#Weeping with horrified laughter but anyway

[divinekangaroo]

I’m reading the scripts for Yes Minister for attempted political inspiration and can’t stop imagining the culture shock of Tommy’s first few months in office.

[depressedacadamia]

Blood will have blood

Summary:  Being a healer during a war was a job that only few could handle- seeing soldiers who risk their lives was not for the weak. But Will questions everything as a powerful but very young demigod is about to die before his very eyes.

A/N: Day two of Will solace's bday week!!! I know I could have written another 3 Days in the infirmary fic but I thought I'd give some angst because I haven't done it in a while and I listened to somone talk about Patroclus' death; it was in the Podcast Let's talk about myths, baby! It's suuppperrr good but that episode had me close to tears. Thnks to @solangeloweek AND THIS IS REVENGE FOR THAT REALLY GOOD BUT SAD FIC BY MY FRIEND; THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE. Anyways, love from me <3 !!

Read on A03      Masterlist

“Move!” Will yelled as he hastily brought medical supplies to the healer who was working on fixing someone’s foot which had been sliced off.

“Fucking Gods, sending their kids to fight their battles, They don't know when to stop, do they?” Will gritted out aggressively as he crouched down by his patient- a powerful but young demigod who had been severely injured in a vicious fight.

Will washed the bloody cloth in the water and produced a clean one, at which he gently cleaned the wounds. He could feel their life force thinning, their heart beating softer and softer. He had given the demigod all he could- ambrosia, nectar and as much treatment as he could offer; but they were in a war- he couldn't dwell too much on the patients who he couldn’t save.

“If you don't require urgent treatment, you need to leave,” Will announced. “ Starting now, we are under triage. Red patients will immediately be accepted, yellow will have to wait- the walking wounded will have to consult their nearest field medic. I repeat, As of now, we are in triage!”

“Will, a new wave of patients are going to come soon- apparently the enemies have launched a fresh attack and our side wasn't prepared,” Kayla mumbled, handing out supplies to the healers. Will groaned but his frustration was quickly overcome with worry: how would his friends on the frontline fare with this fresh assault?

He worried for some of his siblings who had chosen to be soldiers over healers, he worried for people like Annabeth Chase and Piper Mclean- He even worried over Percy Jackson.

But most of all he worried over Nico Di Angelo. He was not concerned over Nico dying; he knew his boyfriend very well and the chance that he’d let someone else kill him was practically impossible. But he did fear Nico overworking himself, it was almost unavoidable.

Alas, he couldn’t worry about his boyfriend, he was in a war after all and he had to focus on his job- to heal the others.

“Will-” An urgent voice tugged him from his thoughts. “ Isn’t there anything else you can do for them?” The soldier pointed at his wounded younger sibling. His bruised, bloody face was contorted into a grim expression as his hand gripped the hand of the dying soldier.

“We can’t do anymore,” Kayla informed sadly. But as Will watched the young patient slowly being dragged to Thanatos, he couldn't help but feel that it wasn't this child's time yet- that's what they were, a child.

They were fighting a war, children were fighting a war while the almighty sat in their thrones above and watched it as if it were simply a film. Innocent children like the one beside Will were dying and.. And - and the gods just expected them to continue.

“There is something I can try,” Will started quietly. “But I can’t guarantee that it will work.”

“Will, you can’t-” Kayla quickly cut in. “You know how draining it is on your body and you've never tried it on somebody with such grave injuries before.”

“But I can still try,” Will told Kayla. His mind was made up- if his friends were out there risking their lives on the battlefield, this was the least he could do; risk his life to save this innocent, and powerful demigod. If this went right, their quick recovery would be essential to winning.

Kayla knew that nothing could stop Will as he peeled off his gloves and placed his hands onto the cold skin of the soldier. Will’s hands danced slowly around the bloodstained chest and abdomen of the soldier and every once in a while, his fingertips would accidentally brush against the wounds dipping the tips of his nails in a crimson substance that was still warm.

He glowed, as he healed- he always did. But his hands felt warmer than usual and when he felt it was time, he pressed his hands into the bloody wound that no longer poured blood- for there was no blood to pour. Wil drained himself, trying to heal what he could but it was to no avail- this child had died. There was nothing Will could give.

But he refused to let this be it- It couldn't be! The Gods couldn't let this child die, they were not a soldier- they were a child for god's sake!

So after he had given everything- all the healing power that he had been blessed with by his father, he found himself with his hands pressed into the lifeless body of the child. And slowly, as he weeped over their corpse, with every drip of his tears, he felt a little more of life ease into the child again. And so he bellowed.

He cried and let the tears pour into the wounds, healing, no- bringing the child back to life. They steamed down his face as he mourned as grievers do. He clutched at the child’s chest that no longer beat and he felt the life before his grow stronger. He heard a little ‘ba-dum’.

Then, the soldier opened their eyes and took a deep inhale.

There was clapping and laughter and crying as people across the infirmary watched the miracle being performed by the Head Healer.

Will felt a smile across his face. While he felt weak, so very weak, he felt pride as he looked at the child, who bleated as they choked air into their lungs like a new born baby goat, their cheeks rosy again.

And then he felt pain. Excruciating pain. It twisted and burned. He heard screaming, the scream of a mother who has lost their child before realising that it was his own voice- his hands, once covered in the blood of the child shot to clutch at his chest only to feel a warm thick liquid coat his hands like water running out of a tap.

He gasped for air. Urgent hands were on him, lifting him onto a stretcher as people immediately fell silent. The room, celebrating moments ago, fell into a trance watching. The healers worked desperately, tearing open Will’s clothes, working as fast as they could.

Will coughed and coughed and as the blood stained his lips he let out a small smile. His small smile turned into a laugh covered with his coughing which only forced up more of the substance as it trickled slowly down his chin.

“Will? Will?” Kayla asked desperately, watching him choke. His lips turned crooked as his face paled, displaying his freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks.

“Please frame these last words: Fuck the Gods,” He whispered, content with his last moments before he suddenly shot open his eyes as he recalled that he had forgotten something. “ Oh- and tell Nico that I love him and that jazz.”

His voice was weak and the blood began to dry on his hands.

“Tell me what?” A confused, alarmed and horrified voice echoed from the other side of infirmary belonging to a warrior holding their helmet under their arm and stygian iron sword in their hand.

[fruitcoops]

hiii i've just spent the last 36-48 hours reading your works and oh dear do i lOVE your writing and this universe :') . i dont know if you are taking requests but i think it would be kinda interesting (and low key hilarious) if you would write the lions reacting/reading thirst tweets? idk if this is a dumb idea or not but just like some of them reacting to them and going "well i'm actually gay/married so.. no!.. but thank you!"

Part two of the six-month celebration, everyone! Thank you thank you THANK YOU to everyone who submitted comments--I had over 60 come in, and while I couldn’t include them all, reading them was a true joy. The Lion Pride channel was something I started writing on a whim; I never expected it to grow like this <3 Much love to all of you!

TW for alcohol mentions and thirst tweets (nothing explicit)

“Why do I always fear for my life around you?” Sirius asked as Marlene settled into a cushy chair to the side of their table.

She smiled, catlike, and crossed her legs primly. “Because only Finn appreciates me.”

“That’s just the Aries connection, Cap,” Finn said with a smug grin.

“We’re both Leos, Harzy.”

“Eh, close enough.”

Remus raised an eyebrow at her. “You should probably start asking questions before this devolves further, Marley. He’s gonna keep digging himself a hole and we won’t get anything done.”

Marlene’s smile returned with a vengeance. “That’s where you’re wrong, Loops! We’re not doing any questions at all today.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Read it and weep.” She tossed a small posterboard at him like a frisbee; he caught it, barely, though both Talker and Sirius had to duck out of the way. Marlene faced the camera and winked. “Welcome back to Lion Pride, everyone! Today I’m here with Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, James Potter, Thomas Walker, and our wonderful cubs to react to your comments on our videos!”

“Bet you thought we’d never see ‘em, huh?” James asked.

“The comments fall into four categories: thirsty, funny, mean, and sweet. I will be reading two of those groups, and my lovely fiancée will be reading the others because she is the human embodiment of sunshine.”

“If you make Dorcas read the mean ones, I’ll be sad,” Leo laughed.

Marlene gave him a look of disbelief. “You think I’m passing up a chance to roast you guys? Puh-lease. We’re starting off strong with some thirsty, thirsty comments! Loops, you’re up first.”

“This is going to be fun,” Sirius said, leaning back in his chair.

She cleared her throat, then turned a smoldering look on their table. “I didn’t know I had a freckle kink, but then Remus Lupin appeared and now here we are.”

“Oh, shit,” Remus muttered, covering his face with his hands as the others howled with laughter.

“Lupin has been looking sexy as hell on the bench for years now. I'm so glad people are simping over him like he deserves,” Marlene read. “And there’s a little heart emoji, just for you.”

“This is every one of my nightmares come to life,” Remus said, though his voice was muffled by his forearms.

James lifted his glasses to swipe away the tears of mirth that had gathered in his eyes. “Are you kidding? This is everything I have ever wanted.”

“Y’know, it is so good to see people drooling over this hot piece of ass at last,” Finn sighed, reaching over to ruffle Remus’ hair as his face turned bright red.

“One more, and it’s a good one,” Marlene warned. She licked her lips, then had to take a moment to laugh before speaking. “I feel like Remus Lupin is the type of guy to bake you muffins—”

“Accurate,” Leo said.

“—but is also a kinky motherfucker.”

Remus’ mouth dropped open as the table erupted into cheering. Logan pumped both fists in the air and Sirius was laughing so hard no sound came out; Talker sank so low in his chair that only his head and shoulders were visible as he applauded.

“Why do people comment these things?” Remus asked, barely above a whisper. “Holy fuck, I’m engaged!”

“Speaking of…” Marlene raised her eyebrows and Sirius smile drooped.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Buckle up, Cap!” She rolled her shoulders out. “Get someone who looks at you the way Sirius Black looks at a hockey puck.”

Remus snorted; James’ laugh was so short and sharp that it set everyone else off as well. “That sounds like I have a hockey puck fetish!” Sirius complained. “Which is so, so not true!”

Finn made an ‘ehh’ noise, and he leaned around Remus to smack the back of his head. “Hey!”

“Next one!” Marlene announced. “Sirius Black was my bi awakening.”

A beat of silence passed. “Is that it?” Sirius ventured, looking nervous.

“Yep.”

“Aw, man, that one’s lame,” Talker said, shaking his head. “Everyone thinks Cap is a little hot.”

Remus shot him a look. “A little?”

“Fair. Marley, I dare you to find one person who wouldn’t tap that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Me, though that dovetails nicely into the last one for our lovely captain. Ahem. I understand why Remus is with Sirius: he's hot as hell and rich, I'd hit that too.”

“Oh, fuck, you’re right,” Leo gasped. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Finn and Logan turned to him in unison with a mix of disbelief and offense written all over their faces. “Dude.”

“First of all, Leo, you found yourself two hot rich boys,” Remus interrupted. “Second, that comment is forgetting that he’s funny, and smart, and nice, and—”

Seconds after the initial cover, Sirius took his hand off Remus’ mouth as if he’d been burned. “Did you just lick me?”

“Moving on! This is in all caps, so be prepared.” Marlene shuffled through her posterboards and turned to Leo with an ominous smile. He glanced toward the camera in mild fear. “What does a person have to do to get some hockey player ass?! Like why is Leo Knut so fine?!”

“Amen!” Logan called as Leo blushed.

“According to six of the seven people at this table, the answer to that first question is to be a hockey player,” Talker laughed. “The world may never know the answer to the second, sadly.”

“Lily could play hockey,” James said, resting his chin on his hand. Every single one of the others rolled their eyes. “She could! She’d be so good at it, too.”

“We know,” Finn groaned. “You only mention it every other day.”

“Speaking of the lovely Mrs. Potter,” Marlene began with a sly look as she held up a new card. “Do James and Lily Potter need a third? Asking for me specifically.”

James paused, dumbstruck, while the others drummed their hands on the table. “…no?”

A general sigh of disappointment went up. “I was really hoping he’d say yes,” Leo said.

“Ask Lily next time,” Remus recommended.

James turned to him and blinked slowly. “What are you insinuating, Loops?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Don’t worry, James, you’ll like this one,” Marlene assured him. “James Potter is the ultimate dilf.”

“You’re damn right I am!” James whooped. “Vindication, bitches!”

“Marley, what have you done?” Talker whispered. “He’ll never shut up about that, now.”

“Oh, never,” James all but cackled. “I’m officially a dilf, you guys!”

“I hate you,” Sirius groaned.

“Tremzy, are you ready? We’ve got a couple very special ones for you,” Marlene said.

“Anything to get us out of this hell,” Logan begged.

“In that case: Logan Tremblay’s ass is better than Sidney Crosby’s. I said what I said.”

A pleased flush rose to his cheeks as Finn and Leo high-fived over his head. “Really? Thank you!”

“And they would be correct!” Finn announced. “Best ass in the league.”

“Come on,” Remus scoffed, though he was smiling.

Marlene cleared her throat to get their attention. “I don’t think I can legally read this on air without being censored or getting the video taken down, but…”

She turned the board around; all seven of them leaned forward to read it, then slowly looked at Logan, who turned vivid red. “Mon dieu. Is that—someone commented that on a video? Like, for people to see?”

“I feel like I need to bleach my eyes,” Sirius said just as Finn began shaking with silent laughter.

Leo’s face fell. “You wrote that, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Finn wheezed, scooting forward to fist-bump Marlene. “We wanted to see what you guys would say. Fuckin’ hell, your faces.”

“Alright, Talkie, are you ready?” Marlene asked around her laughter. “Seeing Thomas Walker with a baby makes me want to have his babies…please hit me up.”

He held up his index finger and took a second to laugh before responding. “If that’s Noelle, yes. If that’s anyone else, I’m flattered, but absolutely not.”

Logan made a face. “Ew.”

“We have two more,” Marlene warned. “For some very special people that aren’t here today, but I think you’ll like them anyway.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “I don’t trust the look on your face.”

“Daddy Dumo makes me swoon.”

A muddle of horrified noises echoed through the studio as all seven of them cringed. “Oh, my god, that’s my dad!” Logan yelped, covering his ears. Sirius looked vaguely ill and Remus’ shoulders crept toward his ears; James shuddered.

“The worst part is, we all know he can get it,” Finn said with a grimace. “God, I feel like I just heard someone talking about my parents having sex.”

“I’m sure he’ll love to hear that,” Marlene laughed. “Last one, from one of our truth or drinks.”

Remus went pale half a second too late. “N—”

“Hope Lupin is a milf.”

A broken noise escaped his mouth and he clamped his hand over it while Talker rubbed his back in sympathy. Sirius shook his head. “Somehow, that’s worse than Dumo’s.”

“Whoever sent that in, show some respect!” Leo said indignantly as Remus bonked his forehead against the table. “Hope Lupin is a lovely woman!”

“I think they noticed that particular fact,” Marlene pointed out, earning herself several scandalized shouts of her name and a whine from Remus. “That’s all we have for thirst comments! Are you ready for some funny ones?”

“Anything,” Remus pleaded. “I am begging you, anything else.”

Marlene shook her head as she stood, still smiling, and kissed Dorcas on the cheek when she entered the frame. “Go for it, love.”

“Dorcas!” they all cheered, lighting up immediately.

“Hey, guys, it’s been a while!” She curled up in Marlene’s vacant spot and took her own posterboards out from underneath the seat. “Alright, let’s rock and roll. Pascal Dumais is the team dad and nothing will change my mind, and Tremzy is the annoying youngest child.”

“That is so accurate,” Sirius laughed, leaning just out of range of Logan’s playful punch. “Whoever commented that has no idea how right they are.”

“We’ve got a whole sibling dynamic thing going on,” Talker agreed. “Tremzy’s the baby of the family, Cap is the quietly chaotic middle child, and Pots is the older brother that starts shit and inevitably gets blamed for however out-of-control it gets.”

Dorcas nodded. “You are one hundred percent correct. In a similar vein: Pots was the dad jokes friend before he was even a dad.”

“Painfully so,” Leo confirmed, shaking his head as they all groaned in agreement. James looked rather smug about the whole thing. “So many puns.”

“Oh, you’ll like this one,” Dorcas mused as she drew a new card. “If Tremzy looked directly into my eyes for even two seconds, all of my problems would be solved. I am sure of it.”

“Yes,” Finn and Leo said in unison.

“It’s something about the eyes, I think,” James added. “They just stand out so much that it’s a little startling straight-on.”

Logan looked to the camera and stared at it, unblinking; it zoomed in slightly on his face. “Everything will be fine,” he said with mock solemnity. “Your problems are solved.”

“Well, that was terrifying,” Sirius said drily. “Got any more for us, Ms. Meadowes?”

“Of course I do! We’ve got quite a few for Loops and Leo.” She took a sip of her water before getting comfortable again. “My favorite thing about these videos is that we can all see Loops get steadily buffer as the season goes on. Good for you, king!”

“Flex! Flex! Flex!” the six of them chanted; Remus rolled his eyes, but slid his sweater sleeve to his elbow and flexed his forearm, resulting in enough hoots and hollers that they could probably be heard a block away. Talker fake-swooned into Leo’s arms and Remus lightly whacked him on the shoulder.

“Remus Lupin looks like he has squishable cheeks,” Dorcas read aloud.

“He does!” James cooed, scooting over and reaching out.

Remus narrowed his eyes. “I swear to god I’ll bite you.”

Sirius cupped his face between his palms and kissed his nose, then pinched both his cheeks gently. “Ta-da!”

“How many of these do we have?” Remus asked, though his voice was a bit muffled by Sirius’ hands.

“Just one more for you, and it’s my personal favorite.” Dorcas assured him. “I love how the team probably had no impulse control until Loops joined.”

Sirius let go of his face and dissolved into laughter as Finn nearly fell on the floor. “Oh my—you think he has impulse control?” Talker slapped the edge of the table as he shook his head. “Absolutely not. Hell no, Loops is the first person to do stupid shit with us.”

“Yeah, I just don’t get caught,” Remus added around his own laughter. “Everyone thinks I’m such a hardass goody-two-shoes and it lets me get away with so much more than you delinquents.”

“Speaking of delinquents,” Dorcas continued. “This one is from our ‘Taste Testing Sexy Alcohol’ video: ah, yes, now I know how to do a body shot. 10/10, very educational video.”

“Do not take educational advice from us,” Finn blurted instantly. “I know this is a joke, but please exercise caution. That video was a ton of fun but a nightmare to recover from.”

Sirius winced at the memory. “I took two naps and then wished for death for a full day.”

“On a lighter note, who’s ready for some Knutty appreciation?” Dorcas smiled at her cards. “I've only had Leo Knut for a season and half, but if anything happened to him, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.”

“Big mood,” four of them said simultaneously.

Leo turned to the camera with a concerned look on his face. “That’s a meme reference, but are y’all okay?”

“No,” Dorcas answered. “Especially not this next person: Sometimes I do something productive and then I remember @LeoKnut is a 19 year old professional athlete who radiates happiness and with two of the hottest boyfriends the good lord has made, and then my bowl of packaged ramen seems less impressive.”

“I’m proud of your ramen,” Leo said, even as the corners of his mouth twitched in a smile. “And I appreciate the note about my boyfriends, because they are definitely the hottest people the good lord has made.”

Talker stuck his lip out in a pout. “Rude.”

“Sorry, Talkie, I’m biased.”

“Last one before Marlene comes back, so you’d better enjoy it!” Dorcas announced. “Did the Lions effectively utilize girl power when they wrecked toxic masculinity, yes or yes?”

“Can we utilize girl power?” Remus wondered, resting his shin on his hand. “Isn’t that exclusively for, y’know, women?”

“We can utilize himbo power,” Finn suggested.

James gave him an offended look. “Not all of us are himbos!”

“Okay, but you definitely are.”

“I am not!” James held up his fingers to count. “There are only, like, three qualifications, right? I might be strong, hot, and respectful, but I’m not dumb so it doesn’t count!”

“Pots,” Remus said quietly, hiding his smile for half a second. “Buddy, that was four things.”

James paused, then sighed in resignation. “Ah, fuck, I’m a himbo.”

“You really are.”

“At least we don’t promote toxic masculinity.”

They raised their waterbottles in a ‘cheers’ motion as Marlene and Dorcas switched spots; Marlene stretched her arms over her head and grabbed the new boards. “I’m back, beloved himbos. Talker, Leo, you are beloved by the people and have no mean comments. Cap, we’re starting with you.”

“Are they actually mean mean?” he asked.

“Sirius Black seems like a little bitch. Not in a bad way, necessarily. He just. Seems like he'd be a little bitch."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Oh, okay. That answers one question.”

“He’s not a little bitch,” Leo said. “Pouty on occasion, but not a little bitch.”

Remus gave him a long look, then shook his head. “Yeah, I mean, you teared up a little when Hattie got a splinter in her paw but didn’t even yell when you almost sliced your finger off while making dinner.”

“Duality of man,” Finn said sagely.

Marlene cocked an eyebrow. “Finn O’Hara’s hair kind of reminds me of Garfield the Cat.”

“Alright, that’s just rude.”

“It does not!” Logan gasped at the same time Leo made a noise of agreement.

Finn turned to him in utter betrayal. “Nutter Butter, I thought you liked my hair!”

“I do!” Leo defended. “But they’re not entirely wrong. It’s very orange in the sun.”

“I’m never going to forget that,” Finn muttered, staring at the floor.

“Ugh, it bothers me so much that Lupin just objectifies Black all the time!” Marlene read in a high-pitched, nasal voice. “No respect in that relationship!”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

Marlene stared at it for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, I have no idea what videos they were watching. Do you feel objectified in your relationship, Cap? I know the opinion of total strangers really bothers you a lot.”

“I’m really glad you picked up on that,” he said with false gravity. “Yeah, it’s such a bummer when my hot fiancé says I look nice. Such a blow to my self-esteem.”

“That was supposed to be a roast against me,” Remus said, looking amused. “Talk about backfiring.”

“Are you ready, Pots? This one’s pretty brutal,” Marlene warned. James nodded and Finn linked their hands for moral support. “James Potter is a swiftie and you cannot tell me otherwise.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “…yeah? That’s true? T Swift is a regular occurrence on the locker room playlist.”

