#and that dog? it lived in a fucking crate and probably still does or its been put down

[lizparkcr]

I cannot talk abt the xl bully ban without getting a raised heart rate but i really desperately need ppl going "it's not the breed it's the owners!!!" to face off with one of those motherfuckers and then get back to me

[allsassnoclass]

how about “i know we hate each other but it’s christmas eve and your flight was cancelled please come inside” for muke? xx

Here you are my darling I hope you enjoy it!

Ficmas Day 6

Rating: teen and up

Read on AO3

Michael is woken up at ten in the morning by Mariah Carey passionately singing about what she wants for Christmas, accompanied by a voice that Michael has become unfortunately accustomed to within the past four months.  He groans and flops over, pulling his pillow over his head and hoping for the thousandth time that his neighbor might suddenly lose his voice, or at least lose the ability to blast music when Michael is still trying to sleep.  He’s coming off of the night shift and it’s Christmas Eve.  He should be allowed to actually sleep.

The pillow doesn’t help, so he slaps his hand against the wall as loudly as he can.  That doesn’t seem to help either, and Luke keeps hitting high notes that would be really impressive if Michael wasn’t currently plotting his murder.

Plotting Luke Hemming’s murder is something that Michael does frequently.  He’s never immediately disliked someone so quickly, but Luke is not only a professional at waking him up during what little sleep Michael is trying to get, but he has managed to set off the fire alarm with his cooking failures three times already, he sometimes keeps a bike in the hall that Michael almost always manages to run into no matter where it is, and when he watches TV it’s always bad reality programs at top volume.  His mail continuously somehow ends up in Michael’s slot, and he never says “thank you” when Michael gives it to him.  He has an endless trail of people tramping in and out of his apartment at all hours, but Calum said he got passive-aggressive about buzzing him up when Michael was still in the shower, despite them having met in the lobby multiple times and Luke knowing that Calum is Michael’s emergency contact.

When Michael ran into him during his move-in and said hi, Luke’s dog had growled at him.

Dogs love Michael.

Despite his cherubic blonde curls and dreamy blue eyes, Luke Hemmings might be the devil.  This was only confirmed when he started playing Christmas music and decorating his door the day after Halloween.

Michal isn’t a grinch.  He likes Christmas as much as the next person who grew up celebrating it, but he likes when it’s confined to the proper month.  There’s something to be said about the feel-good movies and lights twinkling against the snow at night, but he works overnights at a 24 hour grocery store, and at this point Christmas music makes him want to claw his ears off.  Luke doesn’t seem to listen to anything else, and he has a wreath and line of jingle bells on his door.  Michael doesn’t even want to see what the inside of his apartment looks like.

His one solace is that today Luke is catching a plane to go back to his parents’ house.  Their bedrooms share a wall, and Michael has heard him making plans to load up Petunia and spend Christmas at his childhood home.  Michael is not so lucky, confined to his apartment for the holiday.

He’s not sure what his plans are yet.  He’s trying not to be too sad about it, but it’s difficult when everyone under the sun is getting to spend it with family and he’s going in for a night shift.

The song on the other side of the wall switches to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”  Michael tries to block out Luke’s self-dueting and viciously stamps down the jealousy bubbling in his gut.

-/-

Luke finally leaves the apartment at 2 pm.  Michael hears him cooing to his dog and the jangle of keys as he locks up, and then the apartment is blessedly silent.  He lays in bed for an hour scrolling through his phone, but eventually seeing everyone’s messages about the holiday and seeing their families becomes too much and he gets up, making his way to the shower.  The apartment is colder than usual, and when he looks out the window he only sees a mass of white, swirling too fast to make out individual flakes.  Chicago seems to be living up to its nickname.  Maybe it’s a good thing that he doesn’t have to drive far to get to work tomorrow.  He bundles up in his coziest sweatshirt and sweatpants and his favorite pair of fuzzy socks, anyway.

Michael is getting something to eat when he hears Luke’s voice again, still talking to his dog.  It’s clearly coming from the hallway, and Michael frowns when something thumps, followed by Luke apologizing.  He leaves the plate with his half eaten toast on the counter and presses his ear to the door, trying to make the words take distinct shape.

“... know, girl, but we’re almost back,” Luke says.  “Then we’ll… I don’t know.  We’ll figure something else out, right?  Fuck, where are my fucking keys?”  Something else hits the floor.  Luke sniffs.

“Fuck,” he says, but it’s small and fragile.  Michael hasn’t heard Luke sound defeated before now, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to hear it again.  To know that someone who typically is annoyingly joyful is unable to keep up that demeanor outside the privacy of his own home makes Michael’s heart break a little.

Maybe that’s why he opens the door.  Michael doesn’t know; if he was asked, he’d have to say that he was reaching for the doorknob before his mind caught up with his limbs.

Luke scrambles at the sound, wiping at his eyes.  He’s crouched on the floor, mittens in his hand, a large duffle on the floor next to him and a backpack open in front.  Petunia’s dog crate is blocking part of the hallway.

“Luke,” Michael says.  He doesn't have anything else to say; he didn’t think this far ahead.

“I’ll be quieter,” Luke sniffs.  “Sorry.  Don’t want to ruin your perfect day.”

“That’s not why I’m out here,” Michael frowns.  “It’s just a normal day for me.  Did your flight get cancelled?”

“What do you think?” Luke snaps.  “It’s a blizzard out there.  All flights are grounded until at least tomorrow.”

