#Like his track record makes me wary...

[lokiinmediasideblog]

I'm both excited and dreading the Zack Snyder Norse mythology series.

And lol, why is blue-ish one of Loki's most recurrent skin colors? (Probably cus of Marvel tbqh). He looks like a night elf in this.

[goblin-jr]

Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4 . part 5

complete

Summary: the truth comes out. every single fanfic trope in existence: idiots in love, idiots in denial about said love, daring rescues, spa days, farm arc, only one bed, carnival games, ferris wheel

words: 16.5 k (its long i know)

💌 💌 💌 💌

Clark Kent was being haunted.

Not by ghosts, or villains, or any of the usual threats to Metropolis.

No. This haunting was far worse.

It was relentless. It was tailored to his exact life in ways he couldn’t prove, but knew—deep in his bones—wasn’t coincidence.

It was Y/N.

And it was hell.

–

Clark’s first mistake: the rent incident

–

When the documentary moved into the post-production phase, Clark assumed—naively, stupidly assumed—that this meant he’d see less of Y/N.

That their ridiculous, chaotic, timeline-consuming partnership would slow down. That she’d go back to her celebrity life, and he’d return to his normal routine—chasing leads, writing articles, occasionally saving the world, and not being tormented by a pop star with too much power and no respect for his boundaries.

He was wrong.

Because Y/N still made time.

Clark didn’t know why he still let Y/N drag him to her apartment.

He had free time. And yet, here he was, sitting on her obnoxiously expensive couch, half-watching a movie she had already lost interest in, while she scrolled through her phone like she had a personal vendetta against being present.

"Man," Clark muttered, leaning back and stretching his arms over the cushions, trying to make himself comfortable. "My rent’s going up next month."

It was a passing comment. Casual. Unimportant. He didn’t expect a reaction.

Y/N didn’t even look up. Didn’t acknowledge it. She just hummed a soft, noncommittal "Mm," her eyes still locked on her phone screen.

Clark barely noticed.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed.

He glanced down at the screen.

Landlord: Hey, Mr. Kent, just wanted to give you a heads-up—the building’s been bought out. New ownership. Your rent’s been significantly reduced. You’ll see the updated amount on next month’s statement.

Clark frowned.

What?

His landlord had never sent him a heads-up about anything in his life. He sat up slightly, rereading the message, feeling a strange unease creeping up his spine.

His gaze flickered to Y/N, who was still lost in her phone. Still not looking at him.

But her lips—just barely—curled upward at the corners.

Clark squinted.

No. No, she wouldn’t—

“…Y/N,” he said slowly, his tone wary.

She didn’t even look up, just scrolled a little faster.

“Y/N.”

She sipped her drink, distracted. “What?”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

Y/N blinked at him, all feigned innocence. “Clark, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Clark’s phone buzzed again.

Landlord: Oh, also, the new owner wanted me to let you know—‘Enjoy the savings, sweetheart.’

Clark froze. His stomach dropped.

Y/N, finally looking up, beamed.

Clark’s soul left his body.

“Y/N.”

“Clark.”

“YOU BOUGHT MY APARTMENT BUILDING?!”

Y/N stretched, completely unbothered. “You make it sound dramatic.”

Clark sputtered. “It is dramatic! You can’t just—just buy my building!”

Y/N sighed, rolling her eyes. “Technically, I didn’t. My company did.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“Well,” she mused, tapping her chin, “now your rent is shockingly affordable. So I’d say this is a win.”

Clark buried his face in his hands.

–

Clark’s second mistake: the wardrobe incident

–

Clark rushed through the streets of Metropolis, cursing under his breath as he pushed through the crowd. He was late meeting Y/N at her recording studio, and it wasn't even his fault. A last-minute rescue involving a school bus teetering on the edge of the metro tracks had kept him longer than expected. But he didn’t let it slow him down. He was in a hurry, his thoughts already focused on the studio, on Y/N.

When he arrived, she was already waiting for him, having wrapped up her day’s recording session. Clark could tell she’d been watching him approach, and as soon as he stepped inside, her eyes lingered on the mark on his sleeve. He had barely noticed it, but it must have rubbed against the mud in the alley when he quickly changed out of his suit and cape. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the price of being Superman.

Y/N didn’t comment on it, but her gaze had a way of silently assessing everything. Still, she was casual, and they left the studio together, chatting about their days as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Hours later, Clark stepped into his apartment, exhausted but relieved. The door to his bedroom was wide open. He paused, confused. He always closed it before leaving—no exceptions. His stomach dropped. His mind raced through possibilities, each more ridiculous than the last. A supervillain had found out. Someone had figured it out. He wasn’t sure who’d come to his apartment, but his first instinct was to investigate.

Clark carefully approached, muscles taut, scanning the room for any sign of trouble. Nothing seemed out of place, but then his x-ray vision kicked in. The room appeared clear—except for one thing. His wardrobe. It was… different.

He stepped closer and opened the door. Inside, neatly arranged on the shelves, were rows of perfectly pressed shirts, blazers, and expensive-looking shoes. He pulled out a jacket and flipped it around. Valentino. Tom Ford. Some brands he didn’t even recognize.

“What the hell?” he muttered, staring at the high-end clothes in confusion.

He grabbed his phone and texted the one person who could explain this.

Clark: Where are my clothes???Y/N: You’re welcome <33333

Clark blinked at the screen. He stared at her reply, his mind racing. She had done this. And somehow, he wasn’t even surprised.

–

Clark’s breaking point: the coffee machine incident

–

Rolling into the Daily Planet in his new clothes was embarrassing enough, but to Clark’s relief, no one seemed to notice. Everyone was way too cheerful for a normal Thursday. He stepped through the door, trying to act natural, but it was hard with the brand-new, tailored suit hugging him in all the right ways. The fabric felt… well, expensive.

Jimmy spotted him from across the newsroom and flashed a bright grin. “Clark!” he called, eyes practically sparkling. “Thank you so much! I can’t believe your girlfriend upgraded the coffee machine!”

Clark froze. “My what?”

“Is she not?” Jimmy questioned, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Omg, this is even better. Are the clothes from her? She wants you so bad!”

Clark blinked, his brain still processing the fact that Jimmy had just connected his wardrobe overhaul to Y/N—who, by the way, was not his girlfriend. The thought of anyone believing that was enough to make him cringe. “She did what?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though he couldn’t hide the confusion.

Jimmy gestured over his shoulder toward the break room, still talking a mile a minute. “She got us the new coffee machine! It’s insane. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Clark turned toward the counter and instantly saw what Jimmy meant. The coffee machine was a work of art. There were twenty-three different types of milk options lined up next to it, including oat, almond, soy, and something called macadamia milk—which Clark wasn’t sure was real, but it sounded fancy enough. Even crazier, the machine could make latte art in the shape of anyone’s face. His jaw dropped a little as he watched the machine carefully pour a perfect image of Clark’s shocked expression into the foam of Jimmy’s coffee.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a coffee machine do that,” Clark muttered, more to himself than to Jimmy.

But Jimmy wasn’t done. “Dude, you gotta stop playing hard to get. Don’t turn away such a gift,” he said, shaking his head, utterly convinced that Clark had no idea how good he had it. “I mean, look at that! She’s practically throwing herself at you.”

Clark grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, feeling the weight of Jimmy’s words sinking in. His patience was running thin. The whole situation—his clothes, the coffee machine, Jimmy’s clueless teasing—had just gone way too far. This had to end.

“Right,” Clark muttered, already heading for the door. “I’ll talk to you later, Jimmy. This conversation’s over.”

As he left, the sound of Jimmy’s voice calling after him seemed to fade into the background. Clark didn’t have time for this today. Not when there were bigger things to worry about.

—

Clark supersped to Y/N’s apartment, a blur in the streets of Metropolis. As much as he hated to admit it, the shiny new shoes Y/N had gotten him were actually comfortable. His old pair felt like they were about to fall apart, and despite everything, he couldn’t deny how nice it was to have a pair of shoes that fit so perfectly.

He banged on her doorbell, barely registering the wide grin on her face before he barged right in. “Clark-” she started, but he was already turning, a glare in his eyes. “What are you playing at, Y/N? This isn’t funny.”

Y/N went quiet for a moment, her usual mischievousness fading just a little. She motioned for him to follow her into the living room, and despite his irritation, he complied. She led him to the silver guitar hung next to the fireplace, a sentimental relic from years ago.

“You recognized it the first time we met, during the interview, didn’t you?” Y/N asked, turning to face him.

Clark remained quiet. His gaze flickered from the guitar back to her. “We went over this already,” he said, his voice a bit flat.

Y/N cut him off, her tone suddenly apologetic. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you then.” She locked eyes with him, a deep sincerity in her gaze that left him momentarily speechless. “You helped me so much, and I never even got to say thank you.”

The words hit him like a wave. He hadn’t expected her to go there, not after all this time. He hadn’t been prepared for the rawness in her voice. And then, just like that, she dropped the line that shattered him.

“I spent years wondering where you were,” she said softly. “I wish you said goodbye.”

Clark froze, his chest tight, as if the air had been sucked from the room. He wished he had too. Deep down, he knew that he owed her something, anything—a goodbye, an explanation. But he hadn’t been able to do it.

“It wasn’t that simple,” he muttered, voice almost a whisper.

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She didn’t need to. Her grin spread wide across her face, a stupid, too-happy smile that took Clark completely off guard. She wasn’t angry, or disappointed. She was just happy that he admitted it. Happy to have found him again, happy that she could finally put some of those old questions to rest.

Without warning, she launched herself into his arms, her arms wrapping around his neck as she buried her face into his chest. “Kal,” she breathed, her voice full of something that made Clark’s heart twist in his chest.

He just held her tighter, burying his face in her hair. The years of distance, of everything they had been through, all of it seemed to melt away in that moment. The silence stretched on between them, comfortable and unspoken. When she finally pulled back, she looked up at him, her grin wide.

“I hoped you were okay,” she said, her eyes shining. “I’m glad you got clean.”

Clark paused, his heart skipping a beat. “Wait, clean?”

Y/N looked up at him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. I figured you must’ve been on some crazy steroid-drug combo with how strong you were.” She raised an eyebrow, as if she was waiting for him to confirm it.

Clark blinked, momentarily thrown off by her casual assessment. Did she really think he had been on steroids this whole time? The thought was so far off from the truth it almost made him laugh, but he quickly swallowed the reaction. He needed to play it cool.

“…What drug were you on, anyways?” she pressed, still curious.

Clark’s mind raced. This was it. The perfect escape. It was the kind of ridiculous answer that could cover up his entire secret and make her laugh, all at once. He had to do it.

“...All of them,” he said, trying to sound casual.

Y/N’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in shock. “Oh my God, Clark,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer, almost apologetic tone. “I’m so sorry…”

The awkwardness hit him then. She was taking it seriously. Her eyes filled with concern as she reached out to touch his arm, clearly unsure how to respond to this unexpected admission.

Clark gave her a sheepish grin. “I’m fine now,” he reassured her. “It’s in the past.”

But Y/N wasn’t done. She’d already started formulating her plan in that head of hers. He could see it in the way her eyes narrowed slightly, and how her mouth twisted into a determined line. She was going to do something about it, and Clark knew there was no stopping her.

“Well,” she said, a sudden smile creeping back onto her face. “I’m going to add an addiction charity to my portfolio. In your name.”

Clark froze, the grin on his face faltering as he processed her words. “Wait—what?”

Y/N, completely unbothered by his confusion, nodded with enthusiasm. “Yeah, I mean, it’s the least I can do, right? You’ve done so much for me, I want to give back. And what better way than by helping others who might be struggling with the same thing?”

Clark was still in shock. “You don’t have to do that,” he muttered, but he could already tell that there was no changing her mind. She was already plotting out the details in her head, no doubt.

“Nope,” she said, grinning as if she’d just won some great battle. “It’s happening. You deserve it, Clark. And that's the spirit of growing up, to help others.”

He shook his head, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Y/N just laughed, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I know. But hey, it’s the least I can do.”

Clark couldn’t stop himself from smiling, even if it was small. She was like that—always pushing, always trying to make things better, even when he didn’t ask for it.

— 

A few weeks after the reveal, things were better than ever between Clark and Y/N. It had taken time for both of them to adjust, but now that they had, it was like nothing had ever happened. Their bond was stronger than it had ever been, a quiet understanding that ran deep between them. Clark should’ve known better than to expect anything else; of course, Y/N wouldn’t have pushed him into a confrontation about his secret, and now they were free to just exist in each other’s presence.

The documentary about Y/N’s rise to fame was finally complete, and the results were beyond impressive. Y/N’s foundation had become a powerhouse, and the addiction rates for teenagers in Metropolis had taken a significant dip—thanks, in no small part, to a sizable donation from the Y/N Charitable Foundation. Her name was everywhere now, her influence growing by the day.

In recognition of her efforts, Y/N had received an invitation to the annual Mayor’s Ball as the guest of honor. It was an evening of glamor, good company, and fundraising for a good cause—exactly the kind of thing Y/N excelled at. Dressed to the nines in a darling red gown that hugged her form in all the right places, Y/N looked every bit the star she was. Her hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, and her smile radiated with the confidence of someone who knew they had earned their place in the world. As the evening wore on, Y/N spent the night dancing with strangers, eating fancy food, and mingling with some of Metropolis’s most influential people. For once, it was about more than just her career. It was about making a difference, raising money for the causes she cared about. It was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

The first sign something was wrong came when the music abruptly stopped. The room fell into an unnatural silence, the kind of quiet that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. People began murmuring, their eyes darting around the ballroom.

Then, it happened. A group of thugs, armed and aggressive, descended upon the crowd, shouting orders. They wore masks, but their intentions were clear. Guns were raised, and people froze in fear.

"Everybody down! Line up!" one of them shouted, the cold edge of his voice cutting through the panic.

Y/N’s heart raced. She had no time to think. Instinct kicked in as she moved to protect herself. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

But then, one of the thugs—big, broad, and menacing—set his eyes on her. He took a step forward, his gaze sizing her up as though she was just another target. He grinned, a dirty, smug look on his face.

She was about to make a snarky comment, but before she could, the thug grabbed her arm with surprising force. "This one’s important," he said to his colleague. "Take her to the roof."

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Hey!” she shouted, struggling against his grip. "Hands off my arm, idiot! This is my guitar-strumming arm, you know? It’s insured for a number you can’t even count up to!" This caused the thug’s grip to loosen a little while he growled in response.

"Hey! No! You can’t do this!" Y/N continued to shout, but the thug just grunted, his eyes narrowed in irritation. Another thug quickly came to his side, and the two men roughly hauled her away.

“Quit struggling,” one of them barked.

Y/N wasn’t about to make it easy for them, she spent time on the dark streets of Metropolis after all. They weren’t taking her anywhere without a fight. She kicked and twisted, trying to wriggle free of their hold, but it was no use.

Once they reached the rooftop, the thug shoved her toward the edge, and she stumbled slightly, but quickly regained her footing. She glanced around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. It was an isolated place—no one around, no help in sight.

One of the thugs began tying her up with rough, crude rope. It wasn’t exactly professional, but it would do.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Y/N muttered, tugging at the bonds. “This is how you tie people up? What are you, amateurs?”

The thug grumbled under his breath, obviously irritated by her continuous stream of snark. She could see the other thugs beginning to set up their position, preparing for something, but she couldn’t quite figure out what.

“Oh, I see,” she said, cocking her head to the side with mock surprise. “You’re really taking me hostage, huh? How original.”

One thug glanced at her, clearly frustrated. “Shut it, lady.”

“I’ve been quiet for two whole minutes,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “That’s like a new record for me, and you’re still going to complain? Come on, you guys gotta learn to appreciate a good hostage."

She paused for a second, raising an eyebrow as one of the thugs fumbled with the ropes.

“Look, if you’re gonna tie me up,” she continued, “at least do it right, okay? You don’t just throw a person on the ground like that—there’s technique. You can’t just make it up as you go along!”

She could see the thug’s patience running thin, but she wasn’t done yet. There was something oddly satisfying about pushing them to the edge, especially considering how utterly ridiculous they were. One of the thugs growled in frustration and pulled out a knife.

“Oh, now that’s a little more like it,” she smirked. “That’s the kind of intimidation I can work with. You’ve got the right idea, at least.”

He just shot her a glare and tightened the ropes, ignoring her entirely.

Y/N was nothing if not resourceful. She could only hope help was nearby. Because she was starting to get the feeling that this wasn’t just a random robbery. Something told her they weren’t after money—they were after something much more personal. And with a quick glance at the thug in front of her, she was starting to feel like maybe she was the real prize here.

Then, everything sped up. One minute, Y/N was tied up on the roof, her wrists and ankles bound by the clumsy thugs who clearly didn't know the first thing about professional hostage-taking. And the next, the floor shook beneath her feet, a sudden vibration that ran up her spine, followed by the unmistakable sound of wind rushing past her. She had barely enough time to react before a blur of motion exploded into the room—faster than lightning, faster than anything she'd ever seen.

The thugs were tossed aside like rag dolls. They didn’t even have time to process what was happening as they hit the ground, disarmed, dazed, and completely out of commission. And in the midst of the chaos, the figure slowed to a stop. He turned around slowly, his cape billowing in the air, a gust of wind following in his wake. It was him.

Superman.

Y/N blinked, and her heart did this weird fluttering thing in her chest as she finally caught a clear glimpse of his face. Her thoughts seemed to freeze for a moment. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen him before—she had. She had seen him on TV, in the papers, on billboards, everywhere. But seeing him in person, right here, right now, was a different experience entirely.

And then it hit her. Oh.

She didn’t just recognize Superman, though. She recognized something else. Something that made her breath catch in her throat. 

He is so hot.

It was like the world suddenly shifted, and all Y/N could focus on was the man—no, the hero—standing in front of her. The real Superman. His chiseled jaw, the intensity in his eyes, the sheer presence he carried. Even the way his cape fluttered in the wind seemed like it had been choreographed for maximum impact.

Superman, as if sensing her stunned silence, dropped down to his knees in front of her, his movements smooth and calculated, his eyes scanning her for any signs of injury. He gently started untying the ropes around her wrists and ankles, his hands deft but careful.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” he asked, his voice soft, yet carrying that unshakable authority that was so unique to him.

Y/N’s brain scrambled to form a coherent thought, but all that came out was a dazed, “You know who I am?”

Superman gave her a grin, the kind that was warm enough to melt anyone’s heart, though there was an underlying sense of amusement. “Of course I do.”

Y/N’s face flushed immediately, and she cursed her inability to control her emotions. What the hell was wrong with her?

“Let’s get you out of here,” Superman said, his voice calm and reassuring.

Before Y/N could even think about responding, he effortlessly scooped her up into his arms, lifting her into a bridal carry. Y/N’s face turned an even deeper shade of red than the dress she was wearing, and she couldn’t help but let out a surprised gasp.

Superman’s strong arms were holding her with such ease that it felt almost unreal. As he floated into the air, Y/N’s heart beat faster than she thought was possible. She had seen the man fly on TV, but being in his arms, being so close to him—flying through the air, with the wind whipping through her hair—was an experience she could never have prepared for.

Clark couldn’t help but notice how quiet Y/N had become. She was usually so lively, so full of words, so quick with a snappy comeback. But right now, she was strangely subdued, her entire demeanor different from what he was used to. Concern washed over him. He had been in plenty of situations where people were hurt or shocked after a traumatic event, and he couldn't help but wonder if something had happened to her in the struggle.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Y/N?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine worry. “Did you hit your head or something?”

Y/N flushed even deeper, her cheeks nearly glowing. “No! I’m fine,” she stammered, and then, without thinking, she blurted out, “It’s just… you’re so… big and strong.”

He almost stumbled mid-flight. His heart raced. Did she just— He glanced down at her, feeling his own cheeks heat up. The way she said it—so earnest, so… into it— does she have a thing for Superman?

He felt his own pulse quicken. She was quiet—too quiet—and it hit him like a ton of bricks. This was her first time meeting him. Not Clark, but Superman. She had no idea who he was underneath the cape, and suddenly, the lack of teasing and banter she always threw his way made so much more sense. She didn’t know he was the same guy who she’d been annoying all these weeks.

This was Superman, and she was swooning. Clark's lips curled into a knowing smile.

He didn’t want to miss the opportunity. In fact, he wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

Without missing a beat, Clark let a little teasing edge creep into his voice. “Is this your first time flying?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, his tone light, but laced with that familiar, confident charm. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

Y/N’s eyes snapped up to him, cheeks flushing a bright red. “Wha—what?” Her voice cracked slightly as she looked around, trying to act like she wasn’t completely melting under the intensity of the moment.

Clark grinned, knowing exactly what was happening. She was nervous, and he was going to have some fun with it. “It’s okay,” he continued, his voice smooth, “I’m a pro. I can handle you.”

Y/N cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. “I—I’m not nervous.” She glanced down at the city beneath them, her eyes wide. “Just... I’ve never really flown without a plane before. It’s a lot to take in.”

Clark smirked. “You sure you’re not nervous?” He gave a little wink. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who isn’t.”

Y/N huffed, crossing her arms in a way that was supposed to look confident, but was honestly just adorable. “I’m just... focused. Yeah, that’s it. Totally focused.”

“Oh, I can see that,” Clark teased. “You’re doing great. You’re not even screaming yet.”

Y/N shot him a playful glare, but there was something else behind her eyes—something softer. “I’ll scream if you drop me,” she muttered, trying to keep her voice steady.

Clark’s grin only widened, leaning a little closer, enjoying how flustered she was. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure you’re safe.” He let the words hang in the air before adding, “I could drop you just to hear you scream. Not that I’d ever do that, but I’m sure it would sound heavenly.”

Y/N made a strangled sound in her throat and Clark almost felt bad- almost. 

Before she could say anything else, they reached her rooftop, and Clark set her down gently. He paused for a second, his eyes searching hers. “I’m glad I could be here to help tonight, Y/N. Sleep well.”

Y/N, still slightly dazed from the whole experience, nodded slowly. “Uh huh. You too. Dream of me” 

The words hung in the air for a moment, and Clark froze. His grin widened even more, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. “Oh, I definitely will now,” he said, his voice smooth, and his eyes dancing with playful intent.

Y/N flushed deep red, realizing what she'd said, and how it must have sounded. She quickly looked away, completely mortified. “Ugh, I’m an idiot,” she muttered, her hand coming up to cover her face.

Clark chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the flustered look on her face. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he teased, then turned to leave, glancing back at her once more. “Good night, Y/N. Sleep well. And—”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Clark paused mid-air, hovering just above her rooftop. “And... maybe dream of me too.”

With that, he shot off into the night, leaving Y/N standing there, trying to calm the wild thumping of her heart as she replayed everything in her head.

She had absolutely no idea what just happened. But she definitely wasn’t going to forget it.

–

The next morning, Clark was seconds away from imploding. He’d faced world-ending threats, alien invasions, and the occasional supervillain monologue, but nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

“Oh, but Lois,” Y/N gushed, practically melting into her seat. “His arms! They felt like I was wrapped in two giant tree trunks.”

Lois was thriving. She took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes gleaming with unfiltered amusement as she watched Clark try—and fail—not to react. “Tree trunks, huh?” she mused. “That’s quite the visual.”

“I know,” Y/N sighed dreamily, poking at her fruit bowl with a dazed look. “And his voice? Lois, his voice was insane. It was all deep and smooth and just—ugh.” She clutched her chest for dramatic effect. “I think I blacked out for a second when he called me by my name.”

Lois bit back a laugh. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re in love?”

Y/N groaned, throwing her head back. “I might be. Just a little.” She peeked at Lois through her lashes, lips curling into a mischievous grin. “You think he’d be into me? I mean, he did flirt with me.”

Clark choked on his coffee. Lois smacked his back a little too hard, enjoying his suffering far too much. “Flirted, huh?” she echoed, pretending to be thoughtful. “Well, I don’t know, Clark, what do you think? Think Superman’s into her?”

Clark glared at her. Lois grinned back.

Y/N didn’t seem to notice the silent warfare between them. She propped her chin on her palm, sighing dramatically. “You should’ve seen him, Clark,” she said wistfully. “He was just so charming.” She paused, then furrowed her brows. “Actually, kinda weirdly familiar.”

Clark stiffened.

Lois sat up straighter, clearly living for this.

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, then waved a dismissive hand. “Eh, probably just my imagination.”

Clark exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax.

Then Y/N took another bite of her food, humming thoughtfully. “I do wonder what he looks like under the suit, though.”

Clark slammed his coffee down so hard the table shook. “Seriously?”

–

Brunch finally ended, much to Clark’s immense relief. Lois was still cackling as Y/N waved goodbye and headed to her car, oblivious to Clark’s ongoing suffering. He exhaled, running a hand down his face.

Finally, Peace.

Or so he thought.

The moment Y/N stepped outside, chaos erupted. A swarm of fans and paparazzi descended like vultures, cameras flashing, voices overlapping in a frenzy.

“Y/N, over here!” “Y/N, just one photo!”

She barely had time to react before someone bumped into her—hard. She stumbled, her ankle twisting at an awkward angle as she caught herself against the car door.

Clark was already moving.

In a blink, he was at her side, steadying her before she could fall. “Easy,” he murmured, his grip firm but gentle.

Y/N winced, gripping his forearm for support. “Ouch. Okay. That’s gonna bruise.”

Clark frowned, scanning her quickly. No serious injuries, just a minor scrape on her arm and what looked like a twisted ankle. But the way the crowd was pressing in, the frantic energy—it was dangerous.

He didn’t think. He just acted.

Without hesitation, Clark ducked his head, shielding Y/N as he guided her toward the car. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said firmly, his usual mild-mannered tone giving way to something sharper. “Give her some space.”

He pulled the door open and helped her inside, making sure she was settled before shutting it behind her. Then, turning back to the crowd, he gave them one last pointed look before stepping in.

Inside the car, Y/N sighed, leaning her head back against the seat. “God, the days before an album drop are always the worst.” She rubbed at her temples, exhaustion creeping into her voice. “Everything’s a mess, people are running around like headless chickens, and I’m just trying not to lose my mind.”

Clark watched her carefully, noticing the tension in her shoulders. He had always known she was famous, but the reality of it—the constant pressure, the lack of privacy, the chaos—was starting to sink in. He had been around celebrities before, interviewed high-profile figures, but this was different. This was Y/N.

And she looked tired.

After a beat, he cleared his throat. “I’m actually heading home for a few days,” he said casually, adjusting his glasses. “The Kent farm, in Smallville. If you want a break from all this… you’re welcome to come along.”

Y/N turned her head, blinking at him. “Wait. You’re inviting me to your farm?”

Clark shrugged. “It’s quiet. No cameras. No crowds. Just fresh air and home-cooked meals.”

For a moment, she just stared at him, like she was trying to figure out if he was serious. Then, her lips curled into a small smile. “Huh,” she mused. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘run away to the countryside’ type, Kent.”

Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘actually consider it’ type, Y/N.”

She exhaled, tapping her fingers on her knee. The idea of disappearing for a few days, away from the madness of album promotions, was tempting.

“… I’ll think about it,” she finally said, flashing him a tired grin. “But only if there’s pie.”

Clark smirked. “There’s always pie.”

–

As the car rolled to a stop in the driveway of the Kent farmhouse, Clark let out a quiet sigh, feeling the familiar warmth of home settle into his bones. The trip had been surprisingly… nice. He had expected Y/N to get restless, to complain about the lack of first-class accommodations or the hours-long drive, but instead, she had spent most of the ride alternating between listening intently to his stories about Smallville and dramatically belting along with the radio.

At one point, he had finally grumbled, “Y/N, it’s not fun if I can’t even hear the actual songs.”

To which she had simply grinned and responded, “People pay a lot for a private concert, Clark. This is a gift.”

Clark had just rolled his eyes, but the truth was, he didn’t really mind.

Now, as he put the car in park and turned off the engine, Y/N inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp country air before flashing him a grin. “Wow. I can actually smell nature. Like, real nature. Not the curated, city-park version.”

Clark chuckled. “Welcome to Smallville.”

She turned her gaze to the farmhouse—a weathered but well-loved yellow home that had stood the test of time. Her smile softened. “It’s cute,” she mused. “Feels… warm.”

Clark stepped out of the car, stretching his arms as he glanced at her outfit for the first time. His lips twitched. “I really hope those aren’t the only clothes you brought.”

Y/N, in a very deliberate pose, placed her hands on her hips, her bright red cowboy boots planted firmly in the dirt. “Excuse you, this is my farm chic look. I thought the boots were a perfect touch.”

Clark gave her a flat look. “Have you ever even stepped on a farm before?”

Y/N gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. “How dare you?”

Before Clark could reply, the front door swung open, and out stepped Martha and Jonathan Kent, smiles already forming on their faces.

Clark’s posture relaxed instantly. “Mom, Dad,” he greeted, walking forward as his mother pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh, honey, we’ve missed you,” Martha murmured, squeezing him before stepping back. Jonathan clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “Good to have you home, son.”

