand it and they built the damn framework, boiling ectoplasm splashing on you, over you, inside you, changing you forever)

—but after. Changing back and forth without any control, cringing behind dumpsters and hedges, tossing desperate prayers skyward that nobody had seen the light, that nobody had seen you change from kid to freak. So much of you changes when this strange, alien light stretches across you, not just your clothes and eyes and hair, no, you’re different now down to your cells, down to the very structure of your DNA. You know, you’ve checked. So much of you is different, it’s a wonder you didn’t figure it out sooner.

When you change, you’re heavier. Heavier. Not like ten pounds or something any normal kid might stress over. You become the kind of heavy that leaves brushstroke smears in asphalt, reduces sturdy brick walls to dusty rubble, punches craters through solid ground. It hurts when you fall, god does it hurt. But your bones never shatter. Your guts never liquefy. Your brain never dribbles out your ears. How? How can you possibly survive the beatings every new ghost is so eager to give you? 

Ah, but there's never any time to think about it though, not really. No time for anything but a raw, thready panic and clumsily scrawled homework copied five minutes before the bell. Your chance to tell your parents came and went, and now there’s always another ghost attacking the city.

Mom and Dad are so happy now. You’ve never seen them happier than this, with the stuff of your grade school nightmares on the rampage. It’s proof they aren’t crazy, proof they haven’t wasted their whole lives on a pipe dream, proof that everybody who ever called them quacks were wrong. Good for them, you guess. Meanwhile you’re picking yourself out of the wreckage of another storefront, glass needled all down your spine, and you can’t help but marvel at the damage your body has done. Can do. Will do.

Because you’re stronger, you’re getting stronger every day. The weight in you that your Sam and Tucker don’t—

(can’t)

—notice grows more noticeable, and after a few fights you're quicker, too. And perhaps you're changing still, perhaps the accident isn't done with you yet, because one day there’s sickly green light at your fingertips, and in no time at all you can manipulate the energy buzzing inside you—

(the electricity and hot ectoplasm from the accident screaming through you, out from your palms and striking down the things that used to scare you as a little kid, back when door knobs and faucets were out of reach of your tiny fingers and there was so much dark in your big big house, and now your hands trail light like after images from staring at the sun too long, now you can patch your hurts up by the light of your own blood, now you're learning that you don’t need to be afraid of what hides in the dark anymore)

—in ways you never thought possible. Sure, lots of what you do is learned the hard way, mid-battle against sizzling green things with teeth like hunting knives, running on instinct and adrenaline and terror all tangled up in your throat. Lots more is later, when it’s quiet and safe again, practicing things you’ve seen other ghosts do again and again and again until you can mimic it, improve it, make it yours.

But no ghost you fight has the same heaviness as you do. No improbable weight that defies the logical mass of their ectoplasm. If it’s big, it’s heavy. If it’s small, it’s light. Unexpected logic from creatures that defy logic in every other way. 

There’s a lesson you learn the hard way, testing the strength of these invaders against your bruised and splitting knuckles. You learn caution. You learn restraint. If you punch them hard enough, some ghosts, the little formless ones your parents have captured once or twice now, burst like water balloons—a hard pop of searing green, an overwhelming smell-taste of citrus and hot pennies. Too much of your supernatural strength pressed into the soft hide of a monster and the end result is a glowing puddle where someone used to be. 

You learn this lesson quickly. You learn that even when you’re fighting for your life, you’ve got to hold back. You defend, you protect. Death scares you too much to risk killing—

(is it killing when it’s already dead, where does a ghost go when it dies, is there something more to the Ghost Zone than what you’ve glimpsed with your own eyes or is that it, is that all, have you erased someone from reality forever, these are the questions that make your stomach hurt, that make it hard to breathe, that make it hard to fake a smile when Jazz asks if something’s wrong)

—something so much like yourself. Even if it’s got teeth like hunting knives.

You think you’re an anomaly, a freak, the only one stupid enough to walk into a Ghost Portal and zap yourself full of juice that by rights should have killed you—

(and a little part of you wonders if that isn’t just what happened, if you’re just a dead thing walking around in your body, wearing it like a meatsuit and waiting for the rot to show, but it’s been a month, it’s been months, and you eat more and you sleep less, not because you don’t need it but because there’s never any time, and you’ve grown another inch and there’s new definition to your muscles, and that all must mean you’ll be okay, that you are okay, it has to)

—until Wisconsin. Until Vlad.

He’s in the same boat as you, plus twenty years of experience and enough self-made loneliness to turn him bitter and crazy and dangerous. He wants Dad dead and Mom his, like she’s some kind of carnival prize he can win if he throws his weight around enough. Swing the mallet, hit the bell, and congratulations! The woman you haven't spoken to in twenty years who has made her own life without you is now yours to take home! Ugh.

But god, he can hit hard. Lightning, real lightning, nothing like the weak little zaps of electricity inside you, rattles at his fingertips like a living thing, furious burning strikes of pain, and he knocks you aside like he’s bored. You have a thousand questions, but he won't give you a single answer unless you concede defeat or whatever he wants, so it looks like you’ll just have to beat the answers out of him instead. Who cares if he’s got twenty years on you? He’s not out most nights pummeling wayward ghosts back into the Ghost Zone. He’s not out most days saving people from ghosts with bloodthirsty, power-hungry vendettas. What you lack for in time and experience you make up in rooftop fistfights and stolen first-aid kits. 

Sure you managed to outwit him—

(barely, hardly at all, he just wanted to save face in front of Mom, if he hadn’t cared about that, if he’d just tried overshadowing Mom instead it all could have turned out so differently, and doesn’t that thought make it hard to sleep the first few nights back home)

—but you can’t stop thinking of what it had been like to fight him, of what it was like to see another person do all that you can and so much more. You remember every second of each fight, like it’s been burned across your eyelids. You replay it all every time you blink for days, for weeks. It’s easy as thought to recall the light arcing around his waist as he’d transformed. Just like yours, and yet nothing like yours. The color, sure, that had been the obvious difference. When you change it’s a white light, sharp and searing enough to leave stars in your eyes if you look at it. His transformation—

(black like cave darkness, black like a power outage, black like the vastness between stars, sucking in light like a hungry thing, like it’d swallow you whole if it had had the chance)

—had been like a punch to the gut even before he’d buried his fist in your gut. You’d known without words, known in some primitive bit of brain that still looked up at the night sky and thought magic before science, you had known. You and Vlad were made out of the same mess, but maybe, just maybe, those twenty years were stacked against him.

Trouble is, the transformation is so quick you can’t make much out but the light/non-light of yours and his, and luckily—

(unluckily?)

—he’s all the way in Wisconsin so you don’t have many opportunities for a closer look at his. You ask Sam and Tucker to take pictures and videos, change back and forth so often you almost forget which side of you is which, but the quality is never good enough to see what you know is there—

(but can’t explain, not with words, even though you try for the benefit of your friends because they’re the ones there for you when everything else has gone topsy-turvy, but you’re just a kid who leaks green when dead people hit you too hard, just a kid with bad grades and a lot of questions to evade, and what you’re trying to pinpoint frame by frame is something so beyond your vocabulary you can only shrug, can only say you want to know more about your powers and hope this is one of those white lies nobody catches you in the act of)

—so you stop.

Do you give up? No, but there are more important things to focus on. It isn’t shelving your questions so much as putting them on the backburner. There are ghosts to deal with. Ghosts that want to hurt you, ghosts that want to hurt humans, more and more ghosts with strange and terrifying abilities pouring out from the Portal all the time. Closing the Portal doesn’t slow them any, which doesn’t make any sense to you. Then again, Dad was up to his elbows in most of the Portal’s guts and wiring, so applying logic to any inch of it is pretty pointless. You’ve learned not to ask too many questions about anything with a Fenton sticker slapped on it.

You’re busy now, busy all the time, bruised and burned and even stitched up all the time. Super strength is only so good when you’re fighting things with teeth like hunting knives. But it’s whatever, it’s no big deal, really. Because you’re keeping people safe. You’re learning more about the Ghost Zone and the things that inhabit it. You’re learning more about yourself; your powers, your weaknesses, how quick you can be with a snarky quip. Yeah, your parents are aiming guns and questions at you. Yeah, teachers with red pens and detention slips are hounding after you. And yeah, you’re fourteen years old bare-knuckle fighting monsters and no one ever says thanks because they think you’re just like every other ghost out there or maybe that you’re some human-loving freak—

(and when you think of your life like this, in lists of who wants answers and who wants to see you bleed, it sounds so bad, it sounds like you should be one inch away from a complete breakdown, but is it weird to say you’re happy, is it weird to say you couldn’t imagine your life any other way)

—yet you grin through a mouthful of red-and-green and keep going. Elated? Maybe, sometimes. Scared? Absolutely, sometimes. You’re just a kid with eyes that flare like headlights when somebody’s pissed you off. 

It’s only right to be scared, sometimes.

Still, it’s the weight of you that keeps you grounded, keeps you human when you need to be. Sit in a chair, walk across a bridge, it all makes the same creak under you as it would for Sam and Tucker. But take one of Skulker’s shoulder rockets to the face, you leave a crater in Central Park so big they decide to just turn it into another duck pond. A permanent new addition to the park, and all your face gets is a nasty bruise Dash takes the credit for. You let him, because Lancer overhears. Dash is the one getting detention for once, and there’s a nasty satisfaction to be found there.

You and Jazz share a bathroom, and she’s got a scale she keeps in the towel cupboard. Curious, you take it out one day after school and try to weigh yourself. Last time you checked, you were somewhere near 120, puberty stretching you faster than your appetite can keep up. This time, the numbers whirl past 280 pounds before the scale makes a metallic groan and crumples like tissue paper under your sneakers. Sheer reflex launches you into the air, and you bounce off the ceiling with your knees hugged so tight to your chest you can hear tendons creak, your heart a thundering jackhammer in your chest. Thank god you’re home alone, because you hover there for who-knows how long, too scared the floor will crack under your illogical, impossible weight, too scared you’ll plummet straight down to the hard steel of the lab if you try to stand, too scared you might plummet even further.

When you finally do scrounge up the courage to touch down, an air bubble in the old linoleum crackles under your heel and you damn near jump out of your skin. After that, all you can do is laugh and laugh until your sides hurt. You throw Jazz’s scale out in a dumpster a block away and never tell her what happened to it.

What does this mean? Is the weight of you optional? If you think about it too hard, does it become real? What about when you’re fighting, causing all that property damage the city hates you for? You’re not thinking of the strangeness of your mass during a brawl, you’re thinking in terms of survivability. Punch this hard to win, get punched this hard to lose. What about when you’re thinking about it at school? Why don’t you break your desk, or the floor, or the stairs?

You don’t know. Your parents might be able to figure it out if you told them, but you don’t. Knowing about you, about what you really are—

(a freak, a monster, an accident, an anomaly bleeding out energy with every burst of green light you bury into the spiny hides of other monsters, who knows how long until your white rings burn black, if one day you’ll look in the mirror and be no different than Vlad, not because you didn’t try your hardest but because there was never any biological choice, what kind of choice can a species of two even make)

—would just scare them. It’s easier, keeping them in the dark, even if it means they’re trying to hunt you down and take you apart molecule by molecule any time you’ve got white hair.

But it’s not just flying and invisibility and energy you can summon with a thought—

(ray or bolt or fire, you don’t know what to call your power, you never really did pay attention when your parents got going even before you had to worry about all their blinking tech going nuts around you, but sometimes your green light is cool and wispy and other times it's hot and sizzling, sometimes you know which one will bloom between your fingers and sometimes it’s a surprise, sometimes it’s almost like your body knows what to do in a fight better than you, sometimes it’s easier to stop thinking and just let it happen, to just be the freak that you are, to burn white-hot and damn the consequences)

—you have to worry about. You’re stronger every day, stranger everyday too. You feel a little bit more at ease as a ghost as time goes on. It stops being a strain and starts being an ease, even a comfort, and some days you dread the thought of going to school because a ghost might not attack and you’ll be stuck as a human all day. 

That kind of thinking should worry you, probably. 

But so what? You could sneak into your parents’ lab in the middle of the night and try more tests, more experiments, but really, what would that do? You’re a freak, plain and simple. You and Vlad poked your noses in places you shouldn’t have and paid the price, and that’s that. 

Eventually you get sick of worrying and just let it be. You’re a freak who can walk through walls, disappear, and fly. You’re the freak protecting a town full of people who pretty much hate you. Really, what can you do? The same old same old, that’s what. Try and get a little more sleep outside the classroom, maybe. As for the townsfolk? Well, you can’t always avoid the property damages, but you can at least save a few lives along the way.

People even start to say thank you, even if it’s from a distance, even if they think you're some crazed vigilante ghost, and doesn’t that make this whole superhero thing worth it?

But then of course something has to come along and ruin even that much, ruin this budding chance at gratitude, at finally feeling like a real life superhero. And it isn’t a ghost this time. It’s a human. You hadn't ever considered humans to be dangerous the way a ghost can be.

Freakshow happens, and all that hard work is undone in just a few short days. Days you can’t remember with any clarity, just blurs of color and noise, your hands full of stolen money and no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t let go, you couldn’t stop. Attacking the cops when they pursued, terrorizing any humans that got too close, puppeted by that grinning, painted maniac who treated you and the other ghosts like animals, like slaves—

(minions, he’d called you all, and he didn’t even bother to learn your name before he sunk his fingers into your brain, and you never did find out who any of those other ghosts were, what their names were or who they had been before that crystal ball had pulled them under, and they were gone before there was a chance to even ask)

—and tanked Invis-o-Bill’s reputation to a whole new low. Trashing nearly every car the Amity Park Police Department has and robbing the city blind at the behest of a psychotic ringmaster would have done that even if you’d been considered the hero you try so hard to be. Oh well. At least nobody was hurt in all that, unless you bothered counting Mr. Lancer getting left in the custodial closet for a weekend. You mostly don’t feel guilty about that. Mostly.

Sam says you ought to count yourself too, but you try not to think about any of what happened—

(all that time spent exhausted and hungry, he never let you rest, not once, because ghosts don’t need sleep, ghosts don’t get tired, ghosts don’t need friends, but it’s over, it’s all over now, you don’t have to hear yourself laugh as the little humans scream below, you’ll never have to watch Sam fall and wonder if your body will listen to you in time, you’re yourself again, you’re in control again, everything’s alright, you’re alright, you’re safe, you’re home, you’re yourself again)

—and try to pass yourself off as fine afterwards instead, just confused, just tired, just sorry for everything that’s happened.

For weeks after the police shoved Freakshow into the back of a car, your dreams are red. Not with blood, thank god for that. No, it’s like a filter. A stain. Strawberry candy red, saturated fire engine red, the color Sam said your eyes were when you were under his control. It doesn’t matter if you’re having nightmares—

(more common than you’d like, but you’ve never been one to shout after a bad dream and you don’t intend to start now)

—or regular old brain dump dreams. It doesn’t matter if you’re dreaming of broken bones and monsters or forgetting to study for a test; it’s all filtered through that darkroom shade of red.

What does it mean? You don’t know. You don’t bring it up to Sam or Tucker. They’d just worry, and they worry about you enough as it is. Besides, you’re fine. The Circus Gothica billboard is up for two weeks after Freakshow’s arrest, and it doesn’t do anything to you, not like before. You don’t lose time, you don’t say anything creepy. Your eyes stay blue or green, depending on whether or not there’s a ghost in need of wrangling nearby.

It’s just a weird, harmless after effect, that’s your best conclusion. Then you do your best to stop thinking about it. Who you were under Freakshow’s control wasn’t you. It wasn’t. You tell yourself that until you almost believe it. Eventually, you dreams return to their factory settings. Huzzah.

Meanwhile everywhere you go, people badmouth Invis-o-Bill like they’re getting paid to do it. They call him—

(you)

—thief and monster and dangerous, they call him—

(you)

—a menace and a bad influence on the children. A liar. Traitor. Conspiring with other ghosts to earn the trust of humans to terrorize Amity Park all the better. Kids at school spread awful stories about Invis-o-Bill, say he—

(you)

—was probably the ghost of a troubled teen who got in too deep with bad people and paid the price, and now he—

(you)

—spends his afterlife seeking revenge on humans and ghosts alike. They say a lot of bad things about you, for a while. You try not to pay much attention. You’re getting pretty good at that.

After Freakshow, there’s a lull. That doesn’t mean ghosts don’t stop attacking or causing havoc, it just means that, for a handful of weeks, it’s just the little ones. Hungry animals and disoriented blobs and the Box Ghost. Easy stuff. You actually have time to unwind, time to let the tension bleed from your bones, time to catch up on all your late homework and even squeak your grades up to passable. It’s nice. You’d almost call it relaxing.

Of course, the lulls never last. You know this, you’ve learned this, they made you understand this from your very first—

(disastrous, embarrassing)

—fight with the Lunch Lady. You have one fight with Sam the wrong ghost overhears, and everything that’s happened is wished away. You are wished away. For a couple of days, you never walked into your parents’ ghost portal. You were never torn apart and melted back together by heat and light and pain. You were never Phantom at all. Worse still, you have no memory of your erased past, not so much as the slightest disquiet to niggle in the back of your brain when Sam walks up to your locker and starts going on about imaginary monsters like they're real. 

Sam Manson—

(a stranger, a total stranger, just a bottle-black pretty girl you stare at because you’re fourteen and desperate for a connection you’ve never had and don’t understand, she’s nobody else, she’s nothing else to you but a chance at your first kiss and later you will hate yourself for thinking of her like that, not as a girl because of course she is that, but as a prize you might earn, and who cared if she was crazy because she just might have kissed you for some unfathomable reason, and Sam is so much more than the sum of her body, Sam is worth so much more than that, Sam is worth so much)

—is the vehement Goth girl who's in half your classes and is [unfinished]

=

In those stumbling, halting days of dismissal followed by doubt followed by a desperate curiosity to believe that there might be more to life than growing up and settling for less, that movies haven’t lied and there really is something beyond the disappointment growing up has been for you so far. Sam’s purple mouth is a thin, grim line of—

(worry, guilt, fear, shame, envy, panic, uncertainty)

—complicated emotions you can’t parse as you zip up the jumpsuit your parents got you for your birthday. You’ve never worn it before, the fabric stiff and reluctant to bend at your joints. You don’t know how they’re comfortable wearing theirs all the time [unfinished]

=

Sometimes after a fight wears you out, leaves you bruised and smeared with shining green, you don’t fight the transformation. Not because you can’t, but because it feels good to have that fake pulse vanish, to hear real blood pounding in your ears. The weight of you shifts too, and even though you’re so much weaker when you’re human, it’s easier to sink your fingers into the dirt, to haul your meat out of the mess your ghost left behind, easier to duck out of sight before the news vans and curious bystanders get too close. Nobody ever sees you. Nobody ever puts your bruises and Band-Aids and the trashed Dunkin’ Donuts together. It helps that nobody’s ever heard of a half-ghost, that Vlad was cunning enough to hide his powers. Everybody’s heard of the Wisconsin Ghost, but Wisconsin is a big damn state and unlike you, Vlad and Plasmius hardly look like the same man.

Everybody at school just thinks you’re the football team’s personal punching bag, which is definitely true. Thing is, after spending a couple months fighting ghosts, a gut-punch from a junior is kind of a joke. You’re getting ganged up by a bunch of guys in letter jackets behind the auto shop and you have to mime pain to get them to leave you alone. 

Is this real life? Yup, and it’s hilarious.

Time passes, as it does. You get stronger, faster, heavier. You hone your powers. You stop losing control, mostly. New ghosts terrorize the streets. Old ghosts do too, they’re just smarter about it. They all know who you are by now. Hell, a whole other plane of reality knows your name by this point, knows who Danny Fenton really is. Funny though, none of them ever spill the beans to any humans. What better way to take down the one person standing in their way of world domination or an army of hypnotized teens or whatever they’re trying to score than to oust his secret identity?

You don’t ask. Maybe they haven’t caught on that humans have no idea you’re trying to keep a secret. Maybe there’s some kind of code among ghosts; don’t spill a guy’s weakness, even if you hate his ectoplasm. Maybe especially if you hate his ectoplasm?

You’ve had a couple more run-ins with Vlad too. Each time he changes, transforms, you breath hitches, because you can almost see it. Whatever makes up the both of you, piecing the mystery together through the differences—

(light and dark and it’s cliché as anything, it’s so transparently Star Wars, but maybe there’s something to clichés, because you might be the one wearing mostly black but he’s the one with a sucking core, a void, something more horrific for its absence, like he used to be full of stark white light too but it’s all been burned up and whatever’s left is just playing through the motions, pretending at being something else, who knows what it means but you know that it scares the hell out of you)

—between you and him. He goes on and on about how you’re more like him every day, but he’s wrong. He’s so wrong. You’ll never be like him, and it isn’t just a matter of morals.

What you are, down to the complex disaster of your DNA, is different than what makes up Vlad, and you don’t need to slide a piece of him under a microscope to see that. You thought differently once, but now you know better. A glance is all you need. What you are and what he is, has become—

(powerful yes, but ugly and hating and cruel, the rings that flash at his waist are just shadows reflecting light, trying to hide a black mouth brimming with hungry teeth)

—well, you might as well be different species.

Vlad’s crazy and Vlad’s a jerk, but he is right about one thing. There’s so much about the Ghost Zone you don’t understand, and it’s this ignorance that just might get you—

(or somebody else, and isn’t that an old favorite in the nightmares)

—killed. You don’t know if it was fate or a simple coincidence that your parents were working on the Ecto-Skeleton when Pariah Dark woke up. You’re fourteen years old and you can shoot lasers out of your fingers; you don’t have the wherewithal for philosophical theology. You’re just glad they got it functioning in time to stop the King of All Ghosts from overrunning the city, even if the stupid thing nearly kills you.

You don’t fret much about the Ecto-Skeleton vanishing after you pass out. You do, however, remember Pariah’s nasty grin—

(having that much power, it’s a burden, isn’t it child)

—when you stumbled under the strain. You don’t know if he meant what the suit enabled you to do or if he meant the power in your own two hands. Either way, you remember those words, like they’re branded onto your brain, and you don’t have a choice but to hear it over and over every time you try to sleep. They rang in your head like bells in the days after you’d pushed him back into that sarcophagus, stuck in bed aching and weaker than you’ve ever felt in your life.

Because it is a burden. Everybody hates and fears you, but at the same time they happily expect you to protect them from hordes of skeletal ghosts. Sometimes you panic, so aware of how young you are, of how little comic books and video games have prepared you for a life like this, hiding bruises and spinning bold-face lies to everybody from your parents to the U.S. government. Teenagers are supposed to rebel, sure, but if you ever come clean you’d be thrown in a cell and they’d never, ever let you go. Not just because you’re a criminal—

(and you are, thanks to Freakshow and thanks to dozens of ghosts, and you’ve left an imprint of your tiny, impossibly heavy body all over the city, and you’ve done your best to protect everybody but you leave rubble and shrapnel wherever you go, ambulance sirens wail through the streets every day, and everybody’s just as scared as you are, just as fascinated as you are, and yet so many students and teachers have left Casper High, so many faces you used to see everyday in the hallways have vanished, so many business and restaurants and homes sit empty, gathering dust and graffiti, and it’s your fault, if you hadn’t walked into the Ghost Portal none of this would be happening, none of this would ever have happened at all, and you’re too much of a coward to show your face, to tell anyone but your best friends what kind of a monster you really are)

—but because you can phase through solid objects, you’re considered a monster with less rights than a dog.

Sometimes you wish Sam wasn’t a budding ghost-rights activist. You’d probably have an easier time studying if she didn’t rattle off all these statistics and news articles, stories of government agents in white suits quarantining whole city blocks to purge the ghosts inhabiting them, of ghost attacks stopping all at once in little towns after strange men with guns and knives and felonies like grave robbing and murder slunk through in the night. Ghosts are dangerous, there’s no questioning that. But so are bears. So are people. Just because something is dangerous doesn’t mean it should be destroyed.

Maybe that’s why the ghosts have never spilled your secret. You’ve never tried to kill them. You just want them to leave Amity Park alone. Who knows for sure though? You don’t have the guts to risk asking any of them.

Still, this whole mess is worth it. It is. You can fly, for god’s sake. If you’re careful you could juggle minivans, mimic all your favorite action movies and outdo even the craziest Hollywood stunts. What kid hasn’t dreamed of doing any of that? But you’re not being selfish. You’re not. It’s like Dad says; you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Progress is a disaster when you’re living it, when it isn’t past tense, when it isn’t all tidied up in a few short paragraphs in a high school history book. What’s happening now is worth it, for the future.

If you ever do tell Mom and Dad—

(you’re not afraid of what they’ll think, you’ve never worried about that, not really, they’re your parents before they’re scientists, and any experiment or test would be to ensure your safety and your health, because that’s what parents do, that’s what good people do, and they’re the best people you’ve ever known)

—you know they’d be able to break down your powers into reams of clinical data in no time. They’d figure out how you survived the accident, how your abilities generate and develop in power, maybe even pinpoint the how of your strange, mutable weight. They’d tell you what that light is, when you change, that light that reminds you so strongly of the stars. After all, just because they’re too oblivious to realize their son is the infamous Ghost Kid doesn’t mean they don’t know what they’re doing. They aren’t known as the leading scientists, engineers and weapon smiths in the paranatural fields for nothing. Mom’s practically got more letters after her name than there are in the alphabet, and while Dad may only have a fraction of that he thinks like nobody else out there. Most Fenton tech are his designs, wild and absurd and covered with stickers of his beaming face, and Mom’s the one who works out the bugs with fond exasperation.

Still, they have to get their knowledge from somewhere, and you’ve seen what they do down in the lab to the formless, red-eyed ghosts, the ones too weak to do much more than snarl wetly. Sometimes they snare something bigger and stronger, something fond of curling prickly tendrils around the nearest human and squeezing. More often than not it’s Dad that’s the unlucky one, always so eager to parse the secrets hidden in each fanged little beastie they’ve fished out of the Ghost Zone. He’s got nearly as many as bruises as you do, some weeks, but he’s never happier than when he’s holding a bag of frozen peas to his head.