“Sorry,” Michael says.  Luke’s face twists up, and he looks down and takes a breath.  He paws through something in his backpack, but it’s packed in pretty tight and he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, hands falling uselessly after a moment.

“I can’t find my keys,” he says, voice small again.

“Oh.  Do you… you can come and look for them in my apartment, if you want.  Just so you’re not spilling all your stuff in the hallway, you know?”

Luke frowns.

“I guess I could make hot chocolate, too?” Michael offers.  “I mean, it must be pretty cold out there, with the snow and wind and everything.”

“You hate me,” Luke says flatly.

“I know.  Well, I don’t--” he sighs.  Even when he’s trying to do something nice for him, talking to Luke is infuriating.  “Look.  I know that we don’t like each other, but it’s Christmas Eve and your flight was just cancelled.  Do you want hot chocolate or not?”

Luke looks at his backpack, then at the dog crate.

“Can I let Petunia out?”

“Sure, as long as she doesn't growl at me.”

Luke considers for another moment, long enough that Michael has to tamp down the urge to fidget with his sleeves.

“Okay,” he says.  Then, after a delay, “Thanks.”

Michael nods once, then retreats back into his apartment and holds the door open.

Luke gathers up his backpack and drags the dog crate behind him, immediately crouching to undo the clasp once Michael closes the door.

Petunia woofs in the crate while he fumbles with the latch, launching forward and nearly tackling Luke once he finally gets it open.  He hugs her to him, burying his face in her back, and Michael makes himself look away, reaching for the mugs instead and checking to ensure there's water in the kettle before putting it on the stove.

If Luke wants his cocoa made with milk, he can suck it.  Michael hopes he isn't expecting whipped cream, either.

"Can Petunia be on your furniture?" Luke asks, still hugging the wriggling beast.  She's a solid dog.  Michael isn't sure how Luke got her crate down the stairs.

"Sure," he says.  Luke gets her go and she wanders around the apartment sniffing every corner.  Michael hopes he didn't leave any snacks lying around.  He breaks eye contact with the kettle to peer around the corner and ensure that his bedroom door is closed, too.

"So," he says as he gets out two packets of cocoa mix, ripping them open and pouring them into the mugs.  "Where... um, where does your family live?"

He glances at Luke, standing in the middle of the room and looking around with a slight frown on his face.

He could try to seem less judgmental.  Michael's trying to help him out here.

"They're in California," Luke says.  "The northern part."

"Oh.  That'd be a long flight."

"Yeah," Luke says.  He doesn't say anything else and Michael has just about run out of his small talk, so he turns back to the kettle and wills it to heat up faster.  Petunia's dog collar jingles and Michael looks back long enough to see her hop up on the couch next to where Luke has finally sat down.

"You don't have any Christmas decorations up," Luke says.

"Oh," Michael replies.  "No, I guess not."

"Do you not celebrate?  Sorry, I don’t know your religion or anything."

"Not really," he says.  "I mean, I kind of do, but I'm an atheist, and since I can't go home doing Christmas by myself felt depressing.  Calum and I already exchanged gifts."

"Oh," Luke says.  "Where does your family live?"

"St. Louis.  I have a shift tomorrow night, so it didn't seem worth the drive."

"Sorry," Luke frowns.

"S'okay.  Better than trying to go home and having the flight be cancelled."

Luke purses his lips.  Michael hopes he doesn’t start crying.  Thankfully the kettle chooses that moment to squeal, giving Michael something to do besides stare dumbly at Luke.  For someone who spent what was probably a very frustrating and frazzling amount of time at the airport, his hair looks infuriatingly good right now.

"Do you want marshmallows?" he asks.  "They're a little stale."

"Sure," Luke says.  "Thanks."

Michael gets the marshmallows from his cupboard and plops a few into each of their drinks.  He gives Luke the mug his parents got him with his college logo, keeping the Marvel one that Calum bought for himself.  Luke takes the mug with both hands, their fingers touching, and Michael tries not to snatch his hand back.  Petunia leans forward to sniff, making Michael give her a wide berth on the way to his wicker armchair.

"Are you scared of my dog?" Luke asks.  "Look, I know she has some pit bull in her, but that doesn't mean she's a monster.  She's really sweet."

"She growled at me when we met."

"When was that?"

Typical.  Michael isn't even a big enough blip on Luke's radar for him to remember that they met when he moved in.  Sure, Luke probably met a lot of people that day, but Michael lives right next door, and they've obviously seen each other a lot since then.

"When you moved in.  I was leaving for a shift, you were moving boxes around, and she came out and growled at me."

"Huh."  Luke looks at her.  Petunia looks right back, completely unbothered.  "She's really not typically like that.  The stress of the move made her moody.  If you let her sniff you now, she'll let you pet her.  Come on."

He sets down his cocoa and gestures Michael forward.

"Dude, it's not a big deal."

"It is," Luke says.  He looks sincerely distressed.  Michael immediately wants to correct that, like Luke has some sort of weird superpower that makes everyone around him want to keep him happy.  "I want you to like my dog.  She wants to like you, too."

"Fine," Michael says, rolling his eyes.  "I'll meet your stupid dog."

Luke beams.  He has dimples.  Somehow, this is the worst thing that has happened to Michael today.  His insides feel funny, like he swallowed pop rocks.

"Be nice, Piggy," Luke says to the dog.  Michael cautiously holds out his hand, letting Petunia snuffle at it.  Soon enough she must decide that he isn't worth the trouble because she puts her head back down and lets Michael run a hand over her back.

