#and solid picks him up. when he wakes up he doesn’t remember much if anything. but the person sitting by the guqin at the side of the room

[galamalion]

┈ ✧.* 𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒

╰┈➤ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ summary﹕you experience a shameful hangover after you night out at the baratie, then go get breakfast with your new friends. how could anything bad happen at breakfast?

╰┈➤ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing﹕one piece x fem!reader

┈ ✧.* chapters﹕[i] [ii] [iii] [iv]

╰┈➤ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ w/c﹕3.1k

┈ ✧.* chapter ii﹕drunken memories

Your first night at the university was a rough one.

Upon waking up in your bed—and thankfully not the street—you immediately felt sick. You threw your blankets off and looked around the room, standing up to see Vivi and Nami still lying in bed, the latter looking rather worse for wear, tossing and turning with her blankets.

You threw open the door to the bathroom and sprinted inside, leaping across to hunch over the toilet to puke your guts up. Your stomach was never the strongest, and unfortunately neither was your alcohol tolerance. Speaking of, how much did you drink? You only got a small glass of wine to fit in with the Italian vibe, and you hadn’t even drank half of it! But—oh, that’s right, Nami was there. 

A memory—or rather, memories— came flooding back in an instant, all of Nami ordering small little fruity drinks. She insisted you tried all of them, ‘just a sip!’ she said. Well, all those little sips clearly did a number on you.

“Damn you, Nami…” you grumbled, stumbling back to bed.

After exiting the bathroom, you picked up your phone from your desk, noticing it had been charging. Did someone do that for you as well? It would have struck you as kind if you hadn’t been hungover. All you could think about was your pounding headache and upset stomach.

Before inputting your password, you noticed you had a text from one ‘Mr. Prince,’ a name and number you hadn’t recognized. 

| Mr. Prince: Hello Sleeping Beauty!! &lt;;333 | Mr. Prince: I hope you slept alright, you got were pretty smashed after Baratie  | Mr. Prince: but not in a bad way!! in a super cute tipsy kind of way!!!! | Mr. Prince: Also it’s Sanji!! I put my number in your phone so you wouldn’t be confused or anything!! | Mr. Prince: Luffy saw and also put his, and then Usopp wanted to put his, and then Zoro decided to put his…… | Mr. Prince: Anyways, just text me when you wake up Sleeping Beauty, just want to know that you’re safe!! <333 ^3^

Were you really the drunk one in this situation? You were pretty sure you hadn’t even spoken to him, only remembering his flirty attitude and writing him off as a playboy. But if the name in your phone was anything to go by, he seemed more like a Prince Charming-esque character. 

| You: i’m ok | You: thanks :)

You hoped the smiley face would help you sound like less of a prick. It was hard to be friendly after years with no friends, and you were doing your best to adjust to the sudden change. 

Before returning to bed you chugged a glass of water for your nausea and headache, praying the pain would go away after your short nap. Nami and Vivi would probably be awake by then too, giving you an even better reason to take this nap. And maybe your dreams would be more pleasant than your current state of consciousness. Nausea doesn’t follow you into sleep, right? Right?

“‘m not drunk…” you mumbled, staggering out of the restaurant with your new friends in tow. 

“Come on, ____!” Luffy begged, trying to drag you down the sidewalk. “It’s time to go home!”

“No use arguing with a drunk, Luffy,” A voice chimed in, slowly getting closer to your location.

“This isn’t home~” you hiccuped, “‘is college!”

“Alright, let’s go…” the voice spoke, leaning down near you. “Arms around me, darling.”

You felt yourself being hoisted up, and despite your drunken flailing, your front fell firm against a solid back.

‘Smells good…’ you thought, laying your head on the warm structure before you.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” the voice whispered to you. “Just keep everything inside and we’ll have a wonderful conclusion to this wonderful night.”

“Yer’ warm…” you mumbled, snuggling your head into their neck. 

For a moment you were able to focus, seeing the bright lights of downtown flicker all around the streets, as well as the blonde head of hair directly in front of you. It looked soft, like that Chinese cotton candy stuff you’d heard about. What was the name again? Would his hair taste like it? No, better not to try now…wait for later, when he’s not looking.

He? Oh, that’s right, Sanji’s blond. Or did he have red hair? You were having a difficult time remembering. But you did know he was a flirt, and not a good one. It wasn’t gonna work on you, even if his hair smelled delicious…

Thousands of thoughts raced through your mind, and their constant thrum slowly lulled you into sleep, head still resting on Sanji’s shoulder.

“Oh yeah, that happened,” you mumbled drowsily, half asleep.

The conclusion of your dream-memory had roused you awake, your muscles slightly achy after only an hour of sleep. You really were that drunk, and not the ‘cute tipsy kind’ like Sanji said. But college was supposed to be a learning experience, and last night you learned the valuable lesson of watching your liquor.

You hoped Sanji didn’t take your drunken rambles the wrong way. But you didn’t voice all of your thoughts, just that he was warm! He didn’t know that you thought he smelt good. Unless your sniffing was really loud…

Oh God, what if you were sniffing him really loudly? At that point he probably just thought you were weird. But he called you a cute drunk, right? That meant something! But then again, you hardly knew him. And yet you had his number!

Your obsessive pondering was interrupted by another text, and from Sanji no less. Was he going to confront you? He seemed so pleasant in his last texts, what more does he have to say?

'Just stay calm, stay cool, and stay casual,’ you breathed, ‘if you pretend like you don’t know, maybe he’ll pretend like he doesn’t know!’

| Mr. Prince: HI | Mr. Prince: GOOD MORNING | Mr. Prince: WANT 2 GET BRAKFAST?

‘What the fuck?’ you thought, quickly typing a response.

| You: breakfast? | You: also why are you typing in caps lol | Mr. Prince: IT LUFFY STOL SANJI PHONE RUNNING

‘Well that explains it,’ you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

| You: didn’t you also put your number in my phone?

A moment passed without a text back, leaving you anxious for Luffy’s safety. Sanji wouldn’t hurt him too bad, would he? You soon got your answer through another text.

| Straw Hat: Hi this is my phone want to get brakfast? | You: lol brakfast? | Straw Hat: Ya you want? | Straw Hat: Zoro and Sanji and Usopp and Chopper too | You: chopper? | Straw Hat: New friend!!  | You: nice, can vivi and nami come? | Straw Hat: Ya!!!!!!!!!!!! | You: will be there soon! | Straw Hat: Attachment (1) Image

The picture in question was of Luffy holding a much smaller, cheerful boy who looked to be about 13, but if Luffy just met him, he had to be a college student. Unless Luffy kidnapped a local child, which you wouldn’t put past him. Luffy looked worse for wear despite his classic grin, having a large bump on his head and a very angry Sanji behind him, mid scream.

You giggled at the image and got out of bed, preparing to wake Nami and Vivi up. But after standing up, you noticed that both of them were gone. Did they leave without you? How long were you asleep for? It was just a small nap, you woke up in the middle of the night, after all. They probably thought you were weird after that night out, saw you still asleep and snuck out without alerting you—

“Good morning, ____!” Vivi’s voice called out as the door swung open.

You jumped backwards at the sudden intrusion, subsequently tripping over your feet and falling flat on your butt.

“Oh my gosh,” Vivi rushed over to you, “I’m so sorry, I thought you’d still be in bed! If I had known I would have—”

“What’s done is done, Vi,” Nami stepped into the room, “one apology is more than enough…”

You glanced up at Nami, noticing her familiarly sour expression.

“Hungover?” you asked.

“Hungover,” she sighed, fumbling over to her closet to change.

“I made some tea for Nami to help her,” Vivi offered, picking up the small pot of hot tea. “If you would like a cup, I can pour you a cup!”

“Thanks, Vivi…” you smiled, accepting the fresh cup from her. It tasted sweet, with just a slight tingle of mint within the brew. Even if it didn’t cure your headache, at least it tasted good.

“Hey,” you stood up from your spot on the floor. “Luffy texted me and asked if we wanted to get breakfast with the guys again. Are you guys cool with that?”

Nami immediately sprung up as if she wasn’t hungover two seconds ago. 

“Sure! Anything to get to his brother!”

“How about you, Vivi?” you asked.

“I would love to,” she replied gracefully.

With that matter settled, the three of you prepared for the day and left together towards the dining hall.

The three of you entered the dining hall, grabbing breakfast and reconvening at one of the numerous tables. You didn’t see Luffy and company when you walked in, and you didn’t see them after sitting down either. Maybe they were at one of the outer tables?

| You: u here luf? Delivered 9:34 | You: earth to luffy? Delivered 9:39

Memories of Luffy’s carefree nature danced in your head, and with that in mind you decided to text a different member of the party. One with more sense. The question, however, was who?

Despite your pleasant conversation with Zoro, you felt like he might leave you on read, and not because of his stoic attitude, no. He gave you an archaic vibe, like your grandparents asking you for help sending a text. So he was off the list.

Usopp was your best bet, but after careful consideration you decided against it. You hadn’t had a conversation with him, and despite his seemingly more mature attitude—at least compared to Luffy—he gave you a cowardly vibe. 

And that left Sanji. The most sensible? Maybe, maybe not. But, you were nervous to text him. The texts he sent you made you feel tiny butterflies in your stomach. It wasn’t his flirting that caused that tickling, it was the care he put into contacting you. He didn’t have to text you, but he chose to.

You felt stupid, like the kind of childish stupid where you have a crush on the kid who lets you borrow their pencil. But you were older, more mature. You knew not to read into every little message and movement of a person. So you could text Sanji, easy peasy!

| You: hey sanji, u guys at the dining hall? Read 9:39 | Mr. Prince: I’m sosososo sorry my Princess!!! | Mr. Prince: We let moss head lead us to the dining hall and we got lost ;o; | Mr. Prince: Lesson learned!! heading over asap!!! ^3^

“Alright, looks like they’re on their way,” you sighed, looking up to your friends.

“Are you kidding me? They’re the ones who wanted to meet!” Nami grumbled, “what gives?”

“According to Sanji, they let Zoro lead them here, but then they got lost.”

“What the hell? Their dorms are, like, fifty feet away?  How the hell do you get lost?” Nami scowled.

“I believe that’s a question for Zoro,” you replied, taking a bite of your toast.

Ten minutes later and your rag-tag crew of misfits barrelled into the dining hall, almost knocking over a dozen students on their way in.

“____!” Luffy called out, heading spinning around as he searched for the three of you.

“Over here,” you yelled, raising your hand up.

You should have realized the consequences of your actions sooner, as Luffy hurled himself at the three of you at full force. There weren’t many options to ensure safety, besides cover your heads or duck under the table, which you and Vivi immediately did. 

Nami, on the other hand, stood up and pulled her fist back. Luffy was going too fast to avoid her punch, and knowing how powerful Nami could get when she was angry, there was no way he’d be able to tank it without injury.

It passed by in slow motion, you and Vivi peeking up to see the collision, Usopp yelling in fear, Zoro and Sanji running to try and stop their friend, and the remaining student population watching in horror.

And just like that, it was over. Luffy laid on the ground, utterly defeated by Nami’s strength. A small bump arose on his head, slowly growing in height.

“Jeez, Nami,” you coughed, “nice…shot?”

“Thanks!” she giggled, flexing her surprisingly muscular arm. “I like to keep people on their toes. If you two ever need a strong-arm, just call me, ‘kay?”

“A-alright,” you stuttered.

Why did you stutter? You weren’t scared of Nami, were you? No, this wasn’t fear, it was more like awe. But not the kind you feel when you see someone do a card trick. More like when—oh, dear. The butterflies were back, fluttering around in your stomach, bouncing off the walls of your intestines, scattering through your body and hitting all of your nerves—

“Luffy!” Usopp and a boy—Chopper, if you remembered correctly— screamed, rushing over to cradle the body of their companion.

“You killed him!” Usopp declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Nami.

“Actually, he’s alive,” Chopper chimed in, “he’s just sleeping.”

“He’s what?” Nami and Usopp deadpanned.

Luffy shot up like a zombie rising from the grave, earning a shriek from Usopp. He stretched his arms above his head, letting out a long yawn.

“Oh boy, what happened?” Luffy asked, looked around at the crowd of spectators before he landed on you. “Hey, ____!”

You gave him a small wave, trying to keep your horrified expression hidden behind an apprehensive smile. Before you could get a word out, however, Luffy was quickly sent back into the ground by a punch from Sanji and Zoro.

“You idiot,” Zoro growled, “way to cause a commotion.”

“You scared my lovely ladies!” Sanji hissed, turning to flash a reassuring smile at you three. “I hope you’re alright, my Princess!”

“I just wanted to say hi to ____…” Luffy croaked, eyes falling shut.

“Oh my God, he’s dead!” Usopp wailed.

“Nope,” Chopper reassured, checking Luffy’s pulse. “He’s just asleep again.”

“Again!?” Zoro and Sanji yelled, staring shocked at their sleeping friend.

Vivi slowly uncovered her head, looking at Luffy, “Maybe we should stop hitting him…?” she offered.

The two men huffed, stuffing their hands in their pockets.

“Perfect,” she sighed, doing her best to smile. She turned towards Chopper, who was doing his best to tend to Luffy’s injuries. “And what is your name?”

Chopper looked up, startled before stuttering, “C-Chopper, miss! I’m a medical student who is staying on the same floor as Luffy!”

“A medical student?” Nami asked, “but you’re…”

“I know, I know,” Chopper sheepishly grinned, “I was able to skip a couple grades when I was younger, so…”

“Wow, you must be smart,” you blurted, peeking from under the table.

“N-not really!” Chopper reassured, “I just know a lot of medical stuff! I had a teacher when I was younger…”

“Meat…” Luffy muttered, drooling in his sleep.

Zoro sighed, “Well, you heard the man, let’s get some grub.”

“He didn’t mean you, idiot,” Sanji argued.

“The hell?” Zoro barked, turning to face Sanji.

“Now now,” Usopp interjected, separating the two men and walking off with them, “I think there was wisdom in Luffy’s words…”

The three of you—not including a sleeping Luffy and attending Chopper—sat back down, saying nothing for a minute as you all processed the events that occurred.

“Well,” Vivi finally said, breaking the silence, “I’m grateful that our friends are quite energetic! Back in Alabasta, I would have been escorted to a bunker if this happened!”

“I’m glad you got something out of it, girl,” Nami groaned, eating a tangerine slice.

“I kinda get Vivi,” you replied, finishing off your slice of toast. “It’s an exciting change of pace compared to my life before.”

“Alright, I get it,” Nami mumbled, “maybe you two have a point…”

Suddenly, Luffy arose from his slumber, awaking with a cry.

“Meat!” he howled, rushing to the lunch line.

The four of you watched helplessly as Luffy ran over the entire line of students, piling his plate full of meat, so much so that there wasn’t room for anything else, much less more meat.

“Do you think every meal will be like this…?” Chopper whispered, horrified by the display of gluttony before him.

You stared at your table, seeing Vivi’s intrigue and Nami’s curiosity. Then you turned to watch Zoro and Sanji argue, a moment away from turning into a full on fist fight. Finally you looked at Luffy again, seeing the joy in his eyes as he not-so-carefully maneuvered his giant pile of food.

“I can’t say for sure,” you sighed, a smile gracing your face, “but I’m hoping they’ll be similar to this.”

“Look!” Luffy shouted, slamming his plate onto the table. “They let me have all of this! Isn’t this place great?”

“I doubt they let you, Luffy,” Sanji said, approaching the table with Zoro. “More like they were powerless to stop you.”

“Shishishi!” Luffy chuckled before diving into his mountain of meat.

Before long the dining hall’s aura returned to normal as students resumed eating, only glancing at your table occasionally.

‘Probably to make sure they’re at a safe distance,’ you thought, finishing your food.

But after a while the chatter once again died down, only a whisper being passed along tables as an odd air filled the hall.

“Well,” Nami huffed, “you five took so long that we’re all done with our food, so you better hurry!”

“Go get more, then,” Zoro retorted, earning him a bump on the head.

“That’s a good idea!” Luffy cheered, “let’s all go get more food after—”

A small black blur zipped across the dining hall, barely scraping by the top of Luffy’s head and bisecting his plate of meat. You all turned towards the source, shocked at the blatant murder attempt, with hundreds of witnesses no less. But Luffy was furious, standing up and turning towards the culprit.

“What’s the big idea!” he yelled, clenching his fists.

“Oh, come on now, Luf! That’s no way to greet somebody!” a voice called out, stepping through the crowd of students, wearing the most ostentatious outfit you’d seen during your time here and carrying a hockey stick, clearly his weapon of choice.

You watched as Luffy’s fists unclenched and his expression changed to one of brief confusion, quickly morphing to one of insurmountable joy.

“Ace!” he cried out, sprinting away from the table.

“Ace?” Chopper questioned.

“The hockey player?” Sanji gaped.

 “The brother?” Vivi asked.

Ace grinned, tucking the hockey stick behind his shoulders.

“The one and only!”

tag list: @sylum , @dimplewonie

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 ao3

It’s quiet for the whole day. Eddie wakes up mid-afternoon, sees that a doughnut has been left for him in a paper bag on the coffee table. It takes a few minutes more for him to realise that it’s still just the two of them in the house—that Steve must’ve told everyone not to call, not to come over.

Eddie’s chest almost hurts at the thoughtfulness behind it—but he’s not surprised by it, not now. Not since he saw Steve in the RV keep the volume of the radio down low, even as the clock in his head grew ever closer, just so his friends could sleep a little longer.

And the quiet means Eddie, too, can just… stay. Rest.

He’s glad of it, even though a part of him thinks it’s stupid—that save for that terrible night, this might be the most exhausted he’s ever felt. He’s not even done anything, but his body still aches, like he’s only just finished running from the trailer park.

There’s the ghost of pain at his knee, as if his brain has finally remembered a past hurt. He thinks of Nancy telling him that he fell. “I was so scared you wouldn’t get up again.”

Steve seems to understand implicitly. He does most of the fetching of food and drink, and when Eddie tries to protest, he doesn’t make it a big deal, just says that he wants more practice on the crutches; he phrases it in such a way that it sounds like Eddie is doing him a favour rather than the other way around.

“Hey, check it out,” Steve says, halfway from the couch to the kitchen. “I can really move on these things now.” And he very briefly swivels in place on the crutches, as if he’s leaning on dancing canes instead.

Eddie snorts, feels a rush of fondness. “All right, cool it, Fred Astaire.”

For dinner, they eat defrosted spaghetti bolognese from Joyce. Eddie teases Steve when he notices that he can twirl the pasta perfectly around his fork.

“Sorry, what the hell is that, Harrington? We in a goddamn commercial right now?”

Steve elbows him. “Shut up or I’m stealing your portion.”

It’s kind of unnecessary, for them both to be sharing the one couch. Neither of them bring that up.

-

When clearing away some of the VHS tapes, Steve finds a notepad that doesn’t belong to him. He scans it with interest, then chuckles.

“Oh my god, look at this.”

He beckons Eddie to look at one of the pages.

Eddie leans in. The page is covered in writing, to the point that the white of the paper is almost invisible. The handwriting keeps changing, too, never the same on each line…

And Eddie realises that this has been written by the kids—all of them.

It acts as a log, of sorts: them recording their impressions of each musical watched while staying here. El has drawn a wonky cluster of five stars for The Sound of Music—has signed it with her name and a smiley face.

In the margins, Eddie can see them voting on whatever they want to watch next, laughs as he comes across Dustin and Erica bickering:

Erica picked last time! You’re not allowed an opinion, Dusty-Bun

But there’s more than just talk about the movies. Part of the page has been separated by solid lines in pen, forming a box. What’s written inside is much neater: updates on Steve’s progress in the hospital. At the bottom of the square, Eddie recognises Dustin’s handwriting instantly—cramped and hurried, like when he’s excitedly jotting down details during a campaign.

He can come home!!!

When Eddie glances over at Steve, he’s still looking down at the paper, smiling like it’s some art project he wants to stick on his fridge.

“They’re so stupid,” he says, and so clearly means something else. He carefully sets the notepad aside. “I kinda want to frame it.”

They lie on the couch in comfortable silence for a while. The sight of the kids’ writing reminds Eddie of the pencil marks he saw in Steve’s poetry book, evidence of him underlining particular lines.

“Hey, did you—uh, did you always like poetry?”

Steve gives him a sideways look, smirks slightly. “What’s up, you doubting my credentials? Did your ‘Munson Doctrine’ say I can’t read, either?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “No, I was just…” He leans on his elbow, turns further towards Steve. His voice quietens in sincerity. “Just curious.”

Steve scratches the back of his neck. “Um…”

And huh, there’s that thing you do, Eddie thinks.

It’s like Steve has to prepare himself for honesty, work up to it. He thinks of that walk through the woods, being startled at the sound of Steve running up to him. “Eddie. Eddie. Hey, man. Uh… Listen, I just, uh… I just want to say thanks.”

Eddie remembers not knowing what to do in the face of an awkwardness that he didn’t expect, not from the likes of Steve Harrington. But more importantly, he was struck by the fact that Steve was so genuine. That once he got past the stops and starts, he meant every word, felt it deeply.

“It was in class, actually. It was… uh, we were looking at a Sylvia Plath poem?” Steve’s voice rises uncertainly at the end even though he’s not asking a question, and Eddie somehow knows then and there that he’s never told anyone this before. “Can’t remember the title, but um. Honestly? It stuck with me, ‘cause… kinda reminded me of my parents. Like, their marriage.”

Eddie opens his mouth. Shuts it. Then says, delicately, “Not the best omen.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. Uh, that aside, there was like, a rhythm to it. I like when stuff… repeats, y’know? Hold on, think I can remember the last…” His hand reaches up to bat the top of the couch in time with his words as he recites, a touch reserved, “My boy, it's your last resort. Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.” A tense little shrug. “Guess I’ve got a thing for last lines.”

Eddie thinks of I was much too far out all my life/And not waving but drowning. 

In the ensuing silence, Steve looks like he’s very subtly holding his breath—as if waiting for Eddie to show one hint of discomfort. Like he’s ready to instantly regret speaking.

So Eddie keeps his tone light, says, “That’s… kind of fucked up, man. Very niche though, I approve.” And he feels Steve relax—his good leg touching Eddie’s, thigh to knee. He senses that it’s safe enough to joke a little more, adds, “You should start a support group or something.”

“What?”

Eddie mimes holding a microphone, affects a news reporter’s grave tone. “If you have been affected by poetry, we advise you to call—”

“God, you’re so dumb,” Steve says, grinning. “You know when you did those, like, bits at lunch, y’know, all the voices, I used to think, Who does this asshole think he is?”

Steve’s voice is warm, so Eddie just tries to quip back, “Pretty sure you and half the damn school thought that.” He’s joking, he really is, but he can feel a little wisp of bitterness slip through despite himself.

