#I promise you whatever your brain is telling you about keeping up an online presence is all bullshit 🤏

[pinkyjulien]

This isn't targeted at anyone in particular and is just a general reminder cause I'm sure a lot of people feel this way already

But please don't stress over mods breaking, or "not being able to produce content for X days" because of Cyberpunk's updates and expansion

You can just play and enjoy the game for what it is, it won't erase any of your lore or any of your OCs, you don't HAVE to create a new V to enjoy the game/story/expansion, you don't HAVE to share your replay experience online either! (If you want to do it and scream with others GOOD cause I plan on doing so too, but don't feel obligated to do so if you don't want to is what I'm saying)

You don't HAVE to keep up a quota of X number of pictures to post online to "not loose relevance" in "the community", it's OK if you miss a "male V monday" or "thirsty thursday" or any other themed day, you DON'T HAVE to DO anything 🙏

Your OCs, lore, headcanons, ships- nothing will get erased, everything will still be waiting for you once the necessary mods will get updated post PL

Disconnect yourself from the fandom, disconnect yourself from having to share everything, everytime, and learn how to enjoy the medias and games you love again! you'll feel better and happier in general 🤲

[jschllatt]

𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 | 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭

Prompt: HIIIIIII i hope you are doing well !!!! i love your writing sm and would like to make a request !!!! i would love something in which schlatt n reader are both streamers/youtubers and have been friends for a while but they both like eachother and dont wanna ruin it ? and one of them finally makes a “first move” after like yearsss of being friends ?! sorry it’s not super specific but :( it can be any length of your choosing, whatever you feel up to writing !!! thank you and u are da best !!!!!

Warnings: Swears

Words: 1229

Not too sure if I like this one so feedback is much appreciated :)

You had a big problem. 

It was the type of problem that nagged at your brain all day, reminding you of your predicament even when you tried to ignore it. It dominated your focus, making it difficult to even think properly no matter what you did. What exactly was your problem? The answer was rather simple: you had fallen for your best friend, Schlatt. After years of friendship, you found it difficult to keep your feelings strictly platonic—Schlatt was simply too charismatic, too funny, too attractive. It seemed as though your feelings had hit you like a truck, and they only deepened as time progressed. You debated confronting your feelings head on by confessing your love to Schlatt, though you feared its outcome. He definitely didn’t like you back—not in that way. You two had been friends for years and you were going to ruin it just because you had caught feelings for him? No way. 

And so, you avoided your problem until it got out of hand. 

It was around two a.m. when you started streaming, your bright room a stark contrast to the darkness outside. You hadn’t streamed in a few days and decided that there was no better time to do so—you weren’t even close to being tired and you figured a majority of your streamer friends were still online, anyways. 

“Oh, Schlatt’s awake.” You observed quietly once you opened discord, noticing the green dot displayed next to his icon. You tried to hide your excitement as you messaged your best friend, a small smile on your face as you typed, hi schlatt <3. Seconds later, a ping signalled his reply, to which you laughed at as it read, fuck off. That was expected. You were just about to respond before your phone began to ring. Looking down, you saw Schlatt’s contact lighting up your screen. Feigning annoyance, you asked your chat rhetorically, “Oh God, what does he want?”

Answering the call, you tried to keep your expression neutral as you were met with Schlatt’s stoic expression. He remained silent for a few seconds and you interrupted the quietness by saying, “Hello?” He continued to ignore you, staring at the screen blankly, and you were just about to speak again before he yelled, “Go to sleep.” 

“Only if you come here and make me.” You replied somewhat flirtatiously, instantly regretting it—you feared what your chat would look like when you dared to glance at it. “Okay.” Schlatt chirped, then hung up. Chuckling softly, you rolled your eyes, muttering to your chat about how annoying he was. You couldn’t help but smile, however, once you realized that was Schlatt’s way of showing he cared—it wasn’t the most straightforward way of doing so, but you recognized his intentions nevertheless. You tried to conceal your adoration by changing the subject, talking to your chat about random things. A lot of your viewers had chastised you for being up so late, but you assured them that it was common for those who streamed for a living to rely on two hours of sleep. Time passed, and your chat began to flood with surprised exclamations, all regarding Schlatt—had he joined your stream? Your question was answered just moments later. 

On my way.

“Real funny, Schlatt.” You deadpanned, rolling your eyes at the dono displayed across your monitor.

It was quiet once again. Your chat had eventually become interested, for the most part, in your new content rather than Schlatt’s presence, which you were grateful for—you couldn’t bear to think about the man any longer without letting your mind wander. Did he really care about you or was he just trying to be funny? Even though the two of you had been best friends for years, he was quite difficult to read. It wasn’t often that he was serious with you. Sure, the two of you had your fair share of deep conversations, but Schlatt had always found a way to be sarcastic or humorous in most situations. 

Sighing, you tried to focus on your stream. Minutes passed, and your viewers could tell that you were off. They interpreted it as you being tired, to which you used as an excuse to end stream. “I’m sorry, guys, I am tired. I guess Schlatt was right.” You chuckled halfheartedly, hoping your viewers couldn’t sense your disappointment as you mentioned your best friend’s name. Luckily, they didn’t, and you were quick to end your stream with a dejected sigh. Snap out of it, he’s your best friend—nothing more. You found it hard to listen to your thoughts, and plopped down unceremoniously onto your bed, frowning. Why did you have to catch feelings for him? You shut your eyes and tried to push your thoughts away, focusing on the sound of gentle breeze that swept through your window. The night was rather warm and its gentleness offered you solace. However, after a few minutes of peace, your tranquility was interrupted by a knock at the door. You felt panic arise in your chest, startled by the sudden noise. It was nearly three in the morning, who in the world could have possibly been at your house?

Schlatt. 

As you looked through the peephole in your door, you observed your best friend standing on your front steps, his expression one of amusement.

Shit. He was really here? He wasn’t joking?

Ignoring the onslaught of anxious thoughts that flooded your mind, you swung the front door open. “What are you doing here?” You asked quietly, confused as you met his eyes. He smirked at you proudly before chuckling, “I told you to go to sleep, you said to come here and make you. Here I am.” You looked at your best friend incredulously, shocked that he took your words so seriously. “I-I was kidding, I didn’t think you’d-”

“Yeah, yeah, well it’s too late now.” Dumbfounded, you stared at Schlatt in response, gesturing for him to come in once you gained your composure. Schlatt towered over you once he entered your house, a smug look on his face as he observed your shocked self. “What? Surprised I can actually keep a promise?” You huffed in response, crossing your arms as you raised an eyebrow at him, “Yes.” Schlatt snickered and plopped down onto the couch, looking around your living room. “Nice place you got here.”

“You’ve been here before, idiot.” You countered, sitting down beside him with pursed lips. The rapid beat of your heart was not helping your case as you tried to remain calm, sitting so close to Schlatt that your knees were touching. The two of you sat in an awkward silence and you glanced over at your best friend curiously. Instantly, he met your gaze, staring at you with a ghost of a smile. Your eyes flickered down to look at his lips briefly, and you noticed Schlatt do the same, taking in your appearance with adoring eyes. Soon enough, you both had leaned in until your faces were inches away, practically sharing the same breath as you continued to stare at each other shamelessly. You were about to close the gap between the two of you before Schlatt mumbled smugly, “Go to sleep.” 

Leaning impossibly closer toward his lips, you grabbed a hold of his sweatshirt, tugging his body into yours as you countered, “Just shut up and kiss me, idiot.”

~

Tags: @ialexabsuniverse @esylwen @quack42069 @mayberii @dreamiewrites @moonamor @kalliblast @forbidden-sin-bin

[lexa-lives-in-us]

Saving Tips for Hard Times

I found this old document where I collected a series of tips to save money. This is all part of my experience of when I was near homeless, and some work depending on where you live, some don’t. Here we go.

BILLS:

1. The optimum temperature for refrigerator operation is 5°C, and -18°C for freezer operation. As a rule of thumb, for each additional degree of refrigeration output about six percent more electricity is used.

2. Unplug your appliances. Lamps, microwave, tv, computers etc. They don't need to be plugged until you use them, and it saves energy to keep them unplugged. Therefore, money.

3. Do homework for phone companies and internet plans. Call them! Often they are toll free and if you mentioned that you were already with them or thinking of going with them and then found out another company had a better deal, they could offer you deals for lower prices. I had to do it all the time for my phone, until they couldn't really offer anything better.

4. BIKE. Invest in a used bike if you can, especially for the warmer months. It offsets the transit costs and better your health.

5. WALK. That's the same as the bike, honestly.

6. Pay your bills on time, you will avoid late fees which can up to HUNDREDS of dollars wasted over the course of a year. If you can, set up automatic payments so you don’t forget.

FRIDGE:

1. Every time the refrigerator door is opened, cold air escapes and warm ambient air enters. To compensate for the temperature increase in its interior, the refrigerator must then use energy to bring the temperature back down. Always avoid opening the door unnecessarily and for too long.

2. When defrosting frozen food place it in the refrigerator. Not only does this ensure that the food is carefully defrosted, its presence cools down the refrigerator interior, reducing the amount of work that the compressor has to do, and therefore lowering energy consumption.

3. Never put warm food in the refrigerator as this will heat up the interior, as well as other stored foods. Hot food should always be allowed to cool to room temperature before placing it in the refrigerator

MONEY:

1. Keep all the containers like glass bottles, juice bottles, jars, cans etc. Look for your Return-It depot and have trips to return them. They give back coins for laundry, small expenses etc

2. Use that junk mail. Go through it, find coupons for food, for essentials like toilet paper or shampoo.

3. CHECK. THAT. DOLLARSTORE. They often have things like pasta, ketchup, toilet paper, batteries etc for literally 1 dollar.  Pasta is pasta, toilet paper is toilet paper. Seriously. Don't need to spend 5$ on a shampoo bottle when you can have it for 1/5 of the price.

4. Do homework and check with different banks for which one offers a better plan. Some of them are willing to help out. Sit down with their advisors, find the best solution!

5. Use the envelope system! For example, one envelope with a label “food” the other with “entertainment” the other with “bills”. Then set the right amount of cash for each. That’s what you’re allowed to spend each month. If you realize you need more for food, grab it from the entertainment envelope. Adapt and arrange as needed.

6. If you can, set up an automatic saving (example 50$ every paycheck) for both regular saving AND an emergency fund.

7. Use the 24-Hour Rule. Avoid purchasing expensive or unnecessary items on impulse with a self-imposed 24-hour rule. For any non-essential item, wait 24 hours before purchasing. It’s perfect for online shopping where your items can simply be added to your cart to purchase later.

8. Make a grocery list BEFORE going to the grocery store and STICK to it. You’re going to avoid buying things you don’t really need.

9. DO. NOT. SHOP. WHILE. YOU. ARE. HUNGRY. Or you’ll end up buying food that you actually don’t need just because you feel snacky!

10. Only use ATMs from your bank, or you get charged small fees.

11. Set a “No Spend Day” per week, where you consciously DO NOT spend any money for that day.

12. Ditch the paper: Cutting out paper towels and using cloths and napkins that you can simply wash and reuse is a simple way to save.

13. After you wear clothes, hang them outside your wardrobe, on a door or something. You can air them out a bit, then stick them in the closet without washing. You can basically reuse the same clothes two or three times without having to wash them, sometimes they just need a bit of air and they won’t smell AT ALL.

14. If you don’t own or want to spend money on an iron, hang whatever blouse you need to iron in the bathroom while you shower. The steam will humidify the fabric and straighten it up.

15. Hang stuff to dry. Really don’t need to spend money on the dryer.

16. Sign up to the library. They have so many books and DVDs nowadays. You can also just go, sit at the library and stay warm for a while, so that you don’t have to sit at home and either suffer the cold or use money on your own heat.

17. Budget, budget, budget. Get a lil notebook, write down the monthly expenses, cut what you don’t need. It gets easier with time.

 FOOD:

1.       Make a meal plan. Write 10-14 days worth of dishes that you can do (lunch, dinner, everything you need). You can then toss them around as you go on with your week, but that way you have a pretty clear idea of what you use and the food you go through for how long. It also reduces the risks of getting take out since you already have plans for what to eat.

2.       Cook double! Seriously. Make that dinner and double it up. Leftovers can be frozen or put in the fridge for the day after.

3.       Meal prep. Once a week, prep a bunch of different recipes. Let them cool down, stick them in the freezer. At that point you’ll already have all these meals at the ready to just thaw/microwave or oven up.

4.       You don’t need pop. You don’t need alcohol. You most likely don’t need milk, but go for it if you wanna. Just remember dairy products go bad WAY more quickly than non dairies, so consider getting food and drinks with no dairy in them. Mainly, though. Water. Just drink water. Lots of it too! Sometimes our brain can’t tell the difference between hunger and thirst. You think you’re snacky? Drink some water instead! It’ll quell your hunger.

5.       Freeze fruit! If you think you’re not gonna be able to eat fruit in time, put it in a Tupperware or a ziplock and slap it in the freezer. You’ll be able to then use it for smoothies.

6.       Use the Italian saying “Colazione da re, pranzo da nobili, cena da poveri.” Which quite literally means “Breakfast as a king, lunch as a noble, dinner as a poor.” Breakfast should be very filling, carbs, protein, vitamins. It carries you for the whole day. Lunch should be quite filling too! But supper doesn’t really need a lot of it, and if you REALLY have to skip a meal, skip supper. Your body doesn’t need that much sustenance while sleeping.

7.       This is for the desperate times but I’ve done it, and I would do it again if I ever had to. Go to markets that have like… Fruits and veggies. Talk to them. Ask them “HEY, can I have the fruit/veggie that you have to throw away?” Ask them if you can have the ugly produce, the one that doesn’t look pretty enough to be put out. Or ask them to have whatever extra they have to dump because is past the expiry date. EXPIRY DATE IS USUALLY MUCH LONGER THAN WHAT THE LABEL SAYS. I wouldn’t risk it with dairy stuff or with things that are VERY expired, but one or two days? Totally fine, I promise. And if you have to? Dumpster Dive. Especially at markets with fruit and veggies that have to be sold on the same day (because it’s not considered “fresh” past that day.) Or behind pizza places like Dominos or Panago or whatever chain. They get pizza orders wrong all the time. Just give a peak behind these buildings and look inside their boxes. You have no idea how many times I found perfectly fine pizzas. For free! IF YOU DUMPSTER DIVE, MAKE SURE YOU HAVE GLOVES, A MASK AND PLASTIC BAGS TO PUT YOUR STUFF IN. ONCE AT HOME, DISCARD GLOVES AND WASH PRODUCE THROUGHLY. Also check tumblr for your divers community, they usually know the best spots.

 CLOTHES:

1.       Thrift shop! So many GOOD used clothes are out there! Honestly! My whole wardrobe is thrifted and everything looks brand new. It takes a bit of research and maybe that shirt you liked is not in your size, but you can find EVERYTHING, from socks to bras, at a thrift store. Don’t thrift underwear though. You want to go new with those.

2.       Invest in some needle and thread, then open youtube. There are SO MANY tutorials that teach you how to mend holes in socks and underwear. And really, no one will really notice if a mend is perfectly done or not. After a week, you’ll forget it too! But that prevents you from throwing away clothes that could just be mended a little.

3.       Something doesn’t fit you? Too small, too big? YouTube, homie. They have tutorials on how to fix these kinda things! All you need, again, is needle and thread.

4.       Organize clothes swaps with friends and/or neighbors. Everyone brings clothes they don’t need, put them in a pile. Go through the pile and grab whatever there is. There’s no money exchange, one could go home with 1 item and one could go home with 50 items. Who cares? The extra stuff… DONATE IT TO A SHELTER.

Feel free to add more, and stay safe!

[toxicityriot]

Shishigumi Family AU Drabble:

Summary: Ibuki is up late at night, trying to wrap his head around the recent events of his (formerly) missing boss. Louis is awake too dealing with his own struggles and the lion comes to grip that he doesn't just see the young and stubborn buck as his boss or friend but as something more: family

Disclaimer: I've only seen the anime once and skimmed a few random manga pages to try and learn about characters (currently making slow progress on reading the whole thing online). I'm sorry if I butchered personalities and/or backstories in canon so I guess anything messed up would just be part of the AU lol.

Things were beginning to look like they were heading in the right direction. It only took about two months for things to start moving slow once more. Tensions have fallen and eased back into the normal casual lifestyle of the Shishigumi-or whatever the ‘norm’ for a ragtag group of lions keeping a rather taboo location in check. It was their norm anyway and they frankly did not care if anyone thought different. 

Despite the feeling of calmness washing over the rundown tower of a mansion, Ibuki could sense the underlying troubles that shook the members of the Pride down to its foundations. Even though the future was looking pretty good as of now, it had only just started to calm down after a rather devastating event that had even him sick to his stomach. He did not allow this feeling to really present itself publicly but he was still a bit shaken from the events that had unfolded a couple of months ago. 

It had started when the Shishigumi boss had run off, ordering his lion followers to stay behind. That it was his duty to help a friend. Normally, the lions would not care to meddle with high school drama or fighting students but with one of their own running straight into the snarling jaws of carnivores, it had them all worried. Ibuki could recall the sheer power and determination that blazed like orange flames in his boss’ copper colored eyes, mingled with the heavy scent of fear that radiated off his body like a furnace. A few of the lions almost broke their ‘promise’ to try and give their boss bacup after hearing about what this fight was about. But in the end, it was not their fight and they respected their boss too much to go against his orders. 

It had been a nerve wracking waiting game as the sun had slowly risen over the streets of the Market. They patiently waited for a sign. 

No calls, no texts, no check ins, and not a single letter. 

The Shishigumi boss had gone off the radar. Being an herbivore thrusting himself into a fight between two apex predators and had not returned, hope was slowly fading. By night three, the lions began to schedule patrols to keep an eye out for their horned friend, just in case. They kept their eyes and ears open in the market as well tracking any shipments of deer meat in the market just in case. 

By the end of the second week, there was still no sign of their missing boss and Ibuki had taken the role as the new leader of the Pride. It was heavily suspected that their friend had gotten too close to the deadly fight and had been devoured. It sickened Ibuki. He had grown fond of the deer and it devastated him to think of the outcome of that fight. 

Ibuki removed his glasses from his face with a sigh. It had only been about a week since Louis’ return and reassignment as boss once more. He could tell that whatever happened at that fight was troubling the boy. He never spoke of the full story in detail and that was his choice. He would respect that. The others did as well when they haute their poking and prodding but Ibuki had noticed that their were more changes to the former high school student than just physical. He noticed that he had slowly started to take better care of himself and was a lot more open on his thoughts and feelings than before. Even though these changes were not necessarily bad, it still left him in questions as to why. Louis had even halted his newfound carnivorous diet in favor of the much healthier greens he was supposed to be eating and gained a couple of pounds back in the process. He was still poorly underweight and underdeveloped for his age and species but Ibuki was proud to see the small glimmers of improvement in the field of self care. 

Small tap like thuds drew the old lion out of his thoughts as he redirected his attention to the flight of stairs. He had been so lost in his own head that he failed to realize that Louis was almost at the bottom of the staircase. He watched calmly as the deer slowly inched his way down, step by step with a hand on the wall for support, occasionally whispering small mutters to himself. Quite possibly cursing the terrible night vision he had as an herbivore. It was also good to see that Louis did not seem on edge at this hour of night as he seemed to have full trust in the Pride to not attack him when he was basically blind. A louder tap and a metallic thump let the deer know that he had made it safely down the stairs and with a flick of an ear, he adjusted his loosely fitted white shirt. Ibuki decided to make his presence known as he slowly strode towards the deer, making sure his footsteps were not light so as to not startle him. Wide unseeing copper eyes looked up and his head turned to the general direction of the footsteps. “Hey,” he greeted softly. 

Ibuki noticed the tiredness in the young buck’s voice and gave a small nod of his head. “Louis,” he returned the greeting warmly. “What are you doing up? With all due respect, i thought you would be asleep.”

Louis strugged a shoulder, not caring that the hem of the shirt has slipped over his shoulder. The lion could see the small white spots dotting the brown fur. He frowned slightly. He had only seen the fawn spots once before. Being brought up in the Market did its damage on the boy in more ways than one. “Couldn't sleep.” Louis slowly limped towards the kitchen, keeping one hand slightly away from his body to feel around his surroundings. “I could ask you the same thing.” The lion followed, impressed by the boy’s navigation skills. Even though he was relying on the sense of touch and his memory of the mansion’s layout, he seemed to be doing quite well in the dark. 

Being an herbivore living with a group of lions certainly had some of its perks. 

Ibuki observed the way Louis tended to keep most of his weight into his left leg with each step, putting only a small amount of pressure onto his prosthetic while he limped. He could tell the deer was trying to hide the limp but his efforts were not working well. He hung back a bit as he opened the fridge, squinting his eyes a bit to adjust his eyes to the sudden brightness that flooded the kitchen with a white glow, just standing there as if debating what his next move would be. The lion glanced down and noted how his left leg hovered about an inch from the ground and how he gripped onto the fridge for support. His ears twitched and his tail swayed slowly. "Does it hurt, boss?"

Louis did not reply. In fact, he made no indication that he heard the question but it seemed to snap him out of his trance when he grabbed a bottle of water. He closed the fridge and leaned his back against the door, twisting the cap off and taking a drink. Ibuki wondered if he hit a nerve. 

"Yeah." Louis responded after another sip. He sighed and looked down, slowly moving his right leg as if observing it. "Sometimes it's like I can still feel my hooves on the ground. Sometimes it burns. Sometimes its just numb. Sometimes it's a little bit of all." Pushing himself off the fridge, he screwed the lid back on the now empty bottle and placed it back in the fridge in a drawer that held his own personal food items and drinks. "I try not to think about it too often. Thinking about it only makes the pain worse." 

There was a long silence that fell between carnivore and herbivore. Ibuki, just standing near the doorway of the kitchen and Louis, leaning against the fridge with his head down, antlers making soft scraping noises as they accidentally brushed against the fridge door. He could see the boy's ears were drooping, his tail low, and his eyes nearly closed with a sorrowful expression on his face. So many thoughts must be lurking in his head, so many questions about life in general. It was one of the many things that had changed since Louis’ return. He seemed to be more readable than ever yet so unpredictable. In fact, he was always unpredictable, especially from the start when he took the first bite of meat at the table, asserting his growing authority over the lions who had watched his every move with wonder and some disbelief. 

Ibuki ran his hand through his mane as Louis straightened himself a bit. The deer came closer, keeping his eyes downcasted as he seemed to follow the sound of the lion’s breath. Ibuki watched with concern that melted into confusion as Louis hesitantly leaned his head against his chest, careful not to accidentally impale him with the sharp ends of his antlers. He stood there, immensely unsure about the gesture. It wasn't until Louis’ smaller arms held onto him that he realized he was seeking comfort from whatever was plaguing his brain. Inuki slowly lowered himself to kneel on his knees to reduce the massive height difference and returned the embrace gently, hoping that his act of affection and care would sooth the boy. It was just another thing that made its way onto the unpredictable things to come from the smaller animal. Hell, he never would've thought that he even liked hugs but this interaction proved him wrong, 

“I'm sorry,” Louis had whispered as he moved his head to rest his chin on Ibuki’s shoulder. “I was harsh on you guys. All you wanted to do was help and I turned your offers down. I should have let told you that i was still alive and-”

“With all due respect boss, i'm going to stop you right there.” Ibuki gently pulled Louis off on him and laid his hands on his shoulders, a soft look from his eyes even if he couldn't see it. “You don't need to apologize for anything. You were loyal to your wolf friend and helped him out when things got ugly. You put the ones you cared about first before your own needs and that says something about a person.” The lion smiled, gently scratching the fur behind the deer’s left ear. “You might have antlers instead of a mane, hooves for claws, and flat teeth in place of fangs but you damn well have the heart and soul of a lion. I dont think ive ever heard or witnessed another herbivore like yourself doing what you did back there. I know you made a remark about me not being your father but Louis...im proud of you, as if…” he trailed off, studying Louis' expression for a sign to continue. He could not see any negative thoughts or maybe even a furrowed brow of disgust. Hell, if anything, his expression was completely unreadable. 

He could not bring himself to say it, at least not yet. He just simply gave a small nod and a smile. “All that I'm trying to say is that I'm glad to have you back with us, Louis. You're always welcome here as our Boss, friend, and a part of our family.” Ibuki slowly raised himself back to his feet, giving Louis a playful rub between his antlers. “It was nice talking with you, son,” he added. He saw Louis’ ears perk up straight at the nickname. “ I'll let you get back to whatever you were wanting to do. I'll see you in the morning. Try not to stay up too late. You need your sleep.” As Ibuki made his way out of the kitchen, he could still feel the deer’s eyes on his back, following the movement of his departure as he made his way up the stairs for the night.

    Night had fallen and the morning had come. Ibuki was greeted to a rokous in the dubbed ‘recreational room’ as he watched the lions chat amongst themselves as they played a video game. He could pick out Agata and Free sitting on the floor in front of the television, Dope behind Free, Dolph a few steps away, Hino and Jinma watching every now and then as they spoke about their own thing, and Sabu crouched near Dope. Between Free and Agata sat Louis, the three of them going head to head in a heated game of Claws Of Duty on the TV. Ibuki did not exactly have the same interest in the video game but he took amusement in the younger members competing on who can score the most kills or who slaughters who first. He faintly heard Dope exclaim “kick his ass, boss” just before one of the sections of the screen displayed a kill animation for a round of bullets to an avatar's head, followed by Free’s groan of defeat in his loss and Agata’s laugh before he looped an arm around Louis’ neck in a celebratory semi embrace. 

    The eldest of the lions smiled. Things were indeed looking good for the Shishigumi, the band of mischievous lions and a theater performer of a young buck. He could not ask for anything better. 

[vixenpen]

Fuck A Fan (Bakugo x Camgirl reader pt. 1)

You had gotten the idea from one of your best friends in the cam industry.

“You sure this will work?”

“Trust me boo,” he had replied, “sometimes the best motivation for a man is a little friendly competition.”

Your bestie had insisted that a fuck a fan contest would be the perfect way to get CallMeKing to finally make good on his unfulfilled promise to see you.

Putting the finishing touches on your flyer, you finally posted the announcement to all social media. You knew CMK was still lurking. So he’d definitely see it. Hopefully, this little contest would be enough to spark his interest, if this failed, you were going to scream.

Because for the first time in your cam career, a man had you chasing him.

The audacity!

To be fair, he did say that he wanted to see you too, but had to keep a low profile due to his career. He promised as soon as worked dialed down you guys would meet up.

Well that had been over a year ago, and not only had you guys not met face to face; he also didn’t seem to check in on you as much anymore.