"She really likes it when you scratch behind her ears."

He tries that out, watching the way her ears flick forward and back and how she keeps moving her eyes from him to Luke.  She sighs and smacks her lips twice, kicking out her back leg and stretching further on the couch.

"See?" Luke says.  "She likes you."

Michael smiles, sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch so he can continue to pet her.

"I miss dogs," he says.  "I keep wanting to get one, but I work too much right now."

"What is it you do?" Luke asks.  He drinks some of his hot chocolate, pulling a face but going back in for another sip.  MIchael’s not sure if that means his cocoa sucks or is acceptable.

"I work nights at a grocery store, but I babysit for some of the families here, too."

"Really?' Luke asks.

"Don't sound so surprised," Michael snorts.

"Sorry," Luke says.  "You just don't strike me as a kid person."

Michael shrugs.  Luke has a point.  Michael was an only child and he gets tired and grumpy easily.  Still, hanging out with his kids usually isn’t that bad.

"It pays well.  They're little demons, but at this point all of them like me, so it's not too bad.  The hardest thing is pretending to be bad at their video games so they don't get upset because I'm beating them."

“I guess,” Luke says.  “I’m a hairstylist, and our salon is pretty high-end.  We don’t get a lot of kids, thank goodness.  I’d be scared that they’d move and I’d cut off the wrong chunk of hair.”

Huh.  That must be why his hair always looks so good.

“You think my hair looks good?” Luke asks.

Shit.  Michael is too used to being alone in the apartment and allowed to speak all of his thoughts to the air.

He shrugs.

Luke makes a pleased noise and drinks more of his cocoa.  His cheeks look a little red, possibly a side effect of him still wearing his coat even though he’s inside with a warm drink.

Michael goes back to his chair and picks up his own cocoa.  Luke takes a few more sips, but it seems like he has used up most of his small talk, too, although he tries as he goes through his backpack, commenting on the book he tucked in there but probably wouldn’t have read and occasionally cooing at Petunia.  Michael is grateful when he finishes his own drink and can take it to the sink to rinse it, spying his half-eaten toast and taking a bite along the way.

Luke finds his keys quickly, zipped into an outside pocket.

“Thanks for the cocoa, and letting me let Petunia out,” Luke says, standing in the middle of the room again, backpack on and keys in hand.

“Yeah, sure,” Michael replies.  “Hope you have a good Christmas.”

“You too,” Luke says.  Michael looks at everything in the room other than him.  Luke grabs his things, calls to Petunia, and leaves for the apartment next door.

-/-

There’s a knock on Michael’s door a few hours later.  It’s still snowing pretty heavily outside, white flakes standing out against a black sky whenever they pass by a light, so it must be someone in the building.  Michael hopes it’s not someone needing a last-minute babysitter.  He’s still tired and trying to savor his one night off, even if he doesn’t have any plans beyond video games and movies.  He’s going to have to resist shouting at the tv into the early morning now that Luke is home again, but he was still looking forward to it.

Luke is standing outside his door.

“Hi,” Michael says slowly.

“Hey,” Luke says.  “Do you want to have dinner?”

“What?” Michael asks, sure that he heard something wrong or is misunderstanding something.

“I dunno.  You’re here, I’m here, neither of us are doing anything.  I don’t really want to eat alone on Christmas Eve.”

Oh.  Michael hopes for once his pale complexion isn’t betraying him, but he can feel his ears burn.  Luke is not asking him on a date; he’s just bored and lonely.  Luke also has automatically assumed that Michael doesn’t have a life and isn’t doing anything which--while true--is a little offensive.

“Okay,” he shrugs.  “What do you want to eat?”

“Well…” Luke looks down at his feet, ever so slightly pigeon-toed.  He has really nice legs, even when they’re covered in baggy sweatpants instead of the usual skin-tight pants Michael typically spies him in.  “I wasn’t planning on being here for a bit, so I have some pasta but no sauce, or I have pancake mix.  We might be able to walk to the Chinese place at the corner, but I don’t know if they’re open with the blizzard.”

“Pancakes sound good,” Michael says.  “I have some eggs, if you want those.”

“Thanks,” Luke says.  “I have some bread for toast and jam and butter.  That’s a full meal.  Want to come to mine?”

“Sure,” Michael says.  “I’ll get the eggs.”

Michael lets his door swing closed.  He toes on his shoes and grabs his phone, then almost forgets the eggs anyway and has to double back to the kitchen.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to walk right in to Luke’s apartment or knock out of politeness.  After a moment of deliberation he chooses the latter, navigating around the wreath to rap his knuckles against the wood, which sends Petunia barking and therefore might have been the wrong choice.  Luke doesn’t seem bothered when he opens the door, though.  He just smiles and steps aside, then tells Petunia to stop.  Petunia actually greets Michael at the door, too, snuffling at his feet before trotting after Luke to the kitchen area.

"Woah," he says involuntarily once he gets a clear look at the apartment.  There's a fake tree in the corner, which he expected, but what takes him aback is the tinsel hanging from the ceiling in green and red, the small Santas and snowmen standing proud on available surfaces like the TV stand, side table, and counter, and the numerous other fake evergreen springs scattered around.  There are Christmas pillows on the couch.  There's a wooden reindeer on the wall.

Michael knew that Luke loved Christmas given the numerous carol-sessions and decorations seen from outside the apartment, but somehow he still hadn't considered that the inside would look like this.