Clark smiled, the warmth of their welcome settling deep in his chest. But then, almost as if on cue, Martha’s gaze drifted past him, landing on Y/N.

“Now, you must be Y/N,” she said kindly, stepping forward.

Y/N, still standing by the car in her carefully curated “farm chic” look, suddenly seemed just a little less sure of herself. She had met countless celebrities, been in rooms with the most powerful people in the world, and yet, standing in front of Martha Kent, she straightened her posture like she was trying to make a good impression.

“That’s me,” she said, offering a slightly nervous smile. “It’s really nice to meet you, Mrs. Kent. Mr. Kent.”

Jonathan chuckled, shaking her hand. “Just Jonathan is fine.”

Martha, ever the welcoming presence, pulled Y/N into a gentle hug, much to her surprise. “Oh, sweetheart, any friend of Clark’s is always welcome here.”

Clark didn’t miss the way Y/N stiffened for half a second before melting into the hug, her usual bravado momentarily fading. He fought the small, knowing smile threatening to form.

As Martha pulled back, she gave Y/N an approving once-over before her eyes landed on the boots. She tilted her head. “Interesting choice of footwear.”

Y/N lifted her foot, admiring the bright red leather. “I thought it was fitting for the occasion.”

Jonathan let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, can’t say we see boots like that around here much.”

Clark just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s going to get them ruined within the hour.”

Y/N gasped again, pointing at him. “Why do you keep underestimating me, Clark?”

Jonathan smirked. “Hope you packed extra shoes.”

Martha clapped her hands together. “Alright, let’s get you two inside. I just made some fresh apple pie, and there’s plenty for everyone.”

At that, Y/N practically lit up. “Now that is something I can get behind.” She shot Clark a smug look. “Told you there better be pie.”

Clark just rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips as they all made their way inside.

Home.

This might actually be fun.

–

After lunch, Clark was already rolling up his sleeves when Jonathan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, son, time to put you to work. Fence needs fixing, and the animals need tending.”

Clark nodded, fully expecting this—coming home always meant being roped into chores. But before he could take a step, Y/N clapped her hands together.

“I’m helping.”

Clark and Jonathan both turned to look at her.

“You?” Clark asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, me,” Y/N said, already marching forward, determined. “I wanna do farm stuff.”

Jonathan chuckled, clearly amused. “That’s mighty nice of you, miss, but you don’t have to—”

“Nope. I insist,” she interrupted, planting her hands on her hips. “What are we doing? Feeding chickens? Milking cows?” She gasped. “Do you guys have a tractor? Can I drive the tractor?”

Clark rubbed his forehead. “Oh, no.”

Jonathan, however, seemed entertained. “You ever do farm work before?”

“Pfft, no,” she said. “But I am a fast learner, and I refuse to be useless.”

Martha chuckled from the porch. “Well, we won’t stop you, dear. But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Clark sighed, already predicting disaster. But if Y/N wanted to do farm chores? Fine.

Thirty minutes later

It had started off fine. She had managed to toss some hay into the horse stalls without breaking anything, and she even filled the water troughs without incident.

But then she got cocky.

“I think I’m a natural at this,” she bragged, hands on her hips as she surveyed the barn. “What’s next?”

Jonathan, clearly humoring her, handed her a bucket of feed. “How about you take this to the pigs?”

“Pigs. Got it.” She took the bucket confidently and strutted off toward the pigpen. Clark followed, arms crossed, watching like a hawk.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

“I am a grown woman,” she said. “I think I can handle some pigs, Clark.”

Clark just hummed, unconvinced.

Y/N climbed over the short fence and into the pen, bucket in hand. The pigs trotted up eagerly, sensing food.

“Okay, little guys, let’s get you fed,” she cooed, tilting the bucket.

It happened fast.

One of the pigs nudged her leg, a little too enthusiastic. She staggered. Another pig brushed past her boot.

Her balance wobbled.

“Wait, no—”

And then, in one spectacular moment, Y/N slipped. The bucket tipped forward, sending feed flying as she flailed—before landing directly into the biggest, muddiest patch of the pen with a loud, glorious splat.

Silence.

Clark bit his lip.

Y/N blinked up at the sky, sprawled in the mud, her once-flawless outfit now a complete disaster.

Jonathan chuckled. “Well.”

Clark failed to hold back a smirk. “Natural, huh?”

Y/N groaned, flopping back into the mud. “My boots”

–

Clark led Y/N up the stairs, trying—failing—not to laugh as she squelched with every step. Mud was smeared across her arms, her legs, and somehow even in her hair.

“Y’know,” he mused, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, “I did try to warn you.”

Y/N shot him a glare, her expression made all the more ridiculous by the clump of hay sticking to her cheek. “Shut up, Kent.”

Biting back a chuckle, he nudged open the door to the guest room. It was simple but cozy—quilted blankets, soft yellow walls, and a big window overlooking the fields.

“There’s a bathroom through there,” Clark said, pointing to the door on the right. “You can clean up—”

He barely got the words out before Y/N bolted, leaving a trail of muddy footprints as she went. The bathroom door slammed behind her.

Clark shook his head, amused, and headed to his own room next door.

Then—

“Oh, hell no.”

Clark paused, turning back. “What?”

The door swung open, and Y/N poked her head out, looking deeply betrayed.

“This is a Jack and Jill bathroom?” she accused.

Clark leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Yeah?”

She groaned dramatically, dropping her forehead against the doorframe. “So, what, I have to share a bathroom with you?”

“I did live here first.”

Y/N pointed a threatening finger at him before sighing. “Fine. Whatever. But I have a real problem.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

She opened the door a little wider, gesturing at herself. “This was my only outfit.”

Clark frowned. “Wait, you didn’t bring any other clothes?”

“I did,” she said. “They just all look like this.” She gestured dramatically at the muddy mess that used to be her farm chic outfit. “Not exactly wearable.”

Clark exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Alright, stay here.”

A minute later, he was back, holding a worn, soft flannel in his hands. He held it out to her.

Y/N eyed it. “What is this?”

Clark rolled his eyes. “It’s a shirt, Y/N.”

She took it hesitantly, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. It was so soft, and warm like he’d just pulled it from the dryer.

“This is yours,” she said.

Clark shrugged. “You need something to wear. And it’s big enough to cover, so…”

Y/N looked up at him. Then back at the shirt. Then back at him.

Slowly, an evil little smirk curled on her lips.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Clark. Are you giving me the shirt off your back?”

Clark groaned. “Don’t make this weird.”

Y/N clutched the flannel dramatically to her chest. “You care about me.”

Clark turned to leave. “Never mind. Give it back.”

“Nope, too late, it’s mine now.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, and Clark swore he heard her sniff the flannel before the door shut.

Clark just stood there, pressing a hand over his face.

–

Clark had woken up early, just as he always did when he was back home.

Mornings at the Kent farm had a certain kind of peace he didn’t find anywhere else—crisp air, soft golden light filtering through the windows, the distant sound of cows and the occasional bark from a neighbor’s dog. He liked to take a moment, breathe it all in, before heading downstairs to help with the morning chores.

Except—

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the smell of something burning hit his nose.

Clark froze.

That was not a usual Kent farmhouse smell.

Then, a clatter, followed by a very familiar voice.

“Okay, okay, okay, I can fix this—”

Clark slowly stepped into the kitchen, only to find Y/N standing in front of the stove, waving a dishtowel aggressively at something that was very much on fire in a pan.

Martha, looking far too calm for the situation, reached over and effortlessly turned off the burner.

Y/N slumped, pouting as she muttered, “Right. That makes more sense.”

Clark blinked. Then blinked again.

“What… are you doing?”

Y/N turned at the sound of his voice, her face lighting up as if she wasn’t in the middle of what appeared to be a culinary disaster.

“Morning, farm boy!” she chirped, grabbing a spatula that looked suspiciously like it had just survived a war. “I figured since I wasn’t super great at the whole manual labor thing yesterday, I’d put my efforts into something else.”

She gestured broadly to the counter, where there was—

Clark had to pause.

Flour.

Eggshells.

Some sort of dough that looked like it had given up halfway through its existence.

And in the middle of it all, Y/N, standing there in his flannel, hair still slightly damp from the night before, looking utterly unbothered by the chaos around her.

Clark exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “You’re cooking?”

Martha patted Y/N’s shoulder with a fond smile. “She’s trying.”

Y/N huffed. “Wow. Way to have faith in me, Martha.”

Martha just chuckled, shaking her head as she went back to kneading dough—properly.

Clark eyed the scorched remains in the pan. “And… what was that supposed to be?”

Y/N sighed dramatically. “Scrambled eggs.”

Clark frowned. “Scrambled eggs aren’t supposed to catch fire.”

“Apparently!” Y/N threw her hands in the air. “How was I supposed to know they could do that? I thought eggs were, like, hydrated!”

Clark just stared at her. “That’s… not how that works.”

She waved him off. “Well, I know that now, Clark.”

He couldn’t help it. He chuckled, shaking his head. “You really don’t have to do this, you know. You’re a guest.”

Y/N grinned, turning back to the counter. “Nope! I insist. I’m gonna be useful somehow before I leave this farm.”

Clark leaned against the counter, watching her scoop an ungodly amount of flour into a mixing bowl. “You’re really set on this, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

Martha, ever patient, handed Y/N a measuring cup. “Maybe try measuring the flour this time, sweetheart.”

Y/N nodded, determined. “Yes. Good idea.”

–

The smell of breakfast—mostly thanks to Martha’s cooking, not Y/N’s—soon filled the kitchen, and Clark found himself seated at the familiar wooden dining table, across from his parents, with Y/N right beside him.

Somehow, despite the near culinary disasters, a decent meal had been salvaged. Scrambled eggs (courtesy of Martha), crispy bacon, golden toast, and fresh orange juice were set in front of them.

Clark stole a glance at Y/N, who was happily digging into her food, looking far too pleased with herself.

Jonathan, amused, looked at his son before continuing. “You’ve been quite an influence on Clark. We have that magazine shoot of you two lying around here somewhere.”

Clark visibly flinched.

Y/N, on the other hand, lit up.

“He told you?!” she gasped, eyes sparkling with pure delight. She turned to Clark, nudging his arm. “I thought you were so set on nobody knowing it was you.”

Clark glared daggers at his dad, who just sipped his coffee, completely unbothered. “I didn’t tell them,” he muttered.

“Oh, no, no,” Martha chimed in, a little too casually. “We saw it.”

Jonathan smirked. “Pretty hard to miss, son. You’re all over that thing—dramatic lighting, fancy clothes, lying on some velvet couch like you’re in a romance novel.”

Clark wanted to disappear.

Y/N was having the time of her life.

“Jonathan, I love you,” she said, absolutely gleeful. “You just described it so perfectly.”

Clark groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” Martha said sweetly. “It was very tasteful.”

“Tasteful,” Clark echoed, dead inside.

Y/N beamed. “Oh, Clark. Sweetheart.”

Clark physically tensed. He knew that tone. That was her ‘I’m about to make your life worse’ voice.

“You know,” she mused, leaning in conspiratorially, “if you guys want a signed copy, I might have a few lying around.”

Jonathan grinned. “Now that would be something.”

Clark was seconds away from throwing himself out the nearest window.

Y/N, positively glowing from this entire exchange, rested her chin in her hand, clearly deep in thought. “You know… I could send one over. Signed, framed, maybe even a little plaque underneath—‘Clark Kent: Fashion Icon.’”

Clark let out a long, suffering sigh. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Martha, completely ignoring her son’s misery, looked at Y/N with curiosity. “How did that happen, anyway? I can’t imagine Clark volunteering for something like that.”

“Oh, he didn’t,” Y/N said, smug. “I bullied him into it.”

Jonathan chuckled, shaking his head. “That sounds about right.”

Clark scowled. “I was tricked into it.”

Y/N gasped dramatically. “Clark! Don’t make it sound so sinister. I simply… strongly encouraged you.”

“With deception.”

“With style,” she corrected.

“Well,” Jonathan continued, “I am sure you are better at the shoots than what we saw on the farm yesterday. You lasted about ten minutes outside before falling into the mud.”

Y/N groaned. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“I’m just saying, for someone who wears thousands of dollars in designer clothes, you sure took a nosedive straight into a pile of it.”

Clark coughed, trying to disguise his laugh as a sip of orange juice.

“I was ambushed by the ground,” Y/N argued. “It came out of nowhere!”

“It’s ground,” Clark pointed out. “It’s literally everywhere.”

Y/N threw a piece of toast at him.

Martha smiled, clearly enjoying every second of this. “At least you were a good sport about it.”

“Oh, absolutely. I accepted my fate instantly.” She gestured dramatically at herself. “I belong to the dirt now.”

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "Well, you can’t wear that forever.”

Y/N looked down at herself—Clark’s old flannel, borrowed sweatpants, and socks that had definitely seen better days.

"Why not?" she said, clearly amused. “It’s vintage.”

Jonathan snorted. "Clark, take her into town. Get her some real clothes before someone thinks we took in a stray."

Clark sighed. Y/N grinned.

–

Clark stood by the truck, arms crossed, already regretting everything.

He had agreed—against his better judgment—to take Y/N into town for new clothes. It should have been simple. A quick trip, in and out, zero chaos.

But then she had said, “Give me five minutes to get ready,” and Clark should have known.

Because when Y/N finally stepped outside, she was wearing a wig.

Not just any wig.

A ridiculous, platinum blonde disaster that was at least two shades too bright to look remotely natural. It was styled in loose, dramatic curls, the kind that screamed ‘Hollywood starlet in disguise’ rather than ‘completely normal person just trying to blend in.’

Clark stared.

Y/N struck a pose. “Well? What do you think?”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I even looking at?”

She flipped her curls over her shoulder. “A flawless disguise.”

Clark exhaled. “Y/N.”

“Clark.”

“You do realize we’re going to a tiny town where everyone knows each other?”

“Yes.”

“So… they’re just going to see me”—he gestured to himself—“and you, in a wig.”

“And?” she said, completely unbothered. “That’s called acting.”

Clark blinked at her, waiting for logic to return. It did not.

Instead, she slid on a pair of oversized sunglasses and smirked. “Come on, farm boy. Let’s paint this town red.”

Clark sighed and opened the truck door.

–

Clark should have known.

He should have felt it in his bones the second they rolled into town, but he had deluded himself into thinking they could just slip in and out, grab Y/N some clothes, and be done.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Because the second he stepped out of the truck—

“CLARK KENT!”

Clark physically flinched.

Mr. Jenkins, owner of the feed store and Smallville’s most dedicated town crier, was already waving him down like he was the Second Coming.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Clark Kent, back in Smallville!” Jenkins called, his voice booming across the street. “Boy, you don’t write, you don’t call—your mama told me you were visitin’, but I figured you’d be hidin’ out at the farm!”

Clark barely had time to muster a polite nod before—

“Clark Kent!”

Mrs. Randall from the bakery had somehow materialized in the doorway of her shop.

She clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, honey, you didn’t tell me you were comin’ into town today! Still takin’ your coffee black?”

Clark sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, you just hold tight, sweetheart. I’ll have one ready before you leave.”

Before Clark could even think about responding, two elderly women sitting on a nearby bench started whispering—loudly.

“Oh my,” one of them swooned, fanning herself dramatically. “Would you look at him?”

“Oh, I see him,” the other one sighed, openly staring.

Then—THEN—Mrs. Dawson, the mayor’s wife, giggled.

She giggled.

“Clark Kent,” she cooed, reaching out to pat his arm like he was a prize-winning show horse. “Oh, you handsome thing, your mother must be so proud of you.”

Clark could feel his soul actively trying to leave his body.

And Y/N?

Y/N was thriving.

She stood beside him, grinning so wide he was surprised her face didn’t split in half.

“This,” she whispered, eyes sparkling with amusement, “is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Clark ignored her.

He just needed to get her clothes, and then they could leave—

But then—

“Mister Kent!”

Clark froze.

A small child ran up to him, looking panicked.

Clark braced himself. “Uh—”

“It’s Mr. Henderson’s cat!” the kid blurted out, pointing frantically toward the general store. “She got stuck in the tree again!”

Clark exhaled sharply.

The entire street had stopped to watch.

Y/N, beside him, slowly turned toward him, vibrating with barely contained laughter.

Clark gritted his teeth.

There was no way out of this.

Two minutes later, he was standing in front of a very angry, very ungrateful cat while half of Smallville watched their golden boy in action.

Y/N, off to the side, cheerfully narrated the whole ordeal like it was a live event.

“Oh, folks, look at that form! The way he grabs the branch with precision— the poise, the grace!”

Clark shot her the deadliest glare imaginable before grabbing the cat and handing it over.

The kid cheered.

The crowd actually applauded.

One of the old women from earlier blew him a kiss.

Clark, utterly mortified, turned on his heel and walked straight to the clothing store.

Y/N had to jog to keep up.

“Oh, Clark!” she called, laughing so hard she could barely speak. “Are you—are you actually mad?”

Clark yanked open the store door. “We’re never coming back here again.”

“Oh, but why? You’re Smallville’s golden boy!” she teased, following him inside.

By the time they left, Y/N had a bag full of normal, Smallville-appropriate clothes—and a new favorite pastime: watching Clark Kent suffer.

–

Clark wasn’t expecting her to be awake.

Not after yesterday’s disaster.

Y/N had fallen asleep on the tractor. Mid-afternoon, full sun, out cold like the hum of the engine had personally sung her a lullaby.

Jonathan had taken one look at her, arms loosely crossed, head tilted back, dead to the world, and decided that was it.

“You’re banned from the farm before nine,” he’d said when she finally woke up. “Don’t need you napping in the grain silo next.”

So this morning, Clark assumed he’d be alone

The house was quiet. Sunlight barely streamed through the window as he made his way to the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that connected the guest room and his old one.

His routine was second nature. Splash of water, toothpaste, brushing his teeth while staring half-awake at himself in the mirror.

And then.

The door swung open.

Clark froze mid-brush, toothbrush still in his mouth, as Y/N stumbled in.

She was a mess.

Sleep-rumpled, hair haphazardly pinned up, wrapped in a massive hoodie she had clearly thrown on without thinking. She blinked blearily, not even acknowledging his presence, and moved straight to the sink beside him.

Clark arched an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Y/N, still half-asleep, turned the faucet on, splashed some water on her face, and then reached for her tiny arsenal of skincare products that now occupied an entire section of the counter.

It was silent.

Clark resumed brushing.

Y/N patted her face dry.

Finally, she yawned, leaning against the sink. “Morning, farm boy.”

Clark spit out his toothpaste. “Morning. Didn’t think you’d be up this early.”

She hummed. “Woke up, couldn’t fall back asleep.”

Clark gave her a pointed look. “You woke up early? Voluntarily?”

She reached for a serum. “Strange things happen on farms, Clark.”

Clark rolled his eyes.

Another beat of silence passed as she started dabbing product onto her face.

Then—

“You know,” she murmured, watching him in the mirror, “your hair is a disaster right now.”

Clark barely had time to react before she reached up and fixed it.

He stopped breathing.

Her fingers were gentle, effortlessly smoothing the unruly strands, carding through the thick mess of waves like she had done it a thousand times before.

Clark’s brain short-circuited.

“Your hair’s too thick to not use conditioner,” she said absentmindedly, completely unaware of the existential crisis she had just caused.

Clark was dying.

It was such a small touch. Casual. Nothing.

But it felt like everything.

Y/N, oblivious, finished adjusting his hair and gave a satisfied nod. “Much better.”

Then she turned back to her routine, humming as she unscrewed a bottle of moisturizer.

Clark was still standing there, gripping the sink like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

–-

The afternoon sun poured through the windows of the Kent farmhouse, casting a warm glow over the cozy living room where Y/N and Martha sat, both curled up with cups of tea. The air smelled of fresh hay drifting in from outside, and the distant sound of Clark and Jonathan working on the farm provided a peaceful background hum.

Y/N stretched her legs over the couch, sinking deeper into the cushions. “I swear, this place is too relaxing. If I stay here any longer, I might forget I have an entire career waiting for me back in Metropolis.”

Martha chuckled, setting her tea down on the coffee table. “Well, you’re always welcome to visit whenever you need a break, dear.”

Y/N smiled, glancing at the older woman. She noticed Martha shift slightly, rolling her shoulder with a small wince before reaching for her tea again.

Y/N’s brows furrowed. “Wait a second—was that a wince? What’s wrong?”

Martha sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. My back’s been aching a bit these past few days. Just part of getting older, I suppose.”

Y/N gasped, sitting up straight. “No, ma’am. That is not just ‘part of getting older.’ That is your body telling you it needs a break. And you know what?” She set down her tea with determination. “That’s it. We’re having a girls’ day.”

Martha blinked, caught off guard by her sudden enthusiasm. “A girls’ day?”

Y/N nodded, already brainstorming. “Yes! You do so much for everyone—Clark, Jonathan, literally the entire town, I bet—but when was the last time someone pampered you?”

Martha chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know about pampering—”

Y/N held up a finger. “No arguments! Give me 5 minutes, I have to make some calls.” Leaving the room, Y/N called Sam, her manager. 

–

A few hours later, Clark and Jonathan stood at the edge of the smallville airstrip, arms crossed as they watched Y/N excitedly inspect a sleek, private plane. Martha, standing beside them, looked more amused than anything.

Jonathan squinted at the aircraft. “You’re telling me she’s flying this thing?”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Dad. She has a pilot’s license.”

Jonathan let out a low whistle. “Huh. Well, that’s something.”

Y/N spun on her heel, clapping her hands together. “Alright, boys! This is where we leave you to your boring farm work while we go have the best spa day in existence.” She turned to Martha, eyes twinkling. “Mrs. Kent, are you ready to experience luxury?”

Martha chuckled. “I suppose I am.”

Clark, still baffled, gestured toward the plane. “Y/N. You own a plane?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Clark, I’m rich. Of course I own a plane. This one’s just rented though”

Jonathan muttered, “Good Lord.”

With that, Y/N grabbed Martha’s hand and led her toward the aircraft. Clark had to admit, watching his mom step into a private jet like she was some kind of VIP was hilarious.

Before boarding, Y/N turned back and shot Clark a smirk. “Don’t miss me too much, Kent.”

Clark scoffed, but his lips twitched. “No promises.”

With a final wink, Y/N disappeared into the cockpit. Within minutes, the plane roared to life, gliding smoothly down the airstrip before taking off into the sky.

Jonathan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, son. You sure do pick ‘em.”

Clark just sighed, watching the plane disappear into the horizon. “Don’t I know it.”

–

The moment Y/N and Martha stepped into the spa, they were greeted with plush robes, soothing scents of lavender and eucalyptus, and the soft hum of a waterfall somewhere in the distance. Y/N turned to Martha with a grin.

"Welcome to heaven, Mrs. Kent."

Martha chuckled as a spa attendant led them into a private suite, complete with warm candlelight and deep, cushioned lounge chairs. "I have to admit, this is a bit fancier than the farmhouse."

"That’s the whole point!" Y/N plopped onto one of the chairs, stretching luxuriously. "This is a no chores, no stress, only pampering zone."

The afternoon was a dream. They started with full-body massages that left Martha sighing in contentment and Y/N melting into the massage table. Then came the mud dips, where Y/N playfully declared, "We are officially swamp creatures now!" Martha laughed so hard that some of her mud mask nearly splattered onto her robe.

"You really know how to have fun, sweetheart," Martha said as they rinsed off in the warm mineral springs.

Y/N smiled, but there was something softer behind her usual playfulness. "Yeah, well, I always wanted to do this kind of thing with my mom. She never really got to have a day just for herself before she passed."

Martha reached out, squeezing Y/N’s hand gently. "I’m sure she would have loved this."

Y/N exhaled, staring at the rippling water. "Yeah. I just— I always wanted to spoil her, you know? Do all the things she never got to do. Give her a day where she didn't have to worry about anything."

Martha gave her hand another squeeze. "Sounds like you had a wonderful mother."

"She was." Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, willing herself not to get emotional. "She worked so hard. She deserved everything good in the world."

Martha’s eyes were warm, filled with understanding. "And now, you do things like this—for me, for other people. She’d be so proud of you, honey."

Y/N swallowed past the lump in her throat. "You’re gonna make me cry, Mrs. Kent, and I do not need puffy eyes for our next treatment."

Martha chuckled. "Alright, alright. No tears."

After the springs, they were treated to the most luxurious facials, complete with cucumber slices over their eyes. Y/N dramatically announced, "This is it. This is how I choose to live my life from now on."

Martha, lying beside her with a face mask of her own, hummed. "I could get used to this myself."

Next came pedicures and manicures, where Y/N picked out a bold, sparkling red while Martha chose a soft pink.

"Classic," Y/N teased as they admired their fresh nails.

"Timeless," Martha corrected with a grin.

As they sipped on some fresh herbal tea, Martha leaned in slightly, giving Y/N a knowing look. "So… is there a special man in your life?"

Y/N sighed dramatically, her head tilting back as she pressed a hand to her chest. "Yeah…"

Martha perked up. "Oh?"

A dreamy smile spread across Y/N’s face as she sighed, "Do you know Superman?"

Martha almost choked on her tea.

"Superman?" she repeated, coughing a little.

Y/N nodded enthusiastically, completely oblivious to Martha’s moment of panic. "Oh my God, Mrs. Kent. He is—ugh—perfect. The muscles, the voice, the way he just swooped in and saved me? Like, hello, literal knight in shining armor moment!"

Martha struggled to keep a straight face. "Superman, huh?"

"Yes! And he’s so charming. And strong. And polite. And—did I mention strong? Because wow."

Martha’s lips twitched. "I think you did."

Y/N sighed again, dramatically clutching the teacup. "And the way he carried me? I thought I was going to die. I was so close to proposing on the spot."

Martha, who knew exactly who Superman was, could barely contain herself. "Does Clark know about this little crush of yours?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah. He was so grumpy about it. He just sat there at breakfast with this look on his face while I was telling Lois all about Superman’s arms."

Martha bit back a laugh. "Clark was grumpy?"

"Yeah! I swear, he was one more compliment away from cutting his ears off." Y/N chuckled. "Honestly, he needs to loosen up. It’s not my fault Superman is the most gorgeous man on the planet."

Martha took a slow sip of her tea, utterly amused. "Not your fault at all, sweetheart."

Y/N groaned, flopping dramatically onto her chair. "Ugh, Mrs. Kent, what do I do? Do I just… throw myself off another building and hope he catches me?"

Martha choked again. "I—no! Absolutely not!"

Y/N laughed. "I’m kidding! I’d never do that. …Probably."

Martha just shook her head, biting back a knowing smile. Oh, if only Y/N knew.

–

By the time Y/N and Martha returned to the farm, the difference in Martha was undeniable. She moved like she was ten years younger, humming to herself as she stepped out of the truck with a bounce in her step. Clark, standing on the porch with his arms crossed, shot Y/N a look.

“What did you do to her?” he asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Y/N smirked, throwing her arms out dramatically. “I gave your mother the best day of her life, thank you very much.”

Martha simply patted Clark’s arm as she passed. “Oh, hush, sweetheart. It’s called self-care.”

Jonathan muttered from his rocking chair, “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day my wife came back from a spa day lookin’ happier than a calf in fresh clover.”

Y/N pointed at him. “And that is why I’m getting you in for a deep tissue massage next, Mr. Kent.”

Jonathan snorted. “Over my dead body.”

Despite the fresh manicure on her hands, Y/N, rolled up her sleeves and turned to Johnathan. “Put me to work, boss!”

Jonathan tried to talk her out of it.

“Now, sweetheart,” he said, leaning against the fence as he watched her roll up her sleeves, “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but you don’t have to push yourself.”

“I want to,” Y/N insisted, hands on her hips. “I know I’m not exactly built for farm life, but I can learn.”

Clark, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, smirked. “Uh-huh. That’s what you said two days ago. And how’d that go again?”

Y/N shot him a glare. “It was slippery!”

Clark chuckled. “Sure it was.”

Undeterred, Y/N marched toward the barn. “Point is, I’m helping. No take-backs.”

Jonathan sighed, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Well, can’t say no to that kind of determination.”

So, despite Clark’s reluctance, Y/N got to work.

She fed the chickens—this time avoiding the particularly aggressive one that nearly declared war on her the day before. She helped haul lighter hay bales into the barn, grunting with effort but refusing to give up. She even followed Clark as he worked, handing him tools and watching closely when he explained things.

And Clark—well, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed.

Sure, she wasn’t a natural, and she had no idea what she was doing half the time, but she tried. She was eager, determined, and surprisingly strong for her size.

Clark found himself watching her more than he should have.

Then—

BANG!

The loud noise from the house had everyone whipping around.

“Oh dear,” Martha’s voice called out from inside.

Clark, Y/N, and Jonathan hurried into the farmhouse, their boots thudding against the wooden floors. They found Martha standing in the hallway, peering into the guest room, water slowly pooling on the floor.

Clark’s eyes went straight to the ceiling. “What happened?”

Martha sighed, shaking her head. “Well, looks like an old pipe finally gave out. Must’ve been weak for a while.”