“Also, James Potter looks like someone who would think black pepper was spicy.”

“Now that one is mean,” he complained as the others burst out laughing.  “It’s not my fault I have sensitive taste buds!”

“Oh, honey,” she said under her breath as she took a new card. “Get ready, Tremzy. This first one is short and sweet: Logan Tremblay looks like a lesbian.”

“That is not an insult,” Logan laughed. “Every lesbian I know is rad as fuck. I wish I looked that good in a leather jacket.”

“I just realized Logan doesn’t look short cause he’s next to bunch of hockey players, he’s short cause he’s 5’9.”

The smile slipped off his face in a millisecond as the others roared with laughter. “Quoi?”

“Oh, she got you good,” Sirius gasped, patting his shoulder clumsily. “Holy fuck, can I frame that?”

“That’s not what it says.” An edge of distress appeared in Logan’s voice. “Marley, that’s not what it says.”

James sat on the floor with the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. “You’re fucking—whoever sent that in, you are my new favorite person. Jesus.”

“Do you need a second to recover before we move on?” Dorcas asked as she draped her arms over the back of Marlene’s chair. “The next one is our biggest section by far.”

“It’s the sweet ones, yeah?” Leo asked.

“Right.”

“It might be a good idea to do those before Lo spontaneously combusts.”

“Agreed!” She swapped with Marlene and hauled a short stack of posterboards out from their hiding place with a smile. “A hug from Dumo can probably solve any issue.”

“Facts,” Logan said. “I could really use one right about now, too.”

“Has anyone noticed how blue Leo Knut’s eyes are?”

“Yes,” the six of them chorused.

Finn gave him a dreamy look. “Every single day.”

“When I first read this one, I thought I wrote it,” Dorcas said with a snort. “Someone give Marlene a raise. No reason why, I just love her.”

“Can we do that?” Sirius asked, looking toward the camera crew. “Can we lobby to give you guys raises? Because you definitely deserve it after all the bullshit you deal with to make these videos watchable, and Marlene, you’ve drawn the short end of the stick ninety percent of the time.”

“How?” she called off-screen.

“You have to actually talk to us and try to get answers.”

“Fair.”

Dorcas finished scribbling something down on her notepad. “Just making a note of this conversation for future reference. Moving on! Sirius Black and James Potter are a prime example of hockey husbands, and I adore them.”

“The ironic part of that is that we’re both in committed relationships, but we’re basically married,” James mused.

Remus shook his head. “You guys are so married. Lily wanted to get you matching rings for your birthday, Pots.”

“That would be so cool!” they said in perfect unison. Remus turned to the camera and spread his hands in a case in point motion.

Dorcas stifled her laughter before moving on. “This one is cute. Give Remus Lupin all the hugs! I feel like I could tell him he’s an inspiration and he’d be so nice about it—” She paused to glance up at them. “—this next bit is in parentheses: all the LGBT Lions give me that vibe, but Cap and Knutty are super intimidating so I wouldn’t have the guts.”

Leo’s face fell and Sirius’ eyebrows pitched. “I’m not intimidating!” Leo protested. “I thought we already went over that! Loops gives fantastic hugs, but I want some, too.”

“He definitely deserves all the hugs in the world, but I promise I’m nice,” Sirius said, a bit softer than usual. “Is it because we’re tall?”

Dorcas half-shrugged. “Probably. It’s a little startling at first. Oh, I could’ve written this one, too: The Venn diagram of men I trust and the Gryffindor Lions is a full circle.”

Talker beamed at the camera. “Thank you!”

“So many hockey guys are such douchebags,” Logan said with a shake of his head. “I’m really glad we don’t do that shit.”

“Me, too.” Dorcas slid her old card under her chair. “Sirius Black’s hair looks so soft and I just want to touch it so bad.”

“It is so soft,” Remus agreed immediately. “You have no idea.”

“Everyone wants to touch Cap’s hair,” Finn said, sighing. “It’s so majestic.”

“I need a haircut.”

“No, you don’t,” Remus said as he tugged a stray curl. Sirius hummed.

“This one is from the interview some you did with Jules and Katie: these hockey boys being so soft with kids is my aesthetic! Like, it’s just so adorable to see these big, intimidating dudes be so, so sweet! Love them all!” She turned the card for them to see. “And then they added a heart at the end.”

“It’s impossible to be around those kids and not be happy,” James said. “They’re just too cute and wonderful.”

“Yeah, I love kids.” Finn nodded. “Especially the Dumais and Jules. They’re a hoot.”

“Jules would die if he heard you say that,” Remus laughed. “The hero worship is still going strong with most of you.”

“This one made me laugh when I first read it, but it’s really sweet,” Dorcas informed them. “Anyone else feel like we were deceived these past five years into thinking Cap was this hard-ass man, when in reality he's a cuddle bug who definitely captures and releases spiders instead of squishing them?”

“You weren’t deceived, I was just closeted,” Sirius said. “Also, I absolutely squish spiders.”

Remus gave him a look. “No, you do not. That’s my job. I’m the catch and release person if I can get away with it.”

James shook his head. “The third week of practices you saw a spider and threw me at it.”

“You did what?” Finn asked.

“There was a spider in my stall,” Sirius sighed, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else. “And Pots and I were talking so I didn’t see it until I almost sat on it, and my brain decided the only logical thing to do would be to grab him and shove him toward the spider.”

“That was after you shrieked,” Talker added. “Like, literally shrieked. I’ve never heard anyone make a noise like that.”

“Alright, alright,” Sirius grumbled. “We get it, I don’t like spiders.”

Remus shrugged. “But you are a cuddle bug. They got that part right.”

“We’re in the final two!” Dorcas announced. “This one has some pictures to go with it, so it’s on my phone. Fuck Romeo and Juliet, I want what these bitches have.”

“It’s us!” Leo cooed as the phone made its way down the line. In the upper corner of the screen, the photo appeared—it had been taken in New York, and Logan’s whole face was alight with happiness as Leo and Finn each pressed a kiss to his cheek. The camera caught him mid-laugh, so his eyes were closed and his chin was tucked slightly into Finn’s Strand hoodie.

“That’s my screensaver,” Finn said with a grin, pulling his phone out and turning it toward the camera without moving away from Leo. “One of my favorites.”

“I forgot you took that one,” Logan murmured. He hooked his chin over Leo’s shoulder and kissed his cheek; the four others at the table gave soft are you seeing this? looks to the camera and Dorcas smiled.

“Pots, I think yours is next. I hate to break it to you, Talkie, but they didn’t get any of you and Noelle.”

“We don’t take a ton of pictures together,” Talker said as James took the phone. “I mean, we take a bunch of selfies, but we don’t live close enough to each other to actually post that often. What picture is it, J?”

James was staring down at the picture with an unbearably sweet expression. “It’s our wedding. That’s my favorite one, actually.”

Like Logan, they had been captured while laughing—Lily was bent slightly at the waist as James clapped, his glasses just as askew as the flower crown on her head. It was impossible to tell who had told the joke originally, but they were both radiant in the sunset.

“That’s a really good one,” Sirius said with an unreadable look on his face.

“Well, well, well, fancypants, you two got a video.” James wiggled his eyebrows and Remus leaned in to see.

“What kind of video? One of our tikt—oh. Oh, this is so cute.” He shifted his chair over as the short edit began to play. “D, who made this?”

“A fan.”

“It’s really impressive,” Sirius said without taking his eyes off the screen. The edit was a series of photos, both on and off the ice; Sirius knocking their helmets together, then Remus looking back over his shoulder, then both of them in the water playing chicken in the sun. It was a slideshow of their life and their love.

“Can you send that to me?” Remus asked when it was over. “Cause that’s super cool.”

“Sure thing. Are you guys ready for the last one?” When they all nodded, she drummed her fingers on the posterboard and cleared her throat. “Arthur appreciation hours. He deserves it after managing to control the team.”

A cheer went up—all seven stood and applauded, half-laughing and half-whooping. “Miracle worker!” Sirius called.

“Best coach in the league!” Finn added.

“Most tolerant man to ever walk the earth!” Remus raised his water in a toast and they tapped the plastic edges together, nearly spilling all over the table.

Dorcas’ eyes crinkled in a smile as she turned to the camera. “That’s it for today, Lions! Tune in next time for more content of our boys, and thank you for such wonderful comments!”

[zuffer-weird-girl]

Anonymous said:

Heresan angsty fluffy request for Dabi,what if one day it was just a bad day for dabi.His scars were getting to him,the past kept coming to his mind and he was just feeling unworthy,like he didn't deserve his doll.That leads us to now,him standing shirtless infront of a mirror,judging his appearance and him in general so much that he doesnt notice his doll until she wraps her arms around him,gently holding him and telling him that it's not true that he deserves good things and that she loves him

Shit. Absolutely the most shittiest day he ever had on his adulthood so far.

Shigaraki had been a pain on his ass ever since he joined the league of villains, and when he was isolated by that crazy doctor on a moutain he thought was going to get a bit of peace.

Keyword: thought.

His colleagues despite becoming part of his daily routine were cool and all but he got irritated easily with their bullshit. Instead of wanting to expose the corruption and fake hero society all they cared for was being accepted and just watch the world burn down.

Heck, he tried his best to not be like him, but when he was out of pacience he tended to snap at anyone whose even got in his front... including you.

He felt like shit everytime and knew very well that a apology wasn't going to erase his harsh words... neither his own attitude.

Thankfully though he was fucking terrified of becoming the monster that married his mother, so he never once raised his hand at you.

He couldn't even once get a bit of peace on this fucked up life...

He was about to head to a shower he took off his shirt... looking at the corner of his eyes the nasty scars, covering more than half of his chest as the stables clinged and holded his still healthy and burnt skin together.

How the freaking hell you accepted being him out of all people on Japan? He was like a broken vase, couldn't fix it and just... was made to be left alone and on the fucking trash can.

He brought his hands to his camp of vision and saw the scars littering his forearms and hands, attached to staples... his breath started to quickened at remembering especially why he had them, whose fault was that...

Anger and anxiety combined surely wasn't a good thing.... without him thinking his quirk started to heat up and his skin if he could alscream would have already in pain.

He looked, trembling in wrath, at his reflection... and the sign was enough for him to shout and punch the mirror at the point it shattered in pieces and injured his hand badly...

Panting, his senses come back a but and cringed at how much blood it was dripping from his hand and dirtying the carpet of your guys room... for now.

Pieces of glass was still on his flesh but his anger hadn't vanished as he started to punch the wall until he was tired of it... the pain was one of the things that proved to him he was still alive.

So what is more? He felt worse after all...

He punched that wall until it got dirty with his blood and until he was tired of it... Sighing he clenched on the injury and got into the bathroom to take the goddamn shower.

.

.

.

Your voice calling for him and the door being slowly opened interrupted his thoughts... he vringed at the causation tone of voice you used and only waved his hand once to tell you it was okay for you to enter.

"We went out to get some food so.." he felt the lightly slightly short on the bed near him "I got some of your favorite..."

He didn't answer. He knew that one harsh word could leave or even the worst thing, you could get that he was on a bad shape, you could just fucking see when he was overthinking ... damn you for being so blind to not fucking see je is not worth of you.

"WHAT THE- DABI?!" He widened his eyes when you grabbed his hand, your horrified expression at seing the injury "What the hell happened?! I thought you-"

"I made it myself." He spoke on a cold tone of voice that even himself cursed himself for it.

"You're crazy or something?! How?!"

"Why being so dramatic over it? I have tons of scars sweetheart, I'm fucked already and just you who doesn't seem to notice." He shrugged as you looked at him before narrowing your eyes and getting up with a huff.

Just when he was about to sigh, you pocked a chair and put on his front agressively with a first kit aid.

"Aw. Cute seing you trying to fix me (Y/n)." His sarcasm was like venom as you grabbed his hand and started to bandaged.

"Fix and help to cure the wound are differents things and you know it very well, Todoroki." You hissed his last true name as got up and grabbed your wrist as you two exchanged glares for a bit before you gritted through teeth "Sit. Down."

He scoffed and sitted back on the bed as you sit down as well, bandaging him and taking the minors piece of glass out of him with the help of an twessee.

He hissed at one particularly large, stuck on his knuckles as you looked at him, your anger vanishing at seing him biting his lower lip and trying to mantain a nonchantly expression as he refused to look at your eyes.

Sighing in relief when the last piece of mirror left his hands, picking up a bit of alcohol, cottom and the bandages to wrap around the injury.

"... not going to give up are you?" He muttered as you remained silent while doing your work, cringing when he let out a dark chuckle.

"You're such a thick skull... cant even see it doesn't matter and you can do better than this..." you stopped with wide eyes before looking up at him.

"Huh?"

"Oh come on doll... you know that staying with me is a loss. What do I even have to give to you anyway? How do..." he snickered, letting his head fall on the hand you weren't treating "How do you even look at me with those fucking gorgeous eyes..?"

You blinked, words lost in your throat as you saw Dabi on that condition... slowly, you put the supplies aside, one hand holding his as the other barely touched his arm.

"Do you know I love you right?" You muttered as he barked on a laughter.

"Yeah..." he looked up at you in pain but with a maniac smile still present "I just don't know how."

.

.

.

Ever since that evening you started paying more attention on your boyfriend. Instead of replying with a snarky comment whoever joked about his scars he only sighed a "fuck off" and left... how he didn't even let you see him without a shirt.

It was like all the improvement of him thrusting you to not judge him for his past or appearance had come down hills... his usual cockiness and sarcasm aurea was just pushed all inside and eames back the aloof and cold Dabi...

You couldn't just let this continue... Dabi knew you love him but didn't know how? Well, damn him, you were going to show it like him or not.

With determination you walked and opened the door to slow your movement at seing Dabi staring at the mirror, his back at you as his head hung low, supporting himself on his hands on the mirror.

"You listen you bastard..." you listened him talk to himself "Stop being a selfish pig and let (Y/n) go... no one deserves getting stuck with a walking disaster... you wont drag the one you love to hell along with you." He growled the words as tears threaten to form in your eyes.

Saying fuck it, you almost ran into him while hugging him from behind, a gasp leaving him as the muscles of his back tensed and looked at your reflection clinging to him.

"How can you say that to the men I love..?" You whispered, wet cheek resting and nuzzling on him "You're not dragging me to hell if you're not even going there..." you sobbed as his wide turquoise eyes remained on your reflection... frozen body... he couldn't even think to be honest.

"You deserve happines just like everyone does... You make me happy by being you Touya..." you clinged onto him and burried your crying face on his back "I don't want to let go... you're the best thing that ever happened to me so dont you fucking dare to say things like that about yourself!"

You felt his rough and half scarred hand touch yours at first before holding it like his life depended on it.

"You know... if I could cry... pretty damn sure I was weeping right now at only seing you suffer because of me..." his hoarse voice came out and you clinged onto him tighter.

"You're the blind one for thinking that you dont deserve me or you aren't beautiful... scars and all." You mumbled before leaving a chaste kiss on his back, one that made his body shiver.

It was quiet for a moment before Dabi got out of your arms as you whimpered before gasping when he cupped your cheeks and smashed his lips on yours.

When he broke the kiss you hugged him.tightly as he slowly returned the affection, resting his chin on your shoulder as he felt his eyes burning.

"Dont hide from me anymore..." you sobbed as his heart clenched at your crying and hugged you tighter.

"I won't... I won't." He pulled you even closer to his chest as he kissed your temple.

"Get on your thick skull that you're beautiful and handsome you idiot!" You punched his back as he let out a weak chuckle on your hair.

"Only because you make me feel that way doll..."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 14: Love Keeps The Monsters From Our Door] [Series Finale]

A/N: Thank you for your encouragement, enthusiasm, laughter, rants, screeches of anguish, and unapologetic thirsting for “sexy undead Italian man” Joseph Francis Mazzello. I hope you love this conclusion more than Baby Swan loves pineapple pizza. 💜

Series Summary: Potentially a better love story than Twilight?

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. (The #1 song I associate with this fic!)

Chapter Warnings: Language.

Word Count: 7.7k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs​

Mercy

We have to stay in the Vladivostok palace until her transformation is complete, and I hate it.

The floors are cold and sterile and every clang of noise ricochets off them like a bullet. The earth outside is stripped bare and hibernal. There is no green to interrupt the bleakness of the sky, the cruel absence of color: no spruces or hemlocks or bigleaf maples, no evergreen forests, no verdant fields, only a grey that bleeds from the sky in sheets of hail and driving rain. This land is a stranger. So many of the faces, too, are strangers, although they try. Honora sits with me—her large dark eyes, like mirrors of mine, polished and wet with aching pity—and braids my hair. Morana invites me to bake homemade bread with her. Austin tries to make me smile. Cato visits me as much as he can, because he feels responsible; or maybe he would do it anyway, maybe lessening suffering is as instinctual to him as bloodshed is to so many of our kind. And when Cato is with me, I do feel a little better, like my story might belong to somebody else, like it’s a name I can’t quite remember, like it’s a transitory moment of déjà vu I can catch glimpses of but never touch. And yet, still, I send him away.  

I don’t want to be with Cato. It’s painful for him to be around me, I can see that. It’s painful for Rami, and for Ben, and for Joe, and for Lucy and Scarlett. It’s even painful for the Irish Wolfhounds that Cato found locked up for safekeeping in Larkin’s study; they skulk around the palace vigilantly but leave great swaths of uninterrupted space around me like open water. So I conjure up a mask of brave, hopeful acceptance and wear it everywhere I go.

Joe says very little, never leaves the girl he calls Baby Swan’s side, dabs her scorching skin with washcloths soaked in ice water and murmurs in sympathy when she screams through the unconsciousness, from beneath the ocean of fire we all know so well. He nods off sometimes, snatching minutes of sleep like fireflies in a jar, before jolting awake to make sure her heart is still beating. When Ben isn’t checking on them, he’s with Cato, helping to draw up plans for the future, reminiscing about the past with slick eyes and clinking midnight glasses of whiskey. Scarlett sprawls across the desk in what was once Larkin’s study and spends hours on the phone with Archer as she gazes up at the ceiling, telling him how to care for the farm animals and the garden, reassuring him that we’ll be home soon, whispering things to him that I try not to hear; and I know she wouldn’t want me to anyway. Lucy weeps delicate, ceaseless tears as she perches on the staircase landing and Rami entombs her in his arms, never having to ask what she needs from him. And I wander meaninglessly through the echoing, unfamiliar hallways like a moon without a planet.

I know what they all think about me, perhaps even Rami, for I keep it buried as deep as all skeletons should be: that I’m irrevocably kind, effortlessly forgiving. That I’m as incapable of bitterness as I am of aging. But they’re wrong. It’s a choice, and it always has been, ever since a late-November dusk in 1864 when madness eclipsed mercy. Every day I choose whether to surrender to the beckoning, malignant hatred that lurks in the back of my bedroom closet, in the dusty and ill-lit loft of the barn roped with cobwebs, in the twilight tree line of the western hemlocks crawling with shadows that whisper through fanged teeth. Every day I decide whether to become a monster. And it has never been harder to remember why I don’t.

My future is unimaginable. The nights are endless. I feel black, razored seeds of what I am horrified must be bitterness burrowing beneath my skin and taking root there. I am consumed by infected, fruitless questions that I can’t silence: Why Gwilym? Why Arthur? Why Eliza and Charlotte? Why is it always fire?

The first words that Gwilym ever spoke to me, as I unraveled from unconsciousness under a grove of sycamore trees with smoke still clinging to my unscarred skin, rattle around in my skull like windchimes beneath thunderous skies. His voice was colored with an accent I couldn’t place, and yet it sounded like home: You’re in a dark place right now. But you don’t have to stay there.

That might have been true once. That might have been true in the ruinous autumn of 1864. But now I can’t find my way out.

Seventy-three hours after our arrival in this barren corner of the world, Charlie Swan’s daughter  wakes up as a vampire. Her heart is perfectly still, her skin faultless, her senses sharp, her mind as impenetrable as ever; at least, that’s what Lucy says when she finds me. And Lucy tugs at my hand, wearing her first smile in days, insisting that I have to come meet the newest member of our coven, to welcome her. I don’t know how to tell Lucy that I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to love this girl, that I don’t have it in me to love anyone but ghosts. And yet—compliantly, yieldingly, expecting nothing but disappointment in the monster I have become—I follow her.

The door is already open to the Swan girl’s room; chattering, beaming vampires flood in and out like the tides. I step inside. And I see the way that Joe looks at her, the way that Ben does; and all those seeds that I had feared might be bitterness blossom into nothing but open air.

It’s Not A Fucking Wedding (A.K.A. 13.5 Months Later)

The ocean is a universe. Its arms are not ever-expanding, spiraling galaxies of suns and planets and nebulae and black holes, this is true; its belly is not a vacuum of inhospitable oblivion, its bones are not invisible strings of gravity, its language is not a silence older than starlight, older than eternity. But the ocean is a universe nonetheless, its borders tucked neatly around the seven continents, slumbering there until the next hurricane or tsunami or ice age comes conquering; and inevitably equilibrium is restored—like defibrillator paddles to a heart, like naloxone to an addict’s blood—and our two worlds can coexist side by side once again.  

The ocean’s arms are sighing waves, bubbling and brisk, grasping and retreating in the same breath. Its belly is swollen with life from immense blue whales down to swarming clouds of single-celled, sun-hungry phytoplankton. Its language is ancient whispers; not parched and blistering and brittle sounds like the desert’s but cool, serene, supple, engulfing. And I can hear them all, if I listen closely enough. I can hear the sentient whistling of orcas, the breaking of waves against rocks, the scrabbling of sand crabs beneath the earth, the gruff distant barks of sea lions, the rustling of evergreen pine needles in the breeze. And I understand now why it was always so easy for vampires to be introspective, to lapse into thoughtful, unhurried silences. I could imagine spending decades just sitting here with my knees tucked to my chest and my hair whipping in the brackish wind, watching the seasons roll by like a wheel.

Joe was coming back from the gravel parking lot. I turned to watch him: red U Chicago hoodie, messy dark auburn-ish hair, a pizza box clasped in his hands. The GrubHub delivery driver was returning to his car with the toothiest of grins.

