#Working late shifts is torture sometimes. Not because I don't like it but because people get fucked up about it.

[fvckw4d]

Well what else are you going to do if you can't sleep or work an evening shift. Go somewhere? Nothing's fucking open.

I'm watching (well, listening) to a true crime show because my friend is super into it and wants someone to talk to about it, and I know I've complained about how my neurodivergent ass would never survive a police interrogation (assigned guilty for having ADHD and not being able to remember what I said five minutes ago and constantly adding new details to a story as I remember them), but this line legitimately made me laugh:

Police officer: the couple claimed to be doing DIY at night, but who does that? Who renovates their house at night?

Reader, it is 3:31am, and I am literally up a step ladder with a power drill 😂

Assigned guilty by delayed sleep phase disorder and a profound lack of impulse control.

[acourtofwillowsandleaves]

WIP

This is literally the first fanfic I have ever written. Please don't judge me because I am ✨sensitive✨. Be kind, this is just for fun and like kind of as a way for me to vent my feelings. Big trigger warning for suicide and like mental health stuff...anyways. Here is the first "chapter" I guess. Idk where I'll be going with it but yeah 💁‍♀️

The Tortured Souls Department

Feyre:

“The patients are killing me today…” I huff as I sit down at the nurses station. 

“Room 12 again?” Asks Clare.

“Mhmm.” I roll my eyes, resting my chin in my hand. It had been a year since I had started working here at Prythian General Hospital, specifically the psychiatric ward. I tell myself everyday like a mantra “I love my job…I love my job…you’re so lucky.” It is true, I do love my job, but some days can be difficult. Like today.

“FUUUCK!” Screams said patient in room 12. Here we go again.

“I got it, you take your break,” says Clare as she pats me on my shoulder. Clare to my rescue as always. I flash her an apologetic smile as I get up from my seat and make my way to the break room. 

I make my way into the restroom. I take a deep breath as I splash some water on my face. Looking in the mirror, I look worn out. My brown hair askew - escaping from the low bun at the base of my head. My gray eyes - tired from the long shift. My full lips - chapped from running around like a chicken with my head cut off with no water breaks going on seven hours into my shift. The inner mantra starts again.

As I sit down finally to take my first sip of water all day, my work phone rings.

“Hello?” 

“Feyre, you’re getting an admission. When you come back from your lunch come see me.” Says our dutiful unit secretary.

Another poor soul that needs our help.

I gratefully scarf down my lunch, savoring the short thirty minutes that I have all to myself. I think about what my new admission will be like. Will they be sad, lonely, and depressed? Will they be bouncing off the walls with mania? Talking to the demons in their own mind, plagued with schizophrenia? The possibilities are endless, these are the kind of people I love to help. Unfortunately for them, they are stuck here. This beige and white purgatory. When I am alone I often think about what it would be like if the roles were reversed. What if I was in their place? I shudder at the thought. I see patients that look like zombies. Endlessly wandering with this blank look in their eyes. It’s the cost helping them sometimes. They turn into a zombie.

I walk slowly to our unit office where the clerk is. Up the stairs since the elevator has been broken for months. The building where I work at is part of the old section of the hospital. Meaning it hasn’t been renovated probably since the 1980s. 

“Hey, Az. What’s up?” Azriel is our unit secretary. He answers the phones and keeps an eye on the surveillance cameras.

“Can you give the ER a call when you get a chance? You’re getting this guy, Rhysand. He’s a druggie or whatever.” Azriel waves his hand dismissively at me, urging me to call for report. 

I haven’t had a chance to look in his chart yet, but I am eager to get started on my new admit. The sooner I get it done, the sooner it will be over. I sit down at the desk, pen and paper in hand and dial the extension to the ER.

——————

Rhys:

Black. That’s all there was. All there is. I am no where. But - there’s a light. It starts out tiny, then it keeps growing. And growing. And suddenly I am back. 

I reach back for the darkness but it’s too late. 

I’m being shaken. Quite forcefully. 

It didn’t work. Dammit.

“Let’s get an IV in him, an eighteen gauge please. Normal saline, run it wide open. We need to get his pressure up.” 

I crack my eyes open to see. I’m in the hospital. No. No. No. I need to leave. Need to get out. Need to run. 

“You’re not going anywhere buddy, lay back down.” Suddenly I feel weak and everything goes dark again.

“Oh shit…”

——————

“Rhysand….Rhysand. Rhys.” A familiar voice. I’m not dead, I think. I open my eyes and see my cousin, Mor, sitting inches from my face. There’s tears streaming from her chocolate brown eyes. 

“I’m sorry…” I try to speak but my voice only comes out as a whisper. 

She smacks me on the shoulder, “Don’t you ever do that again! Do you hear me?! I can’t take it anymore, Rhys! You need help.”

I look away, I’m ashamed. It all started when I was coerced into a relationship with a woman. Amarantha. It started out as a joke, us fake-dating. It was a prank for our friends at school. But then she took advantage of me. Blackmailed me and forced me to do things with her. I hated it. Hated her. That went on for about a year. I couldn’t escape. She would force me to go to parties with her. It eventually led to me trying pills for the first time. I loved how I felt. It numbed the pain. Now she’s in prison, but I still have the pills. I can’t stop. I was tired of the nightmares. I wanted it all to end.

“You can’t make me…” 

“Yes I can.” She says, defiantly. 

I sigh, she always gets her way. We’re both orphans essentially. Her family betrayed her, kicked her out at sixteen. My parents are dead. We only have each other. I guess I was selfish for wanting to die. It would have left her all alone in this world. 

“I’ll be right back, I’m gonna go talk to the nurse.” She leaves her place by my bedside and exits the room. 

They can’t keep me. I have to get out of here. 

I rip out the IV attached to my arm, it stings a little but I’ve been through worse. My clothes are neatly folded on a chair across from my bed. I slowly creep my way out of bed and put my clothes on. “Ok, be cool, be cool.” I open the flimsy curtain and tiptoe my way out of my hospital room. 

“He’s trying to leave! Someone get that man back to his room!” Someone yells from down the hall. 

Shit. I break out into a sprint but I have no idea where the exit is.

The next thing I know, I am being tackled to the floor. A large, muscular security guard pins my hands behind my back.

“Hey!” I yelp. I am dragged back to my room, kicking and flailing the entire way. They can’t do this, they’re holding me hostage! For trying to kill myself? Is that suddenly a crime? I swing my arm in a random direction, it makes contact with something pointy and I hear a crack. 

“Get him in restraints. Ativan, benadryl, and, haldol going in.” I feel a sharp prick on my upper arm. I hiss in pain. My arms and legs are being held down and suddenly I am being cuffed to the bed. 

“You mother…fucker….” My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton and my eyelids feel like they’re being pushed closed by some invisible force. 

I am plunged into darkness again. It feels like a warm embrace.

——————

Feyre:

I sit down at my computer in the cramped intake room. I run through my mental checklist: toiletries - check. Scrubs - check. Vital signs machine - check. Admission handouts - check. Consent forms - check. I have everything that I need. “Let’s hope this guy doesn’t beat me up,” I think to myself, crossing my fingers. My coworker, Amren, is assisting me today. She looks down at her phone, bored. A knock sounds on the door to our little room. 

“Come in” I order.

It’s Cassian. My favorite security guard. His hair arranged neatly in a bun on top of his head. My eyes scan toward his face. There’s a bandage on his nose. I grimace at him. No time to make a sarcastic and witty comment to him as he wheels in my new patient. “Hey Feyre, this is Rhysand. Need me to stick around?”

“No thank you…” I drift off. Sitting in front of me is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

It’s devastating how beautiful he is compared to the ugly situation he is in. 

“Hi, you can call me Rhys.” He smiles, weakly.

I smile back at him, pulling on the purple nitrile gloves. “Feyre,” I say to him. I clear my throat and look away from his gorgeous violet eyes. “I’ll be your nurse today. And this is Amren.” I gesture to Amren. 

“‘Sup.” She waves at him.

I get started on my intake with him. This poor soul. Too beautiful to be in a situation like this.

Stop it, I think to myself. He’s just like everyone else you admit into this place, get a grip on yourself. He signs all of the consent forms and answers my questions with tears in his eyes. He tried to kill himself. I’ve become so desensitized to the trauma of others, I nod and jot down what he tells me. 

“But you probably don’t care…right?” He looks at me so intensely I feel like there’s a spotlight on me. 

“Of course I care. I know we just met and you’re a total stranger to me. But I’m glad that you’re here to get help. I know you may not think it right now, but the world, your friends, and your family need you” I tell him, I reach out and squeeze his hand.

Something snaps in him. “I didn’t ask to be here.” He is glaring at me, his eyes burning a hole in me, shooting daggers. 

“I know, and I’m sorry it had to go this way.” I apologize to him. It is a genuine apology. I’m sorry that he went through what he did. I want to kill whoever drove him to this point. 

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” he smirks. 

Well he’s right. I don’t trust the way he is glaring at me so I move on to the next part in our admission assessment. I want to get this over as fast as possible. “Ok Amren, let’s do the skin check and we’ll be done.” I look back over him apologetically. “This next part may be a little embarrassing, but I need you take off your clothes.”

His face turns bright red. “Oh so now you want to see me naked?”

“Yes.” Amen deadpans. 

“Fine.” He strips off his shirt and pants. He looks like a carved statue. The kind that you see in a museum from the renaissance period. Michaelangelo’s David standing before me. If David had tattoos from head to toe that is. He does a little spin. Scars littering his back, Amren making note of them for our assessment. I pull the small curtain out from the corner of the room. 

“Underwear too, Rhys. You can go behind this curtain if you’d like.” I tell him, trying to keep the tone lighthearted. I know I would be embarrassed if I was told to strip naked in front of two strangers of the opposite sex. I try to be as sensitive as I can when it comes to these situations.

“No need.” He shakes his head and drops his black underwear to the floor.

I quickly glance at his legs and backside, telling Amren I don’t see anything of note besides the tattoos. “OK. We’re done. You can pull those back on.” 

I put a pair of the light blue patient scrubs in his hands for him to change into. “You can put these on.” My hand brushes his for a split second and I quickly remove my hand from his vicinity like I had been burned. 

“I can’t wear my own clothes?” He asks.

“There’s vomit on your shirt,” Amen with that deadpan tone again, “Plus there’s strings in your pants. We don’t do strings here.” 

“You’ll get them back before you leave, along with your cell phone and wallet.” I reassure him. He looks like a dear in the headlights - all of that cockiness leaving his face. I see genuine fear flash across his expression. “We have to go now, I’ll show you around…”

“I can’t do this…I’m scared.” He doesn’t want to be here of course. An image flashes across my mind, a memory. Like when I was five years old clinging to my mother as she dropped me off for my first day of kindergarten. 

I offer my hand to him, as if he is the child that doesn’t want to fly the nest and I am the mother.   He clings to my hand as if it’s a lifeline as I lead him out the door and onto the ward. 

Author's Note:

Did you like it??? I don't know how to feel about it. Anyways if you or someone you know is struggling the suicide hotline is 988

[beels-burger-babe]

Mind Your Traps

*** Ester, words cannot describe how much I love this request. When I saw it, I'm lucky no one was home, because I was cackling like a fricking gremlin. Thank you for giving me this glorious prompt. I hope you enjoy @ester-is-here***

Poly!MC

Summary: After a few nights of Mammon consistently trying to break into his room and steal his cursed records, Lucifer decided to put up a trap for him. When he sees it's been triggered later that day, he just grins and carries on with his work, imagining the suffering his brother must be going through. It's not until his brothers start panicking and he sees Mammon panicking with them that he realizes he messed up...big time.

You shot up out of your bed, eyes wide in fear as your chest heaved with panic.

A nightmare; a bad one at that.

It seemed the longer you were in the Devidom, the more you would get them. Sometimes they were about the different traumas you had suffered in the human world. Other times they were based on one of the many incidents that had happened down here; whether that was experiencing your death at the hands of one of your lovers over and over again, or conjuring up the brothers being forced through some form of torture.

You bit back sobs and pressed a hand over your face to muffle the sound. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you attempted to take deep breaths to calm yourself.

There was no way you'd be falling back asleep that night. But luckily for you, there was another insomniac in the house.

With shaky legs, you pulled yourself out of the bed and slowly made your way to Lucifer's room. You knew he'd probably be fussing over paperwork and working away as he had mentioned having to go over new protocols during supper. You just hoped that your boyfriend wouldn't mind the interruption too badly.

You went to step up to his door, but the moment your foot hit the rug in front of his office, you felt your muscles freeze. A burning hot sensation climbed up your limbs causing you to cry out before you heard a loud crack! The air tightened around you and the room blurred. When everything came back into focus, you were falling from at least ten feet in the air.

You screamed and tried to position yourself to land properly, but you weren't fast enough. With a sickening snap, you felt your ankle give out underneath you. The cries that you had been holding back came out at full force as you trembled in pain, exhaustion, and fear.

Too out of it to be aware of your surroundings, you hadn't noticed the shift in the shadows, the sound of heavy footsteps walking towards you. It wasn't until a gust of warm, wet breath hit for face and a low growl finally pierced your panic-driven mind that you looked up and found three sets of glaring red eyes staring back at you.

***

The brothers all made their way around the breakfast table with varying degrees of consciousness. The only two people not at there were you and Lucifer.

Food was slowly passed around and divided among them with little to no conversation happening. It wasn't until Beelzebub shook a sleeping Belphegore awake, that someone finally spoke up. Belphie glanced around the table before frowning at your absence. "I'm not the only one who heard a yelp last night, right? Specifically a MC yelp?" Everyone froze and looked at Belphegore as he continued, "There's a chance it was a dream, but I could've sworn I heard them cry out in the middle of the night."

Asmodeus furrowed his brow in thought. "I don't think I heard anything, but I'm a pretty deep sleeper. Beauty sleep and all."

Everyone turned to look at Levi, as the otaku was notorious for his all-night gaming sessions. Leviathan blushed and looked at his plate. "I had my headphones on all night. I-I didn't hear anything besides the sweet sound of Ruri-Chan's voice."

Satan leaned back in his chair and held a finger under his chin. "The only other person, besides the two of you, who is usually up that late is Lucifer. Considering the two of them are missing currently, I wouldn't say it's unrealistic to assume that MC had a nightmare last night and went to Lucifer for comfort. You know how soft he is for them. They're probably sleeping in."

Leviathan huffed and stabbed a piece of fruit, obviously jealous that you had gone to Lucifer out of all the brothers.

Mammon made a similar noise and took a bite from his breakfast, "Yeah well, as long they're gettin' some sleep." Everyone looked at him strangely, obviously curious about the open show of concern. Mammon blushed and looked away from the staring eyes, "J-Just cause they're cranky when they're tired and it ain't no fun they're upset like that."

Asmodeus snorted and shook his head. "When will you stop covering up your feelings like that? You obviously love MC, Mammon. We all do. That's why we're dating them."

Mammon grumbled to himself and dug into his food, purposefully ignoring his brothers' laughter as they mocked his tsundere behaviour.

They carried on with their day, completely ignorant to the fact that you weren't, in fact, with Lucifer.

***

Lucifer finally came out of his office around lunchtime.

He had holed himself up there this morning after having his first peaceful sleep all week. Lucifer's few hours of sleep had been interrupted every night that week by a particularly greedy Mammon who had been trying to steal an expensive cursed record he had recently acquired.

But not last night.

Lucifer had prepared for Mammon and set up a trap for him. To his great pleasure, Lucifer had found it triggered this morning. He went to work smiling and productive, knowing that Mammon would learn the hard way to stay away from his room.

The eldest hummed to himself cheerfully as he entered the kitchen. He had just begun to assemble a sandwich when Satan entered.

Satan seemed to pay him no mind at first but then did a double-take as though realizing something. He glanced at Lucifer's sandwich, frowning, before peering around him.

Lucifer sighed and turned to face him. "Is there something about my lunch that is particularly bothersome to you?"

Satan's eyes glinted with annoyance as he continued to look around Lucifer. "Yes, actually. I was just wondering if you were planning on keeping MC with you all day and why you weren't making them lunch when I know for a fact that they haven't eaten all day," his arms crossed over his chest; clearly displeased with the alleged mistreatment of their partner.

It was Lucifer's turn to frown as he raised an eyebrow at Satan. "What are you talking about? I haven't seen MC since yesterday."

Satan's eyes widened and he moved towards Lucifer. The firstborn was shocked at the sudden distress and concern that coated Satan's expression. "You really haven't seen them all day? They didn't go to you last night?"

The repeated question caused even more suspicion to arise inside of Lucifer, especially since the situation involved his beloved. "No, not at all. Satan, what is going on?"

Satan took a step back and froze. His thoughts ran rapid, trying to think of all the possibilities of where you might be or what might've happened to you. If you weren't with Lucifer and no one had seen you all day, that only left a few options and none of them were good.

He turned to Lucifer. "MC and you were the only two not at breakfast this morning. We had all assumed that they were with you. But if they aren't and they haven't been with any of us..."

Lucifer's eyes widened in understanding before his brain picked up on something within Satan's words. "Wait, only MC and I were missing? Mammon was too, correct?"

Satan tensed and narrowed his eyes at his elder. "No. He was there being his normal stupid self. Where did you think he would be?"