And Steve must catch it, because he suddenly looks a bit contrite, replies quietly, “Not like that.”

Steve’s eyes flicker down to the left in thought—and there he goes again, Eddie thinks. Working up to something.

“I knew part of your deal with D&D was, like, storytelling, right? And you… I dunno if you remember, but the school used one of your short stories as… an exemplar? It was anonymised, in one of those study packets they’d—”

“Oh, those,” Eddie says. “Never read ‘em.”

Steve chuckles. “Well I could tell it was you. ‘Cause it was freaking nuts, man, all these like, myths and heroes, and it just… God, I kept thinking it came so naturally to you.” He shrugs again, more bashful. “Guess I was jealous.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “You were?”

Steve smiles as if to say Well, what can you do? “I applied to college, like, for writing and stuff.” His smile turns self-deprecating as he says, “Didn’t get in, obviously.”

“Huh,” Eddie says thoughtfully. “What did you wanna write about?”

Steve laughs. “Uh, don’t think it was your scene, man. No dragons or… Just kinda. Ordinary stuff? Like, basketball games or—”

“Basketball games,” Eddie echoes with an impish little smile, and Steve elbows him in the ribs.

“Not just basketball, you dick.” But he’s still smiling as he says it. “Or, I s’pose, yeah, basketball but, like, it’s also about something else…? Normal things, but… more, I guess. I don’t know, man, you’re better with words, I just—”

“You know, I don’t think that’s true,” Eddie says quietly, privately recalling, “Whenever I looked at you… all that shit… never touched you. You just stayed… you were so… lovely.”

“When all of The Upside Down stuff started,” Steve continues, as if he’s not even heard Eddie speak, “for a while, it was… it was all I could think about. Y’know, it was like one of your stories, just… like, fantasy. Unreal. And obviously, I couldn’t just… like, can you imagine if I filled my college application with all this shit? Just asking for someone to…”

Steve makes a slashing motion across his neck, and Eddie winces slightly at how his fingers graze the scar there.

There’s a lull, and then Steve gives a little sigh, speaks again.

“I don’t even think I finished my application properly, it was kind of a blur. Just sent it off ‘cause, well, I had to at that point.” He crooks an arm behind his head, blinks pensively. “Guess all of… uh, everything, sorta… stole my words.” He huffs with another one of those self-effacing smiles. “God, that sounds dumb.”

Eddie tilts his head from where he’s resting on the arm of the couch. Looks at Steve, his side-profile, the thoughtful curve of one eyebrow. Thinks that he gets it; that sometimes there are no words for something like this.

“No,” he says honestly. “It doesn’t sound dumb, Steve.”

Steve breathes in and out, relaxed and easy. His chest only stutters a little, a remnant of… before. His knee presses further against Eddie’s, as if in silent gratitude.

“Do you remember…” Steve starts, and there’s already laughter in his voice; he’s still looking up at the ceiling as if whatever memory he’s thinking about is being projected on there, like a private cinema. “Remember when… y’know, that English class, last period. When we had to read, um, a play. Williams something?”

Eddie thinks. “Oh. A Streetcar Named Desire?”

Steve clicks his fingers. “That’s the one. We were made to read it out loud; it took forever. And you—” He laughs up at the ceiling again, joyful creases around his eyes. “You kept talking over the girl that got Blanche’s part, do you—?”

“Didn’t know I made such an impression,” Eddie teases. He vaguely recalls completely overselling a breathy Southern Belle accent—definitely remembers getting sent out of class for being ‘a disruptive influence.’

Steve turns his head to the side, glances at him. Grins. “Hey, I thought you were a riot, man. Least you made it come to life with how you, like, delivered everything. Everyone else made it sound so boring.”

“Well.” Eddie manages an imperious flick of the wrist, feels a sudden heat to his cheeks. “Guess no-one else appreciated my talents, huh?”

And even though Eddie’s being flippant, Steve replies, with all sincerity, “No. They really didn’t.”

-

Eddie doesn’t know what time it is, when it happens. Just knows that it’s growing late, that Steve’s quietly flicking through a magazine next to him—that nothing is happening, but his mind has apparently decided to freak out anyway.

He reluctantly gets it, though; has kind of suspected that perhaps he’s just been staving off the panic from last night, that maybe that’s why he’s felt drained all day.

He grits his teeth against the feeling, tries to keep quiet.

But maybe Steve notices precisely because of his attempt at silence. Suddenly the magazine has been dropped, and Eddie feels a hand around his wrist.

“Hey, are you—? Shit, your heart’s going like crazy.”

Eddie screws his eyes shut. “Yeah, m’fine. It’ll pass. Th-think it’s just—” He shudders out a breath as Steve’s fingers stroke over his pulse point. “Just. Last night, it was—the first time I’d driven… there. Since. Y’know.”

“Oh. I’m—”

“If you apologise one more time, I’m gonna push you off the goddamn couch, Harrington, and then where will we be?”

“Uh. Well, I’d be on the floor?”

Eddie laughs shakily—from the way Steve squeezes his hand, knows that that had been his aim.

-

It does pass, eventually. Eddie manages a deep, proper breath in and out—feels, embarrassingly, a bit like he’s run a marathon.

Steve finally lets go of his hand to pick up a thicker blanket from the floor, drapes it over them both. The warmth gradually makes Eddie sleepy. He loses track of time. Doesn’t know when his eyelids become too heavy to open.

He hazily feels a hand in his hair, Steve’s fingers working in little absent-minded circles, like he’s not even aware that he’s doing it.

“Gonna f’ll ‘sleep,” Eddie mumbles, “if y’keep tha’ up.”

Steve’s hand stills for just a moment. He hears Steve sigh out a soft, “Oh, you’re so tired,” like he’s fretting a bit. He resumes playing with Eddie’s hair, and this time, while it’s still gentle, there’s more of an intentionality to it.

Eddie thinks he turns his head into the touch, but he’s honestly not sure. Feels somehow both weightless and heavy. Wants to lie on this couch forever, so long as Steve’s here. 

“Tell me something,” Eddie says, does his best to enunciate. He wants to linger in this cosy in-between for just a little…

“Hmm? Like what?”

“Um… wha’ kinda…” Eddie yawns. “Wha’s your favourite thing to read?”

Steve is silent for a little while, long enough for Eddie to jolt out of an unintended half-sleep when he does say something.

“What were your stories about?” Steve asks.

Eddie yawns again. There’s so much he could say, but long, rambling sentences feel far out of his reach. So he settles for, “S’bout… coming home, in the end.”

“Oh,” Steve says, then, “I like that.”

“Steeeve,” Eddie sings through another yawn. “Wha’ ‘bout you?”

“Oh, um… I s’pose… I like stories where people are… lost, I guess. And then they’re… not anymore. Or maybe, they’ve been… like, searching for something without realising it.”

Have you found it? Eddie thinks, his thoughts slipping away on a wave of sleepiness. Have you found what you’ve been looking for? 

He drifts off before he can ask.

[iron-embers]

Hatomi+Rengoku Family Taisho secrets

I have so much written content on these fixations, here are some of Hatomi and the Rengoku family

Her favorite flowers are white plume blossoms and white lily. Senjuro brought over a branch as a toddler from the tree outside, offering it to her a a bouquet with the shyest smile on his face. Hatomi was touched by the gesture and could have cried from how sweet he was.

Because Hatomi had trouble going to sleep as a baby, her father Dmitri sang or hummed to her while carrying her to get her to sleep. Her mother Fumiye would hum or sing short and sweet lullabies in Japanese, but her father’s she remembered the most. Dmitri was an exceptional singer, a deep voice that carried well and for a long time as he sang old Russian lullabies he heard from other orphan children in his youth. Without fail it lulled Hatomi to a deep sleep.

She ends up making a habit that when Senjuro had a hard time sleeping, she began to hum to him as her father did for her. Later even singing some of those old Russian and Japanese lullabies she remembered. There are very few Russian ones that she remembers how they go or what they mean, but for the others she can’t fully recall, she hums the tune as the melody is engraved in her mind.

. She is not an exceptional singer, but has a distinctive soft tone to her singing, that anyone that hears it would know her calming voice. Shinjuro heard it a couple times on nights when he couldn’t sleep, and he heard her singing to Senjuro. Her voice brought out a quiet in him even when extremely inebriated, and he can’t help but stay silent and listen. It is soothing to a point where he doesn’t even drink from the sake bottle when he hears. Some of the Melodies are sad, and while Senjuro did not pick up on them, from afar Shinjuro could hear the mournful tone even while drunk. A sad man knows when another is in a silent misery.

While she does not sleep easily, once she is, good luck trying to wake her back up. She is a very heavy sleeper, and sleeps until she comes to which is usually a solid 7 hour sleep. Naps are hard for her because if she sleeps it is not half assed, and there is no possible way she can nap for just an hour or two. The few scares she has given Senjuro and Shinjuro were memorable ones, and for some reason the only one who was able to wake her up on the first try is Kyojuro due to his naturally boisterous nature.

Hatomi may not look the type, but despite her serious demeanor, she is a goofball around kids. She loves and will do anything to make kids laugh, no matter how silly or humiliating it is. Silly antics ensue, one moment she is doing dishes, the next she’s chasing kids around and threatening to bless them with the holy sink water.

Indulges kid Kyojuro in his strange habit of bringing home random things, sometimes bugs, rocks, knickknacks and his easy fascination. Senjuro didn’t like it when he brought bugs inside.

Senjuro usually was not picky but the one thing he hated was eating Kale as a child, refused to eat it raw or stewed because he would feel queasy after eating it. Shinjuro would get upset thinking he was wasting food, but Hatomi found a compromise. She one day took the kale outside and baked it. After sprinkling some salt she served the kale next day to Senjuro. Needless to say after asking him to try it, he loved it and proceeded to munch on all of it. It showed Hatomi’s willingness to compromise, to not fully coddle Senjuro but at least help him find a way to eat the kale in a way that was better for him.

When Senjuro was seven he showed interest in a slingshot, and so for his birthday Hatomi gifted him one as she had experience with them (As an archer, she was delighted to hear he wanted to). Showing him how to use a slingshot, first time trying it he hits the tree limb and it ends up ricocheting, hitting him square on the forehead. Cue him silently crying, trying not to complain but failing as Hatomi tends to him. (She is trying so hard not to laugh at his predicament, finding it ironic as she as a child did the same exact thing and her Grandfather laughed at her.)

The slingshot she gave him was one her deceased husband Kaito made for their son Genji once he got older. Unfortunately that would never come. Hatomi recalled the memory of watching him carve it, the focus he had while etching the design, and the conversation she had with him. He mentioned that he wanted to encourage Genji to practice, joking that at the very least he wanted him to be a better shot than his old man and take after something she was good at. It was a bitter sweet memory, she had some difficulty deciding on what to do with it, but reminisces that Kaito would have wanted to give it to someone who would make use of it, and appreciate it.

When Kyojuro begins his career as a demon slayer, many nights of his father ignoring him while Hatomi waits for him to come home after, usually cooking something and talking with him. She wanted to show him that he had support, and while his father never showed it, it was a gesture that helped ease tension.

Senjuro would get sick on occasion due to pollen, and Hatomi would be the main one to care for him when Kyojuro was out on missions. It helped him to focus to know she would watch over Senjuro

Kyojuro would sometimes get sick, but brush it off as if he weren’t. After years of chasing a little Kyojuro around to settle so she could treat him, she has developed a strategy to get him in a position where he cannot possibly argue, escape, or deny care. No it’s not rendering him unconscious as tempted as she is, but the tactic never fails even if Kyojuro is a young adult now. And yes it’s bribing him and then slight guilting him by saying if he stays sick he might get Senjuro sick

Both children had their little quirks when sick, but for Hatomi the worse Rengoku to deal with when sick was their Father. He both didn’t like to show he was sick, but when being tended to was so stubborn about it. He fell into a few fevers due to the alcohol and poor eating schedule. The first one he was very bitchy about it, more irritable and reactive to everything. Both as a way to show he wasn’t weak and on the more depressing side wondered why anyone should care about an old wash up like him. Hatomi knew but didn’t try to argue verbally, she just went about her duty and tended to him

Example

Shinjuro: Hell…..I feel so hot….this is shit.

Hatomi: *Dousing a new washcloth with cold water as she readies some miso*That’s a good sign, your body is trying to heal itself. Best to regulate your temperature…..It will help the fever, as well as some fluids in your system.

Shinjuro: *Glares at her weakly* I know ……how fevers work…..m’not stupid

Hatomi: *Internally* I swear you’re children are dealing with this far better….and far less attitude.

Lemme know what you guys think and if you want more, and feel free to ask questions!

[jaehyunsprincesspeach]

Anti-Romantic Chapter 5

A Date?

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Kang Taehyun x fem!Reader

wc: 2.3k

warnings: mentions of food (not specified), mentions of stress/anxious feelings, mentions of past trauma (sort of not really ??) whole lot of fluff !!

an: conversations are italicized, thoughts are italicized and bolded, texts are bold

omg finally chapter 5 is here !! hope yall enjoy !!

all the love ~ lunar

taglist: @taeraekisser , @forever-in-the-sky2

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The following day, you wake up to your best friend bursting into your room, clearly excited for the day.

“Y/n!! Today’s the day! Today’s the date! Let's get you ready, pretty girl!”

“Ughh five more minutes?”

“Nope, five more minutes always turns into two hours, he will be here soon, so let's get rolling! I'll do your makeup for you!”

As you reluctantly roll out of bed, thoughts start rolling through your head, as they do every morning, though these ones are more intense than normal, telling you that you should just stay home, that you shouldn’t go on the date. The conflicting thoughts run through your mind as you get ready for the day, brushing your teeth and washing your face. Your mind is saying that you should cancel, but your heart is telling you to go. No matter how much you mentally push him away, there is something that keeps you wanting more, wanting to know more about him. Something mysterious about him that keeps you intrigued. Lost in thought, you almost miss your best friend eagerly knocking at the door, letting you know that she’s ready to do your makeup for the day.

“Y/n, are you ready? Is everything okay?”

“I don't know, I don't think I should go…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Something just feels weird, I don't know how to explain it.”

“Well, if you go, then maybe that will give you the answers you are looking for, and if you don't, maybe you will be left wondering ‘what if’. I think you should go, and whatever happens will give you the answer.”

With that, you exit the bathroom, and make your way to your bedroom, where she has everything ready to go.

“You know, you really are the most naturally beautiful girl, anyone would be lucky to have someone like you. I promise, I won't go overboard, I'll keep you looking natural.” 

“Thank you, you’re the best.”

“I know you’re nervous, honestly I don't blame you, I just want to see you happy. I know that you don't know much about him yet, but I can see the way your eyes light up when you see him. I have a strong feeling that this time will be different than it has been in the past.”

“I hope you’re right, I don't think I can handle another heartbreak…”

“I know, but you know I'll always be here to pick you up.”

“You know I love you right?”

“I love you too, not let's get you ready!”

~~

“Yeonjun hyung, can you help me real quick?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Which shirt should I wear?”

“Hmm, depends, where are you going?”

“Umm, I, I’m going on a date…” 

“A date?! Then none of these are good options. Where is the date?

“I wanted to take her to the beach, do you think that’s a good idea?”

“It could be, are you having a picnic?” 

“Yes, I have everything ready, I just don't know what to wear.”

“I would go with a solid color, something that is nice, but not too nice. Maybe the white one with the collar, but dont button it all the way, keep it loose and relaxed, but not too relaxed…”

As Yeonjun continues his fashion advice, Taehyun finds himself getting more and more nervous. He can’t even remember the last time he went on a real date like this, let alone with someone as beautiful as you. He doesn’t want to mess anything up, but what if she doesn't like the beach? What if the food I packed isn’t something she enjoys, or what if she’s allergic to it? Jeez, I should have asked more questions before planning something like this.

“Here, this is what you should wear.” Yeonjun hands him a completed outfit, and leaves the room flashing a smirk at the younger. 

Walking out of the room with his backpack, Taehyun runs into the rest of the boys, all looking at him as if he has been caught sneaking out of the house.

“A date?” Soobin says gently, hints of concern and curiosity in his voice

“Are you sure this is a good idea, hyung? What if someone sees you and you get caught in a scandal?” Kai chimes in.

“Tell me at least you’re doing something fun…” Beomgyu follows.

All of the questions are flowing through Taehyun’s mind, even though these are things that he has already thought about. He already knows the risk that comes with taking you out. The potential for a scandal, and the potential for you to receive hate comments, and that is something that he wants to avoid, but is it something he can avoid? He knows that won't be easy, but something about you keeps him wanting more. wanting to know more about you, about your past, about the things that you like, and the things that frighten you. He wants to protect you, but he wants to experience life by your side, and all of these things are conflicting to him. He has never felt this way about another person, and definitely not as quickly as he felt it with you. But he can’t stop thinking about you. He can’t stop thinking about wanting to learn more about you. Somehow, simply by being you, you have captivated him completely, and he wants to keep you by his side. He wants to protect you, and provide an environment where you can be completely comfortable. He simply wants you.