“Buon appetito!” Joe announced, dramatically presenting me with the pizza box. It had become our post-finals tradition each semester: pizza at La Push beach, half-pepperoni, half-pineapple.

“Grazie, sexy undead Italian man. Your accent is getting so good!”

“I know, right?! I’m on a twelve-day Duolingo streak. I can’t let that little green owl dude down.”

“I’m impressed, I’ll admit it. I gotta brush up on my Welsh. Why’s the GrubHub driver so cheery?”

“I tipped him $500.”

I smiled, opening the box and lifting out a semi-warm slice of pineapple pizza. Elastic strands of mozzarella cheese stretched like rubber bands until they snapped. “Aww, really?”

Joe plopped down onto the cool, damp sand beside me. “No. I lied. We’re actually having a torrid love affair.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “How could you possibly have time for all that?” Between school, business ventures, family activities, and me, Joe was very rarely unoccupied. And he preferred it that way.

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m very speedy, if you recall. And that’s just one of the exclusive services I offer. I am a man of many talents. I make people’s wildest dreams come true. Who am I to deny the GrubHub delivery man the wonderland that is my spindly, annoying body?”  

“You are the fastest,” I said, winking.

“Oh shut up! I mean, uh, uhhh, silenzio!” He pointed his slice of pepperoni pizza at me reproachfully. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not the fastest at everything.”

“Whatever you say, mob guy.”

He lunged for me, pinned me down in the crumbling sand, both of us laughing wildly as the crusts of our pizza slices bounded off and were snatched up by diving, screeching seagulls. He growled with mock savagery, braced his hips against mine, kissed his way from the corner of my jaw to my lips. That oh-so-familiar commanding, craving ache for him came roaring to the surface; and now there was no bittersweet edge to it, no inescapable backdrop of lambent numbers ticking down from five or ten or fifteen years to zero. Now there was only the calm, unurgent promise of forever.

“Joe—!”

“You have besmirched my honor, Baby Swan. I am left with no recourse but to refresh your clearly flawed memory and prove you wrong.”

“Public indecency? That’s illegal, sir.”

“Okay, you gotta stop stealing my catchphrases. It’s extremely difficult for me to come up with new ones. I’m almost a hundred years old, you know.”

“Alright, I guess you’re not bad in bed for a basically-centenarian.”

He smiled down at me, his dark eyes alight, the wind tearing through his hair, one palm resting on my forehead, uncharacteristically quiet.

“What?” I asked, worried.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just really glad we’re a thing.”

“You better be. You’re kind of stuck with me now. You’ve stolen my virtue, you’ve made me fall in love with your entire demented family, you’ve forced your torturous immortality upon me. I’m not going anywhere. Unless you ever stop funding my pineapple pizza addiction, of course.”

Joe chuckled as he climbed off me and took my hand in his, pulling me upright. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, by the way. Your insistence on being a sort-of vegetarian. It’s embarrassing. You’re the wimpiest vampire ever. You’re a disgrace to the coven.”

“I eat animals!” I objected.

“Yeah, when you have to.” And Joe was right: I steered clear of flesh outside of the two or three times a week when I hunted. For environmental sustainability reasons, I mostly consumed deer or rabbits; although the very occasional shark was my guilty pleasure. Joe gnawed on his second slice of pizza and peered out into the overcast, dusky horizon, wiping crumbs from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. “We only have one more of these left,” he said at last, a little sadly. “One more finals season at Calawah University. One more celebratory dinner at La Push.”

“We’ll just have to get used to a new view. Pizza by the Chicago River, maybe.”

Joe looked over at me, thoughtful again, smiling. He had received his acceptance letter to the University of Chicago three weeks ago. I got mine eight days later. “It won’t be hard for you to leave Forks?”

“It will be. Once upon a time I didn’t think that was possible, but I will miss Forks. And not just because of Charlie and Archer and Jessica and Angela and all the Lees. But it was hard to leave Phoenix, and I’m sure one day it will be hard to leave Chicago. Just because change is hard doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do.”

Joe nodded introspectively. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

“Don’t quote classic rock songs at me, mixtapes boy.”

“You love my mixtapes,” he teased, circling his left arm around my waist, pulling me in closer, touching his lips to my forehead. Mint and pine and starlight sank into my lungs like an anchor through the surf. “And that saying actually goes all the way back to Seneca, my dear.”

“Don’t tell me he’s still philosophizing in some cloudy corner of the world somewhere.”

“Not to my knowledge. Although that’s an intriguing thought. We need more famous vampires. Caligula would have made for very interesting conversation. Lincoln, Napoleon, Cleopatra, Shakespeare, Dante...I guess it’s possible that anyone is still around. Maybe we should turn Meat Loaf. You know, for the good of posterity.”

“Is it not enough that they’re already cursed with student debt and global warming?”

Joe cackled, took my face in his palms, kissed each of my cheeks one after the other, then nudged my nose with his. “You ready to go, Baby Swan? I suspect we’re expected to participate in some holiday festivities tonight.”

“I’m ready,” I agreed. We threw our leftover pizza to the seagulls, disposed of the grease-spotted cardboard box, and walked back to my 1999 Honda Accord with our pulseless hands intertwined.

The evergreen trees along Routh 110 fled by beneath a sky freckling with stars. Sharp winter air poured in through the open windows. And I could feel that it was cold, in the same way that I could feel the warmth on Forks’ rare sweltering days; but there was no discomfort that accompanied that knowledge. Pain only came when the sky was unincumbered by thick clouds churning in off the Pacific, and then it felt something like staring into the sun had as a human. Sunglasses helped, but the surest remedy was avoidance, was surrender. And what an inconsequential price to pay for forever.

“Wait,” I said, spying the mailbox that marked the start of the Lees’ driveway. “They still deliver mail on Christmas Eve, right?”

“Uh, I think so, why...?” And then he remembered. “Oh, yeah, let’s check!”

I pulled up beside the mailbox and Joe leaned out, returning to his seat with a mountain of Christmas cards and business correspondence and advertisements from Costco and Sephora. He sifted through them until he found a single white envelope from the University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine. It was addressed to a Mr. Benjamin August Hardy. Joe held it up to show me as we drove down the driveway, the Lee house coming into view and ornamented with a frankly excessive amount of multicolored string lights and inflatable reindeer.

“Oh my god!” I squealed, drumming the steering wheel.

“You want to be the one to give it to him?”

“Are you serious?! Yeah, can I?”

Joe passed the envelope to me as I parked my geriatric Honda, which Archer had pledged to keep alive as long as physically possible. In return, Ben let him and Scarlett borrow the Aston Martin Vantage no less than once a week. I dashed out of the car, up the steps of the front porch, and into the house that bubbled over with the sounds of metallic kitchen clashes and frenetic voices and Wham!’s Last Christmas.

“Ben?!” I shouted.

“Hi, honey!” Mercy called from the living room, where she and Lucy were putting the final touches on Scarlett’s gown. Scarlett was playing the part of semi-willing victim, wearing gold heels and an impatient smirk and her hair out of the way in a milkmaid braid; her train of vivid red lace billowed across the hardwood floor. From the couch, Archer and Rami were playing Mario Kart on the big-screen tv and nibbling their way through a tray of homemade gingerbread cookies.

“Oh wow,” I said, clutching the envelope to my chest, mesmerized. I kept waiting for Scarlett to start looking like a normal person to me, and it never happened. Tonight, in the glow of the flameless candles and kaleidoscopic Christmas lights and draped in lace the color of pomegranate seeds, she was Persephone: a goddess of resurrection, a face that death himself could not pass by unscathed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy. Seriously.”

“One day I’m going to get you out of those thrift shop sweaters,” Lucy threatened me, placing a pin in the fabric at Scarlett’s waist.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know when that shows up in one of your visions.”

“Bitch,” Lucy flung back, snickering, knowing how improbable that was. I still appeared in her visions extremely infrequently, and then only when I happened to be standing next to whoever the premonition was actually about.

“Language, dear,” Mercy tutted, inspecting the hem of Scarlett’s gown.

Joe arrived beside me, his arms still full of mail. “ScarJo, I almost didn’t recognize you! Why do you have, like, no cleavage or fishnets or thigh slits?”

“Why do you have like no eyelashes?” Scarlett replied. “See, I can ask unnecessary and invasive questions too.”

Joe frowned, wounded. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Lucy, darling, I think it’s just a tad uneven on this side,” Mercy said, showing her. “Maybe by half an inch...?”

“No, seriously, what’s wrong with my eyelashes?!”

Mercy replied distractedly: “Nothing, honey, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Mom!” Joe groaned.

“It really is gorgeous,” Mercy marveled as Lucy flitted around her to investigate the hem situation. “And so Christmasy. So perfect for the season. Scarlett, dear, you were right after all, and I’m so sorry for doubting you. I’d just never heard of a red wedding dress before.”

“Mom, it’s not a fucking wedding!” Scarlett exclaimed, for probably the thirtieth time since Thanksgiving. “It’s a nonbinding, informal celebration of an egalitarian romantic partnership. Will somebody please inform this woman that it’s not a wedding?!”

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” Mercy conceded dreamily.

Joe pointed to Archer. “Isn’t he supposed to not see the dress until the day of or something?”

“What a great question!” Archer replied, still deeply invested in Mario Kart. “You see, that would be the case if this was a wedding. However, I’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that it is most definitely not.”

Scarlett grinned triumphantly at Joe. “There you have it.”

She might snap petulantly, and she might complain, but Scarlett wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t want to; we were all intimately familiar with the futility of trying to force Scarlett into anything. The not-wedding, as improbable as it seemed, had been her idea from the start. And she wasn’t doing it for herself. She wasn’t even doing it for Archer. Scarlett was doing it for her mother.

The first six months had been hell for Mercy. She didn’t resent me, as I had feared she might; Mercy made that clear, and Rami confirmed it. But she was gutted. She wouldn’t speak of Gwil, wouldn’t listen to us talk about him, locked every photograph of him away in dark drawers, wandered around with a remote, uncanny, unseeing smile until she walked straight into walls; and then she would blink inanely up at them, as if they had dropped out of the sky rather than been built by her own hands. She baked hundreds of cakes and almost never slept. She told us she was fine every time we asked, which was more or less constantly. But on the very rare occasions when she was left alone, Mercy would unfailingly end up in the field behind the Lee house, gazing out into the forest of western hemlock trees with tears snaking silently down her cheeks, the muted light of the cloud-covered setting sun flickering red and furious on her face like wildfire.

And then one afternoon, a package had arrived from Arviat, Canada, where Cato and the rest of the surviving Draghi had relocated shortly after the rebellion at Vladivostok. It was five feet tall and another three wide, and what we found after carefully peeling away all those layers of foam padding and packing tape was a portrait of Gwilym so skillfully painted that it could have been mistaken for a photograph. Mercy had stared at it for a long time—ignoring Lucy’s attempts to guide her away, deaf to any of our concerns—until she at last picked up the portrait herself and said, quite evenly: “I think we should hang it in the living room, don’t you?”

Things had been better since then—very, very gradually, and yet unmistakably—and Gwil’s portrait remained mounted above the living room couch like a watchman, his eyes sparkling and blue, his faint smile stoic and fond and omniscient. But even in the wake of Mercy’s continued improvement, none of us kids were about to risk another agonizingly despondent Christmas. So the solution was obvious. We would keep Mercy preoccupied with what thrilled her more than absolutely anything else: the pseudo-weddings of her children. Rami and Lucy had already secretly volunteered to go next year...and after that, who knew? And there was one other thing that was making Mercy’s burden a little lighter these days.

Charlie sauntered into the living room, wearing an apron covered in cartwheeling Santas and wiping white dust like snow—powdered sugar? flour? baking soda?—from his ungainly hands. He was palpably proud. “The sugar cookies are officially in the oven. And I managed to fit them all on one baking sheet, isn’t that great?! Cuts down on dishes!”

“Why, yes, I suppose it does!” Mercy said, alarm dawning in her eyes. Had my beloved father placed the globs of dough too close together? Would we end up with one hideous, giant monster-cookie? Only time would tell. Providentially, Archer and Joe could be counted on to eat just about anything.

Joe sniffed the air, his forehead crinkling. “What’s burning?”

“Nothing should be burning,” Mercy replied, almost defensive, forever protective of Charlie and all of his profound, incurably human imperfections. Sometimes I thought that she preferred him that way, that he was a link to a simpler world in the same way I had once been, that he was a puddle of memory she could drop into, that maybe he wasn’t so unlike her first husband Arthur. “Not yet, anyway. The cookies need at least ten to twelve minutes at 350.”

“Wait, 350?!” Charlie exclaimed, horrorstruck. “I thought you said 450!”

“Oh, this is tragic,” Scarlett said.  

“I can fix it!” Mercy trilled buoyantly, breezing off to the kitchen as Charlie followed after her with a fountain of apologies. She shushed them away affectionately, patting his chest with her soft plump hands, chuckling about how luckily they had fire extinguishers stowed away in almost every closet just in case. And there were other reasons for that besides Charlie’s perilous baking attempts, but he didn’t know them. Now the record player was belting out Queen’s Thank God It’s Christmas.  

Archer lost another round in Mario Kart and exhaled a great, mournful sigh. “Hey, Baby Swanpire, can you do something about this guy?” He nodded to Rami. “This is criminal. It’s nowhere near a fair fight. He knows every freaking time I’m about to toss a banana peel.”

Rami smirked guiltily up at me from the couch, not bothering to deny it.

“Do you mind?” I asked him.

“Not at all,” Rami replied. “I want to show this loser I can beat him even without the benefit of mega-cool extrasensory superpowers.”

“Rude!” Archer cried.

“So rude,” Scarlett agreed, smiling.

“Okay, here we go.” I sat down beside Rami, still holding Ben’s envelope in my right hand, and laid my left against Rami’s cheek. And I felt a fistful of numbness—like instant peace, like milk-white Novocain—pass from my skin into his, rolling into his skull, deadening whatever telepathic livewires had been ignited there in the August of 1916. The effect would last anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours; and it worked on every vampire I’d met so far.

“Whoa, trippy,” Rami murmured. “It’s still weird, every single time.” He peered drowsily around the room. “It’s...so...quiet?! You guys really live like this? No one is constantly bombarding you with sexual fantasies or romantic pining or depressive inner monologues? How do you function?! Now I’m alone with my own thoughts, that’s actually worse!”

“Hurry up and beat him while he’s all freaked out and vulnerable,” Scarlett told Archer.

Archer laughed, picking up his Nintendo 64 controller, radiant with the promise of vengeance. “Yes ma’am.”

“Any good mail?” Lucy asked Joe.

“Yeah. Coupons and a ton of Christmas cards from random people. The vet sent us one with alpacas on it, so that’s cute. Oh, and here’s one from our favorite Canadians.”

Joe held up the card so we could all see. The picture on the front showed Cato and Honora sitting on a large velvet, forest green couch with a hulking Christmas tree illuminated in the background. The others were arranged around them: Austin, Max, Ksenia, Charity, Araminta, Akari, Morana, Phelan, Aruna, Adair, Zora, Sahel, and a few new faces I couldn’t name yet. They were all wearing matching turtleneck sweaters. And every single one of them was smiling.

Joe cleared his throat theatrically and read the text on the inside of the card:

“Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

(Oh, and Scarlett, congratulations on your not-marriage.)

- Cato Douglass Freeman”

“That bastard,” Scarlett muttered.

Rami offered me his controller. He had just slipped on a banana peel and rocketed off a cliff. “You want a turn?”

“No, thanks though. I have to talk to Ben. Is he around?”

Rami shrugged ruefully. “I would help, but my brain is temporarily broken.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, taking a gingerbread cookie from the tray and biting into it as Lucy batted crumbs from the red lace dress, exasperated. “I think he’s out in the hot tub.”

“Cool. I shall return.”

Joe took my spot on the couch as I departed, shoveling cookies into his mouth, seizing Rami’s controller and kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

I opened the door to the back porch, and frigid December air rushed in like an uninvited guest. The field was coated with a thin layer of snow, the animals safe and warm in the barn, the garden slumbering. And in the spring and summer, when blossoms of a dozen different varieties came open beneath the drizzling grey skies, Mercy’s calla lilies didn’t bother my allergies at all. Nothing did anymore. Ben was indeed in the hot tub, puffing on his vape pen, wearing only a beanie hat and swim trunks.

“What flavor is that cartridge?” I asked as I approached. “Gummy bear?”

“Close. Strawberry doughnut.”

“Ohhhh, yum!” Ben passed me the vape pen, and I took a drag as I kicked off my boots and sat near him on the rim of the hot tub, slipping my bare feet beneath the steaming, roiling water. Then I handed his vape pen back. “So. Guess what I have for you.”

“Uh.” He glanced at the envelope. “Jury duty.”

“Better.”

“Someone I hate has jury duty.”

I flipped the envelope around so he could see the University of Chicago logo on the front.

“Oh god,” Ben moaned.

“Don’t you want to see what it says?”

“Not really,” he admitted, grimacing.

“Come on, Ben. Open it.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?!”

Ben sighed. “Look, if I open it and it’s bad news, it’s gonna make Christmas weird. Rami will know. They’ll all know. They’ll all feel bad for me and it’ll be pathetic and depressing and awkward. You can look if you want to, just don’t tell anyone else yet.”

“It’s not going to be bad news,” I said, tugging at the floppy top of his beanie hat. He swatted my hand away, but he was smiling grudgingly.

“You have positively no way of knowing that. Unless Lucy’s had a vision I’m unaware of.”

“She hasn’t. You know she never sees anything important.”

“She saw you coming,” Ben countered.

“She saw human-me and Joe in love and gobbling down pretzels at a Cubs game. So I’d say there were at least a few minor details missing.”

“There’s no way I got in,” Ben said, his green eyes slick and fearful and now fixed on the envelope. “We can’t all be geniuses like you.”

“That’s an unfair accusation. I’m far from genius. I’m just obsessed with the ocean.” I’d written my senior thesis on the feeding habits of Pacific angelsharks, and my advisor was still trying to figure out how I, an amateur scuba diver at best, had managed to get so many quality photographs with my underwater camera. The secret, of course, was superhuman agility and not needing to breathe.

“I fucking hate calculus. The MCAT wrecked me. I got a 517.”

“And their median score is a 519, so I’d say you still have a fighting chance. Plus you have like eight million volunteer hours.” Ben had spent the vast majority of the past year either in class or at the hospital. The psychiatrist-in-chief, Dr. Siegel, had been more than happy to take one of Gwil’s foster children under her wing. Every human in Forks except Archer believed that Dr. Gwilym Lee had drowned in a tragic boating accident while he and Mercy were on vacation in Southern California, and that his body had never been recovered. The town had held a wonderful remembrance ceremony and dedicated a free clinic at the hospital in his honor. “Now open it.”

“You do it,” Ben relented finally. “My hands are wet. Go ahead, open it up and tell me what it says. And then kindly euthanize me to end my immortal shame.”

“That wouldn’t work,” I pointed out, tearing open the envelope. I pulled out the tri-folded piece of paper inside, flattened it against my thighs, and read the typed black text.

“...Well?” Ben pressed, vaping frantically.

I looked up and smiled at him.

“No way,” he whispered.

“I hope you like pretzels and bear-themed baseball teams, grandpa.”

And for a second, I thought he might bolt up out of the hot tub, hooting victoriously, splashing water all over the back porch as he danced around bellowing that he’d gotten into one of the best medical schools in the world, that he would be following me and Joe to Chicago. But that wasn’t Ben. Instead, a slow smile rippled across his face: it was small, but perfectly genuine. Pure, even.

“Goddamn,” he said, watching me. Venom doesn’t just resurrect or ruin; it forms a bond that is simultaneously intangible and yet immense. It’s an evolutionary adaptation, a way to facilitate stability and the building of covens in an often violent and ruleless world. And now that he had turned me, Ben had family here in Forks in more ways than one.

“Gwil would be so proud of you, Ben.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

The back door of the house opened, and Joe stepped outside. He studied Ben for a moment, and that was all it took for him to know. “Benny!” he shouted, elated.

“I know, I know. Fortunately, I look amazing in red. Thanks, supermodel genes.”

“This is going to be so fun!” Joe said, sprinting over to wrap Ben—who was characteristically lukewarm on this whole physical displays of affection business—in a hug from just outside the hot tub. “We’re going to go furniture shopping, and eat deep-dish pizza, and find apartments right next to each other, and mail home Chicago-themed care packages, and get you hooked up with some gorgeous Italian woman...or whatever you like, I guess I shouldn’t assume. Women. Men. Gang members. Marine mammals. Jessicas. Whatever. There are options.”

Ben laughed as he playfully shoved Joe away. “Sounds like a plan, pagliaccio.”

“Oh my god, stop learning Italian without me! You realize you have to tell Mom now.”

“I will,” Ben agreed, with some trepidation. “I’ll wait until after Christmas.”

“It’ll be hard for her,” I said. “But she knows it’s what you want. She knows it’s what’s best for you. So she’ll get through it. I think it would be worse for her if you didn’t get in, if she had to see you unhappy.”

Ben nodded, exhaling strawberry-doughnut-flavored vapor, gazing up at the stars, Orion and Auriga and Lynx and Perseus reflected in his thoughtful jade eyes. “She’ll still have Rami and Lucy and Scarlett here with her. And Archer. And Charlie.”

“Especially Charlie,” Joe said, grinning.

Mercy would have to leave Forks eventually, of course. The Lees had already been here for nearly four years; they could stay another ten, perhaps fifteen at the absolute maximum. And there had been a time when ten or fifteen years seemed like quite a while to me, but now it felt like I could doze off one afternoon and wake up on the other side of it, like swimming a lap in the sun-drenched public pool back in Phoenix. We would find a new home somewhere after Joe and I finished our PhDs, after Ben finished medical school, maybe Vancouver or Buffalo or Amsterdam or Edinburgh or Dublin or Reykjavik. Wherever we went, I hoped it wouldn’t be far from the sea. But Mercy couldn’t bear to leave Forks yet. It was the last home she had shared with Gwil, the last house they would ever build together, and leaving it would make his loss all the more irrevocable. She would be ready to leave someday, but not today.