Lucifer paled as the dots connected in his head. "Get the others. Now! I think I know where MC is," without waiting for a response, Lucifer took off towards his room, dread and regret swirling faster and faster in his stomach with every step he took.

***

All seven brothers stood furious around the rune circle in front of Lucifer's door.

"So you mean to tell me," Belphie growled lowly, "that because of your stupid, overly cruel, trap that you failed to warn the rest of us about, MC has most likely been hiding from Cerberus all day, if not being torn to pieces?"

Everyone flinched at the mental image.

Lucifer glared right back at him, "I wouldn't even have a need for such a trap if Mammon hadn't been such a greedy scumbag and continuously attempted to break into my room."

Mammon sneered at his brother and shoved him out of the way as he stormed towards the front entrance. "Yeah yeah. Blame it on me. That's what your best at. We ain't got time for arguin'. I don't know about you all of you, but I'm going to make sure that my significant other isn't dead because someone can't figure out how to punish people without at least half a pint of their blood spillin'."

It was obvious Mammon was pissed. They all were. But deep down, he couldn't help but feel partly responsible. Lucifer was right. The trap wouldn't even exist he hadn't been such a screw-up all the time.

As much as the others wanted to yell at Lucifer and demand how he could be so careless with something so dangerous when you, their precious fragile human, lived under the same roof as them, they knew they didn't have time to.

Time was of the essence. If there was any chance that you were still alive, you would most likely be greatly injured. They needed to get to you and get you help as soon as possible.

The brothers rushed through the gardens to the heavily locked back courtyard where Cerberus lived.

Lucifer began to cite the unlocking incantation, but Beelzebub couldn't wait, not when he knew that you could be in pain. He roared as he slammed his foot down on the lock of the door and broke open the metal door. Without waiting for the others, he surged forwards.

"MC?!" He called out, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of you. "MC where are-" Beelzebub stumbled to a stop, his brothers slamming against his back, as he choked at the sight in front of him.

Cerberus laid asleep, just outside of his dog house. Laying unmoving between his huge paws with your foot twisted at a gruesome angle, was you. Your skin was pale, and coated in dirt. Your eyes were closed, and your face twisted in discomfort. From where your lovers were standing, you looked dead.

"O-Oh my God." Asmodeus breathed, his voice tight with tears as he looked at you.

Leviathan shook his head as he felt panic fill his chest. "Th-This has to be a dream right? Th-They can't actually...They aren't..."

A loud growl tore from Satan's throat as his demon form flickered into existence. He bared his claws and teeth, red filling his vision as he darted towards Cerberus with the intent to kill.

Before he could get too close, one of Cerberus's ears perked at the sound of the air shifting. He looked up and spotted the threat. His eyes narrowed dangerously and barked at Satan before sending him flying against the wall with a swipe of his paw.

"Satan!" Asmodeus rushed over to his brother, while the others quickly changed to their demon forms. Ready to fight Cerberus, and at the very least, get your body back.

The monstrous-sized dog took note of their defensive state and rumbled dangerously as he rose to his feet. Keeping your body between his paws as though you were a bone that they were attempting to take from him.

Lucifer felt sick at the sight and glared at his pet. "Cerberus! Stand down!" he commanded.

To his surprise, the dog's growls grew volume as one of his heads snapped at him.

A small groan caught everyone's attention.

In an instant, all of Cerberus's ears perked up as he turned away from the brothers and gently laid down to sniff at your body and whimper.

Mammon tried to charge forward, clearly thinking that beast was about to eat you, but Beel quickly caught him. "Wait," he pleaded, "I...I think he's helping them."

The brothers nearly collapsed in both relief and shock as they saw your eyes flutter open. As if the fact that you were alive wasn't enough of a surprise for their poor hearts, you smiled softly at the monster and reached out two arms to scratch two of his heads. "What's got you all worked up boy, huh? I'm trying to sleep here you know."

The boys' jaws dropped and the head that you weren't paying attention to barked and licked the side of your face, causing you to giggle. For Diavolo's sake, his tail was wagging!

"M-MC?" Levi finally stuttered out.

Both you and Cerberus turned to look at them. Your eyes widened as you finally noticed their arrival and you smiled brightly, while Cerberus's ears tilted back and growled in warning. You patted the dog's head. "Easy, Cerb. They're just here to help me," he glanced between you and the demons as though he was unsure and let out a whine that none of the brothers had ever heard him make. You just laughed and nuzzled one of his heads. "Thank you for protecting me, boy. Such a good guard dog. Yes, you are! My sweet boy!"

The brothers could only watch in bewilderment as Cerberus barked happily and gently nudged you back onto your feet.

With the oversized puppy satisfied you turned to the brothers. "So you figured out where I am, huh?" you laughed, but the sound didn't meet your eyes. "I-I was pretty scared, not gonna lie. I don't even know how I ended up here, or if anyone knew where I was or how long I'd be stuck here. Cerberus was great company though." The dog yipped at the mention of him.

Lucifer swallowed down the guilt that weighed heavily in his chest. "MC. We need to check you for injuries. Could make your way over to us? I don't believe Cerberus will let us any closer."

You frowned at the serious tone in his voice and gave Cerberus one final pat before limping over to the brothers.

The moment you were out of Cerberus's reach the brothers were crowding you, speaking over one another. Some were crying, others were shouting, some just held you and you mumbling to themselves.

You felt yourself become flooded with concern and worry as you gently kissed the top of Leviathan’s (the otaku was clinging onto your waist as he sobbed into your shirt). "Woah, everyone calm down. I'm alright, really!"

Mammon snarled as his hurt gaze frantically bore into yours. Your heart broke at the tears dripping down his cheeks. "We thought you were dead, MC! You were laying there, not movin' underneath Cerbeus a-and we thought we were too late! That Lucifer's stupid trap had killed ya!"

You pulled him in for a hug, and tightly held onto his shivering body as he cried against your shoulder. The distress of the brothers suddenly made complete sense. "I'm alive, loves. I'm safe and I'm alive." You reached an arm over to pat Beel's hand from where it was squeezing your shoulder. "Cerberus never hurt me. Sure he growled a little when I first fell into his yard. But, um, but I guess he just liked my vibe. He cuddled with me and let me sleep on his paw."

You decided now wasn't the time to tell them that what really caught the dog's attention was your cries. He noticed your obvious distress and your injury and tried to calm you. By the time you stopped crying, the dog had become attached and protective over you.

Still, Belphie frowned at your words. "What do you mean fell in here? Is that what happened to your leg?" he sneered at Lucifer who, you noticed, hadn't even approached the group. "Just how sadistic did you make that fucking spell?"

You paused as your brain finally processed what the boys were saying. You spent half a day, shivering, crying, and injured outside because of some kind of trap Lucifer made.

The firstborn looked defeated in a way you had never saw him. He stared at the ground with brow furrowed and head dropped in shame. His shaking fists were clenched so tightly that you just knew his nails must be breaking the skin of his palms.

"Lucifer?" He refused to look at you.

Satan scoffed and kissed your cheek as he nuzzled your shoulder. "Pathetic. He won't even admit it. Not even when it's his recklessness that could've killed you," Lucifer flinched at the venom in Satan's words. "Lucifer Morningstar and his fucking pride in all its glory."

"Enough," you ordered, causing everyone to look up at you in confusion. Your gaze wasn't angry or upset, simply stern. "I understand you're angry because of what happened, but look at him. He knows that he messed up. There's no need to rub it in even further."

Asmodeus whined and nudged your neck with his nose. "But MC! It was his trap for Mammon that got you hurt!"

You paused at that. You had no doubt that if it was Mammon that landed here and not you, Cerberus wouldn't have been nearly as friendly. Mammon would have been seriously injured.

"Is that true?"

Lucifer's knuckles turned white as he tightened his fists. "Yes," his eyes didn't once lift off the ground.

You inhaled sharply at his confession and held onto Mammon a little tighter. This had to stop. The brothers constantly going at one another with no regard for each other's safety had to end now. "Tell me Lucifer, why is it so wrong for me to have fallen through such a dangerous trap, but perfectly fine for your younger brother?" you frowned as he remained silent and sighed. "You boys have to stop this."

A couple of them squawked in defence at the accusation in tone as they finally began to release you from their tight grasps.

You held up a hand to silence them. "No. It's not right for you to always be hurting one another, whether that's verbally or physically," your gaze turned desperate as you looked at them. "Do you have any idea how much it hurts to see my boyfriends always degrading one another? How much it hurts knowing that you would laugh if one of your brothers came home bleeding?" they all looked away in shame. You crossed your arms over your chest, "I love you. All of you. I would spend my last breath defending you and doing everything I can to make you happy, just like I know you would me. But what am I supposed to do when it's one of my partners that is the reason that the other is sobbing into my lap?"

The lords were quiet as they took in your words. Guilt filled each of them as they thought of the way they had been treating one another.

"We're sorry MC," Beelzebub apologized, his eyes glistening in pain and disgust with himself.

You gave him a small smile. "Beel, darling, I love you and thank you for the apology, but you're probably the one with the least to apologize for. Besides, I'm not the one you should all be apologizing to, it's each other."

Asmodeus groaned and dramatically dropped his head on your shoulder, "Why are you always right?"

You giggled and ruffled his hair, "Because I know my boys, and I know that deep down you all love one another and would be horrified if one of you really were injured."

"MC's right," everyone whipped around to look at Lucifer in shock. He stared at the group, his head held high. His eyes were sharp with regret and remorse. It was clear to all present that your words had gotten through to him. "I, more so than everyone else, need to apologize for how I've mistreated all of you," he walked up to the group and lightly placed a hand on your elbow as he looked at the others. "Though perhaps we can continue this conversation inside? MC hasn't had anything to eat today, and I'd like to get their ankle checked. After that, I promise, I will sit down with you all and discuss this."

Though some of the brothers seemed reluctant to hold off the discussion, they silently agreed that your safety and health were most important.

Beel scooped you up in his arms and carried you back inside as Asmodeus walked by his side ranting about the spa treatment he was going to give you to get the dirt off your skin.

That night was one of the most open and vulnerable nights that the brothers had ever had with one another. Following Lucifer's lead, they each confessed their sins and expressed their pain. Though it didn't fix everything, it was a step in the right direction, and you couldn't be prouder of your boys.

***I feel kind of iffy about the ending, but I hope you enjoyed!! Excuse any weird formatting. I typed out most of this on my phone and will be going through it to edit when I get home! In the meantime, I hope you liked it @ester-is-here and thank you for this wonderful request!***

Taglist (Just realized I forgot to put it up! Sorry it's late)

@mimik248

@my-wildflowergirl

@roseytoesy

[diavolosthots]

I don't know if I'm too late if so ignore this. Mc trying to take care of Lucifer. Like bringing him food and drinks, trying to make sure stuff is done in the house, stopping the brothers from bothering him.,thanks for reading my request and remember if you don't want to do it or I'm to late delete it.

You weren't too late at that time and I'm in a lucifer mood tonight so this is being done!

Also who else would like to try spicy hellburned chili now that i made it up? Because I do.

Helpful Hands (LUCIFER X GN!READER)

People always underestimate how much he does for this family, or at least he thinks so. They see mean old Lucifer who only ever bullies and is way too strict. They see the guy who has a patch of gray hair but should be way too young to have it. They see the Avatar of Pride who can’t bear to be defeated for the life of him. Sometimes they see a stuck up asshole who thinks of nothing but himself and occasional torture because he’s viewed as Mr. Sadist. The last part might be mildly true, but only on bad days and only to those who really deserve it. He’s heard it all, from both friends and foes alike, and of course his family. Even Diavolo scolds him at times, which that’s when he’s truly about to snap it because if it weren’t for the Demon Lord he probably wouldn’t be on edge all the time, but more on that later. The point is, though, that most, if not all, of those claims are fault. 

People see the surface level. They see what they want to see and they don’t dare to dig deeper. Maybe they fear him, maybe they’re just too warped in the idea that he absolutely hates everyone that they also turn to hating him. A “I do you like you do me” type of deal, but if they would just take the time… if they would listen and really take a good look at him… maybe they’d realize he’s just suffering. Everytime he gets mad at Mammon or gives a stern, “not now,” that’s him being overwhelmed. Or if his agitation shines through, it’s not because he’s truly annoyed, but because he knows they can do better. He pushes his brothers, absolutely, but only because he knows their true potential. He holds all this weight on his shoulders, for everyone, and instead of giving a small thanks, they ruin his day. It’s hard being the unwanted parent of six, but if he wasn’t, Hell would burn. Or, well, more so than it usually does. Diavolo adds to his work on the daily, and maybe that wouldn’t be such a problem, if he weren’t also the one distracting him from such work and then getting onto him for not having it done. 

It’s hard being him. It’s hard to be the responsible one because you feel like you have to; because you feel like you owe it to them. He blames himself, heavily, for everything that has happened, even though it was their choice to join him. He lays there at night, more often than he likes to admit, and asks himself the big “what if” questions. “What if I didn’t go against them.” “what if I let loose.” “What if I’m being too strict.” Never, ever will you hear him say these things. Pride, ya know? But you don’t need to hear those things because you do know. You see it in his tired eyes and slumped posture once no one is looking. You see it in the way he eats and his coffee outweighs his nutrients. You can tell every time his anger rises too quickly, although he deems himself the rational one. You know Lucifer, even if he thinks you don’t, and you feel bad for him. You feel bad that you’re the only one who seems to see how truly tired he is. How much of a shoulder to lean on he actually needs, and although you’d never dare just go up and offer it, because once again his pride still wouldn’t let him admit that, you try to acknowledge his needs in little ways. 

Coffee was ready this morning, Lucifer noted, but he brushed it off because maybe it was just Beel’s late night or early morning snack; maybe he wanted some? “The pot is full…” and he took advantage of that. Whoever made the coffee, and someone must have because it was still hot and tasted fresh, he thanks them. You smiled to yourself when you saw him with a cup, heading back to his office, “morning, Lucifer. Enjoy your coffee.” He had looked at you, blinking a few times and probably wondering why you’re so cheery this early in the morning, “Good morning, (Y/N).” but that was it. Well, not really. Next thing he knew was that lunch was already done when he arrived in the kitchen to start it. “(Y/N)? What are you doing? It’s my turn.” but you only shrugged, wiping your hands before grabbing the plates and heading out to the dining room to place them, “yeah but I was already down here and didn’t have anything to do. Don’t mind me, just come sit and eat.” He didn’t say it, and he didn’t need to, but he was really appreciative and he even managed a small smile when you passed. 

Those were isolated incidences, though, or so he thought. But now, little by little, he realized more and more things that he had never noticed before. The rooms were clean, or at least the ones he was in, the fridge and pantry was always stocked, even with Beel around, and he rarely ever got interrupted. Of course, he still heard the occasional arguments between his brothers; Mammon stealing the remote right as Belphegor was about to put sleepy time music on… seriously, why can’t the guy do that on his D.D.D.? Or Satan screaming at Leviathan who accidently tripped over Satan’s books in his room while lending him his headphones. Shocker on that one, right? Or maybe it was a disagreement between you and Beelzebub about which spices should be used in the Spicy Hellburned Chili for this wednesday night’s dinner. But all of these were minor and nothing compared to what he usually deals with. At first he was super suspicious though and would constantly check on everyone, but by day three he thought that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten lucky and he finally does have some peace. Spoiler alert: he did. He got way more done than he ever did. 

That, however, does bother him. He doesn’t know who or why they would do it and as much as he enjoys it, he would also like to have a discussion with them. His birthday isn’t for another couple of months so he knows that that wouldn’t be the reason he’s being treated so nicely, so what else could it be? Mammon would only do this for money and even then he’s pretty upfront about it and begs for it Lucifer immediately after he had done the task, so he’s off the table. Satan and Belphegor would rather die than help him, Asmodeus is too obsessed with himself and Leviathan is holed up more than he shows any signs of life. So, the only other two people are you and Beelzebub, both of which are very nice people and debatably the only ones who truly care about him. The last part is a joke, but you two show it more than others. “Was it you that has been helping me?” But Beelzebub just looked confused, half a bag of chips down his throat as Lucifer asked and something told Lucifer that he wasn’t it. “No, but did you need help?” With a shake of his head and a sigh, Lucifer turned on his heel to go and find you, but not before doing something else. 