After a good wrestle with something that wailed and whistled like a boiling kettle, Dad’ll limp up to the kitchen and settle heavily into a chair, grinning and running his mouth nonstop, talking about how much progress they’ve made today—

(wait ‘til the boys over at the GIW hear about that one, he’ll say with a bray of laughter, makes the piddly little Class Threes look darn near cuddly, didn’t it Mads, why Danny you should’ve seen the fangs on this fella, nearly bit through the exam table in one bite, y’oughta come down to the lab more often, Danny, seeing these spooks up close and personal’d be a great way to help you get over that silly fear of ‘em, and there you are, smiling meekly and holding up your hands and making up any excuse you can think of off the top of your head to keep you out of the lab when your parents have all their equipment up and humming, just in case, aw Dad I dunno, I’ve got this essay due, not today Dad I’ve got like six pages of algebra I haven’t even started yet, sorry Dad I’m sleeping over at Tucker’s tonight and his mom insisted I come early for dinner)

—and every time, Mom will smile indulgently, like she’s falling in love with Dad all over again. She’ll push him back into the seat and tell him to quit fidgeting so she can clean up the nasty cut behind his ear, and every time you smile behind your hand and think, how could Vlad ever hope to break your parents up? They only thing they might love more than each other would be you and Jazz and ghosts, and you’re all so much of their lives they can’t help but love you all completely. How they love each other and their kids and the ghosts they’ve studied all their lives, well, that’s like saying they love breathing. They love each other because without each other, they wouldn’t be themselves. It’s sappy as hell and like any kid you hate seeing your parents get all lovey-dovey, but you can’t help that secret smile as you walk out of the kitchen to give them a little privacy.

Seeing Mom and Dad so hard at work, so happy at work, is why you don’t tell them. They think you’re slacking off, they think you’re getting bullied, and they’re worried about you sure, but better they think their son’s lazy than a freak. If they knew what you did, what you could do, if they knew you were the one facing up against ghosts that made the ones they picked apart in their lab look like kittens, if they knew you’d heard all the awful things they want to do to Phantom once they finally nab him—

(you know they wouldn’t say it if they knew you and him were one and the same, you know you know you know, but sometimes you can’t help but be hurt anyway, to see all that fierce dedication focused on seeing whether or not Danny Phantom has bones, and if he does, how much pressure could they withstand before breaking)

—they wouldn’t know what to do or say or think. They’d be so eaten up with guilt, why hadn’t they known, why hadn’t they realized, what if they’d finally gotten a lucky shot in, what if one of all those cruel ghosts had gotten a luck shot in, what if what if what if—

(and you’ve pictured it a hundred times, it’s so easy to imagine the looks on their faces, the horror the shame the fear, and you know they’d love you all the same, you know this like you know the distance between the Sun and every planet, even little Pluto they just declared wasn’t a planet at all, but you’re young and selfish and definitely some kind of stupid because sometimes you can’t help but feel they’d shun you for the freak you are, turn you over to the GIW because they couldn’t bear to look on the thing their son’s become, and you know that couldn’t ever ever ever happen but still, it’s so easy to imagine)

—and you couldn’t do that to them. You won’t do that to them, no matter how many times Sam or Tucker try to convince you otherwise. How it is now, secrets and lies and detention slips and broken curfews, can’t last forever. You know that. But until then, it’ll have to do, and you’ll have to parse all your growing weirdness without all of Mom and Dad’s knowledge or experience, fingers crossed that their ticking and glowing machines won’t reveal your secret before you’re ready to do it yourself.

=

But you’re turning out stranger in ways you can’t even recognize, and for all that Sam and Tucker are by your side to help you as you change and burn brighter and hotter and faster and heavier, they don’t see it either. Jazz is the one who points it out, one day not long after the Spectra… thing, all out of the blue. She’s been noticing lots of things lately, and acting so strange, like she might have pieced it together. But she can’t have, of course not, you’re so careful, you are always so careful. Jazz is just clever, Jazz got all the brains and you got the leftovers. Everybody knows that. Even you know that.

She comes into the kitchen one morning with a curious little spin to her step, craning her head around and around like she’s running late for school and can’t find her keys, but it’s a Saturday. You’re there by the fridge, cobbling together something that might resemble an edible breakfast, moving slow because you’ve got a bruise all down your right side that makes it hurt to do more than breathe shallowly or raise your arm more than a couple inches. You sniff the milk and instantly regret this decision, and while you’re pouring the lumpy mess down the sink Jazz asks if the kitchen’s always been on the second floor.

You stare at her, too tired and baffled to give her the proper what the hell a question like that deserves, but she drags you over to the kitchen door and pushes it open, and since when has there been a door to the kitchen and oh my god the kitchen is on the second floor.

She gapes at you and you gape right back, and the rest of that morning is spent going over every inch of the house and seeing what else has changed compared to your shared memories.

Everything has, in some way or another. Doorknobs have shifted, cupboards have lowered, doors moved from one part of a room to another. Even chairs have changed their heights. There’s a whole new door neither of you can remember ever existing before connecting the upstairs bathroom directly to your room. Thinking back—

(staggering through your open window, mouth thick with the hot penny burn of ectoplasm and blood, your right hand pressed against the throb all down your side, and aren’t you grateful for your weight, your sturdiness, because before you finally peeled the faceguard off of Skulker’s exoskeleton and sucked that little jerk into a Thermos he got a good shot in with a rocket that hit you hard right in the ribs, and if you’d been normal there would have just been a dark wet hole where your torso used to be but lucky you, you’re every inch the creepy little freak Spectra called you, so you get to limp home and clean up as best you can on your own since it’s four in the morning and no way are you gonna wake Sam or Tucker up again, and you have to be quiet, you have to be so quiet, biting down pain, you can’t make a sound or Jazz might hear, grabbing the first-aid kid from your underwear drawer and slipping into the bathroom, and for once the hinges didn’t squeak, thank god, you think, thank god)

—you hadn’t even noticed last night or even this morning that a door had sprung up where there’d just been NASA and Nat Geo posters before. And your windows have moved, and your bed has moved, and you and Jazz just stare and stare. Why had neither of you noticed any of this until now? Why haven’t your parents? How long has this been going on? 

What could cause something like this?

It takes half an hour to convince your mom that something’s off about the house, and even longer to get your dad to grasp what you both are trying to say. Their eyes just keep glazing over the differences, even something as huge as the kitchen being on the wrong floor. Once they finally do see though, it’s a whole other story. After the initial shock, they drop all their experiments and spend the next week measuring and scanning every inch of the house.

Their conclusion, a week and some change later? The Ghost Portal leaks. 

Even with the huge steel door locked up tight, it seems there’s enough residual energy slipping through to warp, literally warp, the house. Somehow. The way your mom’s lips thin as she says all this means she’s not satisfied with this conclusion, but she puts on a wide smile when Jazz asks if you’re all in any danger. A smart question, one you think you might’ve asked yourself. Y’know, if you still needed to worry about something like exposure. Your dad just laughs big and loud and says not to worry about it, says if there were going to be any creepy side effects they would have manifested by now. Everything’s fine, they assure you both, but you look at the crease between your mom’s eyebrows and you wonder.

Later, when they’re out taking readings from the ectoplasm-damp wreck you and the Lunch Lady made of a McDonald’s and Jazz is studying at the library, you creep down to the lab and pull up all their documentation of the house. Most of it is dry as dirt; neatly typed spreadsheets and tidy, color-coded graphs (clearly your mom’s handiwork), but there’s also nearly a gigabyte’s worth of photos. Clicking through them, you can see Dad’s sloppy angles and the occasional square pinkie slipping into the frame. Most of the first hundred photos have been untouched, but the two hundreds have been filtered all to hell, like Mom and Dad went through the house a second time, trying to find something the human eye can’t see. Just shy of 300, the photos turn a dusty black and white, splattered in places with an all-too-familiar starkly glowing green.

No. Not splattered. A few spins of the scroll wheel zooms in on a crooked picture of the kitchen. There’s green all over everything; the fridge, the microwave, the drawers and cupboards, cluttered thickly at the kitchen table. These aren’t splatters. They’re handprints, slapped in layers and layers over themselves, like somebody dipped their hands in neon paint and went to town.

Every photo taken in that black and white filter shows the same thing. Handprints on doorknobs and railings, footprints on tile and carpet, green smeared and stamped everywhere, tracking the movements of something—

(somebody)

—for what must be as long as the Portal’s been active.

Why didn’t Mom and Dad say anything about this? Why haven’t you sensed it? There’s a ghost, an entity, some thing lurking around your house like it has every right to be there! Green gathered on the couch, on every table and sink, even the upstairs shower and your room and—

(the pictures of jazz’s room are nearly clean, the pictures of Mom and Dad’s room are spotless, but your room is practically bathed in green from floor to ceiling, your bed and desk nearly washed out by a poisonous haze, and no wonder Mom had looked so worried and no wonder Dad had laughed so loud, they know something’s wrong with you, they’ve always known you were messed up thanks to the accident but now here’s irrefutable proof, how can you lie your way out of photographic evidence, how can they look at you and not see you for the freak you are)

—oh.

You close the files, power down the computer, and walk quietly out of the lab. That’s… that’s all you can really do. Sooner or later your parents will knock gently on your door and ask you to come downstairs. Just a few tests, they’ll say. It’s for your own good, they’ll say. We’re worried about you, they’ll say.

But they’ll find out. They’ll find out what you are, and it’ll go one of two ways. They’ll either accept you as the freak you are, or hate you for the freak you are. Either way, there will be no more hiding. It’s… it’s almost a relief, to know the other shoe is finally going to drop.

Except it never does.

You wait, quietly, patiently, expectantly. They don’t treat you any different. They never say a word. When they call you down to the lab, it’s just to show off the latest in Fenton ghost hunting technology. Why? Why don’t they ask? Why don’t they administer tests, if not on you than on the house and the Portal? Why does nothing change?

=

They’re wrong on nearly every count, sure, but you’ve got hurts aplenty to hide. Sam and Tucker have seen the lightning splashed across your skin dozens of times by now, and when they hear the A-listers spreading this bad joke of a ghost story and see you laugh, they laugh too. There wasn’t much chance of hiding it for long from them, after all, when it’s so much easier to patch up the nastier cuts when you’re bleeding sluggish ectoplasm instead of blood pumped by a heart full of adrenaline.

The first time Sam had insisted on unzipping your suit to get a good look at the slash on one shoulder, Tucker cracking a half-hearted attempt at a dirty joke with hands shaking so bad the first aid kit rattled like a live thing, they’d both stopped cold. For ten long seconds, they just stared, pinning you down with matching expressions of horror. It was the longest ten seconds of your life. You’d been scared before, of being found out for the freak you are, of being overwhelmed by powerful ghosts, but this, you’re pretty sure, was the first time you were ever terrified.

But then Sam hugged you, and Tucker had smiled and squeezed your good shoulder, and that had been enough. There wasn’t anything to worry about after all.

They understand now why you gasp when your ghost sense goes off—

(shock like plunging feet first into a frozen lake, shock like drowning with a chest full of dead air, shock like electricity buzzing hot and cold and terrible through your nerves, leaving you breathless and tingling, your fists clenched so tight your knuckles burn white, teeth clenched and grinding as you dart for the nearest lonely corner to gather up your heaviness and summon the starlight in your heart)

—and they know why it took you so long to realize you don’t have a heartbeat when you’re a ghost. The first few times you changed, you’d felt it, felt it like a rush of blood flow to a sleeping limb, but it took weeks to put it together. To realize the stinging, cool pulse radiating from your hand to your chest wasn’t your heart but something else altogether. All that star-bright scar tissue pulses. Involuntary, but without any reaction to how much energy you exert. A constant, steady [unfinished]

=

Breathing is optional too, when you’re a ghost. You’d found that one out the hard way, choking on mud in that stupid duck pond and tangled in one of Skulker’s nets.

[mamourland]

Kissing Prompt #22 - Magnum/Higgins

Prompt #22 - A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party.

  Context: Season 2

  Rated: Mature

Magnum was leaning on his cue stick, observing his partner who was currently bending over the pool table to make her shot.

 Nothing would be wrong with this picture, they played more often than not lately. Since becoming work partners, they have grown closer and definitely more friendly.

 ‘No, nothing wrong.’, he thought as he swallowed his saliva. ‘Except maybe for the misplaced feelings he harbored towards his partner?’

 A few months ago they had a conversation about dates when he worked that case about internet dating and she told him she respected a man who could invite her in person rather than hidden behind a screen. And that information stayed lodged inside his mind.

 Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe he should just man up and ask her.

 He must have zoned out for a while because she was staring at him with one fist on her hip, her cue stick in her other hand and her head tilted sideways, as she waited for him to play. He blinked a few times, trying to shake the enticing picture she was currently making.

 She was wearing the same clothes she wore the day she dazzled him with her golf drive – a short kaki skirt and a black halter top – minus the platform shoes that had been kicked out near the couch earlier. If this outfit had been inappropriate for golf – oh the images of her muscular legs his mind had conjured up afterwards - it was something else entirely when she was bent over a pool table, standing on her tiptoes because she was too short to reach the ball.

  It shouldn’t make him react this way, after all he had seen her in bikinis that were far less modest than this.

 « Magnum! », she snapped impatiently. “What are you waiting for? It’s your turn.”

 “Right.”, he croaked and cleared his throat to get rid of the gravel that seemed lodged in it.

 He walked towards the pool table and observed the disposition of the balls, trying to decide which ones he could pocket. He couldn’t concentrate though, her words were stuck in his brain.

 ‘What are you waiting for?’

 “Will you just do it already? What’s with you today?”, she grumbled.

 His head turned up towards her. Was she reading his mind?

 “Higgy, will you go on a date with me?”, he blurted so quickly he doubted she would understand his words.

 To his surprise, she agreed with a shrug and a ‘ok’ like he had asked her to go for a run or something equally trivial.

 “I’m asking you on a real date Higgy, not an undercover one.”, he enunciated slowly.

 “I know, I got that the first time.”

 “Oh. And you are okay with that, then?”, he asked.

 “I said I was.”, she said while being the epitome of calm.

 Magnum was beginning to be more and more skeptical about her agreement.

 “Juliet, you know what going on a date with a man entails right?”

 She scoffed.

 “Of course I do! Don’t patronize me, Thomas! We’ll both dress up and go to dinner. You’ll be the perfect gentleman, or your version of being one at least. And at the end of the night, we’ll kiss.”

 Magnum nodded slowly. She seemed informed about the usual expectations during a first date at least.

 “And you would be okay with all of that?”

 “We’ve already done everything but the kiss.  And why wouldn’t I want to kiss you?”

 “Why would you want to kiss me?”

 He put his cue stick on the pool table and crossed his arms on his chest, awaiting her answer.

 “What’s the matter, Magnum? Are you second-guessing your powers of attraction?”, she chuckled, clearly amused by his discomfort, yet still not answering his question.

 “I’m usually not…. With other women, at least. You, on the other hand, never implied that you were attracted to me.”

 “Sorry if I never advertised that fact. Besides, you never asked.”

 “Oh, so I just had to ask if you fancied me?”

 “That’s usually the best way to get an answer, yes.”

 He shook his head, dumbstruck by this conversation.

 “So let me get this straight. We’re both attracted to each other and we’re going on a date where we will kiss.”, he stated matter-of-factly.

 She nodded. “Looks like it.”

 He took back his cue and prepared himself to take a shot, not really believing what just happened between them. Unsurprisingly, he failed to pocket the #6 ball. He yielded her the spot so she could take her turn.

 He didn’t let his eyes wander towards her as she bent over the pool table yet again and the hem of her skirt dangerously rose up to the top of her thighs.

 “Since we already agreed on the kissing part, what’s stopping us from doing it.”, he hesitated a few seconds. “Right now?”

 She pushed her cue stick into the white ball but her aim was way off. Apparently, she wasn’t as serene as she was pretending. Magnum smiled, glad to take a bit of power back.

 She straightened so she could gauge him with her brown eyes, that sometimes carried a greenish hue, and shrugged but Magnum saw her throat work as she swallowed her saliva to mask her nervous state.

 “Nothing, I guess.”

 “Fantastic!”, he beamed as he grabbed her cue stick and all but threw them both on the pool table rug, making them disrupt the arrangement of the remaining balls.

 He wrapped his arm around her waist to pull her to his body before turning them so she was pressed against the wooden edge of the pool table. They were so close their breaths were mingled and Magnum’s heart raced at the thought of taking this next step with her.

 He was acting like the gentleman he was by letting her close the last couple of inches remaining between their faces especially since she seemed a bit apprehensive a few minutes ago. Their eyes met and stayed locked for a long moment, so long that they managed to synchronize their breathing.

 Higgins pushed herself on her toes to slowly join their lips in a chaste yet intense kiss. As soon as they came in contact, Magnum squeezed her tighter against him, not willing to let even air between them. She gripped his shoulders for purchase as the momentum made her upper body recoil slightly when he deepened the kiss.

 She moaned when his tongue slid inside and ran along the roof of her mouth. Magnum was pleasantly surprised as she was particularly responsive to his every touch. Usually, she was so guarded he couldn’t tell what she was thinking but right now, he could feel she was enjoying herself, which in turn made him enjoy himself as well.

 His palms trailed up her ribcage and paused beneath her breasts, not daring to move things forwards without checking for her consent. They eventually broke apart when their lungs started to burn from the oxygen shortage but they didn’t go very far as they pressed their forehead together.

 “Wow, that was a great first date.”, he panted.

 “Nu-uh, Mister, don’t think you’re getting out of the whole dressing up, wining and dining me and walking me back to my door just because we decided to do things backwards.”

 He was about to retort something about her ‘backwards’ comment but she placed her fingers to his lips to prevent him.

 “Spare me the crass joke, please.”

 “You know me too well.”, he mumbled against her skin. “And don’t worry, I can’t wait to go out with you on my arm so I’m not gonna bail on our first real date.”, he added once she dropped her hand.

 He pushed one of her blond curls behind her ear, addressing her a dazzling smile. She responded with one of her own while she ran her fingers in his hair to drag him to her lips for another toe-curling, mind-blowing kiss.

 Magnum was having trouble restraining himself, he wanted her so much, but they hadn’t discussed anything besides kissing and he didn’t want to pressure her or for her to regret anything that might happen between them. Therefore, he broke away from her sinful mouth and braced himself with his hands on the pool table behind her. However, he wasn’t willing to step back from her completely so he hovered near the length of her body leaving her the power of decision about where this was going.

 “Since we already established what we wanted to do on our first date, I thought we could fast forward a couple of dates and maybe, you know… keep going.”, she advanced, adverting her eyes to her hands that were stroking his taught biceps.

 Thomas’ heart skipped a beat at her words and he didn’t wait a second before he holstered her up on the edge of the furniture to step between her spread legs. They were now at eye level.

 “Are you sure, Higgy?”

 She pecked his lips and lingered there before kissing his cheek then the spot behind his ear. He closed his eyes, the sensations already fueling his desire for her.

 « I’m sure, Thomas. », she whispered in his ear. « I want you right here, right now. »

 With that she wrapped her legs around his waist in order to pull him even closer to her. Her skirt was preventing their centers to meet so Thomas slid his palms on the outside of her thighs to push the offending fabric upwards until his hardening member met her hot covered folds.

 They both moaned loudly when he ground his pelvis against hers. She struggled with his t-shirt, trying to lift it up above his head.

 « Thank God you’re wearing a t-shirt. No buttons. », she panted when she finally succeeded in removing it.  

 He chuckled but sobered up when he eyed her top and wondered how to take it off of her.

 « You could have done the same, you know? »

 « Just lift it up. », she instructed hurriedly.

 He grabbed the hem at her waist and divested her of the black, stretchy fabric. He choked slightly when he was met with the sight of her bare chest.

 « You’re not wearing a bra. », he stated the obvious in a high pitch voice.

 « I can’t with this top. », she shrugged.

 He growled as he wrapped his arms around her again and dipped his head to her collarbone first, peppering her soft skin with nips and kisses, then slowly made his way towards her breasts. He was about to close his lips around one of her nipples, encouraged by her scratching nails across his scalp and her breathless pants when he heard a foreign noise, something that didn’t belong in their surroundings. She must have heard it too because he felt her stiffen against him.

 They both opened their eyes and something caught Higgins’ attention behind him.

 « Jin?!? », she screeched.

 If there was something Magnum never wanted to experience again, it was Higgins screaming another man’s name while they were on the verge of being intimate. Especially Jin’s.

 « What the hell are you doing here? », she added.

 Magnum’s blood ran cold at Juliet’s question. He slowly turned around while trying to maintain Higgins’ decency and hide her from Jin’s gaze. She wrapped one arm around his collarbone to keep him in front of her and let her legs dangle from the pool table on each side of his hips.

 Jin was standing near the kitchen bar and was watching them with a smirk. He had the audacity to eat chips directly from the pack which was what Magnum identified as the foreign noise.

 « I knew you were that kind of partners. », Jin chanted, absolutely too pleased with himself.

 « How long have you been watching us like some kind of perv? », he asked instead of commenting.

 « Oh, not very long don’t worry.”, the Asian man answered before pushing a few chips in his mouth.

 The PI wasn’t exactly reassured by this answer.

 “I was looking for the both of you. I was wondering why you weren’t answering my calls but now I know why. »

 « How did you get in here? », Higgins asked and Magnum was asking himself the same question.

 « Oh, you know, I got my own tricks. »

 « Apparently, our security consultant needs to do a better job if your tricks can beat his installation. », she scolded as she wrapped both arms around his neck and glared at him.

 Magnum sighed, he had been in Heaven two minutes earlier and now it was literally Hell.

 « You might want to be careful with that or you might poke someone with it. », Jin smirked as he gestured to his tented shorts.

 Thomas closed his eyes in mortification and groaned, especially when he heard Juliet giggle into his shoulder.

 « Jin, you need to leave, now! », the PI growled, his patience stretched thin.

 “Why, am I keeping you from something?”, Jin chuckled.

 Magnum knew he couldn’t move from his position and risk exposing a half-naked Higgins but fortunately she came to his rescue. She brushed her lips against the shell of his ear before whispering.

 “Let me handle this. Cover your ears.”, she instructed.

 He did what she told him and heard a shrill whistle coming from the majordomo’s lips followed by barking dogs coming closer and closer. Jin’s eyes widened as he panicked at the sound of the Dobermans approaching.

 “You wouldn’t!”, he complained to Higgins.

 “She would, even if you hadn’t interrupted anything.”, Thomas chuckled.

 The lads entered the guesthouse through the open French doors and sat in front of the pool table, awaiting new instructions from their mistress. Juliet pointed towards the Asian man and ordered them to chase him away.

 The dogs obeyed and ran after Jin, who dropped his bag of chips on the floor before scampering away as fast as he could.

 “Next time, make an appointment!”, Magnum yelled at his retreating form.

 When the intruder was gone, Thomas and Juliet laughed, glad to be rid of the interruption. She didn’t waste time before wrapping her legs around his again and littering small kisses on the side of his neck. He closed his eyes, sensing his own private Heaven slowly coming back to him. Her hands trailed down his torso, from his chest to his stomach, before one of them sneaked underneath the elastic waistband of his shorts to stroke his receding erection. He groaned and pushed his hips in synch with her movements.

 “He’s right, you know. You might hurt someone with this.”, she purred in his ear.

 He turned his face to hers in order to brush his lips against hers.

 “Don’t worry, I only use it to give pleasure.”, he smugly advanced.

 She smiled against him.

 “Then what are you waiting for?”

 “For you to let me go because it will work far better if I’m facing you.”

 She tightened her hold with her arms and legs around him.

 « No, you’re going to carry me to your bedroom because I don’t want any other interruption. », she stated.

 « We didn’t even go on a date yet and you’re already showing me your bossy side. », he sighed.

 « You already know my bossy side. Besides, you have no idea what you’re signing for, Thomas Magnum. I have a lot of other flaws stocked away, just for you. », she beamed at him and his chest constricted with affection.

 « I bet I’m gonna love them all anyway. »

 He holstered her up on his back to take her up the stairs in a piggy back ride to continue what they had started before they were rudely interrupted.

[loganscanons]

hunted - part 1

Characters: Precious and Makani, brief mentions of Roman and Ashley, tiny mention of Aoife

Summary: Precious confronting Makani about the threat of witch hunters and getting angry because Makani isn’t taking it seriously.

The world has gotten dark around Precious, the sun setting and leaving the apartment lit only by a few candles. She stares at the three-wicked candle on the coffee table, the flames burning an impression in her vision. She’s sitting on the edge of the couch, her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on one hand. Her right knee bounces as a nervous tension pumps through her. Every so often, another jolt of fear strikes her heart and makes her entire body tremble.

The key in the lock of door makes Precious jump, and for the first time since she got Roman’s message, she looks away from the flickering candle. Adrenaline pumps through her as she watches the door with wide eyes, her pupils dilating. The door swings open to reveal Makani. Precious doesn’t relax.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Makani asks, dropping her bag onto the floor as the door shuts behind her. Her trademark playful smile tugs at her lips, a smile that usually bodes illy for the unfortunate soul that’s caught her attention. “Are we having a séance?”

“Makani,” Precious chokes out, her voice thick and strangled.

“What’s the matter with you?” Makani asks, her smile replaced by an inquisitive frown.

“Makani,” Precious says again. “Makani, what the fuck?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, babe,” she says. “There’s a lot of what the fuckery in the world.”

Precious jerks up in a sudden, violent movement, and Makani raises her eyebrows as Precious lurches toward her. In her mild surprise, she maintains her usual ease and lack of concern, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall, unshaken. Words won’t form on Precious’s lips. There are too many aggravated, buzzing thoughts in her head. It’s like trying to parse a conversation out of a screaming crowd.

“Witch hunters,” Precious manages to say.

“Oh, is that what this is about?” Makani’s shoulders lower slightly. She’d been on the defensive. She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about them. They’re a bunch of self-righteous jackasses.” She pushes off the wall and turns toward the kitchen. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Makani!” Precious snaps, her mind clearing as her fear is taken over by anger. Makani turns back to her, one eyebrow raised. “Roman was just nearly fucking murdered by a witch hunter.”

“Who?” Makani asks.

“The storm witch.”

“Oh, her,” Makani sounds disinterested.

“In Chicago, Makani. She was just almost murdered. By a witch hunter. In Chicago.”

“Okay?”

“There are witch hunters in Chicago!” Precious yells. She likes to consider herself a level-headed person, someone who can face issues with a calm, logical mind. But she’s never been in legitimate fear for her life before, and she’s discovering that when she’s in fear for her life, she’s less stable. Though, perhaps that can be in part attributed to Makani’s infuriating lack of concern.

“I know,” Makani says.

“You know?” she repeats. The fury is building.

“There are witch hunters everywhere,” she shrugs.