In the meantime, there would still be visits for breaks and holidays. Scarlett and Archer had the shop to keep them busy, a brand new eight-car garage that held a virtual monopoly on both the Forks and Quileute communities. Lucy had opened a bohemian-style clothing boutique downtown, which confounded most of the locals but attracted more adventurous customers from as far away as Seattle. Rami was interning for a local immigration lawyer and entertaining the possibility of applying to U Chicago’s law school in another few years. And Mercy had the farm; and she had Charlie. He had asked her for cooking lessons to try to help rouse her a few months after Gwil’s death, and it had grown from there. If it wasn’t romantic just yet, I believed it would be soon. And there were moments when I thought my father might have figured something out, when his eyes narrowed and lingered on me just a little too long, when his brow knitted into suspicious, searching lines, when the hairs rose on the back of his neck and some innate insight whispered that we weren’t like him and never could be again. But then he would chuckle, shake his head, and say: “You’ve gotten weird, my gorgeous, brilliant progeny. But Forks looks pretty good on you.”

“Can I talk to you upstairs?” Joe asked me suddenly; and did I see restless nerves flicker in his dark eyes? I thought I did.

“Sure,” I replied, climbing down from the hot tub. “Ben, are you coming inside? My dad is trying to bake Christmas cookies and failing miserably. It’s pretty hilarious. Not that you should be the one to critique other people’s kitchen-related accidents.”

“I do enjoy your company a lot more now that I don’t want to murder you and slurp you down like a Chick-fil-A milkshake,” Ben said. “Yeah, give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.” And as Joe and I headed into the house, I saw Ben pick up the acceptance letter that I’d left on the rim of the hot tub and read it for himself with incredulous eyes, grappling with the irrefutable fact that it was his name on the opening line, that he had somewhere along the way become the sort of man who dedicated his immortality to saving lives rather than ending them.

In the living room, Scarlett was back in her yoga pants and absolutely brutalizing Archer in Mario Kart. Rami and Lucy were entwined together on the loveseat, murmuring, giggling, feeding each other pieces of gingerbread cookies. In the kitchen, Charlie was leading Mercy in a clumsy waltz to Meat Loaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love, and each time he fumbled his steps or mortifyingly trod on her feet she would cry out in a peal of laughter brighter than the sun she had learned to live without. Joe spirited me up the staircase, into his bedroom—which, honestly, was more like our bedroom now, in the same way that my room in Charlie’s house had become Joe’s as well—and closed the door.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “Your dad totally ruined our song. Now I can’t hear it without thinking about some moustached guy in plaid trying to seduce my mom.”

“It’s the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for. Meat Loaf is vanquished. Oh, just so you’re aware, Renee and Paul are getting an Airbnb and coming up for New Years.”

“Cool. Do they still think I have a super embarrassing sunlight allergy and will break into hives and asphyxiate and that’s why we can’t visit them in Florida?”

“Yup.”

“Spectacular. Also, can you please tell me what’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“They’re just a little sparse, amore. But I still like you.”

“Well, I am only moderately attractive, you know.” Then Joe steeled himself, taking a deep breath. Uh oh. He was definitely nervous. I still couldn’t believe I had the power to make him that way, but here we were. “So I get that we’re doing presents with the whole family tomorrow morning, and you do have some under the tree, so don’t worry about that. But there’s one I wanted to give to you alone. You know. With just us. Without an audience. Or whatever.”

“...Okay...?” A secret gift? A naughty gift? “I hope it’s a new vibrator.”

“Shut up,” Joe begged, laughing. “Here.” He reached into the drawer of his nightstand—our nightstand—and produced a small blue box topped with a turquoise bow. It wasn’t a ring, I was sure of that; I didn’t feel especially attached to the idea of marriage, and neither did Joe to my knowledge. How could rings or papers seal commitment when you already had eternity? I was right: the mysterious present was not a ring. When I removed the lid and emptied the box into my palm, what appeared there was a small plastic airplane.

“What is this?” I asked, amused but puzzled.

“Are you not college educated? It’s a plane.”

“Well, yeah, I can see that. But it’s also like two inches long.” I scrutinized the plane. “Are you magically transforming me into a tiny, tiny, little plastic person? Is that my gift? Because I actually got you something good.” And I really did: there was a collection of vintage Chicago Cubs photographs from the 1910s and 20s downstairs under the Christmas tree, packaged in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer wrapping paper.

“We’re going on a trip,” Joe said, grinning. “The day after Christmas. It’s just a short trip, nothing huge, don’t get too excited, we’re not going to Mt. Everest or Antarctica or anything. I think you’ll still like it. But I don’t want you to know where we’re going until we’re there.”

“How will that work? Considering the tickets and signage and pilot announcements and obnoxiously noisy other passengers and all.”

“ScarJo’s going to fly us.”

“Really?!” We were taking the jet. We almost never used the jet. “What’s in it for Scarlett?”

“She found out that Archer’s never had In-N-Out Burger before and is very much looking forward to initiating him into the cult of deliciousness.”

“Oh nice. I could go for a vanilla milkshake myself, now that Ben mentioned them.”  

“Obviously I’m gonna buy you all the milkshakes and animal-style fries you want. Bankrupt me, bitch. But we have to get one other thing taken care of first.”

“So it’s somewhere they have In-N-Out Burger...” I pondered aloud. California? Texas? Las Vegas? I felt a brief but unambiguous pang of homesickness for Phoenix. But there was nothing there for me anymore.

“Stop,” Joe pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’ve already said too much. Please forget that. Get a traumatic brain injury or oxygen deprivation or something.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m rather indestructible at the moment.”

He smiled wistfully. “I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.”

There was laughter downstairs in the living room. I could detect the aroma of a fresh batch of sugar cookies baking in the kitchen, mingling with the cold night air and pine trees and peppermint candy canes. I loved Christmas. The entire world smelled like Joe. The U Chicago décor, classic rock posters, and Italian flag were now interspersed with National Geographic pages and photos of the two of us together. The Official Whatever You Want Pass hung in a small, square picture frame on the wall above Joe’s bed. Our bed.

“How real is it, Joe?” I asked quietly. I climbed onto my tiptoes, linking my hands around the back of his neck with the tiny plane still tucked between my fingers. “Seriously. The wishes thing.”

“The world may never know. Akari never met me as a human, so she wouldn’t be able to say. But if I had to place a bet...” He shrugged, grinning craftily. “Kinda real. Kinda not real. Just like vampires, I guess.”

“I am alarmingly glad that you’re real, mob guy,” I said, abruptly somber. “I never thought I’d meet someone who saw me as remarkable, who could make me see myself that way. And it’s miraculous. And it’s terrifying too, honestly. Being a thing with you. Falling for someone you could have for centuries and lose in a second.”

“It’s the scariest thing there is,” Joe concurred, taking my hand to lead me back downstairs.

Joseph

Scarlett looks like a goddess, and she knows it. But she’s not one of those magnanimous, fragile, harp-plucking, pastel-colored goddesses. She’s ferocity and wildness and crimson like blood, and that’s exactly why Archer loves her. And as they stand in front of the Christmas tree with their hands clasped together—ivory on bronze, snow on sun—with matching sprigs of holly in Scarlett’s hair and pinned to the jacket of Archer’s suit, reciting truths but no promises, I can’t help but watch the other faces in the room: Rami, Lucy, Ben, Charlie, Mom with her beaming smile and shining eyes, the woman I met sixteen months ago and now can’t fathom life without. And it occurs to me for the first time that love, in its cleanest form, isn’t something that changes people as much as it allows them to become who they truly are.

On the evening of December 26th, as soon as the sun dips beneath the western horizon, we board the jet in the Forks Airport hangar. It’s much easier for Scarlett to fly at night; otherwise she has to wear two or three pairs of sunglasses on top of each other, and even then it’s still painful, it still feels like blinding needles burrowing into the jelly of her retinas. That’s not a wrench in my plans or anything. It needs to be night where we’re going, too.

Vampire hyper-acuity notwithstanding, FAA regulations require Scarlett to have a copilot, so Archer joins her in the flight deck with his newly-minted license and spends most of the journey flipping through the latest issue of Motor Trend. As we begin our descent, he peeks back at us and teases: “It’ll be your turn eventually, guys. Scarlett and I did our time. Rami and Lucy can go next year. And after that...unless Ben happens to find someone worthy of a not-wedding...” He wiggles his black eyebrows.

“Bring it on,” I reply casually. “Fake wedding are my jam. It’ll be ocean themed. Or Roaring ‘20s themed. And we’ll all do the Cha-Cha Slide in the living room and shame Ben as a bonding activity.”

“Mercy can set up a mashed potatoes bar,” Baby Swan adds.

“Yeah. With pineapple.”

“No. Not on potatoes.”

“Yes on potatoes.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Too late,” I tell her, touching my lips to the knuckles of her cool, steady hand.

We touch down at a small noncommercial airport just outside the city, and Scarlett and Archer stay back to secure the plane as Baby Swan follows me outside. And she realizes where we are as soon as the wind hits her, as soon as her eyes soak up the sand and cacti and cloudless night sky like rain swallowed up by parched earth.

“Phoenix,” she whispers, smiling like a child.

“But wait, there’s more!” I announce in my best Billy Mays voice. I take the little glass bottle from my pocket, walk across the runway to the naked desert, crouch down when I find a suitable spot, and fill the bottle with dry, sandy earth that crumbles in my palms. Then I seal the bottle with a tiny cork and bring it back to give it to her.

“I know what it’s like to have to leave home,” I say. “You’ve had to say goodbye to Phoenix, and soon you’ll have to say goodbye to Forks, and next will be Chicago, on and on forever. You’ll always be leaving the places you learn to call home. Every five or ten or fifteen years, we start over again. Like a snake shedding its skin, like a hermit crab swapping shells. Like the water that travels from rain to seawater to mist and then back again. But now you can always have a little piece of home with you, and maybe that will make it easier.”

She takes the glass bottle and shakes her head in disbelief, in wonder. Because this is exactly what she wanted, what she needed, even if she didn’t know it yet. “Joe...how did you...?”

“What’d I tell ya? I’m a talented guy. Now you have to dance with me.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Hard pass. I don’t dance.”

“When we’re alone in my bedroom you do. So just pretend we’re alone now. In, like, a really really spacious, sandy bedroom. With probably some lizards.”

“Fine. But only because I’m willing to degrade myself for milkshakes.”

She slides the glass bottle of Arizona earth into her pocket and takes my hands. She’s still a pretty terrible dancer, honestly. She hasn’t lost that. And I love that about her. I love damn near everything about her. And it took me a long time to figure out what exactly her subtle yet peerless cocktail of fragrance is, because it wasn’t somewhere I’d ever been. The scent that drifts from her pores—the scent that now lives in my bedsheets like a shadow or a ghost—is sunlight and heat and clarity and resilience and wisdom older than the pyramids. Her scent is the desert.

Now she’s mischievous, her eyes gleaming with the reflections of the Milky Way and the full moon and the stars that are dead and yet eternal, just like us. “So what, you think you’re Vampire Boyfriend Of The Year material now or what? Some dirt and In-N-Out Burger? That’s the height of your game? Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my perpetual existence? I totally should have pursued that polyamorous triad with Scarlett and Archer when I had the chance—”

“Yeah,” I say, very softly, smiling, tilting up her chin to kiss her beneath the universe and all its eccentricities. “I love you too.”

[mimik-u]

“Homeworld Bound” Thoughts:

I wasn’t going to watch this one today, but then I realized that I really missed the Diamonds and wanted to consume novel content, so!

OOH, good on the show for taking us directly to the aftermath of “Fragments” instead of putting space between the episodes. That’s just... a really good choice narrative wise.

Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl’s expressions are so distressing here. He’s been gone for three days; they must’ve been so worried.

Jasper steps aside to reveal an absolutely ruined Steven.

He just technically killed a gem and then resurrected her. How intensely will that forever lie on his psyche? Oh my g od

NO, NOT JASPER PASSIVELY MAKING THE DIAMOND SIGN IN THE BACKGROUND AUGH

“You can’t just disappear for days without telling us!”

Steven silent walking up to the Observatory as the Gems continue to freak the fuck out is harrowing. And Dee Dee Magno Hall is killing it with her voice acting here. The simultaneous fear and anger and horror in her voice. Oh my g d

“You guys... I love you, but you can’t help me anymore. I’ve been avoiding the only people in the entire universe who can.” 🥺 This is sad, but I’m also, like, problematic grandmas time!!!!!

“Find something better to do with your life.” God, Jasper’s look of disbelief and sadness here. I didn’t really delve into this during my “Fragments” watch because I was just roridoodwrjfkrkeke reeling, but her reaction to being accidentally shattered is psychologically devastating???? I’d wager that she simultaneously respects the fact that she’s been subjugated by a being more powerful than her, that she’s grateful to Steven for being both subjugator and savior, and likely, she’s conflating this new loyalty with her former loyalty for Pink. This is a really complex psyche (a tragic one most of all).

Garnet: “Steven, remember, we’ll always be your family.” I’m so fucki n emo

AWHWHWH, HOMEWORLD IS SO BRIGHT AND COLORFUL NOW!!!

YO!! Homeworld has a democracy now!! The Zircons!!!!!!!

THE WALL GEM IS MOVING??????? KWOEOEIDJDKSJS

Can u imagine being a wall cursed with sentience. that is so funny on so many levels

But it’s also really interesting, too. If the Wall Gem is a gem in the way say Topazes are gems, which, judging by her mobility, she is—then her explicit purpose in Era 1-2, as molded by presumably Yellow, was to b a wall omg. (Or, arguably, I think it can be argued that the inanimate object Gems, like Comby, were probably accidental sentient creations, made in relationship to their proximity to the Diamonds during their various secretion rituals!!)

Anyway, I love thinking about Homeworld worldbuilding. It’s fascinating.

SQUARE PERIDOT

SPIIIIIINELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!

Her heart eyes!! She looks so happy!

Steven, angry af: “Spinel, what is wrong with you?” / Spinel: Oh, you know—the usual.” KEKDSKDK

Also, Steven really wanted to say fuck there. NEKDDKKSSKKS

“I was such a wreck then, but I am so much better now.” We stan character growth 😭😭

One thing I have loved the Crewniverse so much for doing is never taking away the physical signs of gems’ mental distress, even after they’ve gotten better: Blue’s eye bags, Volleyball’s eye, Spinel’s running mascara. That is so important.

YELLOW SITTING AT HER LIL VANITY!!

IT’S LIGHT INSIDE HER ROOM! THERE R FLOWERS! THRIVE, QUEEN, THRIVE.

YELLOW REVERSING HER GEM EXPERIMENTS OH MY G D

FUCKING QUEEN!!!!!!

(I’m sorry in advance. The rest of the live blog is just going to be screaming about the Diamonds.)

“I can permanently alter any physical form!” She’s so proud of herself. 😭😭😭 I fuckin’ love her.

Yellow laying down on the ground like that is SENDING ME SKSKSJSJ.

Ugh, and her being such a good mom to Spinel. I’m cry in f

“If anything’s out of proportion, it’s your temper. You can be big if you want to, or you can be small if you want to, but if you’re going to be upset no matter what, then this problem isn’t physical—it’s emotional. Go see Blue.”

I really like her advice here because it’s advice that comments so clearly on her own character arc. At her lowest, she was quick to anger, aggressive, and temperamental, which she diagnoses in Steven here. Additionally, she was the Diamond who was concerned largely with physical actions. She coped by maintaining the Empire through conquering planets and maintaining the minutiae of leadership; she thought the only way to receive justice for Pink was through the physical act of destruction. And in doing so, she pushed her own emotions deep, deep down until they manifested in anger, aggressiveness, and temperamental outbursts. This hurt the people she cared about, and it hurt herself most of all.

Also, “Go see Blue. That is her department.” Ejdoiddjdjjsjdjdks, “go see ur other grandma.”

BLUE FLOATING ON A CLOUD!!!!!

“Your powers have been causing you dramatic mood swings? That seems awfully troubling Steven.” God I love her

“You don’t seem troubled.” This is a really interesting line because it comments on how Blue’s emotions, especially her negatively charged ones, used to be so visible all over her; indeed, she both wittingly and actively used to project them on other Gems, forcing them to feel her suffering, too.

OH, SHE GOES ON TO SAY THE EXACT SAME THING EOEODODISSJJS. LISTEN, I REALLY VIBE WITH BLUE.

“Back before you came into my life, Steven, I wanted every one to feel the pain I felt. I realized I must make up for my awful behavior by bringing joy to others.”

Another thing I’ve appreciated about the writing in this episode: So far, both Blue and Yellow have used the adjective awful to describe their former actions. It’s the self-awareness and the refusal to try to excuse themselves that powerfully shows how much they’ve grown. And it’s their continuous endeavors to keep moving forward, to help the Gems that they’ve hurt, that indicates that they’re willing to constantly keep growing and atoning.

NFOFOFDKSSKSKSK, THESE CLOUDS ARE JUST HER VAPORIZED TEARS HELP.

Sick vape clouds, Blue

I’VE HEARD THE SONG BEFORE, BUT EVERY TIME SHE SINGS, I LOSE MY SHI T

LISA HANNNNIGAAAAAAAN

This is such a pretty line: “Cold palace walls, and endless empty halls, haunted by echoes of laughter.”

BLUE ASCENDING THROUGH THE CLOUDS AUSHAHHSHD

BLUE MAKING HEART CLOUDS FOR SPINEL!!

BLUE CALLING SPINEL N STEVEN HER LITTLE REASONS WHY.

“I’LL NEVER MAKE YOU CRY.” This line is particularly lovely because I think it plays well with Steven’s line to her in “CYM:” “How many times did you make her cry?”

BDJDJDJSJDJ, BLUE LAYING ON HER CLOUD LIKE YELLOW LAID ON THE FLOOR.

The way she sings the last “loving you.” 😭😭😭😭 I’m gonna weep. I love her so fucking much.

“I found happiness. If that's not something you think you deserve, then I suspect this is an issue of self worth. I suggest you go to White for assistance with such matters.” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 And like Yellow did, Blue gets to the heart of her arc cleanly.

Before Steven and before her own emotional reckoning, she didn’t think it was her place to be happy: “I know my purpose isn’t to be happy.” But in learning to love others, Blue has found true, inner happiness, which she literally shares with others. Wow.

And I think there’s something powerful in her distinction between true happiness and self-worth. You can’t find one without espousing the other.

White’s room is so pretty. 🥺

THE FLASHING STROBE LIGJTS DDNJDFJDJDNF.

SPINEL WHITE DIAMOND?!/!:$;8;83&:&:

SHE FUCKING LETS OTHER GEMS CONTROL HE R HELP.

SPINEL MAKING WHITE TAP DANCE FICODODOFODJDNDJSJDJDJJDDJDJ

Steven’s horrified expression omg

“I’m scared I’m gonna hurt people; I guess I already have.” God.

And that’s another thing that this episode has called to mind. Blue, Yellow, and White alike once used their insane powers to hurt other Gems and to hurt themselves, and here, throughout this series, we see Steven discovering that same capacity for destruction and self-destruction. Along with the systematic oppressions they facilitated, a big part of the Diamonds’ modus operandi was that their powers were directly correlated to their mental states and their various inabilities to confront their own selves and effect inner change. The corrective wasn’t necessarily Steven; the corrective was him helping them to do that initial act of introspection and looking inwards. And so, too, will Steven have to do the same by the end of this series. But I presume that his family, all the people and gems who have loved and cared for him, will in effect be his Steven, just as he has always been for them.

“Half a Diamond, half a creature of Earth—in all the universe there's no one else that could know what you’re going through, so maybe it's time you talked to yourself.” This is so viscerally sad. White hits the nail on the head here. Steven’s human friends/family and his gem family and even the Diamonds, who come the closest to matching his own strength, can never fully understand him. It’s the tension that underscores a lot, if not the entire show.

White briefly touches Steven with her nail, and you can viscerally see the trauma on his face; he hasn’t forgotten her act above all, wrenching his gem out, nearly killing him.

“I’m... I’m a Diamond.” Steven, in looking at White Diamond, realizes that she’s a mirror of himself. Holy fucking shit

“I don’t want to be you! I don’t want to be anything like you!” HOLY FUCKING SHIT

“Don’t hurt me! She can’t hurt me! I’m controlling her...” And here, Steven doesn’t light upon the essential thing... in making White punch the wall, nearly knocking a huge rock into him, he’s the one hurting himself.

This show, oh my g o d

“She’s the one who should be afraid.” STEVEN?!!!!????!??!

“No, stop it! I don’t like this!” / “Please, you’re scaring me.” OH MY GO D

HE FUCKING MADE HER SLAM HER GEM AGAINST A PILLAR HOLY HE LL

“What... what was that?” Christine’s delivery here. Holy shit. 😭😭 And both of them are surrounded in the carnage of Steven’s wrath. Holy fucking shit.

This act is fundamentally different than him accidentally shattering Jasper in “Fragments”; this was an intentional attempt to hurt White, to crack her, to break her. Holy fucking shit

Spinel, Blue, and Yellow waiting for Steven outside of White’s door has my heart a little and a lot tender 🥺🥺🥺🥺

SPINEL SINGING I CAN MAKE A CHANGE SO DRAMATICALLY DJDIDJDJDJDJD. (But yeah, lmao, this will absolutely be the conclusion of Steven’s arc at the end of Future.)

“Steven! Let us help you, Steven!” The Diamonds are so concerned (mirroring the Gems back at home, too). 😭😭

He leaves a flip flop behind like Cinderella lmao

“Steven, let us help you!” / “We’re your family!” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

And just as he implored the CGs, he tells the Diamonds not to follow him either.

Steven is completely and utterly alone.

Not by necessity.

But God, by choice.

Okay, this is my new favorite Future episode.

[wondernimbus]

quidditch world cup — seamus finnigan

pairing: seamus finnigan x female!reader

request: Would you write a Seamus Finnigan imagine during the Quidditch World Cup where his crush sits near them during the game and has a tent near the Finnigans (and Dean) and when the Death Eaters attack and he and his crush hide from the Death Eaters together?

a/n: i changed a few minor details about the original request but other than that, enjoy! 

A palpable buzz of excitement still hangs in the air after the match has officially ended. Some of those rooting for Bulgaria trudge out of the stands looking glum, but most, although the team they had been rooting for lost, are just as excited as the Irish—or perhaps not as excited, but close to it. On her way back to the tents, [Y/N] spots no less than five fans of Ireland weeping tears of joy.