“Come to my room, (Y/N).” he had said and for a moment you thought your whole plan backfired and his brothers annoyed him again, or maybe you had forgotten something in it? Were you not careful enough in your attempts to make his life easier? You haven’t even gotten to the best part! “I’m here…” you practically sprinted down the hall while trying to find an excuse for anything he could potentially say, but when he opened the door to let you in, all of those left your mind, “what’s up?” He didn’t look… mean, per se, but he looked stern like always and it kind of freaked you out. Did you do something wrong? Was the coffee not strong enough? You used the wrong spices for the chili, didn’t you? “Do you see this?” Lucifer’s finger pointed out and you followed it, noting it was pointing at his desk, “uhm…. Yes? Am I not supposed to see it? Wasn’t it always here?” “Yes, it has always been there. However, something is different.” You turned to look at him and then back at his desk. Was it new? Did he paint it? Is there a trophy on there you should be aware of? “Lucifer I can’t see--”

When you turned back around, he was holding out two glasses of champagne and a smile was, for once in what felt like forever, gracing his lips. “Exactly. It’s empty. You can actually see it.” he hands you one of the glasses, his smile never faltering, “I had an unusual amount of time this week thanks to a few… coincidences that just so happen to align with my schedule and make my life easier. I know it was you. You made my coffee that morning, and were kind enough to leave the pot. You took up my lunch shift on purpose, not because you were down there. You also took my dinner shift this week, and cleaned the house. I’m assuming you’re also responsible for keeping my brothers in line which is a miracle within itself.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head before reaching out his other hand and tilting your chin up, “I don’t know how or why… and frankly, I don’t want to know. It would ruin the fun of it, but I do want to thank you for it and seeing as I have nothing else to do tonight, or tomorrow, you’ll be staying with me.” You blinked a few times. You could feel your heartbeat speed up and for a moment you wondered what you had actually done, but also, how bad could this go? You had one more thing to give him, anyway. “Works for me. I have one more thing to give you, anyway.” You clink your glass with his before taking a sip, watching him raise an eyebrow while your own eyebrows rose up and your lips turned into a smirk. “Undress for me, Lucifer.” 

You hope he will agree to a massage. Lord knows he needs his shoulders loosened up. 

[ahtsumu]

vignettes from a simple and good life ; miya osamu

pairing: miya osamu x f!reader

synopsis: a year in review.

tag(s): fluff ; warning(s): profanity, suggestive themes, kinda bad but i tried LOL ; wc: 1.3k

a/n: happy birthday to @bbytetsu​ ​! ik i said i wouldn’t write anything but i’m a woman of my own word. also sorry this isn’t geto LOL. anyway this is kinda different from anything i’ve ever done but i hope you like it! love u

1.

he walks past you and suddenly the world’s aflame.

“um,” you stutter, turning around with wide eyes. “excuse me?”

cool grey irises hold your gaze expectantly.

he’s gorgeous.

“i–” you falter. there’s no way you can describe the feeling that made you turn around. the gravitational pull that sometimes occurs between strangers. perhaps the clever tugging of two red strings. separate melodies that converge at whim on a concord. it’s all so abstract, but that’s what you’re good at.

to your surprise, he just smiles. “same.”

2.

learning miya osamu is like learning to whistle: either you get it or you don’t.

you get it.

you get that he’s not at all the serious, stony-faced man he makes himself out as. that he’s hot-headed and petty but doesn’t want to be. that just because he’s not laughing doesn’t mean he’s not amused.

miya osamu is the dead of night and all the mischief that happens during it.

3.

seven a.m. is too early. osamu isn’t sure how he used to get up even earlier for morning practice, but then he remembers that that was when he loved volleyball. either way, it’s seven a.m. and for some god-forsaken reason, miya osamu is going on a hike.

(god-forsaken is a bit dramatic. it’s not all that bad – he’s just grumpy in the morning. actually, to think of it, it’s not bad at all…)

“one cappuccino," he tells the barista. and then his eyes widen. smiling, he adds, “and a matcha latte, please.”

4.

it dawns upon you in the passenger seat of his car.

“what?” he asks, feeling your eyes on him as he drives.

“… nothing.”

“tell me,” he laughs, squeezing your hand with his free one.

“later,” you promise, feeling giddy with realization.

osamu hums, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

5.

the light from his laptop illuminates osamu’s darkened bedroom, bathing both of you in a subtle blue glow. osamu looks down at your body tucked into his side and smiles. he whispers your name. “are you awake?”

there’s no reply – just the steady stream of your shallow breaths.

maybe you hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the middle of your movie night but now that you have, osamu doesn’t have the heart to wake you. it’s late, it’s still a little cold outside at night, and it’s not like you’re busy tomorrow morning…

and maybe he doesn’t want you to go. carefully, osamu shifts around to make you both comfortable, slings an arm over your waist, and closes his eyes.

you wake up to the smell of breakfast and the swingy tune of twenties jazz.

6.

how do you know it’s love?

you tell him that he feels like a soft blanket and a rollercoaster ride at the same time.

he laughs and grabs your hand, placing it on his chest right where his heart is.

“that’s how i know,” he says.

7.

when you step into his apartment, the first thing you notice is the mouthwatering scent floating out of the kitchen.

“babe?” you call out.

a muffled “kitchen!” reaches your ears.

the kitchen’s a mess of ingredients. and in the middle of the mess is your boyfriend. lo and behold, miya osamu is yet again experimenting with new recipes for onigiri miya, mixing potential fillings in a large metal bowl, wearing the “kiss the chef” apron you bought him a while back. he takes a bite of the stuff on his spoon and looks up at the ceiling in thought. not a single muscle in his face twitches, probably because he isn’t sure what to think of it.

you clear your throat. “hey, you.”

smiling, osamu spins around. “hi, angel. can you taste this and tell me whatcha think?” he spoons out some more of the mixture in the bowl, holding it out for you to try.

“sure,” you say, and you ignore the spoon, pressing your lips to osamu’s for a kiss instead. when you pull away, you lick your lips and hum. “needs more salt.”

the grin on his face is absolutely charmed. “i thought so, too.”

8.

what most people get wrong about miya osamu is that he doesn’t talk much.

he does.

(“and i told her she had the wrong place, but that woman just wouldn’t leave,” he complains, pacing around your living room with so much force that you think you might have to check on the rug once he’s gone. “held up the entire line, too. so embarrassin’. and then she said she’d leave us a one-star review, which is ridiculous because it’s not like i could make her a burrito, right? jesus. so i told her to go fu–”

“babe,” you laugh, pulling him gently towards the sofa.

osamu sits down beside you and inhales deeply. “so i tell her to go fuck herself–” he pauses when your hand runs through his jet black hair. seconds later, you feel his firm body melt against your arms.

“well, go on,” you say with a giggle. “what happened after?”)

osamu just doesn’t talk to most people.

9.

and when he isn’t talking, he’s thinking.

“i saw something funny earlier. if you were a tortured poet,” you ask on the walk home, “what would be the cringey quote people know you for?”

osamu raises his brows and looks up at the sky. “hmm,” he says, grinning. the two of you continue walking as he mulls over your question. a few minutes later, he says, “take not my silence for a lack of thought. i am always thinking. i am haunted by the magnitude of thoughts i can never put to spoken word.”

you stop in your tracks. “that was actually good,” you say in disbelief. “what the hell? ‘magnitude’? seriously?”

he shrugs and slings an arm over your shoulder. “i’ve been readin’ lately. forbes said somethin’ about good leaders readin’ books’.”

“are you actually haunted, though? ‘cause you can always tal–”

“no,” osamu laughs. “i like my thoughts. and if i really like ‘em, i just say ‘em. it’s a simple and good life.”

10.

“you’re beautiful,” he breathes, pressing kisses up your neck.

the air’s thick with tension and want and he needs to be closer – he needs every inch of your bare skin touching his and even then that wouldn’t be close enough.

but it’d be a great place to start.

“god, you’re so beautiful.”

11.

when he steps into your bedroom, you don't even notice.

“hey,” osamu says, knocking on the door.

jumping in your seat, you whip your head around to face the intruder. “you scared me,” you sigh.

“i texted you this morning and it’s almost midnight now,” he says, frowning. “had me worried.” osamu walks to your desk and observes your work over your shoulder.

“i’m sorry,” you apologize, tilting your head back against his chest. “this is due soon and i lost track of time. i’ve been at this since midnight last night.”

osamu’s frown deepens. “what?” he spins you around in your chair and studies your face with disbelief. but seeing the bags under your eyes and frazzled hair, he suddenly completely believes you. of course you’d procrastinate for days and then work yourself to the bone.

his firm hands find your shoulders and squeeze. “take a break.”

“‘samu–”

“or at least let me give you a little massage.”

12.

“when i stopped you in the street,” you say, “what was going through your mind?”

osamu laughs, the light sound melting into the mellow atmosphere of the restaurant. “nothing. absolutely nothing.”

“how romantic.”

“for the first time in my life,” he says, grey eyes twinkling, “my head went silent.”

he raises his glass of wine and takes a sip.

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

We've Got Tonight - Ch 4

Summary: “It’s not your job to do this, Andy. You make people happy. I was in the diner all of ten minutes, and you knew exactly how to get me to smile. You do normal, real things like garden and sing karaoke. Saving the world is my job, Sam’s job. Sometimes it’s even Cas’s job, but it’s not yours.”

Inspired by Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight”

Warnings: Major Character Death, More Major Character Deaths (sort of?), higher than show level violence, blood, light smutting, language, demons, apocalypse, inferred suicide, cult activity.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This story is set hazily around season 8. Just squint a little, and it’ll settle in somewhere. I wrote this story after certain big revelations in the show, but before other big ones; you’ll most likely be able to tell which. I play with time a bit in the story itself, so if things seem out of order, they are. Hopefully, by the end, all the pieces will fit together.

What the hell, let’s give it a shot.

EXTRA WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS THE SOURCE OF MOST OF THE WARNINGS FOR THE STORY. Please don't kill me. THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER, I PROMISE. It's not over yet. I can't promise you won't hate me when it's over, but I will not leave you here. There's more.

Image and major edits by the incomparable @there-must-be-a-lock . Heavy editing and cheering by @thoughtslikeaminefield . Thank you both so much.

In case you missed it: Chapter 3 ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

...

We’ve Got Tonight

Ch 4

Pre-dawn is too damn cold, she decides. She has to visually check that her fingers are actually doing up the buttons to her ragged denim jacket. She lost sensation in her hands a while back, and it’s the only way to make sure they’re actually doing their job. Her jacket is utterly unsuitable for the current temperature, but she doesn’t expect to need it for much longer.

Just before sunrise, Crowley told her.

The sky is already lightening on the horizon, the medium gray more obvious than she would have thought against the stark black, but, then, she’s never had much occasion to be out quite this late before. She’s usually done at the diner by six, singing at the club by ten, and in bed by two at the latest. She hopes Crowley is punctual. She can’t decide if the waiting or the cold is worse.

Except that, yes, she really can. The waiting is definitely worse.

The sound of shifting gravel pulls her out of her thoughts, and she turns to find the King of Hell himself smiling beatifically at her. She shivers, not bothering to search out the source of her discomfort, as she is rather spoiled for choice at the moment. She’s out in the freezing dark, about to hand over her life and soul to a demon because deranged cultists got it into their heads that they should use her blood to start an apocalypse (and who knew there was more than one of those outside of Sunnydale, seriously).

Shivering is probably the most rational reaction she’s had in a while.

“Hello, darling. Pleasant evening with the boys?”

He’s got more sass in one off-the cuff remark than she has in her entire history, and for a moment she can only marvel at the affected innocence in his expression. It's almost convincing. She opts to remain silent rather than take his bait. He smirks, the expression natural and only a touch derisive.

“No surprises, then? No sidekicks to save you at the last minute from the bad, bad demon?”

“I thought the torture didn’t start until after you kill me,” she sighs, hugging her arms tighter around herself, a futile attempt to ward off the chill. Maybe she’s got a little spark in her, after all. He laughs, a friendly, personable chuckle that would set anyone else at ease, reassure them of his honorable, benign intentions.

“Come on, Crowley, what's the hold up? I was here on time. Can we just get this over with already? I could have gotten one more round in with Dean if we were just going to stand around, shootin’ the breeze.”

Even watching for it, she can only just see the tick in Crowley's jaw, the slightest tension that betrays...something. She doesn't know what or why, but Crowley has more than a little unhealthy obsession with the elder Winchester brother, and she is pleased she managed to crack his veneer even for the briefest moment.

At least I don't have to worry about Dean, Andy thinks, relief creeping into the sea of dread that is her stomach. Her deal with Crowley was not only about stopping the apocalypse but also keeping Sam and Dean and even Castiel safe.

“Once you're gone, I won’t harm a hair on their precious heads, nor any other part of them,” he swore to her a mere eighteen hours earlier.

“I’m hurt you don't find my company more pleasant, love,” he murmurs, taking a couple of steps closer. He slides his hands in his coat pockets, the very picture of nonchalance. “I do try my best to be cordial, even congenial, after all. But since you’re so very uncomfortable, I suppose you won't object, then, that I took the liberty of inviting a few friends whose company you seem to prefer. What a lovely party we’ll have when they get here.”

As if he’s summoned them, a pair of lights appear in the distance, growing larger with every passing moment. Headlights, she realizes; a second later, she hears the distinctive roaring of a very particular car engine, and before she can turn back to Crowley, the Impala leaps out of the darkness, skidding across the hard-packed dirt road, coming to a halt bare inches from the demon’s impeccably shined shoes.

Andy stumbles back, choking in the cloud of dust the car kicks up, only to hit something solid. Impossibly strong fingers dig into her chin, lifting her face out and away as cold, thin metal is pressed to the side of her neck, and only now does she freeze.

“Let her go, Crowley,” Dean growls, his gun drawn and aimed even before he exits the car. “This isn't her fight, and you know it!” On the other side, Sam and Castiel climb out, Sam drawing his gun and moving to flank the demon.

“I do heartily protest, sir,” Crowley says, his tone mild and conversational. The blade digs in ever so slightly under her ear, and a thin trickle of warmth slides down her skin to soak into her collar. Dean doesn't flinch, but his eyes narrow, and he readjusts his aim.

“Not only is the lady at the epicenter of this fight, she's gone and made herself the brightest star in the show. Ask her yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

“How-” she manages through fear-numbed vocal cords. Dean should be unconscious, snoring blissfully away in his bed where she left him. She made sure to leave no sort of trail they could follow, and she checked that they were all asleep or otherwise occupied before she took off.

“I wasn’t asleep, Andy,” Dean replies, leveling his gun at Crowley. “And I’ve been tracking since I was seven. Gimme some credit.”

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Moose.” Crowley’s words freeze Sam in his tracks, and the blade on Andy’s neck digs in a little deeper. The flow of warmth down her neck widens just a touch. The sheer smugness in Crowley’s tone sets her teeth on edge, breaking through her stupor, and she grabs the hand with the knife, pulling at it with all her might. She, of course, doesn’t make a dent in the demonic strength, but she’s got to try something.

If you asked her later, Andy would swear to you that the searing pain that drags along her neck parallel to her jaw line right then is pure Hellfire. Deep down in the darkest recesses of her mind where all the worst truths lurk, she knows she’s feeling the bite from Crowley’s knife, but in that instant all she is aware of is the agony of the wound, of Dean’s enraged roar, and the juxtaposition of Crowley’s gentle touch pressing her own fingers to something hot and slippery under her jaw.

“Hold pressure there, sweetheart, or you’ll bleed out too soon. Wouldn’t want you to miss the finale.”

Her knees buckle, and she drops, but somehow she stays upright long enough to see Crowley’s demons approach out of the darkness. She tries to warn the boys, but time moves with a dreamlike lethargy that betrays every one of her good intentions, and, anyway, her voice doesn’t seem to be working at the moment. The roar of gunfire all around her sounds faint in comparison to the rushing in her ears, and she is powerless to stop Crowley’s plans from reaching fruition.

“You...said...you wouldn’t...”

“Well, pet, you aren’t dead yet, are you? I’ve got, what, at least another three minutes before you snuff it, by my count. Plenty of time to conclude my business with the Winchesters and their featherbrained friend before you expire.”

Though he was right behind her only a moment ago, Crowley appears abruptly next to Castiel, who at the moment is distracted by two lesser demons both wielding machetes. She realizes as she watches Cas easily fend them off that they, just like Andy, are only a distraction, only bait to tempt the bigger players to overextend themselves.

Too late, she sees the perfection of Crowley’s plan. In all the confusion, she loses track of Sam, and she wrenches her eyes away from Dean’s staggering form only to watch as the angel blade in Crowley’s hand bursts through Castiel’s chest. Then her gentle, confused friend is gone in a flash. The demons vanish, and she can’t find Sam or Dean, can’t reach them, can’t make her voice work to call out.

The quiet is wrong, so out of place after the violent cacophony. The roaring is gone, the gunfire silenced, and all that’s left is a terrible wheezing, gurgling sound that takes her too long to recognize as her own labored breathing.

“Crow...ley…”

“I’m here, darling. What do you need?”

“Lying...bastard…”

“Now, now, sweetheart, are those really what you want your last words to be?” He lifts her easily from the ground, carrying her the few yards to where Dean lies sprawled in the dusty gravel. His shirt is stained black in the retreating darkness, and Andy can only be thankful that she won’t make it to sunrise to see what exact shade of red is spreading over him. Dean’s far hand scrabbles on the ground, stopping its frantic search only when it finds his brother’s.

Sam’s still form doesn’t return his brother’s grip.

“After all, I’ve done you a favor; I didn’t have to give you the opportunity to say good-bye. I can’t promise you adjoining cells, but I’m sure your torture will coincide with his occasionally,” Crowley continues conversationally, “so, really, the two of you should be thanking me that you’ll at least get occasional visiting privileges. It pays to be on good terms with the king, after all. And, who knows? After a couple hundred years of good behavior, I might even be persuaded to-”

“Why?” It’s all she can manage as he lays her on the ground. Dean reaches for her with his free hand, and she is just able to find his fingers. Their eyes meet, but her vision is blurring as breathing gets tougher, and she can’t see what he’s mouthing to her. Even his eyes, such a luminescent green only hours ago, are fading into the remaining dark of the night.