Clark frowned. That did happen sometimes in old houses like this, but the timing was suspicious. His mom was many things, but careless wasn’t one of them.

Jonathan crossed his arms. “That’s odd. You checked all the pipes last time you visited, didn’t you, Clark?”

Clark’s eyes narrowed at his mother. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

Martha remained perfectly innocent. “Well, must’ve missed one.”

Clark knew his mother.

Clark knew when he was being played.

Y/N, completely unaware, frowned at the growing puddle. “Oh no, so I can’t sleep here tonight?”

Martha let out a very casual sigh. “No, I suppose not. What a shame.”

Clark immediately stiffened. His entire soul screamed in warning. Oh, no.

Martha looked up, her face the picture of perfect concern. “Well, Clark, I hate to ask, but would you mind sharing your room?”

“No.” Clark’s response was immediate.

Martha blinked. “Clark—”

“I’ll sleep in the barn,” he said, already turning. “Goodnight—”

Jonathan grabbed the back of his shirt before he could escape.

“Boy, you are not sleeping in the barn,” he said flatly.

Martha nodded. “Don’t be ridiculous. We have a perfectly good bed in your room, and it’s more than big enough.”

Clark gawked at them. “Mom. Dad. I—”

“Wait, I really don’t want to intrude,” Y/N said, holding up her hands. “I can sleep on the couch—”

Martha gasped. “Absolutely not! You’re our guest, sweetheart.”

Y/N hesitated, looking between them. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make Clark uncomfortable—”

“Oh, nonsense,” Martha said sweetly. “Clark is such a gentleman. I’m sure he won’t mind at all.”

Clark nearly burst into flames.

“MOM.”

Jonathan sighed, rubbing his face. “Martha, I swear—”

But Martha, unbothered, simply smiled and patted Y/N’s shoulder. “Well, that’s settled then. Y/N, you’ll bunk with Clark for the night.”

Clark let out an incredulous laugh. “You planned this.”

Martha’s smile was way too smug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jonathan muttered, “Lord help me.”

Y/N, meanwhile, was still completely oblivious to the parental scheming she had just fallen victim to.

“So,” she said, flashing Clark a grin. “Roomies?”

Clark sighed, running a hand down his face.

“Roomies.”

–-

Clark had never known true suffering until this exact moment.

He stood stiffly in the doorway of his childhood bedroom, watching as Y/N flopped onto his bed, arms outstretched like a starfish, groaning dramatically.

"Ugh, this is so much better than that tiny cot in the guest room," she said, rolling onto her side and patting the mattress approvingly. "Your parents are so thoughtful, Kal. This is way comfier."

Clark froze. It was barely a flicker—his fingers twitching at his side, his jaw clenching for a second too long—but the reaction was there. He didn’t like the name.

Y/N didn’t notice. She just sighed happily, stretching out even further.

Clark swallowed hard. "Right. Comfy."

His bed was not big enough for two people.

Well, technically it was, but Clark had spent his whole life sleeping alone in it, and now Y/N was sprawled across it, wearing one of his flannels again, looking way too at home.

She turned her head to him, smirking. "What, Clark? You're standing there like you're about to be sentenced to death."

Clark sighed, rubbing his face. "I’ll take the floor."

Y/N gasped like he had just insulted her entire existence. "Absolutely not! I refuse to be the reason you sleep on the floor."

"Y/N—"

"Nope," she said, sitting up and scooting over. She patted the empty space beside her. "There's room. Suck it up, Kent."

Clark let out a slow, deep breath, telling himself this was fine. Normal. He had superhuman control over himself—surely he could handle this.

Reluctantly, he walked over and eased onto the bed, staying as far to the edge as humanly possible.

Y/N rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow, watching him with a teasing glint in her eye. "You know, for a guy who is Smallville’s biggest hero, you're really scared of sharing a bed."

Clark huffed a laugh. "I'm not scared."

She tilted her head, eyes twinkling. "So, what’s the problem? Afraid you'll roll over and accidentally crush me with all that farm-boy muscle?"

Clark gave her a flat look. "I do not roll over."

Y/N grinned. "Ooooh. So you do sleep like a vampire. Arms crossed over your chest, no movement, totally still?"

Clark groaned, covering his face. "Why am I having this conversation?"

Y/N giggled—an actual, evil little giggle—and turned onto her back. "I'm just saying, Clark, if you’re gonna be all tense about it, we can put a pillow wall between us. Real eighth-grade summer camp energy."

Clark shot her a look. "I am not building a pillow wall."

Y/N smirked. "So you're saying you're fine sleeping next to me?"

Clark opened his mouth—then closed it, narrowing his eyes. "You’re messing with me."

"Maybe."

Clark exhaled sharply, staring at the ceiling. "Unbelievable."

Silence settled between them, the kind that wasn’t awkward but rather… comfortable. Warm. The farmhouse was quiet at night, the only sounds being the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors.

For a moment, Clark allowed himself to relax.

Then—

Y/N stretched, her foot accidentally brushing against his leg.

Clark jerked.

Y/N snorted. "Clark."

"That was on purpose."

"It was not!" she said, laughing. "You're so jumpy. Is this really your first time sharing a bed with someone?"

Clark refused to answer that.

Y/N shifted closer, her voice dropping slightly. "Or do I make you nervous, farm boy?"

Clark rolled onto his side, facing away from her. "Goodnight, Y/N."

She chuckled, rolling onto her back again. "Yeah, yeah. Sweet dreams, roomie."

–

Clark was used to waking up early. He had spent his entire life rising with the sun, helping his dad on the farm before school, and later, as Superman, getting up at ungodly hours to save the world.

What he wasn’t used to was waking up next to her.

For a moment, he just… stared.

Y/N was sprawled out in his bed, limbs thrown across the mattress in a way that was both chaotic and kind of adorable. Her hair was a mess of waves against the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other firmly gripping his flannel, like she had subconsciously claimed it as hers in the night.

Clark swallowed, very aware of the fact that at some point, she had gravitated toward him in her sleep. One of her legs had tangled with his under the covers, her foot resting lightly against his calf.

This was fine. Totally fine.

Except for the part where he was incredibly aware of every little breath she took, every shift of her body, and the way his traitorous heart was hammering in his chest.

Then, Y/N made a soft, content sound, stretching slightly before blinking awake.

Clark immediately snapped his eyes away, rolling onto his back like he hadn’t just been staring at her like an absolute idiot.

She let out a sleepy hum, voice raspy from sleep. “Mmm. G’morning, farm boy.”

Clark cleared his throat, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling. “Morning.”

Y/N stretched, her foot brushing against his leg again, and Clark had to physically stop himself from reacting.

Then—

“Oh my God, we survived the night!” Y/N gasped dramatically, sitting up. “Clark! You didn’t accidentally roll over and crush me!”

Clark groaned. “Y/N—”

“Truly a miracle.”

He turned to glare at her, but she was grinning, her eyes still slightly hazy with sleep, and suddenly, it wasn’t so easy to be annoyed.

Before he could say anything, a soft knock came from the door.

Martha’s voice drifted through. “Breakfast is ready, you two.”

Y/N threw off the covers, hopping out of bed. “Ooooh, pancakes?”

Clark ran a hand over his face before following after her.

–

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like warm syrup and fresh coffee. Jonathan was already at the table, reading the newspaper, while Martha was at the stove flipping pancakes.

“Morning, kids,” she greeted, sending them a knowing little smile as they sat down.

Clark ignored it.

Y/N, on the other hand, beamed. “Morning, Martha! These smell amazing.”

Martha chuckled, setting a fresh stack of pancakes on the table. “Glad to see you two slept well.”

Clark almost choked on his coffee.

Jonathan hummed, flipping a page in the newspaper. “Must’ve been real cozy, huh, son?”

Clark definitely choked.

Y/N just grinned, stealing a piece of Clark’s bacon. “Super cozy.”

Clark shot her a look. Y/N winked.

Martha stifled a laugh, clearly enjoying herself, before changing the subject. “The Harvest Festival is tonight,” she said, setting down a fresh cup of coffee in front of Y/N. “Are you two planning on going?”

Clark perked up. “Oh, yeah, I was going to tell you about that,” he said, turning to Y/N. “It’s a big annual festival we do here in Smallville. There’s a carnival, a bake-off, pie-eating contests—”

“Wait. Pie-eating contests?” Y/N gasped. “Clark, why have you been holding out on me?”

Clark laughed. “It’s a whole thing. But it also raises money for the local farmers—last year, we raised almost thirty thousand dollars.”

Y/N blinked, her amusement fading into something softer. “That’s… actually amazing.”

Clark smiled. “Yeah. It’s a big deal for the community.”

Y/N leaned forward, eyes bright. “Okay, we have to go. I need to see you in a pie-eating contest.”

Clark shook his head. “No way.”

“C’mon! It’s for charity, Clark.”

Clark gave her a look. “You just want to see me embarrass myself.”

Y/N gasped dramatically. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”

Jonathan, amused, turned to Martha. “Think we should warn the town before she shows up?”

Martha chuckled. “Oh, I think the town will love her.”

Y/N grinned, stealing another piece of Clark’s bacon. “Guess we’ll find out tonight.”

–

The Smallville Harvest Festival was in full swing by the time Clark and Y/N arrived. Strings of golden lights crisscrossed the fairgrounds, illuminating the booths and carnival rides in a warm glow. The air smelled of kettle corn, caramel apples, and the crisp bite of autumn.

And Y/N… oh, God.

She was back in disguise.

Clark had thought she might go with something a little more subtle, given that Smallville was a tiny town where everyone knew everyone, but no. Instead, she had gone full incognito celebrity at the farmer’s market.

A ridiculously perfect blonde wig, giant sunglasses, and, for some reason, a baseball cap with a cow print design. It was all so dramatically unnecessary, especially since the most they had to worry about in Smallville was Mrs. Taylor from the bakery asking if Clark had finally found himself a nice girl.

Clark sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You do realize that this just makes you more suspicious, right?”

Y/N grinned. “No idea what you’re talking about, farm boy.”

He gave her a flat look.

She gasped, clutching her chest. “Oh, no. Am I mysterious? Unapproachable? Could it be that the people of Smallville will think I’m some sort of intriguing outsider with a secret past?”

Clark rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide his amusement. “You’re insufferable.”

Y/N linked her arm through his. “And yet, here we are.”

Clark just shook his head, unable to hide the amusement tugging at his lips as they made their way through the festival.

They stopped at a pumpkin-carving contest, watching as kids and adults alike competed for the best designs. Y/N gasped at a particularly well-crafted jack-o’-lantern shaped like a cat, nudging Clark. “That one’s my favorite.”

Clark, still half-distracted by the ridiculousness of her disguise, hummed. “It’s cute.”

Y/N grinned. “Like you?”

Clark choked on air.

Before he could even recover, Y/N grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the game booths. “Come on, let’s win some prizes.”

Clark barely had time to process anything before Y/N came to a screeching halt in front of the ring toss booth, eyes locked onto a plush cow hanging from the top shelf.

She gasped. “Clark. I need him.”

Clark followed her gaze. “You need a stuffed cow?”

Y/N turned to him with wide, pleading eyes. “Clark. His name is Moo Moo. Look at him.”

Clark bit back a laugh. “Okay, okay. You want me to win it for you?”

Y/N scoffed. “Excuse me, I am going to win it for you.”

Before Clark could protest, she was already handing a few dollars to the booth attendant and grabbing the rings.

Clark folded his arms, watching as she lined up her first shot. She squinted, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration, before tossing the ring.

It missed.

Clark bit his lip. “Close.”

Y/N didn’t acknowledge him. She just grabbed the next ring and threw it.

It missed.

Clark coughed. “Almost had it.”

Y/N’s eye twitched.

Her final ring sailed through the air—

And landed perfectly around the bottle.

Y/N screamed.

The booth attendant blinked, looking genuinely startled, before handing her the stuffed cow.

Y/N turned to Clark, triumphant, shoving the plush into his arms. “For you.”

Clark laughed, hugging the ridiculous stuffed cow to his chest. “Wow. I’m honored.”

Y/N grinned. “You should be.”

They spent the next hour bouncing between different games and attractions, Y/N somehow managing to lose every competitive challenge but having the time of her life doing so. Clark even let her pull him onto a few rides, including the Ferris wheel.

As their cart reached the top, the entire festival spread out beneath them in a sea of warm lights and rustic charm. Y/N exhaled, resting her chin on her hand.

“I love Ferris wheels,” she admitted.

Clark glanced at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “It’s like… everything gets quiet for a second. Just you and the view.”

Clark studied her for a long moment.

“…Yeah,” he said softly. “I know what you mean.”

The ride stopped at the peak, leaving them suspended above the fairgrounds.

Clark turned to her. “So… about that pie-eating contest—”

Y/N groaned. “Clark.”

He smirked.

She kicked his shin.

After they got off the Ferris wheel, they wandered toward the food stands, and Clark bought them a caramel apple. He took one bite before handing it to Y/N.

She hesitated for half a second before accepting it, eyes flickering briefly to where his teeth had already sunk into the candy coating.

Clark noticed.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “What, suddenly shy?”

Y/N scoffed, quickly taking a bite. “Oh, please, farm boy.”

She absolutely did not blush.

Clark chuckled.

By the time they made their way back to the main stage, the festival’s live band was playing a slow, easy tune, and couples swayed together under the string lights.

Clark glanced at Y/N. “You dance?”

She arched a brow. “I perform in front of thousands of people, Kal.”

Clark’s smile faltered, his grip on Moo Moo tightening just slightly.

Y/N didn’t notice. She just smirked, tilting her head.

Clark recovered, grinning. “So that’s a no.”

Y/N gasped, grabbing his hand before he could react. “Oh, you’re getting it now.”

She pulled him onto the dance floor, placing his hands on her waist and setting hers on his shoulders.

Clark chuckled. “You sure you can keep up, songbird?”

Y/N smirked. “Watch me.”

And to her credit, she did.

They moved together effortlessly, swaying in time with the music. For a moment, everything else—the festival, the games, the world—faded into the background.

It was just them, bathed in golden light.

Clark looked down at her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Y/N swallowed.

Then—

“I still think you should’ve done the pie-eating contest.”

Clark groaned.

Y/N just laughed, leaning into him as they danced.

As the last notes of the song faded and the dancing came to an end, Y/N and Clark reluctantly pulled apart. Clark, still feeling the warmth of her touch lingering on his shoulders, stepped back and rubbed the back of his neck, a little dazed. Y/N, on the other hand, beamed at him like she’d just won a bet.

“You dance better than I expected, farm boy,” she teased.

Clark smirked. “And you’re not as bad as I thought, songbird.”

Before she could retort, a familiar voice interrupted.

“There you two are.”

Martha and Jonathan approached, their faces alight with warmth and amusement. Jonathan clapped Clark on the back while Martha looped an arm around Y/N, squeezing her affectionately.

“You both looked wonderful out there,” Martha praised.

Jonathan grinned. “I don’t know, Martha. I think Clark was just trying to keep up.”

Clark gave him a flat look while Y/N stifled a giggle. Before Clark could defend himself, the festival’s emcee, Mayor Dawson, took to the stage, tapping the microphone.

“Alright, folks, I hope you all had a fantastic evening so far. Now, before we close out the night, it’s time to reveal the final donation amount for our farmers’ fund.”

Applause rang through the festival grounds as people gathered in front of the stage, eager to hear the total.

Mayor Dawson shuffled his papers, clearing his throat. “As you all know, every year, this festival raises money to support our hard working local farmers, ensuring they have the resources they need to keep their farms running. And I have to say, this year’s been one for the books.”

The crowd murmured in anticipation.

The mayor adjusted his glasses, squinting down at the paper in front of him. “Now, uh… let’s see here. Our initial goal was to match last year’s record of $30,000.”

A wave of cheers rippled through the audience.

Mayor Dawson continued, “And thanks to the generosity of our wonderful community, we had already surpassed that goal earlier in the night. But then, folks…” He paused, blinking rapidly as if he had to double-check what he was reading.

“…We received a last-minute anonymous donation,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

Clark frowned, sensing something was off.

Mayor Dawson shook his head in disbelief. “Which brought our grand total to…” He took a deep breath before reading the number aloud.

“One million, thirty-one thousand, nine hundred and forty-three dollars.”

Silence.

Then—

A loud gasp.

A few people coughed.

Someone dropped their drink.

Martha grabbed Jonathan’s arm.

The mayor removed his glasses, looking up at the stunned crowd. “Folks, I thought this was a typo at first. But I’ve double-checked the numbers, and it’s real. It’s real.”

The festival grounds erupted.

People cheered, clapped, and whooped, hugging each other in disbelief. Farmers wiped at their eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of support. It wasn’t just a record-breaking amount—it was life-changing.

And amidst the chaos, the Kents all turned to one person.

Y/N, standing there with her hands in her pockets, looking around innocently.

Clark narrowed his eyes.

Martha’s lips twitched.

Jonathan crossed his arms.

Y/N blinked at them, feigning confusion. “What?”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Y/N.”

“I swear I didn’t do it,” she said, shaking her head. “But whoever did? Hot. I hope they’re single.”

Jonathan scoffed. “Uh-huh.”

“I mean,” she continued, pressing a hand to her heart. “What an incredible and mysterious person. So generous. So selfless. Imagine being that amazing.”

Clark gave her a look.

Y/N pointed at him. “Why are you looking at me like that? I am just as confused as you are.”

Martha chuckled. “Honey.”

Y/N turned to her, all wide eyes and innocence. “Martha, please. I would’ve made sure everyone knew it if it were me.”

Jonathan threw his hands in the air. “That’s your argument?”

“I would make sure they were building a statue of me right about now” Y/N mused. She nudged Clark. “Come on, Clark, you believe me, right?”

Clark crossed his arms. “Not even a little.”

Y/N sighed dramatically. “I see how it is. Framed for a crime I didn’t commit. This is slander.”

Clark rolled his eyes, fighting back a smile. He knew Y/N well enough by now to recognize when she was full of it—and she was absolutely full of it. But looking at her now, at the way she was watching the overjoyed families in the crowd, the way her lips curled into something soft and almost shy, he knew she wasn’t in it for the credit.

She just wanted to help.

And for that, Clark felt his chest tighten, just a little.

Martha, sensing the moment, squeezed Y/N’s hand. “Whoever they are, they changed lives tonight.”

Y/N smiled. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Guess they did. Can we stop for ice cream on the way home?”

The mayor was still talking, still reeling, but Y/N let the noise of the festival wash over her. The air was crisp, the sky was painted deep indigo, and for the first time in a long time, she felt something solid beneath her feet. This town—this ridiculous, warm, stubborn little town—had given her a place to breathe. 

–

The drive back to the Kent farm was quiet, the comfortable kind of quiet that only settled after a night full of warmth and laughter. The scent of caramel and bonfire smoke still clung to Y/N’s jacket, and the last of her ice cream was melting in the cup holder. She licked the caramel off her spoon as Clark pulled into the driveway, putting the truck in park.

“I still can’t believe you made us stop for ice cream,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Y/N swung her door open and hopped down, stretching with a satisfied sigh. “Clark. I have the means. I will abuse them for snacks.”

He rolled his eyes, grabbing the ice cream cup before it could topple onto the seat. “Yeah, I noticed.”

The house was dark when they stepped inside, and the Kents wished Clark and Y/N a goodnight. Don’t stay up too late. Love you both.

Y/N turned to Clark with a grin. “They love me.”

Clark let out a fond exhale, shaking his head as he flicked off the kitchen light. “Upstairs. Now.”

They trudged up to Clark’s room—their room, really, considering how natural Y/N’s presence seemed. Y/N changed into one of Clark’s old shirts without asking, and by the time he turned back around, she was already sprawled on his side of the bed, scrolling on her phone, that ridiculous cow plushie perched next to her. 

Clark crossed his arms. “Move.”

She barely glanced up. “Nah.”

He grabbed her ankle and dragged her over.

Y/N cackled, rolling onto her stomach as Clark settled in beside her, throwing the blanket over both of them.

Silence stretched, the kind laced with the hum of crickets and the soft rustling of trees outside. The night air was cool through the open window, carrying the last traces of autumn warmth. Clark turned onto his side, resting his head on his arm as he looked at her.

“So,” he said casually. “You wanna tell me why you donated a million dollars to Smallville?”

Y/N’s fingers froze mid-scroll.

She sighed, dramatically slow, and rolled onto her back. “Ugh. Fine.” She turned her head toward him. “Was it too little?”

Clark blinked. “What?”

She shrugged. “I could’ve given more, y’know. But I thought I’d keep it lowkey. Didn’t wanna be obnoxious about it.”

Clark just stared. “Lowkey?”

Y/N waved a hand. “It’s chill, Clark. I didn’t even buy a yacht this year, my account books are fine.”

Clark let out a strangled breath. “You own a yacht?”

“I own several things, try to keep up.”

Clark just gaped at her, half-wondering if he’d fallen into some alternate reality where this was a normal conversation. “You donated a million dollars and you’re acting like you just picked up the tab for dinner.”

Y/N propped herself up on her elbow, watching him carefully now. The humor was still there, but it had softened at the edges. “You knew me before all this,” she said, quieter. “Back when I was just some kid trying to survive in Metropolis.”

Clark stilled.

“I was dying for someone to be kind to me back then,” she admitted, her voice steady but distant, like she was speaking to the ceiling more than to him. “I remember nights where I had nothing, where I was exhausted and hungry and—” she exhaled, shaking her head. “Now, I have everything I ever dreamed of. More than I ever thought I’d get. So I don’t really see the point in hoarding that kind of money when it could actually help someone.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away, just watched her. He could still see that girl in her—the one who had played her guitar in subway stations, who had fought to make a life for herself with sheer determination and talent.

She huffed, flopping back onto the pillow. “Besides, I had to help the farms,” she added, grinning now. “Your dad looks too good carrying hay.”

Clark groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“I mean, have you seen him?”

“I am not discussing my dad’s hay-carrying skills.”

“Missed opportunity, honestly.”

Clark let out a slow, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s what all my accountants say.”

He exhaled, staring up at the ceiling, still processing everything. Y/N had always been generous—he had seen it in the way she cared for people, even when she had nothing. This was just another version of that.

His chest ached with something he didn’t quite have a name for.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Y/N glanced at him. “For what?”

“For caring,” he said simply. “For doing this.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Ew, get outta here with that sincerity, Kent.”

Clark huffed, reaching over to flick her forehead.

She swatted at his hand, laughing, before burrowing deeper under the covers. “Alright, alright, let’s go to sleep. I need my beauty rest. Gotta stay hot in case I ever need to marry rich.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because that’s your biggest concern.”

“Exactly. See, you get me.”

Clark just sighed, shutting his eyes as he settled in. “God help us all.”

–

The last evening in Smallville was painted in gold.

The barn smelled like sun-warmed wood and old hay, the kind of scent that had settled into its bones long before Clark was born. A soft breeze filtered through the open window of the loft, carrying with it the distant rustle of wheat fields stretching toward the horizon.

Y/N stood near the ledge, wrapped in his flannel, her arms folded over herself as she gazed out at the sunset. The sleeves swallowed her hands, the fabric loose and worn in a way that made it feel like she had always belonged here. Like she had always fit.

Clark leaned against the railing a few feet away, watching her take it all in.

“Well?” he asked, voice light. “Smallville’s finest barn. What’s the verdict?”

Y/N exhaled, shifting her weight onto one foot. “It’s… barn-y.”

Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Insightful.”

“No, but really,” she added, tilting her head. “It’s kind of nice up here. Peaceful. Feels… steady.”

Clark nodded, gaze flickering toward the window. The view was one he’d seen a thousand times before—the golden fields stretching far beyond the farmhouse, bathed in the last of the evening light. It was home. Had always been home.

Y/N leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows against the wood. “I think my favorite color is yellow now.”

Clark turned, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

She hummed in confirmation, her fingers tapping against the ledge. “I never really had one before. Used to say blue because it sounded cool. But…” She glanced back toward the farmhouse, the yellow panels glowing soft and warm under the fading sun. “Yellow feels different.”

Clark followed her gaze, looking at the house that had been a constant in his life. The way the light hit it now made it look golden, like something untouched by time.

“To me,” Y/N continued, voice softer now, “yellow feels safe.”

Clark turned to agree, to say he understood, but the words caught in his throat.

Because Y/N—standing there, bathed in the last of the evening light—was glowing.

Not in the figurative sense. Not in the way people described something ethereal or breathtaking. She was literally glowing, her skin catching the reflection of the sun, turning into something impossibly golden. The light curled around her like it belonged to her, soft and warm, like the earth had decided to make her part of the sunset.

And for the first time, Clark understood.

Yellow.

Yellow was gold.

And gold was her.

That’s why it felt like home.

Clark swallowed, something heavy and unfamiliar settling in his chest. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than before.

“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze lingering on her. “Yellow feels like home.”

Y/N turned then, catching him looking, but she didn’t say anything—just offered him a small, knowing smile. The kind that made something deep inside him crack just a little.

Clark forced himself to look away, to focus on the horizon, but it was too late.

The colour had already settled beneath his ribs.

--

a/n: who was gonna tell me you cant post over 17k words on tumblr.... i cut like half this chapter out

[teatimebeliever]

Not well written, but the idea was too interesting to just not write it down. I will prolly write a fic on ao3 with better writing, this is just to put the idea out there so I dont forget about it. Just an enemies to lovers Azriel x oc or azriel x reader idea I had, with a lot of random background Idea I had on the character. Its angsty, and not the best meet cute but you know, I got the idea from a dream after I fell asleep listening to look what you made me, I did something bad, you should see me in a crown and therefore I am on loop. Good dream tbh. Anyway enjoy!

"What do you want from me, Shadowsinger?" She spat out, her hatred for his kind evident in her tone.

He tilts his head to the side again, his hazel eyes sparkling in the moonlight. He walked closer to her, his footsteps silent. "Nothing much, just curious as to why a young woman with no records of her existence is going out raiding, massacring and making so much chaos at illyrian camps?"

"They deserved it." She said quietly, but firmly. "If you're here for the women and their kids that are missing, they don't want to be found. They are safe, fed, comfortable and for the first time in their miserable lives, happy." She held her head high at the words.

"That did not answer my question. Why is a young girl such as yourself, carrying out such planned raids and missions? It can't possibly be to no end? What is your purpose?" He paused, giving her a moment to answer, but continued when she didn't. "You have caused quite the ruckus, you know? Become quite a threat." He said again, face still unreadable as he maintains the distance, knowing she could winnow away at any moment, in the cold and chilly mountains. It took months for him to track her once, he could not afford to lose her now.

"I will ask you again, Shadowsinger, what do you want?" She snarled.

"I am just trying to understand why you think a young girl like you is fit to be the judge, jury, and executioner. Justice is not something just anyone has the right to bestow." His words were veiled in amusement, as if all of her carefully plotted plans and raids were temper tantrums of a child, and not a movement in and of itself.

Her eyes glowed as her anger takes over and her magic her magic seeps out from her, uncontrolled and wild. The sheer strength of it had his amusement dying down into a look of wariness. "Do you want to know, Shadowsinger? You find it so amusing, don't you?"

He stares at her for a minute, a dark chuckle escaping his lips as he realized her weakness.

Her wrath.

"It seems I struck a cord. I do not find it amusing, but rather pitiful, you are so young, with so much anger inside you. What a waste."

She stepped closer, her magic thrumming in the ground, yet her words were quiet, filled with a kind of contempt that could only come from years of experience of things better left unheard, and unseen. "They took me from my mother by force, chopped off my wings, used me for their pleasure and left me there to die. An illyrian camp. And no one. Did. A thing." Her eyes were glaring right into Azriel's, her eyes full of all consuming wrath, as her words reminded him of another female he knew.

She laughed, but no humor was present in her voice as she continued. "No one even knew. You and your high lord lived blissfully unaware while my existence crumbled." She hissed at him, stopping just a few steps away.

"I was broken, thought I would never find myself again as I struggled in a lonely cabin I found abandoned in the woods. Felt as if everyday, I was still there, half-dead on the side of the road. Of course I knew living in the cabin was mercy compared to how they treated the women in those camps, like slaves. And thats when a girl came knocking at my door, an escapee from a camp. We decided soon after to create a safe space, for people like us. And the rest is history." She continued, eyes becoming damp at the memory, before shaking her head and smiling slightly, so sweetly. Azriel almost forgot that she had slaughtered a few dozen men a few hours ago.

He tried to reach out silently to catch her as she finally got to a distance where he knew he could grab her, so he could get more information out of her, about things she were clearly omitting, only to realise, that he couldn't move.

He looked up at her in horror as she continued smiling, almost as if it took her no effort restraining one of the strongest illyrians in history.

It didn't, Azriel realised.

"And so we trained. And I took so much pleasure in breaking the bones of men in illyrian camps as we raided them. Saved the women that wanted to leave, took them with us, back to our hideout, expanded it until it became a thriving community. We raided camps and bring people back, who can pick whatever they excel in and work in tandem. It is what I deserved when I had nothing. What they deserve." She smiled, pride shining in her eyes as she now dropped down to sit on a log in front of him, more interested in a white wildflower glowing in the moonlight instead of him.