He still tipped and re-subbed to your page. He had even cash-apped you money for Christmas and your birthday.

But aside from that, there were no more late night, sexting sessions, no more random check ins, no more nude trading.

At first, you brushed it off.

He was apparently a very successful man. Successful men were busy. They couldn’t give you every second of their time. As a successful woman, you could relate to that.

Not to mention, you were a bad bitch and bad bitches did not pine over any man.

PERIODTTT.

Buuuut...when the man in question was fine as hell with boulders for biceps, a big dick, and long money, well...you’d like to think the City Girls, Meg the Stallion, and all the other bad bitches you looked up to would understand your thirst.

“Alright, King,” you sat back in the furry, white computer chair and glared at your laptop screen. “Ball is in your court now.”

“Mr. Ground Zero, can I get a picture too?”

A precocious looking blue haired kid asked. He stared up at Katsuki with wide, hopeful eyes.

Katsuki grimaced.

“Whatever kid, c’mon.”

He leaned down, attempting to keep a safe distance from the walking germ pool, while keeping in the lens of his camera phone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Ground Zero!”

The kid giddily ran back to his group of friends.

Kirishima slung his arm around Bakugo’s shoulder, weighing down on his slightly shorter friend.

“Wow, Bakubro, looks like those public relations training classes have really been working, huh?”

“Whatever, I just don’t need anymore shitty press with kids.”

“You still have energy for happy hour with Sero and Me tonight?”

Bakugo replied with a noncommittal shrug. He scrolled absentmindedly through his phone as he and Kirishima headed towards their agencies to call it a day.

He decided to check in on (cam name’s) IG page to see how she was doing.

A pang of longing tugged at him. He missed her. A lot. Sure, she was a cam girl, and being friendly and flirty was her job, but she always brightened his days. With crime picking up steadily over the past year, Bakugo could use her presence in his life now more than ever, unfortunately, nothing in his schedule would permit it.

He was researching a new threat that had been developing in the crime world. Apparently the new mob of villains seemed to have some connections to the crime world in America, and Bakugo found himself flying back and forth to the west for meetings and to make media rounds to help put the public at ease.

His sleep schedule was completely out of whack with all the stress he was under, so any spare moment he wasn’t working, he was sleeping. Which meant no time for his virtual boo thing. Though he did try to make it known he was thinking about her with bill money.

As he flipped through her newest posts, something caught his eyes.

Fuck a fan contest? Winner gets to make content with me at secure location!

What the fuck was this shit?

Whatever it was, he was certainly going to get to the bottom of it when he got home.

CMK: Hey, (cam name) what’s this all about?

Y/N: what does it look like? Fuck a fan contest

CMK: fuck u mean? You don’t do meet ups!

Y/N: 🤷🏾‍♀️ first time for everything.

Anger hummed beneath Bakugo’s skin. Since when did y/n start doing meet ups? She had always told him she didn’t trust her fans as far as she could throw them.

He had encouraged her to not be forthcoming with personal information and never feel like she had to meet up with randos online for money. He would take care of anything she needed before it came to that.

So what was the meaning of this? Had he not been taking good enough care of her? Keeping her bills paid? Her nails and hair done?

Y/N: u entering or what? 👀

CMK: hell no im not entering and neither is anyone else. Now take that shit down.

Y/n: (voice note) first the fuck of all, you don’t tell me what to do. Second the fuck of all, do you know how much money is in this? You ain’t stopping my bag boo. Period! 💅🏾

He was practically seething. Who the fuck did she think she was talking to like that?

Who the fuck did she think she was saying no to?!

His dick stirred in his pants as he re-listened to the voice note of her cursing him out.

CMK: how much does it take to win?

Y/N: just whoever has the most.

CMK tipped $150,000

CMK: now take it the fuck down

Y/N: nobody else has entered yet.

CMK: nobody else up here has the money I have.

Y/N: if you’re not meeting with me, I ain’t takin it down.

CMK: god fucking dammit y/n. Tonight. 9pm. Text me the addy. I’ll have my driver pick you up.

True to his word, CMK had his driver pick you up an hour and a half before the time he had mentioned.

Your knee bounced, causing the black mini dress hugging your shapely thighs to ride up. You pulled it down absentmindedly.

You could count on one hand how many times you had been flown out by one of your fans. It certainly wasn’t a weekly occurrence for you the way it was for other models.

Fear and excitement fluttered in your stomach.

You wondered what the driver thought of you. Heading to this rich and powerful man’s house in the middle of the night.

You had tried to dress up as if you were going to be taken on a fancy date. Your hair styled, silver chandelier earrings dripping from your lobes to match the long silver necklace that dipped between your pushed up cleavage.

If the driver gave two shits, you at least hoped he thought you were going to get a nice meal before getting dicked down.

The community where CMK lived was on the outskirts of town; hidden in a forest of natural and manicured foliage. One could go literal miles between each home before they saw the next one.

You pressed your forehead against the window to take in the flora and fauna, manicured lawns, and huge mansions. So. Many. Styles. Of mansions!

“Here we are ma’am.” the driver announced.

He drove you up a looping, stone drive way that led to a very modern home that reminded you a bit of abstract art what with its odd angles, jutting sides, and square architecture.

The driver stepped out and opened your door. Once you were faced with the massive stairs and wooden doors before you, the song: Pretty Woman blared in your mind. You certainly felt that way.

Before you could knock, the door swung open revealing a pair of red eyes that were devouring your body head to toe.

“Oh my god...”

“Wasn’t expecting to hear that before I even touched you, beautiful.” He chuckled. His lips quirked into the cocky half smirk you’d grown familiar with from his interviews.

Was this real? Call me king was Ground Zero?!

“C-call me king?” You managed to stutter out pitifully.

“I would prefer to call you by your real name.” He joked. “Come in, beautiful.” He grabbed your hand gently and pulled you through the door.

You couldn’t even appreciate the high ceilings, polished wood floors, and tasteful stone wash colored furniture as you followed Ground Zero through the door.

He took leggy strides into the airy kitchen taking out a couple of glasses from a cupboard. You could only gawk.

He looked good as hell in his short sleeved denim button up shirt and ripped black jeans. His physique flexed under the well tailored clothes showing off the broad chest and bulging biceps you’d seen in the Nudes. His spiky Blonde hair looked soft and a bit damp.

“You wanna drink, beautiful?”

“I don’t accept drinks from new people in new environments.”

He looked up to shoot you a half smile. The usual mischief was missing from his red eyes, replaced with genuine affection.

“Of course you don’t. My (cam name.)”

“F/N,” you replied.

“Bout damn time you gave me a real name. Mine is Bakugo, babe.”

He strolled over with a glass of water for himself.

“So, f/n,” his ruby colored eyes darkened with a predatory gleam as he stepped right to your face. “Why don’t you have a seat? I promise the couch won’t bite.”

He brought a hand down to smack your round ass, making you jump.

“Can’t say the same for myself though.”

Licking your lips, you lowered yourself into the couch. Bakugo settled beside you so close the sides of your bodies touched. He draped an arm around your shoulder.

“I know you got a camsona and all, but damn, y/n, where’s my feisty little c/n? Huh? Lil Ms. Period!” His voice took on a lighter tone as he tried to imitate your twang.

The attempt earned him a giggle.

“Well excuse me, sir, but I wasn’t expecting the number two pro-hero in Japan to be my biggest fan.” You snapped back, playfully rolling your eyes. “Forgive me if I’m still wrapping my brain around it.”

“There’s that smart ass mouth I love so much.” He tucked your chin.

This close to him, you could feel his warm minty breath fanning against your lips. A familiar warmth was already growing between your legs.

Pulling away you asked: “Why me?”

“Hah?” His brows knit in confusion. “Fuck kinda question is that? What do you mean why you?”

“I mean, I’m a bad bitch or whatever, but I’m just...me and you’re...you.”

“Tch. You just answered your own damn question, dumb ass.” He tilted your face back towards him. You felt his other large hand roam the bare skin of your thigh and shivered.

“You’re a bad bitch. You don’t seem to forget that any other time, don’t fuckin’ forget it now, got that? Your confidence is what’s sexy about you.”

A smile tugged at your lips as heat flooded your cheeks.

“You know, when you’re not being a fuckin’ asshole, you can be pretty damn charming when you wanna be.”

“And when you’re not being a defiant little brat, you can be real fucking cute.”

A moan slipped from your glossy lips as his hand crept steadily up your thigh

“Please,” you leaned closer to him, “you love my brattiness.”

He scoffed, amused.

“I’ll show you just how much I like it.”

Without warning, Bakugo scooped you up. His large, rough hands dug into the soft flesh of your round ass as he straddled you on his lap.

Your wet, bare pussy pressed into his bulge as he stole a greedy kiss. Your gasp quickly morphed into a moan as desire burned in your core and flooded your entire body.

His tongue overtook your mouth effortlessly.

“No panties, huh, brat? I can feel you leaking through my jeans.”

“I hate panties,” you managed between kisses. “And bras.”

That little confession just inspired more arousal in Bakugo. He deposited you on the long couch and let his hot tongue snake along every sensitive bit of exposed flesh he could find. Goosebumps rose on your skin.

“Damn, beautiful,” he managed between kisses, “can’t wait to taste the rest of you.”

His bulge rubbed your aching clit deliciously.

You tugged his shirt up over his mess of blonde hair.

He grabbed the deep ‘V’ of your dress and ripped it open, drawing a gasp from you.

“Now we match.” He grinned

“You ass—“

“You’ll have a new outfit by tomorrow afternoon, now shut up.”

True to his word, Bakugo tasted every inch of you. He nibbled your ears making you shiver, licked your nipples making you hiss his name, and devoured your toes like blow pops.

Your body was trembling from sensory overload.

“God..” you moaned.

“You look like you want something, babe,” Bakugo smiled wickedly as he hovered above you. “What is it?”

“Eat me.”

[bored-storyteller]

Okay, I humbly apologize. I had a bad time - and unfortunately it's not over 😩- but here's the second part with three other leaders. I know I know I know! Malleus is missing! I'll try to post Mal today too- tomorrow, it depends on where you are - I promise.

Please I know you love him so much but love me anyway 🥺

14- Dorm leaders x down!s/o pt.2

Kalim Al-Asim

· Kalim is magical and exhausting at the same time. Yes, s/o love him from the bottom of their hearts, but dealing with him in times of stress is exhausting.

· The young nobleman does not really know the stress, at least, for what s/o can see, and this leads him to overcome any worries. It's not that he doesn't want to see other people's problems, it's just that he can't think of them.

· S/o as the days go by they feel worse and worse. The head often hurts and tiredness brings them into a state of almost half asleep. If Kalim saw this he would be very worried about them, but their presence for him is a fact. He is convinced that if something went wrong s/o would tell him, right?

· But no. How could they say no to his requests? That is, actually there is not even time to refuse.

·  Jamil is worried. He sees what is going on and tries to marginalize the problems. S/o should rest, they could ask him for help - as if he wasn't already doing everything in the dormitory-. But s/o know that the vice leader is already very busy, burdening him with their study problems and their worries is not the case.

Having to deal with Kalim really means having almost never breath. Even his affection can sometimes be a problem.

Yes, s/o certainly love him, but three days before the start of the test session, the thing more than making them happy is shaking them.

They have studied practically nothing and really feel their strength failing. While everyone is studying carefully, they are struggling to finish their homework for the next day.

The nights for s/o are now nothing more than a staring at the ceiling in desperate search for information that does not exist in their head. And the lessons are so heavy in the morning that their hope of getting through the year is almost zero.

Sometimes the idea of dropping out of school even went through their mind. They would certainly be freer.

Right now, s/o they are hiding in the bedroom, surrounded by study books.

It doesn't matter how much they read and reread those words, their overfull mind wanders over their fears, not making them memorize anything.

There is no way they can overcome this. They curl up on the bed, clutching their knees to their chests and doing everything they can to keep from crying.

Suddenly the door swings open. Kalim comes in with his cheer, filling the room with his happy voice.

It seems that he is excited about something, but s/o can’t help but look at him with wide eyes without understanding.

His exclamations echo in their heads as if it were empty, breaking the delicate crystal walls.

"Stop!" They cry when even the last fragile column of their sanity is brought down.

"Stop!" They repeat, bringing their hands to their faces and collapsing supine on the bed.

"Stop it! I can't take it any more! If I continue like this I will go crazy!"

The arms cover the face wet with tears. They are not really shouting at Kalim.

He stops suddenly, a little frightened by that reaction.

What happened? Where did he go wrong this time?

When the silence weighs too much, they still speak: "I ... I need to get out of here, I... don't want to be in this school anymore. "

Kalim listens in silence for a few moments to their sobs, then slowly, shyly, sits beside them on the bed.

"No ..." he murmurs, "I will help you, whatever your problem is." His voice is that of an injured child, but his arms raise s/o to his chest, to hold them against him and protect them.

"Everything will pass, I promise you. But I can't be without you."

The fingers pass slowly through the hair of s/o while his crimson eyes scan the books around them.

Kalim's arms hold them desperately. Right, how could they leave him alone? In short, who would help Jamil then?

That thought makes them smile, and while s/o get up seated they give to the boy a simple and light "ok", and then they resume the study with a quieter mind.

Kalim no longer talks, but neither does he leave, he simply remains close to them a little to comfort them, a little for the fear that they will move away from him, until he ends up falling asleep on their lap.

Vil Schoenheit

· Here, another guy who made stress his life. Some type of stress. Obviously, he must meet expectations.

· This also applies to those around him, or rather, to those who are close to his heart. If he demands so much from someone, it means that he cares about them. In a sense, even his insult when it is constructive is flattering.

· But for an already stressed s/o, dealing with him is extremely anxiety-provoking. You have to be perfect, everything has to be in order, and for an already fragile mind, well, the step to break is not far away.

· Still, he bears a great deal of stress on his shoulders without showing it, but he doesn't notice that others can sometimes be overwhelmed, and his manners aren't exactly delicate when it comes to appearances.

·  S/o are almost afraid of him every time his eyes meet them. What will he say? What's wrong with them?

Yes, they know how important the smile is, but they can't do it. In the library they leaf through the book they hold in their hands with empty and dull eyes.

They don't have to look good, on the other hand disappointment for themselves keeps them up all night.

There is no way they can get through this period, not for how they are.

They sigh, placing the book on the shelves and giving up. They fold their arms on the table as they sit, and there they hide their tired faces.

S/o  would like to go into hibernation, everything would be easier. No commitment, no judging eye ...

"S/o, my dear." The firm voice of the Poemfiore leader makes itself heard. It is firm, severe even if placid.

What's up now? Oh sure. They are not sitting upright with their backs. Hair is probably a mess and their eyes have been ruined for days. They already know to suck, there is no need for him to say it. They already hate each other, and there is no need for him to see how ugly their sticky face is with tears.

S/o do not move, as if he were not there, they remain closed inside themselves, in such a state of surrender that not even Vil can grasp immediately. But he understands that something is wrong. It never happened that they ignored him.

 “S/o.” the name is repeated again, but this time it is accompanied by the delicate hand of the leader who touches the hair of s/o.

As soon as the fingertips touch the head, as if they were of fire, s/o spring back, scared as if they had a ferocious beast in front of them.

Vil stares at those eyes so full of fear. Afraid of him.

In their dark circles he sees all the suffering of those days, all the dozing sadness. And in that situation of desolation, they feared him as if he were their enemy, the one who wants to harm them.

"No… Please..."

A prayer comes out of their fragile lips as if he is ready to kill them. He's not sure if they're clear-headed... no, they seem to be in another world. A dark and lonely world.

Vil's white fingers caress s/o's chin. They do not retreat, but tremble as if they were blades.

"I won't hurt you. I'm just worried about you."

His words are clear, as always, but a little sweeter than usual. He patiently sits in front of them, without losing contact.

"You can tell me what troubles you."

Finally the gaze of s/o meets the beautiful eyes of the boy. Eyes so beautiful, admired, and at this moment sincere.

S/o they bend down again, resting their forehead on Vil's hand while holding it with theirs. There they cry, for once without the weight of the angry gaze, but only surrounded by affection, while Vil gently caresses their head.

Idia Shroud

·  Ok, how to say, this guy is made of stress.

· Idia fears the social relationship, people stress him, what is not his room and his computer stresses him. He is not an easy person to manage.

· S/o are practically elected. They are fortunate to be admitted to his. In short, they can remain curled up on his bed without him saying anything.

· Usually are s/o who take care of him, who try to support him and calm him down, but sometimes of course they are the ones who need support ... but well, Idia practically doesn't exist.

· It is not his fault, but even if he cares about s/o in a way that even he did not believe possible, he is not good at social relationships. Very often he will limit himself and stay next to them, still connected to the internet. They don't mind, usually.

But this time the boy's body isn't even close to them. He is far away, in the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the screens. Yes, they are not even totally sure that he is aware of their presence.

Ortho, to their disappointment, is not present.

S/o don't need to be there, but for some time now they have felt a lump in their throat that they can't swallow. They have failed a test, and there is no way to recover it, or so they believe.

The truth is that they are nothingness.

They have to study, but loneliness echoes in their head. Nobody wants them.

So they slipped from the leader of Ignihyde to find comfort. It would have been fine even if he had been silently beside them, but no, he was elsewhere. They had seen an excited light in his eyes when they arrived. Maybe chat with someone online? Of course, those friends are better than them.

A failure, a weight, that's s/o.

Small tears wet the already dimly lit page.

In the darkness in which they find themselves, they sink into the anxiety and fear that they have been holding inside for weeks.

That horrible feeling of emptiness that causes the brain to tilt.

Idia does not notice the sobs. S/o are hidden, curled up into a ball on the boy's bed. Nothing makes sense to them anymore. More they cry, more they lose consciousness of their surroundings, and everything disappears.

Idia is too caught up in his game. He does not really notice that s/o are not well.

Only when he turns enthusiastically to communicate something to them does he hear them.

Sobs are louder now, but they don't know it.

Heart breaks in Idia. How long have they been crying? Two hours will have passed since they arrived. Why didn't they speak?

Oh God, it's his fault ... he sucks with people so badly, and he always ends up hurting them.

Maybe they came to him because somehow they believed he made them feel good, didn't they?

He gets up from his chair, unsure of what to do. Embarrassed he approaches them.

God, they seem so fragile. Will he break them if he touches them?

Slowly, as if he were dealing with a kitten, he places his sweatshirt on them, and then, a little scared, he sits next to them.

They seem lost, s/o don't react.

Idia feels the butterflies in his stomach from agitation. Suddenly, it seems to him that the figure of s/o is fading away in the dark of the room. It's scary.

Shyly he stretches his arms around the small figure and carefully pulls them into his chest.

He feels their sobs freeze for a moment, almost frightened, and then finally the muscles relax, while they abandon themselves to him.

"Sorry, I'm a delusion..." They murmur, clinging to him.

So is this what they think?

"No ... you ... I ... find you beautiful ..."

He speaks shyly. He's not exactly that these words are what they need, but that's what he really thinks.

His cheek is warm against their head. Maybe he's blushing.

How can they not smile at this?

[syeko]

Taking Care of You Ch. 2

Find it on AO3 or down below the cut!

@marichatmay

The black leather clad superhero stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of pinks and whites of Marinette’s room. From the walls and the bedding and the furniture down to the sweats and fluffy socks she was wearing, a swirl of pinks and whites that was just so very Marinette, and if he wasn’t feeling as cagey as he was, he would have commented something. Instead of a pun however, he busied himself by fidgeting with his tail, the leather a comfortable weight in his palms as he watched Marinette. The horrible itch from earlier had subsided somewhat, but it was still very much there, preventing him from standing still as he watched Marinette make her way around her room, hands grasping at various items. A closer look confirmed that the pile materials his classmate was in the middle of picking up seemed like assorted fabrics and discarded sheets with notes and designs scribbled onto them.

“Sorry about the mess, Chat,” Marinette broke the silence, a soft upturn of her lips accentuating the smattering of red across her cheeks. She fiddled with her fingers, the action so familiar to Chat from their shared time in the classroom. He’d always found it endearing, the movements bringing a small smile onto his own face.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Princess,” he cocked his head to the side, green eyes sweeping over the fabrics and papers, and a small puddle of shame pooled in his stomach, “Were you in the middle of working on something?”

Marinette waved a hand, “Not really, nothing was coming together anyways,” she shrugged, “you just so happened to drop by at the perfect time, I could use a break.”

He blushed, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but the light huff of her laughter cut him off before he could say anything.

“Before you ask, no Ki-Chat, you aren’t bothering me, and no I’m not lying,” she crossed her arms loosely, “I really could use a break from designing, and what better way to do that than with the best cat in Paris?”

“Aww, Purrincess, do you really think I’m the best cat in Paris?” He grinned, the compliment, as silly as it was, making his heart swell, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering. Just as quickly had the feeling come however, it was dampened by a reminder of the mess he’d made outside and the time he was taking away from his friend. No doubt she had much better ways of spending her time than with a stray cat, but the promise of help with his…problem kept his curiosity peaked, and he would be lying to say that he wasn’t eager to feel normal again.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Marinette grinned before moving to her chaise, legs curling up on the cushions before she patted the spot next to her, “Come.”

Chat couldn’t help but raise a masked eyebrow at the request, but he obliged after a moment’s hesitation and an encouraging smile from the girl clad in pink. The confidence and authority she radiated, even in worn sweats and a t-shirt was new, at least towards him. Well, Adrien him. He was well aware of Marinette’s leadership and quick thinking capabilities spurred on by her undying resolve for justice, but he was hardly on the receiving end of such confidence. In fact, in most cases, it seemed like the midnight haired girl wanted nothing more than to scurry away from him at every given opportunity.

Shaking his head minutely to dispel the sidetracked thoughts, he focused on making his way over to the (once again, pink) chaise, sinking slowly into the soft cushions below. The sunlight from her window spilled into the room, warming up the seat just so, the temperature soothing his nerves and his muscles as he wiggled on the spot. The itch was back, simmering and swirling underneath his skin, but this time, it was accompanied by the almost instant drooping of his eyelids.

Everything was so deliciously warm, and cozy. The cushion was just the right amount of bounce and firmness, and had he been alone, he wouldn’t hesitate to sprawl himself all over the chaise, relishing in the space and the comfort. But, as much as he wished to, he forced himself to stay upright, blinking the haze away harshly in order to focus on his friend so she could fix whatever was wrong with him.

“So, what’s the plan?” He turned to face Marinette, surprised to see her giggling softly. He frowned, not following the reason for her laughter. Not that he minded hearing it, and the realization made him blink with a start. Before he had time to dwell on the revelation however, she reached out to place a warm palm against his shoulder.

“You’re such a cat,” she snorted softly before her expression settled into something more serious, “I think that’s the problem actually.”

He felt his nose scrunch up, trying and failing to keep his mind off the tingling sensation from where her skin was making contact with his suit.

“I’m sorry, Princess, but I’m not sure I quite follow?”

Her lips pursed, the thumb and pointer finger of her free hand curling around her chin. The action sparked a vague feeling of familiarity, and he was reminded fondly of a similar pose his Lady would don as she was coming up with a plan or thinking over new information.

“Well, and I’m only speculating here again, of course, because you know Alya, my friend, I’m sure you and Ladybug have seen her around a lot, she runs the Ladyblog you know so we talk a lot about this stuff so it’s not weird or anything-“

Chat blinked as her palm slipped away from his shoulder, her rambling and the gestures so characteristic, borderline comical, that he couldn’t help but splutter out a chuckle.

“You’re rambling, Marinette,” he patted her knee, offering a quick smile to placate the blush that stole her cheeks, “I know you’re only trying to help, so don’t worry okay?”

After a second of staring at him, wide-eyed like a deer caught in the headlights, she nodded slowly, the pink receding from her face and once again replaced with firm determination.

With a steady breath, she continued.

“I think that there are some spillover effects from the Miraculous. We know that the Miraculous are in some way representative of certain animals, Ladybug being well…a ladybug and yours being the black cat. Your powers are reflective of certain qualities related to those animals- kind of like instincts or behaviours? So what’s to say that the effects of the Black Cat Miraculous don't just pertain to agility or night vision?” Marinette paused to shrug, “It could be very possible that you’re experiencing the less uh…pronounced behaviours that have just been building up over time?”

Chat was taken aback, feline eyes wide as he processed what his friend was saying. The fact that Marinette was able to figure out something so quickly, much quicker than he himself could, from so little information was both astounding and terrifying. Marinette was smart and resourceful, he knew that, but if she had managed to figure out this much, it made him wonder what other information was out there waiting to be analyzed and figured out.

Hawkmoth had to have internet access after all.

The thought made him twitch, tail settling between his clawed fingers once more as he worried his bottom lip. The original reason for his presence in Marinette’s room was forgotten for a moment, he couldn’t but worry about the implications of this revelation.

“Chat...?”

Marinette’s voice was quiet as she looked at him with worried eyes, and he mentally smacked himself for letting a civilian worry. He boxed away his worries, making a note to bring it up to Ladybug at some point; maybe the two heroes would have to have a talk with Alya and other news reporters on the dangers of speculation and posting information online where villains could no doubt use to their advantage.

“Ah, my a-paw-logies Purriness, I was just blown away by your deductions. Tell me, have you ever considered forensics or law, Mademoiselle Sherlock?”

He grinned when she rolled her eyes, reaching out to flick his bell. The sound sent a wonderful shiver down his spine.

“That depends. Are you willing to be my Dr. Watson?”

“Well if you’re paw-sitive you can handle the galaxies inside this brain,” he winked.

Marinette pressed a flattened palm to her chest with a drawn out gasp, “However will we all cope? Imagine the headlines!”

Chat swiped a hand through the air, “I can see it now, ‘Local Cat Discovered to Have Infinite Braincells’.”

Marinette copied the gesture, barely suppressing her smirk, “‘Scientists Discover that None of Them Are Actually Functional After Testing’.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing,” she laughed, reaching up to scratch a spot behind his ears in apology. The change was almost instantaneous, surprising Marinette with just how fast his body froze for a moment before his eyes fluttered close. He leaned into her hand, and from this close, the young designer could see the ripple of his muscles relaxing underneath his suit, slumping against her.

Not that she minded too much.

Her earlier deductions, while not explicitly sourced from the internet, seemed to be right as a familiar low rumble filled the room, causing her lips to twitch fondly. Chat Noir had begun to purr again, the vibrations echoing in her own chest. She thanked Lady Luck that her Kitty’s eyes were still closed, because at the moment she was absolutely certain her poor cheeks were burning.