"I got started already," Luke calls from the kitchen.  Michael breaks himself out of his decoration shock and follows him into the small area, looking in the mixing bowl Luke gestures to.  The batter inside doesn't appear to be mixed very well, just milk sitting around a mound of powder.  "I don't know when you usually eat, since you work so late, but I hope you don't mind.  If you hate it you don't have to eat it or whatever; I'm not the best cook and I know that you're just humoring me."

Luke puts his hands on the counter and sighs.

"Sorry.  I'm rambling."

"It's okay," Michael says.  "I prefer rambling to awkward silence."

"I'm great at awkwardness," Luke says.  "I excel at being awkward.  If it's possible to make a situation more awkward, I can do it."

"Yeah, I'm getting that," Michael says, eyeing him.  This Luke is different than the Luke Michael so often sees in the hallway.  He's softened by the grey tracksuit he's wearing, hair now pulled half-up, slight embarrassment staining his movements.  This Luke is approachable and comfortable.  Michael thinks he can find his footing here.  The Luke that he interacted with before today is intimidating in his heeled ankle boots and silk shirts.  This one seems like... well, a little like a dork.

Michael reaches for the pancake mix box while Luke takes a fork and starts stirring.

"Hey, did you put an egg in?"

Luke freezes.

"This needs eggs?"

Huh.  This Luke is a dork who is hopeless in the kitchen.

"You weren't underestimating your cooking skills earlier," he says.  "Have you made pancakes before?"

"It was a while ago, okay?" Luke defends.  "I eat out a lot."

"Every self-respecting person should be able to make pancakes," Michael says.  He takes one of the eggs and cracks it over the bowl, Luke pausing in his mixing to give him room.  Thankfully, Luke seems to have a griddle plugged in and warming up.  Michael thinks it probably was a housewarming present that doesn't get much use.

"What kind of eggs do you want?" Michael asks.

"Uh, scrambled."

"How many?"

"You choose."

Michael has never cooked with Luke.  Michael has never seen Luke eat and therefore doesn't know his appetite.  Michael has no clue what to do with that answer.

"Can I have a pan?" he asks.

"Sure," Luke says distractedly, forcefully stabbing at the egg in his mixing bowl to break the yoke.  "They're right over there."

He kicks his leg out towards one of the lower cabinets, right behind where Petunia has taken up residence.

"Hey Petunia, want to move?" he asks her, crouching and slowly opening the drawer.  She stares at him.  He scratches behind her ears and continues to pull the drawer out as far as he can, but it's not far enough.  Eventually she must find the drawer pushing into her back more inconvenient than shifting her position, because she heaves herself up and leaves to sit by her food dish in the corner instead.

"Is this mixed enough?" Luke asks.  He tilts the bowl and Michael cranes his neck to see.  The fact that Luke is asking him at all is weird, because Michael himself isn't exactly in the running for a Michelin star, but there's something to be said about the easy way Luke has admitted his weakness here and turned to Michael for help.  Michael himself would probably just keep messing stuff up rather than admit he needed guidance.

"Um, it's a little lumpy still."

Luke sighs and begins mixing again.  Michael finds a suitable pan and begins cracking eggs.

True to his promises, Luke keeps rambling all throughout the dinner-making process.  He talks about his favorite foods and his friends and asks Michael if they can add chocolate chips to half the pancakes, as if Luke is the guest here instead of Michael.  When he remembers to catch his breath, he asks Michael about himself, seeking the information he had already ended up word-vomiting.  It's a lot more endearing than Michael thought it would be.  For how annoying he finds Luke, there's something endlessly charming about hearing him nervously spout facts about himself.  It's even more charming when he doesn't reprimand Michael for eating some chocolate chips straight out of the bag.

He manages to get batter on his nose halfway through the cooking process.  When Michael points it out, Luke's cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, and Michael makes himself turn to start the toast.

The pancakes land themselves on a plate and Luke gets out another two for them to use.  Michael splits the eggs between them and Luke hands out the toast, then they take two of the stools at the counter to eat.

They're not exactly the best pancakes he's ever eaten, but they're not bad at all.  They're made even better by the fact that Michael isn't eating them alone.

Being on a different schedule than everyone else and living alone means that the vast majority of his meals are spent by himself, typically with the tv on just to give a bit of noise.  While Luke turns on the radio softly, Michael barely registers it, too busy listening to Luke's stories of the salon and countering with tales from the night shift at the grocery.  It's deceptively easy to keep conversation flowing between them.

Before Michael has taken his first bite of pancake, he's already decided that hating Luke was a stupid decision.

Of course, Luke is just lonely on Christmas Eve.  While he's smiling and laughing hard enough at things Michael says to sometimes duck forward, close enough to rest his head on Michael's shoulder if he wanted, there's no guarantee that something like this will ever happen with them again.

Michael chews his last few bites slowly.

“Hey,” Luke says as he’s putting the plates in the sink, where the mixing bowl and pan are already taking up residence, “do you want to stay for a bit?  If you don’t have work or anything?  I usually watch some movies on Christmas Eve, but if you don’t want to we can do something else, like…”  He looks around his apartment, biting his lip.  Michael does not stare.  “I have some decks of cards?  We can have more hot chocolate?”

“I’d be down for a movie,” Michael says.  Luke's shoulders slump in relief.  It makes Michael feel better that Luke would be relieved over him staying.  He's astoundingly easy to read up close, emotions flickering over his face and seeping into his body language to create an open book.  It makes it easier to believe that Luke was asking out of a genuine desire to keep his company, rather than misplaced politeness or simple loneliness.

"Great!" Luke says.  "Awesome."