"Say, Azriel, You're half illyrian, are you not?" She asked, her voice higher, lighter, mocking. "You trained in one of their camps, with your oh so righteous brothers, did you not?"

She did not wait for him to reply, knowing he couldn't. She made sure of it from her magic, taking away his ability to speak.

"You know it as well. Your brothers do too." Her voice was bitter as she plucked the flower. "And yet you choose to hide away in your pretty little city of starlight, ignoring the pain these women go through every day." She finally looked up at him, eyes shining with contempt. "You're just as bad as them." She hissed. "Why shouldn't I shred your wings like your people did to me? Speak, Shadowsinger, speak."

It took a moment for him to realise he could speak again.

Azriel was frustrated, he understood where she was coming from but he could feel his defensive nature for his family coming up. "Rhysand tries. He tries his best to do things for the girls there. There's new laws, there's change. It's happening but these things take time. We are nothing like them."

"You're illyrian, they're illyrian. You saw the suffering of the women there and chose to do nothing about it. You high lord may have put new rules in place, banning clipping of wings, and starting the training of girls. But you and I both know it still happens. All of you do." She shrugged, back to examining the flower. Her face was young still, and her body lithe, Azriel's heart felt a little heavy at the thought of her past, but the anger he felt at being this defenseless in front of a young fae overpowered that.

A dark growl escaped his lips as his jaw tensed, his voice was raspy when he finally continued. "We are trying our best to keep track of it, to eradicate such malpractices comple-"

He was cut off yet again, but this time her voice was louder.

"Well trying is not good enough!" She snapped. "You don't even know it when it happens. You're too busy going on fancy dinners with your inner circle. If you are so good at protecting illyrian women, where are my wings, Azriel?" She hissed as she looked into his eyes as if she was looking into his soul.

He froze at her question, his hazel eyes widening slightly. His jaw was still tense, and he tried to move his body again, failing to do so. He didn't say anything, choosing to remain silent. There was a hint of shame in his eyes as he looked away.

She scoffed as she looked away again as she dropped the flower and stood up again, dusting off her hands against each other.

"Thought so. Anyway," She cleared her throat, putting on a sickly sweet smile. "I am bored and tired of playing with you now. Scurry off, like the dog that you are and tell your high lord I said Hi. I am sure a very interesting gossip session awaits the inner circle tonight." She finished, the end of her sentence blended with yawn that had her stretching her taut muscles as she freed him from her magic and disappeared before he could even get used to the control he now had over his body again.

[daintylovers]

Champagne Coast

1.1 Pilot

Seth Cohen x Hailey Atwood (oc)

A/N: hehehehe I just loooovvveeee my stiles stilinski variants. this is an oc and she is ryans sister- twins! at least, same ages. I'm gonna try not to have too many physical descriptors of her, for all we know she could be adopted. hope you enjoy!

"Trey, what if we get caught?" Ryan was always so quick to assume the worst.

"Ryan," I started, "We won't get caught, but you might if you keep overthinking things."

"Hailey, this is grand theft auto. Real-life fucking grand theft auto, not the video game. Something seriously could go wrong." I just rolled my eyes in response. We had done this several times by now, jacking cars for parts. We needed the money, and of course driving around random cars was always fun. A way to blow off steam from the stress of everyday life.

Catching on to my facial expression, Trey slung his arm around my shoulder, "There's the spirit, Bambi." That was my designated nickname. It was a running joke, at first glance everyone assumed I was just an innocent little thing. It helped me get out of sticky situations. More than enough.

"Come on Ryan. Are you in? Or are you out?" Aforementioned boy sent a glare in my direction, willing me to change my mind. I just shook my head with a smile. No way out of this one.

One of Ryan's best qualities was his inability to say no to me. I was always dragging him into my messes, and thankfully he would always arrive with a mop in hand. Ready to clean up the disasters left in my wake. I could feel sorry for him, if I thought about it enough. But that's just it, I didn't.

If it weren't for me, we might be stuck living at this house, for the rest of our lives. No stories to tell, no anything, really. I can't live like this. And he shouldn't have to. Ryan was one of the good ones. And if I could find a way to get him out of here, he could establish himself, and pull me from these ashes.

"Fine. But," Here comes the ultimatum, "Hailey, you stay as far away as possible. You aren't getting thrown in a cell again." Oh, but it's fine if he does it?

All three of us had terrible track records. From fights to breaking and entering, the cops were our biggest fans around Chino. But now we had to be more careful than ever. Trey wasn't a minor anymore. While Ryan and I were each one way from juvie. Ryan had been on the fence for three months now. While I got my final warning just last week, for punching a guy in the nose. He had been trying to grind up against one of my friends, and she had repeatedly told him to fuck off. But to no avail. Ryan tried to hold me back, but I had slipped easily from his grasp, hitting my target so forcefully that his head snapped back and his nose was left bleeding and crooked.

****

Our target was a shiny, souped-out black sports car. I wanted her. I debated trying to convince Trey to let us keep it for a few days.

Ryan was still wary so Trey began to speak, "I'm your big brother. If I don't teach you this, then who will?" Then he smashed the window open. So much for keeping it for a little.

"I don't know Trey-"

"Hailey, get Ryan to get in the car or I will leave his ass for dead." Could have just told him that yourself. I wasn't Trey's biggest fan, but he got shit done. I admired that. Very resilient, the lot of us.

Ryan climbed into the passenger seat, while I took up the back. Situating myself in the middle, I had the perfect view and the empty streets we were about to race. Trey hotwired the car like it was nothing and we were on our way.

Except we didn't get very far before sirens started following us. Fuck.

"Trey pull over."

"Ryan- fuck off man no way."

I tried, "Trey, please. Maybe we can make a run for it."

Trey turned around to spat something at me, but swerved the wheel on accident, causing the car to smash into the building adjacent.

Kids, always wear your seatbelt. Especially if the driver is a fucking idiot. I flew from my seat, but Ryan's arm caught me and pushed me back. My head bounced off the seats. My ears started ringing, and I swear my neck almost snapped from the force.

Someone was talking, but I couldn't make out the words. Or the voice for that matter. But the flashing lights told me enough. I watched Ryan put his hands up, and look at me. He jerked his arms up a little and I got the memo.

With raised arms and my head spinning, I tried to prepare myself for the jail cell.

****

My neck hurt like no other when I awoke. One of the guards had been knocking against the bars, guess I hadn't heard him. He looked pissed. "Get up kid, Someone is here to see you." Who the fuck could that be?

With bleary eyes, I forced myself into a standing position. I held my wrists out so he could slap the cuffs on them before he led me to the visitation room.

Walking in, I spotted Ryan instantly. He was sitting with some older man, who had papers out in front of him.

Like he had some type of sixth sense, Ryan turned his head to face my direction, giving me a soft smile, happy I was alright. He was always the more worried one during this type of thing. He had a point though, girls are never treated the same.

Sitting down, he was quick to assure, "Bambi- you alright?"

I nodded, my throat feeling scratchy. He looked at me with concern, "How's your neck? The crash probably affected you more."

"I'm fine Ryan. Just a little banged up" I replied, voice sounding like hell.

I turned to face the newbie, who was watching our interaction like a hawk.

"Hailey, it's nice to meet you. My name is Sandy Cohen, and I have been appointed as your guy's public defender."

Having already thought about my fate all night, I wasn't feeling too hopeful. I just stared at him, with no expression. He didn't care if I rotted in prison for the rest of my life. No one did. Besides Ryan, but because of me, we would rot together.

Ryan asked about Trey, and that made me pay more attention. Was it bad, that I had forgotten about him? During my all-night freakout session, I hadn't once thought about how this would affect him. The only things on my mind had been about Ryan and I.

"Well, Trey is over eighteen. Trey stole a car, had a gun in his pants, an ounce of pot, and a couple of priors," He had a gun? "Trey is looking at anywhere from three to five years."

The man, Sandy, continued, "I'm not here for Trey. I'm here for you two. Ryan, your grades? Why is a smart kid like you in here right now?" Because of me. "And Hailey, you have community service written every which way. What, steal a car to help out the neighborhood?"

I couldn't help myself, "Something like that."

"She speaks." He laughed a little. I just stared at him. "Hailey, fighting? That doesn't seem like you. Ryan, truancy charges? Come on guys, why are you doing this to yourselves?"

Not receiving any answers, he trudged on, "What is your guys' plan for the future? College? Trade School? Anything?" This guy was trying so hard to remain hopeful for us. What a joke.

But- if we're really being honest, his questioning was making me a little sad. I had no future. Never really did. But Ryan? God, Ryan could do so much. I think I might be sick.

I guess my face cracked, losing it's blank expression in exchange for desperate eyes. If you looked extra close, my lip was sure to be quivering. If Trey were here, he would have laughed at me. He didn't take too kindly to emotions. Ryan learned that quicker than I did growing up, which is why his expression never faltered.

"Mr. Cohen, with all due respect, modern medicine is advancing to the point where the average human life expectancy will be one hundred. But I read this article that said social security was bound to run out by the year of 2025. Which means people are going to have to stay in their jobs until they're eighty. So, we don't want to commit to anything too soon."

Sandy laughed, but persisted, "Look, I can plead this down to a misdemeanor. Petty fine, probation. But seriously guys, stealing a car because your big brother wanted you to it's stupid and weak. Two things, neither of you can afford to be right now." Well, actually we can't afford to be anything right now- fancy lawyer ass. "We three are cut from the same cloth. I know it may not look like it right now, but I was once in your position."

I cut him off, done with whatever this was supposed to be, "And look at you now, hot shot." He hadn't expected that. Just a minute ago I looked ready to crumble, but now I was turning my desperation into anger. I just wanted this to be over.

****

Mr. Cohen managed to get us out, shortly after. Now the sun was blaring down on us. I had Ryan on one side, and Mr. Cohen on the other.

"My office will be in contact to remind you of your court date."

"Got it," Ryan answered, as our mother's car screeched up to us.

She stumbled out and thrust her poorly manicured finger into my face. "Unbelievable! This is the kind of family I got. Pathetic!"

Mr. Cohen looked like he was the one getting publically berated. "Ms. Atwood? My name is Sandy Cohen. I am Ryan and Hailey's attorney."

"You should have let them rot in there. Just like their daddy. Just like their stupid brother." Then she grabbed my wrist, pulling me to the car, "Let's go! Now!"

I was already buckled in, not wanting a re-run of last night, before Ryan got in. His hand reached back, and I took the tiny card from him.

It was Mr. Cohen's card.

****

Once back at the house, a pit of dread formed in my gut.

Mom had already poured herself another drink, before she turned her attention onto us, "I can't do this anymore."

"I'm sorry Mom," I answered almost immediately. I was always the one apologizing first. I hated myself for it, yet every time I couldn't help myself. The Bambi nickname was more accurate than most people knew. Deep down, I desperately craved some sort of parental figure's love. Dad left, and Mom only cared when it benefited her.

"I want you out! Both of you."

"What?" I stuttered, tears springing to my eyes immediately. Hearing my wavering voice, Ryan was quick to grasp my hand, assuring me we would be fine. She didn't mean it. She never meant it. But the what-ifs always pestered me.

"Come on Mom, where do you expect us to go?"

Her boyfriend answered for her, "You heard her. Out! Now!"

Ryan was pissed, all of mom's boyfriend always treated us like shit. "This isn't your house, man."

"Oh, you think you're a tough guy, huh?"

Ryan's grasp on my hand tightened, and then he dropped it.

"Both of you, stop it." Mom tried, weakly.

But Ryan couldn't help himself, "Why don't you get the fuck out and stop freeloading off our mom."

The guy punched Ryan square in the nose, so hard that my brother stumbled back into me. I saw red.

I stepped out from behind Ryan and went to make my mark, but the guy was quick. He caught my fist in the air, twirling my arm around behind my back, then shoved me to the ground. My lip caught the corner of the side table, and I felt blood start to fill my mouth.

I felt someone lift me from the floor, knowing Ryan was the only one who would touch me after that. If I thought my head hurt before, then this was hell on earth.

We were out the door in minutes. Making quick to get the hell out of dodge.

****

No one wanted to house us. Ryan tried everyone we knew. I tried everyone and their mothers, and yet all we got was rejection. I had one last try, and my money dried up. Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out the card we received just hours beforehand.

How did it get this fucked, so fast?

I showed the card to Ryan who just nodded, what other choice did we have. Sure the park benches were always an option, but after last time? No way.

Mr. Cohen was the only one to pick up.

****

The house we pulled up to was something straight out of a movie. I didn't even realize people actually lived like this. Talk about growing up on the wrong side of the tracks.

We were just about to go inside before Mr. Cohen stopped us and told us to wait just a little.

Not having any other options we nodded our heads.

Ryan started walking down the driveway, pulling his pack of cigs from his jeans pockets. I followed him down, waiting for him to finish lighting up.

Once he took his first puff, he looked down at my puppy dog eyes. He smoked but hated it when I did it. But I guess he was feeling sorry for me because he handed me his pack.

He turned his gaze ahead of him, so I took one out. Then after a second thought, I took a few more out, hiding them in my jacket pocket.

"Put them back." He chided.

Damn, I thought I was safe. I put most of them back, keeping an extra one. He turned and gave me a look, not having my antics.

"Please, Ryan. Just this once."

"You're getting your once right now," He said, sneaking his hand into the pocket to retrieve his stolen goods. Then he offered me the light and allowed me a taste of heaven.

Looking up, I spotted a girl across us. She was staring at Ryan. Of course, she was staring at Ryan.

Feeling a little out of place, I made my way up the driveway again. These rich people need to lock up their homes more carefully.

I made my way through the backyard, careful not to fall into the gigantic fucking pool in the middle. If I had a house like this, I would swim every night.

I continued snooping around and noticed the back door to the house was also unlocked. I stubbed out the rest of my cigarette and made my way inside.

Making my way around the corner, I was caught by the owners. And Ryan.

"There she is, girl of the hour. Thank you for gracing us with your presence." Mr. Cohen joked, while his wife looked like her head might pop off at any minute.

Sheepishly, I waved my hand and made my way to stand next to Ryan.

"You must be Hailey," the woman said, offering her hand. I shook it while nodding my head. "Great, well, you two will be staying in the pool house. Which I'm sure you have already found." Touche.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cohen." Ryan and I said in unison like the Shinning Twins.

The rest of the night was spent in said pool house. I had wanted to keep wandering, but Ryan wouldn't allow it. So instead we both tried sleeping, tried being the keyword.

****

I woke before Ryan did. Odd, because normally it was the other way around.

Tip-toeing around his sleeping form, I successfully exited the pool house.

I wasn't alone for long before, I heard a slight shriek. Looking inside the house, I saw two doe eyes staring back at me. Then I let out my own shriek. Who the hell is that?

He was clearly younger than Mr. Cohen, but I wasn't aware they had a kid. Unless they didn't, and this was some sort of looter.

Sliding open the door that separated us, the boy stepped outside, ready to question me. But I beat him to it, "Who the hell are you?"

"Huh- Who the hell am I? Who the hell are you? Why are you in my backyard?"

"Wait, you live here?" So not a looter, my first theory was proving to be more accurate.

"Yes!" He exclaimed, "But you don't live here. And you're pretty, but with the cut on your lip, I'm assuming you aren't here to befriend me. So please leave before I get my lawyer dad to throw your ass in jail."

"Well your lawyer dad, just helped get my ass out of jail. So I feel pretty good about my standing with him right now."

This made him falter, "Wait, aren't you supposed to be a boy?"

I just raised my eyebrow at him.

"Sorry, my mistake. I must have heard wrong last night," then to save his ass, he extended his hand, "Truce?"

"Sure, spaz." and I put my hand in his. We awkwardly shook hands for longer than necessary, before I pulled away.

"Seth, but close enough. Wanna play video games?"

****

We played on his living room floor for about thirty minutes before Ryan caught us.

"What the hell Hailey, you left?" Seth swerved his head toward the intruder so fast, that I was worried he was gonna get whiplash.

Answering the question I knew was on the brunette's lips, I said, "Technically Ryan, I didn't leave. I relocated."

I looked to Seth, with his big questioning eyes, "Seth, meet Ryan. Ryan meets Seth. You two are like opposite sides of a coin." Then I smiled at Ryan, mouthing "sorry".

"Hi, Ryan. I wasn't aware there were two of you." That last bit was directed to me. I shrugged my shoulders. "Well, you want to play?"

****

In the next few hours, I received a lot of information. Seth was in love with Summer, a girl, not the season. Ryan was in love with Marissa, the girl from last night. But most importantly, Kirsten, the woman from last night, was in love with playing dress up.

We were currently residing in her room after she insisted that Ryan and I should attend the fashion show later that night. She had heard that Ryan was invited and thought that meant I would want to go too.

Don't get me wrong, in another life, I would eat this up. But, I didn't have high hopes for trying to fit into this richy rich society.

Kirsten had loaned me a dress, light pink silk that dropped down to my knees, with an asymmetrical hem at the bottom.

"That looks great" she smiled. Catching her gaze in the mirror, I tried to smile, but it looked more like I was in pain. She wasn't wrong, it did look great. Probably the greatest I have and would ever look. But I just felt so empty.

No empty was the wrong word. I felt too much, like one wrong breeze and I would fall off the cliff I was on.

"Thank you for the dress. And for your hospitality."

She made her way behind me, patting my back gently, "Come on sweetheart, the boys are probably waiting."

****

"Welcome to the dark side." Seth introduced. We had arrived at the function, and I was trying to stay mindful of why I was invited.

The show started soon after we took our seats. Ryan's Barbie doll, the model-faced girlfriend came out first. Then a slightly shorter brunette bounced out after, and Seth turned to whisper in my ear, "That's Summer." Of course, it was.

He tilted his head slightly to look at me, waiting for my approval. I gave him a thumbs up, then brought my lips up to the shell of his ear, "She's really pretty Cohen. Watch out, I might just steal her from you."

Pulling back, I looked at him and we erupted into giggles.

Once we turned our attention back to the show, I noticed that Summer had already gone back. So much for Seth's five-second glance at her.

I turned back to him one last time, ready to mouth "sorry", but he was already looking at me. I proceeded anyway, but with my cheeks heating up. He just shrugged his shoulders, then reached out to turn my head back.

After the show, Seth and I managed to be separated from the rest of the group. After failing to find our group, we lingered off to the side.

"You know, you could have been up there tonight." he started.

I looked up at him and gave him a smile, "Really? I was thinking the same about you. I could totally see you swinging your hips to be beat up there."

His cheeks turned red, but before he could come up with another witty comeback, Ryan found us. "Guys, we should go to that girl Holly's house. She's throwing a party."

"A party? No- no I'm good actually. I like my house."

Never one to back down from a party I said, "Come on Cohen, what if Summer is there."

That got his attention, cheeks turning brighter by the second.

"Come on!" A girl from the back of the car ahead called out.

Looking at Seth one more time, I wiggled my eyebrows and started walking back. "Come on Seth, you heard the girl." Then I turned on my heel and got into the car.

Looking around, I noticed a certain brunette bombshell was sitting right next to me. She offered me her hand and I accepted, "I'm Summer. You're Ryan's sister right?"

"That's so close, you almost knew my name!" She looked embarrassed and I felt guilty. "I'm Hailey, and yes, I am Ryan's sister."

"Awesome!"

****

I had been at the party for about an hour now, and still no sign of the boys. Not that I had searched too hard for them. Instead, my eyes had spotted the booze fairly quickly, and that ended up with me dancing with some guy. He was cute, but not cute enough for me to stop thinking about Seth. I hoped he actually came out. He needs to experience life a little.

Parting ways with the guy, I motioned to the drinks and he followed suit.

Then I spotted just who I was looking for. "Seth!" I stumbled over to him.

He turned around fairly fast and caught me as I thrust myself into him, going for a hug but failing. He laughed and held me up, hands on my waist. "Hailey!"

"You have a boyfriend?" A voice interrupted.

"Boy-boyfriend, no, no I'm sorry," Seth said to my former dance partner. Who ignored the boy, looking at me instead.

I was bored of him so I just nodded my head and then turned to ignore him.

He must have left as I made my way to get another drink because Seth came to stand right next to me. "How much have you had to drink?" He asked.

"How much have you had to drink?" I tried to counter. He just laughed at me, before a commotion erupted outside.

Noticing Ryan wasn't near us, I had a sneaking suspicion that he might be involved in whatever was transpiring outside. I tried getting through the crowded kitchen, but between being slightly more than drunk and being shoved back by unsuspecting elbows, I wasn't making it very far.

Seth, noticing I hadn't made it as far as he had, turned back to grasp my hand, and then pulled me through.

Once we got outside, I watched Ryan get knocked in the face by some blonde douchebag who shouted, "Welcome to the O.C. bitch!"

What the fuck is happening?

****

We left the party quickly after.

Coming out of the bathroom, I felt refreshed after being able to take a hot shower. Ryan and Seth were sat on the couch by the bed, talking about the night.

When I came out, both boys looked at me and then held up snacks.

We talked and giggled for a while until each one of us had our eyes closing by themselves. Seth had been curled up on one side of the couch for a while now. Any minute and he would be out like a light.

I excused myself to use the bathroom one last time, as Ryan went out for another smoke.

When I came out, albeit I took a little longer than anticipated Ryan and his Barbie doll were curled up on the bed. Damn. That was my spot.

My only other option was the floor, or the side of the couch that Cohen fist rested on. I made my way to the couch, gently pushing his legs to the side, trying to get the pillow that he rested on. I figured the floor was a safer place than being kicked in the head in the middle of the night.

I was trying to be subtle, not wake the sleeping boy, but he foiled my plans. "What are you doing?" he whispered soft, voice clogged with drowsiness.

"Nothing, go back to bed."

He sat up, rubbing at his eyes the way a small child would, "Seriously, Hailey, are you sleeping on the floor?" he questioned.

He made a move to get up, but I placed my hands on his shoulders pushing down slightly. "Seriously, I'm not letting you take the floor. If you're going to be so stubborn, just sleep on the couch with me."

"Cohen, I don't want your freakishly long legs to kick me."

"They won't. Just come on," he said, removing my hands from his shoulders so he could scoot over. "See, enough room for two."

I debated it for a second, I had never slept in the same spot as a boy. But Cohen took my silence as rejection and immediately moved to stand. "I'm sorry, I- I should take the floor."

"No!" I was quick to interject.

"No?"

"No- just lay down again."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive Cohen."

And with that, he laid back down and opened up his arms. I crawled next to him, my back to his chest. He encircled by frame, "Is this okay?" I nodded in response, feeling the sleep hit almost immediately.

****

"Look, Ryan, Hailey, I'm sorry. I don't mean to play bad cop, It's nothing personal," Kirsten started.

Just minutes ago she had burst into the pool house, furious in only a way a mother can be. She didn't even question the fact that I was in her sons arms, only glaring at him and pointing behind her.

Seth got the hint and removed himself from me, following his mom back into the house like a scolded puppy.

Ryan and I made our way in shortly after, headed for the kitchen for one last meal before we were inevitably kicked out.

"I'm sorry, you two seem like such nice kids."

"It's okay, we get it," Ryan answered.

She was nice enough to allow us to stay by the Seth, so we made the trek upstairs.

Knocking on the door, I entered first. "We have to go," I told him.

"You're leaving?" he questioned, clearly sad.

Ryan spoke up, "We have to take care of some things back home."

Seth got up and shook Ryans out stretched hand. They did a typical boy handshake, before turning to me.

Seth and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do. I made the first move, going in to wrap my arms around his waist. I felt him stiffen at first, and then he reciprocated my motion.

When we pulled away he said, "Well, I can't wait to come visit you guys down in Chino. You can show me your world."

****

Our world no longer existed.

Once we pulled up to the house, Ryan and I were met with the shell of our home. Abandoned with a single poorly written letter.

Awesome.

"Come on." Mr. Cohen, our savior, to the rescue once again.

Back to exploring Seth's world instead.

****

A/N: holy fuck this took so long to write. but- yipee!! thank you for reading <3

[barblaz-arts]

Last Hazbin character ask, thoughts on Emily, Sera, Lute, and Pentious (you forgot him when talking about main characters)?

Emily

You mean the love of my life???? I am very normal about her.

Lol but fr tho she's in my top favorite characters right after Vaggie and Charlie. She's just so sweet and kind. I love characters who remain that way even after their world view is challenged, just with less naivety. Characters who are so morally good are just so especially interesting to me in a show like Hazbin Hotel that's just filled with assholes of every flavor(with some more redeemable than the others ofc).

Seeing her get mad at Sera was so satisfying btw. Righteous/protective anger looks so good on sweet characters like Charlie and Emily.

Her singing voice is also one of my favorites, along with Charlie, Lucifer and Carmilla. Recently found out that she was one of the talented ladies who sang in the First Burn mv for Hamilton too. She's the third girl that appears, coming in for the harmony. Seeing her sing in a song with Rachel Ann Go feels like a crazy crossover for a Filipino like me because Rachel Ann is a famous singer over here.

Sera

I think she's a neat character! The type of self-righteous, classist christian I'd avoid like the plague irl, but so fascinating as a character. I'm really curious as to what direction the story will take her to. I can more or less guess the case for other characters, but I can't quite pinpoint the goal for Sera, because I'm not quite sure yet if she's gonna be truly a bad person like Adam and Lute. She could either double down on refusing to let sinners into heaven or see the error of her ways. The former is probably more likely, but I'm not opposed to idea of the latter happening.

Lute

Logical brain: she deserves to suffer so much more for what she did to Vaggie and calling her love for Charlie "vile and blasphemous"

Sapphic brain: ... Scary angel lady hot tho...

Jokes aside, I'd love to see what kinda antagonist she'd be as the one calling the shots instead of just being Adam's sidekick this time. I wanna see her spiral and just become worse and worse. I also need a rematch between her and Vaggie that's a little more fair, where Vaggie is now more used to fighting again. With the whole one-eye VS one-arm thing making it even more even.

Sir Pentious

My boy!!!!! I really didn't expect to like him as much as I do. I liked him fine in the pilot, but they made him so dang cute in the show. You can tell Alex Brightman loved voicing him too. I really hope we get to see what he's up to in heaven. I'm proud of him for being first to ascend, but im scared some angels might be wary or even threatened by his presence in heaven. They do have a pretty bad track record with snakes after all.

[ratasum]

GW2 Ficlet - Ship In A Bottle

As the race to find the Aspects of Lazarus ramps up, Rhenn decides to reach out to his father for help. He may find, however, that the path he's chosen doesn't have what he truly needs... Warnings for implied past child abuse, manipulation, trauma. Related artwork: "...yes, Father."

“Kas, believe me, I appreciate the offer - and that you trust her - but considering my track record, I’m not exactly keen on trusting a shadowy organization that wants me to bend a knee to them.” Rhenn’s arms were folded tightly over his chest as he spoke, looking up at the human woman with a small, faint frown. “I have enough of that in my life already.”

Kasmeer’s brow furrowed at that, and after a moment, she shook her head. “Anise is nothing like the overseers in the Inquest, Rhenn. She’s offered her help… and deemed you worthy. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Immediately, his shoulders tightened. “You’ll have to forgive me for being wary, considering how most of my meetings with her before now have gone.”

“And you trust your dad more?” Iuno’s ears pulled back. “You haven’t talked to him since…”

“Since Trahearne.” Rhenn’s tone was flat, and he glanced away from everyone, jaw tightening. “I haven’t talked to him, no, and I should check in. I’ve been doing that less and less. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see the progress we’ve made, besides.”

From where she was standing, Kippa made a soft noise. “...I don’t know, Rhenn. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

Her tone startled Rhenn out of his frustration, and he blinked a few times before glancing over at her, offering a faint smile. When she didn’t return it, he reached over to grab one of the strands of hair that curled up by her cheeks, giving a gentle tug. “Awh, I appreciate your concern, Kip, you know I do. But it’s just my dad. I’ve talked to him a million times. I only grew up with him, y’know?”

She just frowned a little deeper, but finally sighed, giving him a look as she lifted a hand to grab his wrist. “We can’t stop you, but at least promise you’ll reach out to us if something goes wrong?”

“I didn’t know you cared that much.” He sounded more like his usual self, lowering his hand as she pulled at his wrist. “But yes. I promise if something goes wrong, you guys will be first on my list. How is it you like to put it…? Cross my heart and hope to cry.”

Nearby from her perch atop Scruffy, Taimi gave an indignant little sniff. “I still think you should let me come with you. Not for Scruffy as extra protection, of course, but because I would love to see the inside of the Applied Maginetics lab! I mean sure yeah they’re all Inquest but your dad is a primo geneticist. What if I just, you know… borrowed some research?”

Snorting, Rhenn grinned, glancing over at her. “Borrowed. Right. My dad’s really dear about his research, smarty pants, and I’m not about to let you get hurt. Zojja’d tear herself out of that recovery suite in Rata Sum and take my head clean off with a yank of my ponytail and you know it. I’m not about to incur the wrath of Snaff’s Greatest Heir.”