But this wasn’t about her, she sighed internally, carding her fingers through silken gold. The sunlight reflected against his hair, highlighting the gold of his eyelashes against the deep black of the domino mask. She traced patterns through the stray strands atop his head, discovering with suppressed delight that the spots behind both Chat’s human and cat ears had the same effect, and the longer the scratching and rhythmic movements went on, the louder the rumbling got.

Her eyes softened at the innocence of it all, recalling how he had purred earlier when he was caught red-handed on her balcony, no doubt in an effort to self-soothe. The initial sound had been quiet, hesitant and tinged with low notes, giving away the boy’s embarrassment at what occurred and Marinette marveled at the reminder of how sensitive Chat Noir could be. Now however, the vibrations were loud and light, and with a uncontrollable flutter of her heart, she couldn’t help but be proud that she was the cause of such a blatant display of relief and trust from her partner (despite him not knowing that she was his beloved Lady, but she’ll count it nonetheless).

Gently guiding Chat’s head to her lap, she realized with another powerful thud of her heart that the poor kitty had fallen asleep, she relaxed back against the pillows on her chaise. She’d doubted for a moment if leading Chat to her room and exposing so much was a good idea, knowing that with every encounter with the black cat, she ran the risk of compromising their identities. The familiar twinge of anxiety made her frown, and she knew that she would no doubt be hearing from Tikki later on about the unexpected development between her civilian identity and Chat Noir, and Marinette couldn’t help but dread the coming conversation. However, with a glance down at the serene expression on her partner’s porcelain complexion, she pushed her worries aside, saving them to card over later. For now, her kitty needed her, and she wouldn’t let him down.

In or out of the mask.

[madame-fouquet]

2020 Anime Retrospective

With the end of the year here, and all the anime that came with it now behind us, I feel like looking back and reminiscing on it. So, following the style of ANN's own yearly retrospectives, may I present my 2020 anime in review! Enjoy.

Best of the year: Keep Your Hands Off Eizouken

    This is actually not the first time Yuasa and his crew of, let's be honest, visionaries have rolled something special out right at the beginning of the year in some weird power move against everything else that has to follow it. They did it back in 2018 with Devilman Crybaby, and then they hit us this year with Keep Your Hands Off Eizouken.     You ever have one of those shows where you're just constantly in awe of everything it does? Where you never found yourself chasing merch or hunting after content based off it online, but you consistently find yourself thinking about it? Yeah, that's what Eizouken did to my brain after I watched it. It was such an earnest love letter to anime and anime production, to animation in general, that I couldn't help but get sucked into its imagination and enthusiasm. The way it was able to so perfectly illustrate that pure, boundless, childlike joy that one can derive from the simple act of creating, I'd be lying if I didn't say that it had a powerful effect on my own desire to continue creating. (Corny as that sounds, it's true.) The sheer amount of love it contains, and the equal amount it puts out into the world make it so I know I am going to be thinking about it again and again for a long long time.

Runner-up: Akudama Drive

    I don't know if it's really quite a matter of my two favorites being opposites, but there are definitely some pretty sharp stylistic and tonal differences between my two top shows this year. Akudama Drive's cocaine-fueled bender of an intro episode made it very clear what it's intentions were and what it wanted us to be prepared for. That doesn't mean I had ANY idea of where it was headed narratively, but I did know I was in for one hell of a ride. And it delivered is spades on that promise.     The twists and turns, no matter how insane, illogical, or steeped in tropes they were, were all such a colorful energetic spectacle that it would be hard to hold anything against the series. Every character was such a force that I didn't really consider any of them a weak point. Yeah, some of them were more or less cardboard cut-outs of antagonistic elements, but when the cardboard cutout looks REALLY FREAKING COOL, it's hard to get too torn up over the details. It's a show that oozes style and knew EXACTLY what it wanted to do and be, and I have to respect that.

Runner-up-up: Toilet-Bound Hanako-kun

    The next few entries aren't really in any sort of order, I actually found it near impossible to sort anything below my top two. Hanako-kun however does hold a bit of a special place for me though because, at least from a stylistic standpoint, it hits so many of my buttons. Just visually this show is the exact kind of thing my younger self would have latched onto immediately, even before knowing anything about the actual content. I suppose not much has really changed though.     I'm absolutely in love with the animation style of Hanako-kun, and I got really lucky that there is an interesting story and delightful cast of characters underneath that visual splendor. Along with the sharp lines, intense colors, and soft characters, I'm also a sucker for contemporary supernatural mysteries. That's a fancy way of saying one of my favorite shows as a kid was The X-files, but both make the point pretty well. The world of Hanako-kun has a lot to offer, and I can only hope it gets a second season so we can continue to delve into it's beautiful and terrifying mysteries.

Runner-up-up: Kaguya-sama: Love is War Season 2

    I know a lot of people will be talking about this one when it comes to “Best of” lists. I know a lot of people were talking about the first season when it reminded us just how funny anime can be back in 2018. Absurd high school comedies (Is that a genre?) could definitely be considered my favorite. Hell, of my top five favorite anime of all time, THREE of them fall under that category. So believe me when I say Kaguya-sama absolutely deserves the deluge of praise it receives. For what describing something as “laugh out loud” is worth, this show had me constantly needing to pause it just so I could finish laughing at whatever ludicrously funny misfortune had just befallen it's cast of lovable morons.     The thing is though, Kaguya-sama understands that you can't just earn love and goodwill on laughs alone, there needs to be a beating heart at the center of all the shenanigans. And when this season had me actually cheering on and feeling sorry for Ishigami of all people, I knew that beating heart was present and accounted for. Look, the cast are all self-centered idiots, but I'll be damned if they aren't also my dear children who I delight in watching slowly grow and become slightly less self-centered idiots.

Runner-up-up: Dorohedoro

    When the Dorohedoro anime was first announced, a lot of my experience was watching a group of people online scream about how they were so pumped that it was finally getting an anime. I had never heard of it before, but the excitement was very real and tangible. And I gotta say, sometimes you need to believe the hype.     I've never been one to shirk a series just because it was CG animation, (Watch ID-0 dammit!) but Dorohedoro makes a strong case for why people shouldn't sleep on something based solely on it's animation. The dirty, grease-encrusted world of Hole is brought to life with plenty of flair and style that, I feel, the CG didn't hold back at all. What I had seen said was that for a long time Dorohedoro was kinda considered “unanimateable” but I think MAPPA did the iconic manga a fair amount of justice. Even if pulpy ultra-violence isn't normally your thing, I still highly recommend giving Dorohedoro a look, it might just end up being a hole worth going down.

Honorable Mention: Show By Rock!! Mashumairesh!!

    I know what you're thinking, but hear me out. The first Show By Rock!! was definitely an indulgence for me. While not something I considered a high level series by any stretch: messy plotting, shallow characters, a weird isekai angle, a lackluster finale, and an even MORE lackluster second season, it still got is hooks into me with its sheer energy and fluffy charm. So despite the, as mentioned, rough second season, I was more than happy to check out the new series in the franchise. And boy was I glad I did.     Mashumairesh!! takes all the heart and sweetness that worked for the first series and dials it up. It then took a hard look at a lot of what DIDN'T work in the first series, and manages to fix most of the issues. Removing the isekai angle and the whole existential threat thing, and just letting the series be a “slice-of-life but in an electric animal filled music world” did wonders for the direction and consistency. Add to that more properly fleshed out characters, and you get a series that is far stronger than it's progenitor.     The next series, Show By Rock!! Stars!!, will be adding back the cast from the first series, and that could very well be a sign that it will be falling back into its old habits, but the presence of the Mahumairesh!! girls gives me hope that it might have a chance of staying the new, far better course.

Worst of the Year: Digimon Adventure:

    This one really hurts to say. What hurt more was how quickly I knew what show I'd be electing for this position. One thing to clarify is that I would not nominate a series that I'd only watched one or two episodes of, that's just not fair. So the award was bound to go to something I had at least dedicated a decent amount of my time too. And in any other year this may have gone to something that was more my “least favorite” or had an ending that disappointed me. But unfortunately I have to be honest and sit here and tell you that the newest entry in the Digimon franchise was easily the worst thing I watched this year.      I have been a long time Digimon fan. Ever since I was but a wee lass watching the original Digimon Adventure premiere on Fox Kids at a family reunion, I have always considered the franchise a sort of cornerstone of my anime fandom. So please understand the excitement I had felt when I found out they were doing a full on remake of that flagship series. Imagine how absolutely pumped I was when the bombastic movie-like premiere of Digimon Adventure: wowed us with everything it delivered, and all the promises of what was to come. And then imagine my disappointment, my despair as the show devolved until it showed us what it really was during the finale of the Fake Tokyo arc.     I would call it a production meltdown, but considering the precedent that got set back in episode 10 during the already shaky Ultimate Evolution arc, has been so clearly informing everything up to the current episodes in the early 30s, I have to be honest with myself and admit: this is what we were going to get all along from day one.     All of the heart that had made the original series so endearing, despite its own flaws, just isn't present here. What you get here is just a non-stop (and I mean non-stop) string of barely related fights with poorly-defined stakes, or sometimes no real stakes at all. It's just one ugly set piece fight after another as the children chase after vaguely implied evils. I think the most damning thing is how much more I could say about just how much this series has let me down. Like I said, this one hurts.

Best Theme-Song of the Year: Night Running (BNA)

     My opinion of BNA as a series is complex. But my opinion of its ED, Night Running, is simple: Its a god-damned bop! I could spend this whole section talking about the artistry of the ED animation itself, its fun and creative use of color, the slight variations for certain episodes, the focus on character, or the fact that it was done by an American animation team. I could even talk about the song's importance to the series as a whole and its place in the narrative. I won't though. The fact of the matter is that even without all that, I STILL probably would've picked Night Running as my best of the year because as a song it is just that much my jam. This is the kind of shit I could listen to on repeat for hours, days, weeks, and still keep coming back to it. Don't get me wrong, Ready To is a damn powerful and catchy tune that goes hard, but at the end of the day, I'm a sucker for a soulful pop tune like Night Running. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WWTFfEnMCCc

Best Character: Sayaka Kanamori

    This was actually probably the hardest category for me to decide on. It was stuck hard between Eizoken's Kanamori and Akudama Drive's Doctor. I know those are a powerfully different pair in basically every way, but it was specifically for their startling differences that both characters stuck out to me so much. In the end though, it was the poignant rounding out of, and emotional hooks of Kanamori's character that let her triumph over her delightfully two-dimensional opposition.     Kanamori already had me from episode one. In a show that I wasn't really worried about the usual diversions of anime ingestion like picking a favorite character, Kanamori sealed herself as “Best-girl” from the word go. I have mad respect for a girl who knows what she wants, and has a clear idea of how she's going to go about getting it (See also: Doctor.) But Kanamori was more than a driving desire for success and money. Underneath her unstoppable ambition there was a very real, very relatable driving impetus. She stood apart, and yet still believably vulnerable and invested in the people she associated with. It was always a blast watching her suffer as the only thing keeping the more creative minds on track, and yet she was never reduced to a simple task master; her love and respect for her friends was always clearly visible. I could go on and on about how Kanamori is a nearly perfect character, but I hope I've said enough already without having to resort to senseless rambling.

Best Moment: Howan confesses her feeling to Himeko (Show By Rock!! Mashumairesh!!)

    By the time episode six rolled around, Mashumairesh!! had already shown marked improvements over its progenitor in basically every area. Not only was the story in a better place by focusing on what had worked in the original series, (Ya know the BAND part of this show about bands) but the cast was also doing a good job of standing out from their seniors and feeling more equally rounded out. Where the original series had just kinda been the Cyan show with guest stars, I felt like I had an actual grip on all four of the main girls now.     There were however the usual issues that come with a cute-girls-doing-cute-things series, chief among them the “ambiguously gay member of the group who constantly reacts with clear romantic interest towards the main protagonist but the writing will never actually do anything with those feelings” trope. Retoree had spent the better part of the first two seasons fawning over Cyan only for nothing to come of it and, despite the increased focus on all of the girls this time around, it looked like we were going to get the same old song and dance with Himeko's feelings towards Howan.     But then the climax of episode six hit and, midst a really intense subplot about Himeko's abandonment complex, Howan comes out with a straight up love confession. And I kept waiting for the usual dead-ends these moments always seem to have. The “I love you! I love the girls too! I love the band!” Or a “I love being with you.” and the dreaded, “I love having you as my most precious friend.” But none of that happened. It was a full on heart-felt, “I love you, Himeko. I want to stay with you forever!” I'm just not used to getting that sort of straightforwardness from my silly little band shows, so I was shocked, but also completely overjoyed. And frankly the series just kept getting better from there.     The evolution of their relationship built off that moment, no dreaded resetting of the status quo. I daresay it was on the power of this moment alone that I wanted to include this series in my top five at all. If there was anything I would want other anime to take from Mashumairesh!! it's that it's okay to introduce radical changes to character relationships partway through a season, and it's okay to let characters unequivocally state their feelings for each other. People will respond positively to that earnestness, I promise.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Negative Space || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Following Lydia’s death, Morgan and Deirdre search for ways to pick up the pieces.

CONTAINS: discussions of death, dying, and grief. brief mentions of Lydia’s human captives.

“The clinic was a mistake.” Deirdre grumbled as she drove, hissing her complaints as she pulled the Subaru to a stop, massaging her temples in a desperate attempt to summon back her vision and the senses it offered. Her mind had been imprinted with the beeping and whirring of the clinic’s machines, the very same that had kept her sustained, and lent her the energy now to be driving at all; the doctor’s droll voice, asking her to stay another night, because she needed it; and the whispering of other fae, annoyed that a non-fae was in their presence, in their space, and her own voice, shushing them. She slept well, with Morgan in her arms and medicine in her body, but time had a horrible way of eating at memory, and a worse way of moving things around. Lydia’s body might not be in the alley she was murdered in anymore; if someone went to such lengths to kill her, they’d be disposing of her too. The two of them weren’t just too late, it was like they were operating on a whole other timeline. Deirdre hated it. She hadn’t touched the rest of her vision of Lydia’s death; the faces, the voices, the sounds and scents, those she wanted to save for when her mind needed them. Right now her mind needed a location...and a drink. Deirdre groaned and threw her head back. “If she was trying to leave town, then she should be here. But I’m not feeling anything.” She eyed her doctor-recommended crutches and then the sidewalk. “Maybe we should go by foot.”

“The clinic made you better,” Morgan mumbled. She didn’t especially enjoy being looked at like she was a dog wetting the living room, or being whispered about in Gaelic like she hadn’t made time to learn the words for ‘human’ and ‘filth’ online. But Deirdre had held her all night and she’d been able to follow the monitors tracking her recovery and listen to her heartbeat and believe, to an extent, that they would be okay. “I can pop out the wheelchair they gave us, if you want to take a swing around the next block or two,” she suggested. “I can take over driving, if it’ll help you concentrate. I won’t go so fast, or slow or…” Or whatever she’d done that had contributed to missing Lydia and her body. She knew by the light of day that there wasn’t much to be done about having a mental breakdown under the double trouble trauma, but having some responsibility meant she wasn’t completely helpless.

“Not the wheelchair,” Deirdre grimaced, turning the car off. “Anything but the wheelchair.” She didn’t have the energy to be wheeling herself around, and there was something deeply embarrassing about having Morgan push her. By comparison, the crutches were slightly less embarrassing, though still enough for her to forgo them as she stumbled out of the car. “Let me use you to lean on?” She called out, hobbling towards the passenger side to meet Morgan outside. “It’s better than anything else.” She smiled bright, and though she’d spent most of the car ride tensely silent or cursing at the air, even in her state, it wasn’t hard to see Morgan wasn’t doing well. Lydia’s death was a rumbling echo, but time had moulded her sadness into anger—her depression to urgency; guilt to stubbornness. She hadn’t asked what plagued Morgan, she’d almost forgotten to. Maybe she didn’t conduct the same alchemy of emotions that Deirdre did. “Do you want to take another break, my love?” She asked, for all her desperation to find Lydia, she was continually astonished and horrified at the ease in which she could offer pause and rest to Morgan. Caring for her girlfriend was not a task that she deliberated on, or regretted, she only hoped that Lydia beyond the grave didn’t hate her too much for wanting to care for the woman she loved. Even if respite was the last thing she wanted. The clinic had been agreeable only because pain and medication captured her brain, if they stopped now, she would start thinking. In that moment, Deirdre could think of no greater torture—except, of course, everything Lydia endured. But that was just it; that was the thinking. “We can think of this as a nice stroll if you’d like. Like we’ve always taken.”

“Sorry. I just thought…” The wheelchair would be faster, smoother, easier on Deirdre’s hands and the rest of her body. Morgan could wheel them around in a few minutes. Even sidewalks without accessible ramps wouldn’t be a problem with her zombie strength. She was three days without a meal now and could bust through or lift most things she put her mind to. “Anyway, you should at least bring your cane. I’ve already ordered a nicer one, but it’s not going to come in for a couple of days.” She stumbled over her words to appease Deirdre’s hardened grief so much she almost missed her love’s gentle offer. “Of course you can lean on me, if that’s what you want,” she said. Her eyes nearly watered at Deirdre’s smile. It wasn’t even twenty-four hours out from when she had stopped breathing in her arms, since she had run and disappeared and fallen apart in bloody pieces and stopped speaking to her altogether unless it was to give instructions. As Morgan got out of the car to meet her girlfriend and pull her into her arms (gently, so as not to upset her healing sores), she couldn’t help but feel like some part of her was still cowering in the driveway, stuck to the ground with all that blood. “We don’t need to stop,” she said into Deirdre’s shoulder, carefully giving her a squeeze. “I know we need to do this. I know why we’re here. Just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll--” She shivered. “I’ll do it. I’m doing a lot better today, and I can carry you if you get tired, and I um…” She couldn’t think of anything else to specifically offer. She looked up into Deirdre’s eyes, promising her anything with desperate intensity. I’ll be good. I’ll find a way to make this better.

Deirdre glanced over at the shoddy stick, more tree branch than cane. The fae enjoyed their ties to nature, Deirdre would sooner use the crutches—which were grey and dull but notably not dirt-stained. “I...think I’d rather just lean on you.” Even in sickness, there were standards to be upheld. And while Deirdre found a measure of humour in it, she looked to her girlfriend to see that she didn’t. “We have time,” she smiled softly. They really didn’t, her stomach churned and her mind battled with her to assert a timeframe. They didn’t have time, except that Deirdre smiled as though they did, and spoke slow, measured, as though there was no rush. She pressed her body beside Morgan’s, just the way the two of them knew how to walk tangled in each other, with added weight against the zombie’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” she gestured for them to walk forward with a careful pace, seemingly unbothered. She felt fractured; there was the part of her that cared so deeply for Morgan that even against her own desperation, she could summon whatever kindness Morgan needed. And the part that burned for Lydia; the slow growing storm that just wanted to find her. In these moments, it was easy for her to remember that Morgan was suffering too. When left to herself, everything else seemed to slip her mind. Storms were often consuming, but she had practice taming them. “We can talk about it, if you want; whatever’s bothering you. Besides the obvious, I guess.” She laughed weakly, staring up at the sky. Something about the early morning air was always acrid, it stung her eyes, but it was of great importance to her that they left the clinic as soon as she woke up. She’d forgotten to ask what Morgan thought. “I’m sorry I haven’t been exactly…” she looked to Morgan with her own desperation. “...like I should be. I just want to find Lydia, I just want to get to her.” Deirdre shook her head, sighing. “You’ve been very good to me, despite everything. And I haven’t even thanked you for it. I’m sorry, my love. Will you let me ask after you now?”

“O-obvious?” Morgan wasn’t sure what counted as obvious and what didn’t. She averted her eyes and started to hobble with Deirdre the way she wanted to go. “No, we can just…” Morgan swallowed thickly, trying to summon up some wall to put between herself and the fear and guilt she didn’t know how to relocate. But she was always herself around Deirdre. She didn’t know how to pretend around her, even if it was what would help the most. “You don’t have to be anything more than how you are. We can go find her, we don’t have to stop for anything, I’m sorry if I’m...I’m not trying to hold everything up, I don’t mean to be so…” Her eyes were burning again and she tried to focus on walking with Deirdre. She never would’ve thought walking up and down their house wrapped up in each other would come in handy before. But here they were, stepping in the way they knew so well, enough that Morgan could remember how they usually were. Not the happiness, but the ease, the intimacy of their openness.

Morgan met Deirdre’s eyes for a flash of a moment, hoping that she could be good and find whatever strength she needed, however unfamiliar, to pull herself up and help Deirdre find what she needed to. But as Morgan held her gaze, the tears came free and her insides crumbled. “You don’t need to thank me, or be sorry. Honestly, I don’t really feel like I--” she hesitated. “I know I...I tried, I did, but I screwed it up...” she clenched her jaw and tried to keep her composure as much as possible and brought them slowly to a stop near a sidewalk bench. “I know I can’t do anything to fix what happened, but if I could just do something to make any of this better or easier for you…” She clenched her jaw and breathed again. “I know you’re angry. And I know I’m at least partially responsible for us being in this situation. But…I’m sorry. I feel like I’m making everything worse right now. I should be comforting you. You shouldn’t have to worry about me after losing your best friend, your family, but...you were gone. I got off the floor and you were gone and then you were bleeding and you wouldn’t tell me anything and you wouldn’t stay or take me with you and...I should’ve just gotten the car, fucking stars above, I should’ve just gotten in the car and picked you up and maybe then we… but I just thought ‘she couldn’t have gone far, we’ll figure it out.’ I didn’t understand what was happening, and...you were dying! You went from running away to looking me in the eye and saying you weren’t going to live and then you couldn’t walk or use your hands and there was so much blood everywhere and I was scared! Out-of-my-mind scared! I would do everything different now, I would, but...I didn’t know anything except that the world was ending. You were dying and it was the end of everything and I was scared and it broke me. I didn’t even realize you’d gotten up after the call, you were just gone, and nothing felt real anymore and I couldn’t...be what you needed. I tried, but I couldn’t. And I’m still--between failing you and almost losing you on the fucking driveway with no warning, I’m just not back together yet...” her voice petered out. Morgan could only just push through her shame to look at Deirdre again, searching for someplace safe in her gaze to hole up in.

“Lydia, I mean….” Deirdre breathed with trepidation; confessing the truth so bluntly was not something she had grown accustomed to in the time between her scream and now. She would have preferred, in fact, to never speak of it. But such wasn’t fair--Lydia deserved to be spoken of, remembered, loved. Even if it would just be her who held the leanan-sidhe in her heart. She frowned and anchored herself to Morgan’s side, pressed as tightly as she could manage. With great imagination, she could pretend this was one of their strolls around White Crest, at some point they’d turn a corner and make their way into a cemetery. But the gravestones in her head all read Lydia’s name. “You didn’t screw anything up…” She fell on to the bench, gesturing for Morgan to sit beside her, nearly pulling her down too. “You don’t have to be sorry about anything, my love. I wouldn’t have gotten myself anywhere on foot, you know that, and it is true that my body needed rest. You can imagine the state I would be in now if you hadn’t chased after me.” Deirdre tried to laugh, the gentle, light way she did when she wanted to lift Morgan’s spirits, but the sound came out as a cough. And then another. And then a tug, taut and strange in her chest. She grimaced, leaning forward to clutch the rough fabric of the clinic-lent sweatshirt she was wearing---equally as gaudy as the cane and wheelchair. Morgan’s voice throbbed in her ears, she made out a few sentences and a handful of words. Distantly, she knew Morgan was talking about her near-death, and the trauma that followed it, but her head pulsed; vision spotty. “You don’t need to...do anything...different…” She spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s okay. Don’t be sorry. I don’t need you to be anything but how you are. It’s oka---” The cemetery with the Lydia gravestones screamed at her, ringing loud and demanding. Deirdre stumbled off the bench. She stared down the road, watching it narrow. The pull she had been searching for was clear, and it was persistent. It tethered her, strung her limbs up and pulled her like a doll.

If she was thinking, she’d realize it was in poor taste to be running off again. But she wasn’t thinking, she was sprinting down a foregin street. Pain forgotten, she burst forth with temporary speed and composure. “Morgan!” She called her girlfriend’s name just once before she turned the corner. The cemetery. The Lydia gravestones. They lived in a nameless alley; not that alley’s often had names, but she’d make sure people knew this one--the place where good died. Deirdre stumbled into it, filled with perverse relief to find Lydia. To find Lydia. To find--Where was Lydia? Deirdre threw herself to the ground, equal parts frantic and too weak to hold herself up. Where was Lydia? She committed herself to vision, to everything her death-cursed body could drum up.      

Morgan thought the clinic and the waking up and the sitting tensely in the car was a trick and this really was a magic nightmare drummed up to torment her. Deirdre coughed, ragged and painfully unlike herself. Morgan scrambled for the water bottle in her bag and handed it off to Deirdre. “Drink slowly, babe,” she whispered. “Slow, okay?” She felt brave enough, forgiven enough, to stroke Deirdre’s cheek the way she liked to when it was her turn to comfort her. But Deirdre shuddered and sank against her body. “I’ve got you. What is it? Hey—” And then Deirdre was up, running away from her again, knocking her way through the street, drunk with pain. “Deirdre! Deirdre, please!” Morgan didn’t care about the pedestrians turning their heads to look at the crazy woman shoving past them. She was just seeing their street and the trail of blood and Deirdre’s dead, icy look. Morgan couldn’t do this again. She didn’t have it in her.

Morgan turned the corner and caught Deirdre’s hand as she called her name. “I’m here. Tell me what’s happening, just fucking tell me, I don’t even care what it is!” She pleaded, falling to her knees with Deirdre, holding her up in her arms. “Are you in more pain? Do I need to drive you back to the clinic? What do you—did you find something?” She brushed back her love’s hair, searching her face for some tell about what new twist of the cosmic knife was working through them this time. She held onto Deirdre, too tight for her to break away from easily. “Please. I can take it. Just talk to me…”

Where was Lydia? Deirdre burned, clawing at her skin with bandaged fingers. She felt cut upon cut across her chest, the weight of wounded wings she didn’t own, spear through her shoulder. She felt Lydia’s pain, splashed up against the walls and spilled across the floor, but she didn’t know where she was. Her body took flash fever, starting at her knees against the ground. Where was Lydia? She heard voices, saw figures in the dark of her vision–one, two, three...just how many people had watched Lydia die? How many of them caused it? At the center, a blonde girl flared to mind, but Deirdre already knew about her; had already committed herself silently to dealing with it. She began to paw at the ground. Perhaps Lydia had been buried below, somehow, but she searched and searched and found nothing. Her body burned.

