#also posted at A03

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three 

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition. 

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place. 

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip. 

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck. 

 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital. 

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten. 

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled. 

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but. 

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.) 

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen. 

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair. 

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants." 

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him. 

Would Harrington pitch a fit? 

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did? 

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper. 

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life? 

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it. 

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--" 

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out." 

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.  

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying. 

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness. 

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone." 

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box. 

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home. 

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope. 

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet. 

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand. 

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list. 

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that." 

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face. 

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him. 

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?"  He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?" 

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years. 

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here. 

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder. 

Several somethings, in fact. 

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck. 

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick. 

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie. 

An unfair advantage, really. 

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly. 

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie. 

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting. 

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie." 

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

 "What do you mean Si--Wayne." 

"Nice catch.”  Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.” 

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much. 

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither. 

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat." 

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked. 

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?" 

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret. 

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt." 

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle. 

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end." 

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink. 

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?" 

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when  he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be. 

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless. 

"Anybody else?" He asked. 

"Nobody human." Steve replied. 

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that. 

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?" 

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency,  I'd be happy to." 

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through. 

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation. 

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus.  "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER." 

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword  home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it. 

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair." 

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound. 

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble. 

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…" 

"You take any today son?" 

Steve his head. 

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack. 

Course he hadn't. 

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in. 

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once. 

[adobe-outdesign]

the Neopian Times is really funny when you stop to think about it. because you can submit your fanfics there and even get a trophy for it but the caveat is that they're going to be personally reviewed by the canon writers who will DM you directly to tell you if they're too cringe to post

[lucky-pennied]

Notes: one shot inspired by the Rafayel main story branch PV.

Summary: Her attempts to bring her love back to her end in failure. Faced with the unbridled wrath of the sea, she is overcome with memories of a forgotten past they both shared.

Tags: angst/hurt no comfort/implied death

Word count: 1109

The boat rocked violently upon a rocky sea. Canvas sails whipped in the harsh winds of the rapidly approaching storm as the cold spray of splashing waves combined with the drips of storm rain began to soak through her clothes, wetting her skin. 

How did they end up like this? 

She breathed as her eyes  blinked away the rain and salty sea. Staring into a pair of glowing blue eyes, once filled with so much love and adoration, now filled with contempt and freezing anger. She had heard once somewhere before that ice could be so cold it would burn when touched. And a fire could rage so strongly as to freeze the skin it touched into aching numbness. That was what it felt like to look into those eyes. No longer familiar to her, they looked to her as if she was a stranger, no less than, they looked at her now as if she was an enemy. 

She gasped, choking on air as she dragged in ragged breaths. Mind swimming with concerned confusion, chest swelling with heartbreak. She hadn't even known she had been in love. The irony of it all, to only realize now as her heart glared down at her, expression cold. 

A strangled laugh left her freezing wind chapped lips as the boat gave another harsh rock. The wood creaked out in protest at the battering it was taking from the sea's outrage. Earning her another sharp look in the slant of her beloved’s eyes. 

She twisted her wrists beneath his heavy hold pathetically. Her attempt to reach him falls short once again in the face of his brutal and surprising strength. She knew he had been hiding layers, fearful of her catching sight of even a single shadowed part of his heart and mind. But what she was faced with now was a reality that terrified her to her very soul. 

His cold cruelty was far from the warmth he had always shown her up till now. Further cementing the thought, he had been overtaken by some outside force. She pleaded silently with her eyes for something she could not give voice to. Come back to me. She wanted to beg. I love you. She wanted to scream on the off chance the words would find some part of him that had not been swept away by the torrent of unbridled rage that sat straddled above her prone form. 

She searched herself, her mind, her heart, her soul. For any answers or strategies to bring him back the way he once was. Only to come back time and time again, wasting each precious second, to the unshakable feeling that he was as he should be now.

The sea god. 

The words struck an ancient chord within her. Dredging up in a blinding moment, flashes of a great temple beneath the sea, a sea tainted red, and an endless horizon of sand.  With those flashes came the emotions tied to them. A brutal onslaught of desperation, yearning, and heartache. All at once, she was bombarded, overstimulated from the overflowing feelings. 

Tears joined the moisture of the sea and rain. Mixing into something wholly new as they ran hot stinging tracks down her chafed skin. The sea was unforgiving. This was something older people had always taught. She never understood how something so beautiful could be so dangerous as to have so many warnings given. But now she did, and she wished she could go back to the naive girl who thought herself untouchable. A pillar of heroism and protector that stood at the top of the world. 

The experience was humbling. 

Licking her cracking lips, absently basking in the sharp taste of salt as she parted them to speak. In a voice raw with unexpressed emotion, she gasped. “I am your follower always” 

He blinked, momentarily taken aback before pressing down her numb wrists harder to the soaked deck beneath her. He seemed to struggle internally, the twitch of his lips, the slant of his eyes, even the furrow of his brows denoted the silent conflict. 

So she tried again, pressing on desperately. “All that I am is yours, take it”

“So you would choose sacrifice?” 

It wasn't so much a question, as a statement. She went limp below him, energy leaving her body as if swept away by the stormy wind that threatened to capsize the vessel they were trapped on. 

“We've done this before, haven't we?” She laughed again without mirth. Relinquishing into the void of time and space that surrounded them always-the intense desire to save him and keep things as they had always been. 

Because they had not always been this way. Once, they could have been. Once, they had the promise of happily ever after stretched out before them on the horizon of the sea during an unforgettable sunrise. She remembered he had taken her walking upon the waves themselves, offering her up the ocean that cradled his people. 

The memory only brought more tears to her eyes, blurring her vision of him hovering above her like a vengeful siren of the deep. 

And then she whispered weakly, giving into the demands of the deep. “It's what I deserve” 

“Take my heart, it's always been yours” She choked on the words, chest heaving. “Carve it out of me and live” 

He let go of one of her wrists, only to wrap his white gloved fingers around her throat, pressing tightly enough to cut off airflow. "As you wish"

Black spots started to gather behind her eyes. Shifting shades from purple to blue, they danced in a beautiful display as her body jerked in an instinctual effort to survive. Her freed hand clawed at the decking, nails leaving ragged marks into the wood as she scrambled for purchase. Garbled noises tumbled from her trembling parted lips, teeth clacking as she struggled for air. Yet still, he looked at her the same. Grip tightened around her neck as she felt herself nearing her end. 

This is the way it should have always ended. They were fools to try and escape their fate. Her beloved was right. Not all fairy tales end with a happy ending. Most were tragedies that would live on in song for a brief period, only for the story to be skewed with romanticism through the ages. 

She felt her eyes drift closed. Body going limp as darkness blanketed her consciousness. Her last thought, a prayer to her god. Be well, be happy, live on, and forget me. 

And so the Sea God had been awoken, at last claiming the heart that had been stolen by the greed of humankind. 

[extravalgant]

'for the dead are changless' aka the wizdyv fluff i always promised but never followed up on. UNTIL NOW summary: He could still feel the ghostly imprints of your fingers on his skin, kissed by the warmth of your body. You were checking his pulse. You were checking his pulse. words: 2144 warnings: no warnings. free range wizdyv fluff babey. except maybe some ooc-ness. please mind that 🛐

read on a03

"What does shadow magic feel like?" 

You can tell Dyvim is curious—just by the way his voice tilts in a certain way. He's not afraid, no; just cautious of what is to come. You avoid his gaze anyways, swallowing down the hard lump of guilt that suddenly manifests in your throat.

You've been avoiding his gaze for days by this point. You think yourself clever, but you know Dyvim; you know that this is his way of getting you to open up. You two had not spoken about what had happened at the Queen's hive, of what you two had lost and subsequently regained, but the relief of his return is palpable in the air. 