“The Winchesters, dear, it’s always been about the Winchesters. Oh, the fanatics and their doomsday ritual were real enough, as was your blood. I just simply took advantage of the situation, as any intelligent monarch would do. Settled things with the apocalypse groupies, rid myself of some major pains in my rear, and now I get you, to boot! I do love when a plan comes together.”

Dean’s fingers tighten in hers, and she tries to grip his back, but the harder she holds on, the less she can feel him.

She’s not really feeling much of anything but cold now.

“Shut...up...already.”

“Always ungrateful in the end, even after everything I do for them,” Crowley grumbles from above her. But then he does shut up, and she finally feels something besides the cold.

Relief. ...

Chapter 5

[voiceless-terror]

Okay but. Jon saying to Tim "I don't know where to go" when they're all estranged and sad and stuff and Jon's been mauled or something else we all enjoy putting him through. What a dynamic.

Hey there friend! This turned out a lot angstier than I planned, but I hope you like the torture. Just 2k of Jon and Tim season three feelings.

Tim’s pulling out of the Institute’s tiny car park when he sees him.

He heard that Jon had been gallivanting across America from Martin; that’s how he got most of his Jon-related news, lately. Wasn’t like he was going to ask the man himself. 

“He was kidnapped, Tim,” Martin furiously whispered to him after Jon’s bout with the Circus. “The least you can do is ask after him.”

“Looks fine to me,” he shrugged callously, turning his chair around as Jon walked into the room. He was walking and talking. That’s more than a lot of people can say.

Jon’s standing there, looking lost and small against the austere backdrop of the Institute. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, just staring straight ahead like a lost child. He looks...sick. Hurt. Hunched over, like someone just out of sight is going to hit him. Jon always looks that way, sure, but Tim needs him to be alive and functioning if they’re going to take on the Circus. And what the hell was he wearing? He’s decked out in some sort of baggy flannel button up and torn jeans, a giant green coat over the whole ensemble that makes him look like a vagrant. It angers Tim how tiny and stupid he looks in it. 

Against his better judgment, he finds himself pulling over and opening the window, tamping down the concern with annoyance. “What are you still doing here?” he says in his gruffest voice, hoping to spur him into action. Even watching him skitter down the street would be easier than this.

Jon startles, jumping in place with a wince. “O-Oh, hi Tim.” The happiness on his face is at odds with the rest of him. Tim has noticed the way Jon’s eyes light up whenever he so much as glances at him, desperate for any attention or reconciliation he can get. “How are you?” Tim rolls his eyes.

“What,” he repeats, as if talking to someone particularly slow. “Are you doing here?” Jon shuffles his feet and looks down at the pavement. He’s sweaty and twitching, like a junkie looking for his next fix. Probably another spooky side effect of whatever the fuck is going on with him.

“I-I, well- you know I’ve been away,” he begins, ever evasive and stuttering. “I was staying with, with a friend-” Tim didn’t know he had any of those. “-but I don’t think she’d appreciate me showing up like this-” An embarrassed glance down at his clothes and a self-deprecating laugh. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve been evicted, so- to be honest, I don’t know where to go.” He says the last bit with such sadness and open vulnerability that Tim’s not sure whether to hug him or hit him.

His mouth quickly decides for him. “Get in the car.” Why am I doing this? He’s unlocking the door and pushing it open, gesturing roughly.

“W-What?” Jon stumbles a bit as he steps forward, his body eager to follow Tim’s instructions but his mind still hesitant. “I don’t- really, Tim, you don’t need to-”

“What are you going to do, sleep on the street?” You look like you already did, he doesn’t say. “Get in the car. Just stop...standing there.”

Jon quickly but gingerly gets in the car, probably afraid Tim’s going to change his mind. He still might. But Tim pulls away from the institute and onto the road, already on his way. “Thank you,” Jon murmurs. He doesn’t respond, just watches as his arms curl around his torso in a protective manner. Now that he’s closer, he can see the man’s face is flushed, likely with fever. But there’s something odd about the way he carries himself, like he’s about to keel over even while sitting.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, his voice blunt and sharp. “You look like shit. America didn’t treat you well, then?”

Jon chuckles humorlessly. “More like Daisy,” he says. Tim remembers Martin complaining about the way she had marched him back to the Archives “too roughly,” as if Jon were a piece of fine china that should be handled with care. “There was an incident with er, some stairs. But I’m really just not feeling well, I’m afraid. Probably caught something on the flight.”

“Hang on- did she push you down a stairwell? What the fuck, Jon?” His outrage surprises him and he slams on the brakes too quickly at the next light, jostling Jon in his seat. “Isn’t she supposed to be, I don’t know, babysitting you? For Elias?”

“It was just the last few, and I was kind of dragging my feet-” Jon tries to school his face into calmness, but it’s clear the mention of the woman makes him anxious. “Elias doesn’t really care about that- as long as I get the job done.”

“Stop- why are you defending her?” His hands grip the steering wheel with a painful force as he bites out the words. “Stand up for yourself, for Christ’s sake. You just let everything happen now. You’re not even trying.” There’s years of pain behind the words that Tim can’t hide and he watches as Jon shrinks in on himself, curling further into the passenger seat.

“I’m trying,” Tim hears him whisper. “I am.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive.

__________

He doesn’t take the lift up to his apartment as it’s only on the second floor; he swallows down the guilt as Jon struggles. There’s only so much sympathy he can spare. Jon trails behind him as they enter the flat- its dark, and messier than Tim likes to keep it. He hasn’t been one for tidiness these days.

“Sit,” he points at a chair by the kitchen table as he throws his bag on the floor. “I have leftover Pad Thai. That’ll have to do.”

“Oh I’m fine, thank you,” Jon shifts in his chair, uncomfortable. Probably in pain. Tim will give him some paracetamol with his food. 

“You’re sick,” Tim’s getting tired of pointing this out. “Hurt. You need to eat something. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I already had a statement-”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Tim yells as he slams his hand down on the counter. He’s sick of these strange conversations. Jon will do anything that fucker Bouchard wants him to do, but now he’s being contrary? “Just eat the fucking food, Jon.”

“Okay,” Jon capitulates at the angry tone, eyes looking down at the table. Good and quiet. Tim can work with that. 

It only takes a few minutes to heat up the food. When it’s done he slams a bowl in front of Jon along with three pills. Jon had always taken a bit more than the usual dosage; Tim used to fight him over it. He doesn’t anymore. Jon swallows them sans water and pokes at the food with his chopsticks. He’s not going to let Jon up from the table until he eats at least some of the food- he thinks Jon subconsciously knows this.

But Jon isn’t interested in eating right now. Jon wants to talk. Tim can see it in every line of his shaking frame, the buzzing urge to ask a question, to dig. Tim knows what happens when Jon asks questions and he freezes, clenching his jaw in preparation.

As expected, Jon begins to speak. “I’m- I’m worried about you, Tim.” Dear God. “Martin says-”

“Oh, what’s Martin got to say about me, Jon?” He clenches his hands into fists and narrows his eyes at the man across the table. “Go on, then. I’m waiting.”

“He’s worried too!” There’s a bit of fight in Jon’s eyes, his words are sharp and biting. It’s strangely comforting. “He says you’re getting reckless, that- that you’re willing to do ‘whatever it takes’ to stop the Circus and I-”

“I am,” Tim confirms. He’s never made a show of hiding it. “And I thought you would be too.”

This time it’s Jon that slams his hands on the table- it’s a mistake, Tim can see his body shaking and straining with the pain. “Goddamnit Tim, I’m not going to watch you die!”

The temperature drops and Tim finds his breath catching in his throat. He’s thought about dying. He thinks he’s made his peace with it. Go out in a flaming inferno, taking whoever’s in his way down with him. Jon looks devastated at the idea. He doesn’t know why. He thought they were past this.

“Sasha died,” he says, relishing Jon’s flinch. “My brother died. Sometimes, Jon, people die.” His own eyes are stinging but he doesn’t want to give Jon the pleasure of seeing him break. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Jon's body wilts at this, slumping further into his chair in a way that must have been painful. But his eyes burn with a strange, manic fire and his hand reaches across the table, grabs Tim’s own and squeezes with a force he didn’t think Jon was capable of. 

“Don’t,” Tim whispers- but he doesn’t pull his hand away, just averts his eyes because he can’t stand to see this broken, shaking mess of a man trying to comfort him. 

“I’m so sorry, Tim-” and that’s when he rips his hand away from Jon’s. Apologies were never his forte.

“Don’t be sorry,” he snarls, standing from the table and pushing his chair back with a bang. “Just promise me that when the time comes, you’ll get out of the way and let me do what needs to be done.” His chest heaves with an emotion he’s never been able to put into words- it’s more than grief. It’s fear and pain and uncertainty and emptiness all rolled into one and spilling at the seams. “Please.”

Jon just stares- his face is ashen and there are so many words he wants to say, Tim can feel it.

Instead, he says nothing.

__________

Jon is curled up in Tim’s bed. He tried to refuse it multiple times, but Tim wouldn’t hear of it, practically shoving a pair of pajamas into his hands as he studiously avoided Jon’s eyes.

“The sheets are clean,” he said, the words flat and monotone. “You always liked it when the sheets were clean.”

He did. He remembers a time not so long ago when Tim would laugh as he buried his face in the pillow, relaxed and smiling. “Like a cat!” he teased.

Jon always slept easy in Tim’s bed but tonight rest evades him and it’s not just the pain or the fever. It’s lonely, cold and empty in here. He wonders if Tim is already asleep on the couch.

He’s not. Jon’s standing in the doorway and watching the tenseness in his posture, arms curled into his chest and eyes clenched shut. Tim was always an open sleeper, legs and arms akimbo as he sprawled across whatever surface he laid claim to. He also snores, though he denies it whenever Jon brings it up. 

Despite knowing the rest is feigned, he jumps in shock when one arm reaches out in a beckoning gesture. Is he-?

“Don’t think about it,” Tim says in a clipped tone but his arm’s still out and Jon hurries across the floor, hoping this isn’t some sort of fever dream. But Tim settles him against his chest, warm and real and Jon chokes with everything he wants to say and never said, wants to ask him about Sasha and Danny and-

“Stop thinking,” Tim interrupts his musings again, his arm tightening around Jon. “This means nothing. Just go to sleep.”

“Okay,” he whispers hoarsely back, burrowing his head in Tim’s chest. This means nothing. Go to sleep. He listens to Tim’s heartbeat, slow and steady and thrumming with life.

He wonders how long it will stay that way. 

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389947

[artificialqueens]

Gimme Love, 6/9 (Miz Cracker/Blair St Clair) - Grinder

AN: Welp, I'm back from travelling! For anyone interested to know how it went; it was great (if you love stress). Liverpool is a lovely place but I've destroyed my bank account :D

Anyway! We got 4 more chapters of this fic! This is where the conflict begins. I hope yall enjoy.

TW for this chapter: Homophobia, homophobic slurs

2020

The cake was in the fridge. We'd be seeing him later. For now, we settled for some spaghetti. It had become a sort of tradition for Jujubee and me for moments that needed celebrating. But we hadn't done it in so long, what with the stress of work.

"So, Juju, as you can see, I've labelled the pages you're allowed to read, so don't go looking at other shit, OK?" I asked, chopping up a red bell pepper.

"Why? If I do, am I gonna find some porn-y shit?" She quipped, running a hand along with the butterfly print book.

"Honestly, you know all of those details anyway." I gave her a smirk, taking a piece of pepper and throwing it over to her.

I almost expected it to fly past her head, but she caught it in her mouth. Skill.

"OK, but what's in the box, though?"

I almost forgot what she was even referring to. But following her gaze, I saw it, sitting on the kitchen counter beside the fridge. "Oh, that?" I scraped the peppers into the saucepan, "That is my memory box."

"Ooh, that's even more exciting." She beamed.

"No. We're not opening it." I moved on to an onion.

"Aw, why not?" Jujubee whined.

"Because I made my Mom promise me she wouldn't give it to me until I turned 50. But I was weak and begged her to give it back. So now, I've promised myself to not look inside until I turn 50." The air was no longer clean, poisoned with the acid from the onion. My eyes were beginning to sting.

"Aw, Brie, you don't need to get all emotional about it." She had to go and joke about the tear now trickling down my cheek.

"Girl, this is torture," I wipe my eye along my wrist, pretty sure my eyeshadow has been fucked up. "Did I fuck up the smokey eye?"

"Nope." I knew she was lying to me, but she couldn't take her eyes away, "You look absolutely gorgeous as usual."

"Not as hot as you, though." I sniffed. I needed her to focus on reading so I could finish chopping the onion as soon as possible. "Anyway, you wanna read something in there?"

Jujubee opened the book and immediately laughed, "Jesus Christ, Brie, bit dark."

She showed me the first page, childlike scribblings read 'Brianna's Diary. DO NOT TOUCH! Or this will happen to you!' An arrow led to a picture of a grave.

"I never even noticed that before," I chuckled.

"With a warning like that, I better find some crazy shit in here." she cleared her throat, "So starting in 1994, 'Diary Diary, Today, I had a fight with Jujubee. She really upset me, but I upset her too. I should say sorry. That's all. Bye.'" Jujubee lowered the diary, "you bitch, why did you upset me?"

"I have no idea, girl. I mean, didn't we do that a lot back then?" I shrugged.

"I bet you started it though," She lifted the book again, a coy smile on her face. "OK, moving on to 1995," she cleared her throat, "'Dear Diary, today Mommy and Juju's Mommy took us to see Pocahontas at the movies. It was very good. Goodnight.'" Jujubee paused to giggle, "God, I love how detailed this is. You could have added so much more."

"Girl, I was 8 years old. Writing more than 4 sentences was like writing the bible to me." I countered, finally scraping the onions into the pan with the peppers.

"Yeah, but we did so much more that day. We went to McDonald's after, we found that little frog pond in the woods." She pointed out.

I hadn't even remembered that. Now I kind of wished my younger self would have pushed herself to write more.

I was too busy rifling through my messy cabinet for oregano to notice Jujubee just flicking through page by page.

"But, you wrote 3 pages worth of poetry to Blair St Clair?"

Once I found the spice, I spun around to look at her, "Juju, I told you to only look at the pages that were labelled."

She held a hand up, "OK, I'm sorry." She closed the book.

I felt bad, thinking maybe my harsh tone brought the fun to a grinding halt. Squeezing my eyes shut, releasing a sigh, I said, "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

She took a sip of her water while I added the oregano to the saucepan.

"So, did you text her back?" She played with the glass in her hands.

I pursed my lips and shook my head. "Why? Do you think I should?" I asked quietly.

"Nah, not really."

"Well, why not?"

Jujubee shrugged her shoulders and went to look at her nails. "Don't know."

I clicked my heel, my tongue running along the top row of teeth behind my closed mouth. "Well, I've been thinking about it. I mean, maybe that's the problem. Maybe I could be a bit more responsive."

She made a humming sound. I was unsure what it was supposed to mean.

"OK, what's going on?" I put both hands on the counter.

"I don't know. I just think…" she paused, trying to find her words, "I don't see the point because the same shit will just happen again."

"The same shit?" I repeated, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, her speaking all but 10 words to you and then completely ignoring your existence." She put a hand under her chin.

"Well, maybe that wouldn't happen if I actually spoke to her like I wasn't terrified for once," I suggested.

She squeezed her eyes together, "Oh no, Brie. I knew this was going to happen."

"What was going to happen?"

"The whole Blair thing. I thought you were over it. Well, until she messaged you recently, I had a creeping feeling that it was all gonna come back."

"Juju, listen to yourself. You're talking like this is an actual problem."

"I hate to say it, but it is. Do you remember the time she hung out with you in the library? You were so excited the next day. I hadn't seen you so happy in so long. You wouldn't stop talking about how she would probably be there again." She paused, "But she wasn't. And you were so disappointed."

"Yeah, but things could be different now."

"And how's that?"

"Well, I'm a different fucking person now, that's one thing. I'm successful, I'm smart, I'm hot as fuck, rich as fuck - -"

"And you think that's gonna be the game-changer for her? That she's gonna come running into your arms? Because if that's the case, that says a lot about her." Jujubee rolled her eyes.

"Well, I'm a big girl, now. If it happens again, I'll just get on with things. I'll move on.

"That's a lie."

I squinted my eyes. "Why are you being like this right now? You're so salty just because I fucked wrote a private letter to her as a child."

"This isn't about the letter, Brie. You know why I'm being like this. You shouldn't need to ask." But she continued, "You've never dealt with never having parents. You think that if Blair was to suddenly be truly interested in you, you'd get over the feeling of being unwanted. Yet you're surrounded by people who love and support you, who'd stick with you to the end. But right now, you don't give two fucks about them because you're too busy panicking about some girl from high school."

I lift my head again, putting one hand on the desk and the other on my hip, "Well, congratulations, Juju. Sounds like you got me all figured out. Hey, you wanna talk about my Grandpa next?"

She only reacted to that with a scowl. And she spoke again.

"You remember the prom? Do you remember what happened? Do you remember how she didn't do anything to stop Trevor?"

My eyes shifted away, just for a second. "She told him to stop."

"Which did nothing."

I wanted to argue how she was unfair. How it was so wrong to blame Blair for the prom incident. But I was distracted by a burning smell. Only now did I notice the onions and peppers blackening.