Precious is speechless for a moment, unsure where to direct her anger. Maybe she should’ve assumed there were witch hunters everywhere, but it sure would’ve been nice if someone had let her know about that. She shakes away that concern, and instead says, “The witch hunter who tried to kill her is Ashley Rivers, of the apparently notorious Rivers family, a family that makes it their mission to kill witches. A family of witch hunters that’s been hunting witches for centuries is here in Chicago, where we – two witches, in case you forgot – live.”

“We’re fine, Precious,” Makani says calmly.

“We’re fine?” She must be in the Twilight Zone. Not even Makani can be this flippant about a very real threat. “Makani! You might as well have a neon sign outside that says, ‘Witches Live Here’! You practically advertise the dark magic you do and where you live. Where I live.”

Makani scoffs, “Precious, no witch hunter is getting in here. Even if they knew protection sigils and wards and how to counteract them, they don’t know the ones I’ve created. They’ll have other things to worry about if they get too close.” That playful smile returns, darkened by the ominous threat.

Precious breathes in deeply. “I leave the apartment, Makani. I have a day job. I go grocery shopping. I see friends. I run errands. Who’s to say a witch hunter won’t get me when I’m out?”

Makani’s smile shifts into an intense and serious gaze. It’s more off-putting than the smile. She says in a low voice, “I’d never let anyone hurt you, Precious.”

With Makani’s words, the candles flicker, and a chill runs over Precious. She shivers. She knows there’s no horror Makani wouldn’t face, no horror that Makani wouldn’t create, to protect her. The shadows seem to cling to Makani, ready to lash out at anything that would deign to hurt Precious. It’s not comforting.

“You can’t promise that,” Precious says quietly, holding a steady eye contact. “You can’t control everything. You’ve put me in danger. What if something happens to you, Makani? What do I do then? I can’t rely on you to protect me! I know a tiny fraction of the amount of magic you know. If something happens to you, how do I protect myself? I’m fucked. You’ve put a target on my back, and I wasn’t even aware of it. Did you know the Rivers family was so close to us?” Makani doesn’t respond, and Precious raises her voice, “Did you?”

“Yes,” she says, her tone flat and unaffected.

“Of-fucking-course you did,” Precious throws her hands up. “Of course! And you didn’t mention it. What the fuck, Makani?”

Makani says nothing, and Precious begins to pace, the built-up anxiety forcing her to ambulate.

“You’re not the only person who—who cares about me,” Precious says. She turns on Makani, the beads in her braids clacking together as she whips around. “You may not have meaningful relationships, but that doesn’t mean I don’t. I have people who would miss me. My dad has lost enough people. It would break him to lose me too. His daughter, murdered by witch hunters, and he would have no idea what really happened to me.

“I have friends who would miss me! You know, all the people you dislike because you’re selfish and don’t like that anyone else gets my attention? They would miss me. And I have a job! I want to open my own funeral home someday. I can’t do that if I’m dead.

“There’s a legitimate threat to my life, and I knew nothing about it. You’ve been teaching me magic for years now and you never thought to mention that witch hunters exist? Or that they were so close? You didn’t think that I might want to know that?”

Her face is hot and flushed, her chest heaving from the energy of her tirade. She watches Makani, eyes flashing. She waits for Makani to say something infuriating. Something like “Are you finished?” To continue to take everything in life as one big joke.

Instead, Makani surprises her by taking her seriously. She looks at Precious with solemn consideration, her brows slightly furrowed. Precious waits.

“I could kill him,” Makani says quietly, looking into space thoughtfully.

“What?”

“The Rivers guy. I could kill him,” she says, her eyes focusing on Precious.

“How would that help?” Precious demands. Makani opens her mouth to respond, but Precious cuts her off. “He comes from a family of witch hunters. You don’t think that if you killed one of them, you wouldn’t attract the attention of the rest of them? You can’t solve everything with murder!”

“I could—”

“Don’t say you could kill the rest of them, Makani,” Precious says. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “You’re powerful but you aren’t that powerful. One of them will get you eventually. And I’ll still have a target on my back because we’re in the same coven.”

The weight hits Precious again. The fragility of her life. The imminent threat that she feels so powerless against. A fear like nothing she’s ever felt before. It all consumes her, creeping over her skin, through her veins, into her heart. She can’t breathe. Her body trembling, she collapses on the couch and buries her face in her hands. The tightness in her throat builds until she can’t hold back anymore, and she lets out heavy, racking sobs.

Life has dealt Precious a fair share of hell to face, but she’s always been able to handle it. She got into magic to connect with her grandmother, whom her mother had tried to prevent her from seeing. And she got into magic to help her face life’s hardships. Now, she’s facing the scariest thing life has dealt her yet, and she’s helpless. She doesn’t know enough to protect herself. And this is a mess she’s gotten herself into.

The weight of the couch shifts as Makani sits beside her, leaving about a foot of space between them. If Makani touches her, tries to comfort her, Precious is going to snap. Makani doesn’t get it. She doesn’t fear death. She doesn’t fear anything. She can’t understand.

Makani doesn’t try to comfort her. She sits, unmoving, and then the weight on the couch shifts again as she stands. Precious hears her walk to her bedroom, and the soft click as she shuts the door behind her. Precious remains on the couch, crying until her eyes are red and raw and her throat is sore.

With a final trembling gasp, Precious forces herself to stop crying. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and looks back up at the three-wicked candle, still flickering in the darkness. Outside the window, a waning moon lights up the night sky. Precious stands and pulls the curtains shut, then snuffs out the candles, leaving curling smoke.

The crying has dulled her fear and her anger. Her level-headed attitude has returned, and she begins to plan. She shuts herself in her bedroom and texts Aoife. She looks up moving companies on her laptop, then starts sorting her belongings into piles to pack up as soon as she gets some boxes.

Around four in the morning, Precious wakes up to the sound of movement outside her door. She’s still in her clothes, curled on top of her comforter and surrounded by piles of trinkets and clothes. The lamp on her nightstand is still on. With bated breath, she listens to the movement. She recognizes it as Makani. Makani paces across the room. Precious hears the jingle of Makani’s keys, the front door opening and closing, and the lock clicking into place. She lets out her held breath and sits up in bed. She gets up to lock her bedroom door, strips out of her clothes, and curls up on top of her comforter. She won’t let herself think about what tomorrow will bring.

[wincore]

heartbreaker | na jaemin

pairing: jaemin x reader

words: 8.9k

genre: ’’’bad boy’’’!au, high school!au, fluff, angst

warnings: jaemin breaks hearts, mentions of underage drinking

a/n: this is cheesy and very long ur welcome (not really!!!)

There’s a simple rule you and the rest of the students at your school follow. Do not fall in love with Na Jaemin unless you can handle getting your heart broken.

But of course, even the simplest of rules are hard to follow sometimes. Especially when the danger you’re warned against is so enticing, so charming and sweet, so warm. School isn’t a place that likes to harbour friendliness or even the slightest of warmth, no matter what they try showing on the outside. No, it’s competition and silence, loneliness and the cold. But human beings, especially children,  somehow have a way of finding light in the darkest of systems, and you’ve adjusted yourself with close friends and people to rely on early. However, it isn’t really possible to be satisfied with just that; no, everyone is missing a softness, a warmth that they’ve tried to live without for so long.

And it’s people like these who fall for Na Jaemin. People who are kind or sweet or shy, people who are tough or bold or frayed on the edges—all of them fall for Jaemin no matter what, because he has the warmth they think they’re looking for, the glow they haven’t seen in a while, feelings they haven’t experienced. Even though his reputation screams danger, his charms are undeniable, his smile stupendously blinding, and his eyes pure and soft. He’s dream-like, and his movements are gentle and caring and kind. Jaemin has everything you want, and everything you didn’t know you wanted till you met him. He just has his way of roping people in, tangling them in his red strings of ill fate, blessing you with his lies. Yet, at the end of it, you’ll be blaming yourself.

You and Jaemin have…a complicated relationship. You knew him when he was just Jaemin, the boy next door, the boy you used to play tag with, the boy you shared secrets with, and not Mr. Heartbreaker, a playboy, the boy you don’t want to get too close to for your own sake, the boy with thousands of hearts in his grasp. You don’t know how and when the boy with the sweetest of words started using them as a weapon, but you guess it was two summers ago. You remember his first victim, Park Jiwoo, easily the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen, with long lashes and an innocent smile. You remember how it had morphed into an empty, lifeless one after the breakup. Jaemin’s first relationship was also probably his longest, and the ones after had ended in a quick trail of several broken hearts.

But people still fall in love with Jaemin, and you don’t blame them. He’ll smile the purest of smiles when you confess your feelings, take you on dates, talk with you on the phone for hours. He’ll hold your hand, sing his ‘I love you’s, look at you like you’re everything. But that’s it. Then it’s over with an ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think we’re meant to be’ and a small, sad smile. That’s how every story with Na Jaemin goes, and to say you’re not curious would be an outright lie. You’ve always been curious since the boy you called your friend stopped talking to you, and the fact that you’ll never get that boy back is upsetting. But as your mother says, friends come and go—you’re the one who’s supposed to keep the light alive within yourself. It makes you wonder how many lights Jaemin has stolen.

“Hello? Anybody in there?” Jisung waves his hand in front of your face.

“Sorry,” you sit up straight. “I zoned out.”

“And missed the entire chemistry lecture,” Jisung shakes his head.

You did miss the entire lecture. But it’s not like you ever listened anyway. You take your bag and get up at the same time as Jisung, when a figure passes by, ruffling Jisung’s hair into a mess. Jisung glares at Jaemin but responds to his grin with a reluctant smile anyway. You still don’t know how Jisung manages to get along with Jaemin of all people, but you assume the beginning had something to do with Jaemin’s persistent stream of affection towards the younger boy.

When your eyes meet Jaemin’s, he grants you a wink, and you ignore it with a sour expression, making your way to your next class. You can almost picture Jaemin pouting, but he should be used to it by now. He should know the fact that there are people like you—too afraid of what their heart will do in Jaemin’s presence, too afraid of the betrayal it might present, and most of all, too afraid of collecting and joining its broken pieces. And there’s your story. You have to pretend you never knew him in the first place—never knew how fast he spoke when he was being stubborn, never knew the mole on his arm you used to complete with a smiley face, never knew how funny he looked with his mouth hanging open watching TV, never knew the secret handshake you made up. No, you don’t know Na Jaemin anymore, because he isn’t Jaemin; he’s the worst kind of person you’ll ever encounter, or so you tell yourself. He’s the kind who takes a heart with a promise and handles it with nimble fingers till he finds a new one, till he no longer cares about the promise.

“Are you going to ignore me all the way to the next class? We have the same class, you know,” Jaemin’s voice snaps you out of it. Ah, speak of the devil and his unrealistically sweet smile.

“I’m not ignoring you,” you shrug. Of course you’re ignoring him; you want nothing to do with him.

“Ah? I thought you were,” Jaemin tilts his head to think, but follows you at a steady pace.

You’re just a bundle of nerves around him sometimes, as you process all the questions that run through your mind every time. Does he even remember? Does he think of you in same detailed way you do? Does he think of you the way of you think of him, with the fondness of old memories and secrets shared? You almost scoff. Of course not. Does he look at you as another heart to break, a nameless soul to be charmed? You don’t want to think about that, but it’s very frequently you find yourself running the same thoughts through your head. You want to know what happened; two years are a long enough time for questions and bitter feelings to pile up.

You exit school to face the end of yet another day, the uncomfortably hot breeze doing little to lighten your mood. You’re often glad your house is far away, and you have a lot of time to think and be with yourself, before you have to do homework and be rooted to the real world again. The walk home is either the best or the worst part of your day. It depends entirely on your train of thoughts, the weather and the events around you. Today, however, weather is incredibly shitty and the events seem to take lead as they present a rather out-of-breath Jaemin by your side.

You almost jump at the sudden contact of skin against your palm, and Jaemin looks you in the eyes with panic written all across his face. They think he’s too easy-going, stress hardly ever showing across his features, but you remember the expression he had made when he had kicked the soccer ball into your grumpy neighbour’s house with a loud crash.

“Help me out just this once please,” he whispers in a rush, and drags you by the hand, almost running.

“Wh- what is going on?!” you huff as you take quick steps to follow behind Jaemin without tripping over your own feet.

“I’ll explain when we’re out of sight,” he says, looking back at you once.

Soon enough, you’re at the entrance to your house, and doubtfully glancing at Jaemin while unlocking the door. Is he really going to stay here? You’re not very sure about the strange appearance of your school’s infamous heartthrob right by your side.

Jaemin sighs in relief once you’re both safely inside, before turning to look around with wide eyes and his lips parted.

“Wow,” he breathes, “It’s still the same.”

You’re slightly taken aback as you repeat, “same?”

“Yeah, your house,” Jaemin says, casually.

“You remember?” you ask, somewhat incredulous.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice soft and eyes shifting elsewhere.

There’s a pause before you remember the dilemma at hand.

“Are you- is there a reason you ran for like fifteen minutes holding my hand?”

“Don’t take it personally, love,” he says, a teasing smile on his lips before they’re pulled to a frown. “I have a stalker. A few probably, but this one’s persistent.”

“I’m- I’m sorry, what?”

Jaemin grins. If he is in such a case, he doesn’t show any fear or worry as you would expect. He almost looks as if he’s joking, largely in contrast with the display he put on while approaching you a few minutes ago.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried?” you ask.

“Well, I mean. It’s not that scary, and it’s not exactly unusual, but I don’t like eyes on me.”

You almost scoff. The entire school has their eyes on him, and he basks in the attention, flashing his winning smile to any crowd waiting to see him, winking at some poor soul who’s been staring at him for too long.

You let out a short, sardonic laugh instead.

“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s hard to believe when you say it like that,” you say, still sceptical.

“I appreciate the love and time they give me, I really do,” he says, his features peaceful. “But I like being by myself sometimes.”

“Please, Jaemin, you break their hearts too easily for me to believe that.”

Jaemin frowns, a deep frown, but places a hand over his heart as a show of mock hurt, his lips turning to form a pout.

“I don’t think you should be treating your guest like this.”

“Who said you’re a- you invited yourself!”

Jaemin laughs as he pinches your cheek, “Ah, y/n, you’re still so cute.”

Your ears feel hot and you quickly turn your face elsewhere. You can’t even talk to him for the shortest of time without him giving you reasons to flush hot red. It makes it very clear that your childhood means nothing whatsoever to him; you’re just another heart waiting to be a part of his collection.

“Whatever- just um- just- don’t touch anything.”

“So I have permission to stay?” Jaemin’s eyes light up as his lips quirk upwards.

“Sure,” you respond, a little unsure yourself.

You’re not sure how you end up with Jaemin sitting on the floor of your bedroom, him looking around with curious eyes, but it makes you a little heartsick when you think you were like this at some point in your life. You don’t know why the wound hasn’t closed yet. You don’t know the boy in front of you anymore; people change in the strangest ways and perhaps you were too unprepared. That’s why you’re still baffled by these thoughts.

“You still have the stars we stuck?” Jaemin says, squinting at the ceiling.

“That my dad stuck because we were too short to reach the ceiling,” you correct.

Jaemin chuckles. “You looked cute trying to jump around and reach it.”

You roll your eyes, and divert your attention to the windows of the house next to yours, the familiar blue of the curtains contrasting with the reds of the boy in front of you. His eyelashes flicker up and down as he scans you, an unreadable expression on his face, and you feel yourself getting more and more uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Are you really here till evening?” you try to distract yourself.

“Getting excited?” Jaemin asks, moving closer to sit beside you.

You fight the untimely blush, and glare at him. “Excited for what?”

Jaemin smiles at you, a smile the Devil would claim to be his own, as he places his arms on either side of you, effectively caging you. You almost feel the air leave your lungs, with Jaemin far too close for liking and no sign of his blood-boiling smile disappearing any time soon.

“I can hear your heart beating from here,” he continues smiling, looking straight into your eyes.

In a flash of a second, your mind restarts and you push Jaemin with as much force as you can muster. He lands backwards on his butt with an ‘oof’, and rubs his back with a pained expression.

“I was just teasing, love, you didn’t have to get violent,” Jaemin explains, placing his hand on his hip.

“Well, that’s called harassment and I am going to stay far, far away from you now,” you say getting up and sitting on your bed with a scowl.

“You’re adorable when your cheeks are all pink,” Jaemin says, a certain twinkle in his eyes.

You face away from him, getting grumpier by the second. Jaemin doesn’t stop asking questions, and you wonder how anyone could fall for this idiot. His grin fascinated you once, but it just reminds you of all the girls and boys that feel their heart flutter seeing it for the first time. You’re nothing special; you’re just more cautious than the others. His lips are chapped although you’re sure he came in this morning with his lips pink and soft. You remember his mother scolding him for not taking care of himself in middle school. His eyes are still unreadable, but they’re strangely kind. You wonder if it keeps that warmth even when he’s off crushing someone else’s heart, winning another easy game.

“You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes,” Jaemin’s lips quirk upwards. “Wanna tell me something?”

You scowl again. “You’re so full of it.”

“I like the compliments.”

Jaemin winks. Is he being extra just because its you, his old friend, or is he this way with everyone? It’ll always confuse you, the way he behaves around people; you’re never sure if he’s painting an image for himself, or if he’s really that sweet, or nice, or funny. Looking at him now, he’s getting on your nerves more than anything, and your old resentment probably adds fuel to the fire.

Your mother is delighted to see Jaemin in your room again, and her stream of compliments (“You’ve grown so handsome!” “Ah, you must be capturing hearts every day!” “Such a sweet boy!”) brightens his wide grin, as he speaks to her politely and sincerely, like he doesn’t have a notorious reputation at school, like he doesn’t ruin lives daily.

Jaemin leaves with a curt goodbye, and his dazzling smile; and you’re met with a slap to your head by your mom for rolling your eyes at him. It would be a waste explaining Jaemin’s situation to your mom, and it’s not like she’d want to meddle with your life too much anyway. Besides, you wouldn’t actually want to ruin his perfect image, no matter how much he annoys you.

Jaemin goes home with a strangely giddy feeling in his chest. He tries to fight the smile making its way onto his way that started with the onset of the flutters. It’s been quite a while since he’s felt this way, and he should be afraid, he should run already but the feeling is strangely addictive. Jaemin sighs when he enters his room. He pats his cheek a few times, Get it together, Jaemin, you can’t lose.

Maybe it’s because he’s been uneasy the past few days; the heavy feelings being replaced by the surprisingly light-hearted ones because of you probably caused this sudden dilemma. You aren’t even a player in the game to Jaemin. He could have tried sweet-talking, flirting, all of his other naturally attractive habits on you, but he always refrained. It felt wrong to let you fall; it always feels wrong when someone falls for him. Jaemin knows he won’t be able to help his fears, and he’ll have to run before he loses, before his own heart takes damage. Even if it’s the same fear he gets with everyone he’s dated, he’s been careful enough for you to not be one of them. He’s never known why, but the idea of it felt worse than the others.

Jaemin sighs again. Today felt different with you. It felt right. Right for him, his heart and his feelings. He wonders if that’s what all the people he’s dated felt for him in the beginning, still feel for him. That’s not a good sign. It means he should stay away. But the feeling resides in the pit of his stomach and he can’t wipe the idea of you.

Jaemin sometimes hates who he’s become, and the feelings associated with him. It’s comes naturally to him, all that he does, but he gets the feeling in his gut that it’s wrong. Jaemin doesn’t know why he still does it. Fun? Sometimes, but not really. Out of boredom? Again, same answer. Fear? That might actually hit close. He doesn’t mind the reputation he’s made if it will keep people away from his own heart, as they approach him with theirs. Jaemin just doesn’t find love beautiful anymore. Feelings are messy and unclear when they’re your own, even if you see them clearly in others. He’s ready to do whatever it takes to keep his prized possession safe. But it’d be a lie if he said he didn’t like showering his affections on someone else; he’s got a lot of it, but he never seems to be able to help the ending.

He’s been more distracted, perturbed these days, especially after Yangyang found his own pet to play with. But the weird thing is, they aren’t a pet at all, they aren’t a way to pass the time, aren’t a result of an inability to exercise self-control—the fact that they’re genuinely in love makes a sick bitterness pool in Jaemin’s stomach. He doesn’t want to feel this way; he’s never wanted to feel this way. It just so happened that the tide rushed in and he got stuck in the current.

Jaemin scowls at the ceiling, lying on his bed. If he can’t sleep, he might as well do something, he thinks as he gets up, running his fingers through his hair. He exits his room; he’s never liked staying inside for too long—it gives him a headache and makes him nauseous.

The night is slightly less hot than the day, but Jaemin likes this kind of weather. He could get something to eat now, hopefully Red’s Diner is still open, although he doesn’t necessarily have to worry about that. The manager gives him a free pass up till two in the morning. He plugs in his headphones and starts walking.

What Jaemin doesn’t expect is trouble, although he should by now. He barely escapes some burly guy, brother of one of the seniors he’s dated, with a bleeding lower lip and possible bruising in his chest. Jaemin hates getting hit in the face. His friends might be able to take a beating, but he prefers staying away from fights; it’s just not his kind of thing. He’s only learned defence, and picking physical fights just seems too childish for him. He sighs and hopes he can still buy something, and then he can go home, clean his face, and then eat.

You massage your temples, sitting alone at a table for two. You just wanted to breathe, you thought, as you had made your way towards Red’s, the unfinished book in your hand. The diner’s still fairly empty as when you had arrived, and you’re glad it is. No one’s there to witness the darkness under your eyes, or your parched lips as your eyes scan the words on the pages. Sleeplessness has given you a mild headache, but you don’t stop reading. It’s an otherworldly experience—to read your favourite book at a diner at midnight, but your peace is disrupted soon.

Na Jaemin stands at the entrance, a look of surprise across his face when his eyes meet yours. His lower lip is swollen and there’s dried blood by the side of his mouth. You can see a few cuts here and there if you squint, but before you can decide what to do, Jaemin takes a seat across you.

“Did I get hit that hard or are you really here?” Jaemin says, mouth dropping open.

“What- What is that supposed to mean? Jaemin, what happened?!”

“So I’m not hallucinating,” Jaemin leans forward.

“Are you- are you flirting?!” you look at him incredulously. “You really did get hit too hard, didn’t you?”

“I don’t really wanna discuss this right now,” he whispers, pointing towards his lips and frowning.

“Well, it doesn’t look too good to me,” you whisper, equally aggravated. “You should get it cleaned.”

You mentally curse yourself for letting your worries show. You’re supposed to stay away from this one guy, but you surely can’t leave him when he’s this hurt like this.

Jaemin snorts. “Yeah, right. I’m getting my food first.”

You don’t know what comes over you, but anger rises in your throat and all the way up to your forehead. You feel a sudden rush of energy as you grab Jaemin’s hand, and place the money for your food on the table before leaving, grumbling about how stupid someone can be.

“Where are you taking me?” Jaemin asks from behind you, his steps reluctant but complying.

“My house. It’s only two minutes away.”

You hope he doesn’t take this the wrong way, and that this is the last you see of him. He owes you at least this much, to stay away from your heart.

You stumble to your bedroom in the darkness, hands roaming around for the light switch. You feel glad as soon as you find it, and place a finger over your lips facing Jaemin. You push Jaemin inside, and close the door behind you, turning to rummage through your first aid.

“You have a really strong grip, you know?” Jaemin comments, standing a few feet away from you.

“Just sit,” you sigh. He follows and waits patiently as you gather all you need and stand in front of him.

“I didn’t even get food,” Jaemin complains. He’s about to open his mouth again when you glare at him, and he makes a show of shutting his mouth up.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you see the look on Jaemin’s face. His eyes are widened, his lips barely parted, as he gazes at you with an unreadable emotion. It’s not a common expression you see every day at school, but you ignore the intensity of his gaze as you press the cotton against his lip. He flinches at first, but stays still for the rest of the time you take working.

It’s silent the entire time all the way up till you put on a band-aid on his jaw, and dab some antiseptic cream on his lower lip. Jaemin doesn’t speak even as you place your first aid kit away, and halt in front of him. You’re unsure of what to say as you clear your throat, but Jaemin opens his mouth instead.

“Will you patch me up every time?” he asks, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“No,” you respond immediately. “I just- I felt bad for you. That’s why. I’m not- I’m not doing this again.”

You stutter out your words, and Jaemin notices, his smile only spreading to his eyes. Why did your impulse have to bring him here?

“I like it when you worry about me. Remember when I sprained my wrist and you stayed over?”

“I’m being nice,” you say, crossing your arms. “And why do you even remember that?”

“Don’t you?” He looks at you curiously, and you sigh.

Jaemin pouts as he stands up, and he flinches ever so slightly, but you notice it anyway. You narrow your eyes at him.

“Did you get punched in the chest?” you ask, maintaining your stance.

“Hu-huh? I- I might have. I don’t really remember.”

“God, you’re so stupid,” you sigh.

Jaemin tilts his head, eyes not really focused. Does he even know how bad a chest injury can get? You curse yourself for caring this much. You could send him off like this; you’ve done enough, but no, of course not. This sort of impulse always get the better of you.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Woah. No one I’ve dated has been that bold before.” Jaemin’s eyes widen as he fakes a scandalized expression.

“It’s not like that, you idiot,” you flush red at his unnecessary comment.

You find flowers of bruises on his chest, and a few scratches. You get your first aid again and treat him once more, complaining about how stupid he is. You’re not very rational right now, you’re much too sleepy and you’re only running on adrenaline. Your grumbling isn’t even the worst you could do.

After Jaemin slips his hoodie back on, he flashes you another smile, accompanied with a wink. It’s like he teases you on purpose. You scowl, and look the other way. You don’t even want to think anymore; you’re just keeping it together till he leaves and you can crash. A part of you is still curious, though, unfortunately.

“How’d you even get beaten up this bad?” you ask, the words coming out reluctantly. Just who could beat up your school’s most adored boy?

“The…the boys,” he answers, his pitch slightly higher as he gulps, “They ran into some trouble.”

You scoff. “I didn’t think you were this bad at lying, Jaemin.”

“And how would you know?” he retorts, eyebrows twisting in confusion.

“I know that face,” you mumble.

Jaemin falls silent as he looks down at his hands on his lap. He looks back up after a few seconds, and opens his mouth but closes it soon after. Why does he look so guilty?

“It was some guy…the brother of someone I dated…I don’t really remember.”

Jaemin looks away, and you feel a mixture of anger and pity. You’re not sure if it’s the tiredness speaking, but you chide him, “If you don’t know how to fix something, don’t break it.”

Jaemin holds a small smile for a few moments before responding quietly. “I wish it were that easy.”

“Whatever, Jaemin, get some rest,” you say, patting his shoulder.