He would be a fool not to have noticed the way your fingers curl underneath his jaw, light as the morning's dew, and press gently against the pulse along his neck. You do this when you think he's sleeping, but he's a light sleeper, now—awake even at the slightest snap of a branch, at the mere suggestion that something may be moving in the dark. 

The first time you had done it had been after his revival—when you had taken the first shift, when he slowly fell into a dreamless sleep. He didn't know what to expect, but the sensation of your hand had not been one of them. 

Your fingers were warm against the jugular of his throat, and something in his chest squeezed at the thought; of the implications your actions held. His pulse was warm and hearty, thrumming strongly against the pads of your fingertips, and after a few beats of silence, he felt your hand slide away. 

He could still feel the ghostly imprints of your fingers on his skin, kissed by the warmth of your body. You were checking his pulse. You were checking his pulse. 

The affection he had been careful to tuck underneath his armor, between the smooth, metal ridges, suddenly can't help but bloom without warning. 

"It's different from other magic,” you say, bringing Dyvim back to this moment in time. He hadn't even realized the two of you had fallen silent until you had spoken. Your voice was soft, as it always was with him, as you shuffle your spell cards. They make a soft, satisfying hiss as they slide against one another, glittering low in the light. It reflects off of your face, washing your plaintive expression in a wash of bright, warm gold. 

“In what way?” he asks, his eyes round with genuine interest. Magic was never his strong suit, and it seemed so… finicky at times. It was hard to rely on something that had the possibility of failing you in the most crucial of moments. 

“It's colder than light magic,” you said, tucking the cards back into your deck, before slotting it onto your side. You slot your fingers together, resting your elbows on your thighs, before leaning forward. 

Yes, your hands had felt cold, hadn't they? He could feel it the other night, when you had done your usual rounds. Watched him breathe long and slow, like he savored every breath. 

“It is?” He blinks. “I had no idea magic was warm.” 

“Not… necessarily,” you reply, and allow the tendrils of magic to dance across your skin. To the denizens of this world, magic was a wonder to behold; a weapon wielded against darkness. The responsibility you have is not lost on you. “Light magic doesn't feel like anything, its just… shadow magic that feels colder in comparison. It feels like… cracking an egg over your head.” 

Dyvim smiles, a laugh passing through his lips without a second thought. He didn't expect a metaphor like that, but it made it easier to imagine. 

“Does it?” He says, with a hint of a smile tracing the edges of his words. His eyes crinkle with amusement. “I don't believe you.” 

“We could always get an egg and find out,” you suggest with a tease, until the soft warmth of your conversations silts through the silence, and you go back to being you. Not ‘The Wizard’—but you. 

His spellbinder—the one with the sad eyes and the kind smile. Everything about you is so kind, he thinks. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” he muses gently, and the smiles he receives in reply is enough to make his heart squeeze in his chest. 

He watches the firelight dance across your face. It dips wonderfully into all your crevices—the softness of your cheeks, curving underneath your eyes, against the slope of your face. 

But in your eyes, something lingers. Something that’s been there long before Dyvim had shown up. He wasn’t one to pry—you two had not known each other for long, and he felt it would be rude to ask about things that weren’t his business. He understood it, in a way. He’d rather not linger on things that happened in the past, not when their future finally seemed so bright. 

And not when the reason for that brightness was sitting right next to him.

“I’m sorry.”

Crack. 

The flame splits the kindle once more. It sways and dances, making the shadows dance along the ground in a graceful dance. Dyvim blinks, surprised at the sudden apology. “Sorry? What for?” 

“I got you killed,” you reply, your voice raspy with raw emotion. Like the words were sandpaper, and you were dragging them out of your throat. 

Ah, his… death. It’s with a shameful flush that he realizes, that the wizard must have been worried about him. 

“I knew full well what I was getting into, spellbinder.” Dyvim soothes. “Rather—it’s me who should be apologizing to you. I hadn’t meant to worry you like that.”

You suck in a soft breath, and let it exhale slow and gently from your mouth. His words release the knot of tension that had been lingering in your chest, unraveling it into fine, thin strands. 

“You’re alive,” you whisper. You resist the urge to reach out, to grab his hand and intertwine it with yours. To feel the thrum of his pulse fluttering underneath your palm. “And that’s all that matters.” 

The smile comes to him easily—something he felt only you were capable of bringing out of him, in these times of war. 

The guilt lessens, but not by a whole lot. It was true that you had felt guilty for a long time after his death, unable to even listen to your superiors without a scathing retort ready at the handle. They deserved every bit of it, and thensome. 

Dyvim didn’t. Dyvim didn’t deserve anything that happened to him. 

“I-I’m sorry, too, for—” The words spill out of your mouth, clumsy and awkward. “—For learning shadow magic.” 

The words hang in the air, amidst the quiet ambience of their camp for the evening. It’s not the sort of thing Dyvim was expecting, leading him to blink slowly, silently, at the wizard.

He… doesn’t know how to respond to that, frankly. It’s true that the wizard’s spells look different, feel different, but he had never thought of it anything beyond that. The fact that they were apologizing meant that they felt they did something wrong. 

But, there it is—the shine of guilt, lingering in your eyes. Glossing over the whites of your eyes, making them shimmer like glass. Dyvim feels his shoulders sag, just slightly, as his voice softens—only for you. “Oh, spellbinder…” 

And you? You can’t take that. With only two words, he’s knocked down your walls completely. Your eyes burn, nose stinging, as you reach up to blink away the tears. 

You can feel it—his pulse, lingering with yours, as his hand circles your wrist; he gently tugs it downwards, and you let him, allowing him to see the fruits of your labor. Your lower lashline, dotted with tears, and quiet little sobs that break his heart. 

“I didn’t mean,” you gasp out, the words stilted and disjointed. “to disappoint you. To disappoint—everyone.” 

“Where did you get that idea?” Dyvim whispers back, running a thumb gently over the seam of your wrist, where your heartbeat flutters underneath his touch. 

“It’s forbidden,” you say, your voice gravely. The words grate in your throat, uncovering the shame and guilt you had been carrying all this time, on your own. “Shadow magic is forbidden, and it’s caused… so much grief and sorrow. To you, to—to everyone else—” 

“Spellbinder,” Dyvim says, softly, and your body shudders in response. How could he say your name with such softness? You were not soft at all. You were hard at the edges, tightly coiled and ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Ready to defend the spiral. 

He doesn’t say anything else, but allows you to cry if need be. Had this been several weeks ago, a part of you would have been mortified at the idea of crying so openly in front of another person. But weeks ago Dyvim wasn’t alive—he was still encased in amber by that point, lost to the world, and you had been forced to pick up the scattered pieces and run. 

“I’m not angry at you, spellbinder,” Dyvim says, the lilt of his tone warm and gentle, voice dipping down into a soothing hush. “And I do not blame you for learning shadow magic.” 

When he reaches out, this time, it’s to take your hands gently into his own. The contrast in temperatures surprises you, the warmth of his palms seeping into your skin. The shadow had taken that from you, as well—the warmth of your own body. 

"Morganthe has done a lot to hurt my people," He says, and his voice trembles with an anger, a despair, that you recognize. The unfairness of it all, the dawning realization that you lost; that for the moment, evil had triumphed over good. Dyvim’s voice softens as he brushes his thumbs over your knuckles. "But you… you have done nothing wrong."

I have, you think, almost helplessly. Dyvim looks at you like you’ve personally hung the stars—and for him, you might. 

"You have undone some of the hurt that has been inflicted upon us for centuries, and, for the first time, I feel… hopeful."

Dyvim looks into your eyes as he says this, eyes pooling with an adoration you hadn't seen in a long, long time. A small, bitter part of you says you don't deserve it. You swallow it down, letting it drop into your stomach like a stone.

"You make me feel hopeful, spellbinder."

Truly, you don’t know what to make of that. You’re no saint, you know this—but he’s so earnest, it’s hard to disagree with him. You open your mouth to reply, but when it’s clear that nothing is going to come out, you close it. You can feel his hands squeezing yours gently, as if saying, take your time.