“I know the risks, and I know it might not be the best idea, but I'm doing it. Whatever happens, I won't drag her down, and I won't let others hurt her. I just, I can’t stop thinking about her.” He replies to the questions while his gaze stays on the floor, knowing that he could be making a mistake, but that he knows in the end, you’re worth all of the risks that he is taking. 

~~~~~~~~~

“He's here, he's here!”

Your best friend exclaims from the living room, as you are hit with a rush of nerves. You are standing in your room staring at the mirror, making sure that the sundress you picked fits okay, relentlessly smoothing out wrinkles that arent even there. You take one final deep breath as you hear your best friend open the door and greet Taehyun. Listening to them chit chat in the living room, you grab your things and make your way to them. As soon as Taehyun catches sight of you, he stops talking and simply stares. 

“Wow, hi y/n, you look… you look beautiful…” He says bashfully, unable to hide the blush that has dusted over his features. 

“Hi, Taehyun, are we ready?” Thankfully your makeup hides your blushing cheeks and your hair covers your rosy ears.

As the two of you set out for the day, you look back one more time to see your best friend waving in the window, as if she is a mother sending her daughter off on her first date. Getting into the car, Taehyun and the gentleman that he is opens the door for you, and grabs your hand to steady you into the seat, before returning to the driver side. 

The air is filled with nervous tension, until Taehyun hands you his phone.

“Music is on you today, play me your favorites.” with a gentle smile, he opens the phone and gives you access to his music apps.

Smiling, you grab the phone and start playing your favorite song, trying your hardest to keep your composure, but failing as your favorite part of the song plays. Not that you are singing at the top of your lungs, but loud enough for him to hear the beautiful voice that you have. 

“So, where are we going?”

“To the beach, but I figured we could take the long way, and see some other things first… Is that okay?”

“Sounds perfect!” you chirp with a bright smile on your lips, as you return to the music. 

Throughout the date, you noticed that there were certain places that Taehyun avoided, mostly crowded areas, or main walkways, preferring to walk in more secluded areas. Although it was something that you felt suspicious of, something about Taehyun made you feel safe, so you decided not to think anything of it. Finally arriving at the beach, Taehyun starts to unpack the bag that he has had on his shoulders for the last hour. 

“Can I help?”

“That's okay, it won't take me long, but close your eyes until I get it set up?” He says with a cheeky grin. 

Closing your eyes until your cue, you open them and see the most beautiful picnic set up, with flowers and even fairy lights hanging from the tree above, and you are in complete awe. You don't even attempt to hide the shocked expression on your face, as you look at him in amazement, as none of this was there when you first arrived. 

“You must be a magician, this is amazing!”

“I'm glad you like it! Should we sit?”

The two of you sat together in the sand, talking about almost anything and everything, but he still avoids talking about what he does for a living, saying that it's best if you aren't involved, and things like that. He sees the disappointment in your eyes, and reassures you that its not because he doesn't want to tell you, but that he thinks you would be safer not knowing.

“That's a little suspicious… Are you a criminal?” “No, no I'm not a criminal hahaha!”

“Do you work for the government? Like undercover stuff?” “No, not that either.”

He is amused with your guessing game, and is surprised that his actual career is not something that you thought of asking. He assures you that he will tell you soon, but that he doesn’t want to scare you away, which only raises your suspicion. 

As the sun begins to fall, he starts to wonder when you will say that you are ready to head home, and honestly, you are surprised that you still feel the same energy that you had when you arrived at the beach, so he recommends walking on the shore, now that most people have left the area. 

What's with him? Am I really that interested? I mean, how could I not be? He's handsome, he's gentle and kind, but there's still something that is mysterious about him. He seems tired, yet he hasn't mentioned leaving yet? How long can I push these feelings away? Is that even possible? 

Walking down the beach together in a comfortable silence, your thoughts rolling through your head as usual, but this time he notices. 

“What's going on in that pretty head of yours?” He asks so casually.

“Oh, nothing really, just enjoying spending time with you.”

Your own words take you by surprise, as he gives you a smile with his eyes practically turning into the shape of hearts. He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips and leaving a gentle kiss on your knuckles, and keeps his hold on you as the two of you continue walking. He didn't say anything, but his actions spoke more than words ever could. 

After a few more moments of silence, he speaks up again.

“So, tell me about you…”

“I thought I told you? I moved here for work, I don't really leave my house much….”

“No not that, you as in your traumas, your past experiences, the things that made you, you…”

He interrupts, bringing a wave of nerves to you. 

“My traumas? I don't think that's something you want to hear…” 

With those few words, and the flash of nerves that skimmed your eyes, he knew not to ask any further.

“Well, we don't have to talk about it now, but at some point I would like to know.”“Why?”“So that I can learn to take care of you better…”

“Y-you want to take care of me?”

“Well yeah, I don't know about you, but I was really hoping this wasn't just a one date thing…”

“I-um, I… I hope it's not just a one date thing…”

The two of you continue walking, both a blushing mess, as you can't contain the blush on your features, and he seems equally as flustered. His words are straight forward, but he can't hide the anxiousness in his heart as he waits for you to reply to his words, almost as if he is afraid to say the wrong thing. As the sky falls dark, the two of you decide that it's time to head home, finally returning to the car, and making your way back. 

Arriving at your house after a carpool karaoke session, you and Taehyun are all smiles and giggles together, as if there is not a single care in the world between the two of you, and in this moment, there really isn't, it's simply the two of you in the world, and it feels relieving. He walks you to the door, taking your hand in his, and refusing to let go, even after arriving at the door. He turns to face you, and ever so gently, lifts your chin to look him in the eyes. You've met with him already looking intently at you, as if you are the only thing that matters to him. Yet again, the blush returns, and he chuckles at your flustered state. 

“I had a lot of fun with you today.”

“Me too…”

“I should let you get some rest, but I'll text you. Okay pretty girl?”

“O-okay…”

Before you know it, he starts leaning in closer to you. The tension is so strong, it's almost suffocating, but you don't move away, rather you let his lips gently land on yours, as you melt into his embrace. The sweetest, most gentle kiss you've ever had, and when he pulls away, you are left speechless and in awe of the man standing in front of you.

[shegore]

grip + geto ^_^

this scene has played out before. ( a sullen redhead , her cheeks warm and sticky. a cruelly, kind boy , fingers pressed gently on cheeks. ) 

 karin remembers the first time it happened    ━━   for the first time , a boy was better at her than something. ( having it be to two boys made it worse ) she hated it. a sparring match turned bitter ; at age eight, her back hit a cold mat. she didn't remember anything but seeing the ceiling. then she saw bright blue eyes over her face. satoru. something something about losing to him and his friend. something something yadda yadda.

she hit him. like, really hit him. her aunt remarked it was a solid hit. suguru stood between them. karin doesn't remember much; her temper flared up looking at him. she decked him too. ( her aunt said it was a clean hit. ) both boys nursed a sore jaw. satoru picked on her. called her ‘ the toothless tomato ’ . karin swung again.  she was missing a tooth.   he flipped her.  

that's how she ended up sitting outside the studio sniffling. it's not her fault ! it's not her fault that she gets flushed when she's embarrassed ! it's not her fault her hair is like that !

she wouldn't look at either of them. when they left,  satoru stuck his tongue out at her. karin threw dirt at him. suguru sat next to her. his grandparents were always late getting him - satoru was rich. someone always came to pick him up. her scowl was ever - present. his hand patted her head.

❛     ━━   i think red suits you.    ❜ 

he was gone before she could respond.

that scene would repeat over the years. different variations, but the core was always the same. as time passed, her tears dried and his hands crept lower on her face.

SHE REMEMBERS:

❛     ━━  YOU DON'T NEED TO BE DOING THIS   !  ❜   ❛    mind your business.    ❜  ❛     you'll get yourself killed.   ❜  ❛     ━━  WHAT DO YOU CARE ?    ❜ 

  a cold rejection  ( her )   :     a prideful sense of pity.  ( him )    (  it doesn’t matter what he caught her doing.   her rebellion doesn’t matter.     )     they rebuked each other.                    even if their lives were on the line.      he’s dead.

pain brings memories.    memories cause pain.    her shoulder leaks red.     she recollects a name :   a toothless tomato     -   she supposes it couldn’t be more true than now.          woman stripped of her fangs.       

            it’s everything :   exhaustion ,   enemies ,    edicts.       

instinct had saved her life.     barely.    she’s faster than you’d think.    her syringe rolled from her hand.   

  she knows where it hit the first time.   (    bullet.    )    the shoulder.     the second  . . .   the collar.    self preservation kicks in.    now isn’t the time to move ,    bleed out .    bullet out.       fucking kisaki.   she’s exhausted.   

                             rindou lied    -    she shouldn’t be pregnant.    & this is the result.

     she can’t even curse.     not at the black figure at the edge of her vision. 

IT’S IRONIC.      the girl who strove to know everything . . . killed off by a mystery.  it’s good she passed out before he removed his helmet.    the look on his face would’ve killed her.

karin never expected to wake up.     from feel alone ,   the job done on removing the bullets was decent.       there’ll be scarring ,   obviously ,   but there’s a tradeoff to saving a life.     it’s warm.     she’s warm.     red.    red.   red.     blood on her finger tips.      blood in his hair ,   her blood on his shirt ,   her blood on him.    she knows where she is.           her head is leaned onto suguru.      

she sounds like she’s dying.     ❛     ━━  you’re supposed to be dead.   ❜ 

                  sorry.     

❛     ━━  you’re supposed to be dead.   ❜ 

                  sorry.

am i supposed to be dead  ?        karin thinks she is.

❛     ━━  it hurts.   ❜ 

❛   sorry.   ❜       he sounds the same.       she repeats herself.    and again.   and again.        her cheeks are sticky.   that’s blood from her eyes.    she can’t breathe.    everything hurts.    her body is devouring itself whole.     it hurts.     she’s dizzy.      

                   ❛    help me.    ❜     the scene recreates again.   (       his hands have her face.     her face damp,   sticky.      the grasp is firm.     she’s holding onto his wrist.         )           

she blacks out.

[megreads22]

Snippet 1.2

I’m quite nervous to be posting this. I hope you like it.

Bright. Everything is too bright, is my first thought when waking up. The next is: Holy shit! I’m so screwed. 

I jolt up before the ground sways underneath me. Good thing I haven’t eaten anything in a long while or else I would be best friends with the toilet. I screw my eyes shut as I cling to the closest thing to me, which turns out to be a bed frame. When I feel like I’m on solid ground again, I open my eyes.

I’m in a bed with a forest green comforter. It’s the only piece of furniture in the large room. Even the pale green walls are bare save for a brown cork board that reminds me of the conspiracy theory boards you’d see on T.V.. Newspaper clipping, papers, and photos fill the board. My heart drops as I see a picture of… me? There’s no way that was right? It’s too far away to tell, right?

I throw my legs off the bed. I have to double check, just to be sure I’m not hallucinating. My legs shake as the ground sways again, but I keep going. Each step takes a lot longer than I want. By the time I make it to the wall I’m breathing heavily. Whatever that guy gave me must still be wearing off. That has to be the only explanation for why I’m seeing this! The board not only has pictures of me, but it maps out my entire life. Everything is there, from newspaper clippings about my hero life, report cards, medical reports, childhood drawings I left at the orphanage, even a copy, or what I assume is a copy, of my adoption certificate. What’s most disturbing are the reports about The Incident.

I feel like I’m going to be sick for a completely different reason than the drugs.

“Maggie, what are you doing up? You’re not supposed to be awake for another thirty minutes,” a voice behind me says. 

I whirl around to see the man dressed casually in jeans and a hoodie, standing in a doorway that wasn’t there before. The sudden movement causes black spots to invade my vision. The ground rushes up to meet me, but strong hands grab me, holding just tight enough to hurt.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” the man soothes. “The sedative will wear off soon.”

He picks me up in a bridal carry before setting my back in the bed, even pulling the covers up. He cocks his head, a sincere expression adorning his face. “You’re shaking. I’ll bring you some more blankets.”

“Shaking?” I murmur. I look at my hands to see that they are, in fact, shaking. Huh. I guess he’s right. I’m shaking, which is fine. Totally and completely fine. What’s not fine about having a stalker with super powers who's been watching me for gods know how long? Absolutely, 110 percent fine!

I try to sit up again only for him to push me back onto the soft sheets. “You need to rest. You over-exerted yourself with that tremendous display of power.”

“Excuse me? You drugged me!” I yell before thinking better of it. “You attacked me and my best friend! Of course I’m freaking tired!”

His eyes widen just as my brain catches up to my mouth. Ra-roh Raggy. This is why I don’t speak that often to the bad guys.

Thankfully, he just laughs, an oddly lyrical laugh. “I knew I was going to like you. You’re amazing from what I observed, but meeting you face-to-face makes you that much more amazing. You’ve got spunk.”

Why did that compliment make my stomach roll more than if he had shouted? That’s not a good sign. Though, he doesn’t seem like he wants to hurt me… yet. Maybe he can be reasoned with? My hopes aren’t high.

“I’m sorry.” I try (and fail) to sit up again. “But, please let me go.” 

“It’s okay, Maggie. You’re safe.” 

“Who are you? What do you want from me? How come you’ve been wa-watching me?” I hate the stutter that comes out of my mouth. 

“I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. It’s been so long and you were so young.”

“Still not an answer.” I mutter. “What do you mean? Who. Are. You?”

He blinks like he’s shocked that he had forgotten that part before smiling. “I’m Will Anderson. Your brother.”

“My what!” Executive function of my brain shuts down. I surely misheard him. That’s the only explanation. There’s no way he’s my-- my--

“Brother. Older brother to be exact,” Will says. “That’s-- that’s impossible.” I’m really starting to understand how Luke Skywalker felt.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. You must see that it’s very possible with a brain like yours.”

My stomach clenches with his words. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s very possible. I was in the system before I learned how to talk. I don’t remember anything about my biological family. They could’ve had twenty kids for all I know.

“You see, don’t you?” His eyes, such a similar bottle green as my own, gleams as if he’s staring at a hoard of treasure instead of a person. 

I look past his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Well, our parents weren’t what you would call ‘good people.’” He narrows his eyes. “They were shit, actually. They made Bonnie and Clyde look like Mr. and Mrs. Brady. They were supervillains to put it lightly. Dad had super strength, Mom had weather manipulation. I was an accident, as they constantly reminded me. They were cruel. They’d ignore me, hit me, and call me worthless. They’d spend their time focusing either on their criminal empire or boning each other.” His downcast eyes suddenly brighten and he smiles. “And then you came along and I thought things would be different. That they’d actually be parents for once.” Just as quickly as it appears, the smile vanishes. “I was wrong. They gave you up, saying that a girl was no good to them. At least I could carry on the family name.” Contempt drips from his voice.

I swallow bile and tears. I’ve always known that I had been given up, yet, I stupidly held on to some hope that maybe my parents had a good reason; that maybe they didn’t think of me as some piece of furniture that must be thrown out because it served no purpose. How utterly naïve of me. The sick, empty feeling in my chest that I’ve tried to hide my whole life rears up. 

I stare at the ground, hoping Will doesn’t notice the wetness in my eyes. “Of course they didn’t want me. Nobody ever does.”

I don’t even realize I’ve said this out loud until I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up to see Will smiling softly. 

“I did. I do,” Mas says. “I wanted a baby sister so much, you have no idea. But--” he swallows-- “they didn’t listen to me. They dropped you off at a fire station and drove away. That’s the last time I saw you in person.”

Gods. Why does he have to sound so sad? Almost against my will, empathy pushes against my sadness as I imagine him as a little kid losing the sibling he had always wanted. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard.”

He blinks. “Why are you sorry? You’re very much a victim in this story.”

I shrug. “That doesn’t mean I don’t wish it never happened. It’s still terrible that it happened to you.”

He opens his mouth before shutting it. “That’s… that’s very kind of you. But, don’t worry.” His voice grows cold along with the features of his face. “I punished our ‘parents’ dearly for what they did to us the first chance I got.”

The small bridge of empathy and connection that was building between snaps as a shiver goes down my spine. “W-what do you mean? 

“I took care of them. They’ll never bother us, or anyone, ever again,” he says with careful consideration like he’s afraid that he’ll spook me if he said the outright truth.

Nausea builds. He killed them. Just like that. I know he isn’t the wholesome big brother he’s pretending to be, but he literally just admitted to murder. Yeah, our (it’s weird saying our) parents were terrible supervillains, but he’s showing no remorse. And, if what he said about their criminal empire is true, then that would mean… “What happened to their empire, then? Did it go to you?”

His smile is sly as he shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it an empire anymore. Let’s just call it a group of highly motivated individuals that do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

Oh yeah, that totally doesn’t sound like a cover-up for a criminal empire. “Oh,” is all I can say. I don't want to start debating his actions when I’m at his mercy. He still doesn’t want to hurt me and I don’t want to change that. He could easily take me in a fight right now and I’m not about to let my powers get away from me again. 

“But you don’t have to worry about any of that. Leave that to me.”

Sensing the conversation is over, I turn my eyes back to the creepy board. “How did you find me?” I ask.

“Hurricane David,” he says casually.

My veins turn to ice. Nothing he just said to me comes close to the amount of fear I feel from those two words. Hurricane David. The hurricane I caused when I was 10, just barely discovering my powers.

I stare determinedly at the floor. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He scoffs. “Come on, there’s no sense in hiding it. I know what you can do. You’re extraordinary.”

“No.” I shake my head. I can’t even think about that horrible, horrible, power.

“Hmmm,” was all he said. “Anyway, I knew enough information to guess you were in Willow Springs, and when a hurricane came out of nowhere on the west coast, I knew you were there. I found you after a few tricks but then you disappeared. It’s only when I heard reports of two vigilantes cropping up here did I finally track you down.”  

To hear him talk about “The Incident” so casually hurt every bone in my body. I clamp my eyes shut as memories of that fateful day fill my brain. The wind, picking up so suddenly; the water rising faster than I could process; the panicked yells of people as they searched for shelter. I shiver as phantom raindrops pelt my skin.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He puts an arm around me. “This is something to be proud of. You have so much potential. You caused a hurricane when you were just a child. Imagine what you could do with some training.”

“Cause another disaster!” I wheeze out. My breaths come out in gasps. Panic consumes me, just like on the rooftop, but I feel no power. Not even the normal amount. I jerk his hand off and draw my knees to my chest. What the hell is going on?

My brother-- no! Will replaces his hand on my shoulder. This time with a harder grip.

“You’re scared.” 

No shit, Sherlock. I curl up tighter. I know that this isn’t helping anyone, but gods, I so don’t want to deal with this. “Please, just let me go.”

“Maggie, breathe,” he soothes. “You’re fine. You can’t use your powers right now. I put a power dampener belt. You don’t have to be scared when you’re with me, baby sister.” 

I jerk up. “What?” As if that made me less scared. I look down to see a white, metal belt around my waist, the weight suddenly becoming much too noticeable. Stupid. How did I not notice it before? I’m even more useless than normal. 

“It’s only temporary until you learn to take care of yourself and control your powers until the right time.”

I fidget with the sleek, metallic belt, pulling on the release mechanism. Great. It needs a key. As if this couldn’t get any worse… wait. His wording pulls away some of my panic. “Right time?” I don’t like that one bit.

Will cocks his head, eyes gleaming. “Can’t get anything past you, can I Maggie?”

I open my mouth to respond but he plows on. 

“Are you hungry? You look like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

I narrow my eyes. He’s dodging the question. That’s never a good sign. “No, thank you. I’m actually not that hungry. What did you mean--” 

My stomach chooses this moment to grumble. Traitor.

Will cocks his head in a “really?” gesture. 

Heat floods my face. “Um, besides. You probably don’t have anything I can eat. I’m glut--”

“Gluten and dairy free, right? Don’t worry, I know. I got you all the food you’ll need.”

Horror twisted my gut. “H--how did you know that?”  

“I’ve been watching you to make sure you were really my sister. It’s a lot less creepy than it sounds.”

Sure it is. How closely had he been watching me to know my dietary habits. A lot closer than I want to think about. I had gone on the boring diet a couple of years ago when my stomach decided to hate me. It’s been hard to stick to on a beggar's budget, but not impossible. I just avoided any bread and became an expert at reading food labels. There's definitely been times where I haven’t eaten enough or I’ve eaten something that pissed my stomach off, but I manage. Mark helps a lot by scouting out any “fine dining establishments” (read cheap delis). 

The fact that Will found out is just plain unsettling. The fact that he bought anything for me before meeting me had me almost panicking again. But that clearly is getting me nowhere. “Look, that’s very um, kind of you, but--”

His smile widens. “Flattery will get you nowhere, but I appreciate the effort.”

“Will.” I release a breath. “It’s amazing that you found me after all this time.” Amazing and a tad bit creepy. “But, why go through all this trouble of kid-- bringing me here if you just want to help. Why not explain everything to me when you first saw me?”

His smile drops faster than my stomach. “You wouldn’t have listened. Not with him around. I needed to talk to you without distractions.”

Him? “What do you… oh, Mark? What are you talking about?”

“That piece of shit is a bad influence from what I observed. It was his idea for you to be ‘heroes.’ Putting your life at risk every single night for so little reward, because of him.”

“It was actually both our ideas and he’s not a bad influence. We protect each other.”

“He’s scum, that’s what he is!”

Without thought, my hand meets his stupid face in a slap as rage fills me. How dare he talk about Mark, my friend, my savior, my partner in crime? 

Will’s eyes widen, mouth forming an “O” of surprise.

Oh fuck. Terror replaces the anger as my brain catches up to my hand. I just slapped someone with questionable morals who’s got superstrength. Not my smartest move ever. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, but Mark is kind, brave, and he’s the only one that’s ever really given a shit about me,” I say, my voice surprisingly even considering the torrent of emotions inside of me. 

Will cocks his head, a calculating expression painting his face. “Oh, baby sister,” he says with a voice that’s  oh so caring. “This is worse than I thought. He’s tricked you into falling in love with him, hasn’t he?”

I blink. Surely he didn’t just say what I thought he said. “Wait, what?” 

Will throws his hands up. “You’re in love with him!”

[watchingthingz]

I can’t get the image of wwx singing little A-Yuan Safe & Sound after he wakes up from a nightmare

[refiwrites]

Weddings and Butterflies

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Fem! Avenger! Reader

Requested?: Yes.

Summary: After being invited to Christine's wedding, you also come across the person you haven't seen for the longest time.

WC: 2.6k

Warning/s: MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS SPOILERS! fluff, little bit of angst, anxiety mentions lmk if i missed anything

Note: after watching MoM I have fallen harder for this man I swear... feebacks, reblogs and likes are appreciated! let me know what you think!

GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

The door opened with a clicking sound, filling the silence of the empty apartment as you walked in, phone to your ear as you shut the door with the use of your feet.

“....(Y/N), the wedding’s tomorrow, I was wondering if you’d make it- or you’d like to come, it would be nice seeing you again ever since..” Christine spoke through your phone.

You took off your shoes, placing them by the door as you placed your things on the counter.

“Oh, Christine, I’d love to come by, congratulations again, I can’t believe it.” You reply, walking over to the living room. You sat on the soft sofa, getting into a much more comfortable position.

It never felt like time had passed, you even wonder if the rest of the world even remembered some of you.

You stared at the window in front of you that showcased the buildings along with the night sky.

Five minutes. All it took was five minutes and after you were thrown back onto reality again, five years had passed. It took almost a toll on everybody, with all the family and friends they feared are long gone, suddenly popping out of nowhere from when they were stood as the blip happened.

You, luckily enough, were able to lay low for a while, build your life back up again, reconnected with some friends, yet you never thought of reconnecting with the other Avengers.