"What do you usually watch?" Michael asks.

"Uh, the Lord of the Rings."

That wasn't what Michael was expecting.  Honestly, he was betting on Elf.

"Like, all three?  Isn't that twelve hours?"

"We usually have them going right after lunch.  I think my parents hoped that watching would tire us out so we wouldn't wake them up early to open presents before church."

"Did it work?" Michael asks.

"Nope," Luke grins.  "Jack--one of my brothers--always ensured we were awake when the sun rose."

"If I had a brother wake me up that early, I would kill him," Michael says.

"Not me.  I wanted him to," Luke says.  "I loved running to the living room and seeing all of the presents and our stockings lined up.  I didn't want to wait a moment more than I had to."

Michael tries to picture a younger Luke Hemmings running excitedly to look under his Christmas tree, early rays of dawn streaming in through a window and fresh snow on the ground.

He doesn't know what Luke looked like back then.  It puts a damper on things, but the image is soaked in nostalgia and happiness regardless.

"If you wake me up early tomorrow it'll be the last thing you do, but we can watch Lord of the Rings," he says.  Luke grins.

"Can we make a blanket fort, too?" he asks.

"What are you, six?"

Luke's face immediately crumples.

Shit.

"No, not like that!  It's not a bad thing!" he backpedals.  "Like, I'm just teasing.  I do it with all of my friends.  If Calum had asked I'd have said the same thing even though I want to."

Luke eyes him critically.

"We're friends now?"

Michael rubs at his chest.  He hadn't even thought before he had said that.  He shouldn't have assumed.  If Luke hadn't warmed up to him in the entirety of their four months as neighbors, why should one night make any difference?

"I guess," he says.  "Why not?  I gave you eggs."

"Yeah, a true sign of friendship," Luke says dryly.

Fuck.  He fucked this up.

"I should go," he says, starting for the door.  Luke lurches into motion, catching his arm as he passes.  It sends goosebumps erupting across his skin, freezing him in his tracks.

"Wait, don't," Luke says.  "Sorry.  We're friends.  Don't go, please.  I didn't--we're friends.  I want us to be friends."

He releases Michael's arm, and Michael feels like he can breath again.

"We're really bad at this," he says.  It makes Luke laugh, lifting at least half the heaviness in the air.  "We're friends, we're going to make a fucking blanket fort, and we're going to watch Lord of the Rings.  Right?"

"Right," Luke says.

"Good.  Let's get started on that blanket fort."

Luke's definition of a blanket fort is more of a nest.  They don't have anything tall enough to prop up a ceiling unless they take the cushions they need to use as a floor, even with Michael going back to his own apartment to bring pillows and blankets.  In the end, Luke moves his small coffee table and they simply pile as much padding and blankets as they can find in front of the couch.  Luke pops a bag of popcorn and offers beverages.  Once he gets settled Petunia flops down next to him, leaving Michael to set up the movie with Luke giving directions, since neither of them could disturb Petunia in good conscience.

Luke ends up disturbing her anyway to take her outside for the bathroom so she doesn't interrupt the movie.

Being alone in Luke's apartment with no distraction is strange, so he takes out his phone and texts Calum.

To Calpal: im in lukes apartment we had pancakes and now we are watching lord of the rings

From Calpal: ???? hot mean neighbor luke?

To Calpal: yeah his flight was cancelled

From Calpal: ????????????? I thought you hated him

To Calpal: hes kinda a dork cant cook for shit his dog likes me now hes kinda funny too we are officially friends

From Calpal: ??????????????????????

Luke’s door opens, and Michael has to scramble for the popcorn so Petunia won’t be able to get at it while Luke takes off his boots and jacket.

To Calpal: g2g tell you later

“Hey, Petunia,” Michael says when she presses against him, stretching for the popcorn he’s holding out of reach.  He runs a hand over her back, fur cold and damp.  “Is it still snowing?”

“A little,” Luke calls.  “I think it’ll stop soon.”  He gets the main light, leaving a lamp on a side table lit, then flops down on the blankets and cushions, shoulder knocking Michael’s briefly.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Luke presses play, and the opening instrumental and Galadriel’s narration fills the small apartment.

Luke is chatty during movies.  Michael would be more annoyed by it if this wasn’t clearly a movie he had seen millions of times before with a million memories to accompany.  Besides, when Michael says he’d like to be a hobbit so he could snack all the time, Luke makes another bag of popcorn for him without asking.

“Do you think--” he asks, then stops.  On screen, the Fellowship arrives at Lothlorien.

“Do I think what?” Michael prompts.

“Do you think I’ll be able to go home tomorrow?”

Michael looks at him, lounging back on the cushions with one of the blankets pulled around him.  He let his hair down, curls shadowing his face a bit more in the low light.

“Yeah, if the snow stops,” he says.  “But if not… if you’re still lonely, you can hang out with me until I go to work.”

“Really?” Luke asks.

“Yeah, why not,” Michael says.  “If you’re not sick of me, I don’t have any plans.  I was just going to play video games.”

Luke smiles at him.

“I like video games.”

“Great.  We’ll play video games.”

Michael turns back to the movie, but Luke’s hand snakes over a snoring Petunia and grabs his own.

“Thank you,” he says.  “Really.  You’ve made what would’ve been a really shit time into a surprisingly nice Christmas.”

“It’s not even Christmas yet,” Michael says, feeling his cheeks heat up.  Thankfully Luke won’t be able to see it in the low light.

“You’ll make that nice, too.”