So you cry. 

Your face warms as you cry, letting the thick globs of tears track down your face, sniffling with each sob that leaves your lips. You don’t remember the last time you’ve cried, but it had to have been a while ago, because you can’t stop. And when one of your hands pulls away from his, to reach up to wipe away the tears with the back of your hand, his arm reaches out to circle your shoulders, and tuck you against his armor. 

“You’re safe here, spellbinder,” he whispers. “Let it all out.” 

He tells you to mind all the cold, metal parts of his armor, but you don’t care. You tuck your face against his shoulder, and let the sobs shudder through your body. Your tears twinkle like stars as they quietly plop onto his armor, as his other hand dips up and down your back in a gentle, soothing motion. 

Frankly, it’s one of the best hugs you have ever received. It’s probably one of the only hugs you have ever received, since you had stepped foot in the spiral.

"I'm sorry you had to see me like this," your voice crackles, choking on the emotion lodged in your throat.. "I know how much everyone looks up to me. I don't want to seem weak…"

"Allowing yourself to be comforted is not weak, spellbinder." Dyvim chastises lightly, for your own good. "I feel honored you were even willing to divulge this side of vulnerability to me."

"You're special," you reply, not even attempting to hide your favoritism towards him. 

For some reason, this surprises him. “Am I?” He asks. “More special than anyone else?” 

You nod. “More special than anyone else.” 

You feel him tuck his cheek against the top of your head, and feel the soft inhale and exhale of his breath. 

“In all of the spiral?” He asks, his voice quieter. 

“In all of the spiral.” 

[nadiajustbe]

You guys are NOT ready for the amount of Prince Justin x Wizard Suliman content I have in my head. You're just not.

[colourofthekites]

Hi all, I’ve just shared my first full work on AO3 for Dead Boy Detectives. Feel free to give it a read and let me know what you think!

Fic info under the cut:

Chapters: 5/5

Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland Characters: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland (DCU), Crystal Palace (DCU) Additional Tags: Bisexual Crystal Palace (DCU), Bisexual Charles Rowland (DCU), Coming Out, Anxiety, Support, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Scars, First Time, First Kiss, Implied handjob, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort Summary:

After Edwin's confession, Charles Rowland feels lost in who he is. After a chance catch up with Crystal, Charles starts to realise some important things about himself.

[bluejay0715]

Concept Art

So considering the Trident of Oceanus exists in RGTK, this implies that Oceanus himself exists in this universe. So, I did a little experimenting at what he might look like

[Wip]

Sorry for the low quality lmao

[maximura]

Ad Astra: The Theory Of Relativity | An Interstellar Ateez story Part I | Part II | Part III | Park IV | Part V (Words 4413, Warnings: swearing)

"Okay, I’ve got some news.” Hongjoong says as he sits down at the dinner table. “The NASA flight team offered me a job training their new pilots and um, I said Yes.”

“Yeah, we already about knew that.” Wooyoung says as he attempts to rewire a black and green lego robot named ‘Duke Lego’.

Yunho perks up in attention, leaning forward to peer closely at his older brother’s face, no doubt searching for signs of hidden reckless agendas. It reminds Hongjoong of the German Shepherd puppy they had when they were kids. 

“When you say ‘job’, what does that mean exactly?” 

“It’s just training some new pilots in a simulator. The facility is only half an hour away from here. I won’t be gone for long, just once a week. I’ll still keep my old job but we could really use the extra money.”

“Can I come?” Wooyoung asks, carefully resting Duke Lego on the table.

“No.” 

“Why not?! You said I could!”

Yunho observes his brothers with judgement. “Seriously, Hongjoong? You said he could go? To NASA? This guy? Because that’ll end well.”

“Shut up Yunho!” Wooyoung scowls. “I know more about this than you!”

Hongjoong waves his hand to silence the bickering. “My first day is tomorrow. It’ll just be meeting the pilots and going through some routine training. Nothing crazy.”

“So I could technically go.” Wooyoung reasons, “If it’s nothing crazy? I won’t touch anything I swear!”

“Still no.”

“Will Seonghwa be there? Can I show him my robots?”

“No!”

“Wait, what if I want to go too?” Yunho interjects. “Nobody asked me if I wanted to go!”

“Neither of you are going!” Hongjoong groans. “At least, not on my first day. I’m just telling you all this so you know where I’ll be. The Park Uncles will watch out for you while I’m gone.”

“We don’t need a babysitter.” Yunho rolls his eyes. “Well I don’t.”

“I don’t either!” Wooyoung echoes. 

“Sorry about your personal opinions on that but you’re both going to the Mill, they still need a lot of help with all the summer holiday orders. I’ll see you at around dinner time.”

Both younger brothers look like they want to keep protesting but when nothing else comes out, Hongjoong dismisses them to their rooms for the night so he can prepare himself for tomorrow. 

He’s already read the information pack front to back, several times, but NASA seems to have left out one important detail: what on earth they expected him to wear. It has him standing in front of his small closet for a good five minutes, deciding nothing but concluding it’s been at least year since he’s actually bought new clothes. 

Apart from the one black suit reserved for weddings and funerals, there’s a few plain t-shirts, cargo pants at various stages of life, assorted shirts he never wears, random items that Yunho had outgrown and his favourite dark brown leather jacket. He has two pairs of work boots, identical except for their colour. It wasn’t much of a selection. 

But then again, he hasn’t had to dress for any other occasions lately. As much as Jonghoon hassles him about it, dating in the time of global death is just not in the cards, not now and likely not ever. 

Ascending down the stairs the next day, he knows he’s worn the wrong thing because instead of the usual ‘good morning’ he’s just greeted with a burst of laughter. Maybe the white button down shirt was slightly too tight across the chest and maybe the black trousers had shrunken to the point where even walking was a little difficult.

“You look like an accountant Michelin man.” Yunho cackles. “You can���t seriously go out like that!”

Wooyoung’s wheezes don’t even pause to comment and Hongjoong wonders if he might choke on his breakfast at some point. 

Defeated, he trudges back upstairs and settles for his least grease stained black cargo pants, the least faded black t-shirt and his leather jacket. Maybe he’ll be under dressed but at least he’ll feel like himself and it’s what the boys are used to seeing him in.

“Is this better? It’s still professional right?” Hongjoong asks, pointing to the new outfit. “Do I look like I know my shit?”

“Well, kind of?” Yunho nods, answering truthfully as he chews his toast. “But do you actually know your shit?”

Hongjoong lets the swearing slide this one time. “Yeah, of course. Kind of.”

Wooyoung stops eating breakfast long enough to tell Hongjoong that he looks smart and professional enough for NASA. With his head of dishevelled black hair and an old crumpled t-shirt stolen from Yunho, the fourteen year old isn’t exactly a qualified fashion expert but the approval is appreciated nonetheless.

“Thanks, Kiddo.” Hongjoong smiles. “And that’s why you’re my favourite.”

“Hey!” Yunho protests before deciding that the marmalade loaded toast in his hand was more important. “Ugh, whatever.”

The wall clock reads 8 a.m and Hongjoong wants to get to the facility early, just in case. He leans down to bite the opposite end of Yunho’s toast and ruffle his hair before rushing out the door, only grimacing once at the obscene amount of marmalade he just swallowed.

“Uncle Moonie will come get you in an hour. Be good. I’ll see you at dinner.”

He’s waved off with a duet of low energy mumbles, as if he was just leaving for a trip to the local grocery store and not a highly classified job at NASA.

The truck is just about to set off when Hongjoong notices an envelope on the dashboard, ’LEGOjira’ is scrawled across the front in Wooyoung’s handwriting and inside there’s a small black and red robot figurine shaped like the famous prehistoric monster.

He sticks it on the dashboard.

Teenagers.