I quickly moved the saucepan off the heat, feeling it only radiating in my own face. I put a hand on the counter, the other on my hip. "OK, Juju, maybe you should leave."

It was safe to say Jujubee was taken aback. She remained still for a second before pushing her stool out. "So that's how it is? Kicking me out when you're faced with the truth?"

"Juju, just leave, please." I felt my hands clench around the edge of the counter, my nails digging into my hip.

"I am!" She grabbed her coat and stormed from the kitchen. I flinched upon hearing the door slam shut, and only then did it sink in - the dread, the feeling of regret.

I looked at the hob, the burnt vegetables unsavable. So they went in the trash. My stomach grumbled. But I couldn't bring myself to start over again.

Opening my fridge, my eyes were immediately on the cake. And I glanced over my shoulder, looking where she had sat, now feeling a sense of emptiness. Not in me, but the room. Like I was alone.

I was alone.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I repeated as my hand clenched on the door. The cool air from the fridge felt nice but not enough to stop my panic.

I looked at the cake again, feeling the urge to throw it out the window. Or maybe just send it back to her.

Bitchy, I know. But I couldn't help it. I wouldn't be feeling like this if she hadn't acted the way she did.

I slammed the door shut, kicking it for extra measure. And in my heels, I almost tripped.

Filled with more anger, I paced around for a few minutes, aggressively cussing to myself.

Don't get me wrong, one part of me said she was right about Blair.

No. She isn't. I was going to prove Jujubee wrong.

I picked up my phone from the counter, found the message and began to type with trembling fingers.

"Blair…" I panted, "So sorry...for getting back to you so late... I'm a busy woman, as you...probably already know...Look... I'm just gonna say it...I really like you...I always have...You make me feel so confused...yet so happy at the same time...I feel a connection between us...I always have...I don't know whether you ever felt it or not...but I do hope so...I would love to meet up with you sometime soon...and maybe have a coffee...I don't know...maybe even some wine, if you want. I look forward to hearing back. Brie x"

My thumb hovered over the send button. The only sound I could hear was the ticking of the clock. Not even my own breathing.

I pulled my thumb away, closed my eyes and breathed out. "Brie. You sound fucking crazy. You sound insane. You can't just send shit like that." I repeated words of the same nature to myself, trying to usher myself off the edge before I could do something idiotic.

"Jesus Christ." I opened my eyes again, which were now glossy with tears. I wouldn't blink. I wouldn't let them fall.

Big mistake.

I thought I tapped the chat bar, going to delete the message. But my blurred vision said, "haha, no."

I tapped the button next to the chat bar. The send button.

The little noise my phone made as it was sent may as well have been the same as a gun clicking.

"Oh, God." My eyes couldn't tear away from the small screen. My heart rate increased. "No, no, no, you fucking idiot!" I pressed my thumb down on the message.

There was a delete option.

I clicked it.

'Are you sure? The recipient may have already seen the message.'

I backspaced to check.

There it was, the tiny version of her profile picture falling to the bottom of the screen. She was reading it.

"Fuck!!" I blurted.

I put the phone down on the counter, began pacing for a moment, and looked back at the phone. This went on for a few minutes. I wanted to be as far from my phone as possible. But also needed to know if she had replied.

This was it.

Blair was going to know how I was weirdly obsessed with her.

She was going to know I was checking her out in the library that one time.

She was going to know that I had fingered myself so many times at the thought of her.

What were my options?

Suicide - Not gonna happen.

Running away - But the project.

Reply with 'Hey, sorry! My friend took my phone, haha' - did anyone ever believe that excuse?

Block her before she could reply - then she'd think I was even more crazy.

Call up her place of work and somehow get her phone confiscated - why, though? That would involve Facebook stalking her again, trying to think of an excuse. Even if I did so successfully, she still saw the message.

All of the options just lead to cons. It was hopeless.

With shaky fingers, I switched my phone off and practically threw it onto the counter.

My body sank to the ground, now holding my head in my hands.

What do I do? What do I fucking do?

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

2004

I was shaking. Only slightly.

There was something about the prom that made me feel so on edge.

Maybe it was all the people, all together in one room.

Perhaps it was the fact the chess boys asked to make out.

Or perhaps it was the fear of missed opportunities. Opportunities that involved a certain someone.

I watched from the side of the room as Blair took pictures with her friends on her pink digital camera. There was a feeling of regret causing my stomach to twist, my fists clenching onto my purple dress.

That could have been me.

I felt a hand moving a curled lock of hair from my shoulder.

"Just think, girl; we're almost there," Jujubee appeared in front of my vision, "College is just around the corner."

"I can't wait to be out of here," I spoke quietly.

Everyone turned their attention to the stage as Rosé appeared, announcing it was time to crown Prom King and Queen.

"Well, it's pretty obvious who our queen is." Jujubee crossed her arms.

I knew who she was thinking of. To be fair, it was pretty obvious. But I wasn't complaining.

Trevor was our Prom King, not my King anyway. I scoffed as he cheered, being pushed up to the stage by his team.

"Jesus Christ, who would have thought." Jujubee took a sip of her punch, spilling a drop on her lilac puffy-sleeved dress.

"And your Prom Queen is…" Rosé paused, pulling the result from the envelope.

3...2...1…

"Blair St Clair!"

I smiled for the first time since walking into the place. I applauded her victory as she walked up onto the stage.

Blair hugged Rosé and whispered something in her ear. I had no idea what it was, but I was too distracted as Trevor just stared.

"You wanna make a speech, girl?" Rosé joked into the mic.

Blair laughed, covering her face with embarrassment. She turned down the offer.

"OK. Everybody," Rosé held a hand to Blair and Trevor, "You're King and Queen of 2004."

Blair looked slightly uncomfortable as Trevor put an arm around her waist. Why couldn't he get the hint she was done with him?

The two got down from the stage, Trevor's gaze following her in confusion as she moved far away from him.

"Aren't they supposed to do a dance now?" Jujubee asked.

I shrugged. "I don't know, Juju. I've only seen proms in movies, and they're quite obviously exaggerated."

My eyes landed on Blair once more. Trevor was whispering something in her ear, and she shook her head, rolled her eyes and walked away. Yikes, he was desperate.

"Jesus, I'm fucking nervous." Rosé was approaching us now, well, the punch table we stood beside. "Getting up on stage gets my body shaking, you know?"

"Wish I could do that." Jujubee replied.

"Yeah, well, sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do." Rosé replied.

I eyed her suspiciously. This was odd; she'd never really spoken to us before.

"But of course," she looked left, then right, before pulling a flask from her bra and pouring it into a cup, "this helps. You ladies want one?"

"Nah, I'm good," Jujubee made a stank face.

Me, on the other hand, having never drank alcohol in my life, piped up, "Actually, yeah. Could you just pour me a shot of whatever that is?"

"Yeah, of course," and she didn't lie. She poured me a shot of vodka. No spitting in the cup, no adding anything sneakily, no hostility.

She passed the cup to me, giving a mischievous wink.

Tossing it back, I was totally shocked by the burning sensation it caused to my throat. I began to cough and splutter.

"Girl, chill out, or you're gonna draw attention to yourself." Rosé looked around.

I placed the cup down on the table, the plastic practically crumbling in my hand.

"This is it. The beginning," Jujubee joked, dabbing the corner of my mouth with her pinky. I didn't even know there was a drop of liquid there.

And I didn't know there was a hair out of place either. Because she was stroking a soft hand down my temple to my cheek.

"Brie, do - -"

"Juju, I'm gonna ask her to dance with me," I said all too loud.

The hand dropped instantaneously, her smile falling in a matter of seconds. Of course, I expected this shocked reaction. Even Rosé had nearly choked on her drink.

"For real?" Jujubee asked after a silent moment.

"Yep," I answered proudly, putting my hands on my hips.

"I guess you've never touched a drop of alcohol in your life, loser." Rosé leaned close to me.

"Something like that." I felt slightly uncomfortable now that she was dangerously close to me.

She snorted a laugh, holding up her hands as she walked away, "I'm not responsible for this."

So this was what they called liquid courage. Yeah, it was one shot, but it was my very first. And I was already feeling it. The buzz.

I turned to make my way to the girl I loved when Jujubee grabbed my hand, "Brie, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Yes," I replied too quickly, tugging to pull away.

"Are you sure?" Her brows knit, "You're not gonna be upset if she says no, right?"

One final strong tug was enough to release her grip on me, "No, Juju. I'll be fine, just...stop questioning me, OK?"

She was silent, her arms dropping by her side.

But I continued on in my mission, vision slightly blurred, insides warmed.

Everyone around us was gone like they had just stepped into another world, leaving Blair and me in this reality. Or maybe it was the two of us who disappeared, somehow falling into the wormhole and ending up in the other world.

Or maybe it was just liquid courage.

There were only a few metres between us now. "Blair?"

She had been taking a sip of her coke when she looked up and noticed me. Wiping the corners of her mouth, she put the can down.

"Brianna!" She beamed. Her eyes looked me up and down, causing a brief moment of panic, "wow, look at you. You look great."

"Yeah, right, compared to you." I stifled a laugh.

"Oh, shut up." She smirked.

"So, um…" I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, looking away and to the ground, "I was just...wondering...if you'd wanna dance with me?"

I didn't lift my gaze. Only now did I understand what Jujubee meant. The girl hadn't even said no yet, and my heart was already sinking.

"It's just...this song is so good, and it's the end of the year, and we may not - -"

Before I could continue rambling, she cut me off.

"Sure. Yeah, I'll dance with you."

I lift my gaze to see her glittering smile. Like in the library, time didn't feel real anymore, and I needed to remind myself to breathe. "Really?"

"Yeah, of course." She briefly knit her brows like it shouldn't have been questioned. She took my hand in her perfect french manicured one, "Come on."

As we made our way to the dance floor, I was only now reminded that there were people here. So, we didn't slip through a wormhole. This was real. This was reality.

Blair found a spot on the floor, turned to me and wrapped her arms around the back of my neck.

For a moment, I was unsure of where to put my hands. I glanced over her shoulder, noting the couple also slow dancing. She has her arms around his neck. He had his arms around her waist.

I was hesitant at first but eventually gave in. Blair didn't mind. And I felt myself relax.

She just stared at me, the sweet smile still on her face. The music echoed around us. The lights were low. Pink tinted.

"So, how does it feel winning Prom Queen?" I asked. Of course, it felt amazing for her, but I needed to find an excuse to speak. Anything to avoid the somersaults my stomach was doing.

"I mean, it's nice, I guess. But, it's all bullshit anyway?" Her smile faltered, "Not something anyone in the future will give a fuck about, right?"

I disagreed. If I were to win prom queen, I would feel validated. And I would make sure I'd bring it up to everyone I ever met. Pathetic, I know.

"Well, I can't think of anybody better," I admitted. "Maybe they could have chosen a better King."

"Agreed." She nodded. "You know, literally just now, he tried to use this whole King and Queen thing to 'try again'. Not even that long before you came up to me. Brianna, I've already given him another chance. And he blew it."

"During the Summer?" I recalled.

"Yep." She pursed her lips.

"What did he do, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh, he just had some major anger problems," her eyes widened for a moment, "He never hurt me, though. He just...got so angry over the dumbest shit. It was just too much."

She puffed out a breath, the frown on her face appearing.

"You don't have to tell me any more," I said quickly.

"Sorry, I don't wanna get emotional." She looked back at me. "It's just... it's hard not to. You're a good listener."

How should I have felt knowing that was her analysis of me from very little time spent together? She really trusted me. "Blair... I'm sorry about that time in the library. When you mentioned my Grandpa. I feel terrible now."

"Please, don't. You were grieving."

'Was I really though?' I held back from saying.

"I never really had a Dad," I smiled, seeing his stupid smile in my head, "But he was the closest equivalent to that."

"I know what you mean." She began, "My Dad…" she trailed off for a moment, "He wasn't the best. You probably remember that one time I ran away as a kid. When you walked me to my Grandma's."

I wasn't even tense in the first place, but my body felt like it relaxed. "You remember that?"

"Of course I do. It really meant a lot, Brie." Her thumb stroked the back of my neck. I don't know if she did this intentionally or subconsciously. Was she even thinking about it? "That day, I never went back. Ever. My Grandparents took full custody of me, and they became my second parents. The ones I always deserved."

I felt my body relax even more like this was normal. "Blair, I wanna carry on something my Grandpa started."

"What's that?"

"It sounds crazy," I pause, "But he wants me to find a parallel universe."

I paused to take in her reaction. She did look taken aback for a moment. Could you blame her? "Is it even possible?"

"I mean, at first I thought he was a bit out there asking me something like that, on his deathbed and all. But I've been studying really hard, and I think it's achievable."

"That's interesting." She nodded. "So, what are you gonna do at college?"

"Drugs." I giggled before the smile dropped, "OK, not funny. Bad joke."

"I'm laughing, though." She was.

"Um, no. I'm gonna do Astronomy and Space science."

"I didn't know that was a major you could do," Blair replied.

"Me neither. What about you, though? Something in theatre?"

Blair lowered her gaze for a brief moment, "I dunno, Brie. I honestly don't see college as a me-thing. I'm constantly torn between theatre, fashion merchandising, cosmetology, politics..."

"Politics?" I laughed and instantly hoped she didn't take offence to that.

"What?" She smirked. "What's funny?"

"I just…" I paused, feeling my heart skip a beat as a particular memory came back. "This is crazy. I can't believe I remember this. All I can think about right now is the day we met. Remember the first day of elementary? On the bus? I told you I wanted to be a politician when I was older, just 'cause they liked to shout a lot. And you couldn't say the word right."

"Oh fuck, now that you mention it, I do remember." Blair laughed, "That was such a long time ago. We were so little." She looked away as if her mind had transported her to that moment. Did she remember it like I did? Did she remember how she held my hand and told me she was my friend?

And then never sat with me ever again?

My eyes had drifted away, looking over her shoulder at nothing in particular. The bad thoughts were taking over. I didn't want them to. I wanted to enjoy this moment forever. Just swaying back and forth with Blair in the middle of the dance floor.

She stroked her thumb on the back of my neck again, causing a spark to course through me.

Blair's looking at me again. "Brianna, how come we never talked more?"

I don't know if it was just me fantasising again, but her face was moving closer to mine, ever so slowly.

I had the answer to her question. But it couldn't ruin this moment. "I don't know," I whispered.

She was closer now, head tilted to the left.

And I found myself doing the same.

This was another fantasy. This isn't real.

I felt her breath on the corner of my mouth.

It felt real.

It was.

There was a frustrated roar.

A tight fist clenched around my arm.

I was pulled back forcefully.

My feet gave way.

I was on the ground.

"Are you kidding me??" Trevor stood in front of Blair, his face red with anger, "You won't fucking dance with me, but you'll dance with her??"

Everyone around us was just standing there, too shocked to do something.

"Trevor, what the fuck??" Blair went to move around him, trying to get to me. He only pushed her back.

"Of all the people, why her??" He grilled Blair with more questions. She looked afraid now.

Why the fuck wasn't anyone doing anything??

I felt a hand on my shoulder, but looking around, I saw it was actually Rosé. "Trevor, what the fuck??"

He turned to look as if offended that anyone else got involved. How could they not? Seeing her helping me stand must hit a nerve. Because he's snatched a cup of punch from a bystander, "Why are you defending the dyke??" And he threw the cup forward, the liquid drenching my hair and splattering my dress.

That was the final straw. I could feel my chest heaving.

I ran to the nearest exit. Running from the school. As soon as I felt the cool air on my skin, I wrapped my arms around my stomach. I was bent over, throwing up all the panic. Sparks of the bile dotted the bottom of my dress and shoes. I didn't care. My dress was already ruined.

I heard the door open behind me and immediately began to move again.

I tried to run, but the heels made it hard.

The person was in front of me now, hands on my face, tears streaking her face.

I expected it to be Blair.

But it was Jujubee.

"Brie, it's alright. I punched him for you." She whimpered, her hands on either side of my face, holding me tenderly.

My breathing was rugged, trying so hard to listen to her reassuring whispers. But in my head was the sound of the crowd gasping and Trevor shouting.

No one was going to forget about this. I'd be reminded by the stares in the corridors, how they'd whisper to each other.

"Let's go to my house. You can stay over if you want." Jujubee's sweet voice brought me out of my thoughts.

Words still failing to surface, I nodded.

As soon as we got in, she ran me a hot bath. Whilst I cleaned myself of the sticky punch that covered my hair and face, she made chocolate mug cakes with ice cream.

Sitting there in her room, dressed in her fluffy pyjamas, eating her food, I should have felt better. I should have been happy. But I just stared at the mug in my hand, still thinking of Trevor's anger and Blair's distressed face.

Jujubee took the mug from me, set it aside along with her own, and enveloped me in a hug. "Don't cry, Bri. Please, don't cry."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know I was crying." I wept.

"Don't apologise." She shushed me, "It's OK. You're OK."

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

2020

And even now, I didn't realise I was crying again. And as it was too late to stop myself, I remembered sobbing into Jujubee's shoulder, holding her tightly, like she was the only one who could get me through it. She was the only one who could get me through it.

The events of the prom left me scared, always so on edge when walking those school corridors. Just terrified that Trevor would round the corner and do something worse.