Jaemin stands up with a sweet, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

You find yourself smiling back for the first time; it’s present even as he leaves, and you send him off with a note to be careful as you watch his figure carefully make his way through the streets. You smile in your sleep too that night, but you don’t remember what you dreamt of in the morning.

“You look chipper today,” Jeno notes as Jaemin breaks into another grin.

“I do?” Jaemin’s eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t elaborate although he’d really love to.

“Stop pretending,” Renjun shoves him. “You know you want to, so spit it out.”

Jaemin shoots a look at Renjun, and massages his shoulder. “I’ll tell you if I want to. Stop glaring at me.”

“Let me guess,” Renjun says, a teasing smile on his face. “You’ve found the love of your life!”

Donghyuck snickers from behind Jaemin, and even Jeno looks amused. Yangyang resorts to shrugging, a sly smile making its way onto his face. Jaemin turns around to look at Donghyuck first.

“I knew you weren’t sleeping,” he glares while Donghyuck responds with a ‘hm’, his cheek pressed to the desk and eyes closed. Sometimes even Jaemin doesn’t get Donghyuck and his sleep schedule. Does he sleep in class to piss off the teachers or does he really not get sleep at night?

Jaemin turns to look around at the rest, still shooting Jaemin bemused looks.

“What? I’m not going to date anyone right now,” Jaemin shrugs. It’s true. He doesn’t feel like going through the process all over again. He hopes it’s not because of you.

“Do I hear correct?” Yangyang quirks his brow up, mock surprise on his face.

“I heard it too,” Renjun interrupts, mouth open in an exaggerated gasp. “Na Jaemin, Mr. Heartbreaker, isn’t going to date? How are you supposed to keep up your reputation?”

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “You guys are something else.”

Renjun grins, while the rest look equally amused after poking fun at their friend. However, as soon as you walk into class, Jaemin suddenly finds him staring after you. He finds it interesting how you never spare him a second glance, like you didn’t clean his wounds and treat him with all your care last night. He found your touch warm, soft and very, very real.

“Oh, it’s like that?” Renjun interrupts Jaemin’s train of thought. He feels uneasy at the comment—is he being obvious? That’s the last thing he wants.

“Why don’t you just use your usual tricks on them? If you’re that interested,” Yangyang suggests.

Jaemin isn’t interested, he swears he isn’t. But the more he promises himself the more the dreaded realization dawns that he probably is, that he might break your heart. He scoffs internally. It’s too soon, and he won’t date you, certainly. He made that decision a long time ago, and even though you don’t talk to him anymore, he couldn’t do that to his old friend. The ones who come to him pleading with their hearts, the ones who readily give it up when he shows the slightest interest—they never felt like anything to Jaemin, just a shadow of the warmth he could have felt, that they probably felt with him. Na Jaemin doesn’t fall in love easily, no. It’s what his reputation says, and it’s what he decided two years ago when…he shudders at the memory.

“How do you even make all of them fall for you, Jaemin?” Yangyang asks, not paying a lot of attention. “It’s like you speak magic.”

“Seems like they like the look of danger,” Renjun laughs.

“Then girls would be all over Donghyuck,” Jaemin declares, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy behind him from the corner of his eye.

“I heard that,” Donghyuck grumbles, propping his face up on one arm. The others laugh; Jeno is the only one who shoots Jaemin a concerned look, before turning back to his notes.

Jaemin takes one last look at you and decides, no. He’s going nowhere near your heart. But he’s allowed to rekindle old friendships, right?

You don’t get why Jaemin keeps buying you chocolate milk after lunch. Is this his repayment, or is he looking for something more? You shake your head at the latter idea; even if he did, you’re going to be strong and ignore him. You already have some of the answers you were looking for—yes, he remembers, and yes, he knows who you are, he hasn’t wiped off your history entirely from his brain. You don’t have as much curiosity left, and you can be on your own path now. Without him popping in at random.

You almost groan out loud as Jaemin sits beside you, chocolate milk in hand. You don’t show any distress, opting for a small smile and a polite ‘thank you’. Jaemin frowns.

“Something’s bothering you,” he says.

Yes, Jaemin. You.

“I think I look a little bothered all the time,” you say, looking elsewhere. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow but he doesn’t question further. You’re not sure why he’s being nice, and it’s scary. You don’t know what he’s like these days, whether he has other things in his mind now. It’s scary because you don’t know what he’s up to; you’re afraid because you can’t trust him. He’s in the middle of explaining how Renjun almost got caught with his artwork once when you interrupt.

“Jaemin,” you say, “Why are you doing this?”

“What- what do you mean?” Jaemin tilts his head.

“This.”

“I thought being nice is a good thing,” he pouts.

“Jaemin.”

Jaemin falls silent, and you think he’ll crack another silly joke and avoid the issue. But he stays quiet for what seems like hours before finally parting his lips.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks, the same deep look in his eyes that he had when you were cleaning his cuts.

You scoff. “Who’s afraid of you?”

You’re not about to tell the lion you’re afraid of him and then walk right into his den. Jaemin smiles bright as usual before looking down at his hands.

“It’s nice talking to you,” he says.

So you let him talk to you. That’s all he does every lunch break, and you don’t know why the wall you put up shakes at the foundation so often. It’s nice talking with him, in fact. You’ve also somehow become Jaemin’s medic, and every time there’s a fight, he ends up at your house with you swearing at him while treating his wounds. You don’t know why he does it, why he keeps showing up even if his face is the last thing you want to see. You don’t know why he keeps getting into fights, if they’ve always been this regular an occurrence.

When Jaemin shows up once more, this time accompanied with more than some gashes and bruises, you’re almost overtaken with panic. He looks as if he’s about to faint, and whispers a “please” before stumbling right into your arms. You carry him to your room to inspect his wounds. As you lay him on your bed, you discover he still has some consciousness left in him as his eyes follow your every movement. You do your work, realizing he might have a mild concussion although there’s no sign of bleeding.

“What happened this time?” you whine, worry seeping into your tone.

“Baseball bat,” Jaemin manages, voice low and raspy.

“You stupid boy,” you almost hit him yourself. “You never fight back, do you?”

Jaemin smiles before fluttering his eyes closed, leaving you on the verge of a heart attack.

“J-Jaemin? Oh my god, are you dead? This isn’t right- what if I get sued? Wake up you crazy—”

“I’m awake, I’m awake!” Jaemin’s eyes open once more. “I feel like I’m getting hit in the head again with your yelling.”

“I wasn’t yelling,” you grumble. “You must have one hell of a skull to not have died.”

“Of course,” Jaemin smiles despite the obvious pain. “Just let me sleep here tonight.”

You comply, patching up his wounds and applying the necessary. The look on Jaemin’s face is enough to convince you to give him your concern. After all, he’s a friend. But that’s all he is, right? You mumble a ‘good night’, not sure why, as you take your pillow and blanket to the living room.

Jaemin knows he shouldn’t but he keeps coming back to you. He likes the way your thumb brushes across his cheek when you check the bruises on his jaw, or the way your eyes focus on him entirely. He loves hearing the concern in your voice, even as you’re scolding him. But most of all, he adores your touch. It’s a warmth he’s feeling after a very long time, and he’s finding himself addicted.

It’s no good, Jaemin tells himself, The damage is done. Ah, but there’s always more to suffering, isn’t there?

You find yourself at a quaint café you’ve never visited before, on a Saturday afternoon. The walls are beige, and there are pink sticky notes in the shape of hearts on it. The lighting is mild; it’s mostly sunlight doing its job, but Jaemin manages to shine brighter.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you tell him. You don’t know why you still refuse to be too long in his presence. After all, you’re not exactly doing the job of staying away too well. Might as well give up.

“You keep saving my life, and I can’t even repay you?” Jaemin makes a face. “What kind of a man do you think I am, y/n?”

“A very extra one,” you scoff. He’s still the overly cheesy goofball you knew in middle school. The thought warms you as you eventually smile back at Jaemin. Every time his excitement shows up as random spasms of energy, his eyebrows moving with the tone of his voice, every time he laughs at his own joke, or when he apologizes for all the cringe that escapes his mouth, not really meaning it, every time he rolls his eyes and gets all sour if you ignore him—you’re reminded of Jaemin, the boy you know, your friend. His smile, by far, is the most reminiscent of your childhood, your friendship. It hasn’t changed one bit.

Jaemin offers to walk you home but both of you get distracted by the dog park on your way back. It doesn’t feel like you’ve been apart for two years, like Jaemin has a different reputation altogether now, like Jaemin is the last person you should be hanging out with. It’s the Jaemin you know, a bit more mature at times maybe, but the same in the end. You find a twinge of a feeling unknown in your chest as you watch Jaemin play with a little pug, trying to get it to give him a high-five. You’re not supposed to be feeling this, right? This is what you’ve been afraid of so far, isn’t it? But then, why does it feel so sweet?

“Is that Na Jaemin’s new sweetheart?” your ears catch onto some whispering behind you, as you sit with Jaemin on a wooden bench.

“Wah, I’m so jealous,” another voice whines.

“Don’t worry, he’ll dump them soon enough. You could try then.”

The voices bring you back to your bitter reality. 

You breathe in. What were you even thinking? You should never have let Jaemin open his mouth in your presence. You’ve let it happen; whatever you were afraid of is already beginning, and there’s no helping it now. You start to turn your head, but Jaemin suddenly wraps an arm around your shoulder. He pulls you closer, and you feel a certain dread rising in your throat. The voices behind you disappear, probably disappointed, and you feel worse.

“Don’t listen to them,” he whispers, his voice strangely worried.

You can’t stop the flurry of thoughts that pass through. Is he treating you like another toy to play with? Just a way to pass the time? Of course, he’s just trying to add your heart to his collection. There’s no other explanation as to why he would start talking to you again after so long. If he really wanted to rekindle your friendship, he would have contacted you sooner. 

You don’t know how to trust him at all, do you? Your heart hammers in your chest as you turn to face Jaemin.

“Are you playing with me?” you ask, looking him in the eye.

“What- I- Of course not!” he looks taken aback.

No, no, no. Na Jaemin is a liar and you should never trust him. That’s the one rule you have to follow. He looks nervous, that you can tell from his face. You can’t believe how you fooled yourself for this long. Friends don’t treat you the way Na Jaemin has for the past few weeks.

“I…have to go,” you tell Jaemin before getting up and walking away as fast as you can.

You don’t understand the sudden settlement of panic, but you can’t think, can’t breathe. You feel like an idiot; this is what you get for letting your guard down. Jaemin can’t possibly want to be your friend - every single thing he does adds up to his schemes, plans you don’t want to get caught up in. You ignore his calls from behind you, but he catches up to you eventually by the side of the lane that leads to your house.

“You walk too fast,” Jaemin pants. His hair is in disarray from the running, his jacket halfway off his shoulder, and his cheeks flushed red.

“Jaemin,” you say as you stand there, frozen, “You’ve changed. And I don’t know you now. I’m sorry, but I think I really am afraid of you.”

You’re afraid of Jaemin, yes, but you’re also afraid of your heart.

Jaemin’s sharp intake of breath draws your attention, and you stand your ground as he walks closer to face you.

“It’s not like that,” Jaemin reasons, “It really isn’t.”

“When is it not like that, Jaemin?” you say, your voice heavy, “I’ve seen too many people cry by their lockers to believe that.”

Jaemin falls silent, and maybe you imagine it, but a flash of hurt makes its appearance across his face.

“Why do you do it?” you ask, your brows knitted. “Why do you keep doing it?”

Jaemin’s frown deepens. You know he probably won’t answer, that you’ll probably have to walk away soon. But he steps forward, his face barely a feet from yours as he speaks with uncharacteristic fear and sadness.

“Because I don’t want my heart to break,” his voice cracks, eyes shaking and looking down at his feet, and you feel pity among the mix of emotions stemming in you.

Before you can respond, Jaemin steps back. An almost inaudible ‘sorry’ escapes his mouth, as he turns around and leaves. And you let him leave, too confused with his answer, too confused with his actions, his smiles, his words, everything he does. You enter your bedroom with a heavy heart, and a nagging thought that you might have hurt Na Jaemin, a heartbreaker and a friend once upon a time.

Jaemin sighs as he hugs his pillow tighter, laying on his bed. Does he ever do anything right? Is he really as horrible as you think he is? He’s got so many questions he doesn’t have the answer to, and a hole beginning to form in his chest. Jaemin sighs once more, feeling anguish for the first time in a long time.

“Do you wanna talk about it? This is like- the eight hundredth time you’ve sighed,” Jeno says, not taking his eyes off his phone screen.

Jaemin sits up. He knows he called Jeno over; he’s the only one that listens as closely as Jaemin likes, but right now, he doesn’t feel like talking at all. Besides, Jeno’s too busy with the stupid game and it’s irking Jaemin even more.

“I messed up,” Jaemin says, finally.

“When do you not?”

Jaemin throws the pillow at Jeno, which effectively stops his gameplay. Jeno grins at Jaemin, who barely returns a smile before lying back down on the bed.

“Y/n should be the one here right now, not me,” Jeno says, “That is, if you want to talk it out.”

“I can’t do that,” Jaemin furrows his brows.

“Why not?”

“I’m- I’m not even that interested. Why should I waste any more time? It’s not like I’ll die without them,” he scoffs. “Maybe I should finally text that girl back. What’s her name again? Yoojung? Yoosung?”

Jeno stares at Jaemin, almost sighing. “You’re rambling out of bitterness now? You really did get feelings, didn’t you?”

“I did not!” Jaemin says, pitch a little higher.

Jeno sighs, leaning back against the wall. “I know you promised yourself you wouldn’t after…that. But I think it’s a good thing. And it’s y/n too! They know you best out of all the ones you’ve dated.”

“We’re not dating.”

“Which is surprising. This is the first time someone hasn’t fallen for you within two weeks.”

Jaemin makes a strangled noise, somewhat resembling a dinosaur as he turns the other way in his bed.

“It’s also surprising how you’re not running away,” Jeno says, raising his phone once more.

Jaemin turns his head at that.

“You’re afraid of real feelings, right? That’s why you run,” Jeno continues. “This time you’re not even facing reality.

“That’s not true! I…” Jaemin’s voice fades. It is true. He’s usually honest with himself and his feelings. And he knows real from fake. But this time, he’s not sure if he’s deluding himself for you. Is it because he missed you, missed being understood? Or did he decide he’s ready to fall in love again? Fear swells up in his chest at the thought. Absolutely not. He’s not giving away his own heart that easily, even if a part of him is ready to. But maybe, maybe he can let himself do it; maybe you’ll keep it safely with you.

“Talk to them,” Jeno repeats, attention already back to his game.

“Why did you bring me here?” you complain to a nervous-looking Jisung, shifting in his place.

“I- uh. I just thought- that uh, you know- maybe you’d socialize more um,” Jisung stutters.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re telling me that?”

Jisung looks away, and when he finds Chenle calling him, he looks almost relieved. He scrambles to his friend with a quick ‘bye!’, leaving you all the more suspicious.

It feels strange to be dragged to a party. It feels even stranger to be dragged to a party by Park Jisung. And to top all of it, it’s Na Jaemin’s party, the last person you want to see.

You contemplate leaving, but it’s Jisung who brought you here; and if he’s making an effort to socialize, the least you can do is appreciate it. But the music’s too loud, and there are too many people smelling like alcohol, too many couples making out and having fun for you to enjoy your time. Jaemin’s house might be more spacious than average, but it still feels too crowded, too suffocating for you to be in there. As the last of your patience fades, you make your way upstairs and into any quiet room you can find.

The bedroom you enter turns out to be Jaemin’s. You think you should leave; it’s not right to disrespect someone’s privacy, but you have nowhere else to go either.

The ticking clock gets on your nerve as you decide to walk around the room. The mirror is right by the window, and you remember drawing a moustache and a beard on it to substitute actual face painting. Jaemin had taken the marker and drawn spirals over your cheeks, as you whined at him to stop. You almost smile at the memory.

One of the drawers beside the mirror is left open; Jaemin’s still so careless, you realize with a huff. You turn to close it, but the sleek black diary catches your attention. Is it the one you and Jaemin used to draw in? You can’t help yourself as you take it out, promising you’ll keep it back immediately.

But the notebook you take out barely contains any drawings—it’s full of letters. There are hundreds, maybe more; each page is a short letter to someone and there are a few loose pages stuck hastily. It’s the words, however, that catch your attention.

Dear Chaerim,

I honestly do think your laugh is the sweetest. Please don’t feel insecure. I’m sorry for breaking your heart.

Dear Haeun,

I admire your intelligence, your hard work. I know you have the brightest future ahead of you, don’t you worry about it. I’m sorry for breaking your heart.

Dear Seohyun,

Your eye makeup is always lovely, as are your clothes. Don’t fuss over them too much. I’m sorry for breaking your heart.

Dear Minsoo,

I loved making you smile, especially when your dimples showed. It looks much better than when you’re frowning. I’m sorry for breaking your heart.

Every line you read gives you strange sense of pain, like you feel the emotions the words were written with. Are these Jaemin’s words? Does he feel like this every time? If so, why does he still do it? After going through half the letters, you’re still nowhere near an answer. Midway through, a loose paper falls out. It’s a light shade of pink, contrasting with the faded white of the notebook pages, and the letter is only one line.

My dearest Jiwoo,

Why did you break my heart?

You sit on the bed, trying to understand Jaemin through the words he’s written. Is this Jiwoo the Park Jiwoo, Jaemin’s first real relationship, and perhaps… first love? An unknown feeling settles in your chest as your brain tries to figure out the boy you swore you wouldn’t care for anymore.

Footsteps break you out of your trance as you hastily shove the notebook into the drawer, shutting it close. You’re a little terrified to find Jaemin enter, his eyes shining as they meet yours.

You’ve never wanted to hold someone as much as you want to hold Jaemin as he looks at you with the sweetest, purest of expressions. When you watch him slowly make his way towards you, you let your fear reside. It’s just you and your feelings, and you have barely a few seconds to just let it be over with.

“Jaemin,” you gulp, when he sits beside you.

“Don’t,” he whispers, a faint smell of alcohol mixed with perfume wafting towards you.

Jaemin places a warm hand over your cheek, thumb moving in circles as a source of comfort. You breath hitches in your throat when he leans in, and for a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. You realize with a thud in your heart that you want him to kiss you. He stops a few centimetres away, not close enough for you to feel his breath on your lips, but enough to see him eye to eye. Jaemin sits back straight, the warmth of his hand leaving your face and you, disappointed at the lack of touch.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” he asks.

You pause before nodding reluctantly. A defeated smile forms on his face.

“I never really want to, you know?” he continues, “But I’m always so afraid.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” you say, looking at your hands. “For overreacting that day.”

“No, no. You weren’t wrong.”

You look up back at Jaemin, and you can still find a hint of fear in the way the corner of his lips tremble.

“You’re worse than her, you know?” Jaemin smiles bitterly. “I’ve never been so afraid before.”

Jaemin takes your hand in his and slowly places it against his chest. His heart is hammering faster than yours, and you wonder how he’s keeping up his breathing. No matter how guarded you are, you think, Jaemin is more guarded.

“I am so, so afraid,” his breath hitches in his throat.

Jaemin leans in again, and this time you know your lips touching is inevitable. But he moves slow, and you find the fear in your heart spilling out the questions.

"You're...you're going to hurt me," you whisper, your eyelids flickering down halfway.

"I'm not playing this time," Jaemin's voice breaks, his words coming out as a whisper over your lips.

"Why?" you ask, doubt pooling in your chest.

"Because I'll lose."

Jaemin looks at you for a moment, and then he leans in once and for all, your lips meeting in a pending kiss. He pulls away several times to press more and more kisses against your mouth, as if he can't believe it, can't believe that he's actually kissing you. His grip around you tightens as he pulls you closer, and he hums against your mouth when you kiss him back.

You pull away with the need to breathe, and Jaemin begins to lean in again when you cup his face to stop him. You’ll admit this felt perfectly right, but there are things you have to make sure of.

“Jaemin,” you breathe. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“One drink isn’t enough for that, love,” he replies with a small smile.

“It’s still illegal,” you grumble before pausing. “You can promise me something, right?”

Jaemin looks at you, expecting you to continue.

“Don’t break my heart,” you say, your voice small.

“I should be telling you that,” Jaemin says with a laugh before placing his mouth over yours once again. You smile into the kiss, and he does, too. Whatever this is, you’re willing to give it a chance. You think it’s time your heart is let out of its cage.

Everyone starts school the next day with a letter in their locker. There are mixed emotions—mostly bittersweet, some forgiving and some upset. But Jaemin still stands with a polite smile and apologetic words, and an added gaze full of affection towards you. If it’s for you, he thinks, he’s willing to start fresh. Besides, he’s wanted to apologize for a while now.

Jaemin finds that once he starts kissing you, he can’t stop. It doesn’t matter to him anymore, the others. He can only see you, hear you, feel you, and it’s a new yet much longed for feeling that he’s experiencing. Jaemin isn’t afraid anymore, even more so after a few months, even during graduation. It’s like learning to trust all over again, like experiencing freedom for the first time. Jaemin finds himself smiling often, happy smiles. His heart that was once broken into pieces, that he once had to glue back all by himself now has you and your heart to take care of it.

[quickspinner]

The Best Laid Plans

TW hospitals, operating room, mention of a needle, surgery, childbirth, NICU. Nothing graphic as to actual body stuff, but the whole thing does kinda take place in a hospital and there will be hospitally things, so if that freaks you out, be prepared to click away.

I set out to write fluffy Dad!Luka stuff and...I got this instead. I’m not even sure angst is the right word for this. And it doesn’t really go with any of my other stuff so I haven’t figured out what to do with it yet. I was originally planning a collection, which I might still do? But I might wait until I have a nice fluffy part 2 to go with this before I put it on AO3. But yeah, not my normal fare, so I’ll understand if you nope out.

Summary: The birth of Marinette and Luka’s first child doesn’t go exactly according to plan. Or at all according to plan, actually.

This isn’t how they planned it. And oh, did they plan. Because his wife is Marinette and Marinette is Ladybug and Ladybug always has a plan. 

But that was before the phone call and the what do you mean you’re bleeding and no no no it’s too early this can’t be happening now. 

Luka can hear her suppress the panic for his sake as she reminds them that it’s only four weeks early, they’ve passed the real danger zone and everything will probably (probably) be fine. He quickly puts a lid on his freak out (he is supposed to be her safe place, not yet another person she has to pretend for) and tells her as steadily as he can that he’ll meet her at the hospital, and no, he’s not waiting until she gets through triage, he doesn’t care if it might be nothing, it might be something and he wants to be there. 

He gets to the hospital in less time than it takes to jump through all the hospital’s hoops to verify that he is who he says he is and that Marinette signed all the right forms to let them tell him that yes, she is here, and where to go.

Finally he peeks cautiously into the right room. 

“Luka,” Marinette says, relieved as she reaches for him.

“I’m here,” he says, catching her hand in his own. This is a song they’ve sung a thousand times, a dance they know by heart. She calls, and he responds. They’ve done it over and over again, since the first time she let herself fall apart in his arms, when she’s worn to pieces, when she’s lonely, when she has nightmares. 

When she’s scared.

They’re both scared now. They sit in anxious silence as a stream of people who are paid to be calm and reassuring come and go, until the doctor comes in with a grave face and the proverbial good news, bad news.

The good news is, their baby is fine—for now.

The bad news is, she won’t be if they don’t act now. Marinette and Luka exchange one stricken look and agree to everything the doctor recommends.

They had a plan and it didn’t include any of this. They make her take off her earrings. She and Tikki exchange a stricken look, but there’s nothing to be done. Luka quickly wraps them into a tissue so they won’t poke, and tucks them in his pocket with Sass. The blanket Marinette made herself for this moment is not allowed in the sterile operating room. She’s got on an awful hospital gown instead of the labor dress she planned and slaved over with such care. Luka is wearing a stiff paper suit over his clothes and a surgical cap over his blue hair and a surgical mask across his mouth that makes him feel like he can’t breathe, and the whole outfit is hot as hell. Her mother is not here. There is no soothing music. There is no counting or breathing or walking it out or any of the things they practiced. There’s no cursing and crushed fingers and no powering through. They are helpless. There is only a white room and a table shaped like a cross (seriously, what the hell), wires and IVs and a needle in her spine that takes away the pain but not the fear.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, Luka accepts this unwanted reality, takes a deep breath, and lets go of the plan. Marinette is a creature of order and detail, but Luka was born and raised in chaos. He can do this. Marinette needs him to. 

So he sits on a stool by Marinette’s head, strokes her forehead below her own surgical cap and speaks soothingly to her as tears leak out of her terrified eyes. She’s out of control here and she hates it, he knows. “Luka,” she whispers desperately. 

“I’m here,” he promises, covering her hand that they’ve strapped to the table, careful not to dislodge the oxygen monitor on her finger. “We’re gonna be okay. Just a few more minutes and we’ll meet our little girl. It doesn’t matter how she got here. All that matters is that she’s coming and she’s gonna be okay.”

The doctors are formal and preoccupied but the nurses are sympathetic. Neither of them can see past the curtain erected below Marinette’s chest, but at Luka’s quiet request the anesthesiologist at her head keeps her updated on what’s going on.  Luka can’t do anything about the lack of control but at least she can know what’s happening. 

“Here she comes,” murmurs the anesthesiologist soothingly. “One, two, three—and here she is.” 

Luka can’t resist standing up to see over the curtain, and his breath leaves him as he sees his child in the doctor’s hands. He doesn’t want to see anything else though so he sits down quickly, and a heartbeat later the nurse comes to show them the baby.

It’s only a quick glimpse and then Luka has to leave Marinette for a moment, to cross the room and cut the cord and marvel at the impossibly small number on the scale. His daughter (his daughter) is cleaned up and wrapped up and then she’s in his arms at last, and maybe the first thing she saw wasn’t his face and maybe the first thing she felt wasn’t his hands and maybe the first thing she heard wasn’t his guitar, meticulously composed and recorded and prepared and played on loop just for that moment when she entered the world...but she is beautiful, and she will have his hands and his voice and his love every day from now on.

The nurses allow him a quiet moment, and then he carries her carefully to Marinette. They take the restraints off Marinette so that she can touch and caress the tiny face, and Luka leans close so she can press a kiss in soft black hair. It’s one moment of peace before the chaos descends again, and the nurses gently insist that the tiny newborn must come to the NICU for tests and observation. 

Luka looks at Marinette, his face stone, but she presses her lips together and says, “Go with her.”