"You'd think they won a thousand galleons with how they were acting," [Y/N] points out with a laugh after coming across an Irish fan pounding his fists on the ground and bawling loudly.

Beside her, Dean Thomas snickers. "I bet a thousand galleons Seamus is somewhere going bonkers—oh, there he is."

[Y/N], with much difficulty, tears her gaze away from the bawling man and looks up. Sure enough, Seamus Finnigan is standing a couple feet away from them in front of his tent, wildly brandishing a pole on which hangs the flag of Ireland.

She can't help but laugh at the sight. "How long do you think before he starts crying?"

Dean nudges her. "I assume you'll be wiping his tears away when he does?"

"Oh, shut up."

Seamus catches sight of them when they draw closer. He stops waving his flag around and grins at the pair, looking the happiest [Y/N] has ever seen him. "We won, lads!" he yells, bounding towards them.

"Lads?" [Y/N] wrinkles her nose, fighting back a laugh. Seamus looks like a five-year-old on Christmas day who just got the toy broomstick he wanted.

"Don't mind his vocabulary, [Y/N]. He's half out of his mind," Dean says in a mock sympathetic voice, clasping Seamus's shoulder with one hand. "You good, mate? Sure you don't need to sit down?"

"Never been better!" Seamus answers breathlessly, eyes wide with mirth as he bounces slightly on his toes. "Never had any doubt Ireland would win—poor Bulgaria never had a chance!"

"Don't start crying on us now, Seamus," Dean sniggers. "Or at least if you do, do it on [Y/N]—"

"Seamus!" [Y/N] exclaims, cutting Dean off with a sideways glare. "The painting on your, um, cheek—it's gone a little messy. Would you like me to fix it for you?"

It's not a lie. The large four-leaf clover painted on Seamus's right cheek has gone smudged and looks more like a big blob of green than what it's actually supposed to be. He absentmindedly drags his hand across his cheek, making it even worse.

Dean snorts. "Oh, now you're just doing it on purpose—"

"Can't say no to that, [Y/N]!" grins Seamus. "Gotta show my Ireland pride. I've got a brush or two in my tent. Come on, you two!"

Dean gives [Y/N] a look. She smacks him on the shoulder and rolls her eyes. "What?" she whispers as they follow Seamus into his tent.

"You seem an awful lot like you're up to something," Dean grins, not bothering to lower his tone.

"Who's up to something?" Seamus asks, rummaging in his bag presumably in search for a paintbrush.

"No one," [Y/N] assures him, glowering at Dean. And then, in a hushed voice, "I am not up to something—I'm his friend, I'm just being nice."

Dean raises his eyebrows at her, obviously not convinced. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she turns to Seamus, who has successfully located a small paintbrush and bottles of green and white paint. "Here you go, [Y/N]—Dean, where are you going?"

[Y/N] looks back at Dean only to see that he's halfway out of the tent flaps, back hunched as though he'd been tip-toeing. He straightens up, trying very hard to mask the devious grin on his face, and shrugs. "I just remembered I had to, uh, meet with Lee," [Y/N] gapes at him in disbelief. "I'll see you two later!"

And then, with no more than a final annoying smirk at [Y/N], Dean leaves the pair of them alone in the tent. [Y/N] lets out a quick breath of incredulous laughter, shaking her head as her gaze skitters back to Seamus, who looks just as perplexed as she does.

"Do you—um—" for some reason, some of the glee in Seamus's eyes dies out and is replaced by a touch of awkwardness; [Y/N] can see it in how his gaze darts away from hers. "Do you still wanna—" he gestures to the paintbrush and paint he holds in his hands.

[Y/N] has never hated Dean in her life more than she does now. "Of course," she sniffs, letting out a laugh in an attempt to ease the sudden burst of awkwardness now hanging between them.

Seamus hands her the paintbrush and paint, scratching the back of his head. "You don't have to do it really well, it's alright—I'm washing it off before I sleep anyway—"

[Y/N] lets out a genuine snort of laughter. "Are you sure?" she asks, eyebrows raised. "You seem like the type to show Irish pride wherever and whenever, even when you're asleep."

Seamus ducks his head in shame. "You've got that one right," he grins toothily. "Those blokes were amazing up there, don't you think? Never had any doubt they were gonna win—and Troy was bloody spectacular, did you see his goals?"

"They were hard to miss," [Y/N] agrees, amused as she pries the paintbrush and paint off of Seamus's hands and beckons for him to sit down on the couch, which he does, still rambling on about Troy—Ireland's best Chaser.

"Knew right off the bat he was gonna end up scoring the first goal—he's been training the longest out of all of them, see, he got signed right after he left Hogwarts and he's been under the Irish National Quidditch Team's wing for a decade!"

[Y/N] nods along, a smile playing on her lips as she dips the brush into green paint.

"And that was a bit of a daft move by Krum, don't you think, catching the snitch when Ireland was more than a hundred and fifty points up? Kinda' feel bad for the bloke, I bet his teammates are having a go at him right n—"

Seamus stops talking when she leans in close and places a hand on his cheek.

He swallows.

"Why'd you stop?" [Y/N] asks, pulling back momentarily and laughing.

Seamus swallows again, blinking rapidly. "You just. Uh, caught me by surprise."

She narrows her eyes at him playfully, smiling despite the blush coating her cheeks that she hopes to Merlin Seamus doesn't notice. "I'll be sure to give you a warning next time," she assures him, eyes twinkling. "You good?"

He nods, fidgeting around in his seat as he mumbles something about the Irish team.

[Y/N] leans in for a second time, hovering over him with one hand on his cheek to keep his head steady and the other fixing the painting of the four-leaf clover.

Seamus sits as still as he can, barely even breathing as he glues his eyes to a random spot beyond [Y/N]'s shoulder so he doesn't have to look her in the eye. In a lame attempt at conversation, he asks, trying not to move his lips too much, "Who—who were you rooting for?"

With her tongue darting out of her lips in concentration, she mutters, "Bulgaria."

Seamus's eyes widen almost comically. "You—what—" he blubbers, looking as though he wants to flail around in his seat. "Bulgaria?"

[Y/N] nods, jokingly scowling at him as she drags the brush across his cheek. "What, you don't want my filthy Bulgaria-loving hands on you?"

He opens and closes his mouth, looking at a complete loss for words. All he manages to get out is "Bulgaria?" in the same incredulous tone.

"Yes," [Y/N] laughs, drawing back to look at her creation. She places both hands on her hips as she tilts her head at him, eyes surveying the slightly better-looking four-leaf clover. "I think you're ready to go—unless you want to wash it off, since a Bulgaria fan drew it for you."

Seamus sits there, looking deeply offended at the notion of her supporting his favorite team's opponent. "I," he inhales, "am disappointed."

[Y/N] rolls her eyes, giggling in amusement as she sets down the paint and paintbrush on the table. "Cry me a river, Finnigan. Your team won, anyway—I don't see why you're so upset."

He rises to his feet, massaging his temples as though he's sporting a massive headache. "I'm very disappointed, [Y/N]," he admits, and she can't quite tell whether or not he's being serious. "You have everything—you're nice and you've got good humor and you're downright bloody gorgeous but you support Bulgaria?"

[Y/N] stares at him, the amused grin on her face slowly drooping as she registers his words.

"Bloody.. gorgeous?" she repeats, blinking.

Seamus's body turns rigid. He blinks rapidly, eyes wide like he's been caught in the act. "I didn't—"

Suddenly, a shrill, ear-deafening scream cuts through the air, louder than the celebratory hoots and whistles of the Irish. This one is filled with terror and fear and pain—the stuff of nightmares.

[Y/N] doesn't hesitate; she rushes to the tent entrance, dread blossoming in her stomach with every step she takes.

Everyone has stopped celebrating. The whole field seems to be at a standstill; smiles have fallen, the thrill of the Quidditch match forgotten as everyone stares up at the sky, where four people are being tossed about in mid-air.

"Are those—are those Muggles?" gasps [Y/N], horrified.

Another scream interrupts the deadly silence. And then another. And then another, until everyone starts screaming and running and the sounds of panic build up into a horrifying crescendo. Seamus tugs on [Y/N]'s arm—she hadn't realized she'd been frozen, transfixed at the horrendous sight above her.

"Come on, we gotta go—" Seamus is saying, dragging her by the arm. "[Y/N]!"

[Y/N] snaps herself out of her reverie. The tents are on fire. People are trampling over each other in desperation to flee to the forests. Her brain tells her to start running, so she does, Seamus clutching her hand beside her in a vice-like grip as witches and wizards alike push past them, shoulders ramming into theirs.

"Just keep running, we have to make it to the woods!" Seamus yells above the noise of panic; one of the Muggles in the air have started screaming—a woman—and loud, boisterous laughter ensues.

"Seamus, who are those people?" [Y/N] gasps, eyes catching onto the crowd of masked wizards standing beneath the Muggles. They're standing just several feet away from them, wands drawn as they march closer, huddled together in a pack. "Are those—"

"Don't look, [Y/N]—come on—"

Just before [Y/N] averts her shocked gaze, one of the wizards points his wand in her direction and a jet of green light rushes straight towards her—and it would have hit her right in the back if Seamus hadn't pulled her down at the last second.

Eyes wide with panic and her chest pumping with the adrenaline of nearly having been cursed, [Y/N] scrambles to her feet and lets Seamus drag her into a random nearby tent. "Stay quiet—don't move," he hisses once they've made it behind the tent flaps, crouching just behind the entrance.

"Seamus—were those—"

"Death Eaters, I think," he confirms her suspicions, gritting his teeth. "And they nearly damn cursed you."

[Y/N]'s grip on Seamus's hand tightens as she clamps her mouth shut, willing herself to stay as still and silent as possible. The woman's screaming intensifies and [Y/N]'s heart skips several beats when she hears it get closer and closer to where she and Seamus are hiding.

"Can't we just kill her already? Her screams disgust me almost as much as her blood does."

The voice is coming from right outside the tent. [Y/N]'s breathing gets quicker and she quickly covers her mouth with the hand that's not holding on to Seamus's.

"We are not here to kill—we are here to demonstrate," drawls another voice. "Let everyone see the powerlessness of these filthy, useless Muggles. It disappoints me how we have to resort to such means to prove an obvious point."

Seamus meets [Y/N]'s gaze; she sees her own fear reflected in his eyes. But even then, he gives her a reassuring smile, squeezing her hand in his as he mouths, "It's gonna be okay."

Slowly, she nods.

But then one of the wizards—one of the Death Eaters, her brain supplies not very helpfully—says, "Oi, do you see that?"

"See what?"

"That shadow. There's someone inside the tent—"

"Leave it. We are not here to harm magical blood."

"Shut up—who knows, we might get lucky and find ourselves a Mudblood!" Footsteps draw closer to their tent. Seamus and [Y/N] can do no more but crouch behind the entrance, eyes wide in mutual panic. "Come out, you!"

The tent flaps rustle. A hand pokes out—but then several screams cut through the air, and a sound like a powerful spell being cast echoes across the field.

"It's the Dark Mark!"

Several loud popping noises ensue. [Y/N] knows that sound; it's that of someone—or in this case, several people—apparating away. And then she hears four loud thuds outside, as though heavy bodies are dropping to the ground.

"I think they're gone," Seamus says, but his tone is still hushed.

[Y/N] doesn't pause to check. She unleashes her grasp from Seamus's and darts out of the tent, Seamus yelling behind her, and sure enough, the four Muggles who had been suspended in mid-air just moments before are now lying on the ground, eyes wide in terror except for the two young children who have fainted.

"Oh my God—"

"[Y/N]!" Someone—Seamus—catches her from behind as her knees buckle underneath her and her lungs seize up in her chest.

"Seamus—they—we have to help them—"

"[Y/N], calm down—"

She wrenches herself out of Seamus's hold and rushes to kneel down next to the Muggle woman, whose eyes have gone hazy, staring off into blank space. She doesn't even seem to have noticed [Y/N], who hovers over her, hands trembling, unsure of what to do.

Shaking, she takes the woman's hand in hers and squeezes, repeatedly saying something along the lines of "everything's fine, they're gone now" as Seamus stands back helplessly, wand in his hand as his eyes dart around the seemingly empty field of tents.

"[Y/N], we can't stay out here, they might come b—"

"What about them, Seamus?" [Y/N] cuts him off, gesturing wildly to the Muggles. "What are they going to do if the Death Eaters do come back? We can't just leave them here—"

Another loud, popping noise erupts through the air. All around them, familiar faces have appeared—ministry wizards. Seamus tugs on her arm and pulls her back to her feet, watching as the group of frazzled-looking wizards fuss over the Muggles.

"This is madness!" one of them exclaims, shaking his head in disbelief. Then his eyes meet Seamus and [Y/N]'s, and he immediately advances towards them, wand drawn.

"Calm down, Amos," another wizard says, stopping him in his tracks. "They're just children." And then, turning to the shaken pair, he nods. "Go back to your tents, you two. Everything's been taken care of."

"But—" [Y/N] begins, a thousand questions teetering just behind her lips, but Seamus mutters "let's go" next to her and tugs her along.

—

[Y/N] can't sleep at all that night.

She lies awake in her bed in her tent, the rest of her family already asleep. They'd been incredibly worried when she'd turned up outside of their tent after things had started to calm down. Seamus had insisted on walking her back, but [Y/N] had known that his mother must have been out of her mind with worry as well, so she'd told him it was okay.

Now, she stares up at the ceiling. Her hands haven't quite stopped shaking yet. Traces of the fear she'd felt before remain in her heart like an itch that just won't go away. She can't quite rid herself of it; the pure and utter terror she'd felt when she first saw the family of Muggles being tossed to-and-fro in mid-air.. the panic that tore at her heart when the Death Eater approached the tent she and Seamus had been hiding in..

She remembers being pulled to the ground as a curse hurtled through the air that had been aimed for her. She remembers the screaming. The vacant, unfocused looks on the Muggles' faces when the Death Eaters disappeared.

Suddenly, the tent feels too stuffy. She gets up out of bed and sneaks to the entrance, wanting to rid herself of the suffocating feeling in her chest with a bout of fresh air. She can't get out of there fast enough—she nearly trips over her own feet in desperation, and when she does tear past the tent flaps, she lets out a tiny scream.

"Seamus!"

Clutching her chest in surprise, she takes a step back.

Seamus is standing there, eyes wide like a deer in headlights before he drops his gaze bashfully and scratches the back of his head. "Hey," he says, raising a hand in greeting, but then he seems to remember that they're literally only three feet apart and drops his hand back to his side.

"Hey," [Y/N] says breathlessly. "What are you—what are you doing here?"

Seamus shoves one hand into his pocket, shifting a little on his feet. Quietly, he tells her, "I wanted to check if you were okay."

[Y/N] stares at him for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to react. The "I'm okay" rests on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't have the energy to lie, so she just shakes her head and hopes to leave it at that.

Slowly—hesitantly, Seamus moves his gaze back to hers. "I'm not, either," he admits with a painful grin, fidgeting where he stands. "Can't really sleep. Too much thinking. Death Eaters and Muggles being tortured and.."

He inhales sharply, shaking his head. "You almost got cursed," he says quietly. "If I hadn't been there—"

"Can I hug you, Seamus?" [Y/N] cuts him off, and her voice sounds oddly pained. Like she's holding herself back from crying.

Seamus blinks, surprised.

"I'm sorry, I just—"

"Sure," he exhales, letting out a long breath he didn't know he was holding. "Sure, [Y/N]. Of course."

[Y/N] doesn't wait; she walks forward and throws her arms around him, gripping much too tight. She needs this. She needs something to ground her back to reality—something to pull her away from the dark part of her brain teeming with thoughts of death and torture.

It takes him a few seconds, but Seamus hugs her back. He may not know it, but when he wraps his arms around her and pats her back albeit a little awkwardly, he's bringing her back from the nightmarish part of her head.

They stay like that for quite some time. When [Y/N] pulls away, she wipes at her cheeks hurriedly and steps away, clearing her throat. "Sorry," she winces, trying for a small laugh. "It's just.. been a little much, is all."

Seamus nods, pressing his lips together. "Bit weird how just a few hours ago we'd all been losing our heads over Ireland winning, innit?" and it's a measly attempt to cheer her up, but [Y/N] looks up at him and smiles anyway. It's a little sad—a little off—but it's a smile nonetheless.

"I'm pretty sure that was just you," she tells him quietly, that same tiny smile on her face.

"Yeah, well at least Ireland won," Seamus retorts defensively, the same passion he'd been sporting a few hours ago making itself known again. And then he seems to remember that this isn't the time to be arguing about Quidditch; "Nevermind. Sorry."

"It's fine," [Y/N] assures him, a genuine smile breaking out on her face. "It's fine, Seamus. While we're at it.. you didn't finish telling me about Troy earlier."

[Y/N] needs to stop thinking about everything that happened, and she knows Seamus does too.

What better way to do that than with Seamus's passionate opinions on Ireland?

He seems to consider this for a moment. And then he folds his arms over his chest and begins in a theatrical, haughty tone, "You wouldn't know since you're a Bulgaria fan yourself," he says with feigned spite (or what she hopes is feigned), "But Troy is one of the best Chasers the Quidditch League has ever seen—he learned to fly a broom before he could even walk!"

"Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"Yeah, well, believe it. Anyways, Troy—unlike Krum—is plenty talented.."

[helaintoloki]

The Overlook Hotel

pairing: Dan Torrance x reader

warnings: language, some graphic imagery, possessed Dan, slight angst, fluff, about 2k in length

notes: I’ve wanted to write a Doctor Sleep piece for so long but was always hesitant because I knew my audience would be small. But what’s the point of writing anything if it’s only for the amount of notes you’ll get? anyway, this was created with components from the book, movie, and my own imagination. In the book Dan is legitimately Abra’s uncle by blood, but for this I thought it would be interesting if the reader was Abra’s mother and Dan was her estranged father. A lot of this is up for your interpretation so have some fun with it and enjoy! :)

The watchful presence of the spirits that reside in the hallways of the decaying hotel is the first sensation to strike you. A chill runs deep in your bones accompanied by the knowledge that you are not entirely alone in the Overlook. The musty smell of old wood and grimey carpets mixed with your own anxiety make you sick to your stomach, but you swallow down both your fear and the bile inching its way up your throat for Abra’s sake. You must get her somewhere safe, you must guard her with your life, and you must fulfill your promise to Dan.

You can understand now why little Danny Torrance had his apprehensions about this place. With its winding, disorienting hallways that never seem to go anywhere important and the lost souls that linger about

(“Great party, isn’t it?”)

in search of its new management, the Overlook is the bringer of nightmares and creator of evil. It takes and It destroys only to take and destroy again when It becomes understaffed. Well, you weren’t going to let It take Abra and you certainly wouldn’t let It take Dan. Over your

(his)

dead body.

But it isn’t until the hotel “wakes up” that you realize your lives are in danger. You wouldn’t necessarily say you have the shining because you don’t, just a natural instinct when it comes to your daughter and her father, and from your hiding spot in the hallway

(Both Dan and Abra refused to have you out there with Rose present. Stay close but stay hidden, that was the plan)

you could sense something was wrong. Abra didn’t have time to explain as she sprinted towards you, and you didn’t question it as she took your hand and guided you along with her. You trusted that your daughter knew what she was doing, and you had to assume this was all part of the plan.

“When I say the word, you two need to run. I’ll come get you both when she’s dead,” Dan had hastily instructed you whilst preparing for the arrival of Rose the Hat. With the axe still gripped tightly in his hands did he give you a hurried, sloppy, desperate kiss that was too rushed to convey just how much he loved you but had a long enough duration to blanket you with a sense of comfort. No matter what happened, you would be okay. That was the mantra you chanted over and over again in your mind as you navigated the maze-like hallways of the hotel.

After stumbling across countless horrifying guests of the Overlook and struggling to access safe passage among the many locked rooms, the two of you finally stumble across a suite with the door cracked slightly ajar: Room 237. Anxious glances are exchanged between Abra and yourself, but there isn’t time for any apprehensions the two of you may have. The room exudes violent energy, that much is certain, but so does the rest of the hotel. Your options are to stay out in the open and face whatever may come your way- and something is coming - or take your chances inside the suite.

“Inside, Abba-Doo,” you instruct calmly, but the frantic nature of the way you gently push her inside reveals your inner turmoil. You pray that Dan has finished Rose the Hat off once and for all, you hope she suffered and you hope her death was agonizingly slow because that bitch messed with your daughter and you will not tolerate such nonsense. Your hatred for the woman could easily be compared to that of Abra’s, her vengeful smile always at the forefront of Dan’s mind. It scared him to know his own daughter, the sweetest little girl he’d ever met, could be so spiteful. It almost reminded him of his father in a sense, and that just made his stomach sink with guilt.

(If Dan had a dollar for every time he’d hoped and prayed to his higher power to make sure Abra hadn’t inherited any of the bad Torrance genes, he could buy the three of you a nice house along the coast of California.)

You shut and lock the door behind you, though you’re not sure what good it will do at keeping the spirits out. They know this place better than either of you do, and they’re probably laughing at your pathetic attempt to protect yourselves right this moment.

“Mom?” Abra calls quietly, voice lilting ever so slightly. Her wide eyes are faced towards the bathroom, body unmoving and skin paling significantly at what sits before her.

You smell it before you see it, the decaying flesh, the mold and mildew collecting not only in the tub itself but on her corpse as well. The sagging skin of her arm leaves brown droplets of water on the bath mat below her as she ploddingly pulls back the shower curtain. It’s her undead smile that makes your knees weak in a way that almost forces your legs out from under you, a smile full of rotten teeth, a smile that conveys her intentions to harm the both of you. Instinctively do your arms wrap around Abra’s shoulders as you pull her close to your trembling form, eyes never once leaving the woman in the tub as she begins to rise from the murky water.

“Abra, if she takes even one step out of that bathtub, I want you to run,” you breathe shakily, glancing around the room for any item you could possibly wield as a weapon. Maybe you should have stopped by the kitchen and grabbed a knife, but there hadn’t been enough time.

“He’s coming,” Abra says suddenly, her muscles tense underneath your fingertips and her eyes tightly shut. “Mom, you have to remember that it’s still Dan. He’s still in there, you can’t forget that.” There are tears in her eyes now, voice trembling as she pleads for you to understand.