*

The facility is a large converted warehouse that used to manufacture car parts and machinery. NASA gutted it clean and trucked in the simulator and flight control room for the instructors. It all sits on a large plot of government acquired land that’s surrounded by gravel, concrete and layers of metal fencing. Trying to appear unobtrusive and nondescript always had the opposite effect but then again, maintaining a certain public facade wasn’t something many people cared about these days, even at corporations like NASA.

There are three security gates going in and Hongjoong holds onto his ID tag like his life depended on it. The security guards here still wear the same crisp regulation uniforms and Hongjoong definitely feels like he and his dusty truck are underdressed.

NASA told him he would be granted full security clearance here, a fact which does nothing to stop the nausea from churning around his stomach as he drives through. Maybe his mind has tried to move on but his body still remembers the trauma of training. NASA also never specified how much of his disobedience would show up on his records and he half expects something unfavourable to ping on a computer somewhere along the way.

“Name and ID please sir.”

“Kim Hongjoong. I’m here for the flight training.” 

He hands over his ID and watches nervously as the guard confirms his name on the electronic database, reads the screen excruciatingly slowly, eyes him for a few intense seconds, before handing back the ID badge and buzzing the gates open. 

“Carpark is to the left Mr Kim.”

There’s another ID check point on the other side of the carpark. Then another at the entrance to the building itself. Nothing pings and nobody has to know about the way his stomach unknots itself in relief.

Once the truck is parked and Hongjoong is walking towards the simulation centre, he sees a young boy, he guesses around Yunho’s age, running ahead of him in a hurry. The sight of the familiar blue training jumpsuits causes something to catch in Hongjoong’s chest and his footsteps falter on the pavement. Memories of his training years flash through his mind again, some good, some terrible, and while it’s not something he could call PTSD, it’s not exactly without complicated feelings either.

“Kim Fucking Hongjoong.” A familiar deep voice calls out from behind. 

He knows that voice.

He’d recognise that voice anywhere in the universe. 

“Choi Fucking Seungcheol.”

A grin takes over his face as he turns to take in the unexpected appearance of his old friend and mentor: still tall, still committed to black shirts that could never fully contain his broad and solid chest, still letting his dark hair grow longer than it should be, still an imposing presence despite the lopsided smile he’s wearing now. 

Still hugs like a bear. 

“What are you even doing here?!” Hongjoong shakes his head in disbelief. “Did they drag you out of retirement, old man? How did they even find you?"

“I’m only three years older than you, you little shit!” Seungcheol reprimands gently with a push. “They must be real desperate dragging two decommissioned liabilities back.”

“They didn’t tell me you’d be here.” Hongjoong says. “If I knew, I would’ve said yes a long time ago.”

“They didn’t tell me either.” The older man says as they walk to the simulation centre together. “Typical NASA. Those sneaky bastards.”

“How did they even find you? I heard you skipped town once your brothers graduated.”

Seungcheol nods again. “I did. We moved a few towns over, made a life running the textile plant there. Too many bad memories here, you know? But they found me in the end. Guess you can never really outrun your past, huh?”

Hongjoong hums in understanding. 

"I’m sorry about your family. I’m sorry we didn’t keep in touch, it’s just been -“

Seungcheol claps him on the shoulder and chuckles. “Don’t apologise. Things have been a nightmare for everyone. I didn’t want to be found, you could’ve tried your best and I wouldn’t have been ready to come back. I told the first three suits they sent to fuck off but gotta hand to that last snotty one for his persistence. How’d they get you?”

“Got caught at their headquarters accidentally.”

“Breaking and entering? Again? Of course you did.” Seungcheol shakes his head laughing. “Some things never change.”

Hongjoong shrugs, smiling. “So have you been okay though?After …everything?”

“Can’t complain. The knee is fucked up now so I doubt they’ll actually let me fly again but the brain is still in working order so I guess they want me to use it to train these new kids. What about you? I’m sorry to hear about your family too.”

“Well, it’s been a lot since I left training but me and boys have been okay. I can’t complain much either.” 

They finally reach the entrance to the simulation centre, Seungcheol pauses to swipe his badge and gives Hongjoong another lopsided grin. 

“Ready to meet the next bunch of psychopaths?”

“Well, they can’t be any worse than us.”

*

There are eight basic trainees in total. Five males and three females. All far too young. All wearing grim serious expressions on their faces as they are introduced to their new instructors by Yeosang, who was no doubt sent by the Directors to watch over the proceedings, in case it was another PR disaster. Hongjoong doesn’t mind, he’s just relieved to see another familiar face. 

“As you know, Dr Lee and Commander Song have been urgently required on another mission. I would like you to welcome your new flight instructors, Commander Choi Seungcheol and Pilot Kim Hongjoong. They have updated your flight manual and I expect you to treat them with the same level of respect here.”

Hongjoong doesn’t miss the way there’s a ripple of surprised murmurs when their names are called out. He knows it’s not all positive, rumours travel far and their reputations tend to crash into rooms before they do.

Yeosang watches the group closely but doesn’t pause, instead he launches straight into orientation of the venue and vital safety procedures before allowing the trainees a small break to inspect the rest of the facilities. Hongjoong tries to remember if he ever looked that young, optimistic and impressionable.

He wonders when he suddenly felt so old. 

Yeosang ushers them into the simulation control room, a smaller replica of NASA’s actual flight control deck, where they would be spending most of their time running the simulations.

“Thank you both for honouring your commitment to the mission. I apologise for not informing you of your fellow instructor’s identity but well, we weren’t sure if you’d have agreed to it otherwise.”

“Bit of a risky gamble isn’t it Kang?” Seungcheol says, “Thought NASA was all about mitigating risks.”

“Last time we tried to contact you, you told us to go to hell, repeatedly. It was always going to be a risk."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “Ok listen, you dragged me out of retirement for this so cut to the chase and give us the run down on this squad. What do we need to know about these kids?”

Yeosang purses his lip at the demanding tone but nevertheless, keeps his cool long enough to provide them with a folder containing the profiles of each trainee.

Hongjoong flips through each one before something catches his eye. It’s the profile of the boy he saw running past him this morning. 

“Woah, woah, wait a second.”

“What is it?”

“It says here that this kid is sixteen.” Hongjoong says, pointing to the profile page of the male trainee. 

Seungcheol flips to the same page and starts chuckling to himself. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“He’s way too young, Yeosang.” Hongjoong says, shaking his head. “You can’t put a sixteen year old into orbit! I get that these are desperate times and we’re the last two people to talk about regulations and ethics but this is a step too far.”

Yeosang folds his hands neatly in his lap and takes a breath, like he’s been prepared for this question all his life.

“He is sixteen and it is his legal right to apply for training. He will not be the first selected for active duty and he will not be approved to fly until he is at least eighteen.” Yeosang says in what Hongjoong now knows is his “NASA PR” voice. 

“May I remind you that while we need pilots in the immediate present, we also need to plan ahead for future missions. Training the reserves starts now."

“He’s younger than Yunho!” Hongjoong says in exasperation as he scans the rest of the profile. “Where did you find this one anyway?”

“He’s an orphan.” Yeosang says plainly, causing them both to look up. “His parents died in a farming accident a few years ago. He’s alive because he was at school that day. There were no surviving relatives so he was cared for by a generous family then enrolled in the NASA Children’s Space Program once his academic and physical abilities were made known.”

Since the global crop pandemic everyone had a sad backstory to tell, but even Hongjoong regrets asking this one. 

“He grew up at NASA.” Yeosang continues. “He’s as familiar with our facilities and operation protocols as you two are. It wasn’t a random choice born out of desperation, he demonstrated potential and earned his way into this program. Don’t forget that you were both also teenagers when you joined.”

“That was eight years ago.” Hongjoong counters. “You know it was a different time then. We had strict training regimens that were monitored by multiple departments, it wasn’t just two de-commissioned pilots in a warehouse.”