But Jujubee was there for me every time. She'd hold my hand, not giving a fuck about who looked at us weird.

I know I should have grown a backbone and defended myself, and what had actually happened shouldn't have been as damaging as it was. But, hey, I was only human.

Jujubee got in a lot of trouble for punching Trevor in the face. But she didn't mind. "Just as long as he got what was coming to him," she had said.

Hearing her retell the event, I wish I had been there. She had jumped on him, tackling him to the ground and punched him over and over again.

But as exciting as that all was, I didn't speak to Blair again. I didn't think about her. I didn't talk about her. I didn't even look at her. Blair wasn't the one to come after me that night. She never even approached me to talk about it. She didn't give a fuck.

So I kept my distance.

And just as life went on without her, she just had to go and message me. After years of silence, she couldn't have left well enough alone.

I finally lifted my head. I reached up and grabbed my phone. Turning it back on, I immediately deleted Messenger, hoping to never see Blair's response.

This would be the beginning of my journey toward happiness.

Yeah. That was it. That's what I would do.

[rogue-barnes-16]

HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF

Suggested prompt: Ari is sent on a new mission with the reader... They have history together.

Pairing: Ari Levinson x reader

Genre: angst-ish

Tags:

Suggested by: @writerwithfluffysocks @ari-levinson

Ari Levinson: @capsiclesdoll

Permanent taglist: @notexactlythatgirl @thisismysecrethappyplace @sofreakinmanyfandoms @pizzarollpatrol @bubblycypress87 @1a-girl-has-no-name1 @loislp @lovenaturefirst @dyanna-corona @2ptonpt @goodnightmode @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @mannls @cutie1365 @catch22inareddress @mybooradley @sebastianisasnack @butifulsoul125 @unlikelygalaxygiver

Warnings: language, shooting, mentions of wounds

A/N: here it goes my first Ari Levinson x reader fic, hope you enjoy darlings <3.

Rogue-barnes-16 masterlist

"Miss Y/l/n!" Little tugs on my hand made me turn around redirecting my attention to the little girl besides me who seemed to be craving it.

"What's it, Shira?" I questioned, bending the knee to be eye to eye with the kid.

"That man." She pointed at the opposite side of the room, where the open door communicated the class with the outside. "He says he wants to talk with you."

I spun my head to meet Ethan's eyes. "Shit." He gave me a smile, leaning against the wooden door frame. "Thank you, Shira." I flashed a smile at the kid and stood up.

"Y/n" he motioned at the kids, currently playing. "I see you didn't waste your time."

"why are you here, Ethan?"

His eyes shifted to mine. "Your vacations are over. You have a mission."

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

My eyes were fixed on the view I had through my window the whole drive in that shitty pickup truck.

When Ethan wouldn't give away the name of my partner, I suspected something was off, so I couldn't say that I had been entirely surprised to see Ari's face in the airport.

"Didn't know he'd send you." Ari attempted to break the ice, although it wasn't an easy task.

"I didn't know you were the partner." We stayed in a new kind of silence that turned out to be way more uncomfortable than the first one. "Where's Sammy?"

He cleared his throat. "He left." his statement made me look at him for the first time since we left the airport. "Apparently, I'm fucking reckless, an asshole, and never have a plan."

"He ain't lying." I commented, leaning against the backrest. "Oh c'mon!" I exclaimed, acknowledging the anger in his eyes when he spared me a glare. "Y'know it's true, that's why you're mad."

He let out a humorless laugh, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. "Fuck y'know me so well, don't you?" Sarcasm dripped from his tongue as if it was poison.

I rolled my eyes, aware that starting a fight wouldn't help us at all. "Where are we staying?"

"Why?"

"Ethan mentioned you'd been compromised."

"A friend got us a room." he informed me, taking a turn to the left.

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

We arrived at the hotel room, and not many words were exchanged during the daytime, but when the sun fell, we had no option but to talk, since we had to discuss the plan he had.

Or more likely, the plan that he didn't have.

"No" I shook my head no, sat on the crappy hotel bed. "That's not a solid plan. That's not even a fucking plan."

"What the hell do you mean?" he questioned, offended. "it worked 'til now." a tilt of his head accompanied his statement. "I'd say it's a good plan."

I buried my face on my palms, bending forward. "Okay, first off," I looked up at him again. "If it had worked til now, I'm sure Sammy wouldn't have left, and wouldn't be here. And second" he slightly shifted his posture, letting himself rest against the wall. "I'd say it's a shitty strategy, but got lucky."

"I don't see the problem." he replied, shrugging.

"yeah well I do." he clenched his jaw and I let out a exasperated sigh. "Ari, you've been compromised thanks to your 'plan', and you don't wanna change it."

"It's not the first time this happens, and-"

"Yeah, that's the fuckin' problem!" I raised my voice, hopping off the bed. "you keep doing this, and it always ends with your life on the line" he attempted to interrupt me but I kept throwing my tantrum. "and you drag everyone with you!"

He pushed himself off the wall, a frown formed in his face. "is this 'cause of Tangier? Because that one ain't on me, it's on you. You got in the way when Rachel warned not to."

"First of all, what the fuck?" my voice was now low, shocked that he pulled that card after what had happened in that city, not just the great disaster that his plan turned out to be, but also what we had had there. "it doesn't matter. Tangier, Khartoum, or any other mission, it's always the same, and I'm not willing to die for you." Not anymore, I thought. "so right fucking now, tell me we're changing that fuckin' shit to an actual plan."

He knew I was right, but he wouldn't say it. "it's late," he grunted, unbuttoning his shirt without sparing me a single look. "let's just go to sleep."

Exhaling, I grabbed a tank top and shorts from my bag and started to change my clothes.

Once I was done, I climbed on the bed and lay down, ready to sleep.

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

I huffed, running my hands over my face.

Sleeping had become an impossible task, because damn, it was fucking hot in that tiny room, and I was sweating.

I sat on the bed, careful not to wake Ari, who seemed to have accomplished the goal that I had been chasing for at least a couple of hours.

I got rid of the shorts and, right after having pulled my tank top over my head, I felt a shift on the mattress before Ari's digits ghosted over the scar on my back. "this should've been on my chest."

The scar left there by an asshole's gun who had been aiming at Ari; the scar that worked as a reminder of what had exactly triggered the disaster in Tangier.

"I'm sorry." his thumb traced the line that remained there after Sammy's improvised sewing. "Don't know why the fuck I said that. You're right, I always drag people down with me." his fingers lingered on my skin just for a moment before he retreated his hand.

I breathed out. "it was the heat of the moment." When he didn't say anything, I turned around. "you okay?"

He gave me a lazy nod, his eyes lost somewhere in his darkest memories. "I really am a fucking asshole, and I never learn."

"You're kind of an ass." I agreed as he closed his eyes. "and you never learn, but you get shit done better than anyone. And" I poked his chest, making him open one eye. "you got a great heart, so don't torture yourself that much 'kay?"

He opened his eyes again, this time with a half smile. "I missed you, Y/n."

I mirrored his expression and held back the 'I missed you too' that I so badly wanted to say. "Alright, Levinson."

His smile grew wider, and the ghosts that had been chasing his blue eyes transformed into the happiness that used to show up in his pupils whenever I smiled. The only difference was that now, that happiness was stained with regret and melancholy. "Sometimes I wonder how it would have been if I hadn't fucked up." his eyes got lost again. "Wish things were different."

I pursed my lips, stopping myself from saying that I did too often wondered about what we could have been if things hadn't gotten in the way.

That I wondered if we would have been happy together.

I let myself fall besides him. "alright, go to sleep, 'cause tomorrow we gotta sort a shit ton of stuff out."

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

"Everyone move to the back, now!" I shouted, helping the people we were helping to climb to the truck. "c'mon c'mon c'mon!"

I heard shotguns closer and closer, and when I turned around, I saw Ari sprinting towards us with a girl in his arms.

"fuckin' shit." I muttered, jogging to him to lend a hand. "Holy fuck. Holy fuck." I cursed, seeing the Jeep driving in our direction.

I pulled out my gun and started to shoot. "Get inside!" Ari shouted, almost throwing the girl into the truck before tugging wrapping his hands around my waist, sweeping me off my feet and pushing me to the front of the truck at the same time as he shielded me, just in case the bullets reached us. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck!"

I jumped inside and tugged him with me, starting the engine while he was sitting up properly. "Get us the hell out of here!"

We took off, following the route that we had carefully traced five days ago; a route perfect for us to lose the Jeep that was right behind us.

It took us around half an hour, but it worked.

Ari stopped the truck once we were safe and, as I let myself fall against the backrest, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

"we did it." I spoke, a little surprised.

"we did it." he repeated pulling himself up to mimic my posture.

His eyes were trained on mines and vice-versa.

Our breathing was heavy and ragged as we both dug our eyes into one another's with a feeling that wasn't easy to fight in this conditions; a feeling that I thought had been long forgotten.

His gaze flickered to my lips for a second and, when I subconsciously licked them, he gulped "I need air." he grunted, kicking the door open before climbing off the truck.

I didn't think twice before jumping off the truck and stalking to were he was now standing.

Before he could say a word, I grabbed his shirt and pulled him into a kiss which, as soon as he reciprocated it, became rough and needy.

His hands gripped my hips, pulling me as close as possible as we desperately devoured each other's lips as if they were water in the dessert; as if they were the air we breathed.

I pulled apart only when it was completely necessary for us to breath. "I missed you too." I whispered, letting him kiss my lips once more. "and I wish things were different."

"let's make things different." he replied, stealing one more kiss without letting go of me. "please, Y/n, let's make things different" he rested his forehead against mine, heavily breathing. " 'cause life's hell without you."

I nodded, kissing his lips, this time tenderly. "let's do it." his hands went up and down my sides at the same time as mines help in place the strands of his hair that tingled my face. "but let's finish this job first."

He nodded, a beautiful smile making tugging the corners of his lips at the promise of an 'us'.

[kellyashcroft]

It’s You C.7 - Why Does It Hurt?

Summary:  I’m Embry and I don’t think much of this whole soulmate business. What are the chances that in a sea of 7 billion people you’ll just find your soulmate? What’s the point in wasting your time with relationships with people that aren’t your soulmate? On the off chance that one or both of you do meet the one you’re destined for, it’s just gonna cause unnecessary pain but what’s the alternative? Stay alone forever waiting for someone that might never show up? I’m 26 and I still don’t have my mark and I’m tired of waiting.

Word Count: 3900

Warnings: Angst, mentions of parental death, mentions of physical pain, mentions of torture, fluff

A/N: Sorry it’s late, it’s been a busy week! This is the longest chapter yet, I’ve combined two chapters because the next one was really short but the next update will still be on Monday. Please let me know what you think and I will list the masterlink below for you! Thank you fpr reading, I hope you enjoy it! 

Series Masterlink

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Will wakes up not much longer after me and as I keep my eyes on the television, I feel his head shift down to look at me.

"Sorry, I fell asleep" he mumbles and I move my head to meet his eyes, still being held in his arms. 

"It's okay, so did I, I've only been awake maybe, ten minutes, I didn't want to wake you"

"I should go" he says as he moves to get up off the couch. He plants his feet on the ground as he stands up and brushes his hand through his hair as I turn my body to sit upright on the couch, wishing it was still two minutes ago rather than this awkward, weirdness.  “I don’t mean, I don’t want to- - I mean” he stutters as he scratches the back of his neck and I squint my eyes at him, “it’s late and I can’t stay the night, I’ve got no clean clothes here or anything”

"No, I get it" I answer quickly, realising that I did actually want him to stay and a silence falls over the two of us again as we both look anywhere but at each other.

"I'll just, get" he points behind his head, "get my coat then" he says quietly as I look back at him as his voice grabs my attention. 

"Okay, I'll walk you out" I say back as I get up and walk him towards the front door.

He hesitates just outside the door frame as he turns back to me and I lean slightly on the door.

"Embry" he starts, "do you? I mean, um, I" his nervous energy makes me stand up straighter, my heart racing in my chest. He lets out a breathy chuckle as he rubs the back of his neck with his hand again; I guess he does that a lot when he's nervous. "I had a really nice time tonight, thank you" he smiles up at me once he's decided on his words.

"I had a really nice time too, we should do it again sometime" his smile only grows wider at my words and a second later he leans in and places a quick, unsure kiss on my cheek and I feel my face blush.

"See you tomorrow" he says quickly as he turns to go to his car, looking back towards me as he gets into the driver’s seat and I offer a small wave and then he's gone.

I go back into my house, making sure to lock the door and find my phone, already having received a text from Will.

   ⁃    I really had an amazing time with you. Sorry I fell asleep. I really hope we can do it again, maybe next time I can cook for you? Good night, Em. 

I can't help but smile and notice the nickname he's given me and I realise no one else has ever shortened my name. It seems weird to think about because it seems so obvious, but no one ever has and I like the thought that maybe he will be the only one to ever call me it. I quickly text back.

   ⁃    I had a great time too. It's okay, you look cute when you sleep. I'd love that. Goodnight.

I walk up the stairs into my bedroom, put on my favourite pyjamas again, now that they're washed, and slip into bed, hoping for a peaceful night’s sleep, but that's not what I get. 

-

"You really just can't stay out of the way can you?" I hear a woman's voice say in an angry tone as I feel something being dragged from my face and I take a deep breath. "Always in the way!" 

The woman grabs my left arm and picks up a metal device as she places it over the mark on my wrist and I let out a scream in pain. 

"It'll stop hurting soon, we've done this before, stop fidgeting" she scolds and my blood turns cold at the pain and fear I'm feeling.

"What did you do with him?" I whisper through the pain. "Where is he?"

"Oh he's fine, don't worry, you won't remember him soon enough anyway" she says. What does she mean, I won't remember him? 

The woman keeps the device pressed against my skin for what feels like forever and the pain increases and decreases in intensity over time. I hear my own screams and whimpers and I try to fight her off as she has more straps added to restrain me. 

Eventually she stops and the pain subsides a little as she removes the device. I manage a glance down at my mark through my hooded and watery eyes, exhausted from the torture I've just endured and notice that the mark on my wrist is lighter, less prominent.

-

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

I jolt awake, yet again, to the sound of my alarm blaring and slowly I reach over to hit the snooze button, hoping for just five more minutes; enough time to collect my thoughts, before I get up out of bed, and start my usual routine of brushing my teeth, washing my body, putting on make up and getting dressed. 

I decide again to drive to work today, feeling too tired to walk, as much as I miss my near the beach walks home and as I stop at some traffic lights I remember being here and my wrist hurting. I realise it was him I saw, Will. He was the guy walking across the street. I remember the same dark brown hair, the same smile, the dimple. He was the guy who's hand I shook and felt the same pain again. But the mark isn't supposed to hurt. I've never heard anyone ever say it hurt them to get their mark, so why did mine hurt?

I'm pulled from my thoughts yet again as the lights change and I continue my drive to work but I can't seem to shake the feeling that something's wrong. Surely there must be a reason that ours was so different? I make a mental note to go to Clive's after work and ask him if he knows anything about it. He knows an awful lot more about them than me, he practically wrote a thesis on them at one point, maybe he can help. 

As I pull into the car park at the school, I see Will walking across a few metres from me and he raises his hand in a wave as he catches my eye and I think about how used I'm getting to seeing my mark on his wrist, and his on mine. 

"Hey" he says as our paths cross near the doors of the school and we smile at each other. 

"Hey, you okay?" I start as he shakes a plastic cup at me containing my favourite mocha, passing one to me and keeping one for himself. “Thank you”

"No problem.” He pauses as he smiles at me. After a few seconds he shakes his head as he looks down to the floor and continues, “Yeah, didn't sleep the best though, you?"

"Me either actually, I had the weirdest dream" as I'm about to start to tell him about it, the bell rings for the first class of the day and I feel like I've lost time, not a lot, only about ten minutes or so, but like as if somehow, the day is passing by earlier than it should. I was sure we had longer to talk.  

"So today, class, we're gonna have a study session, so if everyone could take their notepads and textbooks out, I want you to all read through your evolutionary perspectives of eating behaviour essays and write notes on your essay. Try and shorten it into key points and then that into bullet points until you'll be able to know your paragraph from a few key words. If you need any help, just ask, otherwise, you can work in small groups" I finish as a few tables scrape across the floor, kids moving closer to their friends as a quiet muttering overtakes the room and I sit in my chair behind the desk. 

My mind falls back to the dream I had last night and I can't help but feel like there's more to it, like it's not just a dream and like I'm missing some of the information. I start to look at my mark and notice that it's full in colour, unlike my dream, but as I stare at it, it starts to itch again and I get a sharp pain in my head as a flood of words enter my brain. They're all fumbling over each other too fast for me to hear most of them, the only ones I make out don't make any sense to me and I hold the side of my head as I scrunch my eyes, opening my mouth in a silent scream and hope the pain will subside quickly.

"Embry?" I hear and just as quickly the pain started, it goes and I look up to find Will, his hands on my forearms, his body twisted as he tells the class to pack up their stuff and that they're dismissed for the day. As the class empties he turns back to me with concern in his eyes, "are you okay? I walked past and you looked like you were in agony. What happened?"

"I, I don't know, my head just started hurting. I couldn't make much of it out"

"Make what out?"