Luka kisses her and promises he will be back as soon as he can. It feels like his heart tears in two and he leaves half behind as he follows the nurses out of the room.

The NICU nurses that take over as soon as they cross the ward threshold are competent and caring but bossy in a manner that rubs Luka the wrong way. Part of him can appreciate their dedication and the need to protect their tiny charges, but that doesn’t stop the swell of righteousness indignation. A growl of “I’m her father,” passes his lips when the nurses suggest that he should leave the baby to them. She’s tiny in the plastic bin they’re calling a bassinet, with a pink sign above it that has two tiny ink footprints next to the name written in black marker: Couffaine, Erika, with her birth time and weight underneath it, and a space that reads “Mother: Couffaine, Marinette.” 

Luka stares at that little piece of pink cardstock, trying to take it all in. The nurses bring a bottle of formula and he feels another pang—this is not the way we planned it—before he insists on taking the bottle and feeding his daughter himself. 

God, his daughter. 

The nurses object but seat him in a chair next to the bassinet and allow him to give her the bottle (he is her father and they can’t stop him). He is heavily supervised, which annoys him, but Luka genuinely doesn’t want to screw this up, so he listens to their advice. He outright refuses to put Erika down afterwards, instead holding her close to his chest and singing softly to her, the same songs he sang every night with his head as close to Marinette’s belly as she would let him get. He remembers their childbirth classes and puts her down long enough to strip off his shirt. Then he picks her up, unwraps her from the blanket, and cradles her against his chest again, skin to skin. Marinette was supposed to do it, that was what they planned, but she can’t, so he will. Reduces stress, helps with heartbeat and breathing—Luka can’t even remember half of what they said but he knows it’s important, it was important to Marinette too and she would want him to do this, even if the nurses are giving him weird looks and some of the other parents glance wide-eyed at the shirtless man with the snake tattoos holding a tiny baby in the middle of the NICU. 

An older lady in a volunteer uniform approaches him and he eyes her warily until she taps his shoulder, motions for him to lean forward, and puts a warmed blanket around his shoulders. Luka thanks her. She pats him approvingly, and says something he doesn’t understand but does appreciate before shuffling on.

Luka has time to notice the other babies, many even smaller than Erika, in their own little plastic bassinets, and he takes a moment to be grateful that though she seems tiny to him, she is strong and healthy. Sass sneaks up from his pocket under the blanket to peep at the baby. He gives Luka a fanged smile and makes himself scarce again. There are two many people here to take risks.

Only when Luka gets a text from Juleka letting him know that she has arrived does he reluctantly put little Erika back in the bassinet. She looks small and cold in nothing but her striped cap and impossibly tiny diaper, wires on her chest and wrapped around her foot, a tiny cannula in her nose. The NICU is warm and Luka knows the little bed is heated and she is totally fine, but he hates it. There is tape on his baby holding everything in place and Luka doesn’t care if it’s special baby tape or whatever, he hates it. This is not the way they planned it.

But it’s the way it is. He breathes away the frustration. He doesn’t know how to swaddle her (they have a book, but it’s at home) and the nosy nurses have left him for the moment, but he tucks the blanket around her as best he can. Luka glances up at her pulse and oxygen levels on the screen. The numbers themselves mean nothing to him, but they are green so he thinks that means she’s all right. He puts his shirt back on and goes to the ward entrance to fetch his sister.

The nurses object again when he wants to bring Juleka in, but Luka is firm: Erika will have a family member with her at all times, and he needs to see his wife. She’s been alone in the recovery room all this time, without even Tikki, and he has her phone in his pocket so she can’t even check on anything. Luka knows what her state of mind must be.

He tries to keep in mind that they mean well, that they have tiny, delicate patients to care for, and so he manages to stay mostly polite as they urge him not to ‘bother’ the baby with a constant rotation of relatives. 

They compromise; Juleka stays, but won’t pick up Erika or disturb her sleep until her next feeding. Someone escorts Luka to Marinette. It scares him when he sees her; she is pale and shivering uncontrollably. “Luka,” she whispers.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, moving to her side and taking her hand. It feels like ice in his. “She’s cold,” he says, looking at the nurse. 

The nurse tending to her brings another heated blanket, but tells him this is normal and the shaking is a side effect of the spinal block. Marinette will be fine. 

Luka presses Marinette’s fingers to his lips and gives back her phone. “The baby?” she asks.

“She’s fine, sweetheart, she’s doing really well,” he told her. “They have her on oxygen and they said something about her blood sugar, but they said she should only have to stay in the NICU a day or two, and then if she’s doing okay she can come stay in the room with us.” He pulls out his phone as he speaks, showing her the thirty or so pictures he’s already managed to take. “Jules is with her now and your mom is on her way.”

“I want to see her,” Marinette said tearfully. “I’m her mother.” Her face crumples and Luka’s heart breaks. “This isn’t the way we planned it.”

“I know,” Luka says, kissing her forehead. “I know it’s not, but you’re okay and she’s okay and that’s what matters. We’re gonna get through the next couple of days while you heal up a bit and they make sure she’s stable, and then we’ll go home and it’ll be fine. We’ll do everything the same way we would have if the plan had gone off without a hitch. We’ll be okay. We can be flexible.” He winks. “Some of us, anyway.”

Marinette huffs a laugh and then winces. Luka squeezes her hand and pulls her earrings from his pocket. She visibly relaxes once they are back in her ears and Tikki zips to cover under her blankets. Luka sits down to wait with her. When her two hours in recovery are finally up, they put her in a wheelchair and push her straight to the NICU. Juleka looks up and smiles and immediately surrenders both the bottle and now-swaddled baby to Marinette. They’re politely reminded that no more than two visitors at a time are permitted in the NICU, and Luka sends Jules down to the lobby to bring Sabine up to what will be Marinette’s room. Sabine has stopped to pick up all the things Marinette either forgot or couldn’t carry in the rush to the hospital, and Luka knows that by the time Marinette gets to her hospital room, Sabine will have her blanket on the bed and her gown laid out, and the little baby caps Marinette knitted set out for use. Just like they planned. 

As he watches Marinette whisper and smile and kiss their little girl, the tension leaves his shoulders, and he knows that everything will be okay. He believes what he told Marinette earlier. Maybe it didn’t happen the way they planned, but it doesn’t matter. Later they will probably laugh and call Erika a true Couffaine for coming into the world in chaos instead of by the book. For now, they have each other and Erika and a horde of loved ones ready to descend on them at a moment’s notice. Marinette will heal and Erika will grow and Luka will never stop loving either of them.

“Luka,” Marinette breathes, looking up at him with a beaming smile as she cuddles their daughter (their daughter) close.

Her hands are full so Luka reaches out and lays his hand on Erika’s soft black hair instead. “I’m here.”

[iron--spider]

sharp corners (whumptober - secret injury)

Tony keeps watching as newly minted one year-old Morgan toddles around her own party, gazing up at all the adults that are here, chronicling her every move. Pepper invited a few Stark employees with children around the same age, and it’s like watching a herd of baby deer muddle around, with no real intentions of going anywhere in particular. They’re just walking because they can. 

 But they have one very formidable foe in their paths. Sharp corners. Tony didn’t realize how many they had in this room, one of the living rooms with a kitchen and dining space—there are all kinds of coffee tables, side tables, weirdly shaped chairs. Danger at every turn. Or corner. 

 Peter swoops in so Morgan doesn’t run into the table beside the couch again. They’ve already got one crying baby being comforted on the couch, and every other second there’s another close call. Everybody’s on high alert. No baby is safe. 

 It’s getting under Tony’s skin.

 It’s becoming an unspoken thing, like everybody is afraid to say Tony Stark throws a shitty birthday party for kids, but they’re all standing in front of the corners and pretending they’re not. Peter is the only one being genuine, as always. And Tony can see everything May is thinking on her face. 

 Morgan stumbles into Peter’s arms, shrieking happily when he settles her in his lap. Since she started walking she usually doesn’t wanna stop for anybody, not even him or Pepper, but she’s had a special soft spot for Peter from moment one. Which doesn’t surprise Tony in the slightest. 

 He kneels down next to the two of them just as Peter is blowing raspberries into Morgan’s chubby little cheek. 

 “Can you hold court for a minute or two here?” Tony whispers, so Pepper can’t hear. 

 “Uh, yeah,” Peter says, giving Tony a look. “What are you gonna go do? Because more Barbies could really, like, liven this thing up. You don’t have the submarine Barbie down here and that’s her favorite one.”

 “I’m not gonna go get more toys,” Tony scoffs, shaking his head at him. “I’m gonna go deal with our little situation here.”

 “Situation?” Peter asks. Morgan is grabbing at the collar on his shirt, holding onto one of his fingers.

 Tony taps the corner directly behind Peter’s head. 

 Peter narrows his eyes. “What are you gonna do? File them down?”

 Tony glares at him. “Just trust me, please. Stay your interesting and endearing self and entertain the masses.” He taps Peter’s nose, ruffles Morgan’s untamed curls.

 “Uh, okay,” Peter says, and Tony glances back to see him watching him worriedly, craning his neck.

 Tony finds the tennis balls in a broom closet. He bought a lot of random shit when Morgan was born, a lot of shit they didn’t need, or didn’t need at least for another couple of years. He remembers Pepper’s face when he and Peter came back with the ten pack of tennis balls, among other unnecessary things. Tennis balls? Is someone making a career change? Are we getting a dog? Then Peter talked about a dog for twenty minutes, and appropriately distracted her from the roller skates and VR headset in the basket.

 Tony gets overzealous, he knows this, everybody knows this. He’ll probably never even use any of the shit he bought in his baby-induced stupor, because he can usually get something better or invent it himself. But he’s glad he got the tennis balls.

 He sneaks out of the closet, sliding along the wall like he’s on a covert mission, and that other baby is still crying. Jesus, he knew a one year old’s birthday party might be a miss, but these guys are gonna go away thinking Tony can’t babyproof his place. He marches deep into the kitchen, and thankfully, nobody’s gonna be in here for another half hour or so because that’s when the lunch is gonna arrive. He briefly wonders if everybody is judging their appetizers too, and shakes his head, getting back to the task at hand.

 Pepper babyproofed the set of knives, of all things, like Morgan was gonna climb up on this counter three times her height and choose a knife as her new toy. Tony unlocks Fort Knox, and takes out the sharpest one, glancing down at his feet to make sure one of the babies isn’t down there searching for something sharp. He’s alone, thankfully, and he pops open the tennis ball container like a can of cat food, and pulls the first one out. He puts it down on the counter, holds it with two fingers as he lines up the knife, and as soon as steel touches down on nylon, the ball pops away from his grasp and bounces across the kitchen.

 “Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters, knowing if Morgan hears that she’ll come zooming in here like an out of control mini-bus, and Peter definitely will, considering the enhanced hearing. He puts the knife down—scoots it closer to the wall just in case—and walks over to the offending tennis ball.

 “I am Iron Man,” he mutters, snatching the tennis ball off the ground, popping it from hand to hand. “I can, and will, conquer this foe. No more baby heads bumping into hard corners, oh no, not today.”

 He puts the ball back down on the counter again and tries to saw through it.

 “This shouldn’t be this fucking hard,” he groans, gritting his teeth. 

 The ball threatens to jump out and roll away again, and Tony’s getting a little too recklessly angry, the small voice in the back of his mind telling him to settle down.

 But that kid is still crying in the other room.

 Tony holds the ball in his hand and cuts away at it with his other hand, and it absolutely shouldn’t be this goddamn hard, and he reminds himself to pull his hand away when he gets all the way through the ball—

 But it falls apart like a newly cut apple a lot quicker than Tony expected, and he slices right through his palm like it’s what he’d been aiming for all along.

 “Shit,” he hisses, white hot pain shooting through him, the blood bright and horrifying red, not something he’d ever wanna see in the middle of his daughter’s first birthday party.

 “Oh, goddamnit,” Tony says, grimacing. He glares down at both halves of the ball, and moves over to the sink, quickly running the water over his injured hand.

 He knows immediately that this isn’t the kind of wound he can just wash off and walk away from, and he’s seen a lot of shit in his life. He knows he needs to take care of it, and that means Pepper will notice his absence. Then Pepper will find out the dumbass thing he did, and Pepper will be pissed. Nobody ever wants Pepper to be pissed.

 Tony watches the blood flood down the drain and chews on his lower lip.

 “Hey,” Peter’s voice says, as he comes around the corner. “What are you oh my God.”

 It’s like Tony’s heart is sucked directly into his throat and he whips his hand out from under the water, flinging droplets and blood fucking everywhere. And yet, he still hides his hand behind his back. 

 Peter stares at him. Looks down at the ball, cut in half, the drops of blood surrounding it like some half-assed modern art, and then back at Tony, the guiltiest man in the world. Peter narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”

 Tony scoffs, shaking his head. “What did I—nothing. I didn’t do anything. That’s always been there.”

 Peter stares down at the tennis ball. He looks up at the bloody knife on the counter. Jesus Christ. “You tried to cut the tennis ball in half to put on the table corners and you cut yourself.”

 Tony sighs, holding out his hand. It stings and the cut is still dripping. “Yeah, Pep is gonna be pissed if she finds out I did some dumb shit today of all days. Usually I get a pass—she gets irritated, yeah, but today is not a pass giving day.”

 Peter sucks in a breath and nods, moving into a mode that Tony has seen him in on more than one occasion. He opens up the second cabinet, takes out a glove—no, three gloves—and puts one on, depositing the other two on the counter. He grabs both pieces of the ball and tosses them in the trash, giving Tony a withering look. Then he grabs the Windex and starts cleaning up the blood.

 “Tony, like, do something, stop just standing there—”

 “Right, right,” Tony says, even though his brain is drawing complete blanks, because they’re still too close to the party itself and he’s fucking something else up for Pepper, as fucking usual, because that’s who he is and who he always will be.

 “Keep running your hand under the water,” Peter says, a little softer now. 

 Tony nods, rushes back over, and sticks his hand under the still-running water. Peter cleans the blood up best as he can, ignores the water that was sprayed with Tony’s sad attempt to hide his hand. 

 “Okay,” Peter says, throwing away the paper towels and the glove he was using. “Okay, okay, we’re gonna make a little compress, then we’re gonna put the gloves on your hands—”

 “Explanation for that?” Tony asks. 

 Peter shrugs. “I mean. You’re the one that can think on your feet. Remember the time I threw the bag of money out of the window?”

 Tony narrows his eyes. “How could I possibly forget?”

 Peter shrugs again, more dramatically. 

 Tony blows out a breath. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll think of something.” He’ll think of something stupid, that’s for sure, but Pepper is pretty used to that, so he might be able to pull it off.

 “Okay, I’m gonna go to the upstairs bathroom and grab the bactine—” He stares at Tony’s hand anxiously, and looks up at him. “I think we might need stitches.”

 “We?” Tony asks. “Can you feel it too?”

 Peter narrows his eyes at him. 

 “No time,” Tony says, waving around his free hand. He turns off the water, gesturing dramatically for a paper towel. Peter hands it to him with a big sigh. “You go get the bactine and the better bandages, I’ll do the compress for the time being—”

 Peter keeps looking anxiously at his hand. “Okay, okay, but Tony—”

 “Stitches tonight, promise, cross my heart, I’ll let her be pissed at me later, not now.”

 “Okay, okay, back in a flash.” Tony watches as he speeds through the hallway, and once he’s out of the danger zone he immediately crawls up to the ceiling and disappears towards the loft. Tony quickly makes a thin strip with a couple paper towels, and presses it on top of the cut. The blood still seeps through, and Tony rolls his eyes. Why in the hell did something like this have to happen today? He should be able to cut a tennis ball in half. It should have been too easy. He should have been able to cut them all in half.

 “Tony?” Pepper calls.

 His heart shrivels up in a panic. “Yeah, hun, I’m, uh, getting some more of the little—the little vegetables, and the, uh, the peas Mo likes! Yeah!” He doesn’t know why he added the last yeah in there, like a moron, and he definitely didn’t say any of it like a normal human being. 

 “Bring the carrots she likes too!” Pepper calls back, and Tony wilts in relief.

 “Yeah, gimme—couple minutes, I got this, I got this.” He shakes his head at himself, how he made bringing in vegetables sound like some immense task. He holds the paper towels to the cut, his fingers soaking with blood, and he thinks his body is being fucking overdramatic right now, he’s been cut worse without this much blood, it’s just gotta be bleeding like this—

 “TONY.”

 Peter’s voice, hushed but loud enough for Tony to hear. He turns around, inches from the fridge, and sees the kid standing there at the top of the stairs. In a flash, alright, but how, with the amount of shit he’s holding, Tony doesn’t know. Peter has bandages, bactine, Neosporin, rubbing alcohol, gauze, three of Morgan’s Barbies, including the newly purchased Black Widow one, and...the Hulk Smash hands. 

 Tony sees where this is going. Peter grins happily when Tony shakes his head at him, and he starts down the stairs when Morgan herself waddles into the hallway.

 Both of them freeze. 

 She stands there, keeping an unsteady hold on her stance, and she looks back and forth between the two of them, letting out a small, nearly silent squeal. They don’t have the baby guard over the stairs today, which is another negligence, but Peter shifts all of his loot into one arm, and rushes down, scooping Morgan up with the other. She grins, babbles something quietly to Peter as he moves fast into the kitchen.

 “What are you doing, little monkey?” Tony asks, bending down to look at her. She paws at his nose.

 “Tony, you got her?” Pepper yells. “She got away from Diane—”

 “Got her, got her, no help needed here, we’re good!” Tony yells back.

 “You keep sounding like someone is holding a gun to your head,” Peter says, putting all his supplies down on the counter. Morgan notices the Barbies, and looks at Peter in delight.

 “Yeah, I’m—I don’t hold up well under Pepper pressure,” Tony says, tossing away the blood-soaked paper towel and starting the work with the real first aid.

 “You got this?” Peter asks, swinging Morgan back and forth, making her laugh.

 “Yeah, kids,” Tony says. “Enjoy yourselves. Dad’s just bleeding.” He pushes everything down towards the sink, like on a conveyor belt, and the Surf Instructor Barbie tries to come along for the ride. “I assume I’m wearing the Hulk hands.”

 “Yeah, I thought that would be good, better than stupid cleaning gloves,” Peter says, holding Morgan against his hip. “You know like, none of her toys are age appropriate.”

 “I know,” Tony says, wincing at the Neosporin. “I go a little crazy with shopping for kid shit. I’ve got you to supervise.”

 “And no one’s taking Barbies away from little princess,” Peter says, kissing Morgan’s cheek. She loves that, and she laughs joyfully. Tony’s still got a gaping wound, but he peers over his shoulder to admire them, anyway.

 ~

 Peter cuts up the tennis balls and puts them on all the corners. Tony entertains as the Hulk for almost half an hour, and only slips up about his injury once, which he turns into a dilapidated roar. Everyone has fun, Morgan receives some toys that are more age appropriate, they eat, no more babies run into hard corners.

 Peter and May are showing Morgan her new dog guitar when Pepper peels the Hulk hand off Tony’s injured one. She raises her eyebrows at the wrapping which, thankfully, isn’t covered in blood.

 The dog guitar plays one long, mangled note, and Morgan claps.

 “I knew you’d done something to yourself,” Pepper says, raising her eyebrow at him. “I didn’t know what, but I knew you’d done something.”

 Tony grins, and absolutely does not look at Peter.

 “And this one helped,” May says, touching Peter’s knee with her foot.

 “How do you know?” Peter asks, accusingly. 

 “I just know,” May says, giving them both the same look.

 “Yeah, they work as a team,” Pepper says.

 Tony clears his throat. Well, it’s true. “I’m totally fine,” he says. “Just. Dandy. Just a scratch.”

 “You need stitches, don’t you?” Pepper asks.

 “Yeah,” Tony says, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I think I’ll probably lose the whole hand if I don’t get them within the next half hour.” He shrugs with his remaining Hulk fist. “Thor got these for her, right? Or was it us? I know it wasn’t Bruce.”

 “Yeah, it was Thor,” Pepper says. She leans in, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re a moron and I love you.”

 “I love you too,” Tony says, a little wary of her tone. “You’re gonna make Peter contact Helen, aren’t you?”

 “Oh, absolutely,” Pepper says, looking down at Peter. 

 “Got it,” Peter says, pressing a long kiss to Morgan’s forehead as she grasps at his chin. “Totally fair. Totally.”

 Peter and Tony walk towards the main door, shoulder to shoulder. 

 “I think we got off easy,” Tony says. 

 “Yeah, I was thinking she’d make me stitch it up myself,” Peter says. “Then we’d both be in trouble.”

 “I love you and I trust you, but yeah, no,” Tony says, patting him on the shoulder with the Hulk fist. He hopes the whole process goes quick. The five of them have a date with Barbie in Swan Lake tonight to cap off Morgan’s birthday. Hand or no hand. 

[mrsrcbinscn]

Wilbur Is Not Amused || The Robinsons

@wilbur-robinson​, @mrrcbinson​

Tl;DR: Franny and Cornelius tell Wilbur about the baby. It does not go well.

Date: August 23rd, 2020

 FRANNY:

 So about telling Cornelius she felt fine...turns out that was a lie. Once she got to her ninth week the morning (and noon, and night) sickness began. It got to the point she made excuses to be out during dinner time because she didn’t want to tell the family she was pregnant yet, but she couldn’t actually keep food down. Water and crackers were all that was on the menu these days. Even the foods she was craving she couldn’t actually enjoy! It was frustrating, but overall she was thrilled. 

 Due to her age and her history of miscarriages her doctor wanted weekly ultrasounds to keep an eye on the baby. Now at eleven weeks pregnant and rapidly approaching the second trimester, everything looked great. The baby had a strong heartbeat according to her doctor and that was all Franny had really hoped for. While eleven weeks wasn’t fully out of the danger zone for the most common window for miscarriage, she realized she couldn’t hide it much longer. They’d almost gotten caught already! 

 When Tallulah offered her a glass of wine at Wilbur’s birthday party — the fake one, the one with the family that they always did — she made up an excuse about being on a drinking hiatus to lose weight. Franny hoped her hands hadn’t instinctively gone to touch her abdomen like her brain had been telling her to do. 

 Eleven weeks with a strong heartbeat was already more than she had expected. It seemed like the right time to tell their family and Cornelius as ever took her lead on this. They told his parents first and Lucille squeezed Franny’s hand and reminded her that by loving their son, she’d already fulfilled all of their wishes for their family, and giving them Wilbur was just a pleasant bonus. Franny of course cried. What else could she do? Lucille was sometimes too ridiculously good to her. 

 Next it was Wilbur, and after Franny had stopped crying courtesy of Lucille being too damn wonderful, they called him into their bedroom to talk. Being on her feet was getting tiring, so talking at the window seat in their bedroom just felt more practical than sitting Wilbur down in his room. It was nap time right after this for the pregnant lady. 

 “Why am I nervous? Are you nervous? Am I freaking out again?” She leaned over to catch Cornelius in a kiss and tangled her fingers with his. 

 CORNELIUS:

 Cornelius was still in shock. He partly couldn’t believe it. Almost didn’t if it weren’t for Franny growing sicker and her weekly doctor appointments. It was weird to imagine that at their age - they might be parents again. Just as Wilbur was on the verge of graduation…

He had been caught up in these thoughts all day. Every time he saw Franny now, actually. But especially today because they were telling everyone. His mother had cried. Actually cried. And then hugged him tight while his father made a science pun about atoms - his mother’s crying in his ears had drowned out the rest, to be honest.

 But the kiss and her touch alone broke him out of his thoughts and he looked to Franny. “Oh! I - more like...well, I don’t know,” He admitted. “I mean, Wilbur’s almost an adult. Legally, at least. I know he can act childish sometimes, but he’s a good kid. I think he’ll be excited. He’ll probably teach them to be like his little sidekick and turn them against us at the age of two.”

 He laughed a little at the joke, honestly believing it to an extent though. But he could get where Franny was coming from. Still, he wasn’t nervous himself. 

 Not until Wilbur came in.

 “Hey, kiddo. Come have a seat, will you?”

 WILBUR:

 Wilbur and his parents didn’t really sit down for important talks often. There were a couple times when he was younger (like when they sat him down to say he might be a big brother, or when they sat him down and said actually no he wouldn’t be and his mum would cry). There were other memorable occasions of course, the last one being a dead relative.

 He started going down a list of relatives that could have kicked the bucket, because there were of course some older ones. But could he play guess who? Or was that entirely inappropriate? Wilbur wandered into his parents room with eyebrows furrowed, debating over whether tact was good or bad in this case?

 Wilbur eyed his mum first and then his dad, debating over who would spill the beans first. Then he shrugged and sat down in one of their chairs. “Okay what’s going on? Who died?”

 FRANNY:

 “What?”

 Franny had a brief spiel loosely prepared but Wilbur’s comment threw her off track. Died, huh? No this was the opposite hopefully. Next week would mark the longest she’d stayed pregnant and her OB/GYN said especially considering her risk factors, her pregnancy was healthy. She couldn’t believe her luck at last after nearly twenty years of marriage. 

 A decade and a half of trying to grow their family, until a few years ago, when Franny’s broken hearts couldn’t take it anymore. Cornelius had always been so good, so understanding, and never once blamed her. She couldn’t say the same for herself. 

 It felt too good to be true and too perfect but yet, here they were. Wilbur was going to (most likely, very likely, it seemed) be a big brother. He’d be so much older than his baby brother or sister but he’d be their superhero and the thought of that made Franny’s eyes prick with tears so she took care not to go there right now. 

 “No, your father and I just have to share some exciting news.” Franny began, tightening just barely her grip on one of Cornelius’s hands. “Wilbur, your father and I found out I’m pregnant. At our age, I know, I thought it was a mistake too but I really am. Twelve weeks; in March you’ll have a little minion to teach to get into trouble. Around your father’s birthday, too...everything looks good this time around. Looks perfect.”

 Franny’s grin almost hopped off her face, it was so wide! She reached for one of Wilbur’s hands and squeezed. “Isn’t that exciting?”

 WILBUR:

 There were a few different things Wilbur would have imagined that they’d have to say. Maybe some Great Uncle bit the dust, or they were planning another trip and they wanted him to give them input. Or maybe they were rethinking his request for a horse. You never knew. Wilbur was willing to be imaginative.

 But then his mum started talking, and Wilbur could feel his heart sink. Not sink, maybe it just fell right out of his body and fell into the sea. The bemused look changed so swiftly, any hint of a smile gone from his face as he paled. He could remember the last time his mum had told him she was pregnant. It was years ago, and Wilbur had just assumed (like an idiot apparently) that they wouldn’t try again.