“Abra, what are you talking about?” You urge uneasily, but your question is answered by the sounds of shouting coming from down the hallway.

“Where are you, you little pups?! Come out and take your fucking medicine!”

“No.... Not Dan,” you utter helplessly. “Oh god, please not him.”

“Y/N!” He shouts louder now, prompting an unsolicited scream to tumble from your lips. A hand quickly slaps over your mouth to silence yourself but the damage is done. Out in the hallway he grins wickedly, grip on the axe tightening as he limps towards room 237.

“Little pig, little pig, let me in,” Dan taunts menacingly, knocking the wooden end of the axe against the door. His voice is warped, coarse and rough and not his own. Though they come from his lips, those are not his words.

“Abra, get behind me,” you demand hoarsely, coaxing her to act as if you were her shield. She can feel you trembling against her, sense the rapid beating of your heart, and feel the anguish swimming inside of you as if it is her own. You don’t want to lose Dan, not now, not after finding him again years after you’d last met, not when you had just started to rebuild a family together.

The doors slam open so suddenly you nearly trip over your own two feet and land on the dingy couches behind you, Abra following close behind. The figure that stands before you is a shell of the man you love. He flashes a deranged grin your way while limping closer and closer to you both, and his grip on the weapon is so tight his knuckles are almost as white as the milky haze over his right eye. This murderous man is the same man who had held you close in bed just nights before

(“I love you, and I’m never letting you go again.”)

and he’s itching to hack you and Abra to pieces.

“There you are, pups,” he coos with false tenderness. “You bitches have caused me a lot of heartache, dragging me into your bullshit like I’m some kind of a chump!”

“Dan...” You step backward, and he staggers forward.

“You’re just two mouths to feed, two mouths to bitch and complain, two mouths who cost money and time.”

“Danny, please,” you weep, stomach summersaulting as you back into the couch with nowhere left to run.

“Well I’ve had just about enough,” Dan seethes. His shoulders roll back as he begins to raise the axe, and he intends to make you his first victim. “It’s time to take your medicine, y/n. Let’s see if you can handle it-“

“You’re a false face!” Abra blurts, causing Dan to momentarily falter. “You’re not my dad.”

“Who else would I be?” The monster jests with a condescending smile painted across its lips.

“You’re the hotel.”

“Masks off then,” it replies unbothered. “Step aside child, your mother’s about to get what she deserves.”

“Maybe you should think about where you’re standing before you try to hurt us.”

“Abra,” you whimper, hands gripping almost painfully at her shoulders. Tears stream steadily down both of your faces, but her voice is much more relaxed and steadier than yours. “Abra, what are you doing?”

“The body you’re standing in, the face you’re wearing, that’s Dan Torrance. My father.”

“Dan Torrance,” the Overlook cackles mockingly.

“The man who stopped by the boiler room as soon as he got here.” The laughter stops abruptly then at her revelation, and for the first time tonight the Hotel is afraid.

“You little brat,” It seethes before swinging the axe forward. A scream escapes you as you yank your daughter back, but the blade halts its slice midair as the fog over Dan’s mind begins to fade. He falters with a moan, allowing Abra to gently guide the weapon away from endangering you both.

“Abra?” Dan groans, his voice now his own.

“Dan!” You all but cry, immediately throwing yourself into his arms. He wastes no time in pulling you desperately close to his body, his nose buried into your hair and his bloodied hand coming to cradle the back of your head.

“I told you both to run,” Dan scolds gingerly.

“We couldn’t leave you,” Abra admits in a trembling voice only to be pulled into the hug by her father. “Not when we just got you back.”

“My girls,” Dan all but sobs, “I’m so sorry for everything. I could never hurt you, I could never lay a hand on you. You don’t deserve this.”

“All that matters now is that we’re together,” you sniffle, a tearful smile gracing your features as you rest your hands upon his cheeks. “And from now on we always will be.”

Both Dan and Abra understand it’s not that simple, but at the moment neither of them care to voice their concerns. It’s been years since anyone has had a happy moment in this dastardly hotel, and Dan intends to savor this time for all its worth. His father hadn’t been able to escape his inner demons, and he hadn’t been able to protect his family; the Overlook hotel had consumed Jack Torrance.

But it wouldn’t take Dan. Not without a fight.

*note: the gif used above is not mine !

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP Meme from "Chapter Two: Nine Tribes" in the Bastet breedbook from "Werewolf: The Apocalypse" Part One of Two

You look awful. What happened?

Someone turned my home inside out.

You’re such a pretty kitten, too. I don’t see kittens like you every day. I wonder why.

You don’t see kittens like me every day. When I get done with you, you won’t see anything... anyday.

Maybe it went into the air and never came down. Maybe it went into the ground and never came back up. Maybe someday it’ll show up.

Maybe someday they’ll be back. Personally, I doubt it.

What can be said about a race of individuals?

Does it puzzle you that our natures should be twofold, threefold, yet one?

Do you wonder why the gods, who have decreed a place for each thing, have offered us so many places in one?

I tell you a truth. It is but one of many, but it will serve.

The people kept to themselves, and they respected the land.

Hunters crept into the forests to skin the cats for their beautiful coats, and cats raced through the villages, bearing off children to eat in the night.

Days and nights rang with screams.

When the monsoons came, they carried rivers of blood to the seas.

She was spirited and strong, yet disobedient.

Our lands are cursed!

The serpents’ name is judgment, and they answer the dark calling inside each mortal secret.

Each mortal carries snake seeds inside.

You can do nothing.

I cannot leave my family this way!

It is not your place to change them, or to cleanse their sins.

I do not care about my place!

What can I do? This cannot continue!

If you would make peace, lay with them.

Take wild cats as mates?

Have you decided?

I am wisdom

I am anger

I have the wisdom to call the gods, the anger to fight, and the love to give myself for my people.

The monsoon howled and rain poured down.

We seek out the serpent of corruption and crush its head between our jaws.

She’s slow to rage, but when she does, nothing but total destruction will satisfy her.

They are wiser than their fury suggests.

Listen to them in good spirits and watch the visions they bring.

They bargained their souls away long ago, and cannot be trusted.

It’s said their kind is dead, but I am not certain.

Anything is possible.

It weakens them.

I cannot trust anyone so landless.

They believe they walk alone upon the earth, but they are wrong.

Wise liars and grand tricksters.

Long ago, I’ve heard, they were noble. Not now.

I’ve never spoken to one long enough to learn much, but I’ve heard they keep the sacred places safe.

That is enough to earn my respect.

We are the daughters and sons of the moon.

To anger the jaguar is to turn the jungle against you.

Woe to such a man and his family, for they will slowly starve.

When the whites came, they brought their evil with them.

Vile spirits of disease and mania plagued the humans.

The world went dark.

Their anger was too great.

Many wanted revenge.

Blood must be paid with blood.

But it is just a reflection, nothing more.

What they don’t like, they attack, and they don’t like much.

This peace ended as human settlements and firms began cutting through the rain forests.

Take your demon filth and get out of my home.

Stay, and die.

You take life far too lightly, my friends.

I watch you from far away, but my eyes are too filled with tears for me to dance.

They weren’t strong enough to survive. I’ll drink to their honor, but their dust is not my problem.

Honored brothers, if you need me, I will come.

Where were you when we needed you?

Wandering a trail? How nice.

You’re no longer welcome, brother.

We all do what we must to survive.

If they find happiness in solitude, it is a pleasure I can understand.

Make no mistake; We are older than the pyramids. Older than the Pharaohs.

We were the first. All others are usurpers.

There were gods in those days. If they are gone, I will not weep. We have more freedom without their strictures, anyway.

When need be, we hunted them like rats, but overcome by curiosity, we soon allowed ourselves to become their friends.

Then too proud for our liking. They would have to be punished. And they were.

Great plagues fell upon them.

I will never say we ruled. Why should we rule?

Merely say that we received our due; food, shelter and secrets. Many secrets.

I must say we were impressed.

We defended them in the night.

Slain, or worse yet, turned into blooddrinking ghouls.

This was not, I should add, the worst outcome of the war.

I tell you this secret now, so you will understand our path; We committed sacrilege against ourselves.

You and I suffer today a curse our ancestors earned millennia ago.

There are some shadows that hide secrets too evil for consumption.

Black as midnight, yes?

This is the cost of those endless nights of spying.

We learned secrets that should have been left alone. Worse, we still hunger for them, even now.

Our race is all but vanished, but still we prevail.

One day, we will return to power.

Aside from these gruesome relics, the breed has been extinct for 2000 years.

These ghoulish beasts, now swollen to the size of panthers, live blind in filthy pens.

Occasionally, one might even be allowed to mate with it.

This insult has not gone unrewarded.

A bitter if one-sided war has crept quietly along for nearly 2000 years.

The vampires may receive an unpleasant surprise in the coming decades.

Surprisingly, they have never fled their homeland despite their setbacks and ancient enemies.

Perhaps it’s pride that keeps them rooted to Egyptian soil, or maybe it’s something more.

Some outsiders claim there’s a mystical connection between the tribe and their motherland.

Weird magical rites, including experiments with vampire blood and enchanted human “hosts,” have bred feline offspring from human mothers.

Horrifying tales of women giving birth to cats in Cairo delivery rooms attest that such experiments are occasionally. . . successful.

Only time will tell.

Better death than the serpent’s kiss.

If there’s a viper in your soul, purge it.

The road we walk is treacherous enough alone.

Noble, I’ll confess, but hopelessly rural. They favor their wild sides too much to be as enlightened as they would believe.

Savage, bloodthirsty monsters. How I would love to have one or two around for errands!

It’s said that their kind is extinct, but being “extinct” myself, I find that difficult to believe.

I’ve heard a great deal about them, but they keep to their land and I to mine.

Too obtuse for my tastes.

If their chattering held wisdom, I would gladly listen.

Obnoxious louts who deserve to be shaved. Some day soon, they will be. I’d be pleased to do the honors. Perhaps I shall.

They make lovely pets if you convince them they’re free.

Kid, we don’t just collect secrets, we are secrets.

There’s a lot of folks who’d put us in chains — real ones and magic ones — if they knew we were still breathing, so listen close while I tell you a fairy tale.

It’s important, kid, so shut up till I finish.

A long time ago, the world was a dream. No, I’m not being cute — it was. All our kind were dreamed into existence.

Have you ever seen a dream walking? Well, take a look in a mirror, kid.

Those cold folks needed some company.

Well, those cold hearts turned on us soon enough.

We can be a nasty folk when we set our minds to it, and those who danced with us set themselves apart.

Our secrets got out.

I doubt they did it under their own power.

But we did survive.

There was a price. There always is.

We stay underground. Way underground.

You remember what I said about our ties to passion?

So keep your head down, kid, and never say what you are.

As usual, the legends lie

Messages are hidden in lyrics and chord structures.

Come in with laughter, leave in tears and always keep ‘em guessing

The locals still lock their doors on that night, and no one dares to go a-spying.

She may return to her old ways eventually, but cannot settle into any role for long.

Elusive as they are, they love digging up dirt about others.

Such clothes allow them to be their flamboyant selves and get away with it.

Art is the expression of a dream. And dreams, my friend, are what we are at heart.

Oh, yeah, a lot of help they were when we were stuck.

Shut up, hothead.

At least you’ve still got your own name.

Oh, yes it is fun to play in the dark, but you have to come up for air eventually.

Brutal and mean.

I respect their courage, but lighten up, guys!

Wise. Very wise. When one speaks, listen up.

Damn thing outran my car.

Must be nice.

[sambergscott]

i'll promise that i'll love you for the rest of my life

one giving the other flowers, as requested by @rosalitadiazz AGES ago, also dedicated to @397bartonstreet for the initial idea of amy sleeping in/just being the best and @nine-niall for helping with the marriage highlight reel.... and for making me listen to heartbreak weather on repeat for the last few days and coming up with this title

happy anniversary to jake and amy!!! (also since the ep aired 2 years ago today i'm not *technically* late thank u very much)

One million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes after marrying Amy Santiago (or, two years), every moment is as wonderful as day one. He still feels the same rush of excitement when he sees her waiting by their car at the end of a shift, the same swell of pride when she introduces him to someone as her husband, the same “oh my god we’re actually married” moment when he catches her rings glinting in the sunlight. It’s been the best one million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes of his life. And while he appreciates every single second they have together, knowing how in their line of work things can change all too easy, their second anniversary presents the perfect opportunity to remind her that everyday he gets to be with someone as amazing as her is crazy to him.

He has flowers, a handmade card, he even hoovered and she’s still asleep.

She never sleeps this late.

Everyone knows she’s the morning person in their relationship and he’s the Get Out Of Bed After Snoozing The Alarm Seventeen Times person. They live together, share a car, and yet most mornings he ends up riding the Subway, squashed between an old woman and a nerdy looking guy who smells like he hasn’t showered in a week, Amy rolling her eyes when he gets to work mid-briefing. The rare days she can get him out of bed early usually involve some kind of bribery using food and/or sex.

The point is, he’s supposed to be the one sleeping in past 11 AM, but ever since their doctor prescribed Clomid to help stimulate ovulation and boost their chances of making a baby, their roles have been totally reversed like Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis in Freaky Friday.

Pregnant Amy falls asleep anywhere and everywhere. The couch, the car, the cleaning cupboard at work when she was trying to find some Nuclear-strength cleaner to remove the stench of Charles’ lunch from the air before she hurled again.

She could sleep all day if he let her and he quite easily could. She looks so peaceful and cute and free from the stresses of her family asking why they waited so long (well, long for Santiago standards) to start a family. Plus, the messy hair and tiny bit of drool on her chin are impossibly endearing in the way only she can be.

He smiles and wraps his arms around her, resting his head on his shoulder, his hands - like his thoughts - drifting to her growing bump as they inevitably always do.

This time next year they’ll be celebrating with their little boy or girl, telling them all about the insane, magical day that was May 15th 2018. Of course, it might be some time before they can fully grasp the TV-worthy drama of the creepy phone call, the bomb in the vent, the ex-boyfriend proposing - twice! - and the wall of Amy photos, but they will sure as dammit know how beautiful their mom looked in her dress and how happy their dad was when Grandpa Holt finally announced them as husband and wife.

“Can’t breathe,” his wife squeaks, finally awake. “Arms too tight.”

“Oops. Sorry, babe.” He kisses her by way of apology; sometimes when he gets to thinking about that day, about seeing her walk down the shredded paper aisle under the glow of fairy lights, surrounded by the very people who watched them fall in love, he kind of forgets where he is and what he’s doing.

She’s always had that intoxicating effect on him. That’s never gonna change.

“Time is it?” She yawns, stretching her arms above her head.

“Twenty five to,” he pauses to brace himself for her reaction, “...twelve.”

“Twelve?” Horrified, she moves to get out of bed and yeah, he knows her so well. “Let me go,” she huffs in frustration when he forms a barrier to keep her from leaving.

“No can do, Santiago,” he says authoritatively. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone and you’re pregnant. You need to rest. We’ve both got the day off, our dinner reservations aren’t until 8. Just let your husband take care of you for a couple of hours.”

She chews on her lower lip, making her contemplative face that he recognises from sitting opposite her for so many years, preferring watching her piece together the leads in a case rather than work on his own. “Fine,” she eventually concedes. “Happy anniversary, by the way.”

“Happy anniversary,” he returns the sentiment, kissing her again because, well, he can, one of the perks of marrying Amy Santiago (alongside a perfectly organised sock drawer and getting to hang out with the best person in the world 24 sevs). “I got you these,” he adds, procuring the daffodil bouquet he found online.

“Jake,” she sighs dreamily, placing the flowers on her nightstand. “They’re beautiful. And my favourites.”

“I know,” he smirks. He may not be Santiago level smart, but he’s smart when it comes to all things Santiago. “Also made you this.” He hands over the card.

She opens it, instantly tearing up at his sweet message inside, the dam bursting when she notices the scrawled message written with his wrong hand from their unborn baby. “Mine sucks in comparison,” she laments, passing him his card before locking her eyes back on the words ‘happy anniversary to the world’s best mama’.

“It does not suck,” he reassures her, clutching it to his chest. “I’m going to savour it for all times. I want to be buried with it.”

She rolls her eyes, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I thought you wanted to be buried with your original copy of Die Hard.”

“OK, Die Hard and your card. Rhymes for a reason, Ames.”

“You’re such a dork,” she responds, stifling her laughter. “Can’t believe I’ve been married to you for two full years.”

“I know.” He grins. “What was your favourite part?”

Her eyes glimmer with excitement and love and memories of their first anniversary before things turned upside down. “Are you suggesting we do a marriage highlight reel à la NBA inside stuff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. I’ll go first. NUMBER FIVE,” he yells in his spot on Ahmad Rashad impression, earning a giggle from his wife. “Number five is that dress you wore on my birthday. Your butt looked the bomb in it.”

“Thanks, babe.” Two years in, she’s used to the constant “your butt is the bomb” comments, often uttered at the most inappropriate of times like when she stands up to brief the squad or play soccer with her brothers, much to her chagrin and their delight.

“Number four,” she quickly moves on. “The time you taught me to play Mario Party and I beat Wario on the first try.”

“That was my worst moment,” he groans.

“And that’s why it’s my best.”

He sighs, considers debating it, engaging in the classic back-and-forth that is the very foundation of their relationship, but it’s moot. She was way better than him. Santiago’s learn fast. It’s in their genes or something. And despite the crushing disappointment when she beat Wario with ease and dork danced her way to the kitchen to grab them both an orange soda, it was still a very fun night and a worthy moment in the highlight reel.

“Number Three. The York murder.”

Immediate understanding spreads across Amy’s face, but he explains anyway.

“I spent three days working that case and you just came in, saw the board and solved it right away.”

“I’m very smart,” she jokes lightheartedly.

“You are,” he agrees, his voice coming out softer and sincerer than even he imagined. “I love that about you. I love your brain. I love how good you are at your job, at figuring out puzzles. I love that you listen to NPR and know so much about the font Helvetica and have read, like, a million books. I love that you do a crossword every night and I love how proud you look when you give me a sports clue and I actually get it right. I love cheering you on at Trivia Nights even when Kylie can’t stop glaring at me. How lucky am I to have the smartest wife in the world?”

Touched, she can barely compile her thoughts to reveal her Number Two.

“The night at Shaw’s, at Hitchcock’s second divorce party, your speech, the way you kissed me, the way you were so gentle when we got home,” she sniffles. “It was special and made me feel so loved and if I say anymore I’m going to cry again, so you go.”

He chuckles knowingly. The pregnancy hormones have been making her extra emotional lately, they can’t even watch commercials anymore without her fully weeping. And while last year Pam and her twisted bowels interrupted before they could get to Number One, this year Number One is obvious. Clear as day. And there’s no one to interrupt.

He pretends to think about it for a minute (because he will always love teasing her, married or not). Only when she grabs his arm and digs her nails into his skin does he put both their hands on her bump and smiles. “Obviously this little guy or gal is Number One.”

She smiles back at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

His own face falls. “Ames?”

“It’s been a hard year, hasn’t it?” She sighs, thinking back to calendars and fertility appointments and the strict no nacho policy.

“Yeah,” he says, “it has. But this next year is gonna be the best one yet.”

“I mean... We’re probably not going to sleep a lot.”

“You might not sleep a lot but I sure will,” he teases, his words falling flat. “Just kidding, babe. Obviously I’m going to get up for all the feeds and diaper changes and whatever else this kid throws at us. Gonna be there for you both. No matter what.”

The pregnancy hormones strike again and she starts crying and, honestly, he can’t wait for this baby to get out, for more reasons than one.

“BRB, I’ll go make your favourite breakfast to make you feel better, don’t grow anymore body parts while I’m gone.”

He returns seven minutes later with pancakes, a ton of fruit, decaf coffee and another kiss. He climbs back into bed, devours his own Nutella pancakes and posts his favourite blurry, drunk on Champagne and love selfie from their makeshift wedding reception at Shaw’s, on Insta with a caption about how he promises he’s gonna love her for the rest of his life.

And he keeps that promise.

[antecedentlypod]

EPISODE 3 TRANSCRIPT

-opening music-

LORRIE

Alright- [soft movement sounds] recording time. Reeecording time. One, two, three. [flip through the book, door opens]

Ah- fuck-

FISH

Oh! Shit- sorry- were you in the middle of something? Uh...sorry. I made lunch. Bahn mi! Y’know, the one I begged my brother for the recipe of? Uh- do you want some? I mean, I can’t guarantee it’s gonna be great ‘cause...it’s me...but it is getting cold! So...

LORRIE

I was just about to start recording, but lunch sounds...awesome, actually! But before we go, do you want to introduce yourself to the mic? I decided I wanted to keep the extra recordings and stuff, just for… me, I guess? Like- kinda like a journal. [brief pause]

My therapist did recommend I start journaling, but writing out my thoughts is hard as fuck. Talking into a microphone is much easier.

FISH

Oh. Okay, so just like...lamer scrapbooking- Yeah! Yeah, I guess. [taps the mic] uh. Check check? ...Right, okay. So, my name is Fish. Just- just Fish. I picked it out myself, actually, ‘cus i really like fish? Y’know? Uh, stonefish specifically but...I think sharks are really cool- are sharks fish? Anyway! [drifting off] I like she/her or they/them pronouns...um...that’s about it. Anyway, I’m here to make sure that Mr. Skeptic over here isn’t going haywire, given all the bullshit I’ve been hearing recently.

LORRIE

[soft laugh] That’s...enough, that’s good. Maybe I should do one of those myself. [pause, deep breath] Okay, uh. Hi, I’m Lorrie. I also picked that name out, sounds like a bird name. There is a bird named Lorrie, but it’s spelled differently. And it’s really colorful, which is the opposite of me! Um, I mainly use he/him or it/its pronouns, they/them is okay sometimes, but it’s best to stay away from it? And I’m not going haywire! Things are just… a little bit weird. It’s probably just hallucinations, it’s nothing.

FISH

A little bit? With all- [sigh, in a sarcastic tone] Okay, fine. Reaaaal convincing. Yeah! Believe that, 100%. ‘Kay, anyway... [laughter]

LORRIE

[sigh] Listen- just. Just shut the fuck up. [more laughter] I’m excited for lunch, though, I don’t remember the last time I ate, actually-

FISH

That’s...not ideal, but kind of the point. So...oh! Well, hopefully you ate before getting that tattoo, did uh- it looks...new. When did you…? [sigh] Okay. What’s with the eyes?