"The words" I answer, "my head was flooded with words, I could only make a little bit out through the jumble: lost, taken, soulmate and you, but it doesn't make any sense, I don't know what happened". He sighed in response as he moved one of his hands behind my head and pulled me into his chest and held me.

We stay like that for what feels like forever, one hand never moving from the back of my head while the other dances up and down my back, trailing small shapes over my green dress. 

After a couple of minutes he pulls back from me and wipes the remaining tears that have fell from my eyes off my face. “I’m gonna go and get you some water okay? Don’t go anywhere”

I nod as he hesitantly stands up and leaves the room, coming back only a minute later with a bottle of water. “I haven’t drank any of it, you need to have a drink okay? It’ll make you feel a bit better”. He says as he crouches down in front of me again, one hand finding its way back to resting on my forearm.

“Thank you” I whisper as I take a big gulp of water and he continues to look at me with worry in his eyes. “I’ll be okay, I just haven’t been sleeping very well” I say through a still croaky voice and he gives me a small smile in response.

“Just, relax for a little bit” he advises as he moves in slightly closer to me, “you’ve got like twenty minutes until the next class, will you be okay?”

“I’m good, honestly” I answer too fast, “you can go, but thank you”.

We share a tentative smile as he stands up and leaves the room, and again, I’m not unaware of his eyes lingering on me as he does so. 

I spend the next twenty minutes trying to breathe through the almost crippling anxiety I keep feeling, devising it’s probably better to just leave the remnants of my coffee rather than adding more caffeine to this situation. I find a small post it note and write down the words I felt drum around in my brain and stare at them, holding for an explanation to drop from the sky when the bell rings again. Too quickly my students pile into the classroom and still not feeling great, I inform them they will be doing the same study exercise as my previous class as I sit back in my chair, tapping my pen against the desk trying to figure out what this could mean. 

Not much longer passes before lunch has come around and before I can even move from behind my desk, Will is at the door waiting for me. 

“I was wondering if maybe you’d want to sit with me at lunch today?” I hear him say.

“We sit together every day?” I question with a squint of my eyes. 

“I guess that’s true” he laughs, “I mean, just me” he says as he slowly moves into the room as I walk around my desk. 

“Are you asking me on a date to the cafeteria William?” I smile as he blushes slightly. 

“No, not a date, I promise” he laughs as he looks back up to me and wipes his hand over his chin. “Just, I’d really like to have a meal with just you again.” 

“I’d love to”. 

Walking down the corridor to the cafeteria, I feel his eyes on me every few seconds and the questions he wants to ask are almost hanging in the air in front of us like a fog. 

“I’m okay” I say as I turn to face him, nodding my head, trying to convince us both. 

“I know” he says too quickly, “I just want you to know that if you’re not, if you need help, me to cover your class, if you need anything, I can feel the anxiety coming off you” his words make me turn my head to look at the floor as I feel him stop next to me and take hold of my wrist, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly against the mark that lives there, “that’s okay too. I’m here”. His final words have me lifting my head to look at him again, a small smile finding its way into my face as he slips his hand down to hold mine and intertwines  our fingers. As I nod my head, he gives my hand a small squeeze before releasing it as we start up our walk to the cafeteria again. 

Sitting down at a table on the far side of the room, we both dig into our meals, mine being chicken pasta and Will’s being bolognese, as we discuss his classes that day. Nothing major happened, like for example, he didn’t freak out all of his students by having an agonising pain in his head and had to have them excused by another staff member, but he did teach one of his classes about an obscure battle that I had never heard of. As the conversation about our classes dwindles down, we both turn to continue our lunches, comfortable in each other’s presence and my anxiety is easing from just being around him. 

“I know you might not want to talk about it but, I meant it, anything you need, ever” he says with a level of sincerity I’m not sure I’ve ever heard before and I know he’s not just talking about today, he really does mean anything and with what time is coming up, I can’t even begin to express how much that means to me. “Chloe mentioned something this morning about this being a tough time of year for you?” He asks innocently and I can’t work out if I’m mad or grateful that my friend started this conversation for me. 

“I don’t really talk about it at work but yeah, um, it’s coming up to the anniversary, of um, my parents death” I almost whisper, being brave enough to continue looking at Will. 

“I’m so sorry” he says quickly, “she didn’t say that- -, you don’t have to-“

“It’s okay, I don’t mind, but like I said I just don’t talk about it at work, sometimes I’m okay but sometimes I cry and I don’t want to cry at work”

“I get it, so do you like baseball?” He changes the subject quickly and I can’t help but laugh. 

The rest of the day goes by without a problem, each class going over the same study exercise based on what topic they’re focusing on currently and I spend my time catching up on grading essays. 

As soon as the final bell rings, I practically run from the school needing to see Clive as soon as possible. As much as sitting with Will at lunch may have eased my anxiety for that time, it came back in floods throughout the second half of the day. 

I walk into Clive's book store, hearing the bell above the door as I open and shut it. I nod in greeting at Clive, still by the counter, where he always seems to be and he nods back.

Knowing that the conversation I want to have with him is probably going to stir up some memories he'd rather forget, I take in a sharp breath as I start to walk over to him and he gives me a quizzical look. He must be wondering why I'm not just walking around the store like I usually do. 

"I need to ask you something, and you might not like it, but it's important, I'll explain as best I can but I wouldn't bring it up if it wasn't really important. Not to you" he gives me a knowing look after taking my words in and gives me a small nod, assuring me that I can ask, but not confirming that he will answer, or even have one in the first place. "Okay, have you ever heard of anyone's mark hurting? Like when they get it? Or even after they've got it? Because the first time I saw Will, it was when he was walking across the road and I was driving and I felt this sharp pain in my wrist; I didn't have my mark then of course and I ignored it, but then later it got itchy and I thought I could see something but I was wrong, although now, I'm not so sure. And then, the first time we touched, after we met, we both got a sharp pain, so bad we had to pull our hands away from each other and then mine was itchy later in the day again, I never asked about his" I'm not sure at what point we moved, but as I continue I realise I'm sitting in my usual spot on the couch at the back of the store, Clive opposite me.

"So then, today all of a sudden, it starts to get really itchy again, but like, painful itchy, like I want to scratch through my skin itchy and then I get this splitting pain in my head and I can't see or hear anything apart from these words going round and round in my head, too many to make out except four. Only four make their way through to me" I tell him the four words I'd told Will about earlier in the day as he leans further towards me, intently listening to everything I'm saying, a look of confusion on his face. "So I think they're connected, I mean, the pain, the itch, and the word soulmate came up, that can't be a coincidence right? So, I mean you know more about it than anyone else I know so have you ever heard of this happening? I mean, is it wrong? Is it trying to fight its way off my body because it's a mistake?" I ask, scared of what the answer could be as he stops me.

"I don't think it's that. The marks are never wrong, ever. He's your soulmate, there's no doubt about that but it hurting?" He turns away from me slightly, looking nowhere in particular as he thinks. "The only times I've ever heard of someone's mark hurting is when someone tried to take it off, they physically tried to tear it from their skin, it didn't work of course, the marks are protected, something in them. And when you spend too long away from your soul mate, mine hurts occasionally when I miss Mary, a few other people who've lost their soul mates or have had to be away from them have said the same thing but it's an ache, not a sharp pain".

He looks back at my disheartened face, disappointed at feeling like I still don't really have any sort of answer. "I see him every day, we talk after work until we go to sleep, he's text me goodnight, every night and neither one of us has tried to get rid of the mark" I trail off, defeated.

"Leave it with me, okay? I'll have a look through my stuff, see if there's anything I can find that might explain it and I'll let you know if I find something but just, try not to worry about it too much, okay kid?" He offers me a small smile as he pats my shoulder and I realise that's the first time since Mary died that I've seen any type of real smile on his face.

"Yeah" I surrender, "thanks Clive, it means a lot, thank you" I add sincerely as I get up to leave the store before quickly turning and adding, "oh I almost forgot, Will asked me to ask you if you could order 1984 for him? You know by George Orwell?" 

"Sure, I'll get on it straight away, I'll make up an invoice when it comes and keep it back for him or if you pick it up, okay?"

"Thanks Clive, for everything" I say as I leave the store and make it to my car.

On the drive home I decide it's been too long since I've walked near the beach and if there was ever a time I needed to be calmed by the ocean, it's probably now when my mind can't seem to stop spinning. I pull up on my driveway, get out of my car, and walk back towards the beach, deciding I'll spend a couple of hours there and maybe watch the sunset before I walk back home. 

Sitting on the beach, this is the calmest I’ve felt since I was laying in Will’s arms. Making that realisation only panics me more, I mean, I’ve only known him a few weeks. How is it that someone I’m still aware I barely know has had such a profound effect on me? I feel like there’s an internal battle inside of me of running away from this and what it means because I can’t help but feel like I’ll be hurt, and another side of me that wants nothing more than to jump in, head first because I know he will never hurt me and I don’t think I’ve ever been so confused in my life. 

Trying to shake all thoughts of Will and the dreams and the mark and my feelings about any of it out of my head, I focus on the sounds of the waves crashing in front of me and the feel of the sand against my bare feet, my shoes being placed carefully in front of me. As I dig my feet further into the sand, I wrap my arms around my knees, bending them up to sit in front of my face and I enjoy the beauty the beach offers. 

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Taglist: @yourideasarepointless​ @stiles-o-dylan24​ @moongoddesskiana​ @wydobrien​ @ashleyjeanthomas​ 

Date posted: 04.08.2020

[pleasantlygrimm]

Do you ever feel like you're just trapped in your own head? Just constantly drowning in existential dread? My job is simple enough that I don't really have to think about what I'm doing to do a good job, but i'm moving around all day so i don't really talk tp my co workers very often, so all I do all day is think. I just trap myself in these shitty corners of my mind and basically torture myself with self deprecating thoughts until sometimes I'm literally on the verge of tears. It's a night shift job too, so I sleep all day and work all night, leaving virtually no time to interact with any of my friends or family except on weekends if I'm lucky. I feel like i'm sinking a little bit deeper every day, like i'm losing my ability to interact with people.

The weirdest part is, my life isn't that bad honestly, i'm not so lost that I can't see all the blessings i have, my wife loves me unconditionally, my job pays well enough that i just bought my first house things have been great for me lately, but still, every day I feel myself losing my grip on who I am, and who i aspire to be. I'm happy, but i don't let myself enjoy anything. I used to be so full of love and enthusiasm for the people i love, but somewhere along the line i just lost my grip on what i cared about and how to even express the fact that I care.

For some reason, i just can't let myself be the most important person in my life, I'll put anyone else's needs in front of my own because i'm afraid that if i don't then they'll just leave. I'm so terrified of coming off as selfish or weird that i just push everything down and end up closing myself off completely. Even something like this... billions of people post about their problems on the internet every day, but i refuse to bother other people with my problems, as if them having to read a few sentences about my life will make them think less of me, or give them a reason to talk down to me. I know i only have one or two active followers, and i want to erase everything i just wrote so that they don't have to worry themselves with my problems. I doubt everything that i do to the point that i'm not even sure if any of this makes sense.

I just need help. I need someone to be there with me to tell me i'm not fucking up. Someone to let me know that i'm not a drain on their life, that i'm worth more than i let myself think i am. My problems are no less real than anyone else's and i shouldn't feel bad for having them. I miss my friends and i miss feeling welcome and wanted. I don't feel like i belong anymore, i'm just an outsider looking in on everyone else living their lives.

[infinitalia]

Ash Song

Chapter Three | Lost Days

First chapter / previous chapter

Summary: On the 5th of November, 2010, England went missing. The other nations searched everywhere for him but their efforts were in vain. On the 5th of November, 2015, England reappears, unaware of what has happened to him over the last five years. But he has changed- and as the memories start to resurface, he begins to recall just why he was running in the first place. USUK.

Warnings/info: Novel length fic, still in progress, not romance centric, incredibly slow burn, deranged 2Ps, occasional mild violence, psychological horror, mentions of PTSD. Any potential triggering chapters will be tagged appropriately. More info here.

This fic can alternatively be found on AO3 and FF.net

-

Two days later, England is released from the hospital, with instructions to rest as much as he can and not overexert himself. He's a little surprised when Ireland is the one who comes to collect him and take him home.

'Someone's gotta watch over yeh, make sure yeh don't start acting all batshit again,' the elder mutters as the two of them walk through the main entrance to the hospital and out into the car park.

'Yes, but why you?'

Ireland raises his eyebrows. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

England rolls his eyes. 'Come on. You resent me even more than Scotland does. This isn't like you at all.'

Ireland glares at him. 'Well, maybe I shouldn't have come to pick up an ungrateful brat such as yerself.'

'Oh good. That sounds more like the Ireland I know.'

'Just get in the car.'

The drive is uncomfortably silent. Now that he's finally escaped the hospital, England finds himself bursting with questions. If he's going to find a way to protect himself, he needs to know more about the world he's stumbled back into.

'Where is Scotland? How come he or Wales didn't pick me up?'

'Wales has gone to visit Downing Street and Scotland's gone back up to Edinburgh to prepare his notes for the G8.'

'Can I go to the G8?'

Ireland makes a 'tsk' noise. 'It's not up to me. I'm not part of the G8, am I? Scotland's the one who's going, idiot.'

'I need to be there, though,' England reasons. 'If Scotland's going to announce to the other members that I'm back, he'll probably need me there as proof. Plus, I was an original member of it. I have the right to be there.'

'Not since yeh disappeared, yeh haven't. And before yeh ask, yeh obviously can't take that ruddy dagger if yeh are going.'

'How can I? No one's given it back to me yet.'

'What's it for, anyway?'

'Fishing,' England says sarcastically. 'It's obviously for protecting myself.'

'Oh, obviously,' Ireland mutters, emphasising the sarcasm even more than his little brother did. 'I mean, that's completely normal, having a great big knife on yeh to protect yerself from who knows what. Silly me.' He suddenly straightens up in the car seat, his face serious. 'Why do yeh think yeh need protecting? Is someone after yeh?'

Yes. I think someone- or something- is. 'I don't know,' England lies.

'Was... was someone chasing yeh? Is that what happened over the last five years? Were yeh... captured or something?'

England shivers. Of all the theories he's heard so far, this one seems the most plausible. But he doesn't say anything. He just shakes his head so his brother won't be onto him and keeps quiet for the rest of the ride.

They place England in his London house in Hampstead. The place seems fairly occupied and England quickly realises that despite his absence over the last five years, Scotland and Wales have obviously been using it on occasion.

England quickly prepares himself a cup of tea (the stuff they gave him in the hospital was hardly adequate) and decides to pick up a few newspapers to do some catching up. Ireland hangs around not far away, refusing to leave until at least the time when Wales will arrive back from Downing Street.

'Can't bloody leave yeh alone, can we? Who knows what yeh'd try doing?' Ireland mutters in his gruff voice, reaching into the fridge for a beer.

'Someone's been living here while I've been away,' England observes, leaning up against the kitchen counter and glancing around the place.

'Wales 'n Scotland stay here a lot,' Ireland says. 'They had more work to do these past five years. More reason to come to London. And Sealand comes by sometimes too.'

England's eyes widen in surprise. 'Sealand?'

'He stays occasionally when the others are here. He's kind of begun to hang around the rest of his family more, funnily enough.'

England says nothing in reply. He just quietly sips his tea.

-

When Wales finally arrives, Ireland decides it's time to leave. Apparently there's a plane leaving from Heathrow Airport to Dublin in two hours time and Ireland doesn't want to miss it, despite Wales telling him it's stupid to leave so late in the day.

While Wales heads for the study to sort through some important documents, England corners Ireland as the elder is shuffling towards the door with his bags.

'I want to know what you've all done with my knife,' England says.

Ireland halts and examines his younger brother carefully. 'What makes yeh think I'd tell yeh?'

'Because you're the least likely to care.' England says it so simply, as if making an observation regarding the weather.

An icy look crosses over Ireland's face. 'Is that so?' he says softly.

England shifts uncomfortably. 'Well, why else would you be so keen to get away?'

'Because I have work to do, obviously,' Ireland says coldly. 'Can't exactly stay around, havin' to listen to a wretched brat.'

England clenches his fists. 'I take it you're not going to tell me where the knife is, then.'

'Hmm, let's see? Should I give a paranoid, delusional runaway fresh out of hospital a dangerous weapon? Tough choice.'

'Give it to me?' England echoes. 'Does that mean you have it?'

Ireland winces slightly, then regains his composure. 'No. Scotland does.'

'You're lying.' England is becoming increasingly sure of himself. 'Scotland's given it to you to take away from me. You're taking it back with you to Dublin because you don't want me to find it.'

Ireland stares at it for a second. 'England, yeh don't need it.'

'How would you know? It's mine and I want it back.'

'And how can I trust yeh with it?'

'I'm not a delinquent, Ireland. You were happy allowing me to arm myself when I was a child, so I don't see why your morals should prevent you from letting me keep a weapon now.'

Ireland curses in Gaelic and reaches into his coat pocket for the dagger. England feels a leaping sensation in chest as his eyes fall on his weapon. Ireland has wrapped it up in a cloth but England can see the hilt of it poking out the top, still a beautiful, unscratched emerald green.

'I must be bloody mad,' Ireland mutters, handing his brother the knife. 'Yeh better not be planning to attack anyone with this thing.'

'Only the people who attack me first,' England answers easily, and Ireland freezes.