Deirdre blinked, turning slowly to her girlfriend. The apology for her actions that wanted to sit on her tongue had been swallowed down. She took dirt and ash into her hands, letting them stain once pristine bandaging before peeling Morgan off of her. The process was slow, she was in no rush now. She had found Lydia, after all. Once unfurled, she opened Morgan’s palm and dusted ash against her skin. “That’s Lydia,” she said, “we found her.” Deirdre turned back to the ground, the ash was nearly indiscernible from the rough cement, but she leaned down and scooped it all up into a pile—every grain of dirt along with it. In time, by hand, she would pick everything that wasn’t Lydia out. For now, she just wanted it all. She thought she could mold her back, like clay. She tried it; holes for the eyes first. But the nose wouldn’t stick. “How is she going to wear something nice, for the funeral?” She asked, “what if she wanted to be buried? Didn’t they ask her? Didn’t they think about her family? This is all they get to see of her now. Who would want that? Who would want ashes?” In her scraping the ground, the charred remains of Lydia’s phone mixed with the pile. Deirdre plucked it out. There was Lydia, pile on the floor, and this was the place she died. This was the place she saved Deirdre’s life. And they gave her ashes. “Didn’t they know…” she sobbed, unaware she had begun tainting the ash with her tears (she would apologize for this later, seek repentance in the familiar places she knew). “....didn’t they know? Didn’t they know that I loved her. Why would they—what did they think I would do with a body? Couldn’t they have just left her in a river or—“ Deirdre curled up on the ground, pulling Lydia to her chest. There wasn’t much left of her now, even with the ash; a byproduct of the time she wasted (she would apologize for this too). “She couldn’t stand looking at a dead body, not the beautiful decayed kind. But I think she—I think she wanted a coffin. Didn’t they ask her? Why didn’t they ask her?” Deirdre sobbed, a horrible and pathetic whimpering sound, but she knew the answer.

Morgan tried to fasten Deirdre’s hands together in her grasp to no avail. “No! If you can leave me behind like I don’t matter you can use your fucking words and tell me what’s happening!” She shook her, aching and desperate, but Deirdre was somewhere else, and nothing Morgan said meant a damn thing, if they’d even registered as words at all. And then she spoke and all of Morgan’s fear and grief punctured, crawling miserably into some dark corner inside herself to hide. There wasn’t time for this. If Deirdre was right (and when it came to death, Deirdre was always right), then Morgan didn’t get to matter right now. She quieted and let Deirdre have her way, carefully folding away her hurt in box after box to fester out of sight.

Morgan had never looked at flesh ash before. Somehow she thought it would look different, more distinct and impressive. But aside from being a little paler, there wasn’t anything to differentiate it from the dregs of a regular bonfire. Morgan closed her hand around the grainy nothing Deirdre had put in her hands. Lydia. If she hadn’t been an alchemist in another life, she wouldn't know the connection between these little particles and the woman they had both known. But Morgan did, just as she knew that whatever kind of soul fae had, Lydia’s was off becoming part of something else. Strangely enough, Morgan couldn’t find it in her to hope for peace for Lydia so much as a second chance, an opportunity to be kind, to understand that the world wasn’t stratified the way she’d been raised to believe, to feel connected to the affection that had vanished from her life over its final weeks. That’s what Morgan wanted.

But death didn’t care for wanting. Deirdre had explained that to her plenty of times. And as Morgan held her girlfriend, rubbing her back and stroking her hair as she sobbed, she reminded herself that she was part death too. She could hold and speak and not want anything. She could, if she remembered the pit inside her and let it take her a little. After watching her tiny world implode on a loop so many times in less than a day, it was almost easy. “I don’t know, my love. I’m afraid I don’t know.” she said faintly. “But I do know that her soul and her energy have already passed on and transformed. Maybe she’s in the winter flowers, or the wind, or some happy, gentle creature that was just born. But we can put what’s left of her in a nice urn, maybe something from her house. I don’t think she’d mind her house pieces being with someone who can appreciate them. Or we could get an alchemist to turn her into something you can keep with you always. She would like her body turning into something beautiful, I think. When you’re ready, you’re going to finish the water bottle, and I’ll clean it out and we’ll put her in there for the time being. And we’ll go home, and you’ll decide what you think is best for her remains when you’re ready for that too.”

“There’s no winter flowers in an alley!” Deirdre bellowed, rumbling the world around them. Her tears felt like fire against her cheeks now, and she pushed herself off the ground. “This stupid man-made shit. She doesn’t get to go anywhere! Not back to the earth that bore her, not the forests of her ancestral home. This human garbage is what she gets. You can’t grow a tree in cement! They killed her here! And they didn’t even leave a body.” Deirdre slammed her fist to the ground, shattering bone on impact and undoing her body’s attempts at healing her torn nails; she reacted to neither, an instrument of pain and anger. “You don’t know what they did to her,” she spoke to Morgan now, trembling in the force of her words. “We didn’t even get to hear all of it. But I saw, I heard, I know. They took Lydia from this world, she begged and they ignored her and now she’s ash. She didn’t want to die this way. And I promised her, I promised her—“ ‘A good death’ shouldn’t have been something impossible to give. It was her job, her livelihood; everything she was born for. “She was my sister and they took her.” Deirdre huffed, calming herself just enough to remember who she was speaking to, and what had been said. “Not unless you can dry it all out,” she gestured at the water bottle, gently taking it with her good hand. If drinking water would please Morgan, she would do it, but the point of the gesture was lost on her now. “Water will ruin the ashes. Or taint them. Nothing touches Lydia anymore, nothing that will hurt her. No water.” She took a sip, hissing as it went down. Drinking water felt like a waste of time, so much so that she stopped at just the first sip. “And no home. We go to Lydia’s.” Deirdre pulled off her sweatshirt, pushing the ashes onto the fabric. She considered that the water bottle just might have been better, but she wanted everything and she wanted it pure. “No one will be turning her into anything, not unless I know I can still feel her like that, and, anyway, not a human. I’m not letting another human touch her. Her family will decide what’s best. I’ll leave that to them.” A work of art might’ve sounded good to Deirdre, if her mind could bear to stir itself from thoughts of rage. “Are you good to drive?” She asked Morgan, speaking mostly to the ash though. “We can take a break, if you don’t want to. But we’re not going home. I don’t want to go home now. We need to go to Lydia’s, as soon as we can. Time—“ she snarled, “—clearly has done terrible things to my sister.”

Morgan took back the water bottle as soon as Deirdre made her disgust for the idea apparent. She had dumped out the rest and begun cleaning it with her sleeve when Deirdre dismissed the idea. Morgan stopped, screwed on the lid, and put the empty bottle away. Nothing to do about it now. Taking off the sweatshirt from the clinic was a stupid mistake. The ash would get caught in the fibers and almost impossible to fully separate. Some of Lydia’s remains would end up in the wash, or some cotton blend would end up in her urn, or whatever happened in the end. And Deirdre shouldn’t have promised a good death, not when she knew from Morgan’s death that sometimes there wasn’t time enough to fix anything. But nothing in Morgan’s head mattered, and nothing broke the surface of her blank face except a ‘fine,’ and later, when the silence had been long enough to make Morgan sure that Deirdre was finished, she said flatly, “You just re-broke your hand, of course I’m driving. We’ll go to Lydia’s and then swing by the clinic again.” Deirdre didn’t have enough clarity of mind to set her own bones, and she probably couldn’t, with her fingers in their state. She scooped Deirdre up in her arms and walked them back to the car. She buckled both of them in, started the car, and took them away.

Time washed away funny when you were in the pit. It was both a long time and a short time back into town and up to Harris Island. The light had changed, bright and desaturated. Morgan pulled up the drive and turned off the car and came wordlessly around to wait for Deirdre to let herself out whichever ways she was going to insist on next. Deirdre had been right about time, the air crackled with the sound of tarp bubbling in the wind. New windows still had the stickers on them, ready for the final approval that would never come. At least the security team was absent, now lacking someone to follow and crime scene tape had been strung around the perimeter. Morgan only needed to twist the handle hard enough to break it free and let them in.

Deirdre hated being carried, despite its convenience. It made her feel like a child, and of all the things to be, a child was the worst. But she did not argue this time, she had her eyes glued to Lydia, and they remained there. In the car, which she hadn’t noticed they’d gotten into, she tried whispering her friend’s name, as if coaxing her out of her ashen hiding place. Then she spoke to her softly in Gaelic, mostly nonsense, but partly apologies she could not find the words for in English. Every so often, she subjected herself to the vision again, this time she took account of every detail. She had been cataloguing sounds by pitch by the time they came to Lydia’s. “We’ll be back,” she told the ashes, which was a silly thing to do, but Deirdre’s mind had gone to a strange place. A different place. She made sure Lydia was comfortable before she left, wrapped safe in the cheap sweatshirt. Inside, there would be nice vases for Lydia to go in until she found a more permanent home. It would be better than her shirt, at least. Deirdre looked at the ashes. “Do you want to come?” She asked them. They did not respond, but she turned back and picked them up carefully, unable to part with Lydia anyway. Lydia’s house was not even in an acceptable state; too messy, too taped up and put together all wrong. Lydia wouldn’t want that. “I should clean up,” she announced to no one in particular. “But first a good home for the ash—for the ash—for the—for Lydia.” But everything was toppled over, not where it should be. Her mind was still reeling from visions, she didn’t have the capacity to log every change here. Her eyes raked over the sheer number of them, and she felt sick. “This isn’t good.” She said, sitting on Lydia’s couch. The same place she would sit, feet tucked under her, as her and Lydia chatted over wine. Deirdre’s gaze settled on Lydia’s empty spot beside her. “This isn’t right.” She looked to the ashes again, bundled with more care than she had ever held anything. “What do you think?”

“You’re not gonna clean anything. It’s a crime scene,” was all Morgan said. She walked through the first floor of the house, or as far as she could manage while keeping Deirdre in her sight. There had been a struggle, and there had been an investigation underway. Spots were marked up with numbered tags as evidence. If they only knew the worst of it, they wouldn’t have bothered, Morgan thought. She went systematically through each room, stopping in the kitchen to work on the cabinets. It was fitting and cruel and pitiful, to put Lydia in something meant for food, but there weren’t going to be many options on this floor. She took out a sculpted rice serving pot and a ceramic sugar tin, both more form than function. She washed and dried them carefully by hand. There was a lot wrong with this place, a prickling awfulness that wanted to pull Morgan out of her numbness and shoo her out the door. But Morgan didn’t matter right now, and neither did Lydia’s crimes. Maybe another day, but not right now.  Morgan brought the two vessels out to the living room where Deirdre still sat. “You don’t care what I think,” she muttered, setting them down in front of her. She’d found fault with everything Morgan had put forward so far, and this was probably going to be more of the same, so Morgan stepped away in an effort to get ahead of the next blast. “I’m going upstairs. Don’t do anything to hurt yourself.”

“What crime happened here?” Deirdre turned to the ashes, whom she thought might laugh and tell her something silly. But with things numbered up, the humans hadn’t infested Lydia’s home to try and look for her; they didn’t care she was ashes. But what crime happened here? Lydia had never done anything wrong, as far as Deirdre could think—which wasn’t very far, now. “The vases and art are missing.” She assumed because Regan had done her number against them, but it was wrong to see Lydia’s house so barren. She would’ve hated this. Likewise, she would’ve hated the options Morgan presented. Deirdre eyed them, and a moment too late, spoke softly. “I always care what you think, Morgan.” But Morgan had gone already and left Deirdre in the place that was wrong and empty. She pulled the serving bowl close, and carefully poured Lydia inside. “I’m sorry,” she told the ashes, and though she was vigilant not to spill anything, she couldn’t help but think she was losing some of Lydia in the transfer. She slipped the sweatshirt back on, bundling the ash-stained front in her hands, tugging them close to her chest. Deirdre turned her attention back to the house, she thought about mixing the numbers around, rubbing dirt over the places they thought were evidence. She didn’t know what crime they assumed was committed here, but they were wrong, and Deirdre needed to protect Lydia’s legacy. But instead she hobbled to her feet, and stumbled her way up the stairs. Falling down and over, revisiting old scrapes against her legs, wasn’t so terrible now that she had no space in her mind to think of it. “Morgan?” She crawled to the bedroom, “what are you looking at?”

Morgan had only been upstairs to visit Remmy before, and so wandered the rooms on rooms on rooms without purpose. She found Remmy’s first: empty. Morgan frowned to think that she and Lydia felt the same way about them and their absence. But there it was, a hollow shell where a life used to be. If Morgan didn’t know any better, she would have taken it for some overly personal art installation. It could be called something like, ‘regret’ or ‘disavowed’ or ‘why the heck did you stick around for so long if you were going to make me feel bad for what I need and fuck off’? That last one was more about her than Lydia, she liked to think, but she shut Remmy’s old door and moved on all the same.

There were more spare rooms and suites, some that looked lived in recently enough to make Morgan’s stomach clench. Clothes folded with neurotic care. Pencils and paper on a desk. Shoes tucked under a bed like they were hiding. It had to be Chloe. Other, too, from the looks of things. Where had Lydia found the time to take more people? How long after leaving Chloe or Sammy dying had this happened? Morgan lingered for several moments. She was one of the few people who could begin to understand the crimes that had happened here, she owed Chloe that much. How many times had she been tormented here? How many times that this felt like some sick safety compared to the torture basement? How much harder was it to bear this alone? Morgan didn’t have the stomach to bear it at all, not with the memory of Chloe’s cries in her ears. She stumbled backed away from the hallway and turned down a different one. The house seemed to change, performance and display falling away to simpler aesthetics, cozier furniture. Morgan entered the room at the end of the hall and found herself in Lydia’s bedroom.

It was the kind of room someone’s mother would have liked: soft textured fabrics fresh out of a bedding catalogue, warm light coming through the curtains, fat photo albums and well-loved poetry books stacked on the nightstand, and on a vanity shelf, miraculously intact, were arrays of trinkets and knick knacks. Morgan went up to look at each one, noticing the particularities, the mish mash of styles. This wasn’t curated the way the sculptures and paintings downstairs were. If there was any logic here, it was known only to Lydia, mysterious and personal. There were runes and gaelic dialects that must have been fae and off in a corner was a collection of bones, including a bell jar terrarium arranged around a racoon skull.

“My bones,” Morgan whispered. She had given Lydia the gift on their last planned meeting. She always came with a gift for Lydia, but this one had been her most involved; crafted by hand instead of purchased. “I thought you hated this,” she said. “I thought you hated all my presents, but I worked on this for days, hoping you’d be impressed. I wanted to remember what it was like creating something, and I thought you of all people would understand. But you never really said you liked it, so I figured you put it in some reject closet...” But it was here, carefully tended to along with Lydia’s other treasures, the moss even looked like it had been nurtured recently. Morgan surveyed the collection again, the strange hodge lodge of it, and the care they were curated with. These were gifts. These were people she wanted to keep close to her heart, and for some reason she had chosen to remember Morgan along with them, even after everything. And looking at this, how could Morgan not think of Lydia over at the house, sipping wine with Deirdre, or next to Morgan in the car, begging silently to be accepted? And then all the times they fought online and Lydia’s patience when Morgan said something stupid and offensive to her fae ears and that time they sat in the warmth of a fae funeral pyre, pressed together with Deirdre in the middle? That was real. As real as Chloe’s cries in the basement and everything else that had happened here. This stupid terrium that only mattered because Morgan had made it--this was Lydia too.

Morgan lifted the bell jar terrarium and held it to her chest, bundling her arms tight until the glass broke. Morgan whimpered. No, she didn’t matter. None of this mattered. Not the glass pressing into her skin, not her hurt, her betrayal, her grief. And yet. “What was wrong with you?” She asked Lydia. “Why couldn’t you have been this kind to—what was wrong with you?” She sank to the floor, staring into the broken offering like it might hold any answers. She reached deep inside herself for that calm, dead balance again, but it was no good. It wasn’t a place Morgan had ever known how to keep herself in. As she curled her body over the mess, sobbing into hand, it seemed that it, too, had abandoned her completely.

Morgan sensed Deirdre only faintly. She gasped for control, scrambling for something inside her heart to protect herself with. She wiped her eyes furiously and curled her body away, crunching the glass further. It came apart on her shirt, but Morgan didn’t care. She wasn’t ready to get off the floor and face whatever Deirdre would do to her next. “...Stop.” She said, her tear-choked voice just above a whisper.

“Morgan?” Deirdre called out again, crawling across the floor. If she had sense, she would have hated the child-like quality of it. If she was thinking, she would have apologized for it. “Are you oka—“ Stop. Deirdre flinched, Morgan would not catch the flicker of pain across her features, though her whimper was audible. “But—“ her argument caught in her throat. Somewhere beyond her, there were the words of care and love: you’re not okay, I won’t stop. But there, right then, all she had was quiet. Tell me what’s wrong, turned into the slow reaching for Morgan, grimacing at her flinching of the touch. Whimpering as it happened again when she wrapped her arms around her love. The Lydia spilled across her shirt spread on to Morgan, but Deirdre’s mind was a simple beast now; it did not possess the intelligence to consider intricacies. “Let me see your hands,” she asked softly, then set about picking the glass out of her. That, like all of the Lydia that had been defiled around her, was also wrong. She was learning that she didn’t like seeing the people she loved in ways they didn’t belong; Lydia to ash, Morgan to pincushion. “You were right about the water bottle,” she said, “but I do like wearing Lydia. It feels like she’s hugging me again….almost. I miss that. I held her while she cried, in that bed right there, and at the time I didn’t think to cherish the feeling. I thought I’d always have it.” She paused, trying to pull Morgan close to her, like always was—like she also imagined she would always be able to. But she had lost Morgan once, a few times before if loss by her own doing could be counted, and she knew to always hold her as if committing the feeling to memory. “What’s wrong?”

Morgan continued to cry, shrinking and cowering from Deirdre’s touches as she searched for the cold, effortless grasp of death, and a voice that at least resembled her own. She tried pulling her hands away (the cuts didn’t matter) and she tried dissolving out of Deirdre’s arms and slithering back to the car alone. But Deirdre had her, and she was trapped, and maybe it would have been the only trap she wanted to fall into if it wasn’t all a meaningless lie. “I said stop…” she croaked. “Stop lying, stop touching me like you…” Her voice snagged and whined in her throat. “Like you suddenly care. Just stop, please…” The back and forth felt more cruel than the rejection; at least when Deirdre had abandoned her before, Morgan never had to question their reunions. She could count on at least a week, often more. Deirdre’s strong, slender arms had pushed her away so rarely before today, Morgan had thought they were the key to knowing she was safe. But that had been before the nightmare day, before she’d stopped being able to do anything right or important in Deirdre’s eyes.

“I can’t do this again,” she begged in a whisper. “Don’t act like you want to stay anymore. I believed you—I believed you last time and—” And Deirdre couldn’t have been bothered to do things differently even once. For all Morgan knew, she hadn’t been listening all. “I can’t anymore. Please just stop and tell me what you’re angry about next. Were the dishes I picked out too ugly? Do you hate the windows being messed up? Do you hate me for wanting to go back to the clinic? Or do you—stars, I don’t even fucking know anymore because you’re never going to tell me what’s really wrong or listen to when I try to explain, you’re just going to leave!” And in that case, why was Morgan saying so much now? Catching the irony, Morgan slumped in on herself, trembling as she searched in vain for the dead, nothing parts of her for comfort. “Please, don’t lie anymore. I don’t understand what I ever did but doesn’t matter, so just do it...” Just go. Leave me behind.

Deirdre pulled her hands back, tucked carefully in her lap, as she listened to the strange words tumbling out of the strange Morgan. She thought it was a dream, for a moment, until a dull pain throbbed across her hand, and she noticed for the first time how swollen and misshapen it was. She couldn’t remember when or why, but she noticed it. And she looked at Morgan, and she noticed more—the betrayal claimed in her features, the torment in her voice. “What did I do?” She asked quietly, she tried to search her mind for the answer but could not remember anything outside of entering the peculiar dimension that housed this wrong imitation of Lydia’s home. “I do care about you. I always care. I don’t understand…” she blinked, found herself crying, and blinked some more. She wanted to touch Morgan, but Morgan had told her to stop, and in her obedience, she did not dare. She thought the good Deirdre, the one that could have kept her promise to Lydia, would have known how to fix this. She wouldn’t have brought Morgan to this point to begin with. But as she was now, she couldn’t logic out what was wrong, what she needed to apologize for, and what she could do to make it better. Her mind was jumbled with thoughts of Lydia, memories intertwined with regrets. She could feel the leanan-sidhe on her chest, holding her steady. “The dishes were ugly.”  But that was only because any dish would be ugly to hold Lydia, it wasn’t Morgan’s fault. And she didn’t like the windows being all broken either, but Morgan had nothing to do with that. “I don’t understand,” she said again, usually Morgan was good at explaining for her. And so she waited. And waited. And blinked, and cried, and waited. “I love you. I promise I love you. I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you, I promise I do. More than my life, if I could do that. It would be such a great honour. It is the only thing I want, everyday.” Deirdre cocked her head to the side, as if the new angle might provide answers. “Do you….want me to leave?”

There were limits to how much a zombie could shrink her body, as it turned out. Morgan’s bones bent as she tried to shield herself from Deirdre’s next absence and the hateful, drowning feelings that would take her after. There were limits to her nerves too. How did Deirdre not understand? What part of anything she’d said had been unclear, now or anytime before. She lifted her head, bewildered and horrified. Was this some sick joke? Was she toying with her now? (She wouldn’t. Even like this, she wouldn’t, right?) “All I have ever begged you to do since yesterday was stay with me!” Morgan tried to scream, as if climbing near banshee decibels would make Deirdre finally hear her,  but her voice came out ragged and choked with the hurt she was too frightened to let go of. “How can you…” And Deirdre cried and promised and Morgan couldn’t bear it. The two pieces didn’t match up and she couldn’t keep guessing wrong forever. “Do you not even hear me right now? Did I die again with you in our driveway? Because I have told you and begged you! All I did today was try to please you, to make anything up to you from before, and you told me it was okay! You told me you were here, you asked me what was wrong like you wanted to know and it mattered and I believed you! And then you left me! You can’t say these things and make me feel--” Safe. So safe that she never had to hide, that even when it made no logical sense, she mattered in a way that was only possible with love. “You can’t do things like that and then leave me behind like I’m not even there!” Morgan’s voice broke with an ugly sob, forceful enough to make her sit up on her knees. “If I didn’t do anything wrong, why are you punishing me like I did? Why...why are you acting like everything I say is awful if you’re not mad at me? Why can’t you stay with me when I need you if you don’t hate me for letting her die? Why can’t you tell me anything if you love me? My whole stupid little life is built on you, and you were gone. You were dead! And then you couldn’t get away from me fast enough or bear to talk to me and I know I was too busy being broken over your bleeding fucked up body to get to her in time, but you keep acting like you forgive me and then taking it away!” In a way that struck Morgan as cruel now, she still felt too safe around Deirdre. She could hear the pitiful, child-like anguish under her cries. There was no dignity, no mask of anger or cold, deathlike apathy. She was just hurt and afraid, and though she hated herself for the pathetic quality of it, in a way she was still begging, too.

Deirdre sat very still and listened. She repeated Morgan in her head to make sure she was understanding the words, she asked herself their meanings and parsed them from English to Irish to English again until she was sure she understood. “I would’ve died for Lydia,” she said softly, picking at the ashy remains of Lydia on her shirt, rolling them against her palm. She wanted to weave Lydia into her skin, she wondered if it was possible. “I would die for Lydia. Still. My only regret with that promise was that she had to take it back. I would’ve died on our driveway for her. I would’ve died and thought nothing of it. I think of dying for her now. I think it’d be nice. I understand why my family spoke of our lives having no value, why we take no ties. We are fae, we carry their deaths, we avenge them; no matter the cost. I would die for Lydia.” Dread dug its cold fingers into her stomach, churning and pulling. “I’m so sorry. I would’ve died and left you, and I wouldn’t have regretted it. I would still do that now, and I can’t---I can’t shake it from my head. I want peace for her so badly I would wrench it from myself. But that’s not fair to you. I’m so sorry, my love.” The things she had to do, and the new life she carved with Morgan, never had learned how to fit nicely together. But her love for Morgan was not a whim to be cast aside, and not a treasure she would so easily give up. It was that same perseverance that marked her love for Lydia, too. “It’s not your fault Lydia died. It’s not your fault she’s ash. I don’t blame you, I’m not angry at you. I’m trying to stay with you. I’m trying because I want to. But it’s hard because---” Deirdre lifted her bandaged hands, one bent wrong and one normal, and tried to demonstrate a split road. “But I’m sorry.” She dropped her hands, lacking the energy to keep them up. Deirdre, unlike Morgan, had no torrent of emotion inside of her. There was anger and pain, neither she showed now, and then deep, unshakable, sadness. Something like self-loathing, but more desperate around the eyes. “I’m sorry.” Was all she could think to say; was all she knew how to say now. “I’m sorry.” And she sat very still and straight as she offered it, just the way she’d been taught. She could be a stitching of instincts and half-feelings, a mannequin of memory. But she could not be Deirdre anymore.  

Morgan shook her head. In her awful, bleating explanations, she’d closed some of the distance between them on instinct. She was close enough to touch Deirdre now, and her arms twitched, aching for her, but she held back, still tense with fear, like an animal that had been hit too many times. Morgan scoffed at the idea that Deirdre was trying, that forgetting her not five minutes after insisting she bare herself counted as trying. “I knew,” she croaked. “You would never choose me over a fae. I knew that when we started. I just thought… you would care enough by now to try to take me with you. Or to tell me that’s what you were doing. I would’ve driven you anywhere if you’d just said she was in trouble. You think I don’t still love her? That I don’t hate what they did to her? I would go with you anywhere if it would just occur to you to ask me, especially for her. I’d pack you a bag if you swore to me you could only do it by yourself. I don’t need you to look at it like it’s one or the other. I needed you to choose me too.” She looked up at her, eyes searching her strange, faraway face. “How do I know you aren’t going to drop me in five more minutes if I believe you right now? How do I know anything will be different? That this isn’t going to be like every other sad choice I trusted in before you? How can you tell me that you can choose me too?”

“I did choose you.” Deirdre blinked. “Always. I did when I said I loved you the first time, I did when we drove to the clinic instead. I am choosing you. Do you know it’s sacrilege to let a non-fae hold a dead fae’s body? But I gave you that ash.” She didn’t exactly get it, but she understood enough to try and wrap herself around Morgan again. “But this isn’t about choosing, I don’t think…or maybe...maybe it is. I don’t know. Is it? Is it?” She buried her head into the crook of Morgan’s neck, taking her in by way of her senses. With her nose pressed up against her like this, she could smell the decay--Morgan was due a meal soon, she realized, then tried to think back to the last time she ate. “I’m sorry.” How had she let them go so far without noticing? Why didn’t she stop to ask if Morgan wanted something to eat? “I could give you a promise,” she said, wincing as she realized her offer was in poor taste. “I don’t want to leave you, Morgan. I just don’t know what to do. I didn’t think Lydia could die, and I didn’t think there was time to say anything about it. I don’t---I don’t know what to do. I said it’d be okay when we found her, but it’s not. She’s ash, Morgan. Ash!” Deirdre trembled, clinging tighter to her love. “Y-you don’t know, I suppose. Can you trust me? Can you trust that I love you more than that?”