LORRIE

I think they’re cool. I got the tattoo a couple days ago, I’m pretty sure I got something to eat before it? Not a big deal.

FISH

[pause, dumbfounded and concerned] A couple days? Okay, holy shit, Lor. Let’s go get something to eat, okay? Lunch is getting cold, so.

LORRIE

Y-Yeah, that sounds good. Let me ju-just- [muffled movement, recording stops]

LORRIE

Aaaand we’re back. Lunch has been eaten, I feel- a lot better, honestly, and I think it’s a good time to record? [papers rustling] Um...where…? [collects himself] Uh, Fish left for work a little bit ago, which means the only idiot in the house with me is my dog! I’ll be able to work now, I think. Even if reading it makes me feel all- fuckin’ weird. It’s not a- not a great feeling. Not a great feeling at all. Fuck. Okay. Um. Take one of Rumpels-

[cut]

[weary] Take...five? I think? Of Rumpelstiltskin.

[cut]

Take nine of Rumplestiltskin. Read by Lorrie Adams.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN

Once upon a time, there was a miller who was poor, but he had a beautiful daughter. Now it happened that he was talking with the king one time, and to make himself seem important he said to the king: "I have a daughter who can spin straw into gold."

"That's an art that pleases me;” the king replied, “if your daughter is as talented as you say, bring her to my castle tomorrow and I will put her to the test." 

When the maiden was brought to him he led her into a room that was filled with straw. There he gave her a spinning-wheel and a spindle and said: "Now get to work, if you don’t spin straw into gold by morning, then you must die." Then he locked the room himself, and she remained inside all alone.

 The miller's poor daughter sat there feeling close to her wit’s end, for she knew nothing of spinning straw into gold, and her fear grew greater and greater. When she began to weep, the door suddenly opened and a little man entered, saying: "Good evening, Mistress Miller, why are you weeping so?" 

“Oh,” answered the maiden, "I'm supposed to spin straw into gold, and I don't know how." 

The little man then said: "What will you give me if I spin it for you?" 

"My necklace," the maiden said. The little man took the necklace and sat down at the wheel, and whizz, whizz, whizz, three times round the spool was full. Then he put on another one, and whizz, whizz, whizz, the second one was full; and so it went on until morning, until all the straw was spun and all the spools were filled with gold. The king appeared right at the sunrise and when he saw the gold he was surprised and pleased, but his heart grew even greedier. He locked the miller’s daughter in another room, one that was even larger than the first, and he ordered her to spin all the straw into gold if she valued her life.

The maiden did not know what to do and began to weep; then once again the door opened and the little man appeared and said: "What will you give me if I spin the straw into gold for you?" 

"The ring from my finger," answered the maiden. The little man took the ring, began to work away at the wheel again, and by morning he had spun all the straw into shining gold. The king was extremely pleased by the sight; but his lust for gold was still not satisfied. So he had the miller's daughter brought into an even larger room, and said to her: "You must have all this spun to gold tonight, but if you succeed, you shall become my wife." To himself he thought: Even though she’s just a miller's daughter, I’ll never find a richer woman anywhere in the world. 

When the maiden was alone the little man came again for the third time and asked: "What will you give me if I spin the straw for you once more?" 

"I have nothing left to give," answered the maiden. 

"Then promise me your first child when you become queen." 

"Who knows whether it will ever come to that?" thought the miller's daughter, and since she knew no other way out of her predicament, she promised the little man what he had demanded, and in return the little man spun the straw into gold once again. When the king came in the morning and found everything he had wished, he married her, and the miller's daughter became a queen.

After a year she gave birth to a beautiful child, and the little man had disappeared from her mind. But now he suddenly appeared in her room and said: "Now give me what you promised." The queen was horrified, and offered the little man all the treasures of the kingdom if he would let her keep her child. But the little man replied: "No, something living is more important to me than all the treasures in the world." Then the queen began to grieve and weep so much that the little man felt sorry for her. "I'll give you three days time," he said, "if you guess my name by the third day, you shall keep your child."

The queen spent the entire night trying to recall all the names she had ever heard. She also sent a messenger out into the country to inquire high and low names there were. On the following day when the little man appeared, she began with Kaspar, Melchior, Balzar, and listed all the names she knew, one after the other, but to all of them the little man said: "That's not my name." The second day she had her servants ask around in the neighboring area which names people used, and she came up with the most unusual and strangest names when the little man appeared. "Is your name Ribs of Beef? Or Muttonchops? Or Laced Leg?" But he always replied: “That’s not my name.” On the third day the messenger returned and reported, "I couldn't find a single new name, but as I was climbing a high mountain at the edge of the forest, where the fox and the hare say goodnight to each other, I saw a small cottage, and in front of the cottage was a fire, and around the fire danced a ridiculous little man who was hopping on one leg and screeching:

“Today I'll brew, tomorrow I'll bake,

Soon I'll have the queen's namesake;

Oh, how hard it is to play my game,

For Rumpelstiltskin is my name."

And you can imagine how happy the queen was when she heard the name. As soon as the little man entered and asked: “What’s my name, your highness?” 

She responded first by guessing: "Is your name Cunce?" "No." "Is your name Heinz?" "No." "Can your name be...Rumpelstiltskin?"

"The devil told you! the devil told you!" the little man screamed, and he stamped so ferociously with his right foot that his leg went deep into the ground up to his waist. Then he grabbed the other foot angrily with both hands and ripped himself in two.

LORRIE

[yawn] There’s another number for me to read. [stuttering] Another story. I didn’t- say this in my personal introduction, but I’m [trying to snap himself out of it. literally] working for like, something akin to an audiobook company? These are my- story recordings. Not perfect, by any means, but they’re alright enough, and not really ever my final takes. Um. I like this job. Fully remote, surprisingly good pay for it being paid by commission mostly- I don’t know...why people would want these stories read out, but that’s beside the point. I make enough to get a pretty nice apartment, for me and Fish. They sent me this collection of stories to read from, it’s in this [stuttering and snapping again] big book- this big paperback book, um, and they...they- I get emails with the story numbers that they want me to read? Because they’re all numbered in this book. And the stories are never more than a couple pages at a time, which...is kinda weird because the recordings end up being pretty short that way? I don’t know if they want...more from me for it, but that’s also beside the point.

Anyways. Take 1 of Briar Rose, read by Lorrie Ada-

[very tired] Take 3 of Briar Ro-

Ppppbbbt. [hyping himself up] Okay. Okay, you can do this, Lorrie. It’s not that hard, you’re just talking into a fucking microphone. Okay. Okay. Hm. [drinks something. water..?] Take 13 of Briar Rose, read by Lorrie Adams. 

BRIAR ROSE

In times of old there lived a king and queen, and every day they said, "Oh, if only we had a child!" yet they never had one.

Then one day, as the queen went out bathing, a frog happened to crawl ashore and say to her: “Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before the year is out, you shall give birth to a daughter.”

The frog’s prediction came true, and the queen gave birth to a girl who was so beautiful that the king was overjoyed and decided to hold a great feast. Not only did he invite his relatives, friends, and acquaintances, but also the wise women in the hope that they would be generous and kind to his daughter. There were thirteen wise women in his kingdom, but he only had twelve golden plates from which they could eat. Therefore, one of them had to remain home. The feast was celebrated with tremendous splendor, and when it drew to a close, the wise women bestowed their miraculous gifts upon the child. One gave her virtue, another beauty, the third wealth, and so on until they had given her nearly everything one could possibly wish for in the world. When eleven of them had offered their gifts, the thirteenth suddenly entered the hall. She wanted to get revenge for not having been invited, and without greeting anyone or looking around, she cried out with a loud voice: “In her fifteenth year, the princess shall prick herself with a spindle and fall down dead.” That was all she said. Then she turned around and left the hall.

Everyone was horrified, but the twelfth wise woman stepped forward. She still had her wish to make, and although she could not undo the evil spell, she could nevertheless soften it. “The princess shall not die,” she said, “instead she shall fall into a deep sleep for one hundred years.”

Since the king wanted to guard his dear child against such a catastrophe, he issued an order that all the spindles in his kingdom were to be burned. Meanwhile, the gifts of the wise women fulfilled themselves in every way. The girl was so beautiful, polite, kind, and sensible, that whoever encountered her could not help but adore her. Now, on the day she turned fifteen it happened that the king and queen were not in the palace, so she wandered all over the place and explored as many rooms and chambers as she pleased. She eventually came to an old tower, climbed it’s narrow, winding staircase, and came to a small door. A rusty key was stuck in the lock, and when she turned it, the door sprang open and she saw an old woman in a little room sitting with a spindle and busily spinning flax.

“Good day, old granny!” said the princess, “What are you doing there?”

“I’m spinning,” said the old woman, and she nodded her head.

“What’s the thing that’s bobbing around in such a funny way?” Asked the maiden, and she took the spindle and wanted to spin too. But just as she touched the spindle, the magic spell began working and she pricked her finger with it. The very moment she felt the prick, she fell down on the bed that was standing there and was overcome by a deep sleep. This sleep soon spread throughout the entire palace. The king and queen had just returned home, and when they entered the hall they fell asleep, as did all the people in their court. They were followed by the horses in the stables, the dogs in the courtyard, the pigeons on the roof, and the flies on the wall. Even the fire flickering in the hearth became tired and fell asleep. The roast stopped sizzling, and the cook, who was just about to pull the kitchen boy’s hair because he had done something wrong, let him go and fell asleep. Finally, the wind died down so that not a single leaf stirred on the trees outside the castle. Soon, a briar hedge began to grow all around the castle, and it grew higher each year. Eventually, it surrounded and covered the entire castle, so that it was no longer visible. Not even the flag on the roof could be seen. Eventually the princess became known as “beautiful, sleeping Briar Rose,” and a tale about her began circulating throughout the country. From time to time, princes tried to break through and get to the castle. However, this was impossible, because the thorns clung together tightly as though they had hands, and the young men got stuck there. Indeed, they could not pry themselves loose and died miserable deaths. 

After many, many years had gone by, a prince came to this country and heard an old man talking about a briar hedge. Supposedly, there was a castle standing behind the hedge and in the castle there was a remarkably beautiful princess named Briar Rose, who had been sleeping for a hundred years along with the king and queen and their entire court. The old man also knew from his grandfather that many princes had come and had tried to break through the briar hedge, but they had got stuck and died wretched deaths. “I am not afraid!” said the prince, “I intend to see the beautiful Briar Rose!”

The good old man tried his best to dissuade him, but the prince would not heed his word. Now the hundred years had just ended, and the day of which Briar Rose was to wake up again had arrived. When the prince approached the briar hedge he found nothing but little flowers that opened of their own accord and let him through, like a hedge. In the courtyard, he saw the horses and the spotted hunting dogs lying asleep. The pigeons were perched on the roof and had tucked their heads beneath their wings. When he entered the palace, the flies were asleep on the wall, the cook was still holding his hand as if he wanted to grab the kitchen boy, and the maid was sitting in front of the black chicken that she was about to pluck. As the prince continued walking, he saw the entire court lying asleep in the hall, with the king and queen beside the throne. Then he moved on, and everything was so quiet he could hear himself breathe. 

Finally, he came to the tower and opened the door to the small room where Briar Rose slept. There she lay in her beauty, so marvelous that he could not take his eyes off of her. And then, he leaned over and gave her a kiss, and when his lips touched hers Briar Rose opened her eyes, woke up, and looked at him fondly. After that, they went downstairs together and the king and queen woke up along with the entire court and they all looked at each other in amazement. Soon, the horses in the courtyard stood up and shook themselves. The hunting dogs jumped around and wagged their tails, the pigeons on the roof lifted their heads from beneath their wings, looked up and flew off into the fields. The flies on the wall continued crawling, the fire in the kitchen flared up, flickered, and cooked the meat, the roast began to sizzle again, and the cook gave the kitchen boy such a box on the ear that he let out a cry while the maid finished plucking the chicken.

The wedding of the prince with Briar Rose was celebrated with great splendor, and lived happily to the end of their day. 

LORRIE

[with a bad taste in his mouth] Reaaaally can’t say I’m a big fan of the whole, like...lack of consent thing? Like, who just kisses some sleeping 115 year old? Like jesus fuck, get some manners! Like, why didn’t the prince just...try shaking her? Why did he just immediately kiss her- what the FUCK- 

Anyways, I couldn’t stop yawning during that recording, if that says anything about my thoughts on it. I hope I didn’t put you to sleep, at least. Whoever ends up listening to this. I think I need to go to bed. Goodnight, end recording.

[lorem-text]

Good evening, Night Owls.

It’s another quiet night at the office, and with tonight’s show cancelled and Loki asleep, it’s quieter than ever.

So, to keep you company on this dark, seemingly endless night, I have another story for you.

This time, it’s the story of a stag and a crumbling manor.

When I was in primary school, my mother and I would move around often. Not for financial or work-related reasons; she just liked to travel, and my young curious self was eager to go along. It was during my fifth year that we moved to a small town just a few hours away from Oxford. I don’t recall the name, as we didn’t end up staying long, but to this day I’ve never seen a more beautiful forest than the one that surrounded it.

It was also where I met my very first best friend; a girl by the name Martha. 

She was new it town as well, having just moved there with her parents from York. Our parents became friends first, and then...we did too.

Every day we would walk to school and back together, and on the way we’d pass this old crumbling manor right on the edge of the woods. It looked ancient; a large part of the roof had given way to the deterioration caused by the passing years, the walls had been taken over by vines and flowers, there were holes on the floor trhough which a few trees had grown, and right in the middle of the lower floor, an old chandelier lay in pieces on the main stairway, the bits of glass scattered around catching and reflecting the sun’s rays to create tiny, colourfu rainbows. In the eyes of our parents and teachers, the manor was dangerous, and they had advised us repeatedly not to go near it. But to us? To us, it looked magical...

Still, neither of us wanted to get grounded so we did as we were told and kept clear of the manor and the surrounding woods on our way to and from school. 

That lasted all the way to summer and into the first days of June, until one day...something remarkable happened.

It had been a perfectly normal day up to that point; we had woken up, walked to school, just managed to stay awake for the seven long hours in the punishing summer heat and were on our way back, when something caught out eyes. There, inside the old mannor, walking down the steps the main stairway was a pure white stag with piercing blue eyes, only a shade lighter than Martha’s.

It was the most exciting thing we’d seen in our short lives, as it slowly made its way down the stairs and across the ground floor, coming closer and closer until it finally reached us.

We froze. Terrified that we’d scare it away or worse, anger it, neither of us made a single move or took a single breath until ever so gently, as if trying not to frighten us, it nudged Martha’s cheek with its snout. Very carefully, Martha moved her hand to its head until it leaned into it, letting her pet it.  Then, it left, but the next day, when we returned to the manor, there it was again, and that time it looked like it had been waiting for us.

And that was that. Every day after school, Martha and I would rush to the manor where the stag would be waiting by the old stairway, and every day the stag would stay longer and longer until eventually we would spend our entire afternoons there, making it back home just before curfew, telling our parents we had been playing at the main square and lost track of time. When summer vacation started, we would go to the manor earlier and stay there for hours at a time, some times simply petting the stag and others playing pretend at being knights and wizards on a mission for the pale lord of the forest. 

Those were happy, carefree days, filled with fun and games and constant laughter... But days such as those rarely last.

It was the day of the summer solistice. The town was holding a celebration and our parents had volunteered to help with preperations, so Martha and I took the chance to sneak to the manor early in the morning, knowing we wouldn’t be missed. Once again, the stag was already there, as if it had known we would be coming.  That day, I was the lord of the manor; the evil wizard Kandarah, and Martha was the Queen of Roses; a warrior queen who had vowed to defeat me and free the townspeople from my reign of tyrany.  We ran around the crumbling halls of the manor, Martha chasing me with a stick she had for a sword. She had won the last two times and this time I was determined to defeat the queen of roses and claim her magic sword for myself...so I ran up the stairway to the second floor.

That was the first time either of us had gone up there. 

The floor was crumbled in places with holes leading to the main hall bellow, and there was a single corridor, its decorated with a faded dark red tapestry.  Martha said it reminded her of roses. It made me think of something else entirely. We should’ve headed back, down the stairs and back home; it was nearly time for lunch anyway and neither of us wanted to be late...but something drew us further down that red corridor to the far end where we found an old wooden door, its rusted hinges threatening to fall off the rotted wood. It was locked tight. There seemed to be no other way to get through and into the room beyond, and we were about to head back, when the stag suddenly appeared behind us. Its snow white fur stood out against the red walls, its cold blue eyes stared at us challengingly, and in its mouth it held a key. It was silver and small,  engraved with carvings of vines...and it seemed to be a perfect fit for the locked door. 

Something felt off. How had the stag found the key? Why had it given it to us? Why did the walls suddenly seem smaller and darker than before? Before I could ask anything, however, Martha had snatched the key from the stag and was already unlocking the door, pushing it open with all her strength.

The room inside was dark, save for a single ray of sunlight that snuck in trhough a chipped part of the roof. The windows were barred and heavy drapes hang over them, and the room itself was empty...save for a single marble pedestal right in the middle and atop of it, a thin cloth, draped over what looked like a canvas.

We moved closer, draw in again by the mysterious force that had led us to that room, and the wooden floor creaked beneath us with every step. Then we reached the pedestal and Martha looked at me, eyes blazing with determination. Together, we grabbed the cloth, counted to three...and pulled it away to reveal what was underneath.

It was the painting of a white stag with cold blue eyes looking forward with a dark forest spread out behind it.

I heard a noise and snapped my head back only to find that the stag had followed us into the room and was now right behind us, staring at the painting, and the painted stag stared back. It felt like looking at a mirror...only Martha and I weren’t in it.

Suddenly, the was a loud snaping sound as the rotted wooden floow gave way underneath Martha. Quickly, I reached for her, trying to grab her arm, to save her- but I wasn’t fast enough, and Martha fell into the darkness bellow.

Horrified, I ran to find my mother. By the time I reached the square, I had tripped three times, tearing my clothes in the process, and I couldn’t stop crying, and when I found my mother, I ran into her arms and told her what had happened between desperate cries and sobs. I told her about the manor and the white stag,  about the stairway and the red corridor and thewooden door, until finally I told her about the painting...and Martha’s fall. Al the while, she shushed me and told me to calm down because I was drawing too much attention. I remember I asked her how I was supposed to calm down knowing that my bets friend had died and it was all my fault, but she just held me and took me further in the square, amidst the crowd of people that had gathered to celebrate the solistice. I didn’t know where she was taking me, but I was too tired and scared and numb to protest so I followed her until we reached the centre of the square, where Martha’s parents sat by the fountain making flower crowns.  “See?”, my mother said, “Nothing to worry about. Everything’s alright.”  I didn’t, couldn’t understand how everything was alright after what I had told her so I ran towards Martha’s parents to...I’m still not sure what, but I froze dead in my tracks. There, between the smiling couple with flower crowns on their heads, was Martha, weaving a flower crown and smiling just as brightly. It was her, safe and sound and without a scratch on her...but her eyes were a shade lighter than they were before.

I turned and ran.  I didn’t stop when my teacher waved at me from her house, or when Mister Greene shouted ‘good evening’ from the window of his corner bookshop. I didn’t even stop when I reached my house, but only after I had ran to my bed and hid under the covers, weeping to myself quietly.

I didn’t go out the next day, or the day after, scared of what would happen if I saw my best friend again, but eventually my mother convinced me to go for a visit, saying that Martha had missed me and was worried she had done something wrong. So I did, and it was as if nothing had changed.  Neither of us mentioned the stag or the manor, and we played wizards and knights and ate spaghetti and meatballs for lunch like so many times before, but Martha was...calmer than before Gone was the spark of rebellion and the fiery determination, having given way to knowing smiles and a wisdom in her eyes that seemed too old to belong to her.

Even so, June soon came to an end, and my mother and I left for our annual vacation to Skiathos. We only went back to the town for a few days in autumn to gather our belongings, as my mother thought Oxford would make for a nice change of scenery, but I didn’t see Martha during those days, and I haven’t heard from her since.

To this day, I’m still not sure what happened in that manor, but Martha was never really the same after that...and somewhere, burrowed deep in my heart, there is a part of me calling out, whispering that it wasn’t Martha at all...

Eliot Wilde, journalist and writer for Night Owl and host of Night Owl FM

[twistedwonderlandimagines]

Jamil’s Open Mike Night (Part 2)

He came back for more. Jade thought Floyd must have been overreacting so he’s joining us. Also Leona needed to bring Ruggie along in case he passes out from laughter again. Pray for Floyd’s sake that this ends up being the last part of this hellish series.

Jamil: Did you hear about the guy who invented knock-knock jokes?

Floyd: No, what about hi-

Jamil: He won the NO BELL prize!

Leona: *already snickering* 

Ruggie: Please tell me they’re not all like this-

Floyd: ...Wow.

Jade, completely flat: Ha... Ha...

Jamil: I used to hate facial hair, but then it grew on me!

Floyd: What the fuck-

Jade: You don’t even have stubble-

Leona: *face in his hands, laughing uncontrollably*

Ruggie: *cringing and getting up to retreat to the bathroom*

Jamil: I decided to sell my vacuum cleaner because it was just gathering dust!

Floyd: That’s what they do, dude!

Leona: *SNORTS* Jesus-

Jamil: What’s brown and sticky? A stick!

Floyd: I was gonna say-

Ruggie, ducking into the bathroom: Also nutella!

Floyd: ...That too, yeah.

Jamil: Why can’t you hear a psychiatrist using the bathroom?

Floyd: Why?

Jamil: Because the “P” is silent!

Jade: Ha... Floyd I can feel my soul leaving my body.

Floyd: What the fuck did I tell you?!

Leona: *laugh-crying with his head on the table*

Lilia, dropping down from the ceiling next to Jamil: Hey I got a joke!

Floyd: *sigh* What, Lilia?

Lilia: What does James Bond do before bed?

Floyd: What? I don’t know. Never slept with the guy. What does he do?

Lilia: He goes... UNDER COVER-

Leona: AHHAHAHA- Get the fuck outta here, Lilia!