The dull ache was still there in your heart at the events that occurred. Every once in a while giving you a reminder when you’d wake up in cold sweat.

You blinked as you didn’t register what Christine had said seconds before, “Wait, come again?” You say.

“I said Stephen’s going to be there too. I.. I don’t know if its a right decision to invite him since... well, he agreed, that’s what matters right? And I think he could use a familiar face like yours.”

Stephen. Stephen Strange.

You’ve seen him, you’ve fought alongside him, yet you never once remembered talking to him. He was going to be there.

You knew of their relationship before, but after the blip it seemed like things have gotten worse for him, or so you thought.

“Oh? Stephen? If he accepted then I think it’s not that bad.” You comforted her.

Your mind instantly wandering to the thought of Stephen. Why were you getting anxious? You’re an Avenger just as he is.

“I think so, but hey, I gotta get going, there’s still too many to fix for tomorrow.” Christine said.

“A bride needs her rest, doesn’t she? I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, congrats again Christine.” You responded before bidding each other goodbye and hanging up.

You stared at your phone for a minute, your reflection from the screen staring right at you.

Tomorrow. Wedding. Stephen.

You sigh with closed eyes. How bad could it be?

You stood up and immediately went to your room, you felt like you needed rest much earlier than before.

Waking up, you realized it was already morning. You were afraid you were already late when you glanced at the time.

9:00 AM

You sigh in relief, the wedding wasn’t until an hour, so you had the right amount of time to prepare.

Standing up and opening your closet, you settled on picking out a cowl neck slit maxi dress, along with a heel ankle strapped sandals to go along with it.

You yawned, covering your mouth. You blinked a few times, staring at the outfit you had planned. It looks good.

Then it was time to take a shower.

After that, you wrapped yourself up with the towel, going over to the mirror to dry your hair.

You glanced at the time, a solid 20 minutes before the wedding starts, and it was just the right time to go from here to the church.

You got dressed, straightening out the dress that hugged your figure perfectly. Having no time to struggle with the sandals, with a flick of your wrist as your feet wore it, the straps moved themselves to lock it in place.

You look in the mirror again, mustering a smile you were ready to give later. “The hair...” You mutter.

You shrug, making another movement with your hands to make the desired hairstyle happen. “That’s more like it.”

You went over to your drawer to grab a purse that matched, as well as a gold bracelet to complete your look.

You found yourself staring one last time in the mirror before nodding to yourself. “All right, let’s do this.”

The car ride from the church was tense, because it was the first time you’d be around many people publicly, at a wedding. You didn’t mind, sure, but some of the people were found to be hating, complaining that their lives had been ruined because of you.

“We’re here, miss.” The driver said. You thanked him, paying the amount before getting off the car. There were people already piling up with smiles on their faces.

You tried to make yourself look subtle, walking forward to find yourself a seat. You felt a few gazes on your way as the chatter grew.

By being too busy making yourself look subtle, you were unaware of the figure also standing to look for somebody as you bumped onto them, making you stumble back a bit until they had grab a hold of your wrist. You were looking down at their hand when you realize it was someone in a rather fancy suit.

“I’m sorry I should’ve...” You began, your eyes making the mistake of travelling upwards to meet the man’s eyes.

Cold hard blue-grey ones pierced into yours, making your words suddenly halt. You realized who this was, and how unfortunate you were to bump into him this early.

With his black hair accompanied by grey streaks on the sides, styled perfectly, his suit made him even more appealing. You realized your thoughts, mentally smacking yourself.

“Y- I’m sor-“

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” He spoke, his voice thick as he looked at you, letting go of your wrist to let you stand upright. “Christine didn’t tell you?”

He shook his head, his other hand delicately holding the wedding invitation that he got. His heart almost felt destitute of what he was about to witness, he knew Christine was happy, who was he to destroy her life? He knew it in his mind that she deserved better, and attending this wedding may as well be the closure he needed.

But things took a turn as he unexpectedly bumped into you. Stephen could note that he saw you before. Fighting alongside him. And even coming close to saving his ass a few times that he noticed.

“No, no she didn’t.” Stephen spoke. Seeing you in this way rather than messed from a fight had a slight change in thought in his mind that he ignored, still looking at you.

You both ended up looking at each other for a few good seconds before he clears his throat, moving back and gesturing to the seat. He doesn’t usually do that but he finds himself speaking. “Here, take a seat. I think it’ll start soon anyway.”

“Oh, thank you... Stephen.” You say, saying his name felt weird, thinking you should’ve just left it at thanks.

For Stephen, however, his name roll off on your tongue for the first time loud and clear had the tips of his ears tinging pink. “Yeah, no worries. “

Why was he acting this way? Acting like he was having a love at first sight moment. But you looked different from the battlefield to just... normally. He hasn’t known a lot about you, but he knows you could fight good and he respects that.

Watching you sit, he takes the one beside you, fidgeting with the invitation as the chatter resumed behind you.

As you sat, Stephen did the same beside you, both your knees brushing for a brief moment, sending warmth to your cheeks. What on earth, you couldn’t possibly be feeling like this right now? Could you..? For heaven’s sake you weren’t even sure if you could call yourselves friends yet after saving the whole world.

Stephen decided to flush out the things he felt at the moment, deciding to talk with you before the wedding started as people started taking their seats.

You didn’t know why, but as the longer the both of you talked and teased made you instantly comfortable around him.

Even as the ceremony progressed, you and Stephen were silently chuckling and smiling at each other. You even somehow forget what you were nervous about when meeting him.

Though as some might say he was intimidating and a jerk, yes, he was intimidating, but the second one? You thought not so much of, he seemed nice, genuine.

After the ceremony however, came the reception.

Everyone started standing up, getting ready to head for the reception when you realized you haven’t got a ride. But then it seemed like your prayers were answered in a mere second.

“I’ve got my car back there, seeming as you’re not leaving yet, you want to go to the reception together?” Stephen asks, standing up.

You knew better than to pass it up, so you agreed.

Arriving at the place, some looks were given your way as you arrived with Stephen. Some were smiling and pointing, some were even shocked. And some of course wanted some pictures.

The two of you, knowing better, agreed to their requests.

“So are you two together?” One guest asked, an elderly man with glasses. Your eyes widened as Stephen cleared his throat.

“Oh, oh, no. We’re not..” You shyly say. Stephen slowly shakes his head.

“Aw that’s a shame, you two look great together, and now will you excuse me I’m going to grab myself more of the food here. Its great.” The man said, walking past the both of you.

You and Stephen stared at the man, before staring at each other, then bursting out of laughter.

As the ceremony at the reception progressed, you can’t help but feel emotional as both Christine and her husband took their first dance. You could genuinely see how happy Christine looked and you couldn’t be happier for her. You almost swore you were about to cry when they were looking at each other so dearly.

Grabbing a glass of champagne at the small bar, you took a sip before sighing.

Stephen, however, was busy talking with Christine as she approached him.

“Congratulations.” Stephen says, looking at her for a few seconds before averting his gaze away. “Thank you, Stephen.”

“I could tell you’re really happy.”

Christine sighs, nodding and smiling. “I am.” She tilted her head to ask him. “But are you? Are you happy?”

Stephen felt the sudden weight on his shoulders. Was he happy?

The thing is, he doesn’t know.

Stephen nods, preparing yet another lie. “Yeah, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Christine seemed to take it well, but deep down she knows Stephen deserved someone that truly loved him the way she did. And she could see one person who’s just that. You.

“I’m glad you’re happy, Stephen. Whatever that’s going on with you right now, that’ll be over soon. I do hope you find someone, I truly do.” Christine says, but she could see you on the bar, having a drink.

“You’ll never know maybe that someone’s just around the corner.” Christine said.

Stephen wanted to shut his ears, to not listen, but who would that work out for? He’d only make things worse for himself. So he listened, taking her words in. He attended this wedding to find the closure he wanted and that’s what he did get, along with Christine being finally happy.

Stephen looks down, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yes, thank you, Christine.”

Christine laid a hand on his forearm in comfort.

“Christine! Congratulations!” Came your voice from behind them. Stephen perks his head up, turning around as Christine approached you, he saw the champagne in your hand and the bar behind, making a mental note to grab himself a drink as we walked, bidding the two of you to talk.

“Thank you, (Y/N). I’m really glad you can make it, along with Stephen.” She says.

You shake your head. “Of course, you’re almost like a sister to me. I’m really happy to see you up there.”

“Thank you, and speaking of happy, I noticed you and Stephen...” Christine trailed off, a mischievous smile gracing her lips. Your cheeks warmed as you laugh, trying to deny it. “No, no, not gonna happen, Christine.”

She shakes her head. “I saw you two earlier, you looked cute, and besides, you two would make a great pair one day.”

“That’s going to take a long time.” You joked. “Hey, if it means the two of you ending up together then why not? It seems to me you’re the only one person Stephen loved to talk to today, he’s interested in you. Trust me, I know him.”

Your cheeks were still warm as you were flustered. “Just see where it goes, who knows, you’re the one that I trust the most, if Stephen ends up with you then I couldn’t be happier.”

You wanted to believe it, but Stephen still looked broken-hearted. Maybe some other day. You just needed time. “Okay, whatever you say, Christine, congratulations again.” You say. She nods, before going over to the other guests that were calling out to her.

You took a deep breath in. Empty champagne glass in your hand.

Turning around and walking to the bar, you spot Stephen drinking a few glasses of Martini, already finishing one before grabbing another.

“Slow down there, or else I’m going to have to drive you home.” You said, standing beside him as he has his elbow propped onto the bar. “Be my guest.” He replies. You laugh, but then you place your glass down, looking at him take another sip.

“Hey, you okay?” You ask.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He replied.

You shrugged, there was the Strange you knew.

“I don’t know, you don’t look fine to me.”

Stephen shakes his head, he was about to grab another drink when he placed it down. “I’m sorry, there’s just a lot going on my mind.”

“Yeah, I understand, it’s getting a little overwhelming, really.” You say.

Stephen looks at you, before standing upright and grabbing another glass, handing it to you and grabbing another for himself. “Then let’s forget about it for a while.”

You grabbed the drink, swirling it for a moment before looking at him.

The both of you found yourselves talking again, telling all sorts of stories. And by now the both of you were laughing again.

“And he stood there for the whole hour trying to make a portal but then he just kept on making sparks.”

You laugh. “You gotta admit, he’s dedicated.”

Stephen nods. “He reminds me of myself back then.”

“You’ve come a long way Stephen.” You say, smiling genuinely.

“Suppose I have, enough about that. Now, tell me about yourself.” Stephen asked you.

As Christine’s eyes watched the pair of you as you talked and talked, he saw the familiar glint in Stephen’s eye, the look that he used to give when he was admiring something, or rather when he felt happy. A look that he used to give her. And as for you, she could tell Stephen had made his way to your heart.

Christine smiled. She was happy for him, she was happy for you. She could tell this was heading for somewhere better, and with her fingers crossed, she hoped it was true.

[sukirichi]

Imagine Naoya coming home a little bruised and is staggering. Forgetting etiquette and manners, you run towards him and helps him then POOF, Naoya turns into a child.

Getting Shoko to check him up and cue to Gojo laughing his ass off at Naoya's state to which you were a little irritated—no, you were ready to break Gojo's legs if it weren't for his infinity.

Maybe an hour later or the next day, little Naoya wakes up. To your surprise, he's so cute and innocent, staring at you with wide eyes, looking so lost.

crying. yes my heart is soft, i am in love. thank you so much for this, i really loved writing it and writing naoya always comforts me. thank you for making my day 💕

# soft naoya hours

# part of the trophy wife collection 

Three hours. That’s how much time has passed since Naoya promised he’d come home. It had been three dreadful hours, and your husband still wasn’t home.

The servants have grown weary of watching you pace back and forth, your perfectly manicured nails chipped down from nibbling on it too much. He’ll be fine, they reassured, it’s Naoya-sama, he’ll come home safely. It’s not that you didn’t trust in his abilities – hell, you experienced his skills in speed and strength firsthand way too many times in bed before to know he’ll come out mostly unscathed – but he promised he’d be home three hours ago, and your husband never broke his promises.

Naoya himself knew better than not to keep his word. With you as his wife, he’s not worried you’ll nag or give him the cold shoulder should he come late since you’re perfectly content being submissive and meek, but the way you worry for him.

You always fret so much for him – not because he’s not capable of taking care of himself – but because you can’t handle the thought of losing him that if anything happens to him, you’ll quickly get rid of your trophy wife title in the blink of an eye and release the powers you’ve kept dormant since your marriage. Safe to say, you’re always so worried for him that he feels bad about it. It would’ve been better if you screamed at him at least once, but you’re too quiet, too gentle, that your perturbation manifests in anxious glances, endless pouting, and cold, trembling hands that he doesn’t have it in himself to make you worry any further.

But if such was the case, where was he?

The storm is unforgiving outside. Thunder erupts and claps even at the sturdy roofs of the Zen’in Estate, the lights blinking every now and then with each roar that wouldn’t simmer down to pit-pattering murmurs. Every now and then, lightning would illuminate the gardens outside, and still, not a sight of Naoya.

A few minutes later, just when you’re quite sure you’ve dug deep into the floorings from your endless pacing, your husband appears.

Bruises littered his face and neck, staggering forwards as he clutches his bicep. His feline eyes run across the room for a moment, the servants shock still upon seeing their master heavily wounded – and then there’s you.

He feels you before he sees you. Setting aside all etiquettes and manners drilled into your head that is becoming of the clan head’s wife, you lunge yourself into his arms. His pained groans and whimpers are heard, verbal protests absent. Softly, Naoya buries his cut cheeks into the crook of your neck as you quite literally lose it and cry as you pull him closer, almost muted whispers sorry I’m late disappearing into your silken robes.

You shake your head and fret over him once more, gesturing to the servants to get him a towel, call the healers and just do something. At your sudden commands, the servants come back to life and rush in all directions. Naoya begins to breathe heavily the further he weakens and you try to steady him, his eyes drooping close when – POOF!

Your husband shrunk.

Arms frozen in the air in the shape of Naoya’s figure, you stare wide-eyed onto the now crying child below you.

Blood and bruises are still matted on his skin, his clothes, his hair – and he’s peering up at you, small, chubby arms extended as his sobs grow louder.

“Oh, baby,” you coo and pick him up, not wasting another minute before you dial Shoko, cradling the tiny, vulnerable human that is now clinging to your robes like his life depended on it.

Unsurprisingly, Naoya hates it.

The moment Shoko arrives – along with goddamn Gojo Satoru who’s been taking pictures of a hissing red-cheeked Naoya, his chaotic howling painting the walls of the infirmary – Naoya refuses to leave your side. He doesn’t even want to be set down on the reclining bed where Shoko is supposed to take a look at him. He bares his tiny fangs to the healer at all times, glaring heatedly at the white-haired sorcerer behind you.

You’re strong – you know you are – and breaking Satoru’s legs really wouldn’t be difficult. But as if sensing your hostility – which is always expected every time people even looked at Naoya wrongly – the idiot (who wasn’t so stupid right now) had activated his Infinity.

“I can’t undo it,” Shoko announces with a frown, “He must’ve picked up the curse somewhere when he weakened, but I’ve already healed his previous injuries. The stress probably let the curse manifest as well. It should wear off soon enough if he’s feeling better.”

“So he’ll turn back to normal?”

“Yes, of course,” Shoko’s smirk was mysterious. “With you as his wife, I’m sure he’ll revert back to normal quickly. Just keep taking care of him. He needs it now more than ever.”

The pair leaves not long afterwards, though not without Satoru forwarding you images of a young Naoya whose wide eyes were crystallized with annoyed tears. You hate to admit it, but he’s really adorable. That’s not your main focus though, and you immediately retreat back to your room where you wrap Naoya around your coats before settling him on the pillows.

His cheeks are round and glistening with tears, lips pouty and chubby fingers clutching your sleeves. It’s so rare to see him this vulnerable, so open, that your heart melts.

You scoot closer to him and pat his back as you sing lullabies, your lips hovering just about the soft tuft of blond hair. He yelps when another set of thunder booms like an explosion and he cries, head buried in your chest as he listens to the lulling sound of your heartbeat. It breaks your heart that he’s this unguarded, so exposed to everything that you do everything you can to comfort him, wiping his tears away with the pads of your thumb.

Singing a little louder to hopefully silence the storm, you let his cries dwindle down, the grip on your clothes loosening as he slowly falls into slumber.

“You’re safe, Naoya,” you promise, “I’ll never let anything happen to you. You’re safe now.”

The exhaustion of today’s events finally catches up to you, and it doesn’t take long before your eyes are falling as well. You dream of nothing that night, only stirring every now and then in the dead hours of the night to make sure you’re not crushing him with your weight (you’re a messy sleeper.) Thankfully, he’s fast asleep, breathing evenly and cheeks bouncing every time he huffed out from whatever he’s witnessing in dreamland.

You wake up hours later when you’re pulled into a warm, solid chest. Large, calloused hands brush over your exposed collarbones from when your clothes had ridden down in your sleep, and you freeze in his arms, about to turn and stir, to litter him with kisses but Naoya merely cages you in his arms.

“Naoya,” you croak out, almost shyly since you’re squished between his muscles that are somehow still so flawless despite his scars. “Your breakfast…let me prepare it for you. You need to heal.”

“Just a little bit longer,” his deep, morning husky voice resonates through the tranquility of the morning, and he pulls you closer with his bicep before he finally lets you pull away, his eyes nothing but soft and adoring as he smiles at you. “Let me be with you a little longer.”

You don’t know why you cried, but it’s definitely tears of happiness as you playfully pound a fist to his chest. “Silly. I’m not going anywhere. ‘Til death do us part, remember?”

“Hmm,” he nods once, “I’m not going anywhere either. And even if I leave for a bit to save the world, I’ll always find my way back home to you.”

[ofherlionheart]

♔ ♠ ♗ ♝ for those prompts… literally couldn’t decide and would love to see u write any of these so. take ur pick !!

this was from the nonsexual acts of intimacy ask game of EONS ago but my response finally here 😅 went with a boo chronicles version of ♔: Finding the other wearing their clothes

----------

The hallway light is offensively bright for past-closing-time o’clock in the morning. Sokka glares at the passing bulbs as he drifts forward, steadying himself with a hand against the wall, and he’s halfway through mentally drafting an irate and well-cited email to building management before he remembers this isn’t his building, so he can’t actually do anything about this issue.

If he’s being fair, part of the issue is also that he’s drunk.

It’s been a while since he, Suki, and Mai have been on a proper bar crawl — although his younger, less-hangover-prone self would be embarrassed that 28-year-old Sokka is calling three locations, one of which was dinner, a crawl. Throwing back those last few lemon drops was more for nostalgia than a need to drink more, and they might be the reason that he’s here instead of on the train, but he doesn’t regret it.

Finally, Sokka reaches his door. His knock sounds louder than a gunshot to his sensitive ears; he winces and slouches to the side, rolling his forehead against the wall. He hopes he didn’t wake any neighbors.

He sways, his jacket shh-shhing against the wall, for what feels like a good five minutes before it occurs to him that maybe his knock was too quiet.

Rolling onto his left shoulder, he raises his fist to knock again — only to pitch forward when the door’s suddenly missing.

His fist meets something gentler than wood, and his other hand latches onto the door frame before he falls. His fist releases so his fingers can scrunch in something decidedly thick and soft. “Whoa,” Sokka says, staring determinedly at a pair of slippers until his vision stops swirling.

“Are you okay?”

Zuko’s voice is low and bleary. When Sokka feels steady enough to look up, his friend is squinting at him, his hair flat on one side and tousled on the other. “Shit,” Sokka says. “Did I wake you up?”

He shakes his head. A hand covers his, holding Sokka’s grip firmly against Zuko’s chest. “Come in.”

“Need to take my shoes off.”

“You can step inside to do that.”

“Oh. Right.”

He steps forward, and Zuko lets his door swing shut, the worst of the hallway light suddenly snuffed out. The dark makes unlacing his boots with one hand a struggle, but Zuko doesn’t complain, standing solid as Sokka leans against him for balance. “Who did you go out with?” Zuko asks.

“Suki an’ Mai. But —” He finally gets one boot loose enough to shake off. “Ty Lee picked up Mai, and Suki took a cab.”

“Mm.”

He flops his second boot off and then lets Zuko tug him to the kitchen, where he plops Sokka down on a barstool and then goes to his cabinets on the opposite side of the island. Sokka concentrates on not swaying too much — he’s fallen off these stools before and knows exactly how unforgiving Zuko’s floors are.

There’s a soft clumsiness to Zuko’s movements as he fetches a glass to fill with water. His sweatshirt sleeves, which have already been rolled several times, keep falling past his elbows, no matter how often Zuko pushes them back up. “Are you sure you weren’t asleep?” Sokka asks.

Zuko slides the water to Sokka. “Dozed off while watching a movie,” he admits, dragging his fingers through his hair and wincing when they catch on a snarl.

With his arm raised, the excess fabric of his sweatshirt make him look like a square. Like a flag. Like a sheet’s hanging from the line of his shoulders. Small, Sokka thinks, and then smiles against his glass at the thought of how annoyed Zuko would be if Sokka actually called him small.

“What?” Zuko asks.

“Big sweatshirt.” It looks familiar, actually, which is interesting. Zuko’s not usually a sweatshirt guy.

Zuko looks down at his chest and startles. He looks back up with wide eyes, and Sokka can’t help laughing. “Surprised to be wearing a sweatshirt?” he teases.

Zuko’s face is doing something funny. “It’s yours.”

Sokka blinks. “Is it?” He tilts his head, and oh. Shit — it is his. Ty Lee helped him pick it out last spring, but he lost track of it a few months ago. “Oh. I thought the laundromat ate it.”

“Do you want it back?” Zuko asks, a hand curling around the bottom hem.

Sokka shakes his head. The world starts to tilt; he latches onto the edge of the counter.“Nah, it’s good,” he says. “It looks good on you.”

Zuko ducks his head. “Thanks,” he murmurs and then turns back to rummage through a cabinet.

He reaches for a high shelf, and Sokka’s suddenly very aware of lines: the curve of Zuko’s forearm revealed by the rolled-up sleeve falling down, the strong slope of his shoulders, the easy elegance of excess fabric draping into a clean silhouette. For a split second, Sokka’s possessed by an unusual urge to draw; then Zuko drops back onto flat feet, and the moment of fluidity is gone.

He holds a fist out to Sokka. Sokka offers his palm, and several candies land in it. “Strawberry milk!” he gasps.

He struggles with the wrapping but eventually manages to pop two in his mouth at once. When he looks up, Zuko’s smile is warm and soft and makes Sokka feel fuzzy, and he realizes maybe it’s not the sweatshirt that’s so good. Maybe it’s just Zuko.

[whumpiary]

content warning: noncon/dubcon vibes, intimate whumper, sensory deprivation

-

Cassius’ knees have long since gone numb, kneeling in the center of the bedroom like this. His shoulders are shaking from holding his hands so tensely behind himself, his spine aches from keeping himself upright. His thighs had been cramping, earlier. Whether they’ve stopped now or he’s just stopped feeling it, he can’t really be sure.

He could rest. If he wanted. Sit back on his calves instead of kneeling up. But… that wasn't the agreement.

“Would you like to kneel or be strung up?”

He hasn’t seen it, but he’d bet another hour on the floor here that the ribbon he holds between his fingers matches the one around his eyes. Red silk. Or satin maybe. To be honest, he doesn’t know the difference. Shiny and slippery and soft. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, little circles over and over, as he holds it taught, the change of grain in the fabric oddly soothing and the one solid thing he has left to hold on to.

“Would you like me to tie your wrists together or would you like to hold the ribbon in place?”

It’s freezing in here. He keeps shaking. Bone-deep cold. He’d assumed, maybe stupidly, that the fire would be left going while Christopher was gone. That the heating in the room would stay on. That the fucking window was going to stay closed. Maybe it would’ve if he’d chosen differently.

“Naked for an hour, or clothed for two?”