Morgan sank into Deirdre and let her hold her. “I didn’t ask for her ash, I know she’s yours. I just want us to have gone together,” she whimpered. “I just want you to take me with you next time so we can go together. Or talk to me. I can be strong with you. Don’t you believe in me enough for that?” She latched on tighter as she felt Deirdre shudder and cry. She could’ve sworn they’d each been so strong before, that they could each stand on their own two feet without being afraid. Maybe, when the worst of this was over, they could be again. Morgan flinched and clutched Deirdre tighter at the mention of a promise, but in this moment, it still looked to her like salvation. She was so tired of holding herself in, she ached with hunger and grief, and even as her heart expanded to accommodate more anguish, there didn’t feel like enough room to mourn Lydia as just herself. (She didn’t want to, she didn’t have the same blinders that Deirdre did. She knew too much, enough to think that she and Deirdre might be the only ones crying over the good in Lydia that was lost. Grief was a cruel feeling, but grieving alone was punishing.) One death she was old hat at managing. Two, this close to her heart, and she didn’t know which end was up, even if Deirdre had come back in the end.“But I trusted you before--” she said pitifully. “You can’t do this to me again, Deirdre. And don’t tell me you’re ready for something you’re not. I would’ve waited for you to ask me later, I would’ve tried…” She might not have succeeded, but she wouldn’t have given up everything to Deirdre’s deaf ears if she’d known better. “I was right there with you on the bench, you didn’t even take my hand. I would’ve gone with you…” She shuddered, crying into Deirdre’s shoulder, trembling with tension her body was desperate to release. None of this was fair, or right, she didn’t even want to be crying over Deirdre when there was someone else who was never coming back. Not by zombies or necromancy or anything else. Her fingers dug in, heedless of any limits or habits she’d learned. Her body wanted to fasten itself to safety and hear the heartbeat that she had come to think of as safety. Somewhere, in that desperate, pitiful place, Morgan realized they already had a promise thread between them she could pull on. “Can I ask for you…?” She said in a shaky voice. “I feel like I lost you too and I need you. I want you. Can I ask you to come to me? Stay close for just… you haven’t even let me have you back for a day, can I at least ask for until morning? Can you love me enough to give me that?”

“No, you have to hold her,” Deirdre explained quietly, “you know who she was, so you have to hold her. No one else knows and loves like you do.” But her words fell away in a matching whimper, her body slumped against Morgan and the rest she just gave up on. All the fire and brimstone raged quiet and frail. She was tired now, as she had been for so long. But that was only this Deirdre; the woman who loved Morgan. She was not whole; she was part anger, part sadness, part ash. As the parts could not exist together, not any more, she hand-picked the one that needed to perform. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “I love you.” The only things that remained feeling right inside of her; apology for her inadequacies and love that would forever hold for Morgan. “Of course you can,” Deirdre pulled back and smiled, running her broken hand against Morgan’s cheek, as if nothing was wrong with it or her; a facsimile of the affection she knew to offer. “Of course.” She couldn’t tell the promise apart from her own desire to be by Morgan’s side, and she didn’t exactly know where she had been lost, but she nodded and urged for Morgan to take it. “Ask for me,” she smiled again, a small thing though her face pulled in memory of a larger one. The corner of her lip twitched. “I love you. Ask for me.” She pitched her voice up, the way she remembered warmth and affection sounding. She was trying, but she wasn’t sure if it looked more like lying. She wanted to be good, that was it. She summoned the woman who loved Morgan and told her to sit still and smile, even if emotion was a strange taste on her tongue now. She wanted to be good.

“Okay, I’ll hold her. We won’t tell anyone, but I will,” Morgan whispered, her voice smoothing out as her body eased to the tune of Deirdre’s assurances. The tune was familiar, even if it was off-key. Deirdre was hurt. Deirdre was lost, in a way. Latched onto her the way she was now, with permission granted and settling over her like a shock blanket, she could sense that as easily as the tremor in her love’s voice and the quiet outside. The rest of Morgan’s heart unlocked and she sagged,nodding and nuzzing into Deirdre’s hand as she stroked her cheek. “I need you. Will you please come to me, Deirdre? Just until morning?” She said softly. And in the saying, she knew that it was a question and no question at all. Not just because of the magic threads Deirdre had given her outside Al’s that sad night, but because that was how Deirdre loved her, as a matter of course. Morgan took Deirdre’s broken hand gently in her own and kissed her wrist, pressing in as hard as she could. “I’m sorry I need you,” she murmured. “I love you too.” She took several deep breaths. “Thank you for trying for me right now. I just need a minute…” She breathed deep again. “We shouldn’t stay here much longer, in case the police come back, and you can’t set your bones with your hand like this, we really do need to go back to the clinic. But we can take a minute…” She breathed again. Deirdre was here. Deirdre had promised. Deirdre loved her. They were both just lost and spun in different directions, groping clumsily for some kind of stability. They’d never both needed each other so badly at the same time before and they stumbled through the crisis like idiots. Morgan looked down at the terrarium pieces on the floor. Would you be angry with me, for using our promise? She silently asked Lydia. Would you be proud that losing you didn’t break us? Morgan breathed again. “We can take that jewelry box on the vanity for her ashes, if you think that would be better than what I brought you downstairs. I think everything up here is a gift.” Morgan gestured to the array of knick knacks above her. “It could be like being held by a friend…” Morgan stroked Deirdre’s cheek and searched her eyes, wondering if there was enough of Deirdre leftover to latch onto her as dearly as Morgan latched onto Deirdre’s efforts at gentleness.

Deirdre sighed in relief, falling against Morgan like the steadiness of a bed. She could rest there, she thought, and maybe when she woke there would be more of her to work with. “Of course,” she mumbled, and couldn’t tell if the promise blossomed warmth in her chest or if her love for Morgan did. She always felt tethered to her with something far stronger than a promise. “Don’t be sorry about that,” she breathed, “I need you too.” And though the fact made her feel horribly selfish to admit, it was a truth she could unearth from herself despite her state. “We can stay here for a minute.” It sounded nice, or it sounded like it should be nice, Deirdre wasn’t sure. She only had one hand to cling desperately to Morgan with, and she gripped the fabric of Morgan’s clothing tight between her fingers. She didn’t want to lose her, that was another truth easy to unearth. “And the clinc’ll be okay. I’ll be okay to go there.” Her gaze followed along to the jewelry box. “I’m worried…that if I move her again, there’ll be less of her. I know that box is better looking, I know she’d like it more, but whenever her family comes, they might want to move her into something else. And I was thinking---she gave me that vase, the one I have the magnolias in. Maybe she’d like it there. Just for now.” She closed her eyes, and shooed away the sight of Lydia’s empty bedroom for her memories of the one she occupied. Deirdre had always been so pleased to watch Lydia go about her day, as if she might learn from her how to be just like that. This house would never know her again, and she’d fit so well here. She’d been Lydia for so long, Deirdre thought it suited her. Maybe she liked it too. Maybe she found a place to stay. Maybe this was home. She wouldn’t know now, no one would. “Lydia cared about her friends,” Deirdre opened her eyes, “people didn’t care enough about her, as it seems. But she was good. She loved, just like everyone else. And she did care. She did. I know it seems weird to you, because of how she could treat--” Deirdre swallowed thickly, leaving those words about Lydia in a different place and time. “---When I first came over, I gave her this deer skull. I thought she hated it. It wasn’t pretty like a work of art to her, and I knew she didn’t like death much. But she kept it, and she liked it. And she cared. About me, about the people she loved. They’re not going to see that, are they? They’re going to find the basement and--” She swallowed again. Deirdre didn’t know how many people knew how Lydia liked to feed, but she had a feeling that the number of them that knew and were okay with it was something she could count on one not-broken hand. Except for the fae, she reasoned, they’d get it. “I want to take some things she liked; dresses, art...I don’t know what’s going to become of this house and its belongings. But I want some things to be hers, for as long as I can keep them.”

Morgan stroked Deirdre’s hair and wove careful kisses around her temples as she spoke. There was relief in knowing that she wouldn’t have to fight her on going to the clinic, or on staying huddled together on the floor. Deirdre had promised, and so there was no need to hold onto her fear and no need to cling, except to give comfort to one another. “Then we’ll keep her where she is until we can put her in the vase. Nothing else will be lost, not anymore.” She listened to Deirdre’s story, more attentively than she had the others, and made a note to ask her for more, as many as she would give, over the next several days, which were doomed to be awful. “I know she did. I don’t know if you could hear, but her last words were to you. She loved you more than anyone else here. And I have to believe that love goes somewhere too. No energy is completely destroyed. Her love still exists, and it’s yours. And--” Morgan swallowed thickly. She had just regained her composure, but with her fear for Deirdre abated, Lydia rushed in to fill those empty spaces. “I know she loved us. I don’t know why she loved me too, we argued so much, and I think I got on her nerves--” Morgan sniffled, gasping out a sad laugh. “But I know she did. She wouldn’t have kept this stupid terrarium if she didn’t.” Morgan looked down at the mess she made of her own present. There was no more chance of repairing it now, just as there was no turning Lydia’s ashes into the woman they knew again. “And I...I don’t understand how what she did was good, but I would’ve given anything for her to be here to explain and argue with me about it.” She shook her head. “No. No, they aren’t going to understand. But we know she wasn’t just anything. Stars, she was so many things. And we’ll remember the truth, okay?” Her heart sank at Deirdre’s simple, heartbreaking request.  She pulled away enough to look at her girlfriend so she would know how disappointed she was to not be able to grant her this to the extent she wanted. “We can’t, my love. Not as much as I know you want to. This is a crime scene, and people took pictures and inventory of the things that happened here. It’s risky enough taking one of her dishes to put her in. Whatever you take, it has to be small. Something easily missed. She wouldn’t want you to get involved in this mess. She spent her last time protecting you, and I want to do that too.” Morgan stroked her love’s cheek. “One or two small things. Nothing more. Do you want me to help you up?”

“I wish I could feel it, the energy that’s left. The only thing I get is her death.” Deirdre slumped further against Morgan, as if she might mold their bodies into one. Shell of herself, she would’ve died to be filled with something else, someone else. If only she could let Morgan carry her all the way, out the otherside of time where everything was okay. “But it’s better than nothing. It’s always better than nothing.” She had heard enough prattle about grief and bereavement, some she had offered and some offered by her family. But in actuality, loss was something she had experienced very little of--a child by banshee standards, emotionally unattached by every other. She didn’t know what to do about it. But Morgan did, Morgan understood it very well. “When you lost your father…” she started quietly, “...how long was it until you started to feel whole? Did you ever?” She couldn’t live like this, she was admitting in her own way. With all the pain she held for Lydia. She felt each cut, every stab, the desperation in her cracked voice--she knew her death, and she knew the ways to cleanse herself of it. The peace she could bring was not one she wanted to commit, for the quiet of the moment, sheltered in Morgan’s arms, she felt safe enough for one last truth: she didn’t want to hurt anyone, not really. She had grown tired of it, and she knew better now. Quickly, the thought would be swallowed by ones of anger and revenge, but she offered it to Morgan, asking her to keep it. One day she would need to remind her that she didn’t want this, and she feared that day would come very soon. Lydia’s peace would be a hurricane. “We’ll remember the truth,” she repeated, “Lydia as she was.” With weak strength, she tried to nudge Morgan up; silent answer to her question. Her own legs couldn’t hold her, and she needed Morgan in more ways than she knew how to admit. “Then I’ll leave it. I can come back...later, maybe, when it’s not a crime scene anymore. I-If it’s---If they found the---this stuff might not be Lydia’s anymore. I don’t know what they do about kidna---kid--” Deirdre swallowed. “A-are you good to leave now? I think I want to---I think I--I just---I don’t want to think about huma--people--people...t-touching her things. I don’t--” Her words trickled off into whimpers and sobs.

Morgan cradled Deirdre as close as she could. Without her fear clouding her mind, she had enough wherewithal to take care with how she used her hands, her grip firm but not painful, her soothing strokes gentle but not too soft. “Oh, my love…” she sighed, pressing a long kiss to her head. “It felt like so long. It felt like...there was this heavy spiked weight inside me, and I couldn’t move without getting hurt or crushed by it. For the first week, it felt like that pain was all there was of me.” Another kiss. “But in time, the weight gets smaller. The cuts it sliced into you scar over. And eventually it’s so small and light, rattling around your chest, you don’t really feel it cut you at all, except on a bad day. You’re whole already, my love. There’s just something else for you to carry now. And you can. It’ll be a little while, but you’ll be able to as it gets lighter. And I’ll help however I can.” She looked into Deirdre’s face and smiled as tenderly as she could, trying to offer her the best hope instead of the recollections of her worst nights. I came out okay, right? I was happy again, and sometime so will you. I’m here, and I carry this, and I love you.

Deirdre’s face seemed to be reaching out with a message of it’s own, some strange thought, embarrassed, even ashamed. It seemed to be asking Morgant to help her, to get her out of whatever sunken place she was in. If it were as easy as getting to her feet and lifting Deirdre up, she would have done it in a moment. “I’ve got you,” she whispered in her ear. “We’re together, and I’ve got you, okay?” She half carried, half dragged them to the nightstand where the picked up the first book she could reach before scooping up Deirdre’s legs and walking out with her, bridal carry, and coming down the stairs. “I’m going to bend without putting you down, and you’ll get the dish you put her in, and then we’ll go, okay? We’ll go by the house first and put her in your safe and get you a change of clothes, and we’ll go back to the clinic, and if you want, I’ll read to you from her book, and we’ll be together. Is that okay?”

“But I have so much to carry…” Deirdre half-whined, half-sighed. She nodded along to Morgan’s words and willed them to help her, somehow. She latched on to Morgan’s expression of love and devotion, and willed that to stick with her too. She found they fluttered down, like someone trying to press paper to a wall, but she picked it up and tried again. And again. “Thank you, Morgan.” She said, slumping as the last of her energy drizzled down. The last words she managed to get out were a grumble, petulant in a way that felt familiar even to her now, “I hate being carried.” But she smiled softly, in a flicker, and didn’t protest. She nodded along to Morgan’s plan, though she would have agreed to just anything then, and let herself be carried away. She picked up the dish, just as Morgan said it would happen, and cradled it against her. Then she was in the car, as planned, and fatigue set into her. Her spiked weight was foregin, and heavy, and she could only just imagine how much worse it would be alone. Whenever she would wake next, memory jumbled, she would thank Morgan. She might just have died on their driveway, but the only reason she was breathing around the spikes was her love. When she woke, she would thank her. When she woke, she would...

[sourbat]

A Discussion over Spoons

Characters: Toki Wartooth and Charles Offdensen

Words: 5470

Rating: T

Summary: After the events of Galatikon 2, the members of band are alive and in need of a place to offer them the care they need to heal. Charles is unconvinced that Magnus has what it takes to provide such a setting for Toki, and attempts to convince the latter with a discussion, using spoons.

Read it online on Ao3 (with added notes explaining spoon theory) 

This is technically a Hammertooth! Magnus just isn’t a huge, active force in this one. 

It was Salacia’s final curse that he bring down Dethklok with him, wiping each member off the face of the universe, reducing them to nothing, not even stardust. Though he failed in their literal destruction, the damage they received from saving the world assured Dethklok would never perform again, effectively “killing” the band, and dooming each member to a life of normalcy, and eventual obscurity. Before that though, there was the important question as to  whom  would be charged with looking after the injured heroes. There were ruptured vocal chords to consider, arms broken in several places, and crushed hands filled with splintered bones, and Mordhaus and its hospital had been burned to the ground. While most general hospitals were more than willing to accept a savior in their wing, the aftermath of their victory left most places understaffed and overwhelmed, and the injuries each man had received was nothing to scoff at. Bunching them together in one location was not possible.

Charles and the church immediately offered their support, and the band almost considered it, but then a call from the Explosions and Abigail had Nathan second-guessing, and Skwisgaar, despite being in far worse condition than the others, commented on wishing to go to regular hospital with a female staff.

They soon decided that all would go their separate ways for healing, taking refuge in whatever space they considered to be “home.” Nathan and Murderface would return to their respective families, and would visit the other whenever possible, to ensure the other’s sanity. Skwisgaar would go to whatever hospital was located within 15 miles of a sorority or a senior living community (he had no preference), and Charles would look after Pickles while simultaneously finding new ways to block the drummer’s mother from her insistent, passive-aggressive calls, demanding to know why her son didn’t think his family was “good enough” to look after him.

Toki didn’t have to think about where he would he go, because shortly after waking up from his coma he was told he’d always have a home if he needed one, and he’d never have to worry about paying rent or anything because he saved the world so it’s forever “on the house”–and then Toki groaned for more morphine–but even in his drugged-up haze he remembered Magnus going on and adding to a list of reasons why his place was always open to him. When Charles approached him, asking if he’d like to come along with him and Pickles, or maybe share a hospital room with Skwisgaar, Toki politely refused, instead slurring out Magnus’ address to his ex-manager, smiling at the fuzzy lights, the funny way Charles looked at him once he said it, and the even funnier way Charles pushed up his glasses, asking Toki if he was sure. Absolutely sure? Quite positive? Agreeable? And what about Nathan? Abigail? Murderface? Skwisgaar? Anyone else? Anyone in Norway he could rely on? Any friends? No, not Rockso, but someone else? Someone who can handle the stress?

Anyone, but Magnus?

---

Toki stared at the line of small, silver teaspoons laid out before him in the private office that had been set aside for this occasion. Across from him, Charles sat, hands cupped and covering a portion of his mouth as he glanced down at the same spoons, awaiting a specific command before making his move. Toki didn’t say it, but just knowing what Charles was going to do made him nervous, and he was hesitant to speak out of fear that their game would end sooner than later.

But he knew, no matter what, those eight spoons would vanish faster than he was prepared for.

“Well,” Charles sharply announced, eyes narrowing on Toki.  

“Uhm, wells,” Toki replied, instinctually raising his right hand, only to writhe and lurch forward in his seat once the metal rods holding it together stabbed at his nerves with a complimentary reminder of their presence. Charles’s hand appeared in his peripheral, gently rubbing Toki’s side, distracting him from some of the pain that shot up and wracked his strained nerves and muscles with sharp contractions.

“Left hand,” Charles gently reminded Toki. “Don’t forget, you’re a lefty until further notice.”

“Keeps forgettin,” Toki complained.

“Feeling better?” Charles asked, expression unwavering as he observed Toki’s crushed hand. Even with the cast and added coverings, it was an unbecoming sight, and it seemed like no amount of prescription painkillers offered to any of the guitarists could completely rid of the pain they suffered. “I can get you something,” Charles said, knowing deep down the implications of such an empty promise.

Toki shook his left hand. “No, ams good.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, then. That’s one,” Charles said, picking up a spoon and placing it aside as he settled back into his seat.

Toki blinked, mouth turning crookedly agape as he stared at the empty space where his eighth spoon once rested. “Buts I didn’t evens do anything,” he complained, raising his head up to Charles.

Charles sighed. “You’re in pain, Toki.”

Toki jerked in his seat. He winced, but wore that look that suggested a desire to kick something was there. Charles could tell a tantrum might be in order today, and kept that thought pinned high on the list of things he’d need to account for today. Medications. Moving things aside to make his home more wheelchair accessible. Toki having a fit.

“Yeah,” Toki angrily proclaimed, “buts you saids any actions I performs that affects Magnus–”

“And would your suffering not cause him to react?” Charles calmly interrupted, stopping Toki from raising his voice, possibly getting up from his seat too fast, or risking further injury. Charles waited for Toki’s shoulder to drop, and for him to sink back into the supportive cushion. “You saw me react. You claim to know Magnus better than I do, so I’ll let you decide whether you in pain would affect him in any negative manner?”

It would. Charles’ knew Magnus reacted to violence and suffering differently than others, regarding it with a unique peculiarity that Toki couldn’t relate to. It wasn’t that Toki lacked an understanding of the trauma. He did. In fact, based upon his own observations, Charles believed that Toki and Magnus, despite their unique ways of mishandling years of abuse or abandonment, shared enough similarities that realistically meant Toki suffered from the same, if not related, illnesses that Magnus did. Charles was almost willing to bet their trauma came from the same source, but never bothered looking too deep into Magnus’ past to determine if this was true. Charles took pride in understanding the boys better than themselves, and although Magnus was never one of his, he always kept a watchful eye on him ever since the kidnapping. He was that single anomaly, but also a gear in the clock that Charles was forced to acknowledge as being part of a greater plan, but never one who warranted the same respect or care as Toki. Even after completing his role, playing the song that woke Toki and summoned the remaining members from space, to the ocean, Charles could not allot Magnus the same trust he had with the other members of the prophecy.

And he did not trust Magnus with Toki.

Meanwhile, Toki fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. His arm still smarted, and the back of his head still throbbed whenever the pains from the rest of his body added up too much. He didn’t get how so much body pain could make his brain hurt, only that it did. It was painfully, agonizingly unfair. Like this game.

How was he supposed to know  any  little thing would mean losing a spoon? Charles said he would only take away the spoons if it mattered a lot. Toki sniffed, sucking up the last bits of the hot, searing tingle that consumed his right side as he counted the remaining seven, and tried to think of a way to earn his eighth spoon back. Surely a little pain wasn’t enough to get Magnus upset? Toki remembered being in similar, albeit more emotional, pain in front of Magnus, and in those times, Magnus he’d out strong. True, they were during a darker, grim part of their shared lives, and Magnus was the one dishing the pain, but it was–  it was …not going to work.

And as Toki came to this conclusion, he saw what would realistically happen. If Magnus was willing to argue, fight and threaten doctors for moving him too much, almost getting kicked out of the hospital and put on a “no returns'' list because he couldn’t stand the way they were treating him, and complained about long waits for test results and nurses who didn’t offer up enough codeine, morphine, water, time and empathy, then Magnus would  definitely  react once he was put in charge of his well being. 

If anything, Charles had been kind to only remove one spoon. Toki wondered if Charles knew this, but was only keeping quiet so that the game would last longer.

“Fines,” Toki said with a hushed voice, pouting in dismay at how quickly things were turning against him. “Stupids game.”

“Not a game,” Charles reminded for the umpteenth time. “Again, this isn’t a game Toki, but a reflection of how Magnus’ mind works when off medication.” He saw Toki turn, already prepared to formulate his next argument, then promptly added, albeit callously, “and when faced with high amounts of stress.”

Toki tended to forget the minor details. Charles blamed a short attention span. Everyone in the band suffered from it, but Toki was up there with Murderface when it came to handling important information. To put it simply: if Toki didn’t care about the conversation just seconds prior to the information being let out, then he simply never absorbed it. Toki seemed to understand that Magnus required extra attention and monitoring because he was such a “special case,” but always seemed to forget just how permanent this situation was.

As cruel as it was, Charles needed Toki to understand this now, and in such a way he could easily comprehend. Before, Toki visited Magnus only a few days in a given month, and that number decreased the closer they got to the final hour. As training increased, klokateers revolted, and chaos ensued, those days together went up and down, and in every other direction, but never lasted much longer than a week. Now Toki was requesting to move in, stay with Magnus as a permanent roommate. Toki viewed it as the next big step in healing and quite possibly their relationship, but Charles saw the reality.

They were two glass cannons aimed at one another, each with fuses at various lengths already lit, waiting for that one trigger to set the other off, shattering both in the process.  

“Magnus ams less stressed when we talks,” Toki responded, which threw Charles off-guard. He expected a line about medication, about long-term commitment and sobriety. He was prepared for Toki to tell him he wasn’t afraid of Magnus when he blew up, or that he could fend for himself should such an event arise.

For some reason, he didn’t account for communication.

“Very well,” Charles said, settling into a slow blink and navigating a new course through their conversation. “But consider that not all conversations will end with Magnus or you feeling any better. If anything, a conversation may result in additional loss of spoons.”

“That makes no senses?” Toki half-accused, partly questioned.

“Well, what if you insist you’re alright, but he thinks otherwise? Or, what if you tell him he’s doing a good job, but he doesn’t feel that way?” Charles asked, watching Toki squirm. Reading Toki’s mind was easy. Toki made it so easy. Once he showed a moment of weakness, or built a strong sense of trust, anyone with the right mind and wrong set of goals could get Toki to expose just about anything. It was another reason he couldn’t risk Toki leaving his care. Even if Toki claimed Magnus was currently at his best, all Charles could think of was the time Magnus was at his lowest and most desperate. He’d seen the damage Magnus laid out: the bruises, the corneal abrasion, emaciated form, atrophied muscles, and the poorly sewn and infected stab wound. It was a damn shame that Toki forgave it all away, sickening that Toki rekindled a friendship, only to then build something deeper between the two of them. It was a silent act of betrayal Charles never could have predicted, and even now, blamed himself for not being there to protect Toki. No, there wasn’t a single cell in his body that believed Pickles when he claimed Toki “started it,” Murderface when he declared “Magnus ain’t too bad these days,” or Nathan when word got out that “Toki’s definitely the lead,” and finally Skwisgaar’s sad attempt of an excuse when he said, “Toki cans just kills Magnus if he reallies wanted tos.” The boys were all under the impression this was all Toki’s doing, that Toki was in control, but Charles knew it was Magnus. Toki was simply too ignorant, out of control for his own good. Somehow, Magnus manipulated the situation, and he would continue to do so if he let Toki deeper into his life.

“Okays, but if Toki ams really, really honests with hims?” Toki suggested with a childish demeanor. “Maybes if he knows Toki ams in pain, but will be okays in a few minutes, he won’t gets so stressed outs?”

“Be prepared to lose a spoon,” Charles answered plainly, ignoring Toki’s miserable expression when he gave a stiff, hurtful nod as a response.

Charles pointed at the row of spoons. Frowning, Toki picked one up and offered it to Charles without looking in his direction. Despite the quiet act of defiance, Charles could make out the outlines of a frown, and a man who foolishly considered this all one big game that he desperately wanted to win.

“Tell me more about your day,” Charles began, watching Toki snap and return to the six remaining spoons resting on the table. He could see the stress already beginning to add up as Toki counted his dwindling spoons, slowly but surely realizing that Magnus couldn’t possibly look after him without either falling into a depressive state, breaking into a manic state of blind fury, or just completely shutting down. 