“Boooo, you’re no fun!” Folding her arms and turning up her nose, Taimi tipped her head in his direction regardless. “Well in that case, I second Kippa. Make sure you let us know if something goes weird.”

“Honestly, you all worry way too much. This is my dad we’re talking about, and I know all the researchers there. Just wait. We’ll figure out how to find the aspects of Lazarus in no time.”

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

Getting to the Applied Maginetics lab was the easiest part of the trip. He knew how to get to the Inquest Outer Complex, and it was just a short walk to the main lab from there. Swinging through the door, he waved at a researcher who was passing by, grinning at her when she gave him a startled look. “Hey, Marha! Long time no see! I see you sorted out those optical implants.”

“Rhenn?” She sounded genuinely surprised to see him, turning towards him fully. “I- well yes, they work quite well. I rarely have to turn on the lights now. But I didn’t realize you would be back. You didn’t send any messages ahead. Does the overseer know you were coming…?”

He shook his head, hooking his thumbs on his belt. “Nah, figured I’d make a surprise visit. I needed some help with some bookah we’re hunting down and knew if anyone would have some insight, it’d be him. Why? Is he working on a project?”

Marha stared at him for a moment then gave her head a quick shake. “No, no, he’s been going over some readings from your files. He wanted to make some adjustments, but isn’t sure if it would be worth the extra work, since people might ask questions if you were gone from your work with… the Pact for too long.”

“I think I’m doing just fine as is.” The statement puzzled him, but he shook it off. Experiments and work had been core to Rhenn’s existence since he was young- this wasn’t any different. “Is he in his lab?”

“Last I checked, but- oh! Overseer, I-”

At the word “Overseer,” Rhenn turned, straightening a bit when he saw his father standing there staring at him, halfway between frustrated and puzzled. He looked between Marha and Rhenn respectively, then cleared his throat and turned, expression sharpening. “You’re dismissed, Marha. Do keep me updated on the samples you’ve been working on.”

The woman nodded without a word, giving Rhenn an anxious look before scurrying off. After a startled moment, Rhenn turned to his father with a half grin. “Hey, Dad. Sorry I didn’t send a bird first.”

Prikk regarded him for a moment, then sniffed before gesturing for Rhenn to follow him, turning to head down a nearby hallway. “Your communications have been few and far between as of late regardless, Rhenn… this incident notwithstanding. I had begun to wonder what might have come over you, or if you were having… second thoughts.”

“Huh? Oh, no, nothing like that. I’ve just been busy.” Rhenn had to measure his steps to keep from overtaking his father, folding his hands behind his head as he walked. “The whole commander business, you know? Which is actually why I’m here. We’re trying to hunt down the aspects of this mursaat, Lazarus, to try to prevent him being resurrected. I wasn’t about to go along with this human woman’s scheme, so I figured you might have something we could use.”

For a few more moments as they walked, Prikk remained silent. It wasn’t until they were in his old lab, the door closed behind them, that he finally spoke again. “Perhaps. But first we need to address the matter of your… poor obedience.”

Rhenn blinked, glancing at him after his last few words. “My poor obedience? What are you talking about? I’ve been doing exactly what you told me to do.”

“Have you?” Prikk turned fully, then, holding up a small device in his hand. He gave his son a long look through his glasses, and then pressed the button embedded on the side. “Why don’t we discuss it.”

The instant Prikk pressed the button, Rhenn felt it. Searing, agonizing pain radiating out from his chest and into his limbs, pulsing into his head, burning through his veins like molten lightning. An electric shock, stronger than his body’s ability to cancel out pain, was able to keep up with. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, and he could barely choke out a high, pained grunt before crumpling to his knees, head bowed forward until it nearly touched the cold stone.

It wasn’t until the pain ebbed that he felt like he was able to breathe again, letting out a sharp breath before beginning to breathe heavily, ears pulled back, whole body shaking. “Dad, what the hell-”

Another sharp wave of pain overwhelmed him, cutting him off as he let himself collapse fully, curling in on himself to try to find some way to stop the pain, claws digging into his own arms. This time, when the pain began to recede, he realized Prikk had begun to speak. “You had very specific orders, Rhenn. I believe this farce is beginning to go to your head. You serve the Inquest’s interests, and you report back to me no less than once a week. You seem to have forgotten yourself.”

“I- I’ve been busy, I told you, I- NNH-”

Prikk shook his head as he pressed the button again, watching his son writhe in pain on the unforgiving stone before him. “That is no excuse. I have very high expectations for you, as you are well aware. You are the pinnacle of asuran evolution- the greatest our kind can achieve. But you did not become so without my guidance. Me, to whom you owe your very existence.” Quietly, he put the remote down on a nearby desk, not looking back at Rhenn as he spoke. “Now then. I am ready to put this whole messy business behind us, Rhenn, and really look into these “aspects” you're so concerned about. Do you promise to behave... son?”

For a moment, Rhenn was silent, shakily pushing himself up onto one knee, one fist planted as the other clenched tightly against his raised knee. Then, slowly, he glanced up, glowing eyes illuminating his pained expression, jaw tight, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. “...yes, Father. Anything you say.”

It was only then that Prikk gave a wry smile, turning to move further into the lab. “Excellent! Come then. Let us look into these… aspects and see what we might do to track them down without the need for those ignorant, short eared, small eyed buffoons.”

Slowly, Rhenn pushed to his feet, watching Prikk’s back as he moved away. But as he went to pass the desk himself, he reached out, quietly slipping the remote from the desktop into a hidden pouch within one of his bags. “...of course. Father.”

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

It was late into the evening when Rhenn finally returned to the camp, looking exhausted and still wincing every now and then as his muscles tensed, an unpleasant reminder of his father’s unexpected chokehold on him. Why had he done that? What kind of device had he implanted to hurt him like that?

Why would he hurt him like that?

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t hear Iuno speak to him, her tone and expression worried as she went to grab his arm. “Rhenn? You don’t look so hot-”

Immediately, the touch causing ripples of pain to echo across his skin, he jerked his arm away from her. “I’m fine!” Then, after a moment, he let out a breath. “Sorry, I’m- I’m fine. It’s okay. I have a device that should let us track down the aspects based on the information we already had. I want to have Taimi have a look to refine it, but we can work on that in the morning.”

“Rhenn… you look awful.” Kippa was moving over to him, her touch far more gentle when she reached out to him. “Do you need me to get you anything?”

It was all he could do not to jerk away from her touch as well, turning his head away. “I’m okay, I promise.” Reaching into his bag, he withdrew the remote he took from his father’s desk, tossing it up to where Taimi was lounging on top of Scruffy. “Here, small fry. Destroy this. I don’t care how you do it, but I need it to not work, at all.”

She barely managed to catch the device, turning it in her hands as she scrunched up her nose. “Piece of cake, but why? It’s just a remote. What does it even do?”

The realization of that comment caused Rhenn to whip his head around. “Wait, Taimi, don’t press it-!”

But he was too late. She pressed a finger down on the button, though she immediately jerked it back when Rhenn let out an agonized grunt, sinking to his knees and curling over, ponytail falling over his shoulder as he shook, muscles clearly spasming. Kippa got to him first, ripples of water magic swirling around her hands as she reached out to cradle his face. Taimi, to her credit, looked thoroughly horrified at his reaction. “Sorry! I’m so sorry, Rhenn, I’ll break it, I didn’t know-!”

“Not your fault,” Rhenn managed to wheeze out, voice rough. “Just… just make sure you get rid of the damn thing.”

She was nodding, and Kippa made a soft sound, smoothing her hands down Rhenn’s arms. “Iuno, Taimi, can you give us a few moments? I’d like to check him for burns or… or anything, really.”

Slowly, Iuno nodded, waiting for Taimi to drop into Scruffy’s cockpit before the pair headed out of the large tent, leaving Kippa alone with Rhenn. She was quiet at first, reaching out to help him out of his shirt. It wasn’t until she had the shirt fully pushed from his frame that she gasped, fingers lingering on the deep scars covering his arms and torso. “Rhenn, what-”

“These?” He shook his head slightly, sitting back quietly, whole body still trembling faintly. “They’re nothing. Surgical scars, from my dad’s experiments.”

Kippa stared at him as he spoke, green eyes going ever wider. “Surgical scars? Then the remote… did your father make that? To… to shock you like that? Rhenn, if he did, that’s- that’s awful; what father in his right mind would treat his own son like that?!”

Rhenn said nothing at first, glancing away as his brow furrowed. “I… he must’ve. Look, Kip, I’m really tired and I don’t- we have a lot of work to do to find the aspects. Can we talk about this later? When I’ve had some sleep and you’ve got some… whatever you need to put on me, on me?”

She didn’t seem convinced, but she did sigh, reaching into her bag to pull out a few jars. “Okay. Here, I have some aloe. There’s some burns from where the metal touched your skin… they’re healing quickly but this’ll help ease the pain a little bit.”

The pair fell silent for a long while after that, with Rhenn watching Kippa work and Kippa diligently smoothing aloe over his burns and another cream onto his twitching muscles, gently explaining everything she was doing as she went. He had to marvel for a moment at how gently she handled him, always with the lightest touch, never doing anything without telling him and waiting for him to agree. It was such a strange difference from how the researchers and his father handled him.

Maybe it was how badly his head ached from the repeated shocks. Maybe it was that gentleness he was marveling at. But as she was reaching out to check a burn mark on his shoulder, he lifted a hand to catch her chin, gazing into those jade green eyes for a few moments before he leaned in.

It had to be the light headedness talking, but he was locked in now.

The moment their lips met was electric, but different from those terrible jolts of pain. She tasted just like the cocoa scrubs she liked to use, and after a brief moment of tension, she leaned into him, and it was all he could do to keep from gathering her against him. A ward against the awfulness of the day.

But then, the moment was over. When the kiss broke, he sat upright quickly, watching as Kippa stared at him wide eyed, her hand coming up to press her fingertips lightly against her lips as Rhenn stammered out, “I- oh Alchemy I uh- I am so sorry Kippa I don’t know where that came from I- I need to go. Jump into the lake or something okay I’ll be fine, just… we’ll talk later, okay?”

He didn’t wait for her to respond, dragging himself to his feet before hurrying out of the space, leaving Kippa to stand shocked in his wake.

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

It didn’t take long for Rhenn to find a secluded spot to drop down into a sit, one hand running over the scars resting in a v shape up his chest. The kiss lingered in his mind, but so did her horror over the scars. The difference in how she treated him over his father’s cruel, dismissive behavior.

It was an uncomfortable feeling to sit in, and he found himself almost wishing he could slip back in where he’d left Kippa. She was such a warm, calming presence, and she cared. She worried. The feeling of her up against him felt right. On the other hand, the awful, uncomfortable feeling lingered in the back of his mind, one that had started to form as he glared at his father from his agonizing kneel back in the Applied Maginetics lab.

His hands pushed back through his hair, brow furrowing tightly as he glared at the ground beneath him. Arms lowering slowly, he looked over the scars that traced up to his shoulders. They’d been so briefly painful, but now he was looking at them with a new perspective. The very crystals in his body his father had told him would help him achieve their goals, able to control asuran-built tech with a touch… used to hurt him. He’d been shock collared by his own father, who had put him through excruciating pain with all the care he might’ve shown a workbench.

And for what reason? His jaw tightened, hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He’d never questioned his father’s motives, or the Inquest, but the sick feeling in his gut that accompanied the new feelings on all of it bubbling to the surface was enough to make him want to vomit. Was he not his father’s son? Had he not done everything he’d been told?

What had he done, other than forget to write for a few weeks, to deserve that?

Letting out a frustrated yell, Rhenn shoved to his feet and began to pace before slamming his fist into a tree. The sting was only brief, his highly modified body reacting quickly to stop the pain before it even had a chance to do more than itch.

Abilities his father had designed into him. He was meant to be the perfect asura, but what did that mean, in the end? Did his father see him as a son?

Or an experiment?

Shaking off the thoughts, he let out a breath, shaking out his hand before looking back towards the tent. He could see Iuno speaking with Kippa, who was worrying her hands anxiously. They couldn’t see him from where he was standing, even if he had a good vantage point on them. They were worried… worried for him.

Worried in a way his father hadn’t been.

Prikk was pragmatic, it was true, but this felt different, and he hated how it curled in his chest and spread icy fingers into his neck and shoulders.

But for now, he needed not to worry about it. They still had to find the rest of the aspects. He couldn’t let this affect his movements. He’d have to piece through it later. For now, Tyria needed the commander.

So the commander he would have to be.

[sincerely-sofie]

Dadnoir Musings: The Fanfic

Lord help me I’m back on my nonsense. Finally making this monstrosity public.

Word count: 6,930-ish

Summary: Fragments of Dusknoir’s interactions with and thoughts on Kip and Twig (especially Twig) throughout the events of the game, leading up into the start of The Present is a Gift.

It was meant to be simple. He would travel back through a passage of time alone, the sableye making the journey separately to spread rumors of a renowned explorer before he'd quietly enter the areas that were handfed awe-inspiring stories of his exploits. He'd do a number of good deeds along the way to validate the rumors, and in doing so he would gain the loyalty and aid of an entire population in tracking down the grovyle and human that had gotten dangerously close to securing another time gear before vanishing entirely after their retreat.

He had heard reports of the grovyle being sighted in this time period. It was good news, certainly, to have reliable sources verify one another— but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he had at the reports. They always identified the grovyle, but never the human. Easily the most stand-out member of the trio of rebels— even moreso than the Legend in their ranks— and suddenly the only one unaccounted for. He didn't know much about humans and how hardy they were, but the grovyle’s habit of whirling her out of reach of whatever strikes were sent her way implied a distinct fragility— perhaps she'd been disposed of in the window of time that they'd lost track of the rebels.

He hoped that was the case. Everything would be so much simpler if it was. Still, he instructed the scouts to search more diligently for the human. He wasn't foolish enough to hope for much of anything anymore, and the fact that he found himself clinging to the idea of not having to execute the human himself left him wary.

Something wasn't right.

He entered the lively settlement of Treasure Town with a sense of dread weighing heavy on his shoulders.

***

His cover story gave him a particular level of sway over the local exploration guild. Not only did they eat up every word he said with an unmatched trustingness, they provided access to their outlaw reports and records of suspicious activity. There he was— the troublesome grovyle was reported enough times to give an area he was likely frequenting, but not an indication of his next move or where he'd hide away after brushes with danger. Dusknoir needed to wait and gather more information. The grovyle was rash— it wouldn't be long before he showed his hand.

In the meantime, Dusknoir would continue building Treasure Town’s trust in him.

That didn't prove very difficult. The townsfolk were exceptionally welcoming. They bore no doubt in his cover story. The Guild’s recruits were almost sycophantic in their hero worship, as were their elite, save for a team of two— and even then, the team that seemed wary of him appeared more cautious out of nerves than actual suspicion.

They were a young pair of recruits— much younger than the rest of their peers. Where the other recruits seemed at least well on their way to entering adulthood, these two were evidently the youngest apprentices in guild history. Team Venture was composed of a timid but eager mudkip and an odd charmander who seemed completely flabbergasted by basic social customs.

Kip was endearing in his overzealous enthusiasm— his excitement whenever Dusknoir interacted with him and his partner was palpable, and he introduced himself by name almost immediately upon meeting him. Another indicator of the two’s youth, then— he was so young he didn't quite grasp the finer details of when and where you should give your name. One might find the misstep offensive, but Dusknoir was flattered by the boy considering him such a close friend.

The charmander didn't give him a name. In truth, she didn't give him much of anything— she hung back when Kip and Dusknoir spoke, never really saying anything, just watching him with a confused look like she was trying to remember something long lost to time. She was a studious character— Kip didn't attend many of the workshops the Guild put on, but Charmander arrived early to and left late from every last one.

“She wasn't the one to ask to form a team together— honestly, she kind of rejected the idea at first,” Kip admitted to him while waiting for his partner to return from one such event, “but I think that now she likes exploring even more than I do!”

“Funny how things play out like that,” he replied.

“She's amazing. I'm so lucky to have met her. She's my best friend.”

He watched as the mudkip fidgeted happily with his scarf, a slight blush on his face. Ah. Definitely a bit of lilipuppy love on his end. He couldn't help his chuckle. “And how did you two meet?”

“Oh— um. She was passed out on the beach one day, but I thought she was dead when I found her and I— uh— I screamed so loud she woke up,” he stammered. “It wasn't a very cool way to meet, but I'm glad I got to meet her at all.”

“I'm sure any would react as you did were they to stumble upon a possible corpse.” His brow furrowed. “Why was she passed out on the beach in the first place?”

“She doesn't know. She's got amnesia, if you haven't heard— she doesn't remember anything about herself before waking up on the beach. Well, anything but her name and how she used to be a human.”

“What?”

Kip startled at the sharpness of his tone. “She… she doesn't remember anything but her name, and how she used to be a human? Is everything okay, Dusknoir, sir?”

It couldn't be. This was a coincidence. He hoped desperately that it was a coincidence. If there was a human in the time he had traveled from, then there surely had to be humans in the time preceding it. This was another human, unrelated to the one that had evaded detection for the last year or so. It was a simple coincidence.

Kip watched him nervously.

“Apologies, I… I was simply caught off guard. Humans turning into pokemon is a concept that I thought was only the stuff of fairy tales. That combined with humans having been long extinct makes your story seem a bit peculiar.”

“Oh! Yeah, it does seem strange, doesn't it? I don't know if she's misremembering or not, but she's pretty intent on how she wasn't a charmander before waking up on the beach. She took a while to learn how to walk, though, and she doesn't know how to control fire like a normal charmander— so it makes me feel like she's telling the truth.”

Dusknoir hummed, lost in thought. Kip ran off to greet his partner when she exited the meeting hall for whatever seminar was put on that week, and she caught him in a hug and showed him a stack of notes she'd taken during the seminar. Kip stifled a laugh as he looked over the pages— Charmander demanded he tell her what was so funny, and he meekly explained that her spelling was even worse than her handwriting.

“Dude! Not cool! I didn't even know how to read any of this stuff last year. I'd like to see you write a paper in English after barely getting any time to learn it!”

They wandered off, chattering all the way, leaving Dusknoir to recall the mannerisms of the human who had all but dropped off the face of the planet and recognize their echoes in the child resting her hand over her friend’s shoulders as they walked to the guild dorms.

It was a coincidence. Simply that.

(The thought that the human he'd been trying to… dispatch for so many years was only as old as Charmander sat like a block of ice in his belly.)

***

He tried to get more information on this mysterious recruit, and his efforts to find any background beyond when she first arrived at the Guild yielded nothing. It was as if Charmander never existed before appearing on that beach— no records of her prior residence, birth, or heritage were to be found— no one had ever even known she existed before Kip brought her into town. He wondered if it was a conspiracy between them— that the girl was playing dumb and the boy was lying to cover up what he knew— but couldn't place any stock in the theory. Kip was as guileless as they come, and he had seen Charmander attempt to hide surprises from her partner— she was an atrocious liar. They were genuine in their cluelessness.

He learned more that personified the child than he would have liked while posing faux-idle questions to the townsfolk.

(“That lil’ charmander girl is the sweetest thing. She's got the etiquette sense of an overturned stump, make no mistake, but she means no harm by it, y’hear? Keeps coming by to my storehouse to hide presents for her friends— asked for a second lockbox and everything so her partner wouldn't know she was collecting up his favorite things to give him later on.” The woman laughed. “She loves playing with my little one, too— it's the funniest thing, seeing her try to play with her. It's like she thinks she's made of glass. I keep telling Charmander she can be a bit rougher, but she still treats the girl so gingerly!”)

(“Ah! Charmander, you say? Yes, yes, she's quite the character. Loves wordplay, that one. Sharp mind, if a little dense at times. Always asking about the finer points of merchantry. If she weren't already apprenticed at the Guild, we'd consider taking her on ourselves!” A pause as his brother interjected with his own comment. “Ah! I'd forgotten about that. She's made such a habit of paying for those two’s groceries. She's always so mischievous about it— almost treats it like a prank. Keep in mind she's never told those boys or their mother who keeps paying for their things, and she's sworn us to secrecy about it— you'll not tell a soul either, yes?”)

(“Charmander is… well, she's one of our most promising recruits, alongside her partner. I've had my misgivings— those two have shown their immaturity at the worst of times, to the point of near disaster, mind you! If it weren't for Team Skull, I shudder to think of what would have happened… But they've got good hearts. Charmander started out one of the worst-performing recruits in the Guild’s history, but she's made leaps and bounds of progress. It's easier to look past her age when you see the stacks of pages of notes and research she produces— though it's significantly harder when you see the severity of her spelling! She gave me a paper where she'd listed several questions about expedition protocol, once, and I was appalled by the sight!” A nervous flutter of wings. “Everything she writes is phonetic! Horrifically so! Her handwriting is no better. It's to the point I've debated calling on a tutor to stay at the Guild for a time to provide lessons. I shudder to think of a recruit ever rising to the point she and her partner have with such deplorable writing skills. Should I ever meet her parents, I have strong words to give on the importance of education!”)

It was a coincidence. It had to be. She was a former human who had arrived in town at the same time that the fugitive human had disappeared, but that wasn't enough to be incriminating. He didn't want to think about the alternative. In his questioning the townsfolk, all he learned was how utterly normal this child was— how she had the same quirks and charms as any youth would, despite her constant efforts to seem mature and keep up with her older peers.

She and her partner asked him if he, in all his travels, knew about the cause of her dizzy spells and visions. There it was— the Dimensional Scream, and another nail in Charmander’s coffin.

It had to be a coincidence. If it wasn't, then this child's blood would need to stain his hands if he wanted to continue on himself, and he was starting to doubt how much he wanted to live a life with that fact haunting him.

It would have been easier if it was just death he was facing. He could handle the thought of dying, grim as it was. But he faced no simple looming threat of death, but one of complete and utter erasure from existence— if the grovyle succeeded, it would be as if he never lived in the first place. The same fate would be dealt to Charmander. If the existential terror wasn't enough, Dialga’s visceral descriptions of what erasure felt like were unsettlingly vivid. Dusknoir would simply have to remind himself that an execution would be swifter, less painful— even, in a twisted way, more merciful than what Grovyle was so resolutely seeking.

She wouldn't suffer, and he wouldn't be stricken from all of time and space. It would be a twofold victory, grim as it was— if it ever came to that. He didn't even know if this was the exact same human who could discern Dimensional Screams. All signs pointed to her, but if he refrained from learning anything more, he could claim ignorance. He could leave her in this time and simply dispose of the grovyle, and she would remain as she was, blissfully unaware of her origins.

He just had to stop asking questions. That's all he had to do.

Charmander came up to him one day with a newfound hesitancy in her posture. “Hey, so— I really appreciate you telling me about the Scream a while back. And how you came to help me and Kip when the Manectric Tribe came along, and you scaring off Team Skull, and all that, too.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“I don't really get Pokemon stuff, but I know names are pretty important, like, as a trust thing.”

“That they are.” Don't. I don't want to hear—

“So I figured I could give you mine? As a symbol of, like, gratitude or whatever.”

“There’s no need.” Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it, don't tell me anything, I don't want to know—

“Nah, I don't mind.” She smiled widely, puffed out her chest, set her fists on her hips. “It's Twig! Nice to meet you, or whatever you're supposed to say when you… um…” Her prideful posture fell, giving way to concern. “What's with the face? Sorry if I messed that up, I don't really know how things are supposed to— I just thought…”

Of course. Of course he was wrong to hope. When was he ever right to cling to such things? It was her, and he'd known it all along, but he stubbornly refused to accept it.

“I'm sorry, man. You don't have to look so upset.”

“Whatever would give you that idea?”

“You're crossing your arms to hide the fact you're frowning.” She furrowed her brow. “I'm not stupid, Dusknoir.”

You are, though. You're so, so foolish, and you don't even realize it. I could have moved on from here without ever confirming who you were, and you ruined it.

“Apologies,” he murmured tersely. “I'm just a tad overcome. I need a moment.”

“Oh. Yeah, no worries.” She awkwardly reached out and patted the back of his hand as she passed. “I’m gonna go and… I dunno, do some sentry duty. Sorry again if I messed stuff up.”

You should be. You did. Legends and Life, you'll regret this even more than I do when the time comes.

***

It was rather jarring to see the same human that Grovyle had been so determined to keep out of harm’s way laid so low by his own hand. Dusknoir’s appearance at Crystal Cave sent the fugitive packing, and he was left to tend to an injured Team Venture.

Twig shoved his hands away as he assessed the damage. “Don't! Don't, I'm fine— Help Kip! He's— I don't know if he's going to…” Her voice broke, and his heart followed suit at the pitiful sound. “Please. You've got to help him.”

It took a moment to locate the mudkip in question— Twig had evidently been making efforts to lead the fight away from where he had collapsed behind a large stalagmite, unconscious.

He had seen injuries, he had seen gore— but he had never seen so much of them on such a small body.

Twig wasn't overreacting in her fear of whether or not her friend would survive their encounter with Grovyle.

He knew enough first-aid to ensure Kip didn't bleed out in the moment, but lacked the supplies necessary to do much else. Twig was bundling Kip up in her arms before he admitted as much to himself, starting the trek out of the mystery dungeon on shaking legs— and only managed several strides before falling to her knees with a pained groan. She didn't protest when he lifted her into his own arms and resumed the journey with more haste than she could muster in her state— only curled tightly around her partner, to the point that her tail brushed her jaw, promising over and over again that he would be okay.

***

Chimecho received the two recruits and administered the care that Dusknoir was unable to provide, ushering him out of the room so she would have room to work in the cramped Guild infirmary. Left in the silence of the main floor alongside the unsettled guild members who had gathered together when they learned of Team Venture’s state, he found himself standing before the infirmary door, numb. Slowly, the guild members dispersed, the quiet tension in the air left unbroken as they awaited news of their friends’ fates. Chatot remained, noisy in his silence as he alternated between pacing and leafing through paperwork that he never gave more than a few moments of attention at a time. Dusknoir eventually had the sense to seat himself a ways away from the infirmary door and began sifting through the events of the last few hours.

He hadn't pursued Grovyle. He had the opportunity to corner the fugitive— there were a number of dead ends in Crystal Cave, any of which he could have driven him into and had the upper hand in a confrontation where he might capture him— and he didn't take it. He squandered the perfect chance to finally do away with the greatest thorn in his side in favor of assisting another of the trio he'd been tasked with dispatching. He could only hope that Dialga didn't learn of his misstep— there would be hell to pay if he did.

He was pulled from his thoughts by Chatot’s startled squawk as he shot over to the infirmary door when Twig stepped onto the threshold, though not fully through, heavily bandaged and with a pronounced limp. “What are you doing up and about?! You need to remain in the infirmary until you've been given a clean bill of health! I won't have you running about jeopardizing yourself— think of— think of what horrors that would do for the Guild’s image! Get back in there immediately!”

Twig gave him a weary glare. “I'm not going to sit around and watch while Chimecho stitches Kip back into one piece. Move over, man.”

Chatot opened his beak to protest once more, but froze upon glancing over Twig's shoulder— catching an eyeful of Kip’s injuries, judging by the way his feathers flattened against his body in fear. “A-Alright, just this once, then. But sit down! You look faint. I don't want to have you falling and giving yourself a concussion on top of all this!”

“Pretty sure I already have a concussion, Chatot. I also can't sit down unless you let me through the doorway.”

Chatot complied, fretting over her until she laid down on the floor and set her legs up against the wall to combat her supposed faintness that Chatot was so worried about. “Dusknoir, I'm dreadfully sorry, but please keep watch over this recruit for a moment. Chimecho will no doubt need more material for sutures shortly— I must seek supplies in town.” He didn't wait for a response, simply shot up the ladder leading out of the guild in a flurry of wings and panic, leaving Dusknoir and Twig in an vacant chamber.

She closed her eyes, falling so still that she seemed to be asleep. Recalling her mentioning a concussion, he reached over to rouse her— but her sudden words made him freeze with his hand outstretched.

“Chimecho doesn't know if he's gonna make it.”

He couldn't muster a response to that.

“You’ve— you've been around, you know lots of stuff. You've probably seen injuries way worse than those. Kip’s— he's gonna be okay, right?” He watched as she opened her eyes, fixing him with a teary stare as she waited for an answer. “... Right?”

He couldn't look at her. “His injuries are severe,” he finally murmured.

She turned to stare at the ceiling. He did his best to ignore the way her breaths stuttered and hitched, turning into quiet hiccups and whines as she rolled over and shifted to press her back against the wall and cry into her knees. Distantly, he wondered how she managed to cry so quietly, even when every whisper of a sob shook her entire frame with its intensity. He intently avoided pondering what had motivated her to develop such a skill.

It wasn't easy to ignore an injured, distraught child weeping only an arms-length away from him. He found himself unwillingly reminded of the sableye when he first took them in— Twig's situation was different, but the end result was almost the same— a child left adrift and frightened in the face of tragedy. Where the sableye had each other, though, Twig was left to weep without five siblings to answer the slightest whimper with unflinching support. Her partner— her only true friend amongst the Guild, from the sound of things— was on death's door, unable to come to her aid and offer the same words of comfort she had repeated to him as Dusknoir brought the two back to the Guild.