 Why wasn’t he enough for them anyway?

 Wilbur sucked in a breath and let it out again, forcing himself to try not to blow up. He wanted to. He wanted to so badly, because his parents really didn’t think about him at all did they? Wilbur immediately tugged his hand away from his mother, arms wrapping around himself defensively as he glanced between Franny and Cornelius. He was still waiting for one of them to say ‘just kidding’ but...well his parents wouldn’t pull that kind of a stunt with him.

 Which meant no matter how improbable, no matter how horrible, it must be the truth. “Are you serious? Why would I be excited about this? In what world does ‘my mum could possibly kill herself again trying to have a real baby’ sound exciting?” Okay, maybe he couldn’t contain it.

 CORNELIUS:

 Of all reactions, Cornelius didn’t expect this one from Wilbur. Especially faced with the beaming face of his mother right now. But the moment his face changed, he knew something was wrong. And - 

 Real baby? What did that even…

 “Wilbur, what do you by real baby? You’re our real son,” Cornelius began slowly, his mind trying to process everything. Something that was so exciting and joyous suddenly turned sour and was about to become a fight. One that would not be easily fixed either. “Its….you’re not be replaced, if that’s what you’re getting at. Or forgotten or any of that.”

 Considering both of them were orphans, he could put himself in Wilbur’s mindset in a way. But not much. Because this reaction was just - shocking. Were they being selfish though? Were they bad parents to bring this up at Wilbur’s age? He turned to look at Franny, his brows coming together in concern.

 FRANNY:

 Franny first felt white hot anger at her son’s reaction. It was as if for a brief moment she resented him as much as she’d ever loved him. 

 (And briefly, she was angry at Cornelius for not at least gently chastising him for yelling at his mother, but she reminded herself that Cornelius was a better person than she was. He heard Wilbur’s hurt first, whereas Franny first tuned into the anger. Thank god Cornelius was here. She would have shouted right back if not for him.)

 How dare he, she thought though. Now, she expected her son to make a joke about how old she was. She wasn’t stupid enough to think Wilbur, a happy only child, would be thrilled. She expected, however, a quick ‘oh? Cool. Anyway is that all?’

 What she didn’t expect was such a reaction. 

 How dare he, in one instant, rob her of her joy. Franny’s heart sank as she thought to herself this is a mistake. 

 And as quickly as her anger appeared, it subsided, as it always did when she was angry with Wilbur. His words cut but after feeling the impact of those words it was as if she pressed pause on her hurt to instead focus on Wilbur’s, because that’s what moms are supposed to do. 

 She could cry to Cornelius later or perhaps her mother, but who could Wilbur go to? He usually sought her out for comfort but who now?

 “Wilbur…what are you saying?” Franny said quietly as her face fell, before for once in her obnoxious life, she struggled to find words. “You’re not...it...it was an accident, we didn’t mean—“ wait. Was she about to apologize for being pregnant? She sighed and her hand flinched to reach forward and hold Wilbur’s hand, play with his hair, anything, but he’d batted her hand away not a moment ago. “Wilbur, honey. You are our real baby. There is nothing we love more than you and being your parents. Nothing, honey.”

 WILBUR: 

 Honestly, Wilbur thought it was pretty clear what he meant. He was being replaced. By a younger model that would probably be nicer than Wilbur and more likeable than Wilbur because they wouldn’t be as bratty as he could be. They’d probably “try to get it right” this time, and where would that leave Wilbur? Miserable.

 “Really?” He asked, and he couldn’t help but snort. Of course he’d be forgotten. A baby would demand all their attention, and when Wilbur would need them for college things or anything else, he’d probably get ignored. His whole family would probably coo at the baby and focus on what it wanted and needed and he’d be pushed by the wayside. Wilbur wasn’t stupid. He knew babies needed a ton of attention.

 “Why would you still care about having another baby? That’s what I just don’t get! Mum was always so messed up by this shit, and yet that’s always been it. ‘Why can’t I have a real baby to take care of?’ You didn’t say it in as many words, but the implication is pretty fucking clear.” So what if Wilbur was a bit spoiled? Who were the people that had spoiled him in the first place? Oh yeah, it was them.

 He didn’t look forward to watching the way his mum would try to do things differently so this baby, their actual biological one wouldn’t turn out like him. He hated it. He hated it he hated it. He was going to be sick. “I can’t believe you’d do this now! What, I’m going to go off to college soon so it doesn’t matter what I think? That’s great really. Have fun with your new family.” He stumbled to his feet. He needed to get out of here. He wanted to cry, but he was nothing if not determined to do that in the comfort of his own space, without the people who hurt him around.

 FRANNY:

 “Wilbur!” Franny exclaimed, springing out of her seat but not advancing toward her son. She wouldn’t force him to stay but he wasn’t going to storm out without one final attempt to reach him. 

 And, yeah, maybe she said his name in the ‘I���m gonna kick your ass’ tone but with the way he was speaking to his parents right now did he expect any different? His words were hurtful not only to her as his mother, but as a person in general. Franny kept her composure enough to keep from well and truly yelling at Wilbur but under the far too consistent volume of her voice was boiling anger.

 “What do you mean ‘new family?’ For once would it kill you to not be so over-dramatic. Like I just. I just wanna know. You know damn well, Wilbur, that plenty of families have more than one child in them. We wanted a big family because we just did, okay? We just did. There’s no other explanation. We just wanted that. But your father -” 

 Never slowed down. Never could press pause so we could adopt again so I had to try the old-fashioned way even though my body kept telling me I couldn’t do it.

 “- and I just kind of shelved that for the most part. We stopped tryin’ years ago, I didn’t get pregnant to piss you off. Believe it or not, the world doesn’t revolve around Wilbur Robinson. Sometimes it just happens. What was I supposed to do when I found out I was pregnant, huh? What would have made you happy?”

 A beat, and Franny pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. 

 “Get out. Go to bed. Or don’t, I don’t care, just get out.”

 WILBUR:

 So the world didn’t revolve around Wilbur. He knew that already. His mum made it even more clear that he wasn’t that special. He wasn’t enough for them. He’d never been enough for them. If he had, then his parents wouldn’t have cared about a big or a small family. They would have just let that baby stuff be and loved him. 

 Why did mum think he was overdramatic? It wasn’t overdramatic to realize he was being replaced! It would be different if they’d adopted or had another kid when he was still little, when it was a normal thing to do. This wasn’t normal. He’d never felt so unappreciated in his life, and he’d had his moments of doubt. 

 “Oh I know the world doesn’t revolve around me. And it never will, because that new baby’s just going to replace me and that’s just great. I’m glad you get a do over to have a better kid.” And since he was already in it, and he’d clearly already pissed off his mum too, Wilbur headed out, both middle fingers waving at them as he made his way out. He’d break down once he was alone. He wouldn’t cave until then.

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Under Pressure (The Eighties Blasts Collection, Part 10.)

Description: Jim Hopper died as a hero. But with that, one certain problem rises up - who will now lead the cops of Hawkins? Hopper thought of that - he decided to write a letter, naming his niece, nineteen-year-old student of Indianapolis police academy, Y/N Hopper as a sheriff deputy in a letter. But anybody in the town doesn’t have a clue that being a cop in Hawkins is way more dangerous than it might seem.

Part Summary: The Shapeshifter is after the reader and it is ready to hunt her down at any chance it gets. Friendships are getting more valuable than ever before.

A/N: Sooo, we are getting into the motion! Inspired by the Stranger Things Vol. 1 Score (The Upside Down) and season 3 soundtrack (mainly by Mirkwood, In the Void and Find the Source).

Word Count: 2.6 K

Tagging: @charmed-asylum​ @nemodoren​

Master list: The Eighties Blast Collection

You've slept through the whole day while everyone was leaving, one at a time. You've passed the test on A+. Whatever Mind Flayer and Shapeshifter wanted from you, they didn't make you their spy. The air in the room was boiling hot, you were sleeping under three blankets and yet, you didn't move you at all. You just slept through it.

By seven o'clock in the evening, there was only Steve remaining in the cab with you. He was watching the TV and taking a nap in Hopper's armchair, just ten minutes ago, even though he was shoving some sandwiches down his throat. He knew you would tell him that he looks like a duck, not even chewing the food.

You slowly woke up and yawned out loud, stretching your back. You were sweating like hell, you even smelled - and truly, there was nothing to wonder.

You didn't wake him up, just let him sleep through the episode full of tension and dead people while you took a shower. The bruise you had on the arm was nothing but scary. Shapeshifter could crush your bones if it wanted to.

It was nice knowing that someone was with you in the cabin, especially after what happened just that very afternoon. Demogorgons were real - and there even was a shape-shifting one.

When you hopped out of the shower, you put some comfy old clothes on and finally decided to wake Steve up. He almost threw all the food to the ground as he freaked up.

"Jesus, can you calm down?" - You cried at him and caught the plates before they fell down. Steve sat straight and pulled the armchair so his feet were no longer in the air.

"I'm sorry! I had some pretty wild dreams about the things that happened today and you touch me in the middle of Demogorgon just stretching for my face! What did you expect?" - He said back as you both put the food on the coffee table.

"Come on then, I'll catch you a ride home. Time to wake up, Sleeping beauty." - You answered back a bit ironically and threw an old jacket on. Steve nervously stood up and straightened his jeans since they were crinkly from his very vivid nightmare.

"Are you sure?" - The boy hesitantly came after you with his palms in his jeans, putting his jacket on as well. - "Do you really want to stay here all alone? In this cab? We have a pretty comfortable couch." - Steve asked quietly with a serious worry in his voice.

"I'm more than positive that I'll stay home today, Harrington. This is a completely safe zone, don't worry." - You locked the door and walked to the car, playing with the keys between your fingers. You didn't know where Steve learned to be so nice. That was actually sweet, you needed to say.

"Give me the keys, I will give you a ride." - Steve reached out his palm, but you only laughed a bit. - "You were attacked and you're sick. It will be better if I drive." - Steve said when you were still watching him with an interesting face.

"Steve, even if you drove me to your house, I will have to drive myself back here. I'm feeling fine, I swear. The Shapeshifter didn't hurt me that bad. I can still take care of myself." - You swore on your dear life, climbing behind your pickup's steering wheel. Steve sat next to you with a dumb grin on his face.

"I haven't thought that far, sorry." - He excused his need to drive you to his house, immediately taking a deep breath before he continued. - "Are you sure you can do it on your own here? The whole night? The Shapeshifter might be anywhere right now and it showed you some pretty wild images."

"Steve, listen." - You turned your face to him, letting the started engine running. - "I can survive a night in my very own home. The thoughts won't throw me off the rails. The Shapeshifter could be anywhere, yeah, so what would it do at my house? Don't worry, man, it's going to be alright. Thank you for caring, I greatly appreciate all of it, but you're taking it a bit too far."

After that, you started the radio, letting the station play some of the blast jams - like Wham!, Police or Bonnie Tyler. You enjoyed every song, drumming to it, but it was almost awfully quiet inside the car. When you stopped the engine in front of Steve's house, it was almost midnight. 

“Last chance, Hop.” - He said quietly, opening the door. 

“Sleep tight, Harrington. I will call you in the morning and you'll see, everything's gonna be just fine.” - You answered with a smile, telling him to finally go home and take some rest. After that, you finally drove home, having much to think about. It was Hopper. It had to be him - if it wasn't him, you would be completely destroyed and thrown off the rails. This gave you too much hope just not to be true.

But where was he and what was he doing there? Was he alright? Or was he in danger? You closed your eyes as you turned back to your driveway, exhaling out loud. That was a fucking wild day and you slept through the most of, so you didn't feel the need to relax. 

You planned to write everything down and to try to think about it, so you could come up with a plan eventually. Just as you slowly parked your old Chevy on the spot, you noticed someone standing in the woods, watching you. That sent chills down your spine, you wouldn't lie about that. 

But that didn't exactly mean it was the Shapeshifter. It couldn't track you down, it didn't know where you live and it ran off to the woods. It was hurt and it surely needed some time to recover. Plus that just looked like a little girl standing in the moonlight. 

Slowly, you got out of your car, taking your flashlight with you, pointing at the small figure. When you got close enough, the chills were gone. You relaxed and told yourself that it cant be the Shapeshifter. That was just impossible.

“Hey!” - You yelled at the kid who was still watching you getting closer. Their clothes were torn, their face looked awfully pale. Could it be a kid lost in the woods? - “What are you doing here so late at a cold night? Is everything alright? Are you lost?” - You were still coming closer to that small child, smiling at them and slowly getting on your knees. They were more than thirty feet away from, it was still considered a safe distance. 

The blood stopped running in your veins when you watched the kid get on their hands, walking on all four now. The Shapeshifter. It did find you and it did track you down. Thirty feet now seemed to be just a few inches as you got on your legs and raced to your cabin, the flashlight going suddenly off. You locked yourself in and hid behind the couch, but you could hear it lurking around the cabin, searching for the entrance. 

The monster was making deep noises, surely by their mouth, which sounded like silent growling. You could hear the terrace wood shrieking under its weight as it slowly made its way there. You would swear that you haven't been more scared in your whole entire life. Slowly, you managed to crawl without making a sound through the whole cabin, taking your revolver from the kitchen counter. For the love God, at least it was loaded. 

Then, you noticed its fingers on the window, barely touching it, yet it made so unpleasant sounds that your ears hurt. It was still growling - and in the next second, it jumped to the cabin. You were fucked. The monster smelled your scent instantly, pointing its head to your direction. Its right shoulder was still hurt, so one of its limbs wasn't working as it should. 

Before it could jump on you to bite your head or something else off, you ran to the door, unlocking the lock in a harshly, almost ripping the lock out of the wood. You made it out, yes, but that barely meant anything. The Shapeshifter was just behind you, trying to get through the wooden barrier. 

You ran to your car as fast as you could, thanking God that you barely locked the door. You were in at no time, but another thing was coming - the engine was struggling to start and the Shapeshifter just made a whole-ass hole in your door. There was no time left to spend, do you locked the car and prayed for the motor to start. 

The monster was following you on all four, growling, walking at a slow pace, its head pointed to your car. You felt uneasy, but you managed not to give up. You heard as it jumped on the trunk and you almost felt that you're as good as dead - that was the moment the engine started and roared through the whole, quiet forest around your cabin. The lights were on and you pushed the gas so hard you felt the pedal touching the floor.

With the sudden outburst of speed, you heard the monster falling down, hitting the locked door on the back of the trunk. You hit the breaks violently and the Shapeshifter fell flat on the driver's cabin back. After that, you turned right, leaving the driveway and rode towards Hawkins. If any cop would've stopped you, you had no excuse to drive almost fifty miles per hour. 

When you passed the first lights that included you’re inside Hawkins, the trunk suddenly straightened as the monster jumped off, making the car jump a bit. You slowed down and looked back just to see it running inside the woods again.

Right you stopped and heavily breathed out, leaning your forehead to the steering wheel. Right, what were your options? You definitely couldn't be your cabin anymore - the Shapeshifter was not dumb, it would you there again in no time. Plus, it was in a kind of unusable state at the moment. Police station? YOu had a day off and you hadn't keys and the alarm code. Karen’s? Not an option this late at night. Dustin's? No way. Harrington’s. That was your only remaining option. Steve had a big house back in your day and it was fairly easy to climb into the window of his room.

With that, you drove through Hawkins at the speed of light. You needed to be inside of a building as soon as possible before the monster could come for you again. You stopped a street away from his house, ran to it and climbed the fence to get into their garden. You snatched a few stoned from Steve’s mom’s garden, standing under his window. You just hoped that the idiot isn't already asleep.

You started to throe the windows at his window, not missing a single one. They were only goddamn loud when they fell down on the roof of an extension. The light in the room lightened up and you almost started to cry with happiness. In the next minute, you were facing Steve, who was standing in the open window. 

“Who’s that? Wait for a second. Hop? Is that you? What are you doing here, goddamnit? It's one in the morning!” - Steve whisper-shouted at you, watching your silhouette in the light coming from the pool. - “If this is meant to be a great romantic gesture, I swear to God...”

“Can I have a sleepover at your house? Please?” - You whisper shouted back at him. You saw his face harden before he nodded, taking at least a t-shirt on before he climbed on the extension to help you climb it. You made a lot of noise, but at least, you felt a bit safe when he closed the window.

“Have you changed your mind? You look terrible if you ask me.” - Steve chuckled cockily, still whispering, but when he saw your face having any color and your arms trembling, he figured out that you're completely serious. 

“The Shapeshifter. It tracked me down, it knows where I live. I can’t come back to my cabin since it smashed my window and made a huge-ass hole in my door.” - You sat down on his bed as well and only after that, Steve was completely serious again. - “When I drove you home, I was thinking that it might need some rest to cover its shoulder, and I thought that I will be thinking about what I saw. But I stopped and it was just standing there, watching me.” 

“Couldn't you tell right away? It looked like the old lady, why couldn't you recognize it?” - Steve asked back, standing up to give you one of his old t-shirts with Hawkins’ High logo printed on it. You gladly accepted it, having at least something to change into. 

“That's the joke. It didn't look like that lady anymore. It was a small child, I would probably say a boy? I don't know?” - You asked yourself, looking at Steve.

“Wait? Was the boy this tall and had ashen hair? A red jacket with a clown on his back?” - Steve asked and gasped. You closed your eyes, re-imaging what happened, before nodding. It was the boy Steve was talking about.

“The small kid was Alex. He went missing just a week before you came to the town, he nor his corpse were found. I think you just figured what happened to him - the Shapeshifter killed it and dragged it to the woods to look like him.” - Steve exhaled quietly, looking down on his feet. 

“I have an idea. We will stop at the police department and I will go through the missing person cases, so we would know how it could be looking like. I'm sure that it won't feed on the small boy anymore. I've seen it. It knows that it has to change identities, it isn't dumb, after all.” - You whispered to Steve and he nodded instantly as he started to lay a sleeping bag onto the ground, locking the door. 

“This is all fucking crazy.” - You whispered when Steve turned away so you could change your clothes and crawl under his blanket. The bed was still warm when you laid there. 

“But we will manage to catch it and kill it, I swear to you. We've done this three times already and we won't let the Shapeshifter get you. Believe me. I will face it myself rather than seeing it having you.” - Steve wowed when he was turning the lights off. YOu nodded and smiled, even if he couldn't see you for shit. Before he left to lay down for the night as well, you caught his palm. 

“Thank you for everything, Harrington. I mean it.” - You whispered, holding his palm in yours. He squeezed it back and he was glad that you cant see him blushing like a fifth-grader. 

“As long as you keep your ass safe, there's no need to thank me, Hopper.”

[geejaysmith]

so Kat and I were talking on Discord again and you know what that means

Kat [Yesterday at 6:49 PM] bad end where Hilbert subdues Eiffel leaving Minkowski out to die and she either drifts into the star or gets flared before she suffocates and Hilbert gets clobbered by a really pissed off Minkowski 2 possibly accompanied by Lovelace if the DL wanted to indicate how peeved they were that he messed with Their Boy Eiffel: Commander I thought you were dead. And who's that? Minkowski: I have no idea but she also wants to kill Hilbert and right now that's good enough for me.

Gill [Yesterday at 6:53 PM] ...angry alien gfs. I might just have to write that AU.

And so, like most things inevitably do with me, this got out of hand, so:

WOLF 359 SPEEDRUN/FUNHOUSE MIRROR UNIVERSE/ALIEN MINKOWSKI AU:

Eiffel can’t get to his oxygen mask in time and gets KO’d; Hera might be able to cause an electrical fire on her own to activate the loophole in her programming, but not fast enough to let Minkowski back into the station in time. 

Kat [Yesterday at 6:58 PM] Dear Listeners: he's hurting our boy!!!! D : Dear Listeners: unleash the hounds

Minkowski comes to aboard Lovelace’s shuttle while Lovelace is waking up from cryo and getting her bearings. Since she’s understandably disorientated, Minkowski assumes Lovelace must’ve pulled her onboard just in time to save her life - Lovelace knows this isn’t the case, but for now, doesn’t correct her.

Having no idea who each other are, they’re obviously suspicious about one another, but both know the command authentication codes so that at least checks out. Radioing the Hephaestus itself gives the two more evidence to back up their respective stories; Minkowski takes some satisfaction in Hilbert’s shock when he picks up and hears her voice on the line, only to look over at Lovelace and see her expression darken with white hot fury. 

Gill [Yesterday at 7:20 PM] "Minkowski, how the hell did you-" "Selberg. I hope killing off your crew didn't turn into a habit while I was away." And like, as much as Minkowski can just about feel the rage radiating off of the alleged captain, Lovelace is using her calm, measured Menacing Voice, and that plus the way Hilbert's stunned silence turns into disbelieving terror lifts a few of Minkowski's doubts about Lovelace being who she says she is. Kat [Yesterday at 7:20 PM] ofc a wrinkle is that hilbert would've had plenty of time to get in touch with cutter by now

Okay, schadenfreude aside, now they have a problem: there’s no way Hilbert’s about to let the shuttle dock with the station, yet alone open the airlocks for them. 

This might be where Lovelace tells Minkowski “so is now a good time to mention the bomb I have wired to my heart rate?” The details on that plot point are foggy still.  Kat [Yesterday at 7:46 PM] Maybe hilbert overrode Minkowski's command authentication but 'hey Hera if Lovelace is the Hephaestus' commanding officer shouldn't you do what she says' or something

(Personally I’m a fan of this working to get the shuttle docked but not to get the doors open and that’s when Minkowski goes the full Carol Danvers. Doesn’t even realize anything Weird is going on, she’s far too focused on stopping Hilbert and saving Eiffel and Hera to notice she just blasted that door open)

(let me have my superpowered alien space commando chicks ok)

(It is very badass and Lovelace finds herself quite taken with the Commander.)

(I’m gay and I ship it)

Hilbert still wrecks Hera’s hardware but Minkowski has control of the station back, Eiffel is still loopy on laughing gas but largely unharmed, and they have a new potential ally in Lovelace (and the audio files she left on the station plus Hilbert both confirm her story) except tension still rises between them because Minkowski and Eiffel need Hilbert alive to fix Hera (and because Decima virus but they don’t know that yet) and Lovelace is in favor of killing him because he’s too dangerous to leave alive. Once she’s back online, Hera sides with Lovelace.

Hilbert got a message thru to Cutter about the alien transmissions, but may not be able to establish a connection to talk to the crew directly due to stellar interference. Either way, the crew gets to speedrun season 2 because they have every reason to assume a Goddard Futuristics Kill Squad is on it’s way.  

Nobody knows about Minkowski and anything strange about her since getting space-marooned has some reasonable explanation. Lovelace and the rest roll with the explanation that she got the Commander onto the shuttle; Hera might know Minkowski’s vitals flatlined and stayed that way for hours but Minkowski is the only one she tells about it. With no reasonable alternatives, they chalk it up to stellar interference disrupting the signals from her spacesuit. When SI-5 arrives Kepler knows right off the bat that there’s Something Up with Lovelace, but given Hilbert jumped the gun in pronouncing Minkowski and Eiffel dead, he doesn’t suspect Minkowski. 

Maxwell and Jacobi swap a few plot-beats; Maxwell is the one who meets her double in Time to Kill and Jacobi is the one taken hostage by the crew in Desperate Measures, the fallout of which leads to  D a r k   V e n g e a n c e   M a x w e l l . 

However, because Maxwell is smart and figured a few things out, her real aim with her countercoup is yeeting Jacobi’s body into the star to get him back, and shaking sense into Kepler so he doesn’t shoot him once they do. 

She probably also figured out Minkowski’s a duplicate too and so shocks her out of her denial. Probably by spacing her. 

She’ll be fine, don’t give me that look. 

Full chat transcript below ft. WAY more details that haven’t shaken out into something coherent just yet, nonsequitor Adventure Zone jokes, and at least one Spider-Verse reference:

Kat [Yesterday at 6:58 PM] Dear Listeners: he's hurting our boy!!!! D : unleash the hounds

Gill [Yesterday at 6:58 PM] "send in the most competent of More Competent Women we have" my brain is taking this idea and running with it, I'm picturing Minkowski hazily slipping into unconsciousness as her air supply runs out only to very suddenly come to, realizing after a few good deep breaths that she's not back in the station. This craft looks like something somebody put together in their garage, it's too much of a mess even for the Hephaestus. meanwhile Lovelace steps out of cryo to find there is suddenly a stranger in a spacesuit aboard her ship, hyperventilating her way back to proper consciousness. Out the front window is a station that looks kind of like the Hephaestus, but she's probably just been out here too- you're the commander of the USS what now, ma'am

Kat [Yesterday at 7:08 PM] bonus points since Hera monitors their suits so Minkowski gets back on structure and is like I lived?? somehow? and Hera's like Commander your vitals flatlined hours ago

Gill [Yesterday at 7:08 PM] after taking a moment to sort out exactly how impossible the situation they've found themselves in is, back on the station, Hilbert gets an unexpected comms hail from Minkowski, who should've been dead more than an hour ago, and she wishes she could see the look on his face when he hears her voice. Though she does get to see how Lovelace reacts when she hears Hilbert, and if hearing from one dead commanding officer gives Hilbert pause, it's a whole different ball game when Lovelace gets on the receiver.

Gill [Yesterday at 7:20 PM] "Minkowski, how the hell did you-" "Selberg. I hope killing off your crew didn't turn into a habit while I was away." And like, as much as Minkowski can just about feel the rage radiating off of the alleged captain, Lovelace is using her calm, measured Menacing Voice, and that plus the way Hilbert's stunned silence turns into disbelieving terror lifts a few of Minkowski's doubts about Lovelace being who she says she is.

Kat [Yesterday at 7:20 PM] ofc a wrinkle is that hilbert would've had plenty of time to get in touch with cutter by now

Gill [Yesterday at 7:21 PM] hm, maybe the Dear Listeners run interference so the signal doesn't get back to Earth, or at least Cutter can't get a response in which ofc might just make him send a goon squad up there anyway, so Wolf 359 Speedrun My other concern would be "there's no way Hilbert's letting those two onto the station" which may require DL Godmodding anyway

Kat [Yesterday at 7:23 PM] eiffel just strapped to a table the whole time like the damsel in distress he is maybe he can still talk hera through some sort of hack if hilbert didn't bother to gag him

Gill [Yesterday at 7:24 PM] Dear Listeners: /metaphorically playing rock paper scissors to see which duplicate gets to go full Captain Marvel and BAMF her way back onto the station also Minkowski going full Commander Mama Bear and blasting a door or three open is a wonderful mental image Eiffel, half-conscious, strapped to a lab table, extremely sure Minkowski is dead by now and Hilbert is going to dissect him- and then the door is kicked open and there she is, so full of Righteous Fury she's literally glowing. also: Eiffel blabbering something about "oh my god Commander they made you my guardian angel, I am SO sorry, you didn't do anything that warranted being stuck with that job in this life or the next but if it's any consolation it's probably not gonna be a problem much longer" "Eiffel. Eiffel I'm not dead, Hilbert's been deposed, you can stop crying now."