“I assure you that we have tried our best to replicate the rigorous training program that you were subject to. The trainees have all passed the physical boot camp without complication. Due to their age, the younger ones haven’t completed the theory component yet but Seonghwa, Doctor Park, has been tutoring them and we expect they will do well on their final assessments.”

“It’s not good enough to do well.” Seungcheol says with a frown. ‘Doing well’ barely gets you into the air. Doing the best is what gets you back home in one piece. Is your selection criteria still a total nightmare? Are they still getting regular psychiatric assessments?”

“Yes.” Yeosang confirms. 

“Good. They’ll need it.”

“The report from Dr Lee and Commander Song says they have all passed basic training and familiarisation with the simulators.” Hongjoong reads out. “But nobody got a perfect score or anything close to it.”

“That’s why you’re both here.” Yeosang reminds them. “We need to separate the best from the good. Half of this group won’t make it. We all know that and so do they.”

“You think your sixteen year old will?”

Yeosang smiles again, an unsettling combination of threatening and serene. “Depends if his instructors are any good.”

*

The first training session was mostly spent on familiarisation with the simulator in its new home and ironing out any electrical issues. Between short civil exchanges and longer technical lectures, there wasn’t much time to hear any whispers about either instructor’s dismissals but Hongjoong can sense the unease. They don’t trust Seungcheol. They don’t trust him. 

NASA never revealed how much of their dismissal was made public. The disciplinary hearings had been private and a team of lawyers made sure the case never made the news but there were still plenty of rumours. Hongjoong knows the trainees want to ask but it’s not the type of information he wants to provide to people he doesn’t yet trust either. 

Between the two of them, Seungcheol is the more experienced: a flight prodigy at the age of seventeen, military pilot at eighteen and in possession of an IQ that made his academic career look easy. He had led several successful missions and logged in twice the amount of flight hours as his nearest counterpart at the time. With such a rare gift and understanding of aerodynamics, Seungcheol was consider on track to become one of NASA’s most decorated commanders.

Hongjoong had met Seungcheol in the first month of his aerospace training, he was fresh out of military service but still lacked any real discipline. NASA had accepted him based on his test scores and aptitude for flying, hoping that the brutal training program would smooth out his wild edges and if that failed, then giving him the toughest mentor in the program would hopefully do the rest. 

It was a gamble that paid off.  

Seungcheol was known for being academically and physically intimidating. Around the same time, Hongjoong was developing his own reputation as the uncontrollable rebel in the program. They had few actual friends and maybe it was due to this that they hit it off; with Hongjoong being one of the few trainees who refused to be intimidated by someone else’s brilliance and Seungcheol endlessly amused by the younger trainee’s stubbornness. 

“An immovable object meets an unstoppable force.” Professor Park had once said, joking that they were the only two who could deal with each other without causing injury to public property.

Seungcheol had set him straight as best he could. Not with gentle coddling words or shouting loud threats but leading by example and teaching Hongjoong what it truly meant to work hard, bear responsibility, accept consequences and ultimately, become a man of service. 

But he couldn’t teach him everything in the time they had. 

There’s no cure for a rebellion in the blood.

When Hongjoong was dismissed for disobeying direct orders during a mission, Seungcheol had stood up at the disciplinary hearing to call the Directors out on their hypocritical bullshit. It had been a career death for the both of them: Hongjoong was denied any qualifications and Seungcheol’s once promising career abruptly came to an end. 

They were both forced to move on, and they have for the most part, any bitterness that still lingered didn’t have much of a target anymore. The Board of Directors from that time were now either dead or retired. There really wasn’t anyone left to complain to.  

“How do you want to run the simulations?” Seungcheol asks him now.

“You lead.” Hongjoong replies. “You have more experience.”

“You just want me to be the Bad Cop.”

“Well, if the shoe fits….”

“Okay, you punk.” Seungcheol snorts. “In that case, I want to start with scenario three. I don’t want to do the exercises in order, what’s the point of simulation training if they know what to expect.”

Hongjoong smiles, “Just admit that you want to see them sweat.”

Seungcheol feigns offence, placing a hand on his chest like he’s wounded. “I am here to teach. If someone cries along the way, then we’ll have a whole day to discuss the hazards of tears in space.”

It doesn’t exactly go down well. 

“Commander Choi?” 

“Yes?”

“We haven’t completed scenario two yet.”

“I know.” Seungcheol says, “We will be completing the scenarios out of order. If you have memorised the new manual then none of this should be a surprise.”

“But-”

The trainee is quickly silenced when Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow in their direction. 

“Any other relevant questions? No? Good. You’ll be flying solo, oldest to youngest, let’s get to it.”

Scenario three involved problem solving through a failed launch procedure. Each trainee was expected to demonstrate proficiency in running the launch sequence check and identifying the critically abnormal fuel temperature in the quickest time possible, anything beyond five minutes would be considered catastrophic in real life and an immediate fail in simulation.  

“Kang Seulgi. 4:15. Your launch routine lacks focus and precision, stop wasting your time.”

“Kim Mingyu. 4:00. You are too slow to report, it would’ve cut your time by more than 10 seconds. I expect faster communication next time.”

“Kang Taehyun. 3:50. You almost missed two other launch check points. Stick to your routine. Bad habits raise bad pilots.”

One by one, they watch the pilots navigate through the simulations with varying degrees of success. They’ve been decent enough, all able to pass, but there’s no standout. 

Seungcheol sighs and sits back in his chair, his once crisp shirt now creased and rolled up to his elbows. “This isn’t good enough. They’re not good enough. Maybe they won’t die at launch but this type of crew won’t survive a single orbit if they stay like this.”

Hongjoong hums in thought, making the notes for their evaluation report. Part of him agrees with Seungcheol’s frank assessment: the young trainees were inconsistent, either making mistakes in haste or slowing down in panic. The other part of him knows this is basic training, there was still advance training and final flight training to go. 

But bad habits do raise bad pilots and now wasn’t the time for any leniency. 

Still, they couldn’t both be the Bad Cop. 

“At least we know what we’re working with now. It’s something to build on.”

“We haven’t had a total disaster yet, so I’ll give them that, but we were both minutes faster than this. You did this in under three minutes.”

“Well, you did it in under two.” Hongjoong says, flipping to the final candidate. “Ready to see the last kid?”

Seungcheol nods. “This should be interesting.”

They restart the simulation and watch as a dark head of hair and some thin broad shoulders make their way into the booth. 

With the lights dim, sound playing and motion detector track running, the simulation was hyper realistic and easily overwhelming for new trainees. Every warning light was accurate, every sound and alarm identical to the real thing and if you crashed, the impact was very much felt. 

“This is flight control, proceed with your launch check.”

The kid is quick to process, very quick, and follows a launch check routine that feels eerily familiar. He reports the abnormal fuel temperature within two minutes but then stalls to call mission abort. It pings something in Hongjoong’s head that both thrills and concerns him. 

“This is flight control, you have a panel of warning lights and alarms. What’s your status report?”

“The fuel temperature is not in target range. I ran diagnostics and all the other equipment appears to be functioning correctly.”

“What is your next step pilot?”

“I…..I need to correct the fuel temperature.”

Seungcheol looks over to Hongjoong with a curious expression but lets the simulation continue.

They watch as the teenager tries, without success, to turn off all the warning alarms. He is methodical but frustrated and quick to lose his cool, a trait that only years of training and experience can overcome.

“This is flight control, there are critical error warnings on our end, what is your status report.”

“No, I can do this!” The trainee shouts, sounding every bit the sixteen year old they read about. “Sorry, Flight control, I… I ran diagnostics on the fuel temperature again but I can’t get any updated readings on it, I don’t know if it’s working or not, the telemetry is unreliable…”

As the clock counts down, Hongjoong is muttering for the teenager to just give them the right answer. 

He barely makes it. 

“Flight control, launch is futile. Request to abort mission!” 

“This is flight control, mission abort confirmed.”