Despite himself, he reached out and set his hand over her back. She stiffened under his palm, and he nearly pulled away, but she caught hold of his thumb on her shoulder and held his hand in place. Her tears continued. He didn't say anything when she curled up tighter and her sobs picked up in volume, too startled by the memory of one of the recruits describing something to him.

(“Twig really doesn't like being touched. Not most times, at least! One time I patted her on the back because she beat my best sentry duty record, and she whirled around and almost took off one of my petals! Like, oh my gosh, I totally freaked! Kip said that she barely lets anyone touch her— you've got to be a real close buddy for her to be okay with it, or else it really freaks her out— but I didn't think it was that bad! Eek!”)

He kept his gaze fixed on the opposite wall and tried not to think about how she felt bonier under his hand than one so young had any right to be.

***

Kip survived, adorned with a number of scars that would remain for all his remaining days as a mudkip. Twig was glued to his side during the days in which he was allowed to exit the infirmary and rest in the dorms, and she became his crutch whenever he struggled to walk about the Guild to build his strength back up after so long being bedridden. The other recruits flocked around the two and made their concern known, offering to help with anything they needed as they recovered.

Kip asked for help checking a particular book out of the Guild library and sending word to Chimecho that the numbing agent was working a bit too well, and that he couldn't feel the fin on his head whatsoever. Twig didn't ask for anything— suddenly every bit as stoney, stern, and stoic as Grovyle had appeared in confrontations once they were separated— and said little over the following days. When one recruit waddled up to her after a workshop with carefully written notes and an apology for how he couldn't write as many pages as she always did on account of how fast the lecturer spoke and how slow his paws were, though, she pulled him into a hug that he meekly returned.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Aw, shucks, it's really nothing! Don't mind it at all. I know how much you love those workshops. Me, though, I was lost as soon as the lecturer flipped the first page on her big ol’ chart thingy! You mind explaining how traps form in a mystery dungeon? She kept saying that it was important to know for this workshop, but I didn't go during the one where it was taught.”

She launched into a lecture of her own, more animated than he had seen her since her encounter with Grovyle, and Dusknoir was tempted to applaud the young man for so cleverly distracting her from her wounds.

***

With a trap laid for Grovyle, Dusknoir watched for the right moment to spring it. It didn't take long— the fugitive was gullible and impatient, a dangerous combination of traits that ensured Dusknoir wasn't left waiting for long.

Grovyle was secured— albeit perhaps roughed up a tad more than was totally necessary to capture him— and that meant he had to resolve the other loose end before he departed for his home era.

He called Team Venture forward, out from the back of the crowd where they always lingered. He only had to bring Twig closer, but to summon her alone would raise suspicions at this most critical of moments. She was slow to come up to the front of the crowd and made her way there leaning heavily on her partner when she finally appeared. Evidently, her refusal to rest and recover from her injuries had backfired, leaving her in a worse state than Kip was despite her having the lesser wounds at the beginning.

He only needed her. He could leave Kip behind and have a single child’s death weighing on him for eternity instead of two, if only they would stop clinging to each other for one measly second. He gave a speech describing his gratitude, waiting for the moment when she would shift her weight off of his side and onto her own two feet so he could grab her and be off— and there it was. He seized her in a hand and shot back into the passage of time, realizing too late that Kip was dragged along by her fistful of his scarf.

Great. Of course.

He caught hold of the boy when Twig’s own grip came loose and cursed whatever Legends were watching and no doubt laughing at his luck.

***

He really should have expected Grovyle would have another trick lying in wait before the execution. He'd hoped that Kip and Twig at least would remain unconscious for the act, but Grovyle's hissing and spitting curses his way roused them, and they were pulled along with his escape plan as a result. Dusknoir was going to kill him personally if things continued to sour thanks to him. When they had the three cornered— along with Celebi, even— he found himself possessed by the urge to twist the knife.

It was cruel to reveal Twig’s identity to Grovyle in order to stamp out any bit of resistance in him, but Dusknoir would be lying if he said it didn't give him some awful sense of catharsis to see the horrified guilt in his face— he finally realized just what he'd done by beating a child unconscious and nearly doing the same to a second one in Crystal Cave, and Dusknoir took a certain glee in his regret. Twig’s look of disgust at the reveal only drove the knife deeper. Good. He deserves it. He put out a hand and sent a shadow snaking along the ground, ready to take the wretch out—

— and Twig tackled Grovyle out of the way of the attack, putting herself in the range of the strike. He fumbled, dampening the worst of the blow before it hit her, but she still let out a sharp cry in response. Legends and Life, he would rather put the two youths out of their misery with something quick, but that was made difficult by their insistence to throw themselves in harm's way as living shields for the one target he wanted to suffer.

Fine, then. He reached out to snatch Kip up and snap his neck, but Twig surged into Dusknoir with such force she managed to throw him against a tree and lit a barrier of flame between them and her allies.

She kicked off of him, further dizzying him thanks to her using his eye as her chosen springboard, and landed ready to dash back to her group— but stopped short when she saw the long wall of fire between them.

(He'd never seen her use any sort of attack before that incorporated the flames she could manifest as a charmander— only ever using her fists, teeth, and even fallen branches to strike— and he suddenly recalled how he could count the hours at the Guild by how many times she'd let out a startled yelp when she'd see her own tail. Back then, he thought she'd simply never grown accustomed to an extra limb. It was with a bitter, weary laugh now that he realized she was afraid of fire.)

He reached out, hand outstretched to take her by the throat.

Kip sprang up from the ground that he had tunneled into and headbutted him hard, whirling around to douse the flames and shove his partner forward. “Come on, come on, we've got to get out of—!”

Grovyle snatched the girl up as he sprang for the passage of time, not even sparing her partner a second glance as he leveled Dusknoir with a deadly glare when he passed. Kip was only pulled along by Twig grabbing his scarf and pulling him into her arms as they darted into the passage of time, Celebi swiftly shuttering it and vanishing in a shimmer of air.

Lovely.

***

Grovyle hadn't told Twig what would happen to her if their efforts to restore Temporal Tower succeeded. Of all the things he'd done, this one failure to act was his most repulsive misdeed by far.

She was baffled by Dusknoir's question of whether she truly didn't fear erasure, looking to Grovyle for answers. He stuttered and stammered, resisting her request for the truth at first, and Dusknoir, for all his willingness to see his instructions to kill these two as just business a few seconds ago, concluded that it would be a lovely vacation to throttle Grovyle in particular.

One last attempt to dispatch Twig as kindly as he could was once again foiled— Grovyle passed on the burden of his mission to a child who just learned she was giving up her entire existence to change a future that was uncertain— and he forced Dusknoir into the passage of time.

***

Erasure was less painful than he expected. It was less like being ripped apart by every second he had lived and more like his very soul was slowly being brushed away, like he was falling asleep. Twig had gone through with her part, then. He hoped the event of her disappearance wasn't too frightening for her or Kip.

Dusknoir could feel himself slipping. He could barely summon the words as he asked, “Grovyle… My life… did it shine?”

Grovyle must have been just as exhausted as Dusknoir, but he smiled despite it. His hand shook as he reached out to grip his arm. His voice trembled with effort as he fought to speak. “Extraordinarily.”

It was a pitiful scrap of comfort— meaningless, really. But that simple response, combined with the sun rising behind the collapsed forms of his unlikely allies moved him to tears.

Okay. If this was how he was struck from all of time and space, it was okay. He would be able to accept it.

As dawn broke for the first time in decades gone uncounted, Dusknoir stopped clinging to the world about him, and let himself drift away completely.

***

To return to existence was unexpected. To be given a second chance at life by Dialga himself was even more unexpected. But perhaps most unexpected of all was how much he hated this bright future’s refusal to admit all of the terrors that had taken place on its soil.

Grovyle and Celebi felt similarly. The decision to immigrate to the Present was unanimous, heightened by Grovyle's late realization that if they'd been restored, Twig likely was as well— Celebi couldn't open a passage of time fast enough for his liking once the idea hit him, and he bolted through it the moment it was vaguely safe to traverse.

“… He's certainly eager to move in.”

“Dusknoir, dear, you know full well he's not leaping at the opportunity to pick out wallpaper.” She turned to the passage, face pensive. “It's been so long since I've seen them in this timeline… I'm almost afraid. How do I look? Are my antennae straight? Are my wings as dazzling as ever?”

He gave her a flat stare.

“You have no appreciation for beauty! Hmph!” She feigned anger for only a moment before glancing back at him, worried. “If you'd like a moment, Dusknoir, you can wait here and prepare yourself. I know you didn't part on the best of terms with our two little explorers.”

“I doubt they're very little anymore.”

“You're right! Oh my goodness, they must be full-grown by now… I'm going through, dear, but you come on out only when you're ready.”

He waited for a feeling of readiness to overtake him.

It never did.

All he could do was take a breath and enter the passage.

He was greeted by sunlight, dappled shadows, treetop canopies rustling overhead, and Twig's startled command for Kip to get behind her.

She was barely any taller, covered in scars he didn't remember her wearing when they last parted ways, and she had her fists balled up in front of her and ready to lash out the second he approached. Grovyle stepped forward and tried to explain, and her look of frightened fury gave way to confusion, then frustration.

“There's— No way. There's no way he did any of that. He's just trying to get our guards down again.” She cast a vicious glare his way. “What, was Primal Dialga a cover? Were you really working with Darkrai all along? Too bad, we beat your real boss months ago! Get out of here before I—”

Kip stepped forward, brushing aside his partner's threats with a smile. His words were sincere and simple. “I knew you were too nice to be faking it. All the times in Treasure Town, Amp Plains, Crystal Cave— I told you, Twig. C’mon, you owe me five-hundred poké!”

She sputtered for a moment as he simply held out a paw expectantly. She reached into her bag and begrudgingly slid a large coin into his waiting palm. He gave her a smug smile as Dusknoir looked between them.

“Do you two often bet on the intentions of those you meet?” He asked, unsettled by the well-practiced exchange.

“It’s a joke. Mostly. And we don't do it too much,” Kip answered.

He was scared to hear the answer he was certain he already knew. “And what started this routine between you?”

To his surprise, they didn't respond by pointing to him. Twig crossed her arms and murmured, surprisingly hesitant, “We got… um. Don't know if there's a specific word for it in Pokéspeak, but we thought we were talking to Cresselia, and it turned out it was very much not Cresselia that we were talking to. We started up the joke to deal with that.”

“A Cresselia that wasn't Cresselia— who would impersonate a Legend?”

Twig gave him a once-over, her suspiciousness giving way to exhaustion. “You know that Darkrai dude I mentioned a bit ago?”

The explanation that followed wasn't as horrifying as the manner in which it was told. Kip admitted his fears as he explained their subsequent clash with a Legend who masterminded Dialga's decay, but Twig dismissed hers. The blatant attempt to put on a brave face and minimize her own anxieties— anxieties which still clearly affected her, judging by the way she avoided eye contact and her tail’s flame fizzled and hissed while burning an anxious magenta— brought to mind a memory he'd almost forgotten.

(A bloody child shakily shoving helping hands aside, sobbing for him to ignore her wounds and tend to her partner. A refusal of aid in favor of assisting another.)

His hands curled into fists, and he looked away. Twig tensed and took a half-step closer to Kip, and the sight killed him.

***

Kip offered their motley trio a place in his and Twig's home as they searched for more permanent lodgings. They accepted, much to Twig's poorly hidden chagrin.

Everyone else had retired for the night— curled up in makeshift beds pulled haphazardly together out of blankets and pitiful amounts of straw insufficient for any real mattress. Grovyle snored loudly, sleeping deeply for perhaps the first time Dusknoir had ever been around to see, and Celebi had tucked herself tidily into her bed, breaths whistling lightly as she rested. Kip was doing the same a short distance away. Twig, meanwhile, sat at a table across the room, pretending to look over papers she must have read ten times each by now, glaring up at him every time she leafed through the stack anew.

The implication that she didn't trust him around her unconscious friends and had taken up watch to protect them wasn't lost on him.

She did this for multiple nights. She'd reached the point that she was nodding off in the daytime, exhausted by her nightly vigils, but she still kept them up. He had attempted to fake sleeping earlier in the night so she'd allow herself rest, but she remained awake even then— and so he swiftly gave up the ruse in favor of his typical pattern of sleep. Each evening, she'd take up her post at the table and start skimming papers with feigned interest, keeping an eye on his every move and tensing whenever he so much as twitched.

He deserved each terrified glower she gave him. His knowledge of his guilt didn't make it any easier to see one so young carrying the world on her shoulders.

She was grown now— likely nearing an evolution, if the reddish scales now dotting her skin meant anything— but she still had the eyes of a haunted child when the nights were long and her watch over her friends wore on her.

She finally slipped up one evening, her head settled on folded arms over the table’s surface, eyelids drifting closed until her breathing finally evened out and she fell asleep. He sighed with relief, but the reassurance that she'd finally get some rest was short-lived.

She flinched in her sleep, murmuring fearfully, fingers twitching against the tabletop she'd slumped over.

Uncertain of what to do, but called to help all the same, he rose and pulled a blanket from the meager sheets comprising her empty bed. She relaxed when he draped it over her, her hands no longer balling into fists and her tail’s flame glowing a warm, peaceful white instead of flickering between aggressive violets and panicked magentas.

She looked smaller as she slept— as if in her slumber she forgot to puff herself up and pretend she was self-assured and confident. She looked like a recruit too young to keep up with her older peers and too naive to understand the danger she threw herself readily into.

She looked like a child.

She looked like a child, but she'd never had the chance to truly be one. Between running for her life in the Dark Future, to taking on a schooling far too intensive for those her age, to waging battles with Legends and shouldering whatever trauma she'd garnered from all of it— she'd never been allowed such an opportunity.

(He was part of that. He was part of the reasons she'd never been able to grow up as a child should. He'd been part of the wretched selection of foes who robbed her of her youth.)

Dusknoir tugged the blanket higher around the girl's shoulders. She sighed a cozy, content sound, and he left for a late night walk.

He didn't mention the blanket come morning. She left it unspoken as well.

(She took a glance at her post the next evening and turned away, electing to sprawl out in her bed and snore almost loud enough to put Grovyle to shame.)

(It was a simple thing. Meaningless, really, and no great signifier of any faith that had been rebuilt. But it moved him near to tears regardless as she dropped off to sleep before any of the rest of them. She trusted them all to keep her safe and be safe in turn— and he was encircled in that trust.)

(It wasn't the unwavering faith of a child, but it was something, and it was something that meant the world.)

[justanotherfanfolks]

Guys saw this post and it set off the part of my brain where Cater Diamond lives rent free.

@krenenbaker you inspired this.

Gosh, I wanna throw Cater under a microscope.

Like he is such a fascinating character, it's so sad that people just see him as the "social media character." I remember a few months after I got the game I was reading through his vignettes and he was just setting off the gears in my head. Especially his Halloween vignette. I've talked about it before, but it gives us so much insight into Cater. How he doesn't like letting people in and keeps everyone at arms length, even Trey. When Trey was a Starsender, he wouldn't tell him his actual wish. And he was the same before when they got visited by a previous Starsender the year before. Trey knows there's something about him, but he is Trey "But That's None of My Business" Clover so he never pries. He's the closest to Cater, but maybe that's what makes Cater so wary. And how when his mandrake threatened to pull down the curtain, he shoved it back, he changed the subject. We also almost never get Cater by himself. He's always surrounded by people, always performing. And it's hard to tell what he's thinking because he's always brushing stuff aside with a smile on his face. But his Halloween vignette is one where we actually get to see some cracks in that, we actually get a peek into his brain. He's scared of getting too close to people because every time he lets someone in, he has to leave. He clearly cares about the people around him, but he has a track record that prevents him from showing too much of that. And by extension, we as an audience don't get to see too much of who he is behind closed doors. We know he puts on a show, he doesn't like showing when things get to him. When he mentions moving around a lot, he doesn't mention the struggle of it out loud. He says he likes Magicam for the casual connections and how it helps him keep in touch with old faces, but in his vignette when he actually gets messages from one of these faces he doesn't want to engage. In Silver's Halloween vignette he says his life has taught him to live in the moment. But it also taught him to not get comfortable, to keep walls up. He didn’t even tell his dorm something as simple as how he doesn't like sweets for years. Back on Halloween, he watches Diasomnia with something like envy. How they can be there for each other, be close. How they couldn't understand. Not knowing how someone there actually can understand.

Book 7 spoilers mentioned:

I also have a side tangent about him being multifaceted and always blending into what he expects people want. In Book 7, Cater is the only one we see truly struggling with the internships. Like, it is painfully relatable, I feel so called out. We go around the Juniors and see them feeling confident in their plans and here Cater is with his head on a desk feeling more confused and uncertain the more people he talks to. He's spent so much time following what other people want, putting on a show, he doesn't know where to go now. Let's not even mention how this is the moment he knew was coming for the past 3 years: that inevitable goodbye. I feel like Cater could be so interesting for the conflict going on in Diasomnia, but I'm not sure if they'll use him.

Tangent closing: I really like Cater. He's really well written and I don't think he gets enough respect on that front. He gets really good dialogue lines, but he also gets so much more. To me, he's one of the best characters in the game.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, the Cangst is real people.

[stylinsoncity]

yuzu harry's pov: after they start dating, one night at the restaurant

Harry jolts at the tap tap on his office door. He reaches for the baseball cap he’d placed over his face as a makeshift eye mask and his eyes pop open.

Louis bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing. Harry decides to laugh at himself. He drags his hand down his tired face and tosses his baseball cap onto the desk.

“Hi,” Louis says, stepping into the room, his smile small and pitiful.

“Hi,” Harry says, with a pout, wanting all the pity he can get.

Louis actually laughs at him as he takes a seat on the edge of Harry’s desk. “Is there a reason you’re sleeping here instead of just heading home?”

“I’m taking a break. I can’t head home until close.”

“Sorry I’m interrupting your break then.”

“Don’t be,” Harry says, scooting closer to take Louis by the hips. “I’m happy to see you.”

“Tough life dating a chef,” Louis says, sliding his hand into Harry’s hair. “If I don’t hunt you down here, I won’t see you at all.”

Harry blinks. “Do you actually feel that way?”

Now it’s Louis’ turn to look stunned. “No, Harry, I’m joking.”

“But you did have to hunt me down. This is sort of my life now,” Harry says, gesturing around at the office and by extension, the kitchen just outside it. “I feel like I didn’t give you all the info on what you were signing up for. When I’m not here, I’m sleeping.”

Louis smushes Harry’s face between his palms. “It was a joke.”

“Maybe I’m worried about it anyway. Maybe I’ve missed you.”

“I’m right here,” Louis says.

“And you’re happy?” Harry asks.

“I’d be happier if you could take a joke,” Louis says. “I didn’t know exactly what I was signing up for, no, but it’s not a surprise how demanding this all is. The show will be demanding for me when things really get going. We’ll just have to make time when and where we can. I’m alright with that. Are you?”

Harry goes on pouting.

Louis gets off the edge of the desk and repositions himself so he’s closer. “What other options do we have? Choosing other career paths? Something aside from our dream jobs? Or we could date other people?”

“Shut up,” Harry says.

“I’m just laying out the options,” Louis says. “I think they sound quite shit. I think I’d take us and our awful schedules over anything else.”

“You’re so eloquent,” Harry says, running his hands up Louis’ waist. “I agree.”

“It won’t always be like this,” Louis says. “There’s no way Bobby Flay is in the kitchen all day every day.”

Harry laughs, resting his head on Louis’ stomach. “I’ll have to ask him how he does it.”

“We’ll get you a Netflix gig. And you can publish a cookbook. I know you like being hands on but one day, you’ll be able to afford more time off here. It’s about diversifying your income. And maybe bringing on another head chef one day.”

Harry looks at him, both brows raised.

“I watch a lot of cooking shows and follow a lot of chefs on Instagram.”

“Oh, do you? Cute chefs?”

“None as cute as you,” Louis says, pinching Harry’s cheek. 

Harry captures Louis’ hand and presses a kiss to his palm. “I really did miss you.”

“I don’t even think it’s been a week since we last saw each other.”

“That’s still too long,” Harry says, pressing his fingertips more firmly into Louis’ hips, sliding his hands to his bum.

“Well, I’m here now and you haven’t even kissed me.”

Harry stands straight away and kisses him. Truth be told, he’s been dying to. He also knew that if he kissed Louis, that’s all he’d want to do from then onwards. And he didn’t want to cut their conversation short. Because it’s been on his mind, how much time he’ll need to devote to the restaurant these days and how little time that leaves for Louis. He’s wary about his track record and Louis’ as far as relationships go. And he’s wary about London. As certain as it feels when he’s with Louis, he also knows that nothing is certain. Nothing is secure.

But the conversation helped…for now. So he can focus on other things. Like how nice Louis’ bum feels cradled in his palms. And how soft his lips are. And how hard he is.

“You’re really hard,” Harry reports.

“That’s never happened before,” Louis says. “I’m just as stunned as you are.”

Harry laughs, pressing kiss after kiss down Louis’ throat.

“We should stop, though,” Louis says, taking Harry’s face between his palms again. He does so ostensibly to stop the barrage of kisses, but then he kisses Harry on the mouth. Then he does it again. Groaning, he says, “We can’t fuck around in here.”

“Says who? Not the boss.”

Louis snickers. “I don’t know whether I find that hot or ridiculous.”

“That’s easy. Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Louis lifts his brows, his eyes on Harry’s mouth. He licks his bottom lip. “You’re alright with your employees hearing us? ‘Cause I can’t promise I’ll keep quiet.” He takes Harry’s jaw between his thumb and fingers. And gives him a quick, teasing peck. “And you get pretty loud yourself.”

“I can’t make wise decisions right now,” Harry says. “You should hear it inside my brain. It’s just the word cock over and over again. Just your cock though, obviously.”

Louis snort laughs. “I worry sometimes you’re a nympho.”

Harry is not a nympho. There’s a simple explanation for his perpetual horniness. “Remember how I met you and refused to sleep with another person until you gave us a shot?” he asks. “That’s a lot of pent-up tension to resolve.”

“Your sacrifice didn’t go unnoticed. I also didn’t sleep with anyone else, mind you.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I noticed.”

He’s not sure yet if they’ve agreed to have sex or not, but Louis does pull him in for another kiss, this time licking deeply into his mouth, biting softly at his bottom lip before he goes in again. Harry considers sending the staff home and closing the restaurant early. Or, a less unhinged idea: telling them he’s sick and taking Louis home. He thinks they could manage one night without him. Maybe?

Louis pulls Harry’s button-up out of his hem and reaches for his belt buckle, which means it’s happening. And Harry will just have to stay quiet. He can stay quiet. Has he got lube in here? Why would he keep lube in here?

“I want your cock in my mouth,” Louis says suddenly.

Harry groans weakly. “Yeah,” he says, kissing Louis more fervently. He feels a shove against his chest and breaks away reluctantly.

“Right now,” Louis says and pushes him again, this time into his chair. He gets on his knees in front of Harry, reaches for his waistband and tugs his trousers down past his knees.

[rootsofdread]

Hi! I just found your blog(? is it called a Tumblr? a blog? I still don't know) and I love it! I'm sort of an on-and-off Dead by Daylight player, but seeing this great thing you've got going on here makes me kinda want to go play more.

I dunno if this is an acceptable request, but: how would the denizens of the Fog feel about a friendly and helpful dog!Reader?

For the killers, the faithful companion is leading them to injured survivors and also barking at people who try to sneak by (though likely not always successfully, since the Fog is likely messing with their senses), maybe even knocking things out of survivors' hands because they're a mischief maker.

For the Survivors, the friendly pooch is leading injured survivors away from the killer and to healers, picking up and bringing them dropped items, and barking at stalking killers to warn the people it cares about.

Everyone needs a friendly animal sometimes, I think. There's something really nice about petting a fuzzy friend when you've had a bad day, and I feel like being in the Fog probably means you have a lot of bad days.

most people call them blogs hehe! this was honestly such a fun request to do though, i was delighted seeing it in my inbox!! very unique and fun to write :-D!!

Jake Park:

Jake had long learned to be wary of animals — creatures, more like — found in the fog. So he was understandably skeptical when he saw a dog sniffing around in the distance. He was sure he’d see you transform into some grotesque monster. He was shocked to see you lead the killer into a trap he had set up earlier in the trial, jumping over it while they stepped into it.

He knew you’d be next if they caught up to you. He whistles to get your attention and makes sure you run away with him, ahead of him, even. There’s something strangely freeing about being with an animal again, to him, running with one and feeling like he’s truly in the wild again.

You help him a lot with building make-shift traps and getting items together for himself and his teammates. He never has to worry about being unprepared with you around, he can tell you to go find something he needs, and chances are, you’ll be back with it in no time. You’re often more helpful at times than his teammates are.

Jeff Johansen:

Jeff couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw you walk up to him while he was working on a generator. A stray dog. He was sure you were a figment of his imagination — but attempts to snap himself out of it proved futile. But he still wasn’t too sure, of course, he figured you must be something conjured by the Entity to mess with him and other survivors. 

But he began to trust you more when you lead him into a nearby out-of-sight corner just as the killer skulked by. He was in disbelief that you knew they were coming before he did, and seemed to figure this must mean you’re here to protect him rather than mess with him.

That said, he often spends more time protecting you than you do protecting him. He tells you to run and takes chase from the killer before they find you, and he’s thankful when you decide to listen instead of continue to follow him; he wants you to help everyone else when you can’t help him. You’ve brought him happiness and he’ll protect you at any cost.

Max Thompson Jr. / The Hillbilly:

Max doesn’t have a great track record with animals, and he nearly killed you when he first noticed you during a trial. The incessant barking is almost what did it — but then he noticed you were clearly barking at something. A bush? No, something inside the bush. He could hear something.

He swung his hammer into the greenery and collided with flesh. An injured survivor had been hiding from him, and you led him straight to them. He seems to decide for himself, maybe you can be useful. He lets you follow him around for the rest of the trial, occasionally looking over his shoulder to see you wagging your tail.

He eventually becomes much more attached to you, thinking of you more as a pet than a convenience. He can frequently be seen petting you and throwing you treats after you help him catch survivors, and perhaps, on occasion, he lets you lay your head in his lap while the two of you rest after a long trial.

Anna / The Huntress:

Of course, Anna had seen animals in the fog; the nasty creatures the Entity had spawned. They’re easy pickings, a fun activity for her when she’s not in a trial. She was surprised when she lobbed a hatchet at you and you actually dodged it. She knew you were smarter, a different kind of animal. A real animal, like from before.

Believe it or not, she was actually delighted to have found a real animal in the fog. She loved animals. And a dog, too — she always wanted a dog, particularly for hunting, but she had heard what great companions they make. It was never a secret how much she’d always wanted a friend.

She immediately takes to you and lets you come with her. She loves having an easy way to pinpoint where survivors are with you, letting you run off into the trialgrounds and alert her to the exact locations of them, occasionally even dragging injured survivors straight back to her. You’re rewarded with treats from her hunts.

[thisbisexualbrainrot]

I Know Places We Can Hide

Rating: E

Summary: Aziraphale sneaks out of Heaven to visit Crowley. This fic is my version of a third season!

Tags: Post Season 2 Finale. Canon Compliant. Aziraphale POV. M/M. Sexual but plot driven.

Author Notes: NOW ON AO3! I just want more fic from Azi's perspective so I did it myself. Partly based on this post by @sensitivesiren cause I thought it was a great theory. Full first chapter is under the cut! :)

“Baby, I know places we won't be found and

They'll be chasing their tails trying to track us down

'Cause I know places we can hide.”

-Taylor Swift

—

He wasn't supposed to be here. 

Earth, that is. He wasn't supposed to be on Earth. And certainly was not supposed to be visiting a certain demon who, for all he knew, did not ever want to see him again. 

The Supreme Archangel took a breath to steady himself, absentmindedly pulling on the stiff collar of his pressed, white suit that he knew he could not show his face in. A hint of a buzzing sensation in his fingers and he was back in his familiar earthly attire. 

It's a small miracle, they won't notice…I hope Aziraphale bit his lip and wondered if he was pushing his luck too far this time. He had slipped out after his weekly management meeting, when the weight of the discussion had been overwhelming to no one else but him. He didn’t understand how they could talk about such things, their eyes dull with apathy, like they were discussing budgeting and not the destruction of the human race. 

These last few months had been a torment. He knew Crowley was right, he was not like the other angels. He didn't care about war or great plans. Well, he did care in the sense that he didn't understand why the earth needed to be destroyed at all. If I'm the one in charge, I can make a difference. Some difference he’d made, indeed. In the months he’d been in heaven, the only difference he’d made was restructuring the scrivener recording schedules due to Muriels absence. In all other regards, he had found the job to be lacking in the “making decisions for heaven” department. It was more of a mouthpiece role, mimicking whatever The Metatron told him to command of the lower angels. He realized rather quickly that he had been manipulated. That heaven had offered him the job to get him away from Earth. Away from Crowley. Away from actually making a difference. 