There’s a part of him that’s glad for the noise cancelling headphones. For one thing, at least, his ears are still warm. Which is more than he can say for any other part of him. For another, the white noise isn’t as bad as he’d expected. He loathes the blindfold usually. Hates that he can’t see anything, can’t track anything, every noise a could-be-threat that he can’t help but stay hyper vigilant to. The static is a relief in comparison, a neutral wash that fades everything out to grey. Well, almost everything. 

“Shame we can’t take away that last little sense of yours, isn’t it?”

There’s only a small part of him that’s startled by Christopher’s return. The rest has been waiting for him patiently the whole time, tiny shreds of sensory information filtering through the grey wash of the cold and the dark and the static. The vibrating creak through a floorboard shifting. The deepening of shadow behind the blindfold. And louder, brighter, more vibrant than all of it, the thrum, thrum, thrum of all the things Christopher wants. Fucking ravenous. Cass has never understood how one person could be so hungry all the time and not starve.

I’ll be what you want, I’ll be what you need.

Let me feed you, let me feed you, let me feed you. 

He feels himself readjust, spine straightening automatically much to the protest of the muscles in his back. His breath picks up, sitting high in his chest. His nostrils glare, blindfold A shiver runs over his skin, sets it on fire, reminds each cell to wake up. Spike of adrenaline preparing him to run from the tiger that he can’t see. As though he could run now, on the long-numb legs. 

Christopher doesn't touch him at first. Cassius feels himself bristling with the need for it. 

The first thing that happens is a light bump of the headphones that makes him flinch in fright. Then a pause. Then they’re lifted away and the deafening cacophony of roomtone and the rest of the world floods his ears and makes him gasp, nearly in pain with it. He can’t tell if everything’s louder without the static or just horribly, horribly silent but his whole body sways with the dizzy nausea it sets through him. 

He whimpers. Christopher shushes him gently. He tries to tilt his cheek into a nonexistent hand, desperate for the reality of touch. 

“Did you move, darling boy?”

It takes him a minute to remember to respond, to shake his head. But when he does, he does so with fervour. 

No, he didn’t move. He was good today. Wasn’t he good today? Please.

“Did he move?”

A question over his head, to the back of the room, to someone Cassius hadn’t been given the privilege of knowing was there. He nearly turns his head to look. He catches himself a few millimetres to the right and stills, clenching his jaw.

He was good today. Wasn’t he good today?

There must be an answer in the affirmative Cassius doesn’t hear because Christopher’s fingers press into the soft patch of skin just under his jaw and tilt his head up. He’s kissed tenderly, deeply, softly, violently. He doesn’t drop the ribbon.

He can imagine Christopher’s smile against his lips, his glittering eyes.

“I’m so proud of you”

He wishes the praise didn’t make his heart sing. Wishes, too, that it wasn’t just his heart the words set alight.

Christopher’s hand pushes back lazily through his hair and he tries not to lean into it but he does all the same. The man’s fingers trail down along his neck, across his shoulders. The touch is like a prayer. Like he’s being prayed to. Like he’s something holy.

Venerated. Sacrosanct. Divine.

“You know one of my friends has his boy do this for hours and hours on end. Usually with a gag of some description…” The man’s fingers brush against Cassius’ lips and he parts them just a little, jaw soft and slack. Christopher presses his fingers past his boy’s teeth, pressing down on his tongue. Pushing in further. “It’s quite the sight.” 

Cassius opens his mouth wider. Relaxes his tongue. Sucks. He can hear the soft gasp of Christopher’s breath, the tug of his lust. What he wants. What he restrains from. The man’s fingers press further in. 

“His boy doesn’t need incentive, though,” Christopher continues, voice thick with desire. “He’ll wait and wait like a good boy with nothing but the promise that it’ll be over soon. Isn’t that lovely?”

Are you going to be good for me today? Are you going to earn it?

Cass wonders if his lips have gone purple in the cold or if they’re still the plump pink Christopher adores so much. When he was a kid his lips were always going purple. Cass used to secretly like the look of it. 

"You’ve been so good for me today, haven’t you? Indulging me like this,” Christopher says. He runs his fingers through Cassius’ hair, back and back until they’re tangled loosely at the back of his skull, ready to tug and pull and push as he pleases. He’s been good. He’s been good. Please, he’s been so good.

It’s the retreating of Christopher’s fingers, rather than the pressing in, that threaten to make Cass gag. He nearly does. Nearly. He doesn’t. 

“M’sorry,” he says, pressing forward into the hand at his cheek. The word comes from nowhere, falling from his lips unbidden. His head feels full of the static that left. “Sorry, I’m so sorry”

Christopher hums in his throat, thumb running across Cassius’ cheek to catch a tear that’s slid down past the blindfold. “What are you sorry for, my love?”

He shakes his head and turns his face until he can press it into the man’s palm. He holds back a useless whine. His body shakes with a voiceless sob instead.

What the fuck? What the fuck, what the fuck? Why was he being like this? He wasn’t even hurt today. 

Please, for the love of God. Wasn’t he good?

“Oh, darling, you’ve gotten yourself all worked up for nothing, haven’t you?”

He whines, cries, sobs. “Please.”

“Please what?”

Tell me I’m good.

“Please ju-” he gags on nothing and his breath hitches. Even behind the blindfold, he screws his eyes shut. He wants the static back. “Help me.”

Christopher hums and cards fingers through Cassus’ hair again, settles a warm palm on his cheek. “Of course,” he says. “Always.”

Bullshit. Still, Cass accepts the kiss that’s laid to his lips like it’s his last chance for air before drowning. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. 

Christopher tilts Cassius’ head up with two fingers under his jaw, both still slick with spit. “Now, would you like to see Henri now or-"

“Tomorrow,” Cass says, all but cries out. He can’t say why he feels so desperate. “Please. Tomorrow.”

“Are you sure, darling?” the man asks, lips like hot coals against the curve of his shoulder. “That wasn’t what you wanted earlier.”

“Please, don’t. I don’t want to see him. Please, I don’t want him to see me like thi-”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” his voice is so careful and soft. Like a whisper. His fingers skirt the blindfold and don’t lift it. “Tomorrow, then.”

Don’t touch me, don’t look at me, don’t come near me. 

“What do you need, my love?”

Stay with me, hold me, don’t leave. 

“You,” he says, unbidden, unprompted, unburdened right now of the shame that comes with admitting it. “Please. For fuck’s sake. I need you.”

Christopher hums again, the self satisfaction so thick in his voice it’s practically dripping.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

“Come on, darling boy, let’s get you to bed.” 

I love you, I love you, please love me too.

“For what it’s worth, I think you look divine.”

[mc-lukanette]

Now that Wishmaker is out, how would you rewrite that chaos? The Lukanette need is strong.

"Did anyone else see me?" Marinette asked, her hands shaking as she put on the mask she'd made with her newly-given knitting powers. They were sitting down in a shadowed alley, free from anyone's curious eyes.

"No," Viperion replied, his voice breathless from the revelations he was having rather than the fly to their hiding spot. "Just...just me." He glanced down at his wrist, noting the unticked snake bangle. "...I'm sorry."

"Huh?" Marinette's gaze darted over to him, then to his miraculous. A flicker of understanding passed over her expression as she whispered a small, "Oh."

Guilt tore up his stomach, even knowing deep down that it wasn't his fault - the akuma had surprised them, giving no time for him to use his power - but he'd been brought in to use Second Chance in the first place, and yet...

Marinette's hand fell upon his wrist, making him look up. She smiled at him, her eyes reassuring.

"It's okay," she said, though her voice wavered. "It was only you who saw my face, and even if you'd used Second Chance, you'd still know anyway."

He could tell that she was still processing, but let the subject go for now and smiled back. There were more important matters to attend to.

They must've been on the same wavelength too, as Marinette pulled away and sighed, thinking aloud, "I have to figure a way to be Ladybug again. The akuma could just be destroyed, but I need Miraculous Ladybug to turn everyone back to normal."

Viperion nodded, briefly giving her a once-over. Her power and wings were useful, but unfortunately didn't help them with the current situation.

It was also distractingly cute, and he couldn't fight that way.

"Wishmaker said that he wanted people to live out their childhood dream," he murmured in thought.

Marinette brought a hand to her face, pinching her cheek in contemplation. "Maybe...maybe if I live it out then, I'll change back?" She considered it a moment longer, then groaned and stood up, starting to pace around the small area they were in. "But we don't have that kind of time! Yeah, my earrings aren't here so Shadow Moth can't make a wish, and I could definitely make enough of a living with my new knitting powers, but that would take years, and—"

Suddenly, she stopped and looked over at him, catching Viperion briefly off-guard since he hadn't said anything. Her eyes scanned him up and down, mental gears turning in her head even if he couldn't tell what she was thinking.

"...That's it!" she gasped, hurrying over to him. She knelt down, clasping his hand in both of hers as she rambled, "Maybe I just need to live out my dream to the fullest!"

He blinked in confusion, unsure of where she was going with this.

"Part of my dream was to eventually make a wedding dress and tuxedo for me and my future husband!" she exclaimed. "If I do that, I might turn back into Ladybug!"

"Ah—" He shut his mouth before anything else could come out. He couldn't deny that it was a solid plan, but he wanted to tread carefully given his feelings, not wanting to make her feel awkward. "That's a great idea." He tried to grin reassuringly, though it came off a little crooked. "Should I go find Adrien?"

"What?" She shook her head. "No, it has to be you!"

He gaped, his heart doing confused flips in his chest. "Why?"

"The guy I always dreamed of marrying when I was little," she began, eyes practically sparkling, "he was exactly like you!"

— — — — —

Marinette hadn't exactly caught onto what she'd said until it already left her mouth, but the way Viperion's face turned red had definitely given it away. Things had gone quiet after the fact, with him sitting a couple meters away while she knitted away at the tuxedo; the tuxedo for him.

She found herself blushing faintly at the thought and immediately forced it down, reminding herself that she didn't love Luka, but Adrien. They were made for each other, like everyone said, and she—

She closed her eyes and took in a steady breath, knowing that she was getting off track. Things were complicated enough with all her thoughts and fears about the future, especially now that Viperion knew her identity.

Though, strangely enough, she didn't feel as nervous about it as she thought she would've.

Her gaze darted over to Viperion, who was keeping lookout and patiently waiting for her to finish with her knitting. He thankfully didn't seem closed off from her at all, and it just served as a reminder as to how mature he was.

Without thinking, she found herself speaking up. "M...my parents..."

He looked over at her, his senses still apparently tuned for her despite his keeping watch. She averted her gaze to the knitting needles working their literal magic into the tuxedo.

"We saw a lot of movies where the girl gets the prince in the end, so they made sure to teach me that love wasn't about money or power or fame or anything like that." She bit her bottom lip, Adrien briefly flashing to mind. "So, I imagined me as the knitting fairy, and I'd make clothes for the whole world until I found him." She peeked up at him. "Someone who wouldn't laugh when I fell on my face. Someone who'd be there for me and think of me first. Someone who wouldn't scold me for everything I did or make me feel bad for it. Someone who'd see more than just clumsy, nervous Marinette."

As much as it hurt to admit, the description didn't fit Adrien. Unless they found each other by coincidence - something that actually happened today, oddly enough - he didn't go out of his way to spend time with her; it was her putting in the effort.

"And..." She trailed off momentarily, lost in her thoughts. "after we fell in love, I'd give up my powers and live happily ever after with him, because we didn't need powers to be happy and it wasn't my powers he fell in love with in the first place."

She'd finished the tuxedo at that point, courtesy of her knitting powers, but her hands dropped to her lap afterward, not making any further movements as her thoughts took over.

Out of the corner of her vision, she saw Viperion take a quick look outside the alley, then get up to move over to her. He sat next to her, picking up one of her hands and letting it rest in his palm.

"I think your dream is really beautiful," he told her gently.

She scoffed, blushing in embarrassment at what must've been fake praise. "Chat made fun of me wanting to be the knitting fairy."

"He was wrong," he retorted immediately. "Your dream might not be realistic, but that doesn't make it any less nice, and there's nothing wrong with dreaming of the perfect guy."

She met his gaze, the softness in them having not lessened even since their break-up, and found the strength to start working on the dress. Being with Luka - dating or otherwise - had always been so easy, excluding all the factors outside of just them being them. She could vaguely imagine her younger self clinging to Luka, claiming him as hers and insisting that he marry her when they grew up.

But things weren't that easy. Nothing was. Marinette had spent her whole life fighting for what she wanted, needing to prove herself to people in order to be accepted.

Fighting for years to smile against Chloe's bullying, because no one would do anything about it. Fighting to be acknowledged by her parents as someone who could do things and didn't need their protection. Fighting against herself to be the one who didn't make all the mistakes or have to be the one to apologize in the end.

After becoming Ladybug, her future became even cloudier and the fighting continued. Waking up in the morning was even harder thanks to late-night patrols, getting through tests seemed impossible due to having less time for studying, and even maintaining a romantic relationship carried the struggle of not being able to tell them her identity.

Marinette stared at the shimmering pink and white fabric beneath her fingertips, it shaping and forming to her will. The occasional sparkle or flash from a beam of sunlight that happened to shine through reminded her of the day at the TV station, where Luka had confessed and she could see only him for just a moment.

"I'm sorry."

Viperion hummed in confusion, raising a brow at her.

"I made everything complicated for you—us," she explained. "All the time, ever since we met. I even got you akumatized, twice."

"Twi—" He blinked rapidly, then leaned closer. His hand came in contact with her cheek as he directed her gaze back to him. "You mean Silencer? How was that your fault?"

"I challenged Bob Roth, and when he grabbed me, you got upset. It pushed you over to the edge."

"You were defending me and my music," he argued, a sternness in his tone that wasn't there before as he put his hand to his chest, "and my emotions are my own. I'm the one who gave into Hawk Moth, not you."

"But..." She sighed, conflicted. "Even later, I kept my identity from you when we were dating. I made us both miserable because of it. I was so upset that I ended up yelling at my friends and they all got akumatized, and then I went and gave my identity to Alya anyway."

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, though he quickly schooled his expression for reasons she didn't know. His gaze strayed momentarily before he looked back at her, asking, "Would you be upset at me for feeling happy for a moment, knowing that you were just as miserable as I was?"

"W-what?" She shook her head; if anything, knowing that he'd also been miserable made her happy as well, probably in the same way as it was for him. It meant that they both cared about it. "No! Not at all!"

"Then I don't blame you for your emotions either."

She pouted at him, but he merely smiled in response. She knew this wasn't a matter he was going to budge on, but it was difficult for her to understand when she was so commonly blamed for things. That was Luka though, she supposed, always forgiving and able to see through her faults.

She remembered her dream husband again and tried to act like her full focus was on the dress so as to not give her thoughts away. She'd only drawn the unnamed man once or twice, and it was just occurring to her that he had black hair and blue eyes as well. Having not understood the concept of kids looking like their parents in their own way at the time, the child version of her had thought it'd be "fair," because then their children would look like both of them no matter what. It was strange, just how much the "simple" version of her love ideals lined up with the boy sitting in front of her now, even with his temporarily green eyes.

Friendship had become something very precious to her ever since the day she'd gotten her miraculous, maybe even more than love itself. Despite the complications and their brief time dating, she was friends with Luka above all else. No matter what happened in regards to the romantic aspects of their relationship, their friendship remained unchanged, like they really would be friends even if they had the worst break-up in the history of Paris. It was comfortable, to the point where she felt embarrassed for ever avoiding him in the first place.

She was reminded yet again of another stark contrast with Adrien. She hadn't been scared of starting anything with Luka, yet Adrien was a constant cloud of dread above her head, the fear of being rejected or being made fun of holding her back from doing what she wanted.

If her child self could see her now, she'd be confused. Marinette could hear her now, asking why her love - or at least, what she believed to be love - caused her so much stress. That was never what she'd wanted; in fact, it had been the exact opposite. Crushing on Adrien had done nothing but humiliate her, the little girl inside her covering her eyes from the sight. Her time with Luka, on the other hand...

"It looks beautiful."

Marinette jerked her head up to see Viperion's approving gaze, then looked down to the wedding dress in her lap. It was finished, pink with flashes of white and blacks; exactly the kind of dress she would've wanted when she was younger, though obviously with an older touch.

"Thank you," she hurried to say when she realized that she hadn't responded to him. He chuckled in reply, though it was good-natured.

He reached for the tuxedo she'd set aside, but stopped halfway as if realizing something. He looked to her, then the dress, then back to her, asking carefully, "Do you want me to keep watch while we put these on?"

It took her a moment to realize what he meant; that he - wearing a bodysuit - could easily slip on the clothes over it, but she didn't have that sort of luxury due to her dress. She managed to summon enough of her inner Ladybug to focus on the importance of the task over the potential embarrassment, giving him an appreciative nod.

She trusted him not to look.

As she went to the darkest parts of the alley to change, Viperion heading in the opposite direction, her mind drifted back to the past again. The little journey there, even if it'd been unwilling on her part courtesy of the akuma, had been a nice change from constantly worrying over her future. As important as it was to focus on what she wanted to do and plan accordingly, the past was equally as important. It shaped her into who she was now and offered insight on herself that she couldn't have gotten otherwise.

"...Lu—I mean, Viperion?" she called just as she finished putting on the wedding dress.

"Yeah?"

She turned to face him, then giggled when noticing that he still had his back turned to her. "You can look now."

He hesitated, then slowly shifted to face her. He was mostly dressed, but was in the process of buttoning up the tuxedo, his hands fumbling with one of the buttons as he took her in.

She approached, gently brushing his hands aside as she started taking care of the few remaining buttons. Not wanting to delay talking to him like before, she figured now was the best time as any to say what was on her mind.

"I still don't know what I want for my future. I feel like a lot of doors are opening and closing every day, and whenever I want to try one, there just ends up being more doors, or it's already closed when I get there. There are too many possibilities and I keep being afraid that I'll trip on the one I really want to go to." Her gaze left the button she was holding so she could meet his eyes. "I just know that I really want you to be there for all of it... i-if that's what you want." Wanting to make sure instead of presuming like she tended to do, she asked cautiously, "Do you?"

His face didn't show a visible reaction, but she heard the slight sound of him swallowing, synced up with a single blink. Afterward, he absolutely beamed at her, the smile more blinding than the light being cast against his back.

"I do," he replied,

In time with his words, the final button was slipped into place. Marinette felt a warm sensation run through her body, starting from her feet and then making her shudder as it moved its way up to her head. Her body was turning white, just as before when Wishmaker first shot her, though Viperion's tuxedo had joined as well.

There was a flash between them, and she found herself back as normal, wingless Marinette when it faded.

Viperion, now lacking what she'd made for him, still looked just as happy to see her.

"I-I did it!" she gasped, genuinely surprised that it worked. "We did it!"

She threw her hands up in the air in celebration, but snapped back to reality as she remembered that she still needed to turn back into Ladybug and take care of Wishmaker. She opened her purse, easing as she saw Tikki already munching away on a macaron.

"Marinette?"

She looked back up at Viperion, noticing that he still had something to say. "Yes?"

"I might not be able to make enough sense of your inner music to tell you what you'll want, but I don't think you have anything to worry about. I know that whatever you decide to do is going to be as extraordinary as you are."

She stifled a squeak, blushing at the sudden compliment and thankful that Tikki was still chewing the last bits of the macaron. "A-ah, thank you. You too—with the extraordinary thing, not your inner music, because I can't hear that even though I'm sure it's really amazing!"

Had it been anyone else, she might've prayed for a hole to swallow her, but it was impossible to feel weird when he smiled at her the way he did.

Once Tikki had gotten her fill, Marinette transformed and they began to leave the alley together, though Ladybug stopped partway as she remembered something; something she'd done many times before and felt it time to get back to doing.

Viperion raised a brow at her sudden stopping, then stiffened when she leaned towards him and kissed his cheek. She flashed him a smile, noting silently that she missed these little exchanges between them, then leaped away to head back to where Wishmaker was likely to be. Viperion followed suit, but a split second behind his usual speed.

She was sure he'd be smiling back if she looked, but she didn't have to; they were connected, maybe not by some sort of magic thread or cosmic force, but by them and the relationship she hoped that they would continue to build in the future.

And whenever they got back to the fight, just in time to see Chat Noir allow himself to be hit by Wishmaker's attack, a few more doors would close and her future would start to look a little different than what she'd considered that morning.

Not necessarily in a bad way either.

[caspercryptid]

Six from the server, continuing to poke and prpd the werewolf!Naph AU How does Jayce feel about suddenly developing a case of lycanthropy? <:3c i assume it can't be pleasant

Hi six!! Okay, This is the sequel to This and then This. Viktor's Werewolf Kid Bit Jayce. Modern AU, They're Divorced.

CW: passing references to casual sedation. Werewolf-typical blood description in passing. ___

Jayce wakes up under a blanket, naked and bleary, in someone’s yard, so so far this was about in line with how college had gone. He’d had worse.

He pushes himself up slowly. His mouth tastes like copper, and he doesn’t remember much of anything. What had–

A kid, flying at him, a wolf, blood, pain, Viktor, a dart gun, pain, a wolf, blood–

He shoots the rest of the way up so hard he thinks for a second his vision inverts. His head aches, and his wrists and ankles are stinging, scraped like something rubbed them raw. He tries to take inventory. His leg really fucking hurts but there’s about six sets of teethmarks in it so that fucking tracks.

There’s a mug next to him that seems to have world’s best dad written on it. It has coffee in it. He stares at it for a solid minute, and then decides that it’s probably drugged and picks it up, gingerly, without drinking it. He tries to do the math on if Viktor will kill him harder for being rude and not drinking the drugged coffee, or for wandering in naked, or for daring to bundle himself up in the blanket and come into the house, when he realizes that there's someone staring at him.

He looks up.

The kid is on the back deck, sitting on the slightly raised wooden edge. There's a plate in his lap, like maybe he's been out here a while, eating, since it's empty. There are bags under his eyes. He’s just kind of giving Jayce a dead-eyed stare.

Jayce opens his mouth to say something and the kid cuts him off.

“I’m not sorry.”

Jayce closes it again, considering that.

“That’s fair,” He says, eventually, “Why would you be?”

“Because I've heard you’re an asshole.”

“I am an asshole. What’s your name, again?”

“Naph.”

“Naph, huh.” Jayce shifts in place, slightly uncomfortably as his leg burns, but he carefully folds it more underneath him so he can fold the blanket across his lap.

“The coffee’s drugged,” Naph says, like a peace offering.

“I know. You’re Viktor’s?”

The kid eyes him suspiciously, and Jayce feels a weird pang of something very like pride. Yeah, that’s the way you’re supposed to look when some weirdo asks about your dad. It also looked a lot like Viktor looked when anyone asked him about anything he cared about even slightly. Like father like son, Jayce guessed.

“...Yeah.” Naph says. “He never talked about you.”

He says it with such absolute conviction that Jayce is almost certain that it’s a lie, but he nods and pretends he believes it anyway.

“He didn’t have to. I wasn’t that important.”

Naph tilts his head a little. “–you’re really not mad.”

Jayce snorts. “Why would I be mad?”

“Because I bit you? You’re a werewolf. You’re gonna have to turn into a giant dog once a month. Viktor played frisbee with you.”

Well. Jayce has conflicting feelings about that last one. There’s something weirdly comforting about it, which is almost more disturbing than being angry. He carefully folds that up and then mercilessly represses it. Down the garbage disposal it goes. Flip. Brrrrrrrr.

“Hello?” Naph prompts. Right. Kids didn’t do that thing where they just smile expectantly at you till you got your shit together. He kind of preferred the rudeness. Jayce shakes himself out of it.

“You apologized.”

Naph squints at him. “...I obviously didn’t mean that. I apologized before I bit you. I don’t think pre-apologies count.”

“Kid, if pre-apologies don’t count, I have wronged so many people.”