Kat [Yesterday at 7:37 PM] Hera like Commander but you should be dead though.

Gill [Yesterday at 7:42 PM] Minkowski headed up to the bridge, carrying Eiffel over her shoulder (he is still slightly convinced this is his dying dream and now Hera is with them here in whatever afterlife this is, so perhaps he is not, in fact, in Hell) : Well radio transmissions shouldn't come from deep space and my second-in-command shouldn't try to kill me, a lot of very strange things are happening today. "also please tell me Captain Lovelace didn't kill Hilbert while they were alone, I have questions for him." (Hera: no but I wouldn't drag your feet, also who the hell is she and how did she get on this station.)

Kat [Yesterday at 7:46 PM] to preserve elements of using Hera's loopholes to outwit Hilbert though I do like the idea of them finding some hack to let the ship dock. Maybe hilbert overrode Minkowski's command authentication but 'hey Hera if Lovelace is the Hephaestus' commanding officer shouldn't you do what she says' or something Eiffel like you forgot to disarm my only weapon doc and that's my mouth

Gill [Yesterday at 7:51 PM] makes sense, also maybe Lovelace overriding Hilbert's override buys them enough time to cook up an emergency that activates Hera's emergency protocols, since that strikes me as a more secure foothold (Lovelace: I'm overriding your override! Hilbert: Well, I'm overriding you overriding my override!) (meanwhile, Eiffel starts a fire while strapped to a table, somehow)

Kat [Yesterday at 7:53 PM] Eiffel: Hey Hera remember when you ran a cleaning cycle on the something or other on the aft deck to try to be helpful and started an electrical fire? Hera: Yeah? Eiffel: This would be a great time to be helpful

Gill [Yesterday at 7:56 PM] Hera: oops, there's a fire! looks like we gotta open all the airlocks to vent the fire, including the one to the docking bay! He's locked himself into the bridge, Commander. (Lovelace: dibs on punching him first. Minkowski: not if I get there before you do.)

Kat [Yesterday at 8:00 PM] SI 5 gets there at some later point and Kepler is like ah yes, captain lovelace, definitely an alien. surprise bitch. there's 2 ofc hilbert lied in his message and said he'd terminated both Eiffel AND minkowski so maybe Kepler's like... a whole crew... all aliens

Gill [Yesterday at 8:02 PM] Kepler: okay, so what're the odds Hilbert jumped the gun vs I am now walking into a station full of aliens. shitpost brain chiming in with: Kepler: ok, is anyone in this crew not an alien? Hera: Me.

Kat [Yesterday at 8:03 PM] Eiffel's like an honorary adopted alien

Gill [Yesterday at 8:04 PM] alt version that could potentially be serious: Kepler: ok, fess up, I know there's at least one alien onboard. Eiffel: It's me extra meme'd version: Jacobi: She's an alien, she's an alien, he's an alien - I'm an alien! Are there any other aliens I should know about??? duplicate!Maxwell: (^:

Kat [Yesterday at 8:05 PM] Minkowski: Ok, we need to take out Hilbert. We have the element of surprise, but what other assets do we have? Lovelace: Is this a bad time to mention the bomb strapped to my heartrate.

Gill [Yesterday at 8:06 PM] Minkowski: The bomb. Lovelace: Yup. Minkowski: The bomb that is presumably armed. Lovelace: Yup. Minkowski: ...and where in this small, enclosed shoebox of a deep space vessel is this device? Lovelace: Wired into the shoebox's engine. Minkowski: Of course it is.

Kat [Yesterday at 8:09 PM] minkowski: I get launched off the good ship crazy and find the only person crazier within the next 8 light years. Lovelace: That's because I'm the only bitch that can handle it.

Gill [Yesterday at 8:12 PM] also, Minkowski: Could this day get any weirder. Lovelace: Uh ...as a matter of fact, it can. Minkowski: Please don't tell me you have superpowers or anything like that. Lovelace: Well, I don't, but tell me Minkowski, do your hands... normally glow? alternatively Minkowski is just too Righteous Fury to even notice the Dear Listeners trying to get a word in and now Eiffel is convinced she's secretly been an X-Man the whole time

Kat [Yesterday at 8:19 PM] Lovelace like so... cons? woke up back at the Hephaestus. pros? got a hot girl airdropped

Gill [Yesterday at 8:23 PM] Lovelace, initially: who the hell are you and how did you get on my ship and what the hell is happening, explain before my escalating heartrate kills us both Lovelace, watching Minkowski go full Captain Marvel after teaming up with her and the rest of The New Gang to stop her mutinous ex-friend: potential enemies to potential lovers inside of 20 minutes, that must be some kind of land speed record

Kat [Yesterday at 8:25 PM] heart rate is still a problem

Gill [Yesterday at 8:25 PM] better get a handle on those feelings or else my escalating heartrate will kill us both they could keep that ace up their sleeve for when SI-5 turns up early, if only for the irony of having an explosive device that can be potentially triggered by Gay Feelings and Daniel Jacobi in the same space station

Kat [Yesterday at 8:29 PM] gay bomb chicken Jacobi: my bomb was fake Minkowski: My gun was empty Lovelace: My bomb is very real

Gill [Yesterday at 8:33 PM] a concept: Jacobi figuring out Lovelace has a crush because combination of explosives expertise and gaydar, his reaction is something along the lines of "no, no, NO!! Nobody told me there was gonna be relationship drama on this boat ride, what the hell" also, Lovelace: in my defense my gun was also empty but my bomb is still very real

Kat [Yesterday at 8:35 PM] Jacobi you have no room to talk Jacobi like ok we've got the human/alien or maybe alien/alien going on but I misread the human/AI deal so that's one scifi trope we've avoided so far.

Gill [Yesterday at 8:36 PM] Jacobi, probably: I keep my workplace drama and my relationship drama separate, like a professional ought to. Minkowski: why do you people keep saying I'm an alien Eiffel: Honestly Commander I'm still holding out hope for the "mutant" route, do you perchance know a Charles Xavier?

Kat [Yesterday at 8:37 PM] re: your last I'm imagining Jacobi being like 'I'm upset about this for personal reasons but i'm going to be professional about it.' *clocks out* *screams*

Gill [Yesterday at 8:39 PM] (1) I'm laughing and (2) I mean Hera's the one that clocked out for break but that is technically still what happened in Dirty Work

Kat [Yesterday at 8:42 PM] My union contract says when I'm not clocked in I can be as dramatic as I want Kepler: remember rule # 8. No complaints. Jacobi: My shift ends in 30 seconds. They both watch the clock. 30 seconds later Jacobi: Son of a biTCH

Gill [Yesterday at 8:43 PM] Kepler: what union Jacobi: I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you before you could get Cutter's anti-union hitsquad involved

Kat [Yesterday at 8:43 PM] The Jacobi Union

Gill [Yesterday at 8:44 PM] "help my Jacobis have unionized" though Gay Bomb Chicken + Lovelace almost puts me in mind that this AU is like an almost-mirror of canon and so Lovelace is the one who ends up talking Jacobi down somehow and it's Maxwell who does get Xerox'd in Time To Kill

Kat [Yesterday at 8:49 PM] this does raise. Questions about Cutter vs Minkowski and Lovelace can he only control 1 at a time

Gill [Yesterday at 8:51 PM] or they just actually succeed at covering up that one of them (Minkowski, probably) is a duplicate

Kat [Yesterday at 8:51 PM] also if you're saying everything's switched is Maxwell still the one who gets shot in desperate measures

Gill [Yesterday at 8:53 PM] Lovelace: I'll take one for the team, I'll be the alien. Minkowski: you really think they'll buy it /cue season 3 finale

Kat [Yesterday at 8:53 PM] honestly if jacobi got shot and maxwell went feral she'd probably win tbh

Gill [Yesterday at 8:55 PM] hm... Maxwell going full Rage Mode, getting to deal with the tasty dramatic emotions of Genuine Loss AND the consequences of turning on Hera, or Maxwell does still get shot but then a few hours later they find her walking around like nothing happened with no memory of the past two weeks both are delicious

Kat [Yesterday at 8:57 PM] I feel like instead of goading the others into it dark!Maxwell would either take out kepler herself or force Hera to do it Hera like, I'm not particularly morally distressed about this I would've killed him if you'd asked but you're making me so I'm mad

Gill [Yesterday at 9:00 PM] Alternatively Maxwell looks at the situation, remembers the Implications Hera might've let slip that, as far as appearances go, Minkowski came back from the dead to stop Hilbert and protect her crew, and says "okay, no. Not when it's her finger on the trigger and Jacobi's life on the line, let's back off and regroup." Kepler is not pleased with this decision of hers.

Kat [Yesterday at 9:02 PM] alternatively alternatively Minkowski: I'm sorry I killed your friend I guess? Maxwell: Actions speak louder than words. Help me yeet his body into the star. I think I've figured this out.

Gill [Yesterday at 9:04 PM] Lovelace comes back but the Dear Listeners decide it's more energy efficient if they drop off the new Jacobi while they hold their Contact Event so in this timeline it's Jacobi who's had enough of Kepler's whamma-jamma. Lovelace: doesn't it freak you out that they can just puppet you around?? Jacobi: yes but I'm very good at compartmentalizing. Also blowing off Kepler's hand? Strangely satisfying.

Kat [Yesterday at 9:08 PM] given the symbolism in play in canon there that's some sort of mobius double metaphor reacharound

Gill [Yesterday at 9:12 PM] canon timeline: "Disarming" = removing Kepler's right hand, foreshadowing his right hand man turning against him and no longer being a weapon in his arsenal Funhouse-Mirror timeline: Jacobi, Kepler's right hand man, can now be controlled by the Dear Listeners, so maybe Kepler gets a Replacement Alien Hand that the Dear Listeners can communicate through via sign language or writing wasn't sure where trying to work out THAT tangle of thought was gonna go but "help my right hand is possessed" is an a-okay destination by me

Kat [Yesterday at 9:13 PM] tbf many ASL signs are two handed, albeit often a doubled similar sign idk about other languages

Gill [Yesterday at 9:14 PM] hey my first thought was "the animatic with the sockpuppets is now a PROPHECY" I'm in full Insane Troll Logic mode

Kat [Yesterday at 9:14 PM] pryce is gonna have a hell of a time lobotomizing everyone depending on how far you want to take this but yeah the robot hand = getting ur robot lobotomy second in command so idk where u go there

Gill [Yesterday at 9:18 PM] hey, you've got so many duplicates walking around now, why save the psi-wave regulator trick for the finale? I mean there might not be enough if the star isn't blue but... I mean they had to test that thing somehow, right do they have a psi-wave generator lying around somewhere?

Kat [Yesterday at 9:20 PM] I assume it goes both ways, since it seems to be an increase that causes the possession, and cutter was essentially doing that to lovelace

Gill [Yesterday at 9:21 PM] or: Cutter challenges the known aliens (Jacobi and Lovelace, if they do successfully keep Minkowski on the down-lo) to a board game, and whoever comes in last place is gonna be the first one to get dissected!

Kat [Yesterday at 9:22 PM] Lovelace: What if you lose

Gill [Yesterday at 9:23 PM] Cutter: Then I throw one of your friends out the airlock while you watch! maybe they still tried to put Jacobi thru Processing first while unaware he'd been alien'd so he broke the neural scanner, and they just restraining bolted Eiffel, Maxwell, and Minkowski. Minkowski's restraining bolt is running but doesn't do shit, and she's stuck putting on the performance of a lifetime while she comes up with a Plan

Kat [Yesterday at 9:28 PM] time to use your acting chops I have another long day tomorrow, I should probably go to bed. Enjoy figuring out which of the like 500 strands of spaghetti we flung at the wall is the one that sticks.

Gill [Yesterday at 9:31 PM] o/ night night, I'll probably be typing at you to get some coherent Ideas out so enjoy THAT wall of text in the morning

Kat [Yesterday at 9:32 PM] I Will

Gill [Yesterday at 9:36 PM] shaking up the Contact Event aside I kinda like the idea of Maxwell's Rampage Of Revenge ending up being just one big gambit to get somebody to chuck Jacobi's body into the star... and then I thought "what if Minkowski has been stubbornly dodging that she got alien-resurrected this entire time and can keep finding explanations around the weird shit happening to her, and Maxwell's plan ALSO has her forcing Minkowski to face the truth?"

Gill [Yesterday at 9:45 PM] "Yes, all of this was a ploy to trap you in the decompression chamber, but it was also a ploy to get you to throw Jacobi's body into the star. I just thought to myself, hey, if I'm gonna go to the trouble of going Dark Vengeance Maxwell, I might as well multitask."

Gill [Yesterday at 9:52 PM] Minkowski: Did we NOT just agree that killing me or Kepler isn't gonna solve anything?? Maxwell: Oh you're right, it won't! Don't worry Commander, you've gotten lucky with airlocks in the past, right? Like how the Captain found you just in time? And that hour you spent with your vitals all flatlined was just a glitch, caused by "stellar interference"? I have a funny feeling your luck hasn't run out just yet.

Gill [Yesterday at 10:00 PM] so Minkowski gets to process that she was An Alien The Whole Time while Eiffel is probably off on his visionquest, Jacobi is Back and having a similar Bad Time, and Maxwell's escaped into the vents to keep Hera from killing her as violently as possible. Kepler and Lovelace are having the least amount of Crisis. slight alteration to this: by some Process Of Events, Eiffel gets to play out the Dramatic Rescue that happened offscreen in Box 953 and that's how he ends up outside and decides to jump into the star, or Minkowski goes on his adventure with him (though not as a frozen corpse the whole time if I can find a way to wrangle it even if I do have to invoke my right as a fanfic writer to jump this shark and say Fuck It, Alien Clones Can Breathe In Space Sometimes)

Gill [Yesterday at 10:26 PM] Minkowski, totally not freaking out herself: Eiffel, you still need to worry about conserving your oxygen supply, so I am giving you a direct order to not freak out. Eiffel, who I must note has not seen The Last Jedi: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! THIS IS LIKE IF PRINCESS LEIA KILLED JABBA THE HUTT BY FORCE-LIFTING HIM INTO THE SARLACC PITT FROM STRAIGHT OUTTA THE WILD BLUE NOWHERE! yes it did take me getting ready for bed to realize that sound can't travel in space if no air so Minkowski would have to Dear Listener-commandeer his comms channel to talk to him, unless we want to get into my Found Family Psychic Link conspiracy theories additionally a TAZ joke popped into my head and it's not gonna leave til I say it no matter how little sense it makes without twisting the narrative into a logic-pretzel Bob, after witnessing Minkowski just out-stubborn physics: how... what in the world are you? Minkowski: I'm bisexual. Bob: And do all... bisexuals have this power? Minkowski: /glances at Eiffel, raises an eyebrow Eiffel: ...I'm personally partial to the pansexual label myself, sooooo... Minkowski, @ Bob: Yes.

Gill [Yesterday at 10:47 PM] alternatively after a brief and entirely physically impossible conversation about what he's about to do, Eiffel's like, okay, I'm gonna cut my tether while you keep ahold of it, then you push off from me, I push off from you, I go see what our friends want while you go take command of your station. bc then that lets me do this: Minkowski: Okay, on three. You ready? Eiffel: ...no. You? Minkowski: ...not really. But maybe that's all it is, a- Eiffel: A leap of faith, right. Okay, on three. [muffled What's Up Danger playing from the Dorado constellation in the distance]

Gill [Yesterday at 11:01 PM] I still don't know what happens to Hilbert, sorry m'dude

Gill [Yesterday at 11:12 PM] Last thought before I succumb to unconsciousness for the night: I'm just gonna drive a monkey wrench right into those gears and toss out "instead of Hera manifesting a humansona in mental space she gets herself a custom meatsuit 3D printed, made from the DNA of her friends" and then just not think through the implications of that at all right now

Kat [Today at 6:21 AM] "brief and entirely physically impossible conversation" yknow you can't talk in space but you could sign in space I was also thinkin maybe the Lovelace/crew tension is that Hilbert still rips Hera's personality out and they want to keep him around to fix her and Lovelace wants to kill him bc he's too dangerous

Kat [Today at 6:42 AM] Maybe and/or instead of trying to kill him Maxwell's rampage involves trying to convince Kepler that the duplicates still count as people since she's going to all the trouble of getting Jacobi back and he better not just fucking shoot him again. and instead of his heel-face turn getting kicked off by a betrayal making him rethink his entire life it's Maxwell reading him the riot act like 'maybe you've told yourself these aren't real people so you can do more terrible shit to them but I'm getting my best friend back and you're going to like it' Maxwell: Repeat after me: I will not rekill Jacobi. Kepler, droning at gunpoint: I will not rekill Jacobi. Maxwell: And if I'm an asshole Lovelace takes another limb. Lovelace: Oh, I like Dark Maxwell.

Kat [Today at 7:06 AM] Kepler like, You want to invite one of these monsters on board just because it has a face you know. Maxwell: for god's sake, you've been living with the captain for months and you're telling me you really still believe that? (Idk how they'd actually make the delivery once maxwell asks for it, maybe they'd send him back as a peace offering when spitting Eiffel out?) Jacobi, recently returned from the dead in space: what the fuck upon getting back to the Hephaestus and immediately being apprehended by Cutter and co: what the fuck

Kat [Today at 7:14 AM] like Maxwell's real pissed and upset until the funeral and then once she sees Lovelace resurrect she's like Hey she starts off ranting @ Kepler for keeping secrets the same way as Jacobi did but then she's like "don't you get it, that's how we can get him back" Kepler, about 2 exits behind on the freeway: wait what

Gill [Today at 7:15 AM] Maxwell: I'm gonna need some help to get rid of a body Kepler: I mean I'm not following but ok Maybe the Dear Listeners have the presence of mind to just put Jacobi back on the Hephaestus directly He has a few minutes to reboot in peace before Maxwell leaps on him from the vents for Happy Reunion Time

[tommyparkerr]

Sick Day | Tom Holland x Reader

No, it’s not a request or a prompt, but I found this buried deep in my docs and decided to post it while you all waited for more content! Enjoy! (Plus I’ve been making you all suffer with my *recent* reblogs so take this as my apology.)

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: Sick!reader, mentions of throwing up, fluff

-Masterlist-

S I C K  D A Y :

You’d felt a little off all day, but you didn’t think much of it. You had been overworking yourself—you knew you were—so you were sure it was just the exhaustion. Besides, you finally had a day off that lined up with Tom’s and you wouldn’t give that up for anything.

“Where do you want to eat, love?” Tom asked you, swinging your interlocked hands back and forth as you walked down the streets of London. The mention of food made your stomach churn, but real food—food that wasn’t boxed or pre-made—sounded amazing. A rich three-course meal, however, did not sound appealing. So something in between would have to do.

“What about that little café over there?” You pointed to a nearby corner. Tom smiled and nodded.

“Perfect.”

XxX

So much for it just being exhaustion, you thought the next morning as you woke up dizzy and fatigued with the overwhelming urge to throw up. But Tom was already gone, having left early. He left a note, though:

Couldn’t get you to wake up (or even twitch in acknowledgment) but I love you lots darling, and I hope you have a wonderful day. — T

You couldn’t help but think your day would be much more wonderful if you weren’t currently hunched over the toilet. After a few dry heaves, the half a sandwich you had last night at the café came back up, leaving your stomach empty but you feeling much better.

You slowly stood and flushed the toilet, brushing your teeth and doing your makeup and hair before you went to work yourself. It’d been so busy lately that you often ended up pulling a couple hours of overtime each night, even on the weekend. You knew it’d slow down soon as this was the busiest time of the year every year without fail, but that also meant less time with your fiancé; you hadn’t even had the time to start wedding plans yet.

You sighed as you heard a desperate whine and opened the bathroom door. Tessa sat on the other side looking concerned and genuinely worried. “I’m all right, girl, see?” you said, smiling and scratching behind the staffy’s ears. “It was just something I ate.”

You could tell she didn’t buy it and, if you were being honest, you really didn’t either. You kissed the dog’s head before slipping your shoes on, and you gently reassured her once more before heading out the door.

The drive to work and first thirty minutes of the day went smoothly. Your stomach felt normal again and all that was left behind was a headache, a small but noticeable weakness in your muscles, and short bouts of exhaustion that seemed to come and go, but that was fine. That you could deal with.

You guess you should’ve known better than to have assumed everything was fine after your time in the bathroom this morning. Maybe you should’ve listened to Tessa’s pleading eyes and stayed home, because now the uncomfortable churning in your stomach started up again, bringing with it a flash of heat and uncontrollable tremors.

“Hey, Y/N, are you okay?” your co-worker and closest friend asked as she walked by, eyeing you the same way Tessa had earlier. Your lips twitched as if to say something, but you ultimately decided to keep them shut; if you parted them you were afraid your stomach would take it as an open invitation for a repeat of this morning.

“Y/N, seriously, are you okay?” Grace asked, this time more concerned. She watched as you squeezed your eyes shut and hunched over a little more in your chair and suddenly it seemed to click. “Let’s get you to the bathroom, all right?” she said in a hushed voice so as to not alert anyone else and slowly helped you up and to the door only a few feet behind you.

Somehow you were able to find a final burst of strength to make it to the toilet just before your stomach no longer cared about invitations. Grace calmly sat behind you and wrapped your hair up into a bun to get it out of the danger zone; the thin layer of sweat was causing your hair to stick to you making you more uncomfortable than you already were, so you were thankful for Grace’s deft fingers.

“You know you can’t stay, right?” the blonde said, handing you some toilet paper to wipe your mouth with. Your shaky hands accepted the small cotton squares.

“I have so much to do, Grace-“

“You can’t get much of anything done if you’re like this the entire day and you know it,” Grace sternly replied. The girl had a heart of gold, but every once in awhile her stubborn side would show and when it did there was no way to get around it. Not even you had found a crack in her wall yet. “If you’re really that worried about it, I’ll secretly add a little bit of your pile to everyone else’s. They won’t even notice.”

You normally would’ve giggled at that, but now all you could get out was a weak smile. “Grace, I appreciate that, but-“

“No buts,” she said. “Now give me your phone so I can call that cute fiancé of yours to pick you up.”

“He’s at work-“

“I’m sure he can at least spare a few minutes to find someone to get you home if he can’t,” she argued. You handed your phone to her with a sigh and sat back against the wall, letting the coolness of the metal stall seep into your skin.

“Tom!” Grace exclaimed a few moments later. “I’m so glad you picked up! Is this a good time?”

You closed your eyes and laid your head on your knees, letting yourself tune Grace and Tom’s muffled voices out. Unlike this morning you did not feel better after throwing up. In fact, you felt worse. Your stomach was slightly pacified, yes, but your eyes burned, your head pounded, the world spun, and your entire body shook like you were cold when you were burning.

You felt Grace lay a wet paper towel on the back of your neck. The short burst of relief you felt was almost nonexistent as the heat of your skin warmed it up as soon as it touched, but it was better than nothing.

You didn’t know how long this continued, Grace rewetting paper towels and dabbing them on your neck and face, but you knew it had to have been awhile when your stomach churned again and you felt another, more familiar hand on your back as you emptied its contents out again.

“Tom?” you whimpered between heaves.

“I’m here, love,” he softly reassured you. “I’ve got you.”

“Work-“

“Right now work should be the least of your concerns.” You opened your mouth to say something again but Tom beat you to it. “But since I know it’s not, you can relax, sweetheart. Work is covered for the both of us. Rest easy.”

You nodded—just barely, but it was there. You trusted Tom; if he said work was covered, then it was covered. You knew he wouldn’t lie about this if it weren’t all right for either of you to leave.

“Shall we get you home, darling?”

“Yeah,” you shakily whispered, wiping your mouth again before reaching to flush the toilet. Tom slowly helped you to your feet and you grasped his arm for support.

You distracted yourself from the walk downstairs by breathing the faint scent of Tom’s cologne in and focusing only on the blood you felt pumping through the tight hold you had on him. When you got into your car you were forced to let go, so you curled up in your seat and thumped your head against the window—it was cold from the outside air. After awhile, the door opened beside you slowly enough for you to register what was happening and move your head off the glass. You groaned at the loss of contact.

“Can I carry you, darling?” Tom asked. You nodded and reached your arms up like a little kid. He placed a kiss on your forehead as he carefully lifted you and carried you inside. “I’ll make you some hot tea, okay, love?”

Hot tea sounded oddly good despite the temperature you were at. You nodded at Tom to show your acknowledgment as he laid you down. You closed your eyes as you settled down on the bed and waited, gathering enough strength to peel off your shoes and push them off the side.

Tom walked in just as your high heels clunked against the carpet and his lips twitched upward. He carefully helped you into a sitting position then sat beside you, careful not to dip the mattress too much, and pushed the rim of the filled tea cup to your lips. The aroma of the tea wafted up into your nostrils, the steam making you close your eyes for a moment; it smelled sweet.

“Drink, darling. You’ve got to keep up on liquids,” Tom quietly told you. “I put a little honey in there to help with the rawness of your throat.”

You swallowed and lifted your shaky hands to help hold the cup as Tom tipped it toward you again. The tea flooded past your lips and onto your tongue, smoothly going down and pleasantly warming your stomach. Tom kept his hands on the cup, controlling your sips and allowing your clammy hands to cover his. He knew from experience that being sick was your least favorite thing in the world and even more so if you felt you couldn’t do even the simplest task, so instead of scolding you for trying to do something yourself Tom learned it was better if he let you help him help you.

You pushed the cup away when you were three-quarters done with it, feeling full and bloated even though you had nothing other than that tea in your stomach. Tom didn’t push you to drink anymore, only turning and setting the tea cup on the nightstand beside you for later.

“Is there anything I can do to help, love?” Tom asked concerned. He hated seeing you like this because he knew he wasn’t capable of making it go away, of making you feel better. The only thing he could do was try his best to make you as comfortable as possible and prevent you from getting even more ill. Other than that, he was completely helpless.

“I wanna sleep,” you whined, leaning heavily against him.

Tom lightly ran his fingers down your arm. “Do you want to change your clothes?”