Surely.

“I wakes up,” Toki begins, eyes darting up and cautiously waiting for approval. He waited, almost wondering if Charles was thinking up a way to steal another spoon, but he didn’t. Charles raised two fingers, then gave a small wave to let Toki know he was safe. A bit relieved, Toki continued. “I leaves the bed and puts on clothes.”

“You still need help dressing, correct?” Charles asked him.

“Yeps,” Toki replied, only to then realize the error in his honest reply.

“That’s another spoon.”

“Reallies?” Toki asked, voice hiking up and turning into a high-pitched whine once Charles took the third spoon from the line. Toki threw his good hand on the edge of the table. “Ams just clothes?” he loudly exclaimed.

“Continue with your day, Toki.”

“I eats breakfasts on my owns,” Toki replied with a nasty drop in his voice. “And I don’t needs helps getting’ ups or sittin’ downs, either.”

“What about the bathroom?”

“Charles, that ims privates.” Toki remained firm in his position, allowing the silence between them to stretch for some time before it became too awkward and overwhelming for him. “Fine, Toki needs helps with showers and toilets.”

Charles pointed at a spoon. Toki groaned, throwing his head back before taking a spoon with his left hand and carelessly tossing it at Charles. Charles made a remark about it, but Toki continued staring up in anger. Something in his stomach turned as he tried to figure a day and the number of trips to the bathroom he’d have to take. It was so stupid and so stressful, and it barely made any sense because Toki could do most of it on his own; he just needed helped taking off his clothes, or undoing the button on his pants. But this stupid hand of his! It just wasn’t fair that meant a whole spoon…

“Alright,” Charles said, rubbing his chin after encountering the tossed spoon. “We’ve concluded our morning rituals. With four spoons left, too.”

“Goings to keep playing until Toki loses all spoons?” Toki asked sarcastically.

“Not if you understand why I’m making you go through this,” Charles replied fluidly.

Toki dropped his head, frowning at Charles. As if it wasn’t so obvious why this was happening to him. “Because you don’ts like Magnus,” Toki answered, watching the bottom of Charles’ eye twitch.

“Because he cannot take care of you for the long term,” Charles said, stressing the word.

Toki leered back. It wasn’t like he totally disagreed with Charles’ reply, but he knew better than to assume that was the only case. He wasn’t going to pretend everyone up and forgave Magnus. Not even after the hellfire. The escape. The song. Like everything else in Toki’s life, some things just didn’t work out that way. But he at least had everyone’s support to give this whole thing a short. Everyone except Charles. Toki’s glare weakened as he continued to stare at Charles, wishing that the man would just believe in him.

“Toki, you just survived an impossible event,” Charles said, unblinking. “You and Skwisgaar will never be the same again, physically or mentally. You need months of rest, therapy, and other things that we won’t be able to account for until they start showing up.”

Blah, blah, blah. Toki glanced at the spoons. He only had four left, and there was still so much to be had. The game seemed rigged against him, but Toki figured there had to be a way to win. Some rule that Charles left out, either by accident or on purpose. Or maybe it was a riddle, and he was too hung up on the only rule presented?

“Charles?”

“Yes, Toki?” Charles replied.

Toki bit his inner cheek, a bit nervous to ask. He had no clue if Charles would answer honestly, or continue stealing spoons every time he did or said the wrong thing. “Magnus can gets spoons, rights?” he asked hesitantly.

“Well, in theory he can recover them,” Charles admitted, withholding another twitch of the eye once Toki’s eyes lit up with some hope, “mainly through rest, though  hypothetically he can regain a spoon throughout the day if he has the right support system.”

Charles regretted the honesty, because as soon as he finished, Toki started to ponder. He didn’t have to guess the next question that he’d ask, and already papered his next line of attack.

“If I tells him I loves him even if he’s stressed, will he gets a spoon back?” Toki asked, anxiety now coupling oddly with gooey-eyed romantics. It was a strange, unsightly combination that made Charles nervous. “And sometimes I leaves him alones when he ams upsets about somethings. Does that counts as rests? Or whens Toki calls him funny names until he gets so happy his face gets all darks and lips all thins and scrambly?”

Charles watched Toki’s face continue to light up with ideas, then turn a bright shade of pink as he contemplated  other  options, ones Charles absolutely had no desire to humor.

“What if we…” Toki’s expression turned as conservative as it possibly could, “what if we rests  togethers? Then we both gains spoons, rights?”

“Pardon?”

“Y’know,” Toki covered the bottom half of his face, looking somewhat embarrassed by the question. “When we…does se–”

“I’m referring to you gaining spoons,” Charles interrupted.

“Oh, yeahs,” Toki replied, dropping his hands and recovering too quickly for Charles’ liking. He practically jumped on the question. “Wells, you said Magnus cans gains spoons if he rests, so I thoughts that means I cans also gets the spoons, rights?”

“Toki, why do you need spoons?”

“To helps Magnus when he ams out of spoons,” Toki answered, pointing at the four remaining spoons on the table.

Charles dragged his thumb and finger up the bridge of his nose. “You can’t give him your spoons, Toki.”

“Yeah, buts you said rests and supports will helps him gets new spoons,” Toki aptly replied, voice returning to its more natural state, but lacking the tinge of anger or annoyance. No, now Toki sounded calmer, almost informed. “If Magnus ams going to run out spoons before lunches, then that means Toki needs spoons to take care of Magnus when he ams out of spoons, right?”

Charles’ lips parted as his jaw threatened to drop at the question.

“Toki takes care of Magnus when his spoons are low,” Toki said, face continuing to ease and confidence building as he declared his newly hatched plan. “just like befores, when Magnus only hads two or three spoons before he yells at Toki to leave. Backs in the hospitals, after he stabs himself.”

Charles frowned. This was not happening. Did Toki really think this was some game where he could simply reset the number of attempts he had before Magnus snapped? Hurt him, or himself, or others around him? Did Toki forget he was no longer a god, but a mortal capable of dying if left under the wrong care?

Did Toki take nothing from the lesson? Did he not grasp the gravity of this situation? This wasn’t a visit. This wasn’t a weekend sleepover. A romp that ended with Toki taking a jet back to Mordhaus. This was several months of wearing a cast, having rods hold torn ligaments and broken bones together in an attempt not to lose a hand. This was potentially being told, several months down the line, that his hand and arm would never function the same again. Eventually, Toki would have to accept the cruel reality that he’d never play guitar again. What then?  This was not accounting all the mental and emotional trauma. There were night terrors, Toki ceasing all conversation and withdrawing from everyone, and him breaking out into uncontrollable sobs at random. There was Toki feeling perpetual guilt over Nathan losing his voice, and him vocally wishing he’d been a better companion to Murderface and beating himself over it. It was Toki trying and failing miserably to cheer up Pickles and Skwisgaar, who had used music as a powerful means of escape, and hating that no joke or picture or board game could really make up for the loss of ability to play and perform.

“So if Magnus needs rests, Toki will gives him rests and use my spoons,” Toki concluded, ignoring Charles’ darkening expression. He could see Charles didn’t like what he said, even with his lips forming a straight line. It was impressive Charles could do that, though it meant it was hard for Toki to tell what he was thinking. Toki guessed he thought he was crazy. Maybe Toki was, and he just wanted to be crazy with Magnus. But after learning he spent so much time in the afterlife, or somewhere in between, and in a coma and now trapped in a hospital, Toki was sure he’d rather be crazy and counting spoons with someone who  honest-to-god wanted to hang out with him. Only Magnus made that offer. Charles did too, but Magnus made it when he was sick and barely conscious, and kept making even after being told Toki would need extra care. Magnus still wanted him to stay, as beat down and exhausted as he was, possessing nothing but the few things he snuck out with him during the fire, and whatever empty awards that were handed to him after he woke up. He was broke, could barely walk from his bedroom to Nathan’s without feeling winded or needing support, and he’d never be able to make music or support himself through music, or even play the guitar…but Magnus’s invitation was still there.

Toki smiled, raising his arm midway before wincing terribly against the pain. He lowered his right arm, feeling tears starting to form, though it was hard to tell whether it was more a result of him forgetting his right arm was filled with rods, or because he knew that, between them, there was enough silverware to make it through the day. Tears fell as he recounted the spoons on the table, four plus the dozen or so Toki was sure he had, despite the agonizing pain that trumped his senses, and he knew there had to be several more he wasn’t seeing, because if Magnus could still bring himself to show up to his hospital bed and, with a smile, remind him the offer was still there, than that had to count for at least an additional spoon or two?

“Use… your spoons?” Charles murmured, bottom lids raising as Toki provided an eager nod, pushing out a pleased smile through his reddened eyes. “You will use your spoons on him…and yourself. While in a cast. Reliant on round the care supervision? “

Beaming through tears, Toki answered: “Yeps. I waits for his numbers to be high agains and asks for his helps while my spoons fixes back.” He blinked, bringing his good hand up and wiping the few tears that fell down his still gaunt cheeks. “So…does that means we wins and can stays togethers?”

Charles lowered his face into clasped fingers. His eyes closed as he wrangled control of his deepening frustration. “…is that  all you took form this conversation?” he asked, unsurprised when he caught Toki shaking his head, still appearing as controlled as he could, given his obvious discomfort.

“Nopes.”

Charles raised an unconvinced brow. “Well, then, what else did you learn from this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“That this ams not a game,” Toki answered, bringing his hand to rub his upper, right arm. Charles reached out to help, but Toki pushed his seat back with his legs, scooting away. Charles almost took it as the official lead-in to an argument or tantrum, but Toki stood up and, bringing his good hand down, picked up the four remaining spoons. “If it ams game, then Toki loses by lunchtimes. But Toki never does. Because Magnus ams not a game; he ams a person who tries.”

“You’re correct,” Charles said, with caution. “But you need to–”

“I knows it won’ts work all the times,” Toki added, fighting to have his voice heard. “And I knows there will be days when we ams both reallies low.”

“So you’re aware then–”

“But we wills figures somethings out,” Toki pushed through, successfully stopping Charles a second time. “We ams always good at thats. Maybes Magnus cans…” Toki stopped, breaking into a short fit of mad blinks. Charles waited, watched in growing discomfort as Toki’s eyes started to rain silent tears. He bit his inner lip, blinking repeatedly, struggling to say something that had been building up in him. “If Magnus cans learns to take cares of himself, even whens he hates himself, then so cans Toki,” Toki finished, and Charles’ eyes began to widen once he registered the absolution in Toki’s voice, the brutal honesty and recognition of his own, sorry state that Charles wasn’t aware the young man truly comprehended. “And, maybe if Toki is luckies, Magnus can teaches To…c-can teaches  me  to b-be okays, with alls of  this…”

Still holding the spoons, Toki gestured at himself, using the small teaspoons to point at his ruined arm, his wasted and ruined form. Stuttering, Toki shut his eyes, upset at what was left of him, what he was stuck with for the rest of his life. Charles’ shut his own eyes, unmoving as he listened to sniffs and the sounds of spoons hitting the floor. So, Toki knew. Charles wondered just how much. He was afraid to ask. He wasn’t used to being wrong. The fact that it was Toki who pulled it off only made it harder to accept.

But, when it came to it, there was little he could do to convince the man to stay behind with him. Charles could tell Toki things would be alright, but that wasn’t the case. Charles had enough training in therapy, physical education and possessed enough background in kinesiology, but a gut sensation told him he lacked the ability to help pull Toki from the brink of despair. Mayhap in a few months, once he dealt with Pickles, planning and preparation for the onslaught of trouble to arise, but right now?  Viewing Toki now, not as an overly gullible and childish man, but someone who fully accepted that this was it….that this was his reward for saving the planet, changed something. Suddenly, Charles wondered if he did have what it takes to help Pickles, and guide the other boys back on the path of the living. 

“Okay, Toki,” Charles said, shaking his sinking head into spreading palms. Shame swept and blanketed his core as he heard Toki make another loud sniff, and he wondered just far Toki had fallen since waking up, and how deep Magnus would be willing to go to find him, offer a light, and pull him out from such a dark abyss. “You win.”

---

Toki wasn’t the first to leave (that would be Nathan and his family), but he departed at the opportune moment. Magnus arrived early, right after breakfast, and had Toki wheeled out shortly after he loudly declared his arrival to the hospital staff. The staff was effective at packing up Toki’s things, and a nurse already had a stack of files for Magnus to sign off.

The scene earned a chuckle from Skwisgaar, who, despite his pains, thought it appropriate that Magnus’ off-putting behaviors would result in an easy ticket out the door. Murderface wished Toki well, and promised to see him soon. Pickles hardly reacted, only providing a weak smile before withdrawing back into his wheelchair. The silent parting only made Charles less confident in his position, and offered some silent respect towards Toki for helping him take a step back and gain a better view of the challenges to come. 

He hurried on ahead, while Magnus ordered for a nurse to carry Toki’s things. Magnus would obviously be the one to wheel Toki out. 

From a distance, Charles waited outside of the hospital, and he witnessed the scene. Magnus pushed Toki towards his car, and the only talking Charles picked up on was the accompanying nurse’s, giving out a series of “does and don’ts” before dropping off their luggage by their small, barely adequate ride. Charles had to admit, Magnus did well to listen and never interrupt. He guessed Toki must have said something, but didn't see his lips move once during the one-sided discussion. In fact, aside from a few shared words between bandmates, Charles wasn't sure he heard Toki speak at all to himself or anyone else.

 He remained outside the hospital, well after Magnus noticed his presence, but continued to observe, noting how much livelier Magnus was in comparison to Toki, how he held that false smile so well and was so animated with his movements. It was like staring at another man. Maybe that was the point. 

He saw Magnus open the passenger door, say something to Toki with a slightly concerned look, and Toki nodded his head slowly, looking so exhausted but trusting. Charles nearly left his post when Magnus bent down, arms carefully wrapping around Toki before scooping him up and earning only a slight complaint that could barely be detected where Charles stood. Upset, he watched Toki’s good arm wrap around Magnus as he brought the two of them up, legs not shaking but head leaning to bump and rest against Toki’s, soothing whatever pain that wasn’t voiced.

What is that? One, two, three? 

For a second, Charles wondered. He thought about everything he knew, and humored the idea of him possibly being wrong about Magnus, whether it be one thing, or everything adding up to this moment. After all, the prophecy was vague, and the messages translated to him had been proven wrong once before.

Maybe this was for the best. Maybe this would work out.

Silent and ever observant, Charles watched with a swelling, pained heart, Toki being lifted and carefully placed into the car by the man who stood behind his very shadow, his kidnapper and composure of the dethsong, his savior and friend. Charles let out a long exhale as the engine started up, and left his position to go back inside and look after the remaining members as Toki was whisked away, leaving behind all of his and Magnus’ titles, and moving on with whatever the fates had in store for them next.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt.13

Keith came out the shower doing his best drowned rat expression to date. With the towel around his shoulders, Lance wondered if Keith was protecting his neck, or preventing his shirt from soaking through. Having already showered, Lance had a glass of blood wine in one hand, and his phone in the other, dinner plans having gone out the window while he was busy playing with Keith

“Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”

Keith crossed his arms, Lance having to stomp down his compulsion to go dry the younger males hair off with a towel

“What?”

“Well, remember my friends from the other night, yeah, Hunk’s going to be here in about 20 minutes to pick us up”

“I’m not going”

“You don’t even know where we’re headed to”

“I don’t care. We’re not going”

It didn’t escape Lance that “I” had turned to “we”. He figured the hunter wouldn’t trust him to go out alone, and if he hadn’t been totally awol from his normal life he would have been turning down the invitation for some serious self pampering time

“Sorry, but you see, when my friends want to hang out, I don’t turn them down. You need to go get changed into something more bar appropriate”

“We’re not going. We haven’t finished talking. You turned me, and I need to know more”

With the number of times Keith had accused him, Lance felt like he’d know Keith far longer than a week and a bit... God, he couldn’t even remember if it had been a week, Keith’s idiocy was spreading

“And I hear I was thinking you’d finally gotten a clue. We’re going, because I’m invited. I’ll go on my own if I have to, but I had the feeling you’d freak out and think your prey was running away”

Keith’s emotions flickered across his face, obviously arguing mentally about the fact he couldn’t say no, and nor did he have the power to stop Lance

“Fine, but only so I can make sure you don’t turn anyone else. If you so much look like you’re going to bite someone, I will decapitate you”

“Excellent. I think I should have something in wardrobe that’ll fit. I’m guessing you like black on black”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You’re wearing a black onesie. Some people might be into that, but at a bar, that suit’s a crime against fashion”

“It’s not made to be fashionable”

“No, it’s made so you can be all “bump in the night”. Blargh. Go change already”

Keith told Lance at least several times that wearing his clothes had been forced upon him. Lance wasn’t sure why, when Keith had chosen his own wardrobe out of what was available. In ripped skinny legged black jeans and a black silk button up, Keith looked passable. Lance chalking up the weird sensation of wanting to pat Keith’s butt to the fact he too was recovering from being poisoned. Keith was soooo not his type, never mind the fact the guy was a freakin’ human, Keith hated him with a passion. Nope. Keith didn’t look good in his clothes, nor would he look better out of them. Lance was just... going through a lot. That was it. He was not getting suckered in by those piercing purple eyes, or the way Keith’s collarbones peaked out of the shirt. The blood in his body had enough to deal with, without it deciding it needed to make a trip down south over absolutely nothing.

Leaving Blue feeding her face on wet food, Lance headed for the door, back tracking to grab Keith by the wrist and drag him along behind him. Keith was starting to object all over again, but Lance wasn’t having it. If he had to socialise around drunks, then the punishment should be shared by Keith for being so goddamn hot and stupid... mostly stupid with a dash of stupidly hot sprinkled on top, kind of like unwanted chilli flakes. Lance was feeling pretty confident in his own outfit, blue jeans, white shirts and cropped tan jacket, but Keith had one upped him without even trying. Maybe Keith would get laid and lose some of his prickliness? The anger loaf needed to let that anger go, and turn into that beautiful emo butterfly hidden inside his cocoon of douchery. Towing Keith out the house, Lance left the alarm off in case Shiro came back. Explaining Keith’s presence seemed a hard enough challenge as it was, explaining why Shiro was breaking into his house... that was a whole other kettle of fish.

*

Lance had been lied too. There was no bar, they were in fact in Platt, running a rehearsal of Hunk’s date with Shay on the weekend. Picking up Pidge, she’d thrown herself into the back of the car, hand narrowly missing Lance’s junk in her rush. Oogling Keith, Pidge had elbowed him as she buckled herself in, all Lance could do was offer a shrug. Hunk’d already been shocked enough for the three of them, Lance lying his arse off saying Keith had offered to stay a few days and help Lance take photos of his house as he was thinking of repainting. The photos were for the online lab thingo where you could upload your rooms and pick colours there. Yep, those were the words he used too, technology was forever changing and he openly admitted he missed the days before social media... other than the cat videos and memes.

With Keith having no cash, Lance paid. Choosing gold class tickets meant the food was included, and the seating private. The hunter looked spooked by human interaction, Lance ordering steak dinners for the pair of them because damn if he wasn’t in the mood for some budget dead cow. Buying the biggest coke they had, Lance enjoyed the fact that the mix ratio was whack with more syrup than soda water, the straw ending up chewed on before they’d even made it into the screening room. Lance wasn’t sure about the movie selection but with Hunk and Shay going to see the one rom-com playing, Lance steered the group away from buying tickets for it so his bestie and Shay could enjoy seeing it for the first together.

Taking their seats, Lance wound up between Pidge and Keith. Pidge immediately started playing with the chair remote, and Keith sighed in annoyance. Leaning in, Lance kind of felt bad that they hadn’t wound up at a bar. Keith would have been able to have a few drinks and kick back, then find someone to take to the bathroom and work that aggression out. Just because he hadn’t done the do, didn’t mean Keith wasn’t a seasoned professional

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know we were going to see a movie”

“Whatever”

“I’m serious. I didn’t know. I would have dressed warmer if I did, and would have insisted you put a jacket on”

“I’m not a kid”

“I know you’re not. I just feel bad. I was hoping you’d be able to relax a little...”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore”

“Okay, but I really am sorry”

When dinner came out, Keith poked at until he finally gave in, pretty much wolfing it down, half an hour later Lance had to excuse himself to the bathroom, finding Keith gone when he returned. Taking his seat beside Pidge, Lance leaned in

“What happened to Keith?”

“He said he needed the bathroom. Didn’t you see him?”

“No. How long ago did he leave?”

“Not long after you... Dude, what’s your deal with him?”

“My what?”

“Your deal. What’s he still doing here?”

“I asked him to take some photos of the house for me”

Pidge crossed her arms

“If you’re going to lie, at least make it convincing”

“Who said I’m lying?”

“You did. I know you, and I know when you’re lying. Something’s off with Keith, and you’re acting really weird”

“I’m not acting weird”

“Are you two dating? Is that why you’re being weird? You feel like you can’t talk to us...”

“No! No, no, no, no, no... ewww. No. I’m not dating him, he’s a stranger”

“A stranger you bring to a movie night with your best friends”

“It was either leave him the house or bring him with me”

“So he’s staying with you, like, staying staying?”

“Only for tonight. Shiro’s going to pick him up. I’m thinking of repainting the living room closer to its original colours, and I figured having a fresh set of photos would work”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

Pidge’s words went right over his head, before looping back and slapping him in the face. Pidge had had her feathers ruffled by Keith “taking” what would have been her “job”

“Because, my Pidgeon legged friend, you would start hunting for ghosts in my house, then try to steal Blue as you left”

“You’re dodging the question”

“I’m not dodging the question. I only asked him because he’s a professional. You’re still my number one tech guru. I’m sorry I’ve been sick and haven’t been able to hang out, but I’ve missed my gremlin. No one can replace my little anger muffin”

“You’re a wanker”

“So I’ve been told”

“Has your cold when passed? You still look pale”

“Yep. Clean bill of health from the doctor. Just the usual take it easy for the next few days, fluids, sleep, platonic dates with your best friends, the usual post cold instructions”

“I’m still shocked you’ve got Keith staying with you”

“I’m shocked too. But I keep telling myself it’s only for a few days and soon it’ll all be over”

“Dude, he was wearing your clothes”

“And?”

“Lance, you know I’d never judge you for your sexuality...”

Lance laughed, him and Keith simply too ridiculous to even go there

“It’s definitely not like that”

“Are you sure? I mean... I’ve never seen you like this...”

“What? Invaded by a photographer?”

“No, not like that... I mean... like, he’s wearing your clothes, staying at your house... it’s not like you”

“Keith didn’t have any clothes that weren’t a crime against fashion, or acceptable at a bar, which I totally thought we were going to, thanks to a certain someone. Nah, he’s just staying a couple of days then Shiro is going to pick him back up and that’s that”

“Something still feels off”

“Pidge, I promise I’m okay, and I promise Keith and I aren’t in some whirlwind romance, or whatever that brain of yours has thought up. I’m actually pretty sure he hates me, if that makes you feel any better”

“Nope. It just makes it weirder... Should we be worried that he hasn’t come back?”

“Nah, I’ll go see if I can find him. Dude’s got the social aptitude of a rockmelon. He probably peopled himself out and is having a sulk”

“If you say so. Now go away, I’ve already missed part of this riveting plot”

The plot wasn’t riveting. It was badly thought through and designed for the masses. Like most things...

Keith wasn’t in the cinemas entrance hall, nor the bathroom, Lance heading outside to search for him. Not at the front of the cinema, Lance was starting to get pretty annoyed with his missing idiot. The last place left to check was the parking lot, where he found said idiot cornered by three men. Great... just... great. He took his eyes off him for two minutes and he’d already wandered off into trouble. Walking over to stand just short of the three strangers, Lance eyes Keith who had his arms crossed, scowling at the group

“Heya, fellas. Something wrong here?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“You know, just a concerned citizen. You’ve got my friend cornered, so if you could just see it in your hearts to let him go...”

Lance stepped back, escaping being hit in the face as the stranger bared his teeth. What the fuck?! Was Keith dense as fuck? Or did he think he had the skill to take on three idiots

“Your wallet or you life”

“Seeing you’re getting neither, I suggest you run along home”

“What did you say to me?!”

They hadn’t even had to go to bar to find trash. Lance sighed as he pulled out his phone

“Well, we are living in the age of technology. This miraculous little device lets me call the police when people like you start messing with people”

“You won’t get the chance”

“We’ll see”

Avoiding being attacked was laughable. His attackers had like zero grace, they must instead rely on numbers to look “intimidating”. Each swing that didn’t connect made them madder, their “leader” pulling out a small blade, as Lance danced around them. Putting the phone to his ear, he made as if he was calling the police and not his home phone

“I’m going to kill you...”

Raising his pointer to his lips, Lance hushed the man

“Didn’t anyone teach you its rude to interrupt someone on a phone call?”

If someone was watching, the would have found the way the three morons were falling over each other hilarious

“Yes, hi, I’d like to report an attempted robbery at the front of Platt Pictures. There’s three guys that have bailed up two men...”

Dropping down to dodge the punch thrown at his face, Lance swept the leg of the leader, snatching his blade out his hand as the man’s eyes widened for the millisecond as he fell

“Yep. There still here... I’ll wait. You guys should probably run if you’re going to. Cops are on their way”

The look in the leaders eyes was something feral, spitting like it made him cool, the man wiped his mouth

“I’ll get you for this”

“I’ll be waiting, but I won’t be holding my breath. Also, I’ll be keeping hold of this blade of yours. Evidence and all that. It’s amazing this fingerprint technology...”

“Forget it, lets scram!”

When the leaders two goons split, the man pushed himself up, running off like the coward he was. Lance giving them a little wave as they did. Ending the call to his house, Lance slipped his phone back in his pocket, before holding out the blade to Keith

“Here, a souvenir of our time together”

“I could have handled that”

Lance rolled his eyes

“Never said you couldn’t. Anyway, take it. You seem to like knives and I’ve got no use for it”

Keith frowned at the offered knife

“But the police...”

“Aren’t coming. Let’s just say I have a job where I need to keep my name squeaky clean”

“What the hell?!”

Lance sighed at Keith

“What? Do you want me to call them? I totally can, I remember all their facial features”

“You didn’t do me a favour...”