Michael squirms under his attention.  It feels too nice, and that’s something he can’t afford to consider right now.

“Um, I think there’s an important scene coming up,” he says.  Luke squeezes his hand again, but returns his attention back to the screen.  

Michael is the one to put the second movie in, because Luke is still sniffling over the ending of the first.  Michael’s not sure if he’s allowed to tease him for it, especially when his own eyes welled up.  He cries over movies pretty easily, and there’s something to be said about the loyalty and love packed into the last piece of the story, something that Michael occasionally wonders if he’ll ever find.

He comes close with Calum, but Calum also has a roommate and boyfriend.  Michael wouldn’t mind another person to love, too.

“I think this one is my least favorite,” Luke says drowsily when Michael presses play.  “Too much Gollum.  He used to give me nightmares as a kid.”

“Really?” Michael asks.  Luke nods.

“That, and the scene in the first one where they’re making the Uruk-hai and they appear from the mud.”

“When I was young, I had lots of nightmares about showing up to school in my underwear and everyone laughing at me.  It would happen once a week.  I started ditching school because it made me too nervous.”

Luke hums.

“I wouldn’t have laughed at you.”

“It was middle school.  Everyone would’ve laughed.”

“Not now,” Luke says.  “I know you now.  I’d wait until I knew you were okay to laugh.”

“Thanks,” Michael says.  Luke nods.   He keeps sinking lower and lower into the blankets, eyelids drooping more every time Michael checks on him.  Michael himself would still be in the middle of his shift at the grocery store on a typical day, and he could keep going for hours.  The relaxed atmosphere they’ve formed might let him clock out early, though.

They watch most of this movie in silence, Luke’s commentary diminishing more and more as the movie wears on.  There are a few times where Michael thinks he’s finally fallen asleep and he should take his leave, but then Luke will shift or say something else.

“Michael?” he asks eventually, voice small and eyes closed.  He’s curled on his side facing him, giving up any pretence of continuing to watch.

“Hm?”

“Will you stay here tonight?”

“Sure,” he says.  Luke smiles and snuggles deeper into the blanket.  His breathing evens out more, slipping seamlessly into sleep.  Michael looks at the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks, savoring the unguarded expression on his face.  He’s almost ethereal like this, as fair and otherworldly as the elves on the tv but twice as captivating.

Michael puts the third movie in once it’s time.  He’s asleep within ten minutes.

-/-

Michael wakes disoriented, tangled in multiple blankets and propped on too many pillows.  There’s noise somewhere near him, someone else shuffling and the rustle of a jacket being put on, but it doesn’t feel out of place.  This person isn’t an enemy breaking in.

“Wha?” he asks, trying to turn towards the noise.

“Sorry, sorry,” Luke murmurs.  “I’m going to try to see if I can get to church.  Go back to sleep.”

Soft fingers brush his hair to the side, lingering.  He leans into the touch before it’s gone.

He rolls over and goes back to sleep.

-/-

The smell of coffee draws him fully out of sleep a while later.  Michael blinks and does his best to detangle himself, sitting up and looking around groggily until he processes Luke standing at the counter, mug in hand.  It’s a sight that Michael could get used to if he was allowed.  He’s in his typical jeans and fancy shirt, a juxtaposition to yesterday, and Michael isn’t sure what that means about the dorky guy who wanted to make a blanket fort rather than the one who always brushed by Michael in the hallway.

He clears his throat.  Luke’s answering grin is wide and familiar.

“Hi,” he says.

“Good morning,” Luke says.  “Afternoon.  Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he hums.  “Coffee?”

Luke pours another mug, offering Michael cream and sugar.  He brings it over, and this time when their fingers brush over the mug Michael doesn’t feel the need to snatch his hand away.

“How was church?” he asks.

“It was good,” Luke says.  “The plows were out overnight, so I was only a little late.”  He looks down at his mug, fingertip tracing the rim.  “I wish I had been able to go with my family.  It’s fine though.  Mum will probably have us go on Sunday.”

Michael nods.

“I, uh, got a message from the airport, too.  My flight got rescheduled.  I’m going to have to leave in about an hour.”

“Oh,” Michael says.

“Sorry.”

“What?  No, this is a good thing.  I’m glad you get to go home,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound too disappointed.  He had been looking forward to spending part of the day with Luke more than he thought, and to have that taken away from him feels like a punch to the gut.

“Guess we’re going to have to reschedule the video games,” Luke says.

“Yeah.”

“Or,” he says, “we could go on a date?”

Michael gives himself whiplash with how quickly he looks up.

“I, uh, don’t know if you even like guys,” Luke says, “but I’ve had a lot of fun with you, and I’ve always thought you were cute.”

“I thought you didn’t like me until yesterday.”

Luke shrugs.

“I can think you’re hot and be frustrated about it at the same time.”

Michael nods because yeah, that tracks.  Michael has never kidded himself about how nice Luke is to look at, even when he was cursing his name for waking him up with Christmas carols.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Yeah, you agree that you’re hot and frustrating?  Or--”

“Yeah, let’s go on a date.  Or stay in on a date.  Whatever you want.”

Luke grins.  Michael hides his smile behind his cup of coffee, but Luke can probably see it anyway.

“Want some pancakes?” Luke asks.  “We have the leftovers from yesterday.”

“If you can handle heating them up.”

Luke swats at him on the way past and Michael tries to trip him in retaliation.  It almost works, earning him a reproachful look that he responds to with a wink.  Luke ducks his head.