So, his wary eyes scanning the room near the elevator, he hastened his steps toward it and made his escape.

–

“Nope, not doing this.” 

Crowley shot up from the bench like it was made of holy water. “I have absolutely nothing to say to you, Angel.” He turned to leave Saint James park, but not before throwing a spiteful “You can go ahead and change your clothes back. I know that's not what you're wearing up there.” 

Aziraphale breathed out sharply through his nose. Of course, Crowley was going to be difficult. He’d hurt him, he knew that but he had hoped the demon would at least be a little pleased to see him.

 “I changed for my own comfort, if you must know.” Not a complete lie. “Crowley, we need to talk. I-I’m terribly regretful of how we left things and-”  “You need my help.” He interrupted,  “That's why you’re here, right?” Aziraphale said nothing. He understood he had hurt him but the demon had hurt him as well. And it wasn’t fair that he was being so cruel. Crowley clearly noted the silence and snarked, “Well, unfortunately for you, I'm out of the business of helping angels.” 

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale said softly, “I- if you would just hear me out.” The angel felt a pang of fear, pursing his lips and hoping that he would at least be allowed to explain himself. He couldn’t read Crowley's expression since he wasn’t facing him but his shoulders looked… tense.  He finally heard Crowley mutter through gritted teeth, “Fine.” 

“Oh, thank you.” He could feel a slight warmth of relief sing through his bones. “You see, I made a terrible mistake and The Meta-” He stopped himself, this should be discussed more privately. He stumbled over his words, “That is, Could I-...would you be willing to come back to the bookshop with me?” It was the first place he could think of but not the most ideal place either, he realized. 

Crowley paused and Azirphale hoped he hadn’t ruined his chance. “We can meet at my place.” 

“Oh you're um- you have a new one now?”  Crowley seemingly ignored the question. He took out a slip of paper that looked like a receipt, scrawled an address on it and handed it to him, still not turning fully to meet the Angel's eyes. “Meet you there.” And with that, Crowley quickly shoved his slender hands into his tight pockets and walked away.

Aziraphale watched Crowley leave, the slip of paper still clutched between his fingers. Hearing the anger in his voice made the angel wince. Oh how I've made a mess of things.

-

He still stopped by the bookshop briefly to check on it. Muriel was delighted to tell him all about their interactions with the humans and how they had read almost every book in the shop already. He smiled kindly to them, his mind distracted by the events in the park. He did not mention any of it to the young scrivener. He gave them a quick farewell, thanked them for watching over things and exited the shop. Anxiety pooled in the pit of his stomach. Right, the address. He pulled it out of his pocket.

 How would he ever explain all of this? Where would he start? Had heaven realized he was gone? What if they found him? He glanced around anxiously and waited for a feeling of Michael or Uriel appearing but saw no none. He wanted to stop and see Maggie and Nina but couldn't risk any more time. He would have to catch up with them later. 

He glanced back down at the sheet of paper and could make out the address even with Crowley's terrible handwriting. Aziraphale couldn't help but smile. It turns out, the flat was just a few blocks away. Maybe Crowley didn’t truly hate him after all.

The doorbell rang, a hollow chime echoing through the flat. Aziraphale waited not so patiently for the black door to swing open, yellow eyes finally meeting his gaze.

 “I knew they would be purple.” Crowley mumbled with what sounded like annoyance to his voice.

His eyes. He had forgotten. “Oh- I would love to do away with them, however, I can't seem to change them.” He fiddled with his ring and gave Crowley a half hearted, nervous smile.  Crowley smirked, “I know the feeling.” 

He stepped aside, a gesture that pulled Aziraphale in and he was hit with the familiar comforting scent of amber and brimstone. I know what you smell like he remembered the demon telling him once, and well…likewise. The door shut behind him and Crowley headed over to a bar counter, pulling two wine glasses from a rack and pouring each of them a glass. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the room was cozy despite being mostly decorated in sleek black furnishings. Crowley handed him the glass and Aziraphale managed to say thank you with a steady voice. He was incredibly nervous. “So?” Crowley cleared his throat, knocking Aziraphale’s racing mind back into the room. “Are you going to explain what the purpose of this holy appearance is?” He settled in a large armchair, swinging one leg over the other. He leveled his gaze on Aziraphale, taking a sip of his wine. 

Aziraphale felt the panic that had been swelling inside of him threaten to bubble over. He had no idea where to begin, just as he had feared. He ran his finger nervously over the rim of his glass. Staring down at it, he centered himself and pulled together what he needed to say, or at least it was a start. 

He admitted quietly, “I've made a terrible mess of things. I should have never taken the job.” 

Crowley was silent. Aziraphale continued after a pause, his eyes still downward. “It appears The Metatron’s intentions were to separate us. I have been all but useless as a leader, I'm afraid. They don't actually let me decide anything. Not anything of real importance. And, worst of all, they plan to initiate the Second Coming in a matter of months? Years? I'm not entirely sure but it will be soon.” 

Crowley let out a frustrated sounding sigh, shaking his head, “So that is why you’re here, to get my help then? Cause if that’s all you want you can shove o-” 

“No.” Aziraphale looked up then, and he hoped Crowley could see the pain in his eyes as he confessed, “I am here to apologize and beg for your forgiveness.” Silence. A long awkward pause. Aziraphale didn't know what to say next, so he waited. 

“Well then Angel, go on.” Crowley gestured his glass toward him. “Beg.” 

Aziraphale huffed, “If you are going to make a mockery of it, I’ll just as soon leave.” 

Crowley looked amused, “Oh come on, you really can't expect that I wouldn't give you a hard time. With you rejecting me and all, it's only fair.” 

“I would appreciate you taking this seriously.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. If Crowley was going to make his feelings a joke, then he wasn't going to even bother trying to mend this- this…

“Oh I am,” Crowley’s tone shifted, “and you better start talking, Angel.” 

“Fine.” Aziraphale straightened, setting his untouched glass on a nearby table. He looked at Crowley, “You were right.” “I want the dance.”

“No.” Bastard.

“Then apology not accepted” Crowley took another swig of his wine. It was almost like he was having fun with this. Looking Aziraphale up and down he remarked flatly, “You’ve lost weight. No crepes in heaven, I suppose.” 

Aziraphale felt his frustration growing, “Crowley, will you please focus on what I am trying to say?” 

“So far, I haven't really heard you say anything.” Crowley shot back, his eyes were dark and angry. 

Aziraphale had enough. He moved toward Crowley’s seat, kneeling in front of him firmly but gently. He locked their eyes together, hoping that Crowley wouldn't see how scared he was and mistake it for something else.

“Then I will say it now.” Aziraphale’s voice wavered but he pushed on, “I have never regretted something more, in six thousand years. For choosing to leave you. The truth is…” He swallowed nervously, “I love you Crowley, no matter what you are. I will always love you the same.” He took a breath, “A-And you owe me nothing in return, except I would prefer for you to still consider me a friend. You don't have to kiss me, if it's not genuine.” If Crowley would agree to still be his friend, that would be enough. He didn't want Crowley to feel forced to love him the way he wanted. That would not do. And he couldn’t bear to hear Crowley speak to him with such disdain and anger any longer, even if some of it was deserved. He had placed his hands on the demon’s knees sometime during this admission, the warmth of Crowley's legs sending a jolt of adrenaline down to his gut. Now, it seems, he was unable to remove them. He was frozen in place, his eyes following Crowley’s expression. The demon said nothing, at first. Aziraphale watched as he slowly set his wine glass down, 

“You think it wasn't genuine then.” Not a question. 

Aziraphale looked back at him with slight confusion. “You- you surely know how I feel about you, Crowley. Certainly your kiss was a cruel temptation, was it not? A last effort to try to change my mind? I-I forgave you for it but it did hurt, you see, so I was angry and I-...I am..” 

“ARGH!” Crowley stood up, pushing past Aziraphale and spinning around to face him. “Did you really not hear a word I said?!”

Aziraphale, startled by the sudden movement and aggression, stood and turned to face Crowley with confusion now etched into his features. “I-I was listening. You didn't want to come with me, you didn't want to be an angel with me, you- you said you didn't need heav- “ 

“Argh, not that part Aziraphale!” Crowley rarely said his full name anymore. He loved how it sounded rolling off the demon's tongue. Very distracting. 

“What part then?” Aziraphale asked quietly. He had clearly been wrong about the kiss, but that meant- he felt his heart beat faster in his chest. 

“I refuse to believe you dont know.” Crowley’s expression hardened, but tears welled in his eyes. He didn't have his sunglasses to hide them and Aziraphale could see then that the anger and disdain for him was actually just…heartbreak. 

Crowley was heartbroken. Oh. OH.

He had been wrong in Crowley's intentions for the kiss.

Crowley had been trying to tell him his feelings the last time they saw each other. Aziraphale had just not been listening properly, or at least not been really hearing him properly. The kiss was a last ditch attempt, but it was to show Aziraphale how he felt. What they could be if he did stay. We could have been us. 

“Oh I…Crowley.” He stepped closer instinctively, reaching his arm out to grasp Crowley's hand. He thought for a moment Crowley would pull away, but he didn’t. “I've been such a complete fool. Please forgive me.” Crowley cursed quietly as a tear slipped down his cheek, looking away. Aziraphale pulled them closer then, his free hand reaching up to turn Crowley’s face back to him and wipe the tear away. His hand remained, gently rubbing his thumb on the demon’s cheekbone. Aziraphale’s heart could not have been beating louder in his ears as Crowley leaned in until their foreheads were resting on each other. A breath of silence and then quietly he heard,

“I’ve missed you, Angel.” 

“And I you, my dear. Desperately.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and brushed his nose against Crowley’s, cautiously. Slowly. With his eyes shut, the sensation of the demon’s breath was so close. His warm face was so unbearably close and the Angel pushed in further until his lips were barely caressing the demons, testing his boundaries. 

Testing to see if Crowley would push him away.

He didn’t. 

Aziraphales heart fluttered as Crowley wrapped his hand around the Angel’s neck, his fingers curling into the nape of the white curls and pushed in to deepen the kiss. It felt like fire. Warm, crackling and intense. Nothing like before, no feeling of humiliation or pain. Aziraphale sunk into it, letting out a small moan as Crowley licked against his lips. Crowley must have taken the moan as an invitation. He began to push off Aziraphale’s jacket and it fell to the floor. 

Aziraphale pulled back slightly, “Crowley, I- shouldn't we talk about this?” 

“I think we’ve done enough talking, don't you? Always talking, us.”

Crowley moved back in to claim the angel's mouth once more and Aziraphale agreed, they could talk after. After they- oh mother in heaven, has Crowley always smelled this incredible? He breathed in deeply, pushing his tongue in and getting a satisfying groan in return. He wanted all of him then. Wanted to touch every unholy inch of him. He felt Crowley start to push him backward and clung to him as they toppled onto a black velvet couch. He felt the weight of Crowley's hips as he settled onto his lap, one leg resting on either side as he straddled over him and cupped his jaw, kissing him feverishly. Aziraphale used one hand to pull the demon closer to him. The other gripped Crowley's neck, fingers gliding into perfectly soft red hair. He felt Crowley slip off his shoes and he did the same, all while not breaking their joined mouths even for a moment. Crowley chuckled affectionately as he broke their lips apart, “You sure you’re alright with this, Angel?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Aziraphale chided, “I have been around just as long as you. I know perfectly well what this is.” 

Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel's neck, “but have you ever...” he waved his hands and the rest trailed off. Implied. “I haven't had the desire until now.” 

“Oh is that so?” Crowley teased, “Well well, Supreme Archangel...” 

Aziraphale blushed hotly and sputtered “Well I- I wouldn't say I didn't have the desire till now but I just- oh you know what I mean you impertinent demon!” Crowley rolled his hips then, and Aziraphale forgot to keep scolding him. 

“S’what I’m good at after all” he whispered, his breath hot in Aziraphale’s ear, “flustering you”. 

He then watched the demon's eyes go wide as he grasped Crowley's thighs and flipped them over on the couch. The angel was now resting on top, his legs splitting Crowley's apart. Aziraphale began running his nose along Crowley’s neck, his voice a bit deeper than usual. “You know my dear, I think you underestimate just how adept I am at flustering you as well.” He then pressed a number of light kisses along Crowley’s long neck, and was quite pleased when he heard a low growl. He had never felt quite like this. There was an unleashing of desire at seeing Crowley laid out so desperate for him. He nuzzled lovingly against Crowley's mouth, his eyes half lidded, as he asked “Where is your bed?” Crowley swallowed, noticeably. His voice was rough. “Down the hall to the left.” 

“Show me.” 

Crowley pushed Aziraphale off of him enough to stand and hastily lead him down the hall, their sock-covered feet sliding smoothly over the hardwood floor. He had reached out and grabbed the Angel's hand without another word. And Aziraphale’s heart was in his throat as they entered the bedroom. Crowley pushed him back to lean against the doorframe and kissed him achingly and intentionally. The angel barely noticed the undoing of his bowtie as it dropped to the floor. They broke apart and Aziraphale sucked in a shuddering breath,

 “Crowley…” he exhaled as he lifted the silver tie over the demon’s head. The black leather vest came undone next and he captured the demon's lips in his again as Crowley set to work on his velvet waistcoat. With hungry confidence, Aziraphale pushed against Crowley until he was stepping backward toward the king size bed. The demon was finally sliding off the waistcoat and working his way down the buttons of the undershirt when he muttered with frustration,

“Too many layers....” and proceeded to rip the rest of the shirt off, the buttons clattering against the wood floor. Aziraphale, shockingly, did not object. He pulled the white undershirt off over his head and climbed on top of Crowley as they settled onto the black duvet, soft and inviting against their bodies. He ran a hand down the demon's side and Crowley hissed with pleasure as the angel ducked down and pushed the black t-shirt up to run his mouth along the demon’s stomach. The shirt was pulled off and got lost somewhere on the bed in the process. 

“Aziraphale...” Crowley breathed, and a vulnerability slipped out of him. He said the angel's name like it was a prayer. He brought his mouth back up to Crowley’s lips and felt the demon wrap his arms around him. When their lips met again it was a moment of devotion and reverence. He savored Crowley's mouth, trying to give him the worship and love he deserved. Please always say my name that way. Please always want me as you do now. He begged silently and he hoped Crowley could feel how much he adored him. The demon kissed back with as much affection, rolling them so he was now laying on the broad chest of the angel. He sunk his head down and began kissing his neck and down his chest. Aziraphale moaned and grabbed at the red disheveled hair of the demon, bucking his body upwards to bring himself closer to Crowley’s pleasuring mouth as he moved downward. 

“So naughty…” Crowley teased and Aziraphale let out a small huff of annoyance. But Crowley kissed his body tenderly, nipping and smoothing over the bites with his tongue. And slowly moved downward. Until Aziraphale sucked in a breath at the sensation of Crowley’s mouth on his cock, only a thin layer of fabric in between. He needed that fabric to be gone. Thankfully, Crowley was one step ahead and pulled the boxer briefs down the Angels thick thighs. 

The feeling was overwhelming, incredibly good but almost too much. His vision went blurry and all he could think was how he needed more. Every movement of Crowley's hot, wet mouth pushed the Angel further into utter oblivion. It was no surprise that humans found this so enjoyable, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t done it until now. He gasped as Crowley's tongue flicked out to pleasure him and lost all sense of anything but the demon's touch on his skin. 

If this was sinful, Aziraphale made a mental note to sin often in the future. 

_

It was some time later when they collapsed, the tension in their bodies melting away with the release. Aziraphale laid next to Crowley, his breathing a little ragged as he caught up. He rolled over and smiled into the crook of the demon's neck and Crowley smiled too as they both broke into a shared laughter. There was no denying what was between them. There was no going back now. And somehow, after everything, they found that it was incredibly funny. Crowley sighed pleasantly. He rubbed his hand on his forehead, pushing his sweaty red locks away from his face, 

“Well, now that that coming is over with, do you want to tell me more about this Second Coming then?” Aziraphale gaped with dramatic disgust, and nearly shoved Crowley off the bed. Crowley sat up laughing, “I'm going to grab the rest of that wine.” 

Aziraphale pulled him back down to sit on the bed, sitting up himself to wrap his arms around him from behind and plant a kiss on his cheek. He savored the feeling of intimacy as his bare chest warmed against the demon's back. 

Crowley laughed warmly, “I’ll be right back.” 

He got up and pulled on a black silk robe he had hanging on his door, and reached into his closet to toss an oversized Velvet Underground t-shirt to the Angel. 

Aziraphale tucked up his nose at the shirt, “Don’t you have anything a little more stylish?” Crowley rolled his eyes, “It's just us, you’ll survive. I’ll go grab you some new clothes tomorrow.” 

Azirphale watched him slip the robe on, wanting very much to rip it off later. Partly to wear it instead of the t-shirt, if he was being totally honest. He could miracle something, he supposed, but he’d already risked enough doing the small one earlier. And Crowley wasn't doing miracles either, he noticed. He thought back to the handwritten slip of paper. 

But he couldn't deny that he enjoyed the pleasing silk covered view that sauntered down the hallway and out of sight. 

–

It turns out he had lost a little weight and the shirt did fit. Albeit a little tighter in the arms and shoulders than it would on Crowley but it would do. 

When Crowley returned, Aziraphale was wearing the offending t-shirt with his boxer briefs back on, blonde hair disheveled and flipping through the records Crowley had on a small shelf in the corner of his room. He noticed Crowley staring at him, a look of arousal in his eyes and he suddenly felt very self conscious. He was sure he looked like an absolute mess, but apparently the new look was appealing to the demon. 

Aziraphale walked over to meet him and accepted the glass of wine he had neglected to drink earlier gratefully. He felt so content it was almost dizzying and he heard himself say without thinking,  

“I hope you know that I am very much in love with you.” And he couldn't very well take it back, and realized he actually didn't even want to. He leaned in for a kiss before sitting on the edge of the bed. He felt the weight of it shift as the demon joined him. 

“I caught on, I think,” Crowley teased. “Seeing as you left your very important heavenly post to pop down here and seduce me.” Aziraphale’s blush deepened and he caught Crowley smiling devilishly, clearly enjoying it. 

“T-that wasn't the plan! Initially.” Aziraphale fussed absentmindedly with the bottom hem of the shirt, “Oh I don't know, perhaps it was. I just couldn't stand being there anymore. They are all so dreadfully dull and awful. I needed to see you. I couldn't leave it as it was and- oh dear,” Aziraphale remembered, “Do you think they’ve realized I'm gone?” 

“Probably.” Crowley shrugged, stilling the angels' fussing hand with his own. Aziraphale was grateful for the secure touch. “But they have no idea where you are.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I warded this place after I moved in, against angels and demons. No one enters here without my permission and no one can see it or who’s inside. We can hide here until we sort this out.” 

“Impressive,” Aziraphale sipped his wine, “How did you come up with such a thing?” “Muriel has been reading a lot of your books, the ones in the back. Spell books. And, I had my own ideas. I wasn't sure it would work but I tested it on Muriel, they couldn't come in until I let them. I don't know for sure about the second part of it. So we will see what happens, I suppose.”   

“Fascinating.” Aziraphale smiled fondly. “You really are such a clever demon. I’ve always thought so.” Crowley blushed, and it did not go unnoticed. Aziraphale let Crowley pull his face in and give him a long, affectionate kiss. His mouth was warm and supple from earlier, a hint of wine on his tongue. 

“I'm in love with you too, Angel.” Crowley stated, like it was as obvious as the stars in the sky. “And I thought, maybe, you would come back so I- I, you know, came up with a plan. Just in case.” 

Aziraphale beamed at the confession. He wasn’t sure if he ever would say it out loud and honestly didn’t need to hear it. But, actually hearing it was like finally releasing a breath he’d been holding for years. But that initial meeting in the park, if he’d wanted him to come back then why-

“You didn’t seem to want me back at first.” It was more a question, and he looked at Crowley to see how it landed. Crowley was staring straight ahead at nothing. Lost in memory.

“I did,” he said finally. “But missing you and actually seeing you again were very- it was hard to know for sure why you came back.” 

“Ah,” Aizraphale felt a small twinge of guilt, “Well, I hope it’s clear now.” 

Crowley chuckled, “Just a bit, yeah.” And for the first time, Aziraphale felt truly forgiven. 

They talked through the night, among other things that distracted from the conversation. By morning light, they had the beginnings of a plan to save humanity and each other. Again. 

_ It had been a few hours after Aziraphale had left the bookshop. Muriel was busy cataloging books when Michael stormed through the doors seething, Uriel following behind. “Where is he?” 

Muriel smiled, “Oh hello! Where is who?” 

“Aziraphale.” Michael snapped, “who else would I come here asking about?” 

Muriel winced, “I don't know actually. He was here for a moment but then he left. He didn't say where he was going.” 

Michael let out an aggravated groan. They had been tasked by a very irritated Voice of God to locate the second missing Supreme Archangel and bring him back immediately. 

The only problem was, there was no trace of him anywhere. Or the demon Crowley. 

Ugh. 

Michael was going to get so much shit for this. 

_

Author Notes: Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like me to continue this story. :)

[psychedelic-ink]

We Fall Like Snow ║ Part VII

After the events that took place at the Cliff Beasts set, needless to say as his bodyguard (and friend) you became overprotective of Dieter. You have all your worries under control until you accidentally flip over a young fan by grabbing her wrist, causing the media to stir with speculations as to why. Luckily Dieter's family arrives in the nick of time, scooping you both from New York to their cozy cabin; however, winter wonderland can't last forever and you need to face the consequences of your actions sooner or later.

pairing: Dieter Bravo x bodyguard!ofc; Amina Addams, written in reader format

chapter summary: you were a fool to think everything would return to normal.

word count: 2.2k

chapter warnings: arguing, angst

**dividers by the amazing @saradika

You hate being back. 

To make it clear, you love your job but absolutely hate cons. You have to stand around all day, prying the crowds to see if any fan was crazy enough to try and rip away from the lines to get to their favorite celebrity. It’s madness at its finest. And after spending time in winter wonderland everything just feels a bit. . . bla. 

But of course, Dieter has to do this con. He’s a hero in a big franchise now. With that comes an even larger fanbase and more potential threats. 

With the corner of your eye, you gaze upon the stage. He’s in the middle, a bottle of water untouched in front of him and a small plate clarifying who he is. He looks good with his white suit and thick-framed glasses. You recognize all of the other actors as well. They’re talking amongst themselves, Dieter included. He hasn’t talked much with you since you arrived back at the hotel. 

A small puff of air escapes your lips and you resume your position. Shoulders squared and chest puffed up. You notice the wary glances thrown your way. Must be about the video, you think. Your stomach still knots up whenever you think about it. That poor fan. You had apologized but still, it wasn’t the best look. 

You notice a line of fans starting to form, a sole microphone standing tall. Some of them stare at you, some looking curious and some anxious. You don’t know what to make of it all. The moderator starts to introduce the actors, a short trailer plays. There’s a faint hum in your ears, the sounds reminding you of bells. 

That can't be good, the last time you heard bells you ended up fainting. 

You somewhat block out the conversations, the series of questions that are stuttered out from the fans' lips. You keep skimming the crowd, waiting for something to go wrong. 

The moderator addresses one of the girls to come forward, and she excitedly grabs the microphone.

"Hi, Dieter! First of all, I love you so much! My question is for you and your bodyguard—” You freeze. Blood rushing to your ears. “Why haven't you fired the bodyguard who assaulted that poor fan? I mean, isn't it your responsibility to keep your fans safe?"

The room falls silent, all eyes shifting between you and Dieter. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to maintain your composure. Everyone here has seen the pictures, the video. The atmosphere tightens as the question hangs in the air. Dieter shifts uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding direct eye contact with you.

"Well, you know," he says, forcing some humor into his tone, "having me to look after can't be easy considering my track record, but we have apologized to Rose, and we're working to ensure it doesn't happen again."

A ripple of discomfort passes through the audience. The fan who asked the question seems doubtful of his answer.

Another fan jeers, their tone more accusatory. "And what about the rumors that you and your bodyguard are more than just friends? The ski resort pictures were pretty convincing," 

Dieter fidgets with the hem of his jacket, a small little thing only you can notice. "Oh, those pictures? Nah, it was just a family trip, you know. My bodyguard and I are strictly professional. No workplace romance here."

You feel a knot tightening in your stomach, and the jingle bells in your ears amplify. The questions sting but for some reason, Dieter dismissing the entire trip stings even more—which is ridiculous. He’s doing the best for both of you right now. A con isn’t a place for the truth to be blurted out, you’re also grateful that he’s composed. Calm. The room seems to spin, and you struggle to maintain a neutral expression. The fans are growing more hostile, their questions pointed and relentless.

"Why should we believe that? I mean, she practically assaulted a fan, and you're keeping her around?" a voice from the crowd shouts, and the tension escalates. “If it was anyone else they would’ve been fired!”

Dieter attempts to diffuse the situation with a weak smile but before he can say anything else the moderator steps in, “Alright, folks, let's keep things respectful here. We're here to discuss the movie and hear from our talented cast. Any more questions about the movie?"

Dieter takes a grateful breath, and you feel a slight relief as the attention veers away from the uncomfortable questions. The moderator continues steering the conversation back to safer ground, skillfully guiding the panel away from the personal inquiries that threatened to overshadow the event.

Internally, you're on the verge of a panic attack. Your hands tremble, and you can't shake the feeling of eyes boring into you. The jingle bells in your ears become an incessant ringing, drowning out the words around you. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself and maintain a facade of composure, but the weight of the accusations bears down on you.

All you can do is bare the looks and the hushed whispers. You can’t run. 

So you stand tall instead. 

The car glides through the city, the post-con atmosphere palpable in the air. You, Dieter, and the other actress, Emma, sit in the backseat, each lost in your thoughts. The tension from the panel still lingers, casting a shadow over the celebratory mood.

Emma breaks the silence, her voice a hushed whisper, "That was tense back there. I can't believe some of those questions. Are you guys okay?"

You and Dieter exchange a brief glance, avoiding direct eye contact. Dieter takes a moment before responding, "Yeah, it was a bit much, but we'll get through it. These things happen."

"Is it true, though? Did you really attack a fan?" her gaze lingers on you. You’re surprised she hasn’t seen the viral video of you by now, but you guess that’s normal. She has other things to worry about. 

Before either of you can answer, the car pulls up to The Skylark, a chic rooftop lounge with panoramic views of the city. You all step out of the car, the sounds of the city blending with the distant hum of the afterparty.

The Skylark's entrance is marked by a stylish marquee, and a doorman ushers you into the elevator that ascends to the rooftop. The doors open to reveal a glamorous space, with a sleek bar, comfortable seating areas, and an outdoor terrace with a breathtaking view of the city skyline.

The party is in full swing as the cast mingles with fellow actors, producers, and industry insiders. A subtle buzz of conversation fills the air, accompanied by the clinking of glasses and laughter. 

As soon as you arrive at the party, you grab a glass of champagne and discreetly slip away, leaving Dieter and Emma engaged in conversation. The rooftop's expanse opens up before you, and you find a secluded spot away from the crowd.

The New York skyline sprawls beneath, a mesmerizing tapestry of lights that twinkle like stars on the canvas of the night. Skyscrapers stand tall, their silhouettes etched against the darkening sky.

The horizon, painted in hues of indigo and amber, casts a dreamlike glow over the city. The buildings, illuminated in a myriad of colors, create a breathtaking panorama that stretches to the edges of your vision. A cool breeze carries the scent of the night, and the distant sounds of laughter and clinking glasses mingle with the soft melodies playing in the background.

You desperately wish you could be enjoying yourself right now. But all you feel his disappointment towards yourself. 

You feel a shudder behind you, and when you turn, Dieter is there. He leans over the railing, mirroring your gaze at the horizon, and hesitates before finally speaking, "Can we talk?"

You take a big gulp of the champagne, then eat the strawberry thoughtfully. The sweetness of the fruit does little to evaporate the sourness on your tongue, "Oh, now you want to talk to me," you say barely above a whisper, keeping your eyes fixed on the cityscape. “How thoughtful of you.” 

Dieter takes a deep breath, his gaze still locked on the distant lights. 

"I’m trying to do my best Amina. You know I am." You nod and he continues. “I just want to see if you’re doing alright.” 

“I’m fine really,” you finally turn, gesturing towards the crowd behind you. “Go linger. Have fun. Don’t think about me—You. . . Just do what you want to do.” 

“I am doing what I want to do,” he rasps. Warmth gathers at the base of your spine as he cups your cheek. “What I want to do is be with you.” 

The night air feels cool against your skin. Despite the comfort he provides, you pull back, regret flooding your system as his warmth fades away. “Stop it,” you blurt out. “Stop. I told you we can’t. If before wasn’t enough proof, today surely has to be.” 

“Fans have always been nosey. If I let them decide what I should do then I wouldn’t be living. I’d be in a gilded prison.” 