Seungcheol takes his headset off and sits back with a strained sigh. “What a damn maniac. Remind you of someone?”

“He does.” Hongjoong nods, concerned but fascinated why their youngest trainee would even try something usually reserved for advanced flight training. “He was trying to save the launch with a manoeuvre they don’t teach until advanced training.”

“You know that’s almost a fail.”

“He was fastest in finding the abnormality and the only one to question telemetry accuracy.” Hongjoong counters as he watches the teenager climb out of the simulator. 

They had expected some slumped shoulders or physical evidence of defeat but what emerges is a body that stands tall, defiant, and coiled with anger. There’s a scowl on his face, like he already knows how badly he messed up. Whatever critique he gets from Seungcheol is unlikely to be as brutal as his inner monologue right now.

“That’s a future liability, right there.” Seungcheol says, shaking his head. “Ballsy though.”

“Well he is sixteen.”

“With an IQ of 140 and about 8 different bad habits. That’s like giving a missile a brain and mental health problems.” 

“Geez, Seungcheol, he’s still just a kid. Put him out of his misery, I think he’s about to break something in there.”

“Choi San. 4:50.”

[palestaticexchange]

LA VACHOLIER ET LE CHAT

You don't like putting the trash out. The four flights of stairs you have to carry the bin bag down is your first gripe, not to mention the stink of the bins themselves. Besides, the slim alley keeping your bins safely away from the road is on the dark side of the building. It reminds you of *more than one* crime scene.

So as you reach the steel bin - in your sandals, naively calmed by your evening shower - you can't *really* be blamed for shouting as something grey shoots from the bin causing you to drop the bag.

The bin bag splits on the tarmac. Your hand shoots to the side of your jumper. The skin beneath your armpit is gripped painfully as you clutch for where your gun *should* rest. But you've been home for over an hour and your armistice hangs on the rack by the door.

You notice then the quick, grey mass is an errant and irritated tom cat. Its tail flicks upwards in indignation as if considering whether or not to spray the bin he was trapped within.

You drop your hand, ignoring the white-hot shame creeping up your spine.

After a deep, calming breath you bend and lift the bag with both hands. The split in the plastic runs along the bottom and you lose only a few scraps of paper as you huck it into the awaiting bin with a sigh.

The cat strolls a few feet away and watches you over its battered shoulder, now bored. You consider its predicament. One of the dockworkers, or a bored child, must have dumped it in the bin as a cruel joke. You hope it was a joke at least. The thought of being slowly crushed in the back of an Revacivic truck makes you shudder.

You wouldn't call yourself an *animal lover* by any means, but the creature is small; and has obviously seen its fair share of woes.

Half an ear missing, one cloudy eye, scratches line its flank and the thing's primordial pouch is mostly bald. There's also a droop to its mouth that speaks to missing teeth.

As you place the steel lid back on the can, the cat sits on the wet tarmac and grooms one paw. "I'm cooler than you are," this gesture says. "O' Vacholier, scared of his own shadow."

You don't see the cat again for a week and a half. You forget about it, you're a busy man after all.

It's only as you approach your tenement building, soaked to the skin and shivering from the day's endless downpour, that you're reacquainted. You hear it before you see it; a guttural yowling of misery, ringing out every two seconds on the dot. The creature actually resembles the toupee of a suspect from earlier in the day.

You didn't need Harry to nudge you and whisper 'That man's hair is fake, Kim!' The sodden grey strands had parted to reveal the faint yellow of hypoallergenic adhesive.

Similarly, this *sad* little beast crouches under the tiny awning over the front of your building, it's jowls pulled down by the weight of wet fur. As it hears the jingling of your keys its head snaps to you, orange eyes wide as it directs the next yowl in your direction. "Miserere mei, Deus!" It seems to say.

But you didn't waver under the suspect's earlier begging, and you will not be broken by some pitiful animal either.

It's a rare day off and you are *content*. You're curled in the preferred corner of your sofa, a fresh mug of tea steaming away on its arm. In your left hand you hold the little pamphlet of poetry that Harry had given you.

The poetry is *actually* okay. You'd turned your nose up at the gesture, and Harry had raised his hands; already predicting your baulking. He'd insisted.

He explained he'd bought it from a homeless man who'd cut clippings from abandoned newspapers and included writings of his own. Harry had loved it *so* much that he'd circled particular stanzas for Kim's enjoyment and told him to read those. You figured you could at least entertain the highlighted sections.

You don't posses an artistic mind, but practising volta means you have a softer spot for poetry. Besides, the sections Harry had highlighted were all to do with Revachol, community, and companionship. It was a sweet gesture.

You pull back your thumb and tilt the book to the left, letting the page flutter sideways then pinning it in place by replacing your thumb. Your right hand scratches the cat under his chin.

Yes, *that* was a development.

About a week ago you'd been making dinner. The only shop open in your neck of the woods by the time you'd finished work was the corner store; and it had flooded. Shut. That meant dinner had been *cans found in the back of my cupboard that happen to still be in date* special.

One of the tins was mackerel that you didn't even *remember* buying. None-the-less it *was* in date and Dei knows you could do with the Omega-3.

As you spooned the *rankest* looking stew you'd ever seen into a bowl, you heard yowling from outside. The cat. That wasn't unusual.

He'd started hanging around your tenement almost exclusively. Even following you to your Kineema in the morning - tail raised to the skies - and greeting you upon your return.

What *was* unusual however was that he sounded *close*. Because you live on the 4th floor. You had blinked, and upon considering that you weren't particularly *excited* to eat your watery creation, walked to your balcony. As you pulled back the curtain, two orange eyes peered up at you from the dark.

Later in the week you'd actually manage to catch the cat scaling the fire escape and leaping between balconies to reach *another* room within your tenement; by virtue of an open window. A moment later you heard a woman shriek and watched the cat scarper back out, followed swiftly by a hairbrush.

But on that evening you'd been baffled, and in a moment of weakness opened the door to offer the spent can from your mackerel. Something about the way the beast had purred like an old MC as it licked the tin around your balcony had caused something in you to snap.

You'd let him in the moment you heard the first drops of rain.

You sit at your sewing desk fixing the long tear in the back of your bomber jacket. You've been working long enough that you've released the tension from your jaw.

The Detective had *insisted* you *had* to climb the barbed wire fence. You watched him swear, pricking himself over and over, allowing a smug little smile- *once* he'd made it safely to the other side, that is. A smile that had been promptly wiped from your face upon hearing the snag, tear, *rip* of your jacket catching at the end of your deft vault.

He had grovelled and apologised profusely. *You* had been pissy the rest of the day.

However, you were beginning to calm down. You'd already decided you'd pick up croissants on the way in tomorrow as an apology for your sour mood.

There's a whine from behind you and you turn to see the cat stretch out its back legs on the sofa. Good idea, you think; uncurling from over your desk and raising your wrists above your head.

At that moment there's a pounding on your front door. You roll your eyes. It's just gone 10pm. Whichever drunk dockworker has forgotten which room is *his* can help himself, or sleep in the hallway. It wouldn't be the first time you'd had to step over a burly man on your way to work.

Then you hear your landlord's muffled voice. "Lieutenant? It's the 28th." Last Sunday of the month.

"Shit," you whisper harshly, shooting from your chair. "Merde. God *damnit*." You lean over your desk and throw open the door to your balcony. Then you scoop the cat from your sofa and practically *bowl* the creature, confused and sleepy, through the door; sliding it swiftly shut.

"Lieutenant? Are you in?"

"One moment please." You call back, grabbing the envelope holding your rent off the breakfast bar and opening the door to your flat.

The man's at least a foot shorter than you but holds himself like he's a giant. He enters your flat without invitation and squints as he peers around. "Evenin', Lieutenant."

"Trevor," you reply, offering the envelope. You're hoping he'll take the hint promptly this time. You used to try boxing him *out* of your flat, but the old man's insistent, and you've long since grown tired of wasting your breath.