Michael is going to flirt with him so hard in the future.  He can’t wait to see Luke’s face turn different shades of pink.

They have to clean up the blanket fort after breakfast, and by then Luke barely has time to get Petunia ready before needing to leave.  Michael offers to drive him to the airport, but Luke says Petunia rides best in his car, and he’d rather park it at the airport so he doesn’t have to call for a ride home.

Luke walks him to his door, even though it’s only a few feet away.

“Hey,” he says.  “Thanks again for making me pancakes and watching movies with me, and for inviting me in for hot chocolate earlier.  I’m glad you did.”

“I’m glad you said yes,” Michael says.  “Let me know when you get back.”

“I will.”

“Have a good time,” Michael says.  “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Michael.”

Luke leans forward and kisses his cheek.  When he steps back, he’s smiling again.  Michael mirrors it and stays standing in front of his door until Luke has disappeared into his.

His apartment feels small and empty after sharing Luke’s for the night.  There’s no pillow fort spread on the floor nor dog lounging on the couch.

Of course, Luke’s apartment will be empty soon, too.  He’ll be with his family, enjoying Christmas day with them, while Michael’s own parents will be without him for the first year since he was born.

He brings out his phone and dials his home number, listening to it ring a few times before someone picks up.

“Michael?  How are you?  Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas Mum,” he says.

“Oh, we miss you, darling,” she says.  “We wish you could be here.  Are you still having an alright time?”

“I actually am,” he says.  “I, uh, was celebrating with someone this morning.  Have I mentioned my neighbor Luke?”

“No, I don’t think you have.  Why don’t you tell me about him?”

Michael gets comfortable on his couch and tells his mother all about spending Christmas with Luke Hemmings.

[detectivedreameater]

Ghost In The Stool|| Jane and Marley

TIMING: Right after Jane received a possessed stool PARTIES: @jane-the-zombie and @detectivedreameater SUMMARY: Two cops versus one stool. Who will win? CONTENT: Gun use

Marley was surprised she only heard one gunshot echo as she approached Jane’s house. Still, she had to take a moment to sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she grabbed the baseball bat she’d managed to find and a net. She was no expert on ghosts or possessed objects, but she hope the tools would prove useful somehow. They had to, right? Ghosts, strangely enough, weren’t something she dealt with a lot. And a possessed stool was definitely out of her wheelhouse. But she supposed she ought to feel some obligation to clean up the mess, considering she’d been the one to submit the pie under Jane’s name in the first place. She appreciated how in stride Jane always took her. She was finally a match for Marley’s strange behaviors, and Marley was relieved to have someone like her around. So, she was here, ready to help, with a bat in one hand and a net in the other. She didn’t bother knocking, opening the door and poking her head inside. “Is it still locked in the bathroom?” she called into the apartment, closing the door behind her. 

Jane shot the stepstool. It was just a test to see what would happen, that’s why she only shot it once. Nothing happened. All it did was dent the fucking thing while the bullet landed somewhere she couldn’t see. Jane scowled, before clicking the safety back on and sitting down in front of the bathroom. The door was swung all the way open, propped open by one of her kitchen table chairs. A rather thick line of salt was in front of the door. She heard the door open and assumed that it was Marley. “I think we're staring at each other  and having a staring contest,” Jane said flatly, just as the stool flew into the bathroom counter. “It completely trashed the bathroom!” Jane complained. No way in hell she was ever getting her security deposit back. Fuck. Jane pushed herself up to her feet and poked her head out to look at Marley. “You think a bat and a net is going to help??”

Marley paused in the middle of the living room, holding her net and bat. Looked between the two, then back to Jane before shrugging. “Hey, I’m not a ghost expert, alright? Once they’re dead they’re outta my wheelhouse,” she stated, coming over to Jane and holding one out to her. “I see your ‘shoot it’ method isn’t working, either, so why not give these a try, right?” She glanced to the line of salt, scowling, subconsciously moving away from it before looking at Jane. “Maybe we can like...put it in a cage? Do you have something to hold it?” she asked, watching it tear around the bathroom, cracking the mirror some more and denting the walls. She winced. “And uh...maybe get a good handyman on call.”

“My landlord is going to shit an entire brick. Do you know how nice that old lady is to give me such a good rent price for a two bedroom apartment?” Jane groaned. She ran a hand down her face, before looking between the bathroom and Marley. “There’s no Mara way to get rid of it, is there?” Probably not. She still didn’t completely understand what Mara were, except that they ate and gave people nightmares and had blue blood. She thought for a moment, before her eyes widened. “Oh! You know what! I do have a cage!” Jane said, putting the gun down on the counter and going to one of the storage closets. “Don’t ask me how my brother’s dog’s crate-thing ended up in my packed stuff, but it did. Probably a good fucking thing too. Uhhh… we’re going to have to put it together though.”

“Nope,” Marley said, shrugging again, “no mara way to get rid of a spirit.” Couldn’t really give visions of fear to something that had nothing left to fear. Or...no eyes. She supposed she could stand inside and distract it, but she wasn’t eager to do that right now. “A dog crate?” Glanced around, then back at Jane. “Why did you rent a two bedroom, anyway?” She followed her away from the bathroom, careful to step around the box of salt sitting there, and came over to Jane digging through the closet. “You’re just full of surprises, Newbie,” she said, shaking her head as she started pulling out pieces of a cage. “Think it’s sturdy enough to hold that?”