“A rare moment of self awareness.” Viktor says, dryly, from the doorway, and Jayce instinctually straightens up, ignoring the snort from Naph.

“Hey.” Jayce says, lamely. Viktor’s expression does... something. He’d always been hard to read, the decades between them had certainly not made it any easier. But something softens a little in his expression after a moment, just for a second, before he turns his back.

“Come inside when you’re ready, both of you.” He says. “I made pancakes.”

And that’s more than enough.

[vampireshmampire]

The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side (Ch 4/8)

Guillermo can't remember the last thirteen years of his life. It has something to do with being found beaten half to death on the side of the road three months ago. Although he’s safe now, living with relatives far from New York, the trauma lingers—physically and mentally—and he’s having trouble putting his pieces back together. Everyone says he just needs to give it time, but he may not have much of that left. The past is catching up, and it’s not going to wait for him to remember it.

AO3 link!

You dream of the house again that night. This time you run through it, throwing open every door, screaming at the top of your lungs. Not words, just screaming, endless and soundless though it rips the back of your throat. You tear the paintings off the wall and claw at them, as if you could peel the pigment away and uncover the faces you know should be there. There are too many coffins and they’re all empty. There’s no one here but you.

You collapse on the floor and you scream and scream and scream until you wake up, shaking with silent tears.

You lay there, feeling the cold water sliding down the side of your face to drip uncomfortably into your ears. You want this to be over. You want it to go away. You want whoever did this to do what they're going to do so that one way or another, you don't--

Something in your kitchen goes clonk.

There are things in your kitchen that go clonk, but nothing that should go clonk by itself in the middle of the night.   

You push the covers away and sit up. You don’t hear anything. You take a deep breath and hold it, trying to hear past your own pounding heart.

Something in your kitchen goes shff-thmp.

There is nothing in your kitchen that should be going shff-thmp at any time of day.

From under your bed, you pull out the crowbar. You had originally intended to buy a baseball bat, but you weren’t satisfied with any of them. The metal ones felt flimsy and every time you picked up a wooden one, you couldn’t stop thinking about how hard it would be for you to break it, and how sharp a point it might make. The crowbar, in contrast, felt nice and solid in your hand, even if your arms couldn’t seem to get the angle of the swing right. You had to keep fighting the instinct to stab with it.

You open your bedroom door very slowly.  

There is definitely something going on in your kitchen. You can hear a lot of rustling and thumping, and the occasional muffled grunt. This doesn’t sound like an average home invasion, or even a non-average home invasion.

It takes approximately five million years to creep down the little hallway to the kitchen. Your hands are so sweaty on the crowbar, you almost drop it twice before you get there. At one point, you hear a soft hiss, like an angry cat with the sound turned down.

You have excellent night vision, but when you get to the doorway you can’t make any sense of what you’re seeing. Two shadows lurch back and forth between your kitchen and living room, circling like dancers to music you can’t hear.

You turn the lights on. 

Uncle Marco freezes in the middle of attempting to murder a total stranger in your apartment. He has the man pinned to the kitchen counter. Both his hands are wrapped around a long piece of wood, capped at one end in a sheath of silvery metal that ends in a sharp point. The man at the wrong end of that point has his hands gripping Marco’s wrists, trying to hold the weapon at bay.

The stranger's clothes are so old fashioned they have shot past retro and hit ren fair attire. His hair is long and dark and spills across the counter like ink. His face…

Your ears begin to ring.

His face is…

Your head aches like it’s trapped in a vice. You think it might explode. Halos of light burst in the corners of your eyes as you stare at that face.

The face you cannot comprehend goes stark with fear. The stranger calls your name and the voice hits your ears like a death knell, an almost physical force straight to your brain, and you can already feel the blood and the bile rising up.

But the darkness rises faster, and you are falling, and your last thought is I know you.

You wake up in your bed. For a second, you think it was a dream, and you are not sure if that thought comes with relief or despair.

Then you notice the light is coming from the lamp, not the window, and you see Uncle Marco sitting on a chair next to your bed with an expression so grim you almost don’t recognize him beneath it. You sit up, and whatever you were about to say, you don’t, because the stranger is here too.

He stands with his back to you, ramrod stiff behind his cape.

“What’s going on?” you ask. Uncle Marco sighs, heavily, and rubs at his face, clearly wrestling with something.

“This isn’t…how we like to introduce people to this. It’s a lot to take in, even if you aren’t—”

Broken.

“—traumatized.” Uncle Marco sets the silver-pointed stake down on the bed beside you. "You come from a very long line of vampire hunters, descended from Abraham van Helsing. That," he points at the stranger, "is a vampire."

You look at the stake. You look at your uncle. You look at the stranger, who still hasn’t turned around.

Vampire hunters. It has to be a joke. Those aren’t real. Vampires aren’t real.

“I don’t believe you,” you say, even though you’re actually kind of on the fence, because you can’t think of anything else to say.

“Show him,” Uncle Marco orders. “Carefully.”

The stranger half turns towards you, though he keeps his face turned away. He’s standing between you and the full-length mirror on your closet, and at this angle, you should be able to see his face reflected in it.

You can’t. You and your uncle are the only people in your room, according to the mirror.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay, that’s—vampire are real, okay. That—is a thing. Is everyone in the family a vampire hunter?"

"No, not everyone. We're careful about who we bring in. Not everyone can handle it."

"Is Alice--?"

"We're the family quartermasters—we keep everyone outfitted for the field. Weapons, armor, supplies.”

You try to imagine Alice—cheerful, sunny-smiled Alice you’d known your whole life—killing vampires. It’s worryingly easy.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"Your mother said no. It’s not that she didn’t think you couldn’t do it. She thought you wouldn’t have the heart for it. And…well, you know. You always had that…that whole thing about vampires--”

You think about how you were a vampire for Halloween three years in a row, and that your vampire hunting relatives knew about it, and very suddenly want to not be talking about this. You nod at the real live vampire.

“So what is one doing here, in my room?”

You have had this fantasy a thousand times, although it usually involves significantly more smoldering gazes and significantly less Uncle Marco. From a decade away, you can feel your teenaged self asking what exactly is the process and procedure for becoming a vampire and will he do it if I ask very nicely.

You tell yourself that it comes from your teenaged self.

“Magically speaking, the human brain is very…stubborn,” Uncle Marco says. The vampire snorts, which earns him a very dangerous glare to the back of the head. “You can’t just take things out. You can paint over things, or hide them, or wall them off, but it’ll still be in there somewhere. The right word, the right trigger, and it all comes undone. Your brain knows who you’re supposed to be.”

“That’s very interesting,” you say, patiently, knowing what an asshole that makes you sound like even as you say it, “but—”

“You’re cursed.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Uncle Marco’s expression doesn’t change.

“Oh.”

He waits to see if you’ll say anything else. You don’t. Your first instinct is to say “that’s ridiculous”, but you’re looking at a mirror that’s only two-thirds full, so you don't say anything.

“This particular curse hides memories behind the magical equivalent of an electric fence. They’re in there, you might even be able to see them, but every time you to try get at them…”

Headaches and nosebleeds and worse. You think of all those little standalone thoughts, your certainties—such little things, fragments of memories, small enough to slip through the gaps in the fence and make their way to you.

“I don’t know if they were trying to make you forget the last thirteen years, or if they tried to make you forget about vampires and there just…wasn’t anything left over.”

You glance at the vampire again.

“You wanted me to forget you?”

The vampire whirls around. You shut your eyes, but not fast enough.

There is nothing wrong with the vampire’s face. You can see that there was nothing wrong. Objectively, you were aware of a proud nose and a trim beard, and dark eyes, but somewhere between your eyes and your brain, that image scrambles into something you can’t understand. It’s like trying to comprehend infinity. It’s like looking at the inside of your own eyeballs.

You pinch your nose shut, feeling the tell-tale ooze of blood seeping towards freedom. You can’t make out the vampire’s words, just a squeezing pressure on your eardrums, but you do hear your Uncle Marco.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you stay in here! Look at what you’re doing to him just standing there--!”

“It’s okay!” you say, not opening your eyes, your voice sounding strange through your pinched nostrils. “It’s okay, I want him here. It’s how I know this is actually happening.”

You crack open an eyelid. The vampire has turned back around again. The cape obscures most of the body, but somehow you know what you’d see. Crystal clear in your mind’s eye are the hunched shoulders, the fingers nervously twisting a large ring, even the downcast expression, although you can’t picture the face.

You wish you could picture the face.

You take a tissue from the bedside table and press it to your nose so you can at least sound sort of normal. It is very important that you not look or sound uncool in front of the vampire, which is so high school of you.

"By ‘they’ I mean ‘whoever did this to you’. As much as it pains me to admit it,” this said only slightly sarcastically, “I don’t think he’s the bad guy here. Or at least, not any more of a bad guy than your average blood-sucking monster. He says you worked for him; lived with him and three other vampires as their bodyguard."

Something about that answer feels off. You know, the way you know the other things, that it’s true, but you also think maybe it’s not the whole truth.

"What does a vampire need a bodyguard for?"

"Protecting them from other vampires, mostly, according to him."

You look down at the stake in your hand. It’s in your blood. It’s been your life, all day every day, for the last thirteen years. That many years of memories, it stopped being just stories in your head, it was you. Your body has been shredding itself to pieces trying to work around this curse because there wasn’t enough of you left to work with.

No wonder you’re a wreck.

You look at the vampire again, who is still the way only someone who doesn’t need to breathe can be still.

“Then…what happened?"

"Says he woke up one night and you were gone. They found signs of a struggle in the backyard. Apparently, he had a 'friend' in a werewolf pack and asked her to track your scent. It led them to, and I quote, 'a warehouse full of blood'."

The old wounds on your chest and arms tingle unpleasantly. There are some things you have been glad you don’t remember.

"Then they went to some witches and asked them to help track you down. Well--they wanted to track down your body. Imagine their surprise to hear you were alive and well out here."

Something about that story nags at you. Something doesn't feel quite right, the same way saying you were this vampire’s bodyguard doesn’t feel quite right.

"Witches and werewolves."

"They're real," Uncle Marco starts to say.

"No, I believe you, I just--I get the feeling like...I remember you guys don't get along with those two groups of people."

The vampire nods.

"But you went to them anyway?"

Nod.

"Why?"

The vampire takes a step backwards, then another.

“Careful,” Uncle Marco says, warningly.

The vampire reaches out and feels blindly along the bed until his hand bumps against your leg. He wraps his hand around your ankle and squeezes gently. Then he lets go, very hurriedly, as if he is embarrassed.

You glance at Uncle Marco, who has gone very still. His eyes are narrowed and his mouth is a thin, hard line. It makes you feel nervous the way you felt nervous when your mother found all those Interview with a Vampire pictures under your bed.

“Uncle Marco, could you give us a minute?” you ask.

“No,” says Uncle Marco.

Fortunately, you are not twelve this time.

“Uncle Marco,” you say, very firmly, “please give me, a grown man, a minute alone, in my own room in my own apartment.”

Uncle Marco looks surprised, and you don’t blame him. The entire time you’ve been in Denver, the firmest you’ve managed has hovered somewhere below ‘al dente noodle’. 

“Alright,” he says, warily, but he casts a meaningful look at the stake, and doesn’t take it from you when he goes.

You test your nose, and find it’s stopped bleeding. You take a notebook out of your bedside table. You’d bought it with the intention of using it to write down the things you remembered. The first few pages are spattered with results of that little exercise.

You flip to a clean page and lean forward to set the notebook and pen next to the vampire’s hand. The vampire hesitates, then picks it up.

“What’s your name?” you ask. The vampire shakes his head. “Please.”

Another, more emphatic shake. The curiosity is killing you, but you know he’s making the smart call. It’d probably make your brain explode.

“I’m not really your bodyguard, am I?”

The vampire nods and scribbles something in the notebook.

You were my familiar, first.

You are not surprised to see that he writes in a curling and elegant hand. You reach into your bedside drawer again, and take out the note. You’d forgotten about it in your hurry to mail the wallet back to Nicoli Bronson, but you’d been relieved, not worried, when you found it. It had been hidden so well in your wallet, you’re sure they wouldn’t have known it was there.

You’ve been keeping it close, because it still makes you smile every time you look at it. And it feels so good to smile.

You hold it out to him. He inhales sharply. Tentatively, he takes it from your fingers. You see the edges of the paper tremble slightly, though he’s only holding it by his fingertips, as if afraid he might damage it.

“I found it in my wallet,” you say, softly. Even though you know the answer, you ask “Did you write it?”

He very carefully passes the note back to you, and nods once.

“What does it mean?”

The vampire starts to write in the notebook. Stops. Starts. Stops. Sighs.

It’s a very long story. You killed vampires, we did not kill you for it, because you saved our lives.

He reaches out and rests his hand on your knee. Actually, slightly above your knee. To your despair, you begin to blush, which is stupid, because you are reading too much into it, you have to be.

But God help you, you are alone in your bedroom with a vampire, which has been your deepest and most secret wish since you hit puberty. Your brain keeps making abortive attempts to imagine things it has no right to be imagining right now. It’s ping-ponging back and forth between the curse headaches and your own repression, but absolutely refusing to give up, like a bumblebee knocking into a window.

You notice that even though you can feel the weight of his hand through the sheet, you can’t feel any warmth. You wonder if vampires have no body heat. Out of purely scientific curiosity, you reach for his hand.

Then you lunge for him, hurling yourself out of the bed and grabbing him by the waist, dragging you both down to the floor.

Now look, you think sternly to your body as you fall feather-slowly, the world crystalizing around you such that each heartbeat takes a thousand years, I know we’re a little disappointed about how this scene is shaking out, but the response to not being ravished by a vampire is not do the ravishing ourselves.

Your body does not respond, but it doesn’t need to—the front brain has caught up with the hind brain reflexes and noticed the silver-tipped crossbow bolt that punched through your window, currently hovering in mid-flight straight towards where the vampire’s head had been.

Ah, you think, somewhat embarrassed. Carry on.

You hit the ground with a thud, nearly cracking your skulls together.

You hear Uncle Marco thundering down the hallway and twist yourself around. He starts to throw the door open and you kick out with both legs, slamming it shut again.

“Don’t!” you say. “Crossbow bolt came straight through my window.”

“Are you—"

“We’re okay. I need to get the light out before we can stand up.”

The vampire slithers out from beneath you. There is a shudder in the air, a blurring motion, and you are plunged into darkness.

In the space of half a breath, the vampire had crossed the room, turned out the lights, and come back to crouch beside you.

It is incredibly sexy of him, to be quite honest.

Focus.

You crawl across the floor to your closet and open the door, grateful it opens away from the window, and your attacker won’t see the shifting reflection of the mirror. You’d have done this even if it had opened the wrong way, though. You don’t care how high school it makes you, you are not walking around in front of a hot vampire in your boxers and a ratty band t-shirt your cousin lent you.

You hope you don’t actually look like you dressed in the dark.

“Guillermo?” your uncle calls.

“Back away from the door, we’re coming out.”

You slide out into the hallway, crouched low. It’s only when the door is carefully shut that you and the vampire both stand. Your uncle is giving you the strangest look, half-proud, half-amazed.

You are still holding the stake. You realize you never put it down, except when you were getting changed.

Something inside of you snaps.

It’s not a shattering of sanity, or the breaking of a dam. It feels like the first crack in an eggshell. The click of a key in a lock.

Your front door thuds loudly as someone tries to open it and is stopped by the shiny new deadbolt you’d purchased along with the crowbar.

You are instantly standing between the vampire and the exit, stake at the ready. Shit, you think, I am a vampire bodyguard.

 “What is this? Vampires?”

Some shuffling behind you.

“He says he hears a heartbeat,” Uncle Marco says, lowly.

The front door rattles—you’re not sure how they plan to open the deadbolt and you have no intention of finding out. You drop low, out of sight of the windows, and scurry across to the front door. You can hear someone muttering and swearing on the other side. You brace yourself, your grip firm and comfortable on the stake in your hand.

You snap open the deadbolt, jerk the door open, and come centimeters from impaling your cousin Alice through the heart.

“Jesus fuck!” she yelps, dropping the lockpicks in her hand.

You grab her and haul her inside, slamming the door shut.

“What are you doing?” you hiss

“Saving your butt!” she hisses back. “There’s like five guys stalking your apartment build—what the fuck.”

You don’t need to turn around to know what she’s looking at.

“I was his bodyguard. Whoever grabbed me cursed me so I’d forget working for him, but because I’ve been doing nothing but that, it took out the whole thirteen years.”

“Okay,” Alice says, with very clearly forced calm. “That explains why the Order of Rhodes is here.”

Uncle Marco swears, quietly but explosively.

To your surprise, so does the vampire. You assume it’s a swear because it has the right tone—you don’t hear the words, just a pressure on your eardrums that makes your teeth grind.

You hate being the only one not in the loop.

“Who?”

“They’re a vampire hunting organization.” She glances at the stake in your hand and adds, “No relation to us. They’ve basically turned vampire hunting into a religious cult. Absolutely nutbars--part of their initiation is tattooing crucifixes on their necks with ink made out of holy water.”

A terrible prickling feeling goes up your spine, and a wave of nausea unfurls behind it. You want to shut your eyes, but you don’t, against the image that flashes much too clearly to be your imagination. Someone bending down so they are face-to-face with you, although your memory has no more faces than your dreams do, faded black ink wrapping around their neck.

“They’re zealots,” Uncle Marco snaps. “They cross lines no one should touch.” He gives you a look that is both sad and angry, which makes you want to cry. “A Van Helsing working for a vampire is exactly the kind of thing they’d decide is a sin to be punished.”  

Hands rest on your shoulders. You are very aware of the vampire standing behind you. His grip is strong and protective and it sends goosebumps rippling down your arms and you pray to whatever god there is that it doesn’t show on your face.

Alice’s eyebrows go up, but she’s not looking at your face. She’s looking at the vampire’s.

“We have to get you out of here,” Uncle Marco said. “We have a safehouse. Alice?”

Alice pulls out her phone, hits two buttons, and something in the near distance goes whumph. You wait for one, two, three seconds, and then the fire alarm goes off, blaring up and down the hallway outside.

“We’ll lose them in the crowd,” Alice says, like it’s totally normal that she’s just done whatever the hell she just did.  

“Alice! What have I told you about explosives? Think before you use them! Look at how he’s dressed! He can’t blend in!”

Suddenly a pair of cool hands are pressed over your ears. The vampire is standing very close to you, and you can feel his voice reverberating from his chest to your back and you really really hope he doesn’t notice how warm your ears are getting under his hands.

Five minutes later, you join your neighbors, stumbling half-dressed down the hallway. You resist the urge to look down the front of your jacket.

Outside, you feel jittery and exposed, your eyes darting wildly from building to building. The people hunting you may not know you have the vampire with you, but they do know what you look like. They knew where your apartment was. How long have they been watching you? Why did they wait this long? Why the mocking note and the threatening phone call?

Why the warning?

Alice’s car is in the parking lot; you pile in and she pulls out just as the first fire truck approaches.

You give into temptation and pull the collar of your jacket forward, peering down. The bat’s little claws are curled in your sweater, pulling the threads loose. It was shifting around a lot when you first left the apartment, but now it has settled with its head turned to the side and resting on your chest. Its eyes are closed. You wonder if it has somehow fallen asleep.

As though sensing your gaze, the bat suddenly looks up. It lets out a tiny squeak.

You wonder why you can look at the vampire when it’s like this.

There are so many questions you want answered, so many things you want to ask him, and you know you probably wouldn’t be able to hear any of the answers. All the same, it brings a sense of relief, and comfort.  

At least you know that they did look for you.

You try to remind yourself to ask who they are.

[chipper-smol]

Hollow Knight Telephone Round Two: Relic Coffee Shop

Prompt

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Prompts:

1: Lemm finds an odd fellow at the Blue Lake. Normally he wouldn’t bother to approach a stranger out of nowhere, but something in his gut urges him to take action. Quirrel, feeling the effects of age on his body, stares incredulously at the bearded face of a stranger who apparently wants to have him over for coffee. 2: Lemm sets up shop in an abandoned cafe. It’s roomy and pleasant at first, but there are _stacks_ of these disgusting old bitter coffee beans clogging up the rooms. It doesn’t help that bugs keep coming in to order a drink even though he’s posted signs to _KEEP OUT!!_ However, once they start offering Geo be begrudgingly takes it as an opportunity to achieve funds to pay for relics. 3: At first, the coffee was just an excuse to get Geo to pay for relics, but Lemm’s begun to notice that bugs who wandered into his shop with the telltale early symptoms of infection no longer have them on their return visits. He tells himself he’s not an altruist. He’s _not._It’s just a waste to throw out old coffee when someone just needs a pick-me-up.

By @bluwails​

------------------------------- By @hydrochlorinate​

“Just don’t. Tell. Anyone. Else.”

Those were the words that came out of the grumpy barista’s mouth that fateful day. One’s that you completely ignored, as you had already been drinking what could only be the drink of HIgher Beings, with just how heavenly it tasted.

Grinning like a lunatic, you give him 45 geo, not a small sum. If anything though, it was hilariously cheap for a drink that was this good. The bug doesn’t complain about the amount though, so he’s probably fine with it. Wings fluttering in excitement, you leave the shop, ready to tell any remaining survivors about the amazing drink shop you just found.

===============>(Coffee Shop AU)

The next time you come in, the store is absolutely packed. Denizens from all across the ruins of Hallownest are here, ranging from some uninfected moss knights to that one ladybug that you had a dance off with a while back. There's even a noble here, and- is that a mantis?

Anyway, it looks like your very subtle method of giving publicity to this cafe by talking about literally nothing else to whomever you talked to over the following week paid off. Good, this place deserves all the atte-

“You.”

Oh? You snap out of your thoughts, and look towards the counter, where the barista is levelling a glare at you that could instantly wither those delicate flowers that have been spreading around recently.

You stroll on up to the counter, a grin stretching across your face. The barista narrows his eyes.

���Didn’t I tell you to keep this a secret? Why is my establishment filled to the brim with bugs? Who are these people?!”

...huh. Did he tell you to keep it on the down low? It seems in character from your limited interactions, but you don’t remember exactly. Oh well, time to play it off. You tell him that, well, what can you say except you’re welcome.

You’ve never seen a bug go from “Irritated” to “Ballistic” as fast as this barista. Usually they make a stop at “Angry” or “Absolutely Livid”.

“YOU’RE WELCOME?!?!”

No, see, he’s supposed to say thank you.

“THANK YOU???”

You tell him he’s welcome, before laughing. No, really, you tell him, look around, the place is packed! Business is booming! The barista (you should really ask for his name) manages to bring his volume under control, taking in a deep breath.

“That’s part of the problem. I’m a relic seeker, not a-” He gestures around the cafe, as if looking for the right words to use. Barista, you suggest.

“Exactly. I’m not made to brew coffee-” Oh, that’s what it was called. “-or to be dealing with customers all day long.”

Sure. That’s why he decided to allow people to keep purchasing coffee, or why he decided to put on a cute green and white visor.

You didn’t just come to check in on your new favorite bug though, you have coffee to order! Taking out a sheet of paper from your bag, you begin to read out both your order, and those of your companions. Even with the end of the infection, the leftover damage to hallownest’s caves and architecture makes it dangerous to travel alone.

As you begin to read out your order, the barista shifts from crotchety old bug to attentive worker. You really wish you had come back earlier, instead of letting some of your other traveling buddies pick up the coffee for you. Something about the atmosphere here is… relaxing, despite the amount of people.