You thought about it for a moment, and as you did the thought of wearing your wired bra, scratchy blouse, and knee-length skirt to bed suddenly became unbearable. You weakly nodded. Tom stood up, grabbing one of his softer T-shirts from the dresser before coming back and tapping your arm as an indication for you to raise them. You were slowly stripped of your clothing, sighing in relief when all you had left was Tom’s shirt and your underwear.

“I’m going to grab the thermometer and some cold rags, all right, love?”

“Okay,” you whispered, sinking above where the sheets were pulled back and curling into yourself.

Tom was back in a few seconds with the thermometer, sticking it under your tongue while he went to grab the rags. His timing was impeccable, coming back just as the thermometer beeped. He took one look at it and frowned before setting it on the table beside him. He silently worked on putting the cool, damp washcloths on your hot skin and getting you cooled down.

“How bad is it?” you groaned, referring to your fever.

“Don’t worry about it, love,” he mindlessly said as he brushed a piece of hair from your face. “Just relax.” You closed your eyes at the sensation of his lips on your brow and tried to open them again when he pulled away but found it too hard. So instead you patted the empty space beside you. “You need to rest, darling-“ Tom tried.

“Please,” you weakly whispered, forcing your eyes open for a few fleeting moments. “Lay with me.”

Tom sighed but couldn’t protest against your drooping eyelids and pale and pleading face. “Tell me if it’s too much, all right?” You closed your eyes as a means of acknowledgment and felt it as the mattress ever so slowly dipped with his weight. You reached out to touch him but he beat you to it, scooting close enough to carefully wrap you in his arms. “Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered. Your mind was fogging up, sleep beginning to take over. “Thank you, Tommy.”

He planted a kiss on your head. “Anytime, love.”

XxX

Permanent Tag: @lemirabitur @my-meant-to-find-blog @jongindeepbreath @tomspideyweb @farfromjustordinary @tomsstarlight @delicately-written @catstielanddeanthedog @tom-holland-and-textposts @spiderman-n @wtfholland @hollandandi @starsholland @holland-haven @beautiful-holland

[ramheavenandhell]

Getting out of a Parking Ticket

AN: This story was heavily inspired by this picture that was drawn by @naughtyorganic (many, many thanks for allowing me to use it as cover art!! <3) Warnings: RookieCopRick/MiamiMorty oral smut Summary: Miami Morty is forced to wait in the car while his Rick takes care of some business. His waiting time gets sweetened when Cop Rick is writing parking tickets and comes to his car. After all, he can't just sit by and watch while his Rick gets a ticket for parking in a no parking allowed zone…

Getting out of a Parking Ticket The blond pouted as his Rick got out of the car. "I'll be quick and I make it up to you when I'm back, Princess. Just keep watch on the car, okay?" he said as he straightened his pink jacket. "Okay, but you better make up for it good." Miami Morty responded. As his Rick went off to make his little business deal, the Morty still pouted a little more. After all, he usually came along to most of his deals even when they were on the Citadel of Ricks. Morty opened the glove compartment and picked out a strawberry-flavored lollipop, removing the wrapper and popping it into his mouth as he still sulked. Meanwhile, a Cop Rick made his round, writing parking tickets for all the vehicles that were parked on the sidewalk. The poor guy had been reduced to being a meter maid for the time being, because of what had had happened to his Morty Partner. Well, considering that he had shot him, he would have actually expected a more severe punishment, so he should call himself lucky that he got away with it like this. He lifted one side of his eyebrow as he spotted a pink Cadillac. It was bit unusual to see an earth car like that on the Citadel, but not the weirdest thing that he had seen. Just as he stood next to the car with the tinted windows and began to write on his notepad, the door on the passenger side opened. "Oh, is there a problem, Mr. Officer?" the boy asked as he got out of the car. Cop Rick blinked a little in surprise. The boy was a Morty, but he had never seen a Morty that looked like this even though he had seen quite a few different versions of them. This teen had long blond hair, which was kept out of his face by a blue headband. He wore a short matching blue top, a brown leopard-print fur jacket and only pink speedos as well as some blue sandals. His tanned skin was also quite remarkable as well as his glitter make-up that was visible underneath his pink-tinted sunglasses. He looked like he just came straight from the beach. The boy pushed the sunglasses up to rest on his headband and gave the red sucker that he held in his other hand a quick lick while he looked at him with half-lidded eyes and a questioning gaze that looked… seductive? The Rick couldn't help but blush a little. "Your car is parked in a no stopping or parking allowed zone so I have to write you a ticket." He explained while continuing to scribble on his notepad. Morty's eyes widened and he instantly jumped to latch onto Cop Rick's arm and stop him from writing anymore. "Oh please, Mr. Officer. Can't you maybe make a little exception?" "I'm sorry, but either you drive the car away right now or I'll have to give you the ticket." Rick stuck strictly to the regulations. He wanted to be a good cop, not a corrupt one. Even though he had to admit, that the boy was quite distracting. Especially, as he started to press his entire body up against him and looked with pleading eyes up at him while his tongue twirled around that lollipop. It made Rick blush even harder. "But I'm not allowed to drive the car, Mr. Officer. My Rick would be really angry if I did and he's going to be back in a minute anyways." Morty batted his eyelashes while he tried to convince the cop. "I'm really sorry, but I can't ju— " Rick was interrupted as Morty started to tug on him. "No, really. He'll be back real quick and then we're gone. You know, why don't you just wait for a minute and see for yourself?" The boy said and kept pulling the police officer towards the car. "We can just wait inside for a moment." Rick knew that it wasn't a good idea, but stunned from surprise, he let the boy maneuver him in the passenger seat. "I can't do that. I still have more work to do." He kept protesting, albeit only verbally. Miami Morty climbed in after him and took a seat on his lap before closing the door. "You're a very hard working Rick, Officer. I think you deserve a little break." Cop Rick squirmed a little under the teen, seemingly uncomfortable with the close proximity. "No. I really shouldn't…" Morty trailed one finger over the collar of his uniform before letting it trail down Rick's chest. "It's really true what they say about men in uniform. I never knew that a Rick could look so sexy." He drawled as he fixed the other with a seductive gaze again. Rick suddenly started to feel a little too hot in his clothes. Even without checking in the rearview mirror, he knew that his face must have been glowing bright red right now. Morty giggled. It was cute to see a Rick getting so shy and flustered. It was certainly a rare sight for the boy. This may even be fun for him… "Jeez, you're so tense…" The boy said as he let his hand wander up again and lightly massaged the Cop Rick's shoulder. He stuck his sucker into his mouth so he had the other hand free to touch and massage the other with both appendages now. Rick couldn't hold back a groan as the nimble fingers dug into his stiff muscles and helped relax them. He instinctively bit his lower lip to stifle any more sounds from escaping him, but he did have to admit that it really felt damn good. Morty giggled again as he saw Rick close his eyes in bliss. If he was enjoying the little massage this much, how was he going to react when they came to the good stuff? Morty wanted to find out. "Hold on a second." he said as he turned around, showing off how flexible he was since he still straddled the Rick and grasped for the wrapper that he had blindly thrown on the dashboard earlier on. He rewrapped his slobbered up lollipop before placing it neatly back on the dashboard and out of the way. "My Rick just hates it when the interior of his car gets dirty." The boy explained as he saw the other's confused face. No sex without condoms in the car was one of the major rules, but Morty knew some other way to ensure that things won't get messy. He unconsciously licked his lips at the thought. The movement of the pink tongue didn't go unnoticed by the cop who gulped. His hands were then back on the Rick's upper body, nimble fingers stroking and kneading over the uniform. "If you like this I know something that you'll like even more." He hummed. As his hands ran lower and got dangerously close to Rick's belt, the old man began to sputter. In quick movements, Morty slid down from his lap till he was kneeling between the cop's legs, ignoring the stuttered protests. "Now, now. Just relax." The boy said with a seductive grin and reached to open the other's pants. Deft fingers quickly unbuckled the belt before Morty leaned forward to open the button and zipper only with his teeth and tongue, all the while looking up at Rick who blushed like crazy and eventually had to avert his eyes. To the blond's delight, the already stiff member, which was still covered by briefs, lifted to peek out of the opened fly. Again, with only his teeth, he pulled on the waistband and tugged the light-blue boxers down till the police officer's erection sprang free and slapped against his stomach. Morty thought that it was almost laughable that this Rick was already fully hard even though he hadn't done much of anything yet. Been probably a while. Maybe he should be merciful and not tease the poor thing too much… but it'd be no fun then, right? Without breaking his gaze from Rick who had been looking back at him again, he nuzzled against the hot hard flesh with his cheek. Morty looked as cute and innocent as he could while he did that, smiling up at the flushing cop who looked like he couldn't decide if he wanted to watch or not. It was amusing how shy he acted, averting his eyes every few moments, just to look back down again while his cock twitched delightedly. Not wanting to stop with the teasing so soon, Morty began to gently nose at the shaft now, still careful to avoid using his lips even if his mouth was already starting to water at the scent. After he decided that he had done enough worshipping, he moved his face back again to use his hands now. His left hand went to grasp the base of the cock while the index finger of his right trailed slowly up and down the shaft. As that digit finally reached the angry red tip, the other fingers joined in to dance around the head, but still carefully avoided the opening at which the first drops of precum already started to gather. Morty couldn't help, but giggle as he saw the tormented face that the Cop Rick made. Deciding to be a little merciful, he fully grasped the hard length in his hand and strengthening his grip, moving up and down to pump the shaft. Rick panted and some soft moans accidentally escaped from his mouth. It wasn't even a question if this was the first time that the boy was giving someone a handjob… or well, maybe it was and he was just really talented. When Morty twisted his wrist just the right way, as he still pumped him, Rick decided that he was very talented either way and clenched his eyes shut. He had to bite down on his lower lip in order to avoid letting any more embarrassing sounds slip. Morty was still amused as he constantly changed his focus between Rick's face and crotch where his hand was still busy slowly working him to completion. Man, he really wanted to see the cop's reaction to when he would start bringing his mouth into the game! Being the impatient little thing that he was, he decided to do just that right now. So, he brought his fingers back to the tip while his lips took over in taking care of the underside of the shaft. He mouthed at the length, all the way from root to frenulum and one of his fingers finally – mercifully – rubbed over the slit and smeared the precum all over the glans, inciting some barely repressed whimpers. With big smiling eyes, he watched Rick's reactions from his position. The view was downright delicious: lower lip being bitten almost hard enough to draw blood, eyes clenched shut tightly in concentration and head thrown back while a bright red flush was covering his cheeks and his face and entire body were twitching occasionally. Never before had he met a Rick that was this cute – or a Rick that he would even dare to label "cute" for that matter. Deciding that he had done enough teasing now, Morty removed his fingers and let his tongued glide over the wet tip. Moaning at the taste, he didn't wait any longer and took the member into his mouth. Expertly he relaxed his throat muscles and took in the entire length. Rick couldn't suppress a loud moan as he felt the wet heat completely envelope him. His left hand came to rest in the blond mane, as he looked down, but he only let it softly lay there without pulling at it or trying to guide the boy's head one way or another. Morty took notice of that, but wouldn't have minded it either way. He swallowed around the hot, pulsing erection that was lodged deep inside his throat, before he slowly pulled back and swirled his tongue all over the shaft. As he reached the tip, he gave one hard suck, before he dove back down again. Like this, he started a fast pace, literally fucking his face on Rick's cock. Cop Rick didn't even seem to by trying to hold his moans and groans in and his fingers buried itself in the blond locks and twirled them absentmindedly. His hips had also started to move in a matching rhythm to the boy's movements as he bucked into the tantalizing mouth. They both knew that Rick wouldn't be able to last for much longer. With one last hard buck and a loud groan, he finally reached his climax and filled the blond's mouth with his sticky cum. Morty dutifully swallowed everything that the other had to give. Panting heavily the cop fell back into the seat. "That was…" he drawled mindlessly. Morty smirked mischievously up at him now, still kneeling between his legs. One of his finger was trailing along his thigh as he said, "Well, Officer, I'm sure that you can overlook my Rick's little traffic offense now. If you do, I'll keep this to myself…" Those words rattle the police officer up as if he only now realized what he had done. He had just gotten a blowjob from a Morty and that while he was still on duty. With panicked movements, he stuffed himself into his pants again and then quickly exited the car. Grinning like the cat that got the cream – quite literally – Morty moved to sit back in the now empty passenger seat again and watched the officer walk off with still slightly trembling legs. Miami Rick just happened to leave the building in which he had met his business partners as he saw the Cop Rick stumbling out of his car. He looked briefly after the police officer before he darted over to his car and threw open the door on the driver side. "What did that cop just do in my car?!" Rick demanded, lifting his sunglasses as he looked sternly at his Morty. Morty just relaxed further back into his seat after retrieving his lollipop again and nonchalantly replied. "I just saved you from getting a parking ticket. You're welcome." Grumbling, Rick climbed into the driver seat. "Well, the guy had better not made a mess in here." He just hated it if the interior of his car got dirty.

AN: I have plans to turn this into a little series. The next part would be MiamiRick/CopRick, but no promises when I'm done with the next installment.

Part 1 of Getting out of Trouble

Part 2 of Getting out of Trouble: Convincing

oneshot

[starlitsummermoon]

Harr X MC - Unveil Me (NSFW)

I’ve been thirsty for Harr lately. Tagging @iluvsexyvoltageguys​ since she shares my thirst for Harr haha

I could still feel his heat on my lips as I explored downtown Cradle with Fenrir and Seth, something about treating ourselves to some well-deserved goodies. The two took turns wrapping their arms around my shoulders, ushering me along the streets, stopping at every other shop to inspect their unique goods, but my mind was elsewhere.

The image of his hands feeling the curves of my back and thighs kept flashing into my mind, gooseflesh rising in absence of his touch. My teeth sunk into my bottom lip each time I remembered the way he suckled it each time he pulled away from our passionate kisses. Even though it was just last night, my body was aching for his, to feel it against me once more.

“Hellooo? Anyone home?”

With a sudden jolt, I snapped back to reality with both my escorts peering into my face; one annoyed and one overly concerned.

“Alice, what’s gotten into you?!” Seth nearly shrieked.

“Yeah, you’ve been zoned out nearly this entire time,” Fenrir scoffed, scratching his chin. “Is everything okay, Manami?” I could feel the cold sweat running down the side of my face. No one in the Black Army was aware of my relationship with Harr and now wasn’t exactly what I would call the right time.

“Of course not!” I tried to laugh it off, but they could both feel the tension emitting from my expression. “I’m just a little… distracted.”

“Distracted? By what?” Fenrir took a quick second to glance at our surroundings before locking eyes with me. “We’re out so we could all get a distraction from work.”

“I know,” lowering my gaze, I began to fiddle with my fingers. Even now, I could almost feel Harr’s hot breath against my earlobe, wishing to hear him softly call out my name. “It’s just that—”

“Are you not enjoying our company, Alice?” Seth asked, tears nearly pouring from his eyes as his lip quivered like a sad puppy as he clasped my hands in between his.

‘No, that’s not it.’ I can’t say that to them. ‘It’s just not your company I want right now.’ Definitely can’t say that.

“That’s a silly thing to say, Seth,” I giggled, feeling my face relax into a soft smile, easing the tension between all of us. “I guess I’m not just in the mood for sweets right now, that’s all.”

“I KNOW!” Seth leapt slightly into the air, nearly taking me with him. “Let’s go get you a new dress!” My eyes gaped with panic, but I managed to keep my smile on my face. I’m sure my expression came off as psychotic, wide, panicked eyes with a small, innocent smile, as I tried to quickly come up with an escape plan. Turning to Fenrir for help, he just shrugged in defeat.

“It’s not exactly what I was expecting,” he smirked, “but it’s only fair. We’ve been dragging you around all morning, we should do something you want to do.”  I was so speechless at his inability to hear my silent screams that I wasn’t able to retort before Seth was leading us down to the nearest dress shop.

Dress after dress, Seth and Fenrir whistled and applauded at every one I came out in. It was sweet and encouraging, but none of these dresses were what I was looking for… but, what was I looking for? Still feeling heated from my memories of last night, perhaps I was looking for a dress a bit more…

“This one,” I pulled out a cute little black dress out from one of the racks in the back while Seth was still gawking in a different section of the shop. I didn’t have a good chance to look at it, so I quickly grabbed the blue dress next to it and tucked it under my arm, hoping the guys wouldn’t notice.

“That’s a cute one,” Fenrir commented, appearing just around the corner. I jumped a little, clutching to my two dresses hoping that he only saw the one. “The blue one ya got, it’s cute. You should try it on.”

I was safe..

Shoving me back into the changing room with an armload of gaudy dresses, Seth insisted I show him and Fenrir each and every piece. I agreed to get them out of my hair, but I wasn’t about to show them my little black dress, my little secret.

Finally able to hold it up and inspect it, it was exactly what I was looking for. The straps and the skirt had a slight ruffle to them and the material seemed to have a subtle sparkle to it. Could fabric in Cradle be fused with magic? I wasn’t sure, but I was planning on asking Harr for the next time I see him, I want to be wearing this dress. Just for the two of us, like a little secret.

I held the dress to my chest, feeling my hear pounding from the very thought of being with him again, feeling his lips and his touch again.

At last, I was entering my bedroom back at the Black Army headquarters just before they were about to serve dinner. After what felt like an eternity, I collapsed onto my bed with large bags adorning my arms. The boys were sweet enough to buy all the dresses I chose, which I actually found a few to my liking. I did feel a little guilty for sneaking in the black dress, the only one they didn’t even know about. One day I’ll repay them.

Now I need to see him. I need to see Harr. Something in my heart told me he was thinking of me, as well. Shuffling my bags into my closet, I pulled out my new dress and carefully displayed it on top my bedding, planning to change into immediately after dinner, then opened up a box I kept hidden underneath my bed, pulling out a drawstring bag.

Inside the bag were these little lavender-colored magic crystals. Pulling one out, I closed my fingers around it tightly as I stuffed the bag and box back into their hiding places. Approaching my window, I opened it, feeling the warm late-summer breeze brushing my skin. Opening my fist, I glanced down at the shard, glowing so brightly, it outshone the sun. Clasping my hands around it, I hid the light as I held it close to my beating heart.

Focusing all of my energy into the crystal from my hands, the image of Harr’s face appeared in my mind once again. His cool grey eye locking my gaze with his captivating smile melting me to pieces. It almost felt real and I wanted to reach out and place my hand on his face, but I had to resist the urge, otherwise the spell wouldn’t work. I could feel hot energy forming in my hands as I whispered, “Please, Harr, I want to see you tonight.”

The second the final word slipped from my lips, the energy cooled. Carefully opening my hands, a tiny little crystal hummingbird fluttered out of them. I smiled at it before it swiftly took off into the forest. All that was left to do was wait until after dinner, and hopefully my message was heard.

Dinner lasted a little longer than I was expecting it to, and the after dinner drinking party was tempting me to stay, but I gave them the excuse that I was worn out for being out all day. That alone was amusing as everyone started giving Seth and Fenrir a hard time for wearing me out. Smiling as I left the dining hall, it wasn’t easy pushing down the guilt. It was practically me lying to my family to go see my secret boyfriend.

Locking my bedroom door behind me, I quickly changed into my new dress. Not wanting to overdo it, I passed all the jewelry that would’ve matched perfectly, which also saved me some time. Brushing my hair out, I took a few seconds to model in the mirror. Before I could even gather an opinion for myself, I heard a small tap at my window. Skipping across my room, I opened my curtains to see the tiny crystal hummingbird tapping at the glass. Smiling from ear to ear, I eagerly opened my window. The sudden gust fluttered my curtains, when they settled down, Harr appeared.

He smiled the instant his eyes found me. The hummingbird disappeared with a flash, followed by the window and curtains closing. I did my best to resist leaping into his arms, instead I returned his sweet smile with my own, my cheeks burning scarlet.

“Hello, Manami,” the wizard’s suave voice was hot chocolate during a blizzard, and his gaze was the large fluffy blanket wrapping itself around me during said storm. Every day with him was even more special, and after last night, I finally feel like our love is progressing in a more lustful direction. “A little bird told me you wanted to see me tonight.”

“Yeah,” my voice was hoarse and I coyly looked away from him. Even though Harr had given me those crystals to call for him whenever I wanted to see him, I always felt really embarrassed whenever I did. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I turned my face away from him, but kept my eyes locked with his. “Is tonight a good night?”

“I can’t say no to you,” he chuckled. It was true, he had told me that if, for whatever reason, he could not answer the crystal I sent to him, he would not appear. I assumed that meant it would be too dangerous for me to see him. There has yet to be day that it’s happened, for he always came for me when I sent for him, but I also didn’t use the crystals that much. They were supposed to be used for extreme cases, but if I felt like this, even though this was the first I desired him so much, I always beckoned him to retrieve me.

Holding out his hand to me, I reached out to take it, preparing myself for teleportation. The instant his fingers wrapped around mine, he pulled me forward, closing the gap between us just before the warm light enveloped us.

As the bright light disappeared, I found my self deep within the forest, shrouded by the cover of night, in front his house. Still pressing myself against him, I looked up at him, my eyes pleading for him to come closer.

“Are we—,” my soft voice was cut off, still bewildered that I was seeing this man so soon, as it was normally a few days in between visits, “are we, you know…” I felt so selfish asking if Loki was out because I wanted Harr all to myself for the entire night, no interruptions this time.

With a gentle finger placed underneath my chin, he tilted my face up to his and placed a kiss on my lips. The hand I had placed against his chest clenched, his cloak blocking me from feeling more of him.

“I sent Loki away for a rigorous task,” his whisper nearly shattered me to pieces as I felt his arm wrapping around my waist, “We should be completely alone until morning at the earliest.” Relaxing in his hold, his words settled any worry as he placed another kiss upon my lips.

I was certain now that he had been thinking of me since last night. He had brought me to his room, both of us now sitting on the edge of his bed exchanging sweet kisses that grew heavier with each breath. My hands explored his now bare shoulders, no longer shielded by his thick cloak. His skin felt like silk beneath my palms as my fingertips explored the firm muscles of upper back.

Like he was handling fragile glass, he lowered me down, hovering above me and never breaking our kiss. His tongue slid against my bottom lip, asking to be let in. I didn’t hesitate to greet him, our tongues vigorously slow dancing together. The rough kisses forced moans from my throat, enticing him even more as I felt his large hand slid up my thigh and slipping underneath my skirt.

“If I knew you were going to get a new dress just for me, I would’ve set out candles,” his jest was slipped into my ear by his husky voice, locking it inside with a sneaky nibble on my ear. My body rose up to press against his, my hips meeting his as I felt his thumb massage me through my cotton panties.

“I was worried,” I purred, soaking up the intoxicating feeling of his lips and tongue traveling down my neck from my ear, “that after last night, you would’ve given up on this, but I wanted to show you that I wanted it, too.”

Then, I felt both of his knees on either side of my hips, the very sensation sending sparks down to my core, now throbbing with heat. My pelvis jolted up into his each time his thumb, which had slipped beneath my cotton fabric, applied pressure to my slick nub. His teeth had pulled down the front of my dress, revealing my breasts to him for the first time. I didn’t have time to react self-consciously, his tongue was already swirling around my erect nipple. With his tongue and thumb spoiling me with pleasure, my body writhed beneath him, pushing me close to the edge of my peak.

“We’ve gone over this before,” his hot breath cooling my saliva soaked nipple, “I have no intention of letting you go, and my desire for you is great, but I don’t want to rush into anything you’re not prepared for… but now, now that I’ve had a taste, I find it hard to resist— aaah!”

I reached down and grasped the rock hard bulge pressing against my inner thigh. He needed to know that he wasn’t the only one feeling this way! The desire, the taste, everything! I felt it, too, but all I could do was mewl and moan from his touch.

With all the movement, the skirt of my dress was now up to my stomach. The rustling of fabric mixed with symphony of our heavy breathing and sensual moaning, it was difficult to know how my panties came off and ended up on the floor, but they did. His hand didn’t want me to lonely, so it found it’s way back to my center, his fingers spreading my slippery petals apart.

Leaving my breasts, his face met mine again, his eye molten with desire as his tongue flicked the tip of mine before enchanting me with another slow dance. His thumb still rubbing my nub, I was distracted from the movement of his hips and the sound of more fabric as hot pleasure nearly took me, but then it stopped abruptly, as did our dance.

He gazed into my eyes, so close to me I thought I was drowning. Confused, I was about to ask why he had stopped. Then, my back arched and my head tossed back into the mattress as far as it could go as I felt his rock hard member fill me. He was taking his time, keeping me guessing on how far in he intended to go. My moans were loud enough to reach Cradle, so Harr found my lips again to muffle my cries of pleasure.

Finally, he stopped, his breathing heavy with pleasure as I felt his body tremble against mine, his manhood throbbing inside my volcanic heat, waiting for him to continue. Mentally, I begged him to continue. I never realized how much I wanted this, how much I wanted Harr to claim me. The reality of my feelings truly set when I felt him pull out, only to thrust back into me again. I was instantly addicted. If it hadn’t been for his lips and tongue occupying mine, I’m sure my cries would concern the animals of the entire forest.

My fingers dug into his back, clawing at the piece of clothing still attached to him as he relentlessly thrust into me, deeper and deeper. Unable to contain his own moans, he released my lips and nearly howled out in pleasure, which now became too much for me.

“H—Harr!” I cried out, digging my fingers into his back as my body became electrified with pleasure and my overbearing heat buried him at my core, bringing him down with me. The last few slams of his pelvis into mine while I was still experiencing my orgasm were sheer delight before he released himself deep within me.

Now that we had settle down, I was able to completely remove my dress, now soiled with sweat and juices, and feel the cool night air against my clammy back. Harr also removed what was left of his drenched clothing, which I didn’t know until later was only his shirt. I never questioned how he removed his other clothes without me noticing, it didn’t matter.

Lying next to him on my stomach, he traced his fingers across my back, helping me cool down along with the breeze from his open window, his eye traveling all over my body.

“I’m sorry if our experience felt a little rushed,” Harr mumbled, “I intended all that to me more, well, romantic, and I—”

“Shh,” I placed my finger against his lips, smiling, “that was plenty romantic in my book.” A comforting grin graced his face as he pulled me into his arms and held me until dawn’s light.

Saying goodbye was always the hardest part when he returned me to my bedroom back in Cradle at the Black Army headquarters. Someday, I hope I can ease in the conversation about us, but it had to be the right time, and not just with the Black Army, but for Harr, too.

Changing into fresh clothes and lots of perfume, I examined my neck in the mirror. Using my long hair, I was able to hide most of the marks left from our tryst, the rest…. I was still trying to come up with an excuse for.