Jamil, taking back the microphone: Oh Leona~?

Leona: Oh, oh no... What Jamil?

Jamil: What do you get from a pampered cow?

Leona, trying to speak through his chuckles: I don’t know, what?

Jamil: Spoiled milk!

Leona: *head in his hands, weeping as everyone else rolls their eyes*

Jamil: Is that enough dad jokes? I can never tell.

Floyd: Why are you encouraging him?

Leona: *still laughing* He just sounds so proud of himself whenever he delivers the punch line-

Jamil: Oh, I have another question for you Leona!

Leona: What?

Jamil: Can February march?

Leona: *stifling his laughter* I don’t know, can it?

Jamil: No! But April May! AHAHAHA-

Leona: *furiously wiping away tears of laughter* OH GOD-

Floyd: You fuckin’ hack, get off the stage!

Leona, through his tears: Floyd let him tell his jokes; it makes him happy.

Jamil: How many more jokes do we need?

Floyd: Zero! Get off the stage!

Lilia: No! Do more!

Jamil: Do you want to hear a joke about paper?

Floyd: No!

Jamil: Oh that’s fine. It was tear-able anyway!

Lilia and Leona: *clutching their sides in laughter at Floyd’s horrified expression*

Jamil: I also had a joke about pizza, but it’s a little cheesy.

Floyd and Jade: *glaring at Lilia and Leona, who are dying of laughter*

Ruggie, bursting out of the bathroom at mach speed: WHERE’S THE PIZZA?!

[ron-inn]

Week 3: Black Smoke

     Kenji doesn’t know the protocol for calling on an ancient god—that was more of Masami’s expertise as one of the village’s senior shugenjas, the magic wielders who could connect to the spirit realm and commune with its inhabitants.  The old legends were super vague on instructions: just travel east until you couldn’t anymore, then two more days to reach the Forbidden Lands; cross the Bridge of Sorrows until you reached the Temple of Ancients; boom, wake up a god.  The legends didn’t go any further, so Kenji just wings it and also lights the candles surrounding the stone altar in the back. He waits for the black smoke to rise up midway to the ceiling before he unsheathes the sword and starts calling out names of power, trying to enunciate them exactly the way Masami did whenever she had to perform the annual Rite of Seals for the village. 

     Then, something responds.

     “Who Is It… That Calls Us… From Our Slumber?” The multitude of voices speaks in a jumbled, echoey collective.  It is neither male nor female, but the deepest instinct inside Kenji knows that this being is very old, very powerful, and very ready to strike him down if he doesn’t explain right now why he marched into its resting place and started waving a mystical sword around, yelling for “the Captive God” and “Dormin the Sky-Render” to wake up.

     “Hi, Kenji here.  Grandson of the grandson of Nakamura the Brilliant and all that.  I’ve also got this ‘Sword that Cuts the Heavens’ that’s supposed to call upon you.  Anyways, I’m here because I want you to help me save this girl,” Kenji answers back.

     “Who?” 

     “Masami.  She was sacrificed for a fate she didn’t deserve, to ‘save Hyuga’ from ‘unimaginable doom and destruction.’”  Kenji snarls sarcastically and has to stop himself from spitting on the floor to show exactly what he thinks of Satsuma’s prophecy.  He continues, “Her spirit was separated from her body but I grabbed her before they could continue the ritual. ’S not right to happen to her.  So now I’m here because I heard you can do the impossible.” 

     He looks over to the stone altar he had gently laid Masami’s small body upon; she was still clothed in those ceremonial white robes. If one could ignore the barely audible rattling breaths and the ice-cold, ghostly pale skin, he could swear it was like she was just sleeping. 

     Kenji looks back and narrows his eyes at whatever’s talking to him from up high. “So, Dorma or Dormin-kami , or whatever fucking kind of god you are, how about you do your magic jumbo shit and tell me how to get her soul back?”

     The voices boom and roll: like thunder, like earthquakes, like the powerful echo of Satsuma’s voice whenever the Guardian Lion God seized control of him in the throes of visions.  “It Is Not That Simple… Our Powers… Have Wasted Away… Since We Were Sealed Here…  Many Of Your Human Lifetimes Ago… You Must Free… The Fragments Of Our Power… From The Shadowed Colossi… Only When… We Are At Our Fullest… Can We Bring Back The Soul… Of The One You So Care For…”

     Those voices then tell him of six massive guardians scattered across this vast land, represented by the mighty stone statues lining the path leading up to the altar.  Every time one was slain, its corresponding statue would shatter and release some of Dormin’s power. Kenji puzzles over some of the descriptions that the voice(s) listed off.  A spirit causing mudslides and quakes? He can probably find it in the mountain range he saw in the distance while crossing the bridge to the temple. A spirit inhabiting the bones of an ancient general?  Shouldn’t be too hard to find a giant walking skeleton. And maybe that spirit of boats and salt is hidden at the bottom of some lake. But a spirit of greed and a spirit of manipulation and illusions?  A spirit still yet pure? Where the hell is he supposed to find those? A small part of him wishes Akane or Toshio were here to help him solve this riddle—they were always the smarter ones—but he crushes that thought as quickly as it forms.  Kenji knows he couldn’t drag anyone else into this taboo the moment he swiped the legendary sword from the village’s shrine.  

     “Hunting, huh?”  Kenji muses as he swings himself up onto his horse and draws out the sword, holding it high above his head for the metal to catch the sunlight as Dormin instructed.  He watches the beam of magic shoot forward from the blade and into the distance, smiling when he sees a pillar of light erupt in response. “Well, that won’t be too bad, I’m pretty good at stabbing, hacking, and making sure things stay down.”

     “Ikuzo, Kiso-chan!”  And with that, they’re charging forward to kill the first guardian.  

     The smoke from their first target doesn’t feel that horrible, just sears down his throat and into his lungs like he’s just inhaled burning coals, just leaves him reeling and dizzy as if he took one of Hatch’s famous haymakers to the temple.  But by the time he watches the black smoke erupt from the fourth guardian’s corpse and rush into his nose and mouth yet again, he’s starting to really hate it.  His chest feels like someone’s ripping open his rib cage, his sore arms are pulsing with new black veins,  and his head is pounding worse than an all-night drinking sesh with his friends and barrels of Ume-Ume’s “special” brew.  He’s also trying to ignore the solid bump that’s starting to sprout from his head.

     “Ack, Kami,” he curses God as he hacks up something thick and dark, leans over to the side to spit the sludge from his mouth as he rides on.  The sleeve he wipes his mouth on is already streaked with black and blood and other nasty things he can’t think about right now. “No wonder why Momoko never let me try smoking,”  Kenji mumbles as he reminisces about all the times the village doctor lectured Jun whenever she caught the guardsman on a break with his ivory pipe and tobacco satchel.

     Two more to go is the only thought that overrides all the aches, pains, and fears in his mind. He urges Kiso to ride faster to the next pillar of light, using the shine emanating from the Sword that Cuts the Heavens to keep them on course. He thinks, Just hold on Masami , I’m almost done.  Then I’ll wake you up, you can scream “ baka” at me all you want and I’ll laugh like before.  You can finally give me that gift you promised me for the Rite of the Silver Moon .

     Kenji doesn’t know how he made back to the Temple after killing the last guardian (he thought for sure he wouldn’t be able to survive when the guardian started crumbling and Kenji hung onto the sword still embedded in the giant’s weak point on its head as they started falling down, down, down).  He sobs when he sees Kiso, limping but still alive after she bucked him off to save him from the fifth demon’s jaws that had ambushed them. He completely ignores the sonorous voices of Dormin, the rumbling delight evident in the chorus as It thanks him for what he’s done. He just keeps resting against Kiso and weeping into her mane, relieved that he didn’t lose his only other companion on this crazy, stupid quest.  

     When he looks up at the sound of horse hooves and rustling armor, there’s a group wearing the colors of his old village, maneuvering around the shattered blocks of stone from fallen titans to approach him at the base of the altar’s steps.  Kenji laughs upon seeing the faces of his friends, now grimly waiting to kill him. There’s Vice-Captain Kohaku (well, probably “Captain" now that Kenji fucking ran from his village and effectively resigned from his position), looking at him with those same stern eyes and disappointed frown on her face.  There’s Hatch—he looks good with that new armor but judging by the way he squirms and shifts atop his horse, Kenji knows the brawler is itching to trade the heavy lacquer plate for the light karate gi he favors.  Toshio is off to the side, looking at him with almost pity in his green eyes, but Kenji knows that he wouldn’t hesitate to nail him with a few of his steel shuriken and rifle bullets.  And there, at the front, the Demon Slayer herself—Kenji begins to bellow with laughter even harder when he sees that it’s his best friend, Akane, leading the group.  

     He wipes away the tears, flings his arms wide open, and grins with that old Kenji flair for dramatics.  “Hey! Nice of you guys to join me at this party, but I don’t recall sending out invitations!” Judging from Kohaku’s and Hatch’s horrified expressions (Akane’s and Toshio’s faces remain impassive as per usual), he must make for quite the sight: torn clothing, bloody and banged up body, arms pitch-black up to the shoulders, a full bone-horn protruding from his forehead, and black smoke swirling around him like some sort of evil aura.   

     “Kenji.”

     At that single word, his smile drops and he watches Akane dismount and walk forward.

     “You know what happens now.  You broke the rules,” she says.

     “Funny, I thought you of all people would have hated being tied down by rules, especially when they hurt people you love.”

     “Satsuma threatened to go after Momoko.  I didn’t have a choice.” Oh, Akane, always straight to the point, especially when it comes to her wife.  Kenji both fumes with wrath and aches with understanding at her words. The pulsing in his arms speeds up and the haze in his mind gets worse as he wants to strike out and beat that calm determination off her face.

     Kenji barks out a bitter laugh.  “Well, guess who didn’t have a choice either!  Oh wait, Masami wants her soul trapped in the spirit realm while her body rots!” Can’t they see? He thinks, That this is what Satsuma and his god wanted?  To convince everyone that her sacrifice was the “only” way to save Hyuga?

     Akane stops a couple of feet away from him, warily watching the sword by his side, calculating as always what her foe will do next.  “She did want this.  You were supposed to respect her choice.”

     “ I was supposed to protect her! ” he roars.  (He doesn’t want to remember the tight-lipped resignation on Masami’s face when Satsuma first marked her for damnation; he doesn’t want to recall the fiery argument they had the night before the ceremony.)  “ That’s the duty of the Captain.”  He looks over at Kohaku, who has stayed oddly silent this whole exchange, and shoots her a lopsided smirk.  “Sorry, Kohaku. I guess that makes me a failure, huh? I hope that you can do better than me now that I’m gone.”

     Kohaku bows her head and murmurs, “I will never be like you.”  At the same time, Hatch cries out one last useless request for Kenji to come back with them with Masami, tears streaming down his face.  Toshio continues to look at him with indescribable emotions swirling in his dark green eyes. Honestly, why didn’t the ninja take the shot?  Kenji knows he made for such an open target when trying not to break down completely in Kiso’s presence. Perhaps Akane held Toshio back. He’s grateful if she did.

     It means she remembers that pact she made with him years ago: when they were young, wild, and oh-so-afraid of their capacity to kill.  Of being alone at the end of the slaughter.

     Kenji turns back at Akane.  Upon his attention, she draws her katana and shifts into Gedan, a basic low stance favored by her Alligator Style for its powerful counter-attacks.  Instinctively, he shifts into Jōdan, an aggressive, overhead stance of the Firefly Style.  They wait. It’s an old routine, as familiar as a lullaby to a child.  He’ll swing downward first, she’ll sidestep and aim a slash to his arm, he’ll pivot to block her sword and force her back with a shove, she’ll leap back to analyze him for openings but he’ll press forward with wild swings that will break her focus and force her to defend. They’ll switch off.  He knows he’s always been stronger and more resilient, but she’s more agile and has the sharpest instincts for finding weak points. They’ve always been equally matched, a constant push-and-pull that has never known an end.

     But this isn’t a training duel in the village fields and this isn’t a battlefield where they stand back-to-back, cutting down whichever enemies foolishly rush them. Now Kenji and Akane face each other to witness which is stronger: their promises to their loved ones or their promises to each other.  Perhaps this was inevitable, for loyalty and bonds built over years to gradually crumble away to dust with each clash of their swords.   

     What a mess.  

     Kenji sighs.  It’s not a dead man’s sigh of regret when the body releases its last gasp for forgiveness and peace.  No, it’s a sigh of tired endurance, of indomitable will; a breath loosed into the air before it rises and condenses into storm clouds that break open and unleash heaven’s wrath.  He smiles. “I’m guessing it makes sense that they brought you out to kill one last demon, but you better be prepared for the fight of your life!  I won’t go down without giving it my all!”

     Akane simply nods.  “Goodbye, old friend.”

     Kenji replies to her unspoken words, “I’m sorry too.” 

     And he thinks, And I’m sorry, Masami. Guess you’ll have to wait a little longer to give me your gift.  I’m sure it’s beautiful, whatever it is.

     And so, what else can he do but to charge forward?

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

A03 LINK:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848121/chapters/49974308#workskin

[ultimateshc]

Welcome to the blog, Mod Ouma and Korekiyo! Could I get an imagine of Makoto, Hajime, Shuichi, Kaede, and Nagito reacting to their s/o being the blackened? Thank you!

Oh that sweet, sweet angst…

———————————————

Makoto Naegi

    He was looking for anything, anything at all, to prove your innocence. You were so, so kind to him after Sayaka’s death that he completely disregarded you as the potential culprit of the latest murder. He spent nearly an hour beating around the bush until Togami decided he had had enough Makoto’s denials. Ignoring his shouts of your defense, Togami questions you directly, and takes your silence as confirmation of your terrible actions.

    You had disappointed the boy you had loved oh, so much. You made no attempt to defend yourself, knowing the longer it took, the more pain he would be in. After half an hour of Togami’s harsh questioning, the other students were convinced, though Toko needed no convincing after her prince spoke a single word. 

    Makoto looked at you from across the courtroom, his eyes brimming with tears that have yet to be shed. When voting time comes around, he has yet to admit that you had committed an act of murder. He decided that he would rather vote for himself than for his lover, who cared for him since the beginning of this horrible game. Despite his act of self-sacrifice, the majority vote was still against you, and you were sentenced to death. 

    The voting time was over, and it was time to say your final goodbyes to those still standing. Almost immediately, Makoto made his way over to you, wrapping his arms around you and burying his head into your chest. He holds you tight, not wanting to let go, fearing Monokuma would take you too early. “Why, why would you do such a thing?” His question was so quiet, so soft, that you could barely hear it. You respond simply by giving him a squeeze. You could already hear the chain falling to take you to your doom. You pull away, leaving a kiss to his lips. You roughly push him away, allowing another execution to claim another soul. He reaches up to you as you’re pulled away from him, his screams getting more and more distant.

———————————————

Hajime Hinata

    Hajime knew it was you, and he knew Komaeda would never let him live it down if he attempted to sacrifice the rest of the class for your escape. He knew you could not escape your demise, but he tried anyway, to prove your innocence. Komaeda’s laughter could be heard ringing throughout the courtroom, knowing what Hajime was trying to do. 

    Luck did not seem to be in Hajime’s favor this time, the class deciding that they would rather trust Komaeda and his reasoning the one time Hajime needed them not to. You were voted as the culprit, and sentenced to death. Hajime walked up to you, prepared to say goodbye one last time as the rest of the surviving students looked on, filled with guilt as they watched their friend’s lover prepare for their execution. 

    Hajime approached you, tears filling your eyes as your boyfriend takes your hands, giving them a soft squeeze before speaking. “I’m sorry I couldn’t let you escape.” You shake your head. You wouldn’t let him blame himself for this. “It’s not your fault, Hajime. You did what was right.” He presses a kiss to your lips before burying his face into your neck. 

    “Hurry up, lovebirds!” Monokuma’s voice rings through the room. He steps back, placing another kiss to your forehead before stepping away, holding onto your hand for as long as possible. The second your hands part, you’re dragged away, but not before seeing a single tear run down his cheek.

———————————————

Nagito Komaeda

    He knew it was you before the trial even began. He stuck to your side the second he came to this realization, wanting to spend as much time with you as possible before your inevitable demise. He was bolder, stealing a kiss every chance he got, and holding your waist in the elevator to the courtroom.

    If you were voted as the culprit and sentenced to death, then so be it, but he would take any chance he could to derail the trial. You were his hope, and hope should always prevail in the end. It didn’t take long for Hajime to catch on, calling Nagito out every chance he could. Despite defending you and being in the middle of a class trial, his thoughts were elsewhere. If he were to acquire such back luck this time around, something amazing must be in the near future, right?

    The students, as usual, supported Hajime throughout the trial, and voted you as the blackened. Nagito waited for you to say goodbye to everyone else before he said it himself. Trash that couldn’t even let his hope escape an island of hell was not worth anything, in his eyes. When he finally approached you, he gathered you in his arms and began to weep, asking through his tears about your motive. You could feel his hair brush against your neck, deciding to move your hand from his back to pet his hair, attempting to comfort him in your final moments.

    With you gone, he would be alone once again, his luck cycle claiming yet another life. Monokuma seemed to have gotten bored of your eternal embrace, decided to tear you away from the one you promised to protect, leaving behind a broken boy reaching for you as your taken away from him.

———————————————

Shuichi Saihara

    He was still insecure of his detective skills, thinking that the result he came to was simply a miscalculation. He continued the trial with that mindset until Kokichi decided to question others in the usual Kokichi-like way. It wasn’t long before it came out that there was a witness that had seen you out after the night time announcements. Shuichi came to the realization that he was, in fact, correct. All the evidence pointed to you.

    He had already lost Kaede, and he didn’t want to lose you as well, but it was inevitable. You were voted as the culprit, alienating you from the rest of the group. His eyes quickly filled with tears, Kaito looking on, worried for his sidekick’s mental state at this point. Tears streaming down his face as he held on to you, not wanting to give Monokuma the chance to take you away as well. 

    He pulled away slightly to grasp your hands, holding them tightly as he questioned you with a mix of crying and shouting. He didn’t want a motive, he wanted an excuse. He wanted a reason for you to stay with him. You could only stare at the ground with regret, as you had been the one to destroy the heart of the boy in front of you. 

    It was Kaito who had to tear him away from you so Monokuma could take you away. He attempted to escape his grasp, breaking away just before you were taken away. He watched, horrified, as memories of Kaede’s execution flood back into his mind. He started wearing his hat again after that.

———————————————

Kaede Akamatsu 

    She had hope for everyone, believing that working together would save them all. She trusted Shuichi to find the truth, but this wasn’t the truth she wanted. She watched as Shuichi dismantled your defenses, breaking down the events of the murder. She tried, she tried so hard to defend you, but the defense proved useless as witnesses testified.

    After you were voted as the blackened, she couldn’t bear to look you in the eye. She believed that she could trust you, that you, of all people, would not fall for the tricks of the killing game. She wanted to know why you had committed such an act, getting only a quiet apology in return.

    Her dreams of the group coming together to overcome the game had fallen apart, and she lost the one she loved with it. She held you as she cried, apologizing for not trying harder to protect you. She watched as you were taken away, a piece of her dying with you.

[petals42]

i wish you'd write a fic about those tweets where bitty says he's now contractually obligated to send morning selfies (imagine if he has to send them even if he's in providence but he woke up and jack left for his run)

1. You sent this 7 months ago. So… oops. My bad. (*jean ralphio voice* this is how I handle Prooo-oompts)

BUT

2. The literal only thing my angst brain can come up with is: later in life Jack either gets hurt during a game or is in a car accident or something and falls into a coma.

I’m not going to write this but it is sad. It is angsty. The whole fic would be about how the boys come back together to support Bitty during this whole thing. IDK. I don’t want to write it because too much sadness. There are chapters where Alicia sits next to his bedside and hates that he looks just like he did when he– and sobs and Bob comes in to hold her and then they both try to put on brave faces for Bitty when he comes in but he is too numb to even notice them and doesn’t look over. Shitty remains strong, strong, strong, of course he’ll make it through, my boy Jack, i’m not worried at all, just taking his sweet time, don’t worry ill pick up food, bitty ill drive you home, i can handle all of it, dont worry about a thing, who needs coffee?, ill keep just talking to jack like he’s there, he’s gonna wake up any second, no doubt, but then like fucking breaks down at some point and Bitty ends up holding him for a while and the two just fucking lose it and good LORD i’ve got to stop what the fuck is my brain doing. ANYWAY. 

BUT THEN!!! Jack wakes up. A bit groggy at first. But his whole family– Bitty, his parents, Shitty, all the boys and Lardo– are around him and, hell, he’s on painkillers, he doesn’t know how horrifying this was so Jack wakes up and he’s a little high and he knows Bitty was scared but he’s Jack Zimmermann and he will chirp when he wants to chirp so–

“How long was I out?” he asks. To be honest, he is expecting the number to be in hours.

“Don’t worry about that now, man,” Shitty says, weeping. “You’re alright. That’s what matters.”

“Mhmm,” Jack says. He is feeling pretty good. “But how long?”

There are exchanged glances and this is Jack’s first time being awake for longer than a few minutes but finally–

“Dude, you’ve been out for 9 days, sleeping beauty,” Lardo finally says. “Really being a drama queen.”

Jack blinks. That is… well that is concerning. But then he looks over and sees that Bitty looks like he’s about to start crying again and his eyes are already red and swollen so Jack doesn’t want that. He wants–

“Swawesome,” he says, just to make his team relax a little. Then smiles at Bitty. “Nine selfies for me.”

And Bitty bursts into laughter and also tears because he had kept sending them. Every morning. Even though it was terrible and he looked terrible and it was so hard but he couldn’t stop, not when Jack expected one every morning and if he stopped, it meant Jack wasn’t coming back and so he had sent them. Every morning. Even though Jack’s phone was out of battery and no one had thought to bother to plug it in.

Jack is fading now. He can feel it and Bitty is sort of crying and flailing like he wants to hit him.

“Dirty,” Jack manages. “I hope they’re dirty.”

“You asshole,” Bitty says, grinning and his light slap to Jack’s arm is the last thing Jack feels as he drifts off to sleep.

He’s not worried though. Bitty and his selfies will be there when he wakes up.