After your order is finished, you leave the cafe. Back to the real world bucko, as an old friend of yours would always say.

...Wait a minute you never got the barista’s name.

===============>(Coffee Shop AU)

It’s been 3 weeks. You think. Time gets a little funky down here, what with the sudden influx of void. Sure, most of it has cleared out by now, but every so often your exploration party comes across a tunnel that hasn’t quite been fully illuminated, the shadows just a bit too thick to be natural.

You enter the coffee shop again. It’s gotten a lot quieter as time went on and bugs started coming in on a schedule. There’s still plenty of other customers here, but it’s nowhere near as packed as the first couple of days. Lemm (yeah, you finally got his name) stands at the counter, still slightly disgruntled, but a lot less so than he was at the beginning. In fact, he’s actually talking to someone right now! An actual conversation too, not just an exchange of witty remarks. You can’t see their face, but they appear to be a pillbug wearing a blue hood. 
As you step up to the counter, you can hear their conversation a bit better.

“...of course, I couldn’t just leave it sitting there right? So I move to pick it up, only to find out that the desk I dropped it on was magnetized! So here I am, trying and failing to pick up this one plant hanger for a solid 10 minutes.”

They both laugh at this, before noticing you. The unknown bug turns to face you, allowing you to see his mask.

“Oh, hello, I don’t believe we’ve met before!”

You greet him back, introducing yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Quirrell. I’m… well, I can’t really call myself an explorer, because I’ve already been everywhere! I’m more of a wanderer, really.”

Ahh, a free spirit, you see. You point out that just because he’s been everywhere doesn’t mean he’s seen everything. After all, who knows what could’ve gone down during Hallownest’s peak. Both Quirrell and Lemm get amused by this, for some reason. Seeing your confused look, Lemm decides to speak up.

"He probably knows more about Hallownest than everyone here, having lived here since before the infection and all."

Your eyes widen, and your wings begin to flutter. Truly? An original denizen, and not someone else trying to piece together its history? Quirrell waves off the words, though.

"I wouldn't go that far…" He begins, but Lemm cuts him off before he can go any further.

"Hah! Next you'll be telling me that you weren't the head assistant of the kingdom's best scientist!"

Giving off the equivalent of a blush, Quirrell rubs the back of his head. Lemm turns back to you.

"I'm sure you didn't come in just to chat, though. What can I get for you?"

It's nice to see him making friends.

------------------------------- By @schyrsivochter​

Lemm wasn’t a sociable person. That was a fact. He wasn’t good at talking, or at being friendly. (It wasn’t like he needed it, anyway. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed conversing with another bug.)

No, Lemm was much more of a person for reading. Deciphering the journals of the long dead, the writing and languages, was something he thoroughly enjoyed. Other artefacts spoke differently: the materials from which they were made, the way they were worked, the artistic style. It was a different kind of reading; some might say a more figurative one. But it was just as interesting.

Of course, architecture was part of that. It had not been a coincidence that Lemm had set up camp in Hallownest’s abandoned capital. When he’d arrived, he hadn’t dared to think that he’d ever finish exploring and finding new things. And it was true; he’d only explored a little bit before he’d realised that collecting and gathering relics was no use if he never took a proper look at them, instead letting them gather dust on the shelves, the tables, and the floor of the long-abandoned shop he’d moved into. So he’d decided to stay there, poring over his collection. His picture of the world of Hallownest in times past grew ever more detailed, more complete.

He’d opened the shop because people did not seem to stop wanting to sell him relics, and it never hurt to appear a little professional. And it had been a reliable source of new artefacts; new knowledge. He’d never sold anything, of course. His collection was his, and his alone.

And then came the dark. The cleansing void. It had taken him by surprise; he’d been working, and only noticed that anything was amiss when the light dimmed and he was finally bathed in darkness. He must’ve fallen unconscious at that point, and there’d been no telling how long it had been until he’d awoken. It hadn’t been until later that he’d learned that this was what had obliterated the plague, leaving in its wake hundreds of confused survivors and thousands of dead. No, the next thing to happen that told him things were not as usual was that a bug had come in, asked if he was open, and, upon his affirmative answer, asked for a hot drink, holding out a piece of ten.

Taken by surprise, he’d offered to make tea. He’d immediately regretted it, since it meant the bug would be staying for a while, probably without selling him relics, but it was easy enough to do and would get him geo, his supply of which had been running low. So he put a kettle on and took the money. The bug had thanked him profusely, while he had elected to remain quiet.

Not long afterwards, the same bug and four others stood in the doorway. Whether they had relics for him, he’d asked. They’d looked amongst themselves, and one had asked, ‘Is this not a coffee shop?’

‘I suppose it might’ve once been,’ he’d said. ‘Now it’s mine.’

More confused looks and standing around, and then the bug he’d seen before asked if he’d make more tea. He’d said no, not unless they paid him twice as much as the last time and stayed quiet and didn’t disturb him in his work. To his horror, the five bugs had agreed, and so he’d dug out cups from the coffee shop’s former stock and afterwards found himself a little richer in geo but with a significantly worse mood.

He had his peace afterwards, though. At least for a while. Now a bug had arrived, taller than the others, wearing a headscarf. Lemm had mentally prepared for the bug to ask for coffee, but the bug had halted in front of one of the tables that Lemm had repurposed for his collection of relics.

‘Admiring my collection?’ Lemm asked.

’Yes, quite!’ the bug answered, chipper and friendly. ‘I’m curious how you managed to get a hold of so many texts in such diverse languages! These are journals, are they not?’

‘They are,’ Lemm acknowledged. ‘From all over Hallownest.’

‘But most of them aren’t any Hallownest language.’ The bug put a hand on his mask. ‘I suppose they’re from travellers that came to the ruins and perished?’

‘Quite right,’ Lemm said. He had to admit, begrudgingly, that the bug standing before him was sharp and knew his history. A trait not many others shared.

‘Can you read all of them?’ The mask turned towards Lemm, inclined in question.

‘No,’ he answered truthfully, making his way around the counter to stand next to the bug. ‘I haven’t had the time to decipher all of them yet. But I’ll get around to it eventually.’

‘Interesting,’ the bug said. ‘I can—huh?’

He turned towards the entrance, and Lemm followed his gaze. Lemm was about to ask what the problem was, when a bug appeared in the entrance. The one that he’d made tea twice for. Ah yes, he thought. A customer. Two of them, in fact; one of the others from before had joined the one who’d taken a fancy to paying Lemm to make tea.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Lemm said, ‘there is any way to convince you to find tea somewhere else?’

The bugs shook their head.

Lemm sighed, and muttered an apology to the tall visitor. Time to get it over with.

He went to the back room to prepare the tea, and overheard the two visitors conversing in the front.

‘What’s this, anyway?’

‘Historical documents. Journals of travellers.’

‘What’s it doing here?’

‘I think the shopkeep collects them.’

‘That’s correct!’ Lemm called. ‘I’m always buying, if you have anything of historical value.’

He grabbed the cups and walked back to the front. ‘That’s fifty geo. Unless you have relics.’

The bugs complained under their breath, but paid up, and Lemm could direct his attention back to the visitor.

‘So is this what you do?’ they asked. ‘Opened the coffee shop again and collecting relics in your free time?’

Lemm was dumbstruck for a moment. Then he remembered to be outraged. ‘No! I am not opening this place as a coffee shop! People just keep coming and demanding tea and I cannot let an opportunity to earn easy money go to waste!’

‘Relic business not exactly booming, then, I assume?’

‘I’m—’ he spluttered, ‘It’s not a business! I don’t sell my relics, they’re mine!’

‘So you wouldn’t have any income if you weren’t selling tea?’

Lemm had the distinct impression that the bug was making fun of him. He didn’t answer, but simply walked up to the table, grabbed a random journal, and took it to his desk to try and get some work done.

He had not yet prepared his quill and ink when he was interrupted yet again.

‘You know,’ the visitor called, ‘that one is from a traveller from Greynest. Came here looking for his brother, never found him. No doubt said brother also perished in the ruins.’

Lemm turned around to see the bug standing in the doorway, having followed him halfway. ‘And how do you know this?’ he asked.

The bug shrugged. ‘I read it.’

Lemm regarded the bug. They didn’t seem to be joking.

‘You mean to tell me,’ Lemm began, slowly, ‘you know this language?’

‘Yes,’ they said nonchalantly. ‘I think I’ve been to Greynest? Must have been a while ago.’

‘Are you a traveller, then?’ Lemm asked. ‘You don’t seem the type.’

As soon as he’d spoken the words, Lemm became aware how utterly ridiculous it was of him to make observations about people. He didn’t like people, he wasn’t interested in people—

The bug laughed. ‘I am, in fact. I have travelled far and wide.’

‘Hmph,’ said Lemm, unsure what else to say. He turned back to his work, looked at the angular shapes carved into the stone, but now it seemed senseless to try and make sense of it when he knew that it was no mystery to the bug standing behind him.

At some point, he looked up and found that he was hungry and the visitor was gone. Oh, well. Time for a meal, then, and afterwards he might be able to find something else to do.

* * *

The next time the tea-drinker returned, they asked for tea and then asked Lemm about the relics, and he was in a favourable enough mood to talk about them. They asked some fairly stupid questions, but it seemed to come out of a genuine interest in the topic, so he indulged them. Plus, he had to admit that he enjoyed having a reliable source of geo. Not that he needed it much for buying relics, these days, but he supposed that his supplies of food – and of tea – would not last indefinitely, and he didn’t particularly fancy having to go back to scavenging, now that there were actual people living in the vicinity again. No, he’d rather find some place where he could buy what he needed fair and square.

The traveller with the headscarf returned, and it was an odd sort of feeling Lemm had about them. Like he actually liked having them in his shop and talking to them. And the perplexing thing was that the bug also seemed to enjoy conversing with Lemm. Which one one hand was absolutely preposterous, on the other … it was a refreshing change.

The bug introduced himself as Quirrel, apprentice to Monomon the Teacher, and Lemm could hardly believe it. Monomon the Teacher, one of the most brilliant minds of Hallownest? It couldn’t be! And yet it was not all too difficult to imagine. He’d seen stranger things in these lands.

Quirrel also was the one who later suggested Lemm officially open the shop as a coffee shop again. Lemm had thrown him out at that and gone back to work.

Now, a short while later, he looked up and Quirrel was back, standing at the counter, watching Lemm silently.

Lemm rose and went to the front, choosing to stare back equally silently. Lemm was good at that. Probably.

‘So,’ Quirrel said at length, his voice still as annoyingly friendly as ever, ‘have you thought about it?’

Lemm kept staring.

Quirrel held up his hands. ‘You need money, you don’t have much else to do, and besides’ – Quirrel shrugged. – ‘people like your tea.’

‘I certainly have enough to do,’ Lemm started. ‘These texts don’t decipher themselves. What’s so funny?’

Quirrel stopped his giggling and said, ‘They sort of do. Have you forgotten who stands before you?’

‘You don’t read all of these languages.’ Really, Quirrel’s ego was getting on Lemm’s nerves.

‘But most of them,’ Quirrel said, shrugging, ‘and most of the Archive’s records are intact. And we do have a nice section on language and writing.’

Lemm was silent for a moment, mostly because he could not think of a good comeback. Quirrel had a point, and Lemm did not like that in the slightest.

‘Let’s make a deal,’ Quirrel said. ‘I help you translate your texts and catalogue your artefacts, and you’ – Quirrel jabbed a finger in Lemm’s direction – ‘you sell your tea officially.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘You’re already doing it.’

‘I am not!’

‘Yes, you are.’ Quirrel said this with absolute certainty and no anger, and there was a voice at the back of Lemm’s mind that said: You really sort of are. And you could use the help. You don’t like the busywork anyway.

‘All right,’ Lemm grumbled. ‘Deal.’

‘Thank you,’ said Quirrel, audibly grinning.

‘I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’ Lemm asked under his breath.

‘I don’t think so,’ Quirrel said. ‘I’m curious – what else can you make? Tea alone is a bit boring, don’t you think?’

‘Shut up,’ Lemm said, ‘or I change my mind.’

* * *

Lemm did not change his mind, even though Quirrel didn’t shut up. It had been a while, and Lemm hated to admit it, but he enjoyed doing something different for a change. Customers were now plenty, and Lemm had a menu with more than one item, and his relic collection was no bigger, but more orderly and better understood than it had ever been, thanks to Quirrel’s – and the Archive’s – help.

Another thing that Lemm was not quite ready to admit was that people could be nice. The more he talked to customers, interacted with them, observed them, the more he began to appreciate them. He used to be content in reading historical texts and artefacts, preferring to learn about people that were dead and gone. Living bugs had never really interested him.

Nowadays, however, it seemed that people could be just as interesting to read as anything else. And, as Quirrel entered, greeting him, and he could not help his mood being lifted just by the prospect of learning something new and interesting that Quirrel learnt on his last trip to the Archive, Lemm supposed that sometimes, very rarely … people were something he could enjoy.

------------------------------- By @gardening-clown​

------------------------------- By @buglife​

Lemm was five seconds away from throwing someone through the window.

His shop was now occupied by five bugs of various species, talking, laughing, and sitting around when he could be in the back doing literally anything else. It took weeks of bugs thinking that his relic shop was a coffee one before he simply gave up and made peace with it. At least he got some geo from it to pay adventurers that did come by to sell legit relics. How they mistook his shop for a coffee one, he would have never guess.

All he had was a little brewer that was barely put back together that he scavenged from some random shop, but other bugs seemed to like it, for some strange reason. It wasn’t even good coffee he was making, but they seemed to accept it. After all, who else in this dead kingdom was even selling coffee? He had looted plenty of shops and took as many sacks of beans as he would when he first arrived, and there was no way he could drink them all, so he might as well do something with them.

But he was steadily losing his patience with the amount of bugs around him. They were talking and loitering. Loitering was probably the worst of it all as it made the loner bug feel his shell crawl with the forced social interaction. He just wanted them to leave. He couldn’t stand the feeling of a crowded space, which is why he went to a dead kingdom in the first place.

Hell, he had to take his beloved odds and ends down from the shelves to keep some curious bug from touching them all up with their dirty fingers and breaking something.

He found himself dreading the sound of the bell above his door, and when it rang he wondered if someone else was coming to ask him for some random drink or be an annoying thorn in his side.

To his hidden delight however, it was the little wanderer. They looked like a grub, to be honest, with a black body and a stark white horned shell for a head. The nail on their back seemed to be a little put together the last time he saw them, perhaps they visited the Nailsmith? He never asked for their name, he didn’t want to learn it to avoid attachments, but he found them oddly endearing. They liked to listen to him ramble about his theories on various relics they bring him, so they can’t be too bad. Plus they were quiet and polite, something he was immensely grateful for.

They bounced inside the door and came to a stop, looking at the five other bugs sitting around and chatting. They tilted their head to the side, watching the bugs for a moment before looking at Lemm. They stretched out a stubby arm from under their cloak and pointed at him.

Lemm sighed. Of course, the little Wanderer had been gone for a while, and obviously didn’t know what had become of his beloved shop. He gestured for them to come over, which they did and looked up at him expectantly.

“Bugs keep thinking that this is a coffee shop.” He explained. “So here they are, drinking coffee that I make on a terrible little brewer. I gave up trying to kick them all out all the time, it stopped being worth the effort.”

The little wanderer blinked a few times, looking somewhat confused. They pointed to the cup being held by the beetle on one of Lemm’s chairs and mimed the action of drinking it.

“Yes, that’s coffee they are drinking.” He raised a brow as he looked down at the grub. “Haven’t you ever seen coffee before?”

They shook their head.

“Really now? Hrm…” He wasn’t sure where the little wanderer had come from if they never saw coffee before. It was a fairly common drink besides tea. They must have grew up in a rather isolated place If they never saw it. He decided he might as well explain it, it would be better to do it now than later.

“Coffee is a drink that bugs like to drink to give them energy.” He saw them perk up a bit at the ‘energy’ part. “It’s rather bitter, so some like it with sugar. I like it plain. It keeps me awake when I am working.”

They somehow made a face when he said it was bitter, tilting their head and angling their eye holes to look affronted. Lemm squashed down a laugh at the expression and decided to get to business.

“Anyway, they trade me geo for it, which lets me compensate bugs that get me relics. Do you have any for me today?” He hoped they did, he needed something to brighten up his day.

The wanderer nodded, reaching under their cloak to pull out a black orb. Lemm recognized it immediately to be an arcane egg. He loved working with those. Peeling back each layer revealed new information and new discoveries. He was in fact, still working on the one he got weeks before. He needed to be careful with them, and he reveled in the intense focus and work it needed to discover it’s secrets. His day instantly got better.

“Very nice, I’ll be glad to take that off your hands for the usual price.” The old beetle held out his hand and the wanderer gently placed the egg it in. They held up a hand once it was free and shook their head, pointed to a cup sitting on the counter.

“Ah, you want to trade this for a cup of coffee?” He wasn’t going to say no to that. If the wanderer was okay with it, it was a perfectly reasonable business transaction. His suspicions were confirmed when they nodded and bounced in place, looking as excited as they were able to. “Well I can certainly do that.”

Thankfully, the two bugs occupying the chairs in front of the counter left, leaving behind their dirty cups and a few geo for the mess. They thanked him and he grumped out a ‘have a good day’ as they left, seemingly indifferent to his mood. Oh well, at least it brought down the occupancy to a more manageable level for his social batteries. He pushed the dirty cups out of the way and gestured to an open seat. “Here, sit down and I’ll get you a cup.”

They bounced upwards to take a seat, swinging their legs back and forth as they waited. It didn’t take Lemm long to throw some ground up beans and water into the grinder, watching the brewed coffee pour into a clean cup. He carefully carried the hot cup down and set it in front of the wanderer. “Be careful, it’s very hot. I’ll bring you some sugar, you didn’t seem to like the ‘bitter’ description.”

They nodded and watched as he pushed over a bowl of honey sugar and a spoon. It was the least he could do after they got him another arcane egg.  “There you are, help yourself.”

They bowed their head in thanks and took up the spoon, poking it into the bowl.

“Excuse me,” One of the bugs by the window got up, the one with a bent antenna and holding their empty cup. “Could I get a refill, please?”

Lemm held back a sigh and nodded, taking the cup and heading back to his brewer. He had to smack it a couple times for it to start working again, but in the end he got a passable cup of coffee out of it. He returned just in timed to hear said bug exclaim, “Woah there buddy, you must really like sugar!”

He looked to the wanderer, who had added so much sugar to their cup of coffee, that he could hear the sugar that couldn’t dissolve scrape against the ceramic as it was stirred. It looked like fresh cement, there was only a bit of brown to denote that once, it was indeed a cup of coffee.

He wordlessly handed the other bug their coffee, who took it and retreated back to sit by the window. He was about to say something to the wanderer, when to his horror, their head tilted backwards. A maw of sharp black teeth opened wide, and he watched, astonished, as the mix of sugar and coffee oozed into their mouth and to who knows where. A long black tongue lashed out to get every last bit of sugar out of the cup, before the mouth closed with a quiet click. They must have felt him staring, because they turned to look at him with their fathomless, dark eyes. He stared back, wondering what the hell was actually sitting in front of him.

They then bounced in place and gave him a thumbs up. They made a shape of a heart with their hands, a way that they say ‘thank you’. They seemed rather happy.

“Um…you’re welcome?” He managed, after he gathered his composure again.

They sat still for a moment, seeming to ponder on what they had just consumed. He figured that they were probably trying to figure out if they liked it or not. He doubt they even managed to taste the coffee from the sheer amount of sugar in that cup.

Then, to his horror, they began to vibrate. At first it was a few twitches, and then it steadily became more and more severe, until they were a literal blur. The chair rattled under the stress and the bugs that remained in the shop turned to look at the commotion.

It was then, Lemm realized he fucked up.

They suddenly dashed away, slamming into the shop door with such force that it caved outwards. There was only the short sound of shattering glass and the scream of metal before it flew off it’s hinges and rattled down the hallway. He could hear the hurried pitter-patter of the wanderer’s tiny feet, now fast enough to blur into one continuous sound, race down the hall and out of sight and hearing.

He just stood there, looking at the wreckage of his shop door, wondering where the hell is he going to get a replacement, if there even was a replacement. He looked at the three shocked bugs, standing and looking at the wreckage, and then he got himself an idea.

“Hey fellas,” He said, as he turned and looked at the bugs next to the window. “How would you all like some free coffee if you find me a door?”

------------------------------- By @radical-mudkips​

------------------------------- By @unregisteredcookie​

Lemm's 'shop' was empty.

Actually, no, that… that wasn't right. Lemm's shop wasn't a shop in the first place--it was a haven for relics and ancient knick-knacks, and the shelves were filled to overflowing with stone tablets and peculiar eggs that held unimaginable information. Not that Lemm was ever able to crack into the eggs' shells, but he knew--he knew there was more treasured information sleeping beneath. If only he were able to open it up without risking that information being damaged.

And that wasn't right, either. The shop being empty, that was. Right now, the shelves were empty, but that was less because of the absence of relics and more because they were all stowed away in the back room to be sorted. He had a notebook he was combing over, quill in hand as he scribbled out little bits of information that might relate to one another.

'Might', because Lemm wasn't really from Hallownest. So he didn't know for sure whether this smooth L-shaped contraption was a door handle or a piece to a lost work of art.

It was while Lemm was scribbling about in this journal bound in parchment (hand-made and flimsy, using the paper he found around the area that was clean and allowed to dry) that he heard it: The distant clattering of the elevator. There were about seven options he could think of off of the top of his head, each more dreaded than the last. It could be that scarcely-seen Nailsmith who seemed to know more about the history of this ruin than he let on. It could be the peculiar little silent bug that stared up at him now and again, the one that sometimes passed by with a relic to sell. It could be that talkative windbag, droning on and on in his droning voice, so grating and persistent that Lemm struggled to ignore him. He was probably the worst.

Lemm stopped writing, tilted his head, and listened for the telltale sound. The rattling stopped, and all that he heard for a while was silence. And then.

Ding.

He sighed, getting to his feet. A customer it was, then. How delightful. Here's hoping that the customer wasn't 'Zote the Mighty'.

He had a small moment of dread when he saw the horn, a critical blow of dismay that tempted him to retreat back into the back room and pretend to be out for a walk, but then he saw the second horn and breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, it wasn't the Zote person after all. It was… them. The other little one.

They looked up at him as he approached the register and looked down at them. Their eyes were vacant as ever, face impossibly unreadable. Lemm doubted that he'd ever get used to it.

Lemm liked this little bug, if for no other reason than they were quiet, kept their hands to themself, and brought him relics to purchase. They were the only one willing to sell these relics, and they were the only reason Lemm often said what he said next.

"Cup of coffee, or looking to sell?"

He never had much company in this place until the Nailsmith (Lemm never caught his name, never bothered asking, really) first came in looking for materials for his smithing. Almost took one of Lemm's Pale Idols from under his beard while he was noting in his journal. After the initial yelling that followed and a cup of coffee, the Nailsmith apologized by paying for the cup. And he did it again. And again. Until the mapmaker came in, saw, and bought a cup himself. Until the hooded pillbug came in, hummed, and bought one for himself. And then--

Well. And then he had a coffee shop.

Lemm wished he could say that he hated it, and he did, at first. But over time, he found the company rather pleasant. Besides, the geo paid for this little bug's relic collection well enough, so he wasn't complaining.

So. Did they want a cup of coffee, or did they want to sell their relics? Lemm didn't get an answer. Instead, they looked around at the empty shelves for a moment before turning their empty eyes back onto him, tilting their head to the side slightly.

It took Lemm a moment.