The landlord swipes the envelope with a grunt, opening it with practised ease and thumbing through the bills. "The damn smell's back."

Great. This wouldn't be a prompt visit then.

He sniffs thickly, seemingly satisfied with his counting, and looks up at you. "When ya gonna shift those kids, Officer? Can't have 'em smoking weed in the stairwells."

You place a hand on your open door, lightly brushing Trevor's shoulder as your arm passes him and effectively guiding him towards the exit. This is your second hint that you'd like him to leave now. You have explained multiple times that you are a *homicide detective* and that kids smoking hemp is decidedly *not your problem* but your landlord doesn't seem to care.

"It's a damn shame too!" The man continues, "Could charge more for the upstairs rooms if the place didn't stink!"

You think about pointing out how the building gets wetter the higher you rise within it, but you've got a pretty good *thing* going on. You *barely* insinuate that you might, one day, do something about his issue of the month; and he doesn't raise your rent. On days like today you're not sure it's worth it.

"You any closer to figuring out who it is?" He cocks his head at you.

"When are you fixing the central heating?" You cock your head in the opposite direction.

He sniffs again. You raise an eyebrow.

Then the man fills his lungs and tucks your money away in his pocket. "I understand, Lieutenant. You're a busy man after all." He clears his throat and steps back into the hallway. "Thanks for rent."

"See you next month." You shut the door.

The cat blinks at you in bleary betrayal as you draw the curtain back and let him in again. You sigh as you collapse on the sofa and he jumps up next to you, already beginning to rumble.

You think about *les papiers scientifique* that claim proximity to cats improves longevity. Something or other about blood pressure and heartrate being effected by their purring. As he curls in a ball on his side and nestles against your thigh, placing his paws over his eyes, it doesn't seem too far-fetched.

You think, not for the first time, of naming the beast. You've been calling him 'Chat' or 'Moche Chat' when you're feeling particularly playful, but these aren't real names.

You don't name him - not because you'd rather not get attached, it's a little late for that - but because there's only one name you *want* to call him. One, mortifying, *embarrassing* name that makes your face flush with heat even when you're alone in your home.

You'd noticed it the first time he lay like this, curled up on his side. The missing teeth meant a couple of things;

One: he drooled. The first day you'd let him stay in your flat while you were at work you could tell exactly where he'd slept by finding the tiny circles of wet on your bed and sofa.

Two: when he lay on his side, like he was doing at present, the fur around his face drooped into his mouth. It was akin to an uneven jaw, skewed further by the long, drooping whiskers that framed his jowls. It almost looked like a rather distinctive style of facial hair.

"Khm." You clear your throat and look out your balcony at the lights of the GRIH.

"Will you come for a few drinks, Lieutenant?"

You finish the sentence you're on, then look up from your report at Officer Minot. She's already wearing her bag over one shoulder, smiling tiredly at you. You notice Chester hanging around by the door to the bullpen. They try this every week or so.

"No thank you, Officer." You say, offering a polite nod. "I should really like to get this done this evening."

"Aww c'mon, Lieu!" Chester calls. "All work and no play makes... Uh... Howsit go again?"

Every other Thursday Harry leaves the precinct early for his psychological physio. It's not the sort of thing he'd have been able to afford outright, but Mr. Heidelstam had mentioned his unusual brand of retrograde amnesia to a colleague studying for a PhD. Apparently the detective made for an interesting subject of research.

It had lightly worried you when Harry told you this, wondering if his condition was being exploited, but he'd been going for a month and it didn't seem to bother him. In fact he actually *enjoyed* his sessions. They seemed to have him playing various word and memory games while wearing an EEG cap. The following Friday you took lunch together and he'd tell you about the games in great detail. On the Thursday evenings however, your new colleagues would try to entice you to the bar.

"And I can't change your mind?" Judit asks, sadly.

"Course you can't!" Chester answers for you. "Guy's a stick! Probably goes home to eat plain oatmeal and do the crossword!" He barks a laugh.

You purse your lips lightly. You don't mind being called boring - you are boring - but something about an Officer as incompetent as McClaine *almost* guessing your evening plans rubs you the wrong way. You were quite looking forward to your crossword. And bran *with* sugar. 

Judit winces sympathetically and you sigh. "I suppose," you begin, rising from your desk. "Just this once I'll entertain you. If only so you'll stop asking."

Officer Minot's mouth forms a little 'O' of surprise, and McClaine's face splits into a wide grin at having *convinced* the steeled Lieutenant Kitsuragi to bend to his will. Sure: you'll go out. You'll be *boring* and constantly *bring up work* and they will *never* ask you to join them again. That tends to do wonders.

You wake on the sofa in the dark. The dark is not a problem for you. The dark is safe. The dark *is* unusual for this time of evening however. You are hungry. Where is Your Vacholier?

You stretch languidly, cracked claws piercing the leather of the sofa before you hop down. You pad into the thin room separated from the main space by only a breakfast bar. This is where the *smells* come from. 

Some days ago Your Vacholier had returned from his pesky outings with a look of minor guilt.

Up until this point you'd ate like a king. Scraps of ham, fish, bits of cheese, small saucers of milk, and the scrambled egg that he once could not finish. Now you got biscuits. Not as tasty, but more regular with bigger portions.

When you had finished your meagre meal, you returned to him and let him scratch you under the chin while he scanned a long piece of paper. He made mutterings about 'reál' and 'stupidity' and you realised his guilt was not directed at *you*, as it should be.

You could smell the worry on him however, so you supposed you'd let it slide.

The longer claws on your back paws click against the linoleum as you approach the cupboard containing your biscuits. You can smell them through the door. Yet no matter how you paw at the cupboard, or manipulate your head underneath it, it does not open. 

Well. Only one thing for it then. You turn and with a flick of your tail piss up the front of the cabinet. 

Your Vacholier had started pinning the tiny window in the kitchen open, despite the cold. This allowed you to come and go as you pleased. However, his decision to abandon his usual schedule - and therefore you - was a serious transgression and could not go unpunished. 

It's at this moment that you hear the key in the lock. You raise your tail and pad back into the main area. He should *really* have made it in by the time you reach the sofa, but he seems to be struggling. You sit on the rug in front of the sofa.

A moment later Your Vacholier lurches into the room blanketed in interesting new smells. He holds a box in one hand that makes your mouth water. The loud, orange, uncomfortable fur he choses to wear crushed under his opposite arm. He throws it at the rack he hangs his things from and misses.

He slaps at the wall and winces as the dark leaves. Then he spots you. "Oh, hello." 

You barely open your mouth as you yowl in return. You have nought the energy to do so. Can't he see you're starving?! Practically wasting away?!

Your Vacholier coughs making for the thin room. Finally! You dart between his legs, tail raised, and he stumbles in his effort not to tread on you. "Oop!" He usually possesses more grace than this. He smiles down at you, "Easy~" He sounds different too. Whatever. As long as you get your biscuits.

He drops the box onto the breakfast bar and you're hit with a wave of that wonderful smell once more. *That* requires investigation. As Your Vacholier bends down to open the cabinet you jump onto his back then onto the counter.

"Hey!"

The box is easily chewable paper and likely holds prizes most enticing. You stick your face in the tiny gap on the side but before you can do much damage a firm paw catches you under the belly and sweeps you *off* the bar, dropping you on the floor. You mewl. You're starving. You need that!

"Thas mine- not yours, *Chat Moche*." He slurs down at you. He's holding the box of biscuits.

You jump back on the counter. It's a little harder on your old joints without Your Vacholier as a middle step, but you make it and- *god damn* he's pushing you off the counter again.

"Enough! Not for cats!" He picks up the box with his free hand, then pours biscuits into your bowl with the other.