'No one's going to attack yeh. Why do you keep insisting that yeh're in danger?'

England looks down at the weapon in his hands. 'I don't know.'

-

In the week leading up to the G8, England agrees to visit the Prime Minister in Downing Street to confirm his return, and then he insists that Wales lets him go visit the Queen. England gets to meet little Prince George and tiny Princess Charlotte for the first time and is completely gutted that he was missing when both children were born. Gutted that he missed William and Kate getting married too. Gutted that he missed the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. Gutted that he missed the 2012 Olympics.

In short, England has missed a little too much.

'I wouldn't worry about all of that,' Wales says as the two arrive back in Hampstead on the evening before the flight to America. 'You're back now, anyway.'

'I want to know where I was,' England says.

'We all do.'

'I want to know what happened to me.'

That night, exhaustion takes a hold of England. Every night so far, his body has simply refused to sleep. He knows that Wales and Scotland think it's because of this weird new paranoia he's got, and he agrees with them; but unlike them, he knows deep down that there's a legitimate reason to be on edge. Then again, most delusional people probably believe that.

But tonight, the sleep deprivation is too severe. He's unconscious moments after his head hits the pillow, and then all of reality shifts around him.

'Sleeping means letting your guard down. Aren't going to make that little mistake again, are we?'

A knife traces a thin but deep line of blood across his bare chest and he bites down on his lip to keep from screaming.

The red eyed demon watches him, almost seeming a little impressed, though it covers it well behind those malicious crimson eyes. 'I could give you hell and it won't make a difference, will it?'

It changes the angle of the knife as the blade reaches his abdomen, pointing the tip of the weapon against his bare skin and gently plunging it through the flesh. He lets out a groan of pain as the agony flares through his stomach, but shows no reaction other than this.

The demon grins. It seems to almost tremble in anticipation. 'Thanks,' it says quietly. 'I like a challenge.'

England's eyes fly open and he leaps out bed, quickly reaching for the dagger under his pillow. In this moment, he feels both at his strongest and at his weakest. He's ready. The adrenaline could keep him running and fighting for hours. He could get out of here. He has his weapon.

But he's absolutely terrified.

He can still feel that blade cutting into him, and when he lifts up his shirt, he can make out a thin white scar stretching across his chest and torso. It's faded and long since sealed up, but it definitely happened. He's not just having weird dreams. It really happened.

And there's more. Heaps of faded scars and old bruises are painted across his chest. Most aren't as big as the one he gained from that session with the demon that he dreamt about, but they still happened.

I was... tortured.

Well, if that's not a legitimate reason for paranoia, I don't know what is.

His mind flashes back to the demonic eyed torturer, but his memory is already fading. He doesn't know who it was, but he now knows what to be afraid of.

England looks down at the knife in his hand, an uncomfortable realisation spreading through him. It's the same knife that was used to torture him. How did he come to be the owner of it? Did he steal it from his torturer? Why would he even want to keep it after what it was used for?

But he doesn't let go of it. He can't let go of the blade that sings of his own pain.

-

'Yeh're not bringing it with you,' Scotland says when he catches sight of the knife's hilt sticking out of England's jacket pocket as the latter walks into the kitchen for breakfast. 'I can't believe Ireland actually gave it back to yeh...'

'I need it,' England says.

'Good luck getting it past airport security,' Scotland taunts.

England rolls his eyes. 'Please. Ireland was planning on taking it on a plane to Dublin, which means he obviously thought it was possible. Anyway, we're not even going to a big airport. We're taking a private jet. You and I are the only passengers. Given my status, they'll let me take whatever I want.'

'I think yeh'll find yer current status is dead until everyone knows yeh're back,' Scotland retorts.

'Don't start,' Wales says tiredly.

'We're not starting,' England replies, and for a second it's as if five years haven't passed and this is just any old morning the brothers have to spend together.

'Sealand's coming round in a few days,' Wales says. 'You won't even be here for it. He comes round a lot more now.'

'I know,' England says, taking a bite of toast. He has a peculiar, withdrawn look on his face. 'Ireland told me.'

'We haven't told him yet,' Wales continues.

'Just as well,' Scotland mutters. 'The little one would probably blab the news to everyone.'

'Have you figured out what you're going to tell everyone?' Wales asks.

'Hmm?'

'The other G8 members are going to want explanations. They'll want to know where England's been for the last five years.'

Scotland sighs. 'We'll just tell 'em what we know. And hope that they don't go telling the rest of the world until we've at least figured more out.'

'You've gotten to know them better over the last five years,' England mutters. 'You should know by now that any secret you tell them will be all over the internet by tonight.'

'Yeah, I can see the title,' Wales chuckles. 'It'll read #EnglandLives. Like when Sherlock came back.'

England stares at him. 'Hashtag? Sherlock?'

Scotland smacks his forehead. 'Yeh have missed way too much, little brother.'

-

Scotland is right. As they arrive in the airport, their bags are scanned with the same level of security as they would be if they were boarding a major plane and the elder nation is pleasantly surprised when nothing suspicious is detected in his younger brother's bag, or on his person either. England has left the dagger and any other possible weapons behind. Good.

England spends the entire flight in a state of unease, twisting his head round constantly to look around the tiny cabin he and Scotland are in. As the only passengers, Scotland's not sure why England is so conscious of someone else, other than the pilots and the staff, being on board with them.

'Something's really messed up yer head,' Scotland murmurs. 'Even more than before.'

'I know,' comes the quiet, almost resigned reply. 'I know better than anyone.'

Scotland sighs and leans back in his seat. 'Ireland reckons yeh might have been kidnapped. And something worse, too.'

'Something worse?'

'Please. We obviously know about the scars,' Scotland says. 'We're yer immediate family, so the hospital had to tell us. Wales decided to talk to a specialist. Apparently, the, uh, symptoms yeh're displaying are all signs of... post traumatic psychological stress and physical abuse.'

'And I was kept in the dark?' England says accusingly.

'We didn't know how to mention our suspicions to yeh,' Scotland mutters awkwardly. 'I mean, we were told that the amnesia could have been yer mind trying to...'

'Trying to what?'

'Trying to block out whatever dark shit happened to yeh.'

'You think I'm forcing myself to forget?'

'The specialist said that sometimes when someone goes through something traumatic, the mind sets up a defensive mechanism so that the person won't have to remember the pain-'

'I'm a nation,' England spits. 'We've all been through some dark shit. It's part of the job. What could possibly be worse for me than... than the Great Fire or the Blitz or-'

Well, that torture was obviously part of whatever it was that happened to me.

Scotland looks so uncomfortable talking about it. And England doesn't truly want to discuss it with him anyway. He's already treading on thin ice, considering he managed to secretly disguise and smuggle in his dagger using magic (something Scotland definitely won't find out about if he can help it).

They arrive in a nice, comfortable hotel in Washington. There's a little fuss at the reception when England finds out that Scotland has only booked one room ('Ain't no way I'm letting yeh outta my sight.'), something the blonde isn't happy about at all ('You better have specified two beds, twat.'). The redhead doesn't seem fazed by the minor outburst and instructs his younger brother to stay put for the rest of the day.

'The first gathering won't be until tomorrow,' he says. 'I would suggest we go out and do something today, but to be honest, I can't be arsed walking around the yank's capital. Besides, we don't want anyone spotting yeh yet. I've still gotta figure out exactly how I'm gonna break the news to them.'

'I could just walk in with you at the beginning of the meeting,' England mutters moodily as he and Scotland get into the hotel elevator to take them to the fourth floor.

'Hell no. I've gotta warn 'em first. Yeh'd give them all heart attacks if yeh did that.'

'They won't believe you.'

'They will do once it's time for yeh to come in.'

As they exit the elevator on the fourth floor, England halts. A strange, uncomfortable tingling is spreading up his spine and he feels as if something is watching him. Glancing to his right, he spots an elegant framed mirror on the wall between rooms 406 and 407. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but England still tenses. He wishes his dagger was in his pocket and not in his bag, as it would be much easier to access. But Scotland can't know about it. And there's no reason to be paranoid anyway.

He's just imagining things.

-

'Yeh alright there, lad?' Scotland asks.

England jumps, and for quite a few reasons. The first being because he had completely zoned out on Scotland beforehand and had pretty much forgotten that his brother is even here. The second being the use of the word lad, which seems like an unfair thing to be called, as he is younger, but not by that much (they've both lived a long time, for crying out loud). The third being the softness in Scotland's voice (after all, Scotland's known for being gruff). The fourth being the actual question, and the concern it implies.

'Um. Fine?'

Scotland (who has already made himself at home on his bed in the room they're staying in), peers out through the door to the balcony, frowning at his brother. England is leaning against the railings, staring out at the city with a small frown of his own. He hasn't unpacked and doesn't seem to be planning on doing it, either. Almost like he's ready to leave at any minute if he needs to.

'Come on, now,' Scotland mutters. 'Just relax. Yeh'll see 'em tomorrow.'

Scotland genuinely believes that England is uneasy about reuniting with the other nations. When in reality, England finds that he's not overly concerned at all.

He's barely given it any thought, actually.

'Sealand,' England says rather unexpectedly.

'What 'bout him?'

'Ireland says he comes round more.'

'Yeah, he does. He has a bit more respect for the family now. Can be a little irritating, but he's a good kid, really.'

'Right.' England continues staring out into the distance.

Scotland rolls his eyes. 'Get in here and shut the door. It's November, for Christ sake. The breeze is pissing me off.'

'We're too high up,' England mutters.

Scotland raises his eyebrows. 'Oh, are yeh 'fraid of heights now?'

England decides not to mention that his reasoning is that he won't be able to escape as easily in an emergency.

'What time's the meeting tomorrow?' he asks as he steps inside the room and closes the balcony door.

'Ten,' Scotland replies. 'Thought we should arrive earlier though. We have to be careful 'bout who spots yeh. And yeh know yeh're gonna get bombarded with questions the minute they find out yeh're still alive.'

'Obviously. I'm going for a walk.'

'Hang on- what? No, yeh're bloody well not!'

But England's already heading towards the door. 'I won't be long.'

Scotland rises from his bed, striding over to his brother. 'Not on my watch.'

'Then don't watch.'

'Yeh're not just walking out into the city.'

'Who said I was leaving the hotel? I can walk around the inside of the building if I want. I need to clear my head.'

Scotland stands firmly in front of the door. 'Yeh'd run off at the first opportunity. That's all yeh've been wanting to do since yeh got back- arm yerself and run away. I'm not letting yeh go out alone.'

'Bloody hell, Scotland, it's not even dark yet,' England snaps. 'I am over a thousand years old. I've travelled across the entire world. I used to be a sodding Empire. Stop treating me like I'm an unstable twelve-year-old who can't look after himself and open the bloody door.'

Scotland swears and opens the door, glaring at his brother. 'Brat.'

'Twat,' England replies spitefully, stepping past the redhead and out into the hallway. Scotland shuts the door behind him, though England has the feeling that the minute he's turned a corner, Scotland will probably exit the room and start following him. As if England won't even know.

England heads towards the elevator. He has no actual plans on leaving the fourth floor, but he remembers that the mirror is next to it. As he gets closer, his heart begins to beat faster. Something in him feels uneasy about approaching ever closer to the mirror. But it's just an inanimate object. It's stupid to think that he should need to run away from it, and yet wish to investigate it at the same time.

It's just a bloody mirror.

Not interesting. Certainly not dangerous. Just a mirror.

England steps up to it and frowns at his reflection.

This is the first time he's had a proper look at himself since he got back. Actually fully examined his appearance. He appears more or less the same as he has always done- bright green eyes, tousled blonde hair, thick eyebrows. Just him.

But he's thinner. His hair is a little messier. His eyes have a more darkened edge to them. His expression looks... haunted. The eyebrows are the same, though. They're probably never going to change. That's something.

He almost looks younger in a way, actually. Wilder, more ready to run.

And now he's smiling.

Oh, wait. That's not right. He can't feel his mouth smiling. He can feel himself wearing his usual frown. But his reflection is smiling. In his reflection, his eyes are now blue. Very bright blue. Insanely blue. Like they're filled with electricity. Like they're glowing.

Feeling jumpy and immensely uneasy, England blinks and his reflection is back to normal. He takes a step back and turns away to head back to his room. As he turns the next corner, he practically collides with Scotland.

'So you did follow,' England says.

Scotland glares at him. 'Of course I did, brat. Are yeh done now?'

England glances back at the mirror. It hangs on the wall, silent and still. 'Yes,' he answers quietly.

-

The night brings more terrors.

He's looking up at the sky. It's black and cloudy. The air is cold. It's November and it's snowing. Why is it snowing?

'I told you, it's not snow.'

He's cold and wet and lying on a hard surface, his back pressed against the ground. The snowflakes are swirling above him and landing on his face. A couple get into his eyes, and they sting badly. The voice is right. It's not snow.

The owner of the voice is standing over him. It's too dark to make out the figure, but even in the night shadows, England can still see those glowing, electric blue eyes.

'What...?' he tries to say, but he can't talk properly. He can't breathe properly. There's water in his lungs. Or is it fire? He tries to cough but he's on his back and he can't move.

The figure chuckles. 'This is what it was. This is what it will always be. Here, not there.'

England is drowning all over again. And the snow-but-not-snow keeps falling on him. Suffocating him. Making him realise exactly what this is. No. It can't be.

'Not... real...' he manages to whisper. He silently begs what he says to be true.

'It's just as real for you now as it is for us,' the figure says. 'You can feel it. It burns.'

England wakes up screaming.

[lunapaper]

Album Review: 'PAINLESS' - Nilufer Yanya

Is the best art borne from pain? Must an artist suffer in order to produce something worthy?

‘I was enjoying the process of making the record, and thinking, ‘Why do you have to beat yourself up in order to make something?’ Nilüfer Yanya told Apple Music. ‘Obviously, you have to work hard, but often the idea of really struggling is something that people inflict on others, just because it’s the idea they sell to them, like, ‘Oh, you need to go through this.’

Though still deeply rooted in fear, heartache and existential angst, the British singer’s second album, PAINLESS, longs for escape in the form of lush atmospherics and fuzzy, bass-fuelled grooves.

‘the dealer’ bristles with a sense of urgency, restlessly adrift in a  haze. Amid eerie cries of organ, Yanya drags her feet across murky bass and spidery chords on ‘L/R,’ resigned to her fate (‘Takе me out to the beach/Take off all your clothes/Whatever makes you happy’). At times, her voice cracks, almost threatening to turn into a howl. But all too quickly she pulls back, once again giving in to her lover’s demands. On ‘shameless,’ she channels that same hopelessness into swirling, psychedelic guitars and stuttering lo-fi beats.

‘belong with you’ layers rock, folk and jazz to create an exhilarating head rush, inspired by the frenetic 00s pop of t.A.T.u’s ‘All the Things She Said.’ Inner city apathy is captured in trembling guitars and anxiety-inducing drum n’ bass on ‘stabilise.’ ‘midnight sun’ proves rather timely, promoting the ‘beauty of confrontation and the necessity of rebellion’ with spiralling, Radiohead-esque guitar and drum loops, backed by a haunting sea of voices, while the static-fuelled grunge of ‘chase me’ harks back to the glory days of Britpop.

‘try,’ however, makes tired dejection sound seductive and sexy, a gentle, sweeping waltz composed of plucked chords, weeping strings and a smoky soulfulness that sets the perfect tone for late night ruminations. It’s a track that deserves to be a single, but will most likely remain an underrated deep cut.

Though minimalist by design, PAINLESS is still stunningly vivid thanks to Yanya’s stark, plain lyricism, much more intimate in scope compared to the wellness-inspired satire of 2019’s Miss Universe.

You can easily picture the slabs of grey and brown buildings that pass in a blur on ‘stabilise,’ along with the walls of the small council flat that are ‘rotten to the core. The way a love chases Yanya through corridors is both exhilarating and frightening. Visceral imagery like blood, skin, bruises and bone further emphasise the singer’s feelings of alienation and detachment.

Yanya also serves up some of her most brilliantly cutting lines yet. Some border on the nihilistic (‘I've wasted my life/So there's no need for the rush/We got all the time here/So why hurry up?’) ‘Sometimes it feels like you're so violent, autopilot,’ she sings on ‘L/R.’ But best of all is her vicious retort to a soul-sucking ex on ‘belong with you’: ‘Sick of this/I don't even like you, bitch.’

‘This record is very instinctive,’ Yanya said in a recent interview with the Independent, and she couldn’t be more right. On PAINLESS, the arrangements sprawl freely, the singer able to just luxuriate in these well-worn grooves until they beautifully dissipate.

Artists don’t need to torture themselves in order to produce good work, but Yanya has a wonderful knack for unravelling emotions. She doesn’t just craft songs; she sculpts moods: hazy, nostalgic yet so achingly felt; constantly shifting in and out of focus. Producer/musician Wilma Archer also deserves credit for helping to bring such moods to life, along with along with Bullion, Jazzi Bobbi and Andrew Sarlo, helping to enhance the record’s feverish, enigmatic feel.

PAINLESS is comfortably numb, but strangely comforting, nonetheless. It’s also an incredible showcase for Yanya’s startling amount of maturity, warmth and talent, turning heartbreak into something compelling and familiar all at once.

- Bianca B.