“Never said I did. Oh, you totally skipped out on movie night. Do I want to ask why you’re not inside pretending to be scared like everyone else”

“The movie was shit”

“Finally, something we can agree on. But, Hunk and Pidge are trying to be friendly with you, so leaving is kind of a dick move”

“They don’t even like me”

“They might if you’re not out here hiding. Also, Pidge thinks we’re dating, so come on darling, we’ve got a movie to finish”

Lance took Keith by the wrist. Socialising wasn’t about to kill him

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Dragging Keith’s along, Lance spoke as they walked

“Well, that’s a long story. You see a long time ago a little boy was turned into a vampire. He grew up to become a lawyer, living as human like as he could, as he tried his hardest to give back to humanity so no other little kids got hurt. He never fed from a single person, took a lover, or like harmed any one more than what you just saw... You could say things were going well for him and he was happy. That was until two hunters crashed into his little corner of the world. He was forced to drink blood from an actual person for the first time in his life. Which upset him, because he felt he’d lost a little of the humanity he wanted. Now he’s trying his hardest for a stranger who wants him dead, and refuses to listen to him, because he’s some disgusting, revolting, beast that deserves that’s not even fit to be on the bottom of your shoe”

“That’s just it, why are you trying?”

“I don’t know, and that’s what’s getting under my skin”

Dragging Keith the whole back to their seats, they got there in time for the heroic ending where the main character saved the day. Hunk was sobbing, Pidge had gotten herself some skittles and was attempting to catch them in her mouth as she made a mess around her. Seeing they’d mostly missed the film, he and Keith remained standing there until the credits started and Pidge called “time to bail”. Ditching holding Keith’s wrist, because he’d honestly forgotten he had, Lance wrapped his arm around Hunk’s waist

“Good movie?”

“She was so brave...”

“I know, man”

Pidge cuddled up to his side until Lance looped his other arm around her

“What did you think?”

“It sucked. There were so many plot holes. I want my money back”

“Aw, never mind Pidgeon. It’s over now”

“That’s 133 minutes of my life I am never going to get back. You and Keith are arseholes. You missed most of the film!”

“Are we arseholes, or are you cranky we escaped?”

“You’re both definitely arseholes”

“Now, to be fair, Keith hit his people limit of the day. You’d never know, for all his conversational skills, but he’s a lot like you, Pidgeroonie. He gets very tired of people fast, and cannot do the brain without the coffee”

“That’s because people fucking suck!”

Pidge’s loudness caused the people walking near them to stare, staring was awkward forever one involved, Lance didn’t want the night to end awkwardly

“Okay, that’s enough exposure to the public for one night. Why don’t we grab something and head home? I’ll even pay”

“Yay! I want a super sized slushie. I should have thought of it sooner. I wonder if that slushie place with the weird flavours is still open”

Hunk groaned

“You’re making me do city driving?”

“Dude, relax. It’s night time, meaning there aren’t as many people on the road. Consider it practice for your date”

Hunk blushed, Lance laughing happily

“Don’t be mean to him, I’ll drive. Pidge, you’re in directions. Hunk, music, naturally, Keith, you get to sit in the back with Pidge and make sure she doesn’t get up too much mischief”

“What? Why?”

“Because I said so”

*

Keith opted to stay in the car and be a buzz killer as the three of them rushed to the slushie store. Minutes from closing, they were those annoying customers that all retail staff dread. Pidge was in heaven as she eyed the walls of flavour, Lance paying and limiting her to two without added energy drink. Hunk went for bubblegum flavour, Lance for strawberry. Keith hadn’t come in, but part of Lance didn’t want him feeling left out. With all the scowling faces Keith had pulled since they’d met, lemon was ruled out as a potential flavour, instead he went for iced coffee labeled as being lactose free. Keith might not be the nicest person in the world, but that didn’t mean Lance was going to be a douche over something Keith couldn’t control. He knew the man liked coffee, so it was the most logical choice. Pidge ended up unable to decide. One abomination made of orange, pineapple and mango, the second strawberry, bubblegum and coke. Making sure he’d left the woman behind the counter a very generous tip, Lance ushered Pidge and Hunk back to Hunk’s car, a little proud of himself when he got Keith’s door open with his foot in the door handle. Glaring up at him, Lance beamed in pride

“I got you one”

“I don’t need one”

“Yes, you did. It’s iced coffee, lactose free. Consider it an apology for venting on you earlier, if you need an excuse to take it”

Handing Keith the drink, Keith eyed it in suspicion

“Dude, it’s fine. Legit went from the machine to the cup then out to you. Pinky swear and all that. If you don’t want to drink it, I won’t get offended. I just thought it’d be nice to include you”

“Whatever. Thanks and stuff”

“You’re welcome. Let’s get you back home away from all these people so you can take a nap”

Keith’s expression soured, Lance was sure he was going to have the iced coffee slushy thrown at him, so shut the door quickly. Keith wouldn’t be a big enough douche to ruin Hunk’s interior. Hunk was a human, someone Keith was supposed to protect, meaning hurting his feelings had to go against whatever code hunters were bound to. Being caught up in everything going on, Matt came to his mind as Lance opened the driver’s door, his heart sinking. He hadn’t thought about Matt all night. Pidge had probably spent the whole night missing her brother and wishing it was him at the movies with them instead of Keith. He didn’t want to seem down, but it was hard to perk himself up now that he’d remembered he didn’t know how to act around Pidge. Climbing into Hunk’s car only made his heart ache more as Pidge and Hunk bickered over her flavour combinations. There was a code of privacy within VOLTRON, so he couldn’t enquire into Matt’s status. He couldn’t do anything to help Pidge with her Matt situation except for maybe confirm he was alive, which Shiro had already confirmed. Goddamn Shiro. He was ruining his night and the man wasn’t even here.

[fairycosmos]

im sry for messaging u like this sory but i just. Dont know who to talk to. i hate my father so much and the shit he does wears me down..he‘s told me i should „keep all my imbecile opinions“ to myself, whenever i show any emption he tells me to get over it n just rn he got angry at me for something i didnt do. Like he made up a story and told me off for it. i hate it here but i also hate the thought of moving out n leaving my mum alone with him. Fuck everything he‘s never apologized once

it’s ok ! don’t apologize, it’s completely fine. but god why is your dad out of his mind and why are you being expected to just put up with it like?? 😠😠😠 this is the textbook definition of emotional manipulation and gas lighting and im so so sorry you have to deal with it. i can not imagine how hard it must be to live under the same roof as someone so far removed from reality. and i dont mean to condescend when i say im proud of you for making it this far and for being able to open up about it to me. it’s not easy at all and yet you’re doing it anyway, and that counts for so much. honestly, his words/actions/anger are only a reflection of him and never, ever of you and i want you to try to live by that as much as you can. though you obviously have every right to be hurt/pissed off/sad - whatever instinctive reaction you’re feeling is yours to claim and it is completely justified. you do not need permission to cry, to get angry, to rant, to feel it all. though it’s painful, its presence is to be expected. the only thing that is your responsibility is doing what you can to deal with those emotions in a healthy way. sometimes that’ll look like sobbing in bed, sometimes it’ll look like talking to a friend/someone you trust, sometimes it’ll look like practicing positive self affirmations, sometimes it’s just getting through the day. and it may not work every time. the point is simply to try. and i really hope that at the same time as that, you can begin to understand on a fundamental level that you do not need to ‘get over’ anything. that your opinions are important and deserve to be heard. that when he makes shit up and gets mad about it, that is an example of nothing more than his ineptitude as a father. there is no guilt on your shoulders, you have done nothing wrong. while i understand internalizing self hatred due to abuse and trauma, and that it can often take a life time to work through, i think it’s important to be able to recognize periodically that you are worth so much more than you’re being made to feel like. even if it feels like you’re lying to yourself, say it anyway and keep saying it because it’s beyond true. you deserve so much better - he’s a cunt and that’s on him. you will always be a better person than him. 

i can totally understand why you’re scared to leave your mum, and i wont try to sway your opinion too much either way because obviously the choice is yours. but please always keep in mind that you are ALWAYS going to be deserving of a happy, healthy and safe environment. there is never going to be any shame in seeking one out. your mum needs to make the decision to leave on her own and you do not have to stay in harms way waiting for her to do so if the opportunity to leave presents itself. this is your life, after all. but i know it’s a more nuanced matter than that, and i totally get why you feel stuck. so until then, i’m wondering if there’s any way you can seek outside support to help you cope? i know this feels like a daunting idea or something you cant actually bring yourself to do, but i promise it is always an option and it is not going to be as bad as your brain is leading you to believe. it can look like calling an abuse hotline, asking your doctor to refer you to a mental health professional who can work with you on coping mechanisms/cbt, attending a support group (there may be online ones as well cause you know quarantine), and also researching self help tactics you can utilize throughout your day. journaling, meditation, finding a safe space, opening up, comfort hobbies/distractions. they’re not solutions or cures, they just help you pause and breathe. that can change a lot. there are so many people who understand what it’s like to be in your shoes and you don’t have to face this all on your own, i promise. like i said, i know it’s a lot so please take it as a simple suggestion and something you could possibly think about working up to. it’s okay to talk about what’s going on, you know? it sounds like he’s put you through so much, and i believe with all my heart that you deserve to begin to heal. which can happen at the same time as hurting, by the way. every day you’re making progress that you don’t even realize is happening. and some day, much sooner than you think, you’re going to live a full, bright and autonomous life of your own completely divorced of your shitty dad and his toxicity.  you’ll get to choose whether or not you ever even see him again. he’ll be nothing in the grand scheme of all the ppl who are going to show you what it’s like to be loved. anyway, i didn’t want to make this too long but my heart is with you angel. i really hope you can move beyond this one step at a time. not every day has to be a good one but there is always a way forward. and each moment you get through, you get closer to the this man having no bearing on your existence whatsoever. im sending you so much love, please take care of yourself alright. if you need to vent or just to talk to someone, i’ll be here. you’re not alone, and i’m rooting for you 💖

https://www.1800respect.org.au/

https://www.verywellmind.com/identify-and-cope-with-emotional-abuse-4156673

https://www.nhs.uk/live-well/healthy-body/getting-help-for-domestic-violence/

https://theinvisiblescar.wordpress.com/suggestions-for-adult-survivors/

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 7

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: Description of injuries, swearing, angst, threats, distrust, pain, doubt, hate. The usual. A/N: Please reblog if you liked. I try to update the taglist according to requests and frequent rebloggers. Probably won’t get a lot of writing done the next week as I’ll be busy getting used to new job, but check out my masterlist for other stuff.

7 - The Captain

…   Romanoff’s PoV   …

Steve arrives just an hour before Natasha has to leave for hearings on a grey Monday morning. At no point has the former spy attempted to sweeten the impressions of what will be happening after dumping all the files from SHIELD online, so she knows that this is only going to be the first of many sessions with men in suits thinking they know better.

That’s not the reason she doesn’t want to go.

“Whatever you guys do,” the redhead hisses at Sam Wilson and the Captain, “do not question what she’s been through.” Sam looks like he’s about to crack a joke, but a glare silences him. “And don’t question her sanity, or I’ll carve out your kidneys and sell‘em on the black market.”

“We’ll behave, Nat, don’t worry.” Solemn, blue eyes underline Steve’s promise.

Turning on her heel, Natasha stalk out of the kitchen where she’d cornered the two guys, heading towards the garage. [Y/N]’s parting words still echo in her head: “They’ll need you, all of you.” It’s comforting to know that the strange woman who knows more than she should is adamant when it comes to the future of the Avengers.

Avengers. Not too long ago, there was no official name for the odd group of people who ended up saving New York, but the name was on everybody’s lips before the dust had settled and the shawarma had been eaten. Heroes. That’s how they’d been seen by a lot of people even if it didn’t seem entirely true to the image they’d had of themselves (not counting Stark, who’s always more than happy to bask in the spotlight). A good team, sure, they’d coincidentally worked very well together and even in the midst of battle, Romanoff had dared hope that this would clear her of some of the sins. It’d worked out for a while. Kind of.

 …   Reader’s PoV   …

The arrival of the men surprises you in more ways than one. First, there are two. You’d not expected anyone to accompany the Steven Grant Rogers, but you’re honestly happy for it because the second guy has an aura of relaxation and trust about him. The Captain himself? Not so much.

Watching Captain America is in many ways similar to watching Brock, even though they are like night and day, the few similarities are striking and make your guts tighten and feet twitch from wanting to run away. Brock and Rogers are both unbending, disciplined and meticulous to the point where they shape the people around them rather than vice versa. Tall and broad, they fill the room with their presences, preventing any competition of the alpha-male title. Icy eyes push you off the couch and to your feet and set your hairs on end all over your body, and as the man steps closer, it’s like moving back in time to the few times you’ve seen Brock advance on someone who displeased him. Automatically, you retreat.

“Sorry.” At least Rogers sounds like he means it. “I didn’t mean to erm…to make you uncomfortable.”

The moment you take his hand in greeting is the moment invisible “lightning” strikes you out of nowhere, carving through the crown of your skull all the way to your toes. Skull with octopus. Sunglasses. Colosseum. A big, dark hand reaches up towards iron bars. Laughter as sunglasses shatters on stone, revealing a milky eye in a serious face. Someone calling out for a [Y/N]. The man’s  name is Fury and Captain America is charging into the cell where he’s kept. [Y/N].

[Y/N]. It sounds closer. “[Y/N]!”

Strong arms are supporting you as the world revolves on its own and you have to close your eyes in order not to puke. It’s a relief when you feel a steadier surface beneath you.

“Shit, Steve,” another voice comments with horror, “Romanoff’s gonna kill us, man!”

Steve. Captain America! Waves of adrenalin help the eyelashes to flutter open briefly, enough to spot the veteran’s face near yours.

“She’ll be fine.” Regardless, he still asks Jarvis to fetch Stark. “Hey, [Y/N], can you hear me?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

Oh yeah, you can hear him more than plenty, the voice is sending new stabs of pain through your brain. The skin of your face folds and cracks like drying sand when you fight against the urge to keep your eyes closed, and you’re relieved at how tears and eyelashes block most of the view to the blue eyes, because they aren’t the ones you really want to see and neither is the face that’s peeping at you from behind Roger’s shoulder.

The words are clumsy in your mouth. “They got…him...Fury?” Looking to the men for confirmation is useless, but what else can you do? “I saw…in Rome…”

The explanation is rambling and you have to try several times before especially Wilson gets past the point where you know who Fury is and that he’s alive, but eventually they accept the baseline of what you saw and that it requires action. Now.

…

“Don’t throw any toga parties!” Tony Stark grins jovially, hiding a worry behind the sunglasses. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“I don’t like it.” The words aren’t yours even though they could have been. They’re coming from Sam who’s biting his lip as he looks back at you from the ramp of the jet. The statement has been repeated several times already. “Natasha’s gonna kills us, guys.”

Roger’s heavy hand is warm and reassuring on your shoulder, the little squeeze a gentle comfort that you aren’t actually all alone in this mess of a life. “I know, but we owe it to Fury –“

“Besides,” Stark butts in like a cat wanting attention for the mouse it brought home, “I’ve designed the security here and both Jarvis and Happy is just a call away to help take care of our little prophet!” Pausing a moment at Sam’s side, the glasses are lifted momentarily. “And I’m not gonna tell Romanoff we left, are you?”

The worried man sees the opportunity and takes it. “Uhm err no?”

It would be nice if you could be as easily swayed as Sam Wilson is in this matter, but as you watch the quinjet taking off, the apprehension of being left alone at the so-called Compound is settling in as a deadweight on your chest.

…   Rumlow’s PoV   …

It hurts to move. It hurts to look in the mirror and see the crust-covered wounds that crack and ooze from the tiniest of movements. It hurts more, however, to know that [Y/N] is getting cozy with Captain Fucking America and his buddies…that she didn’t even let him try to explain things to her so they could recover what they had and move on together.

Freak. The term applies more to [Y/N] than to himself even with the view as he stands here by the sink. All this time, and he didn’t even know he was sharing a bed with a genetic miscreation – a monster that has decided to throw everything aside and flee with the tail between its legs, taking the one useful aspect along with it and out of grasp from Brock. Mine. No one takes anything away from him.

Straightening, the upper body protests as joints move and muscles tense under the torn skin, and Brock hisses at the pain.

“Ya shouldna be up ye’.”

The wise-ass nurse is silenced with a curse.

I need to be up.

There’s revenge to be had and a monster to catch, and Brock will be damned if he’s going to miss out on any of it.

[heoneyology]

Break Down

—A/N: I wrote this in my car based off of basically what happened to me earlier today out of boredom and thinking about ateez-

—Pairing: Reader x Seonghwa

—Genre: subtle fluff

—Word Count: 2038

You sigh, leaning back against your car in defeat, bringing your phone up to hold in front of you once more. The time reads 4:12PM, a tauntingly grim reminder of the situation you’re stuck in and just how long you’ve been stuck in it. Frowning, your hand falls back down to your side, and you tilt your head back slightly to stare up at the sun beating down on you. It had become too hot in your car, and so you’d stepped outside to wait. It was a nice day, minus the circumstances you were in—briefly stranded on the side of a road, the middle of nowhere with an overheated engine under the hood of your car. Thankfully you’d been smart enough to pull over before the engine had actually started to smoke, but it was still a hindrance to the start of your spring vacation, and also slightly worrying, considering you were taking the so-called “scenic route”. You’d been waiting for the tow truck your insurance promised would be there in thirty minutes for an hour now. With each passing moment, you became more anxious and aggravated. Outside the comfortable confines of your vehicle, it was warm, despite your car holding in the heat fairly well. The blue sky was dotted with puffy white clouds, and there was a gentle breeze in the air; the cusp of summer. It was mild weather, not too hot or cold; the breeze was warm, yet cool enough, as it passed lazily over your skin every now and again. Yet the longer you stood in this lonely expanse of wasteland, the more it felt as though the sun was frying your brain. Suddenly, your phone vibrates in your hand, followed by the abrupt trill of your ringtone. It’s an odd sound against the silence surrounding you, and it catches you off guard. You scramble to answer your phone, lifting it to your ear. “Hello?” “Hi, this is Seonghwa calling from Treasure Towing, LLC, am I speaking to Y/N? You called for assistance due to an overheated engine?” A deep voice comes from the other end of the line, and you recognize the company name as the one which your insurance had given you earlier.

“Yes, that’s me! I did!” “Perfect! I’m assuming this is you, then, off to the side of the road?” You lift your gaze, glancing up the long expanse of road in the direction you were facing—but are met with the empty expanse of horizon. Curiously, you turn and peak around the side of your car where you sit on the back bumper, met with the sight of a tow truck not too far off. “If this truck is you, then yes!” Pushing yourself away from your car, you take a step out into the street, giving the driver a wave. You hear a quick ‘okay’ from him from the other end of the line, and the sound of your call cutting loose. Lowering your phone and shoving it into your pocket, you squint into the sunlight, attempting to get a clearer view of the driver as he maneuvers the truck on the road to line it up in front of yours. The glare of the sun against the windshield makes it nearly impossible, though. When he has the truck situated in front of your car, the driver finally jumps out. The man named Seonghwa walks towards you, pulling the cap on his head off and running a hand through his dark hair. “Y/N?” He asks again, as if he has to be certain. You give him a nod in reply. “Are you alright?” “I am now. But you sure took your sweet time getting here…” Seonghwa smiles apologetically, the action enunciating his defined cheekbones. You can see the sincerity in his eyes, and you find your aggravation slowly easing away. “I’m really sorry about that. Insurance companies usually just give you an estimated arrival time—they don’t actually always know who will be dispatched, and from what location… did you wait long?” Even his voice is earnest, and you find yourself pursing your lips. You can’t really be angry at him, can you? It’s not like it was his fault. He was doing his job, and he’d gotten here as fast as he possibly could. “Just a little over an hour…” His eyes widen. “I’m so sorry!” Immediately, he glances back to his truck, to your car, and back to you. “Okay, let’s get you loaded up and off this endless road. We won’t keep you out here any longer. Do you have your keys?” You’re taken aback by his surprise, so it takes you a moment to nod and fish into your pocket for your car keys, handing them over to him. As he holds out his hand, palm facing upward for you to drop your key into, you can’t help but take notice of how masculine his hand it. Working hands, you immediately think to yourself, finding it slightly attractive the way they’re large but slender, yet the way he grasps your keys is careful and light. “So you’re having an overheating issue?” Seonghwa asks, as he turns back to his truck and sets to work at lowering the bed to a slant, then readying your car. “Yeah,” you let out a sigh as you respond. “The car is old, so I’m not entirely surprised. But it kind of sucks…” “Were you headed somewhere important?” “Not really. It’s the start of spring break, though, so I was meeting up with some friends.” Seonghwa frowns, glancing back over his shoulder at you. By now, your car is chained up and being dragged by chains up onto the bed with the flip of a single switch. “Were your friends expecting you immediately…?” “Yeah, but I already told them what happened.” That was why this entire situation sucked. Because of a professor actually placing a midterm on your the Friday before spring break, you’d been forced to leave a day later, due to having to actually show up for class—which meant today was Saturday, and you were now stranded an extra couple of days, since everything was closed Sunday. “I’m sorry… maybe if I’d gotten here sooner, we could have gotten you to a mechanic before everything closed for the day…” A part of you feels sorry to this handsome stranger, apologizing to you for something that was completely out of his control. You simply shake your head, letting out another small sigh. “If you’re tired or hot, you’re more than welcome to wait in the truck,” Seonghwa offers, nodding over his shoulder. “I’m almost finished here. We’ll be on our way soon. Air conditioning is already on and running.” While the day wasn’t hot, the events had left your shoulders feeling heavy, and so you nod and decide to take him up on his offer. While Seonghwa finishes up the last of ensuring your car is chained down properly, you head around the front of the truck and climb into the passenger’s seat, relishing in the blast of cold air you’re immediately met with. You’ve got your eyes closed, leaning forward slightly and enjoying the air conditioning blowing straight on your face, when Seonghwa returns to to the cab. You barely notice him open the door to the back seat, shuffling around with something, before joining you in the front of the car and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Here, I have something for you.” “Hm?” Confused, you open your eyes, brows shooting up in surprise at being met with the sight of a fudgesicle lined up directly with your nose. “What’s this?” Seonghwa shrugs. “I’ve got a secret stash stowed in a cooler. I usually give it to the children in families I have to help, to kind of ease their stress—but you look like you’ve had a long day, and need it.” For a moment, you hesitate, not sure if you should be taking a popsicle from a random guy helping you. But, the company had high ratings and reviews from what you’d read online during your wait, and they were certified by your insurance company… carefully, you take the fudgesicle from his hand and open it, enjoying the savory flavor paired with the air conditioning in the cab as he begins the fairly long drive back. You’d think the drive back towards the nearest town—where Seonghwa just happens to be from—would be awkward, left in a heavy silence with a stranger. But it’s filled with chatter, Seonghwa filling the air with questions such as where you were originally headed and for what reasons, where you were from and what you were studying in school. After it seems you’re comfortable enough with him and his presence, he offers assistance in finding you a place to stay for the next two nights until your car can be fixed, telling you he has a friend who owns a motel. “I personally think it should change its title to hotel, but I guess it can’t because of occupancy size?” Seonghwa laments, shaking his head. “It operates like a five star luxury hotel though, I promise.” And you find yourself believing him, although you’re out in the middle of nowhere and honestly, you’d typically think anything with motel tagged onto the name would be sketchy. The rest of the drive back is filled with a brief silence before Seonghwa offers to play whatever kind of music you’re in the mood for, claiming he listens to anything—and then filled with laughter that echoes throughout the small cab of the truck as you two struggle to find a station that isn’t just radio static, out in the middle of nowhere, cringing at the strange, strangled signing some of the stations are putting out and wondering what language it could be in. A part of you is sad, briefly, when his truck rolls to a stop in the lot of the aforementioned motel. You have to admit, the place looks a lot cleaner and nicer than you’d have ever expected. “Let me help you get your bags,” Seonghwa offers, following you out of his truck. The offer doesn’t come off as strange considering he was almost required to, having left all your belongings in the back of your car to be loaded up. From below, you instruct Seonghwa on what articles of your luggage you’ll need, and he carefully passes those down to you, before jumping down to join you. He lands right in front of you, giving you a broad smile as he does so. “Thank you so much for your help.” “Of course, that’s my job—” “Yeah, but I mean everything else… the motel and mechanic recommendation, that sort of thing.” Seonghwa just shrugs, nodding towards the entrance. “Make sure you mention my name when you buy a room. My friend will give you a good deal,” he instructs, before glancing back at your car. “I’ll drop this off at the mechanic… you’ll have to give them a call to make an appointment.” You smile and nod. “Sounds good. I appreciate the help, again. Thank you,” as you say this, you gather your belongings and turn away, but Seonghwa speaking up causes you to halt. “Y/N?” “Yeah?” You turn back around. “Uh… this may be strange, all things considering, but do you mind if I make one more recommendation to you? As a local around here?” Seonghwa asks, and you raise your brows in surprise, before giving him a slow nod to continue. He clears his throat, the action causing a deep reverb to leave his chest. “I know a really good dinner spot… maybe I could personally show it to you?” You can immediately feel your lips spread into a smile, one that you find yourself biting back just as quick. Glancing away, you contain your emotions—surprised that you’re actually quite happy over his sudden display of confidence—before you turn back to him and nod. The smile is still peeking through, just enough for Seonghwa to take note, his own face spreading into a smile. “I’d like that. A local’s recommendations are always the best.” Maybe being stranded for the first couple of days of spring break wouldn’t be so bad...

[army-author]

hoseok scenario | metallic snow

❝ You go to the mall looking for a present, and come home with a whole lot more ❞

➸ prompt: I’m desperate to find a particular item as a present, but it’s sold out everywhere. Luckily, I have you to help me out!

➸ pairing: android hoseok x reader

➸ requested by anon | 5.0k words | fluff, sci-fi au

You’ve been putting off going to the mall for a long time.

Ever since the city superstore got the latest instalments of android shop helpers, you’ve been too scared to venture inside. The new additions, updated for 2050, are just far too realistic, their plastic skin and woven hair terrifying you with their authenticity. Maybe you’re too old fashioned, but you’d rather go around the stores by yourself, without a high-tech replica of life following you around. That’s why you stick to the small shops by your house, the owners of which are still unable to afford the updates. You feel more at ease with only humans around you, preferring those who pump blood to those that pump oil.

But there are some things you just can’t get in the small stores, and so, as Christmas creeps closer, you realise there’s no escaping a trip to the city mall. That’s how you find yourself on the shuttle train on a cloudy December morning, hurtling towards the city centre and giving yourself a mental pep talk on how to survive the heaving crowds of humans and androids.

The train arrives outside the mall, and you hop off, staring up at the impressive building, fifteen stories tall and crammed full with every store you could possibly conceive. Past the glass doors, you can see the charging bays for the androids, where they wait for the next customer to walk through the door, so they can greet them with a programmed smile. You take a deep breath, forcing your body forward, despite all muscles screaming for you to turn around and hop on the next train home.