Well. You *suppose* they would do. You take greedy mouthfuls and hear Your Vacholier hiccup behind you. Then he's gone. You hear him pick up his ugly fur and hang it on the rack. Then there's clicking as he unbuckles his horrid device, some acrid smelling thing that reeks of fear, and hangs that up too. Boots next. He does this every day, in this order. You hear the one hit the floor, then swearing as he stumbles removing the second. Then he's *laughing*.

You finish your bowl and wander back into the main area. He's sat on the sofa, smiling to himself. "I did *shots* today!" He declares as he opens the paper box. Once again, that wonderful smell washes over you as he pulls something from it. Fried chicken!

You're on the sofa in an instant, climbing first onto his lap, then when he pushes you away with his elbow you change tactics and take to the back of the sofa. He must have eaten most of it on the way home as only a few scraps of chicken remain. More than you'd usually find by the bins however.

"Said I'd win!" He smiles at you before engulfing a strip of chicken. He's not usually this chatty. "S'wot you geh! Neffa fuh wih Kim Kits-" He hiccups again and the smile leaves his face. He swallows. "Ah... This may h- have been theh plan, actually..." You wish he'd talk about something interesting. Like the chicken for example.

You walk onto his shoulder and peer down at the box. He quickly passes it into the other hand and holds it out at arm's length away from you. How rude! You turn your head and meow, loudly, right into his ear.

"Ack!" He swipes backwards at you. "Gerroff!" He grumbles shaking you back onto the sofa.

Fine then! If he wants to withhold his fried meats then you will resume your position of a poor, lowly street cat. The world's favourite punching bag. A martyr for cat kind and enemy of everyone. You heave a heavy sigh and settle into the cushion next to Your Vacholier. You hear him place the box on the arm of the sofa and then more munching.

Then he's scratching the top of your head and you decide you'll let this *second* transgression go. You're benevolent like that. You begin to purr letting your eyes drift shut. You spend a few blissful moments like that, then suddenly that wonderful smell is back and stronger than ever. Your eyes ping open. He's chewed the skin from a piece of chicken and is holding it in front of your nose. You wolf it down in seconds, careful to avoid his leathery paws, and purring tenfold.

When all the chicken's gone he actually picks you up. He usually leaves you to your own devices, but this evening he holds you to his chest and runs long strokes along your back. This is not your preferred way to be pet, but you chose Your Vacholier for two reasons;

One: he had most graciously freed you from your prison some time ago. A benevolence that *had* to be repaid with your presence.

Two: he smells lonely.

The second reason reminds you of your First Vacholier. The old woman who fished you from that wet box, surrounded by your deceased littermates, and fed you milk by bottle until you were well again. You had loved her with all nine lives, then one day that screaming flashing box of metal had taken her away and you never saw her again.

You're pulled from the past as he kisses your crusty head and rises from the sofa. As he stands, he better scratches that favoured area just under your jaw and you drool on his shirt as thanks. The spot always itches. Even now a mass of cells slowly forms there that *nobody* in the building will be able to afford to treat.

But tonight you purr in the arms of Your Vacholier as he sways towards his bedroom. He has gifted you food, and warmth, and a place to sleep without fear of dogs or other cats or men. He has gifted you love.

He drops you at the foot of the bed and braces a hand against his bedside table. Then he grips the end of one sock and whips it off, almost stumbling as he does so. "Aww, fuckit." He mumbles, removing the glass from his face and dropping it on the table with a clatter.

He clambers onto the mattress then falls face first into the pillow. He's purring within the minute, legs still half hanging off the bed. This is ideal as far as you're concerned. You jump onto the back of his thigh and walk up his body, settling into the small of his back.

Tomorrow he will clutch his head and mumble words like 'Bastards' and 'idiot' as he cleans up cat piss and retches. But tonight he shares his bed with you, and the three of you purr; you, him, and La Revacholiere.

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

My plan for Saturday is to update my masterlists. They're missing around 30 fics from what I have stored, and then maybe finish a request~ ❤️‍🔥

[theavatar-asami]

IF YOU'RE A PART OF ANY FANDOM, YOU SHOULD SEE THIS

The 2023 AO3 stats just came out, and it doesn't look great diversity-wise. User centreoftheselights/@centrumlumina has conducted yearly reports on the top 100 ships, the characters in them, and amount of racial and gender diversity overall. She also included one for the top 100 femslash ships, and conducts a census on ao3 users themselves. Below is a direct quote from the overall August 2022-August 2023 study:

"There are 58 M/M relationships on the list, 11 F/M, 8 F/F, 18 Gen and 5 Other... Of the 204 names on the list, 30 are women, 2 are non-binary, and 3 are characters of ambiguous gender, compared with 25, 1 and 6 in the 2022 list. In total there are 102 white characters, 67 Asian characters, 6 Latino characters, 6 Middle Eastern or North African characters, 4 Black characters, and 2 Indigenous characters, as well as 10 racially ambiguous characters and 8 non-human characters. There are 84 total Characters of Colour, which is 13 more than the number listed in 2022."

I'm pretty bad at analyzing but I also know this means we need to do better. Only 8 F/F relationships? POC ships in the minority?? There are more non-human characters than the total number of black and indigenous characters COMBINED. We need to uplift media and fandoms that cater less to a white, privileged audience and support small projects that maybe don't star A-list celebrities. Also, support the strikes- there would be no content without our working class writers, actors, and artists. Fandoms aren't for everyone if they're not about everyone.

[mythgirltaryn]

Free to use Crack Fnaf sb Fanfic ideas

These are a few fanfictions ideas I have rolling around my head for a while. But that I struggle to write. So I am just throwing this into the ether.

Vanny got caught running around in her fursuit before she could infect anybody with the virus, and the Glamrocks mistakes her for a new animatronic and give new member orientation.

GlamMike but with Glamrock Chica, because I hardly see that.

The Fnaf1 animatronics live at the pizzaplex with the Glamrocks and are basically their grandparents.

An alternative and/or add on to this, is that the toy animatronics are their parents. (Cause the toys need more love.)

The Glamrocks discovered the mimic in their basement early on and are freaking out about it.

The Glamrocks knew each other back when they were just endos in the basement.

GlamMike but as in a ship,Micheal afton x Glamrock Freddy, Go ham.

Canon Compliant multiverse story: The Pizzaplex books do confirm that there are multiple pizzaplexes around the country, so what if our pizzaplex gang meet another. There a slight differences between them like maybe, their Glamrock Chica has a skirt with their leotard, and big difference like maybe, the another gang are from New York, so they talk in a New York accents. Another idea that the another gang are more like their canon characterization because they never got hacked.

[m1dori-fangirling]

Incredibly confused by the people upset that "male/male ships are taking over the Dungeon Meshi fandom, the fandom belongs to lesbian ships!!!" Like yeah wlw is supported A LOT more by the source material (Ryoko Kui is definitely writing what she wants to see lol), but also the increase in mlm content after the anime dropped doesn't mean that there's now LESS sapphic content. I've seen multiple posts specifically complaining that there are now more mlm tagged stories on Ao3 than wlw and I'm just...huh??? The sapphic stories are still there! They're RIGHT THERE. You can literally filter out the content you don't want to see, and it's not like there's a limited supply of homoerotic stories that can be written. Gay men aren't "taking over lesbian spaces", the lesbian space is literally just hanging out within earshot of the gay men space. What happened to queer solidarity, let people have their Senshi panty shots and their Laios x Kabru or Laios x Chilchuck, your Farcille and hot oni woman will still be there.

[reshramlove1ob]

Chat I'm not too sure about this next chapter of My Sunshine. Not because it's bad or anything, in fact I like it, but I think I'll have to change the rating from Teen to Mature becuase of it

[cr0ftisprocrastinating]

You know what we need*:

Bridget Jones Diary-style fic where Hermione has to navigate her first adult job, her early twenties, and living in Grimmauld Place with Harry and Ginny as they try to learn how to be Real People.

*I want. Therefore, I write.

[hell-river]

Tonight, I’m emotional about Charles Smith. Tomorrow? Who knows