When you press your lips tightly together instead of answering, Dieter takes the flute glass out of your hand and places it on the rail. Before you can get a word out he’s pulling you towards one of the private rooms, away from the vibrant crowd. The door closes behind you, muffling the distant sounds of the party. The room is dimly lit, adorned with plush furniture and a low, ambient hum that adds an air of intimacy.

Dieter releases your hand, and you both stand in the subdued lighting, facing each other. He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze searching yours for a response. 

All you can think is how good he looks with those glasses.

"I can't just ignore everything, Amina," he begins, his voice full of gravel. "I know the panel was rough, but I need you to understand that I'm not letting go. Not of you."

You exhale slowly, "Dieter, we can't keep doing this. It's not just about nosy fans; it's about us, about how this affects everything. Our friendship. We can't pretend like there aren't consequences."

He steps closer, a pained expression on his face. "I can't pretend I don't care about you, Amina. I can't just push you away. We’re more than friends. We’ve been like that for a while now."

You look away, the conflict evident in your eyes. He brings your hands to his chest, forcing you to spread your fingers over the smooth fabric. You feel the harsh pulse of his heart beat. He stares directly into your eyes, eating you up. 

“When I have a shit day who do I want to call?” You don’t answer. You can’t. He continues. “Who do you call when you’re cramping and can’t get up? Who do you send endless animal reels to thinking I’ll enjoy them? Who do I text when I find a random fucking bookstore in the middle of nowhere? When I’m overwhelmed Amina, who do I call? Fucking answer me.” 

You don’t. Your lips are parted as if you might but nothing comes out. You feel the sting of tears in the corner of your eyes. 

Dieter lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair again. "I hate this. I hate that look you’re giving me as if this is all news to you."

The room feels smaller, the walls closing in as the weight of the unspoken hangs between you. A knot forms in the pit of your stomach, a mix of frustration and sadness.

"You know I can't stop being your bodyguard. I just can't," you say, your voice firm, though a tremor of vulnerability seeps through.

"Fine,” he lets go of your hands and your arms limply drops to your sides. “You're fired." 

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your mouth goes dry, your stomach churning as your pulse races.

"Excuse me?" 

"You're fired. I can't have you around me, especially if I can't do anything about it," he explains, his tone strained. “All I can think about is you. And since you’re so cutthroat about protecting my career you’ll understand why.” 

"Dieter," you plead, hoping for a different resolution, knowing deep down that it might not come. But he doesn’t allow you to say anything else. He doesn’t let you say the words that might convince him to do otherwise. 

"It's not healthy, Amina. I'm a grown-ass man. I don't need someone to protect me all the time," he says, and you can't help but scoff at his statement. It’s an involuntary reaction. One that you regret immediately. Crimson rises to his cheeks, his brows knitting tightly together. "Is that how you see me? Really? And here I am trying to talk about love. Just leave. Go home. Think stuff through. I can live on my own," he continues, his words cutting through the air. You want to protest, to make him understand, but the weight of the situation holds your words hostage.

"You can't just kick me out; there's a premiere tomorrow," you argue, though the fear of losing him is already settling in. “Dieter please.” 

"You're not the only bodyguard out there. As you can see, I can take care of my own. I can live without my bodyguard," he states, a challenging look in his eyes. It feels like the ground beneath you is shifting, and you desperately seek something to cling to.  

He pauses briefly, and the intensity of his gaze shifts. Softens. His voice cracks as he asks; 

"But can you live without being one?"

[darkpoisonouslove]

HotD S02E03

I watched this on Monday; I just wasn't in the mood to review it until now. I was pretty hyped for this episode because the last one was entertaining and I saw spoilers for several things before I got to it that made me freak out (affectionate). I was hopeful that we'd get something good but wary at the same time since this show doesn't have the best track record... Oh, boy, was I right to be wary. In short, I didn't enjoy this episode a lot. In fact, it's my least favorite from the season so far. And I will tell you in detail my always correct opinions:

I see they've added new imagery to the opening which makes it even better! I love the whole idea that all this history is woven from blood and the fact that parts of the canvas are just bloodied without any embroidery on them only makes it more brutal. It's as if they're saying that there wasn't even any history written there; it was just bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed.

The way that that skirmish in the beginning escalated into an outright battle that claimed so many lives is chilling. I found it odd that the episode was named "The Burning Mill" when that's referring to the battle that happened in the first scene and we didn't even get to see but then the theme emerged as the episode progressed. This senseless bloodshed is an omen of what's to come, of how everyone is going to lose themselves in the war and just continue the massacre without even remembering what started all of this, bringing all of their grievances - petty and justified alike - into the fray and using them as an excuse to unleash their full rage.

In that regard, Rhaenys is absolutely correct. She ate in that scene and I liked that this also contextualized her behavior in 1x09 more (I'm vindicated that she also mentioned Lucerys mutilating Aemond as a factor that led them all here). However, it is also frustrating to hear all this, especially after the scene of reckless bloodshed we already witnessed. It is too late for this conversation. It should have happened in 1x10 when no murders had occurred yet and the bad blood could have been contained. Now it no longer matters.

I have heard enough about Criston getting a promotion he doesn't deserve. It's true but a) it's almost like that was the entire point of him becoming Hand - to show the recklessness and bloodthirst he and Aegon share and b) that's a strange attitude coming from Rhaenyra stans when she hasn't done anything to reinforce her claim to the throne since oh, her half-assed attempt to marry Jacaerys to Helaena in 1x06. Her actions afterwards have harmed her cause and yet, people still insist she should get to be queen.

I dislike how quickly Criston left King's Landing. As Hand his main duty would be to advise Aegon (not that he's doing such a great job of that but regardless) and he's already setting out to go into battle. This could be another argument in favor of why Criston shouldn't be Hand and I could agree with that but I wish they would have spent more time on him trying to adjust to his new position instead of shipping him away to do what he's already experienced and good at doing. I would have wanted to see them explore his character a little by showing him struggle in the role of an advisor and the constant tension between him and Alicent, then used that as his personal motivation to head the charge to the Riverlands to escape the feeling of being a fish out of water, potentially earn Alicent's graces again alongside a victory for their side.

Mysaria singing Rhaenyra's praises was a bit much to me, especially since Aegon has absolutely nothing to do with the arson to her establishment. He wasn't even king yet at that point so that couldn't be counted towards his (lack of) political prowess.

The great paradoxes of the writing for this show continue to amaze me. Such as the way in which the writers try so hard to make Rhaenyra the most graceful, considerate protagonist and somehow they still went all in on her viewing Baela and Rhaena as tools. You're never going to believe that you heard this from me but there was a great opportunity for a perfect scene between Rhaena and Luke and they missed it. Considering that having no dragon seems to be Rhaena's one defining plot line and Aemond "stole" Vhagar from her because Aegon, Jace and Luke were being mean to him, they could have had a scene where Luke realizes how isolating and even hurtful not having a dragon is. It would have made me take a moment to think about him as a character and given more substance to Rhaena's struggles now, especially since outside of her engagement to Luke Rhaenyra appears to deem her entirely superficial. You could say that she trusts Rhaena so much as to entrust her the care for her children but that's not the impression I really got from those scenes. They were certainly trying for it but isn't it funny how Rhaenyra is begging Rhaena to make the sacrifice to "be a mother" to her children after she spent years refusing to make the sacrifice of... backing up her claim to the throne with a suitable marriage? The HotD writers are unparalleled in having their actions blow up in their faces.

The scene of Daemon infiltrating Harrenhal was drawn out to me. We didn't need quite as much ambience from Harrenhal to get the impression of it being a haunting, cursed place when the hallucination from later in the episode conveys that perfectly well on its own. And the lack of resistance Daemon faced was evident in the guard that didn't attempt to fight him already. They could have cut some of that.

Love how they made such a big deal about Daemon insisting on being called "Your Grace" when Alicent was called that during her whole marriage to Viserys and continues to be called that despite the fact that she's Queen Dowager now. Logically, her receiving the title (without ever demanding it) could have never threatened Viserys' or Aegon's rule because she has no claim on the throne while Daemon's behavior comes off as if he's trying to muscle in on Rhaenyra's turf. But I much more enjoy the idea that no one in their right mind wants to give the impression that Daemon would ever even get to sniff the throne while people continue to defer to Alicent with that title because they respect her in her quality of being queen.

I'm at least relieved that they explained why there's a race to claim castle at all considering that Larys is supposed to be the Lord of Harrenhal and he's on the Greens' side. He didn't really care for it, huh? He just wanted to have Alicent stuck in his web and didn't give a shit that the residents of Harrenhal didn't buy his "tragic fire accident" PR campaign.

Speaking of Larys, I was expecting something huge from him after all this material that he got to work with in the last couple episodes and I would still like to see more from him (aka not just a single scene per episode) but at least for now he came out swinging. The fact that he ensnared Aegon to do what he wants of him in the exact same way that he ensnared Alicent has the best, funniest, most tragic implications. With the small difference that he's completely bullshiting Aegon, of course. He just saw a weakness and sank his claws right in it. I was wondering last episode why he only chimed in, interrupting Aegon's outburst when Aegon switched to throwing blame on Alicent, especially since the long pause before that would have been the perfect opportunity to speak up. It was like he was waiting for Aegon to make his way to accusing Alicent, just to make sure that there's tension there. This episode confirmed that he's trying to sever Alicent's control over Aegon and insert himself in that niche of pulling the king's reins. It does make sense considering that he appears to have lost his grasp on Alicent herself and it also doubles as revenge on her.

What even is the dynamic between Alicent and Criston at this point? I knew not to hold my breath but that doesn't change the fact that I need (a) scene(s) between them explaining what the hell is going on, especially in Criston's head. We literally wouldn't have had this problem if they'd taken the time to establish the relationship before jumping right into having them fuck. That said, I did enjoy the callback to 1x01 where Criston asked for Rhaenyra's favor but now he's setting out against Rhaenyra and when he asks for Alicent's favor, she grants it despite her anger at him. The way his mood instantly improves at that is touching.

Good for Rhaenys on still pushing to have Rhaena named heir of Driftmark. Corlys needs to be hit over the head so he can see the vision.

Helaena is also on the "no grieving, we repress our emotions like Greens" train. They are all so emotionally damaged and Alicent can't help them because she's the most damaged of all. (Love how Otto just abandoned her to take care of all the kids and steer them on the right path on her own so that he wouldn't have to face the results of his failure to do the same.) Despite the truth of that, I think there was more to her not comforting Aegon while she's constantly talking about Helaena's pain. She doesn't even seem to mourn Jaehaerys as much as she mourns what came upon Helaena. I'd say that's definitely guilt because she steered this course of events (as much as Otto and the rest of the Small Council). She put Aegon on the throne to protect his life (and Aemond and Daeron's) and in doing so, she set up Helaena to take the damage from the war and the attacks on their family. While with Aegon there's all this baggage of Viserys destroying her life for him (even if she can't admit it) and his entire existence necessitating this course of events and she just cannot make herself even more vulnerable in order to comfort him. Especially since in that moment, she was angry at him and only had helplessness left in her that was crying to turn into violence as we see it happen when Alicent takes out her frustration on Criston.

This also makes me think back to Helaena saying in 2x01 that Jaehaerys may not want to be king. On some level I think that was her trying to rationalize why she couldn't see any future for him in her visions. But it was also an externalization of her own feelings about being forced to be crowned alongside Aegon despite all the danger that brings. They were all trapped from the beginning. Being crowned instantly locks them all - both sides - into war but there was no guarantee that if Alicent hadn't put them on the throne, they would have been spared. In fact, what happened to Jaehaerys only points to the opposite. I believe that's what Helaena is forgiving Alicent for. Because Alicent was so afraid of losing her children that inadvertently she set up for her daughter to lose hers. And Helaena understands the pain that Alicent was trying to avoid so she forgives her.

I wasn't feeling the Small Folk scenes in the previous episode but this one was a fucking disaster. And why? Just so that they could foreshadow the Dragonseeds. Everyone involved in scripting this show needs professional help.

Aegon and Aemond got about a minute of shared screen time and it still brings forth the full force of their internal conflicts and mommy issues. Aegon sure went "Does mommy prefer Aemond? Even though I'm king? Does she wish he were king?" only to go get wasted and revert back to bullying his brother.

Baela engaging in some Daemon-like behavior. I'm not exactly sure what her game plan was, however? If she wished to attack them, she could have made Moondancer incinerate them all. They would already consider this an attack and an act of war so what was the point? Other than not completely disregarding Rhaenyra's orders, I suppose. At least Baela has more self-control than her father.

Daemon really got hit by that train wreck of emotions he was trying to escape from. Love how he found a soul mate in his 15-year-old niece and he cannot bear the thought that she matured and has outgrown him now. He's so pathetic fr.

I was so excited about seeing Alys but she barely got anything in this episode.

I do not wish to hear anymore shit about Criston's plan for Arryk when Rhaenyra's scheme to meet up with Alicent was even more harebrained. Girl, what was your contingency plan in case Alicent had instantly reported your presence to her knights once she left the Septa? She could have ended this war right then and there. It's even frustrating that she didn't but I suppose I can see why.

Alicent has a lot to deal with in this scene. The fact that Rhaenyra made this trip at all and (falsely) believes they can reach an understanding alone probably made her head spin. I'm surprised she didn't look for a paper bag to help her stop hyperventilating. To be confronted with undeniable proof that she grasped at straws for her own peace of mind so that she could avoid the guilt of betraying her husband and steering the realm towards war surely shook her whole world. To the point that she couldn't even process what was happening anymore.

That's the thing though. Rhaenyra has to face the idea that her father gave up on his staunch support for her rule but she only has to live in that reality for a minute. Instead, her big internal conflict resolution here is that the warpath is set and they cannot escape it. Which in a certain way could still shake her belief in herself that has been perpetuated by Viserys' insistence she'd be the one to unite the realm. Because even if she does, she (and her siblings) would have torn it apart first. It could still be a lot to deal with but her struggles are undermined by how late it is for this. I already talked about this but we are several episodes past the point of no return. This scene, the whole conflict they've built up for Rhaenyra in this episode, has missed its mark because it should have happened a lot earlier.

Alicent may be falling into the sunk cost fallacy but she is also completely correct that by this point war is unavoidable. Aegon will never cooperate with Rhaenyra after what happened to Jaehaerys. And to be honest, for how big a deal they made of Rhaenyra's grief over Luke, she sure didn't seem to be having that hard a time putting it aside for this scene.

It's funny how the show is trying to present Rhaenyra as so thoughtful and considerate when she is stubbornly stuck on getting that crown. There is something to be said about how similar she and Alicent are in believing what they want to believe. Yes, Alicent was only using Viserys' misunderstood last words to justify - to herself first and foremost - putting Aegon on the throne and "betraying" her husband and Rhaenyra. But Rhaenyra is also ignoring common sense to believe that "she was meant to unite the realm" just like daddy said. The men of the realm were never going to accept her as queen without a bloody conflict when there was a male heir and Rhaneys warned her of that all the way back in 1x02. Since then Rhaenyra has stubbornly refused to acknowledge the idea that the only way for her to unite the realm without any bloodshed would be to step down (maybe not even then considering how staggeringly willful Aegon is).

I already put out some thoughts on the promo for next episode^ so I'd just like to add that I am enraged by them having Alicent talking about how Aegon's only been king for weeks and the realm has fallen into war. The only reason why the realm was at peace while Viserys was king was that he was alive at all and served as a figurehead since by that point Alicent and Otto had been ruling for years. Viserys himself set up this war when he appointed Rhaenyra his successor and then proceeded to have legitimate sons. He is the one to blame here and it is especially outrageous for Alicent to diminish not just Aegon but herself as well because, like I said, she was the one ruling for years before Viserys died. I can only take this as a result of her conversation with Rhaenyra, an expression of guilt over disregarding Viserys' wishes and putting uncontrollable Aegon on the throne when Rhaenyra probably wouldn't have harmed him and Aemond and Daeron based on her words to Alicent. However, while Alicent is still in shock and processing, she is conveniently forgetting that Jaehaerys was brutally murdered despite Rhaenyra's best intentions. And that should be the reason why she looks like she's deep in depression and doesn't give a single fuck anymore rather than feeling like she's wronged Rhaenyra. The realm would have never been spared war when there are legitimate sons to inherit the throne unless they had been slain. So Alicent did take the only option that she had and she should work up to accepting that but it would be foolish to hope for it with all that we've seen so far. What can I say? It appears that the HotD writers strike again.

[apprenticestanheight]

I've seen some fics of these, but I'll never turn down a coffinshipping fic where Strahm has to patch up Hoffman from when Jill uses the Reverse Bear-Trap on him. It's just sweet to me that although they hate each other, they love each other or are rather obsessed with each other, and yet Strahm would stitch up Hoffman's face... even though Hoffman put Strahm through two deadly traps 😆

Cat and Mouse- Hoffstrahm

Hi!! I am so sorry that this took as long as it did--I swear I meant to do it but stuff gets buried really quickly in my inbox and my track record with object permanence is kind of terrible, which definitely applies to requests as a lot of the time they're left to sit until I work through a backlog.

HOWEVER, this is my second coffinshipping fic and in my saw rewatch I am barely halfway into the second movie so I apologize if their characterizations are at all off, I like to think I've nailed my characterization of Hoffman but I haven't written for Strahm very much so my characterization of him might not be perfect and the same goes for how I've written their interactions.

Fic type- this is some light angst

Warnings- mentions of canon-typical saw violence, murder, and this has been edited but not very well--be wary of spelling and grammatical errors, I wrote this while tired and edited it while also tired.

Peter should probably be putting a gun to Mark Hoffmans head, if he's being honest with himself. He should be holding a gun to Marks head and demanding a confession or some kind of acknowledgement of the crimes he'd committed under the Jigsaw alias, but he's not.

He's not because Mark showed up at his house and gestured to a very gruesome looking wound on the side of his face, and when Mark wordlessly asked Peter to stitch him up, before he could think through his response, Peter was agreeing and grabbing a towel and a first aid kit with a needle and thread inside while instructing Mark to sit on the couch.

And then he was wetting the towel with antiseptic to clean the wound, telling Mark he was getting what he deserved when he flinched away or shouted with his discomfort. And then he was actively helping a serial killer.

He recalls the words that Perez had told him once, just before he'd interviewed Jill Tuck that first time.

"You should be careful," she said. "Especially with mostly unsolved cases like this one, that work ethic of yours can turn into obsession real quick. Hatred for someone might as well be able to turn into obsession with the drop of a hat, Peter, so I'd watch myself. Make sure it wasn't an obsession before I kept on with the case."

At the time, Peter had scoffed at the notion. "I'm not becoming obsessed," he'd told her, even pairing it with a smirk, like a smirk could've been convincing. "And if I am, hatred and obsession will prove to be so dangerous a line to walk that I step away anyway. I know that much--I know when to step away from my work."

But, Peter supposes he should've known that he would know when to step away from his work in all aspects except for whichever one concerned Mark Hoffman, who he felt a deep disdain for and yet wanted to know everything about all at once.

Of course the line blurred whenever Mark looked at him, had been particularly blurry as he stitched up a wound caused by one of Hoffmans so-called enemies, Jill fucking Tuck herself.

"She put a trap on me," Mark explains as Peter finishes the stitches. "That fucking bitch put a goddamned trap on me, claiming it was Johns will and all that other shit."

"I really don't want specifics, Hoffman," Peter says dryly. "You put me into two deadly fucking traps, yeah? I don't need to hear about whichever woman you've made an enemy out of, even if I hate her as much as the next person."

Mark smiles at him. Peter doesn't know if he wants to punch him square in the lips or pull him into a kiss so intense it shocks the air out of their lungs.

"You do realize what I have to do if you let me leave this house not in handcuffs, yeah?"

Peter runs his tongue over his teeth, stands up from the crouching position he'd taken while stitching up Hoffmans wound.

"I do," he says. "You're going to go kill a relatively innocent woman because she followed what I am presuming to be the will of John fuckin' Kramer, who was her murderous ex husband who willingly put innocent people to death. Yeah, I think that's easy enough to follow, Hoffman."

Mark stands, grins at Peter.

"You realize that letting me go means the chase continues?"

Peter shrugs. "You'll slow down one of these days, Hoffman. You serial killers always do. When you do get slow I'll catch you and be the one to put your ass behind bars."

Mark looks to his feet, "I really do wish this could've been different," he says.

Peter forces himself to look at the brown color he'd chosen for his curtains.

"You have fifteen seconds to be down the street and turning the corner before I start chasing you and eventually arrest your ass," he says, feeling conflicted as he speaks.

The simple truth is that Mark Hoffman is a serial killer. The simple truth is the fact that Peter should be putting him into handcuffs and bringing him to the station while he declares the Jigsaw killer caught once and for all.

But, when has their relationship ever been simple, really? Peter cannot pinpoint a moment of simplicity from it's beginning.

So, when Mark nods, bolts out the front door, Peter lets him go. He falls into the couch with a monumentally tired sigh and presses his face into the palm of his hand. A few minutes pass, and he laughs to himself.

He and Mark are in a cat and mouse scenario, and while Peter hates it, he also knows that he wouldn't have it any other way.

[olderthannetfic]

Hi! So I have a rambling explanation that’s going to lead into a genuine question about making a website somewhat like a03 or finding alternatives to a site I will mention (it’s not a03 don’t worry)

I am a non/disney editor, crossover artist, amv maker and deep faker and any other term for “make videos of characters in canon or au type scenarios to music”. I’m also a fanficcer. And I remember when being wary of Anne Rice and Archie Comics and DC was a thing. A teacher, to cover his ass for an assignment of mine, taught me how to write an apology letter to a company on the offhand my hand written basically Batman fanfiction, made it’s way online or was heard about. I was in the tail end right before A03 but I am extremely grateful that the site exists. Okay. So now I need to talk about the Owl House. In season three episode special one, Luz Noceda makes an amv coming out to her mom.

Editor friends in a private discord were both happy and worried. Luz is one of us….but also Disney knows about us, to some level. Nothings happened I’ve just been stewing and I’m just worried something might hit the fan for the community given many of us use Disney media (hard not to when 80% of things put out is by them) So I’m asking how one would make a platform like A03 but for video media. Or if there’s things you know like that. YouTube is getting more and more difficult for anyone nowadays too.

Again, nothings really happened yet, I just can’t get it out of my head

--

Video is worlds harder than text, but you know that.

There are a couple of approaches here: First, more is more. The more sites you have your stuff on, the smaller the chance that Disney can nuke all of them. Second, if you're not just using youtube and getting good at playing the algorithm, you need some way for people to find you or to keep track of all your alternate hosting.

Vidders of the oldschool sort have taken to using AO3. It doesn't have native hosting, of course, but it provides a stable URL and useful fandom-based tagging without algorithm bullshit. It's also a decent way to get vids out there if you only have download links and no streaming (though, of course, that means fewer views). You can embed a bunch of different copies of the same thing in the same work.

I don't know of a ton of fannish attempts at video hosting that are open to everyone. The only person I can think of who's heavily working on that is the guy behind Vidders.net who has a few different projects going.

For other hosting options, I'd see what AO3 currently has whitelisted for embedding. Two obvious ones are Critical Commons and Archive.org.

--

Broadly, yes, fanvids and AMVs have been subject to even more disastrous mass deletions than fanfic has, and far fewer of them have been saved by other fans because video files are huge.

Oldschool AMVs in the strict sense (i.e. Japanese anime and not Disney) are catalogued and sometimes hosted on animemusicvideos.org. Oldschool Media Fandom has some vidding archivists, and really old stuff was released on tape and then disc, and people still have their copies of those. But online-only fannish video stuff from the 00s and 10s has massive gaps in the historical record already.

Disney is quiescent now, but they haven't always been, and neither have other rights holders. Worse, a bunch of hosts vidders liked just up and deleted their entire sites, wiping out eras of videos and commentary.

Your stuff is in less danger than it would have been 10 years ago, as far as anyone can tell, but video is always in massive danger of disappearing.

--

If you actually succeed at video!AO3, more power to you! I'm just skeptical that you'll be up to the technical and financial challenge if you don't already know more than you currently do, you know?

Hosting video has, among other problems, the issue that people trading actual abuse materials will upload their videos to your service. Hosts often play whackamole with illegal and traumatizing content. I've known people whose jobs exposed them to this shit, and they were... not okay.

I guess you could make things slightly easier on yourself if you restricted video to cartoons only, but then you'd have the same issues amvs.org does where people who start as one kind of editor start working with other footage and keep trying to upload the wrong thing.

It's often not really viable to host unless you make everyone pay and/or you're authorizing a few dozen accounts of people you've vetted, not running a service just anyone can sign up for. Hosting a hundred videos for friends that you have reviewed and know to be fanvids/amvs is a lot easier than hosting enough stuff that you can't personally review it all.

If you or anyone else is interested in trying to start a site, I'd go check out the various writings by Denise (who runs Dreamwidth). She has some twitter threads and posts on enforcement and running a platform. I remember she talked about the tech people use to detect CSAM from known law enforcement databases.

I don't want to be a downer here, but there are serious legal implications to being the actual host as opposed to just running a discord or something on someone else's platform and reporting some fucker if they try to post illegal shit.

--

If I were you, I'd get my buddies together, embed all our works on AO3, and then maybe make a collection or tagging standards so we could find each other's stuff.

For hosting, I'd add the Internet Archive, Vimeo, Dropbox, Google Drive, etc. to Youtube and do a periodic audit of AO3 works to make sure links were still working.

AO3 already has a lot of tags that have been made filterable, like Fanvids, AMV, Video Format: Streaming, etc.

[hekate1308]

There Was Winter’s Cold A Destiel Advent Calendar December 14

Masterpost

He knew there was no way in which he could get out of this but one. No matter what, Ellen would show up at his place if he did not explain to her who Cas was and what he was doing here right now; if he got lucky, she would send Bobby, but he couldn’t count on it.

It was his own fault, really. Someone must have seen them, and he was pretty sure that, if one didn’t happen to be Cas, it was pretty obvious that he thought he was really hot, too, so…

No wonder anyone would get a wrong impression.

And it wasn’t as if he had a good track record with relationships. Granted, they had not all ended catastrophically, some had fizzled out, but had never even come close to finding hat Sam had with Jess, so naturally his family was worried about him when he met someone new. Of the situation had ben reversed, Dean would have been a little confused too. After all, here he was, usually not ready to let anyone get too close, and now he had a guy living with him – staying with him, he corrected himself. Cas wouldn’t be staying forever of course, so he was just – staying – no, that didn’t work.

Still, he really, really should have seen this coming, even thought, he suddenly realized – now wait a moment. It was far from the first time that he let someone else stay with him, and even someone who was going through a rough time, someone who had nowhere else to go. Quite frankly, that was how he had met both Benny and Charlie, and in the case of the former, Sam was still wary of him, even though he had left the motorbike gang before he had ever met Dean, not that it mattered at the moment.

“Yeah, his name is Cas.”

“Cas?”

He belatedly realized that that was not a normal name, but there was no way out of it now. “Castiel. An angel name. Very religious family, only recently left them, so he didn’t have a place to stay.”

“Dean, tell me you didn’t get mixed up in a cult.”

Oh no. “No, no, don’t worry Ellen. He’s been hitchhiking since then, he’s pretty far away from home now.” Alright, not technically true since the river was pretty close, but speaking metaphorically…

“And you are sure it’s safe?”

“Yeah, I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself”.

Ellen hummed in that way of hers that indicated she did not entirely agree, and it was really a small wonder – if he had taken in two boys who had shown up at his doorstep one day, half-wild, all but starved and with no idea what a normal family life looked like, he would have been a little bit overprotective too, at least he could easily imagine that.

“Look, Ellen, I promise it’s kosher. Well, he is. I made sure of that.”

It was a half-truth, if so much, but he doubted that Castiel had something like a police record because someone would have noticed his powers, and anyway, magical creatures did not really get arrested.

“I am glad to hear that” she finally said and Dean breathed a sigh of relief that did not last long.

“Bring him over for dinner, alright?”

Over for –

“I – I – “ he knew there was no way out of this. If he said No, she would think he had something to hid after all, especially because, in her view, someone who had probably been living rough would never say no to a hot meal. “Of course. I’ll ask Cas.”

It was not going to be enough to say No because he didn’t want to, and he knew it, but maybe he could come up with something.

“You do that. Love, you, Dean.”

He immaturely softened, as always when she signed off with that. She had said it from the moment they had arrived at her doorstep, and had never stopped. “Love you too, Ellen.”

He hung up. Alright, now he just had to explain it to Cas…

As expected, there were no dinner parties in the river, so he was somewhat confused what Ellen wanted from him, but Dean explained that she just wanted to make sure he was safe.

“But I would never harm you” he immediately said and he sighed.

“Look, Cas, of course you wouldn’t. I get that. You get that. She sort of gets it too, but she has to make sure. That’s what – well – that’s what being a family is all about.”

“Not in my experience.”

Oh man, did he have to look so sad while he said that, too?

“It will be fine” he tried. “You like my cooking, don’t you? Ellen’s is much better – “

“I doubt that is possible.”

He told himself that he wasn’t blushing scarlet, but didn’t think that was true.