The mall doors slide open for you with a whoosh, and the nearest android stirs to life at your presence. It’s too late to go back now, all you can do is step forward awkwardly, to meet the eerily lifelike man, who gives you a perfectly moulded smile, pressed into the shape of a heart for maximum friendliness, clearly designed to put shoppers at ease and make them buy more. Despite knowing he’s nothing more than a construction of tubes and cables below his dewy skin, you can’t help but stare at his flawless features.

With glowing tan skin, chestnut eyes that conceal cameras beneath, and golden hair woven into perfect waves that fall down to his brows, he’s what would come up if you searched for images of ‘perfect man’ online. And of course, he’s designed to be that way. It doesn’t make him any less breath-taking to see in person.

With his smile still stretched wide, he stops in front of you and sticks out a hand, “Hello. My name is Jung Hoseok. I’m here to help you find your way around our Super Mall.”

You take the hand he proffers you, almost jumping back at the electric shock that dances between you. Under your fingers, his skin feels soft, human. Jung Hoseok, you wonder. Such a normal name. They must assign these names to them over their model codes to make them feel more real, as if you’re being guided by a human. All the same, the knowledge of what lies just below his skin is unsettling.

He pulls back his hand, and the crackling sparks die away. You give your hand a shake, still feeling bursts of energy traveling up your arm from the spot he touched.

“So,” he gives you his widest smile yet, reaching up to his eyes, crinkling the edges, “I’m yours for the day. I’ll help you with whatever you need, guide you where ever you want to go. Just say.”

You shake your head to rid it of the fuzz clouding your judgement, brain blurring at the otherworldly beauty before you. You know every angle of his face is generated on a computer, programed to be perfect, but your body is only human. And it responds with clouding chemicals when it sees something it likes. Dragging yourself back to coherence, you tell him, “I’m actually looking for something in particular. But it’s quite rare.”

“That’s okay.” His smile doesn’t break. “We have a great range of stores here. I’m sure we can find what you need. And if not, we can always order it and get it delivered.”

“But I need it for Christmas,” you explain to him, “So I need it soon.” Already stressed by the prospect of searching the whole mall, you worry your bottom lip with your teeth.

“Oh.” The android lets out one syllable and then pauses, processing what you said. Then: “Why leave it so late?”

“I don’t know…” you mumble, “I just didn’t want to come to the mall, so I kept putting it off.”

“Don’t you like the mall?” He almost sounds hurt. It’s amazing how many emotions they can program into these androids. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” you say, “It’s just… too big for me. There are too many people. And the androids scare me.” You cover your mouth as soon as you let this slip. Did you offend him? Will he get angry? Shoot lasers? Plot the downfall of human kind?

You search to his face, once more struck by his perfect features which are now pulled into a frown. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you hurt his feelings – but he doesn’t have any.

“Why don’t you like androids?”

You throw your hands up, quickly waving them around as you stumble to explain yourself. “It’s nothing personal. I just… prefer to do shopping by myself. I feel uncomfortable having someone following me around, specifically just to help me, you know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he raises an eyebrow in the android equivalent of confusion, “But I’m afraid I have to stay with you. It’s my job, and it’s dangerous to have humans wandering around the mall by themselves. I won’t be a bother, I promise.”

“Okay,” you let your head fall, staring down at the floor and at his feet. You should probably stop talking, just get what you came for and leave as quickly as possible. Pulling out your smart phone, you put up a picture of what you’re looking for, projecting it over to him. He processes the image for a moment, the rare item shining before his eyes.

It’s called a CD and the only place you’re likely to find one are the antique shops in the mall. Your father has been hinting that he wants one for a long time, and now that you’ve finally moved out of his house, and are earning your own money you want to repay him for all he did to raise you into who you are. A CD for his old player, and a remnant from his youth, seems perfect, at least it did… until you realised how impossible they are to find.

Hoseok gives a nod when he’s done processing the data. “We actually have a lot of those in at the moment, they’ve been popular recently. A lot of people are buying them for the nostalgia.”

“Really?” your mouth pops open in surprise.

With a quick nod, the android turns around, heading down the rows of shops with a quick “Follow me!” cast over his shoulder.

You hesitate behind him, wondering what would happen if you ran away now, and escaped from your android guide. But the mall is so big, with parts only accessible by certain glass lifts or long escalators, and you don’t want to risk getting lost amidst the festive fairy lights and silver snow sculptures. Quickening your step, you fall in pace with Hoseok. On all sides, your senses are assaulted – by the smells of the food court, by the bright advertisements projecting to fill all the spaces not packed with products or people, by the loud Christmas music blaring out on the speakers.

You keep your eyes trained on Hoseok’s back, on the black of the his uniform and the gold of his hair. He leads you past the packed stores to the lifts, where a crowd of shoppers are waiting to go up. When the lift finally arrives, you push in with ten other people and androids squished in together. You end up squashed between Hoseok and the glass lift wall, feeling his hard body against yours, chest solid below the soft skin. You try to pull away, scared by all the wires and cogs working just below your touch, but there’s no space to escape to, and so you have no choice but to lean against him as the lift goes up.

“Sorry about this,” he says, “It just occurred to me that this might make you… uncomfortable… Some humans don’t like to be squished among other humans.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll survive the ordeal,” you huff into his chest, which elicits a small laugh from him.

You glance up to see a smile toying at his lips, with eyes shining bright to meet your own. So, he was programmed with a sense of humour. And he found your sarcasm funny. For some reason this thought sets off a glow in your chest. Or maybe it’s just Hoseok beside you, his computers overheating from the crowd around him. As the lift whooshes upwards, you leave your stomach behind you, along with your worries about your android guide. He really isn’t that bad, not while he’s smiling down at you, with a face you could forget was ever made of metal and plastic. His eyes stay trained on yours, and under his chestnut brown stare your stomach lifts right back up again, along with your heart. At this moment, you don’t care that androids are manufactured to be as attractive as possible, you’re completely swept up by his beauty, intoxicated by the proximity of his lips and the faint glow of his eyes. Under your intense gaze, some extra colour springs up to his cheeks, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s been programmed to flush when it gets too hot. You know your own face is warm. But that has nothing to do with the temperature.

At last, you reach the top level, and the lift doors slide open. Hoseok steadies you by the waist as the family behind you pushes past roughly, and you find yourself grabbing his shoulder for support.

“That was rude,” you huff, stepping away from Hoseok and glaring after the family that almost tipped you over. Beside you, Hoseok laughs again, eyes shining as he watches your frowning features.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. Your face looks funny when you get angry.”

“Oh, great!” You bite down on your cheeks, while your guide quickly adds:

“Not that your face is funny looking! Just when you’re angry! You’re actually really pretty.”

You stare at him as he rambles, drinking up his movements and expressions. “Amazing,” you murmur, under your breath, and his eyes shine back to yours.

“What’s amazing.”

“You’re so realistic,” you say, taking a step closer, and a blush flares across his face. Now there’s no heat to blame it on.

“Well, you said androids freaked you out,” he says, “So… it’s good I’m this way, right?”

You nod. “Yes. Incredible.”

He seems pleased with this answer, his face lighting up. “Good. Let’s find that CD for you then!”

He grabs you by the elbow, steering you down the packed pathway leading past varied shops, all proclaiming something new and exciting. As you continue on, shoes tapping on the white-tiled floor, the crowds begin to thin out and you realise you’re approaching the antiques section. The decor shifts to something more old-fashioned, losing the glowing blue lights, instead using yellow lamps to light your way. Wooden benches are scattered around the edges of the walls, with plant pots dotted here and there. The shops look like they’ve been cut out of a historical archive, seeing old music, old clothes, and old books on display.

“Woah!” You dash to one of the nearest bookshops, completely forgetting the reason for your shopping trip as you press your face to the glass to spy the antique volumes on the shelves, promising a path of unending possibility below the pages.

“You like books?” Hoseok asks behind you, and you nod.

“Yeah! I mean, reading on a screen is great, but there’s something so nice about holding a physical book between your hands, feeling the pages in your fingers. It’s a shame books are so rare now… and so expensive… ” You glance wistfully at the price on the covers, and remind yourself that you have a good number of e-books stored on your phone, waiting to be read. You don’t need to buy one. Turning back to Hoseok, you say, “Anyway. Take me to the music shop.”

With a bow of his head, he directs you towards one of the stores, with black walls and neon signs flashing inside. You follow behind him, gaping at all the relics inside. You try to remember which artist your dad talks about the most, wondering who he would actually like to have on CD. Doesn’t he mention Big Bang a lot? You look around but quickly realise that this store isn’t quite right. The only artists here are hard rock.

You shake your head to Hoseok, and he says, “Don’t worry, there are a lot of other music shops. We’ll find something.”

He guides you out of the store again, hand gentle on your arm, and you dart into the next shop with him. But here, the section labelled with Big Bang’s name is completely sold out, their CDs already snatched up. The same pattern follows with the next couple of shops – no CDs you want in  any of the stores.

As you continue, a sickly panic starts to rise, tasting sour in your throat. You knew you shouldn’t have left shopping this late, there’s no way you can find something for your father now. As you exit the last shop on this row, you let out a sigh, running your hands through your hair. “This is hopeless.”

“Please don’t get down,” Hoseok chirps behind you, “There are still a few places we haven’t checked! Don’t worry!”

“It’s pointless,” you slump down on one of the benches outside the music shop you just left, “I really did leave it too late.”

Hoseok furrows his brows. “You’re stressed?”

You glance up at him, so desperately trying to make you feel better, to mirror his own happy beam. But it’s impossible. No matter how life-like he might seem, he can’t possibly understand any of the emotions tumbling inside you.

“Listen,” he says gently, taking a seat beside you, and letting a hand fall to your back where he begins rubbing away the tension. His hand feels surprisingly warm to you, not at all metallic. “I think we should take a break. You’ll only make yourself feel worse if you keep on like this. Why don’t we go to see the mall Christmas decorations on the first floor, and you can forget shopping for a little bit? We’ll come back when you have a clear head.”

His advice is better than you expected from an android, seeming to understand what you need, and so, with a defeated sigh, you admit, “Alright. I guess a break would be nice.”

With a cheer, he leaps onto his feet again and pulls you up. “The decorations are amazing. You won’t regret this!’

Instead of leading you back to the lifts, he takes you a different route, going through a set of double doors and to a spiral of stairs. “It’s a long way down, but you didn’t seem to enjoy the lift,” he explains, and you smile.

“I really don’t mind walking.”

“Good.”

You follow the android down the steps, waiting to catch your breath every few floors or so. On your third pause, Hoseok turns back with furrowed brows. “Is it too tiring for you? Would you like me to carry you?”

Your face heats up as he steps closer, arms outstretched, obviously ready to serve, but you quickly jump back from his hold. “It’s fine. I’m not that unfit.”

“Oh, of course.” His arms fall to his side, and he bites down on his bottom lip with brilliant white teeth, “It wasn’t meant as an insult. I just wanted to help…”

“I know, Hoseok.” He seems to brighten, hearing you use his designated name, and walks slowly beside you down the last few sets of stairs with a smile playing on his features.

On the ground floor once more, Hoseok quickens his pace, bouncing on the soles of his feet as he leads you towards the mall’s Christmas display. Behind the large Christmas tree, shining bright at the centre of the mall, Hoseok reaches a door marked as the ‘Snow Room’, and with a grin back at you, leads you through.

Inside, your breath catches in your throat, overcome by the sight in front of you. The whole room is coated in a blanket of artificial snow, tasting metallic on your tongue as your mouth hangs open. Blinking past the flakes that cling to your lashes, you greedily drink up everything in your vision - the fake fir trees, the life sized gingerbread house, and the crystals of ice clinging to every surface. Sometimes the technology that grows at a faster rate than you do seems daunting and scary, but sometimes you’re reminded just how amazing it can be, able to create such beautiful things with chemicals that keeps the snow cool in a warm mall, and keeps your breath billowing in clouds of fog.

Glancing back, you see Hoseok watching you anxiously, gauging your reaction, and decide that he’s another piece of technology you don’t mind having around. He’s more human than some of the people you know, expressive, and caring, and able to pick up on small cues from you. With a giggle, you pick up a handful of the soft fake snow, feeling how cold it is against your bare hand. Compacting it into a small ball, you aim at Hoseok and release. The snowball hits him square in the face, and you cover your mouth with your hand, as he stumbles back in confusion. You suddenly worry that his system might not cope with being attacked by frozen water. But then he wipes away the aftermath of your attack, a grin growing on his face, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Bending down, he grabs his own fistful of snow, rounding in in his palms, while he eyes you slyly. With a yelp, you dart behind one of the fake fir trees, hiding away from him.

“Hey!” he yells, and you run, laughing, from him. You don’t mind the disapproving glances from the other shoppers, who are quietly admiring the fake snow and the lights in the trees. You barge on past them, breath flowing in clouds from your mouth, until Hoseok catches up to you, and pulls you back by the hand, drawing you into his chest. Your heart leaps up to your mouth, banging about where it shouldn’t be, as you feel Hoseok’s arms around you, before something cold slides down your back, and you jump away from him, shaking fake snow from your shirt.

“Hoseok!”

He only bends over laughing loudly, gasping unnecessary breaths on the frozen air. “Sorry! But you should have seen your face!”

You can’t stay angry for long as you realise how well he has distracted you from your original stress. For an android, he understands your emotions better than you do. With a resigned sigh, you say, “Maybe we should go search for that CD some more…”

His face straightens, eyes scanning you. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay now?”

You nod to convince him, and the two of you exit the snow room, shaking the last fo the icy flakes from your hair, and laughing to yourselves.

After that, it’s back to the vintage stores on the top floor, and more searching. The time flies by, with you ducking in and out of the remaining shops, face falling all the more as you leave each door empty-handed. Hoseok, who notices you getting disheartened again, keeps on trying to make you smile by pulling funny faces, and pointing out odd album covers on the CDs. Shopping with him isn’t nearly as bad as it would be alone, and you’re glad you didn’t try to run away from him after all.

But with the last shop thoroughly searched, you realise that coming to the mall in the first place was a waste of time. No CD and no present for your dad.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a complete waste of time. You still had fun with Hoseok, and managed to get over your fear of androids, which is certainly a bonus.

“I’m really sorry,” your guide hangs his head, his blond locks falling into his eyes as you head for the stairs again, “I really thought we’d have the right kind in stock…”

“It’s okay,” you soothe him, not liking to see his perfect face pinched with disappointment, “I still had a good time today.”

His cheeks turn pink with pleasure. “That’s good!”

Reaching the entrance the stairs, he hold open the door for you, and then, for one last time, takes your elbow to lead you in the path to the exit. On the ground floor, and slightly out of breath, you walk past the snow room, and aim towards the doors leading out of the mall.

All of a sudden, Hoseok stops in his tracks, sucking useless air into his non-existent lungs as he gasps, “Wait!”

“What?”

“We didn’t check the charity shop.”

You frown in confusion.

“The charity shop,” he repeats, “Where people drop off the things they don’t want anymore. They don’t show up on my databases for holding CDs, but they’re bound to have some I’m sure.”

You bite your lips, wondering if it’s worth a detour. You’re getting tired, ready to flop down on the shuttle train and letting it carry you home.

But Hoseok gives your elbow a tug, and you let him lead you to one of the smaller shops, crushed between two designer stores. On the inside, it smells faintly of dust and old pages. You eye the bookshelves at the back of the shop greedily, before pulling your attention over to the collection of CDs and records stacked in a mess of colour. Your finger runs up the spines, searching, while Hoseok asks what band you’re looking for again. You smile while you watch his face straighten out in concentration, scanning the shelves alongside you, ever eager to help.

Giving yourself a small shake, you drag your gaze from his glowing golden skin, and return to your own search, methodically moving up the pile. Until- Wait. Is that...? You squeal.

Hoseok looks up in a panic, eyes wide. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, and hold up the object of your excitement. A Big Bang CD.

Hoseok’s mouth falls open, and then after a few seconds of processing, he begins squealing as well. “We found it!”

“I can’t believe it!” You run into his arms, pulling him around in a made-up walzt, the steps of which only you know.

From the till, the shop owner stares at you, confused by your excitement. You offer a hushed apology for the ruckus and quickly let go of Hoseok to go and pay for the CD. He follows behind you, still moving his body in excitement, bouncing to a non-existent beat.

With that, you finally leave the store, bag in hand, happy with your purchase. Hoseok follows behind you, silent again after all his screaming in the store just a few seconds ago. At the gaping glass doors leading back into the cold of the city, he stops, and your turn back to him.

“I guess this is goodbye.”

He nods.

“You know it’s funny,” you say, “We’ve only been together for a day, but it felt much longer. Like we went on a whole adventure together.”

He nods again.

“And it was much more fun than I expected,” you say, “So thank you for that!”

Once more, a nod is all you get. You pause, suddenly realising something’s wrong. His face, normally bright with his heart-shaped smile is now downcast, eyes dull and lips pulled down.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “I’m fine. But… this will be the last time I see you, right? You said you don’t like coming to the mall, so…”

You suddenly realise what he’s hinting at, and a blush spreads across your cheeks. “Well, you helped me realise that the mall isn’t so bad! So maybe I’ll come back more often. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

This perks him up, his smile returning as he heads for his charging dock, ready to greet his next customer, and you wave a final goodbye.

Outside, the sky is grey and metallic, reminding you of the boy you left behind, who, despite his aluminium veins, was a lot more than just metal. With the sky promising shining white snow, like platinum, you walk towards the train station with a smile on your face, and Hoseok in your heart.

♡♡♡

A couple of days later, you hear a knock on the door. Confused, and flustered to be caught still in your pyjamas at twelve noon, you open the door to the mailman scratching his head. “You have a package here.” He holds out a clipboard with a paper for you to sign, which you stare at blankly:

“I didn’t order anything.”

“This is your address, right?” he points at the top of the paper, where, sure enough, there’s your name and address. Shrugging, you sign. It’s not uncommon to get packages from companies who have your name and address on online databases. It’s annoying, but not terrible, since you get free things from it.

But that theory quickly dissolves when you see the large package by the door, marked as “fragile.” No way a company would send you something this size. It’s usually just a pen drive, or a free sample of their skincare mask. Nothing like… whatever this is.

The mailman hands you a thick envelope along with it, then gives you a smile, saying “Enjoy,” before leaving you to heave the package into the house by yourself.

Slightly scared to open the large and mysterious product, you instead rip open the envelope first, and a book falls out along with a typed letter. You pick up the two, brows furrowing as you scan the note:

‘Hello. My name is Dr. Kim of the android development and research centre. This might come as a shock to you, but I’m writing about a strange phenomenon that occurred a few days ago when you came to the city super mall and interacted with one of our androids, going by the code 180294JH (maybe you knew him as ‘Jung Hoseok’). A strange anomaly occurred while that android was with you.  We noticed that he started showing human emotions around you, which he hasn’t been programmed to do. On top of that, once you were gone, he kept on mentioning your name, and kept expressing a wish to see you again. He is not programmed to remember customers. This is remarkable to see, and my colleges and I are particularly interested in his model. We suspect that there’s something faulty in his coding that must have sparked when you met. To aid us in our research, we decided that the best thing to do would be to send 180294JH to you for observation, to see if he continues to develop more complex emotions and reactions while around you. If you’re willing, we would be much obliged if you would take care of him, and allow us to research any changes in him. Instructions for his maintenance are included in the box.

‘Signed, Dr. Kim Namjoon.

‘(PS. The book is from him. He insisted you would like it.)’

You glance down at the book, your heart jumping in your chest. It seems to be a mystery novel, one you were eyeing when you went to the mall. A small smile spreads across your lips.

Then your eyes fall to the large box again. Now knowing what it contains, you feel your hands shakings you kneel down to slide off the lid. Beneath a few layers of tissue paper to keep him undamaged in transport, there you find Jung Hoseok, as beautiful as the first time you met him. His eyes are closed, as if he is sleeping, rather than switched off. Your breath catches in your throat, seeing him once more, and you realise how much you had missed him once he was out of your life. With a trembling hand, you reach inside the box to gently brush his hair off his forehead, a new awe developing for him now you know how special he is, how fortunate you are that you can see him. All those feelings he showed you, his disappointment, his joy, his laughter – that was never meant to be there. It’s a miracle.

Underneath your warm touch, his computers start to whir inside him, booting up again with the heat stored below your own skin. You keep your hand resting on his cheek as his eyes flicker open, staring up at you with confusion filling his eyes. At last, he focuses on you, and as recognition spills across his face, a smile settles on his lips. Sitting up in his box, he grabs your face in his two hands, pulling you an extra bit closer.

“It’s you!” His whole face lights up as he says this, eyes tracing over you, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “It’s you.” He keeps repeating, again and again, and if he had tear ducts, you think he might cry.

When you used to think of androids, the idea of them glitching, not behaving how humans expected them to, would have terrified you. But looking into Hoseok’s warm chocolate eyes, you’re not scared at all. In fact, you’re glad of the errors in his code, ready to slip into the cold of his metal heart and cause more chaos there.

“Yes, it’s me,” you smile back, “It’s good to see you again, Hoseok.”

♡ END ♡

Author’s note: Hoseok got requested for both day three and day four, so sorry not sorry for the Hobi spam! This was fun to write! It was my first time dabbling with sci-fi so I hope I managed to explain everything okay...

On a side note... android Hobi... is giving me a lot of emotions... :’) I’m so full of feelings right now!

[imjustshyisall]

I am rising from the fucking dead.

I am the type of person who wants a plan in the form of an answer. I want a step-by-step, detailed action shot of how XYZ is going to be accomplished. Bonus points if the plan includes substeps. I will also try any plan once.

“Bullet journaling made you more productive?”

“Keto gave you more energy?”

“That supplement lifted your depression/cured your brain fog/sent your self-confidence through the roof? DO YOU SHIP OVERNIGHT?!”

As I have aged (to the ripe old age of 26 like the fine sage that I am), particularly in this past year, my mental and physical health has thrown me several curveballs. The medication I took for years stopped being as effective. A new diagnosis was added to my personal DSM cocktail. I became more fit and lost weight but my self-image dipped. I realized that while I am a professional in the mental health field, I am a human being and experiencing secondary trauma. My heart was broken - ney, shattered - by a person I loved and I am still healing.

All of this hit me in the span of a few months. In the first week of June, I crawled under my desk at work and was hit with a horrifying, clear as day realization:

“You will never be happy again.”

The fear of something (or several things) depressing happening to you when you have depression is something many people live with. Personally, it was never emphasized to me how traumatizing a depressive episode can be. How surviving one can leave you living in constant fear of the next one. That one crappy day, that one unexpected crying episode, that fleeting “what if I killed myself?” thought gives way to fear, maybe even paranoia. It’s that moment when you’re standing outside, looking at the horizon at dark clouds overhead and wondering if it’s actually going to rain or not. Except, they’re not dark clouds, they’re a serious mental health condition that can rob you of your ability to stay alive.

When I crawled under my desk, I knew that I was going through several difficult things at once that would be trying for someone without depression. But those feelings mimicked exactly what it felt like to be depressed. The sadness. The hopelessness. The physical aches and pains. THe constant self-loathing. And ultimately, the fear that this would never, ever go away. This was The Big One. This was it.

When I am not depressed, I am a happy person. I am kind and positive and loving. I am creative and intensely passionate. I love to laugh and make others laugh. I am someone that people enjoy being around. But in that moment, I was feeling my personality slip away. I was becoming someone I never thought I would be again.

It’s hard to do anything when you feel this way. Like, it’s hard to get up to pee in the morning let alone to cook yourself a meal or exercise or visit with friends. Those first two weeks in June are a blur. I know I cried a lot. I know I took a lot of Ativan to help me sleep through the night. I know I spent a lot of time with an anxious ache in my chest, fighting an urge to succumb to what my depression and anxiety believed to be true: “you will never be happy again”.

Let’s go full-circle now (in my ADHD brain, this makes sense): enter the plans. There was a tiny fire within me that knew it was possible to not feel this way. That I had overcome depression before, and I could do it again. So I did some research. On this CBD oil, that nutritional supplement. One TED talk, another yoga routine. I was bound and determined to “cure” myself of my depression, because only then would I truly be able to take care of myself and be the woman I knew I had been.

When there’s a plan, there’s a guarantee. There’s a checklist. There are steps. There is a solution at the end that promises something better than the current predicament.

There’s no “plan” when it comes to a chemical imbalance in your brain, or low levels of serotonin and dopamine. There’s no timeline for a broken heart. There is no easy fix for imposture syndrome. There is no surefire way to get that bitchy voice in your head that tells you you’re a pizza-faced, whale of a woman to STFU.

There’s trial and error. There’s “maybe”. There’s things that are helpful for a little while, and then whatever changes and it’s not as helpful as it used to be. There are little tweaks. There’s a lot of honest reflecting, crying, and soul-searching. Then you realize that maybe that new med is working. You remember that you haven’t cried in three days. That it’s 2 PM on a Sunday and you’re in Target, excitedly picking out new felt tip markers for your new calendar and you’re looking forward to next week. That you meet friends for drinks and you leave feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

There are the days when your heart is still heavy. But it’s still beating just like it did before all of this started.

Recently, I was listening to a podcast where the host talked about taking yourself on “dates”. “Dates” to the movies, the gym, the grocery store to get yourself ingredients to make a good meal. Treating yourself like someone you love. It’s something I’ve heard of before - and something my therapist keeps telling me to do - but in that moment, everything kind of hit me.

I owe it to myself to get up right now. I deserve to feel good. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to be healthy. And it’s fucking hard right now, but I’ve got more power than I realize to recover from this. I can’t change my brain chemistry. I can’t change my past. But I have a say in how I work with what I’ve been dealt.

I’m not a big user of Tumblr and I keep my online presence pretty minimal. I have no gradoise idea that this post will go viral, or that anyone will read it. But somehow, writing everything out and publishing it for everyone to see, it makes this next statement more real:

I’m doing this. I am rising from the fucking dead and I am going to move forward. For the month of August, I have set goals for myself that I know I can accomplish because I have accomplished them before. Here they are:

1. I am going to be a better employee and focus on the quality of work I produce. I will also be a better advocate for myself so that I am using my time away from work to re-charge and energize. My career brings me great satisfaction, but it is not all that I am.

2. I am going to exercise consistently and eat well.

3. I will be social and stay in touch with my friends and family.

4. I will improve my finances.

They sound big and broad, and that’s partially because I’ve outlined them in more detail for myself and those details won’t make much sense to anyone who isn’t me.

I know that today, I am feeling more hopeful than I have in a long time. I am not envious of the happiness or hopefulness of others. I am recognizing it was something that is possible for me.