"Oh, I moved the relics into the back room," he said. "I've been needing to work on sorting them out and writing notes about them. Never would I have thought that I would have so many to study."

Satisfied, they reached into the confines of their cloak. Lemm leaned forward a little, watching as they rummaged about for a moment, heart skipping a beat as he pondered what sort of relic they were going to sell this time.

And then they withdrew their small hand, reached up, and dropped a fist full of geo onto the counter.

Lemm blinked and stared at the geo for a moment. Something wispy and thin clung to them, and when he picked it up and opened the register, it was sticky. Was this webbing? Lemm wasn't aware of there being any spiders in Hallownest, aside from maybe that red-cloaked bug he saw very rarely flitting about outside his window.

So. No relics today. Fine, at least he'd have more money to buy another one later.

"One coffee coming up," he murmured, rummaging around behind the counter. Underneath the register was where he kept the coffee pot, which he refrained from moving just so he could be prepared if a 'customer' came by. He busied himself with it for a few moments, filling the filter and checking the water, before clicking the button and letting it steep. Granted, he didn't know what kind of coffee they'd drink, but they didn't make it clear anyway, so he doubted that it mattered.

Besides. They seemed a little preoccupied by something else at the moment. After a few minutes, the coffee was finished, and Lemm poured them a cup. He chose a caramel-like flavor, because they seemed about the size of a child and a little bit of sweetness never hurt anyone. Lemm reached over the counter and held it out to them, which they took in their hands and stared down at for a moment. Lemm was about ready to head back into the back when it happened. A crack. It almost sounded like something breaking, but when he turned to look behind himself at the small knight, they still stood there. Another crack, one that made his fur stand on end and his body stiffen, and Lemm caught the glimpse of something sharp and white shifting beneath the bottom of their mask.

A mouth?

They tilted their head back. A jaw opened. Many layers of teeth glimmered in the dim light, cracking as they did so, the noise chilling him through his chitin and making his hemolymph freeze. Lemm stood there, stock still, as they lifted the cup up to their face, jaw extending outwards to drink it, and then-- --they set the scalding hot coffee in their mouth, cup and all, closed it, and crunched.

Lemm had never seen a bug eat a cup of coffee before. He could still hear the crunch, crunch, crunching, muffled and quiet and growing quieter, noise sounding like a particularly crunchy tiktik being eaten.

Lemm shuddered. When the knight looked back at him, he turned around quickly and went into the back room.

Okay. Suddenly they weren't the second most welcome sight for sore eyes. Suddenly Lemm wished that it was that talking, yapping Zote fellow who came in instead.

------------------------------- By @doodle-chris​

------------------------------- By @payasita​

There was no shortage of open real estate as far as the City of Tears was concerned. But that certainly didn't make every option an equally viable living space.

First, Lemm wanted something enclosed away from the rain, and insulated enough to stave off the humidity. That discounted anything open to the outside, as he wouldn't risk his relics to even the threat of exposure. A leaking roof dripping down onto crumbling tablets or fragile spider silk could devastate hundreds of years worth of history, so that also discounted any room without a few protective floors above it.

Next, it had to be out of the way of any and all shambling husks and infected critters. They weren't the brightest of creatures, so a room only accessible by elevator was ideal. He'd never seen anything plague-cursed have enough wherewithal to operate one, and the noise of it would give him plenty warning of visitors otherwise.

Lastly, he wanted someplace with plenty of shelf space. He needed little in the way of actual living space, so long as he had ample storage room set up in such a way that things could easily be organized.

All of these qualities described, in his opinion, the ideal relic storage and research dwelling. And in the end, he was lucky enough to find it.

Unearthing the previous tenant's belongings informed him that it also, apparently, described the ideal setup for a small café. On his first day in his new residence, he'd uncovered an antique coffee machine and a few other ancient tools, kept miraculously free of rust and wear. The room's conditions must be far better than he thought.

He'd dusted his findings off and set them back up on the counter, having quickly deduced where they'd once been put to use through old nicks and rings left on the shellwood by years of service. Lemm had felt a small swell of pride at finding this small bit of the city's history, and began a set of notes on his theories about this tower complex and its surrounding culture from everything he found around. Perhaps the whole place had been a shopping centre.

On the second day, he pried open the crates in the back room, and they had spilled forth bags upon bags of beans and teas. There were so many of them that he was able to rationalize cutting one open and examining its contents without much guilt. The beans were coffee, that much was obvious at a glance.

Biological samples weren't exactly his area of expertise, but smell and texture alone all but convinced him that they'd been perfectly preserved in their airtight prisons, well dried and perfectly edible.

Most likely.

For the sake of research, and because the bag was already open, he put them through the machine. He committed some time to studying the machine beforehand, as he was afraid mishandling it may destroy it. But an hour of trying to figure the damn thing out was frustrating enough that he finally reasoned that if he did break it, he could at least take it apart and examine its insides for anything interesting. Lemm was a relic keeper, not a tinker. So he winged it with a bit of rainwater and the beans, and got wet beans and hot murky water all over the counter to show for it. He figured out the grinder and filter after his second attempt, and by the third, he had a mug of fresh coffee to show for his efforts. The scent that filled his shop and the outside corridor must have been nothing Hallownest had experienced in centuries. Lemm had little taste for the stuff himself, but in his experimentation he'd gone and made a whole pot. So he supposed he needed to acquire a taste for it rather quickly.

Luckily for his health, that turned out to be unnecessary. The smell, perhaps amplified in the ever-present petrichor, quickly attracted guests of the still-living variety. There turned out to be far more travelers and treasure hunters bumping around this old city than he'd initially expected, prone to tucking himself away in solitude as he was. Introverted or no, he happily gave the coffee away rather than waste it or risk giving himself a coronary. There were even a great deal of disposable mugs stacked away that just made it all the more convenient.

Just over the course of an hour, Lemm was graced with a fair amount of odd characters intruding on his doorstep. There was a surly fellow wielding a metal shield of some foreign make, who announced his intentions towards finding and conquering Hallownest's old colosseum. He was convinced it was still in operation somewhere. Lemm decided that if it was, the place was more than likely not populated with the sorts of honorable warriors this poor bastard was looking to prove himself against, but he kept his thoughts to himself and sent the boy off with a steaming cup of acrid bean water. Next came another traveller who gave off a more scholarly air than the first had, and who carried a more conventional weapon at his hip. The pill bug certainly acted more like a student than a warrior, all bright-eyed and curious and talkative. But no doubt he must know how to use that nail of his to have survived this far down and still be so cheerful. His stay wasn't entirely unpleasant; the two actually talked a short while about Hallownest's history and their shared learnings. The bug even tried to insist on paying, but Lemm was adamant that his reliquary wasn't a damn breakfast nook, thank you, keep your geo. But if he really wanted to pay, Lemm would certainly take any interesting artifact or trinket the bug happened to pick up on his travels. They eventually came to an agreement: A journal pilfered from a shrine somewhere in Greenpath for an extra cup for the road. Lemm's next visitor was, of all things, a cartographer. This one was far too involved in his work for much conversation, which was fine by Lemm. But he did manage to barter a cup for a map of the city. It was incomplete and bare of any landmarks, much to Lemm's disappointment. Finally, an odd little wanderer walked in almost soundlessly. They did not speak to Lemm, nor did they give any indication that they were here for any specific reason. But they had acquired an old city crest and a King's idol on their path, and Lemm had a more typical exchange of geo for relics with them. And then because it was the last of the coffee in the still warm pot, and because the little wanderer did not refuse, he sent them off with a cup on their way out. Thankful to be rid of all the blasted coffee and done with the uptick in social interaction, he then washed the pot and continued with his normal studies. It was nice and quiet, now.

But then the next morning, the pill bug returned. And he was surprised (and clearly disappointed) to see the coffee pot empty. It was a shame, he'd said. For he'd gone and found himself another journal, and considered a relic he couldn't use for a hot morning's drink to be a fine deal indeed. Lemm was inclined to agree, for how it saved him his geo in case of a more potentially significant find down the line. He turned the machine back on at once at the prospect. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to brew just one cup, and was still rightfully intimidated by the old, fussy contraption, and not inclined to mess with what worked. So he made another full pot, and talked shop.

The pill bug wasn't the only one to return that day. The would-be gladiator came back, still not having found his destination, and had the gall to just expect another drink. After the deal he'd just made, Lemm was feeling markedly less generous than he had been the day before, and informed his nasally guest that he'd have to barter something old and interesting for it.

The ant grumbled and left, but returned a few minutes later with a guardsman's crest. He'd apparently seen old treasures all over the place, but had found it beneath him to go and pick them up." A warrior has no need to weigh himself down with baubles," he'd sneered over his cup. Lemm privately thought that the plague-crazed beasts who were doubtlessly running the colosseum now would soon show this haughty kid what they cared for his warrior’s creed in due time, so he said nothing.

The silent wanderer came later. This time when they held up an ancient journal, they made no move to take the geo held out to them. They only stared at Lemm, with their little mask so perfectly unmoving he could easily think them a sudden corpse. Then his hand drifted towards the pot, and the creature set the journal down on the counter.

"...News of a relic keeper bartering goods for coffee has already spread among your lot, then? I suppose even wanderers must have a rumor mill," Lemm talked to himself while pouring their cup. Predictably, they padded away without an answer, drink in hand. Lemm would soon learn how right he was.

- The coming days were more lucrative than his business had ever been. All the travellers he'd met before all came back with various oddities found around Hallownest, as did anyone new. Though not everyone quite understood what constituted a relic, and Lemm had to turn down more than a few shiny rocks and petrified lake detritus. But they all got the routine down soon enough. And, well, Lemm did have an extraordinary amount of coffee that'd just go to waste for another thousand years otherwise, so, may as well.

The pill bug, Quirrel, came to be his best "customer", though Lemm would be twice damned before he ever said the word aloud. Either way, Quirrel often stayed long enough just chatting to warrant a second cup.

"I ought to have you bring double the treasure," Lemm griped once while handing that second cup over. Quirrel's response was a good natured laugh.

"Perhaps elsewhere, that'd be fair. Coffee was a luxury in some lands, and remains so to this day, but by my understanding it was quite in abundance here. Though I couldn't tell you where in the world they must have been growing it," he mused. Lemm raised a brow, wondering once again where in gods' names this bug was educated. But as asking would be an invitation to hear his life story, Lemm deferred.

"Is that right?" he asked instead, "I don't care for the stuff myself, luxury or no." "Really? Not an uncommon opinion, I suppose. I picked it up as a habit at one point... Though, I couldn't tell you when, now that I think of it," Quirrel trailed off, adjusting the oversized mask over his head. Lemm found it an odd choice of protection from the rain, though he supposed it was better than nothing. He only shrugged, "I hear many students do make a habit of caffeine. Your sorts can never get enough hours out of the day."

Quirrel stared at him for a brief moment, and then huffed a laugh again. "Student? You mistake me, sir. I've only ever been a traveller for as long as I can remember."

Lemm didn't bother to mask his surprise, and Quirrel's eyes crinkled. "You're right on that second part, though. So much to see, and never enough time." He took a sip.

-

The mapmaker came back one day with an order for two drinks. He had no relics, but offered an extra inkwell and quill instead. Lemm found equipment for keeping good notes was lucky to come by, and reluctantly made the trade, much to the old bug's gratitude.

"Thank you, the second is for my wife running our shop surface-side. It was her suggestion you might want materials for your research."

Lemm cleared his throat, blustering slightly under his beard.

"Ahh. Hm. I can appreciate that, then."

"Oh, on that note, have you any sugar you can add in for her?" The bug peered over Lemm’s shoulder, which rankled him for some reason.

"...I did find a jar back here somewhere, I think." Though he couldn't promise it was good. Could sugar go bad? It still just looked like white sand.

"Thank you. ...Err, actually, is that a box of tea on the shelf, there?"

Lemm paused in his rummaging, and looked back at the open storeroom door. The room now made a good home for his relics, though he never bothered unpacking the open crates.

"...It is," he eyed the bug neutrally.

"Ah. Iselda enjoys her coffee, though I quite prefer a good cup of tea myself. ...Erm, if it isn't too much trouble, of course," the bug grinned politely over folded hands.

Lemm, to his credit, did not sigh. There was indeed a kettle back there, too. And at least he knew how to brew tea without making an entire day's worth of it.

He brought up the jar of sugar, and leveled the bug with a grumpy look.

"Fine. But next time, you bring relics."

The cartographer acquiesced immediately, and that was the point where Lemm realized he'd invited them both to expect a "next time".

-

The silent wanderer came back again, on the tail of a group of treasure hunters who came in and left up the elevator. Shortly after, there was the sound of struggle above them.

This had become commonplace. Anyone who showed up had to contend with the violent husks above and beyond the shop, and some were more prepared to deal with the dangers of Hallownest than others. Lemm only poured the wanderer's cup in bored silence, tuning out the thumping and shouts above. "You know this stuff stunts your growth, right?" Lemm asked flatly. The wanderer only ever stared.

"Dehydrates you, too. You active types probably ought to stick to water. Imagine having to deal with the horrors of rotting sentries and whatnot with a diuretic sloshing about in you." Unbothered, they leaned forward and took their cup in both hands, still staring up while he spoke. Lemm honestly had no idea if they even understood him, and considered the possibility that their muteness was compounded by a language barrier. But they at least always made the effort to appear attentive.

There was a thundering crash above them that made Lemm flinch, and then a silence that kept him tense. The voices started up once again after a few seconds, and the sound of footsteps hurrying away as fast as they could. By his guess, his last customers had just had a very close encounter with a belfly. He'd likely not be seeing them again.

He turned his attention back down to the wanderer with a sigh.

"...Let me see what you have, then."

The tiny thing set their cup carefully down by their feet, and fished a genuine void egg from the depths of their grubby cloak. Lemm was struck with the brief impulse to give them the entire coffee machine for it.

-

There was a new visitor one morning, just as Lemm brewed the pot for his regulars. He rarely got anyone so very early, and was guiltily nursing his own cup of acrid sugary heart disease before anyone would be around to see. Alright, so he'd acquired the taste for it. It was hardly unreasonable with how much time he spent around the smell, and it helped him make up for lost time studying his relics later in the night. Perfectly understandable, and so he definitely did not freeze mid sip like he was caught in a crime when the door opened unexpectedly. The red-clad stranger who walked in wore a wicked-sharp needle slung across her back, and fixed him with an even sharper gaze.

"...I hear you sell tea." Her voice was quiet enough, but cut clear without the normal hesitant lilt of a question.

Lemm slowly put down his mug, and the soft thunk it made against the countertop sounded awfully loud in the morning lull.

"...I don't sell anything. I buy," he insisted.

The altogether frightening lass glanced between him, the full coffee pot, and the kettle sat next to a stack of assorted loose leaf teas. Then back at him.

He grunted, hiding an inane flush of indignation behind another swig of his drink.

"...I seek artifacts. Relics of this place's past, and anything that may help me understand it, for geo. ...Or for a cuppa, for those who'd rather." He shifted behind the counter, nearly trailing off into a mumble. But at this point, there wasn’t much use in fighting his reputation.

The girl just scrutinized him until she seemed to come to a decision. She then turned and left without saying anything else, opting to hop down the elevator shaft rather than waste a moment calling the lift.

Lemm rolled his eyes and gulped down the dregs of his coffee, vaguely annoyed. By this point, he was used to the rude and half feral sorts of vagabonds that only came by out of curiosity. At least she was quick about leaving.

All the better for him, as far as he was concerned. He doubted such a young thing would have anything of note to share with Hallownest's foremost historian.

[daringyounggrayson]

whumptober day 4: pushed (AO3)

It’s raining. Normally, that’s a non-issue; Dick’s Nightwing suit is mostly waterproof, and his boots are designed to have excellent traction, even in less-than-ideal conditions. But this is pushing it. He’s on top of a moving train, his vision is limited due to the rain and his mask’s broken night vision, and his shoes are struggling to plant themselves firmly on the slippery train roof. And the rain is heavy, coming down in sheets, and the wind is howling, nearly knocking him over on more than one occasion—it’s the worst storm Bludhaven has had in years.

And then there’re the goons trying to knock him off the train. Now their fight has become a strange dance where Dick is trying to dodge blows while also making sure they don’t fall off in their attempts to kill him. The ridiculousness of trying to keep people who are trying to harm him safe is not lost on Dick.

If he could, he’d just stick trackers on them and call it a night, but that’s not an option—there are bombs hidden somewhere in the train and/or along its route. People could die.

A branch from a nearby tree falls onto the train, causing all three men to jump back, seeking cover. Dick nearly slips off again, and from their screams, he’s sure the other two do too. Dick is on his hands and knees, balancing there as he tries to figure out how to use this to his advantage. There’s an entrance a few cars ahead. If he’s quiet and stays out of their line of sight, they’ll probably assume he fell off the train. He could easily get past them and slip inside to stop the train and get everyone off before these two fools can even set off their bombs. Ideally, Dick would also find and disarm the bombs, but replacing a train and some of its tracks is something Dick can live with so long as no one gets hurt.

He lies down on his stomach, army crawling across the train’s roof, letting the branch block him from his enemies’ view. When he gets to the ladder, he slides his legs over the edge until his foot hits a rung. Then he leaps from one ladder to the next, catching the next rung with a tight grip. It would be faster to simply jump across the rooftops, but he needs to be as discrete as possible.

He’s nearly there—just a few yards left to go—when a gun goes off. He instinctively stills and covers his head, and a bullet bounces off the train several feet away from him. Normally, gunshots wouldn’t be a shock in this kind of scenario, but Dick’s already disarmed them, he—

He looks up to find a third partner. He’s just exited from the same place Dick was hoping to enter through, and he’s holding a gun with a shaking hand. Fantastic.

Dick moves like lightning—he charges the man and knocks the gun out of his hand before his trembling fingers can find the trigger.

“How many of your people are here right now?” Dick shouts above the wind, holding the man in a headlock.

“It doesn’t matter. it’s too late,” the man sneers. “You can’t stop us now.”

“That’s what they all say.” Dick swipes his legs and knocks him to the ground, pulling out handcuffs and attaching him to a nearby bar. “But you know what? I kind of like being underestimated.”

Dick stands, planning to walk back to the hatch and enter the train. He hasn’t even taken his first step when heavy footsteps charge toward him. Dick ducks just in time to avoid being body-slammed by one of the goons from the other train car, and the man stumbles, losing his balance and sliding along the length of the roof. He’s quick to get back up and charge Dick again, this time with raised fists and an animalistic screech.

“I’m kind of on a tight schedule here,” Dick calls as he engages in the fight. He really doesn’t have time for this; the train’s picking up speed.

A large gust of wind nearly knocks him over again, and his boots squeak as they try and fail to find traction. The thug lunges at him, tripping over his own feet but managing to land a weak hit against Dick’s shoulder.

It’s ridiculous that it’s enough to send him tipping over the edge.

He tries and fails to find his footing, only managing to slip backward further. He reflexively reaches out for the attacker’s hand, but he forces himself to retract; the odds of Dick pulling him down and killing him are higher than the odds of the man managing to hold their combined weight. As he falls over the edge, the tips of his fingers brush against the train car’s safety bar, but the rain prevents him from grasping it.

He hits the ground, tries to roll with the fall. The initial impact knocks the wind out of him, and he’s left gasping as sharp pain explodes over his head and back. When he finally stops, he’s covered in mud and blood, and every inch of him feels sore. It wasn’t a long fall, but it was fast and hard.

He pushes himself up on shaking elbows, watches as the blurry figures on the roof disappear into the train car. He’s not going to get back there; even if he had the time, even if he had super speed, he doesn’t think he can move. He needs help.

Dick presses his emergency beacon and calls Wally on his comms. He thinks he says something, but he must pass out, because next thing he knows, Wally’s tapping his cheek, begging him to wake up. He’s blurry, which doesn’t make sense, because Wally’s not running—the only thing moving is his hand, and it’s slow.

Instead of voicing his confusion, Dick vomits. Wally rolls him onto his side, talking too fast for Dick to understand.

In between gasps, Dick says, “The train. Bombs.” His voice sounds wrong to his own ears, slurred.

“You’re hurt,” Wally points out, hesitant. His hands are bloody. How did Wally get blood on his hands already?

“I don’t care—you have to save them!” Dick says, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as the pain builds in his head. “Medical is on their way—go!”

oOo

Dick isn’t awake when the medical team arrives, but he does wake up, so he figures they did show up.

He raises his hand to rub at his eyes and finds an IV sticking out of it, stuck to his hand with clear tape. He turns his head, taking in the machines and monitors. He must be in the Watchtower’s ICU.

“Hey,” someone—Wally—whispers on the other side of the bed. “Are you awake?”

“Mmhmm,” Dick mumbles. He turns his head to face Wally, wincing. “Bombs?”

“I took care of it; no one got hurt,” Wally promises.

“Thanks.” Dick closes his eyes. The lights are dim, but they still feel too bright. “How long have I been out?”

“As in unconscious?” Wally sighs, and his chair creaks. “Well, uh, you were in a coma for almost three days. You woke up yesterday, but you’ve been pretty out of it. I’m honestly not confident that you’ll even remember this conversation.”

“Wanna bet?” Dick asks, a loopy smile crossing his face.

Wally laughs. “Sure, I could use ten dollars.”

“I’m going to remember.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am.” This time Wally doesn’t protest, and Dick takes it as a win. After a moment, he asks, “I’m okay, though, right?”

“Oh sure. Spinal bruising and a brain hemorrhage have nothing on the Justice League’s medical technology and your stubbornness,” Wally says lightly. “What happened to you anyway?”

“Got pushed off a train,” Dick mumbles, words slurring together as he gets closer and closer to unconsciousness. “Probably landed head first on a rock.” He can barely remember the fight, barely remembers falling. Instead of a solid memory, it’s just a bunch of non-chronological snapshots.

“That tracks.” Wally shifts in his chair, and his fingers find their way to the back of Dick’s hand. “It was scary, finding you like that. I thought you were going to die.”

And Dick had told Wally to leave him anyway. He doesn’t regret doing it—someone has to make the hard calls—but he doesn’t envy Wally. “I’m fine,” he tries to reassure.

Wally’s voice is tight when he speaks. “Yeah, you’re going to be fine, because you’re you—but you weren’t fine. And you’re still not. Hell, you’re hooked up to a bunch of machines and you can’t even keep your eyes open.”

Dick opens his eyes and finds that Wally’s are shiny with unshed tears. “Wally.”

“Sorry, it’s just—” Wally shakes his head, wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. “Uh, can I get you anything? Last time I was here you were nauseous.”

“No, stomach’s fine, just tired.” He must be on a million drugs, too. He wonders how many he’ll have to add to his regimen because of this.

Wally nods, then looks down at his watch when it beeps. “I have to go—Watchtower duty. The rest of the original Titans said they were going to stop by later today, and Alfred and Bruce are outside waiting for me to finish, so you won’t be alone.”

Dick hums in acknowledgment. Then he says, “Thanks for coming, the other day and now.”

Wally leans in and hugs him gently, carefully. “Anytime. And take as much time as you need to heal. Seriously—the Titans will be okay without you for a while, even if Roy ends up leading.”

Dick laughs and nods into Wally’s shoulder, and then they let go. Wally leaves with a promise to be back soon, and Dick, determined to remember this conversation, reminds him to bring his ten dollars when he does.