“Better kitchen,” Jane replied with a shrug. It was more expensive, but Jane wasn’t exactly concerned about money these days. Probably not a financially stable decision, but one she made anyway. This kitchen had an island and the entire apartment was nice and spacious. The small town Maine-murder vibe also helped with rent. Jane snorted, pulling out the black caged bits. “So what’s the plan? We get it in this thing, and then put a salt circle around it and hope for the best?” Jane frowned. “Do you think we can just chuck it???”

“The ideal plan is to just hope it goes away on its own, but I don’t think that’s happening tonight,” Marley said, looking over at Jane, taking some of the pieces she was pulling out and starting to shove them together in what looked like a coherent cage like outline. “Jane, you can’t just throw away a ghost, I don’t think it works like that.” She frowned, furrowed her brow. “Maybe we can find an exorcist or something. You don’t happen to know any, do you?” she asked, looking back over at her. A loud CRASH! Echoed from the bathroom and the one piece of cage Marley had set up fell over with a wimpy clunk.

“Exorcists are a thing?” Jane responded blandly. That answered that question. “Wait don’t - Ah.” Jane ran a hand down her face as the crash echoed in the bathroom as the cage fell apart. She knelt down, and put it back together. “Alright, I have an idea. What if we trap it in the cage, and then one of us holds it down and then traps it in a salt circle until I can get an …. Exorcist here.” Jane frowned. “Do you think that would work? Because I can absolutely shoot it again.” There was another loud crash from her bathroom. Jane winced. “Or we break it into little pieces.”

“Oh Jane,” Marley sighed, shaking her head as if disappointed in a child. “There’s much for you to learn, young one.” Patted her reassuringly on the shoulder before standing up again, looking around. “Okay, fine, but I’m not going anywhere near, in or around a salt circle. I like you, Jane, I do, but I don’t wanna be literally stuck in your house.” Frowned, furrowing her brow. She hated salt. “Breaking it into little pieces just sounds like torture. Or maybe giving it more ammo. I’d suggest not doing that.”

“I can trap you in a salt circle?” Jane asked, looking at Marley amused. “Maybe I’ll put one around your desk the next time you fall asleep,” she said, grinning. “Alright, you can put me in the salt circle while you hold me in here. Some Morton’s isn’t going to get me down.” Jane stood, rolling her shoulders back. “Alright so here’s the plan, I’ll brace myself here with the cage, and you go let it out of the bathroom. It seems to hate me so it should… uh… come straight to me. We stuff it in the cage and then the salt is up in the cabinet. Kay?”

“We’ve all got our weaknesses, okay?” Marley snapped, going over to the cabinet to dig around for the salt. Uugh. She held it out at arm’s length, feeling the hair on her arms rise and her skin tingle. When she came back, she looked at Jane with a ruffled glance. “You make terrible plans. If it comes at me, I’m going intangible. Sorry, but I’m not getting decked by a stool for you today.” She went over to the bathroom, held the nob. “Ready, Newbie?”

“Does that mean you’ll get decked by a stool for me tomorrow?” Jane asked before she braced herself against the metal cage. If this thing could hold the large yellow fluffy monster of a dog that Steve got, it could hold a possessed stool. In theory. Jane snorted. “I make great plans, come on, where’s the fun if there’s no risk involved, right? Besides, it doesn’t like me anyway, it wants to knock my head off. Let her loose. I’m ready.” 

“Maybe,” Marley replied in jest, a small smirk pulling up one side of her mouth. She shook her head again, salt in one hand, doorknob in the other. “Okay, here goes nothing,” and whipped it open quickly. The stool had made even more of a mess of the room somehow, and the second the door open it whizzed out, crashing into the adjacent wall, before righting itself and doing exactly what Jane had said it would-- beelining for her as if she had insulted its entire family lineage. Marley just watched, already racing over with the salt ready.

And there it came. As Jane predicted, the thing whizzed straight to her. The son of a bitch. What had she ever done to it?! Why did it hate her in particular. Jane was ready, though, and moved straight so the stool crashed into the cage with a loud band. Jane threw herself on top of it at the stool jerked around in the cage. She struggled to slam and latch the door and then used her body weight to keep it down. “Marley!” Jane groaned as it slammed the metal into her hip. “Hurry up!” 

Marley couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, even as she hurriedly poured salt-- uuggh-- around the cage, making sure to keep her hands far, far away from it, scooting around the salt as if it were physically repulsing her. When she finished, she shut the lid and tossed the can onto the couch, stepping back. “You’re good, just don’t smudge it!” she warned, pointing at the line so Jane didn’t mess up her handy work. “C’mon, get outta there before it breaks that thing!”

The cage gave her another hard jolt to the ribs and Jane groaned, hurriedly throwing herself over the salt when Marley said it was good. “Ouch,” Jane muttered, poking her ribs, irritated. “Who the hell gives cursed freaking stools as a prize. This is a bad pie prize!!” Jane said, exasperated. Sure enough, the stool was properly constrained, and it seemed pretty pissed off about it. She ran a hand through her hair, and looked at Marley accusingly. “You owe me, by the way. This is your fault.” She pointed at the stool. “And helping me trap it doesn’t count.”

“A cursed town,” Marley said back with a smile, watching the stool struggling against its physical cage and the barrier the salt created. She glanced sideways at her, rolling her eyes. “Alright, alright, fine. But I’m not apologizing for entering the pie under your name because it was hilarious. You’ve gotta admit at least that, Newbie,” she said, coming over to Jane and looking curiously at where she was holding her ribs. “It didn’t break them, did it?” she asked, reaching out to poke her gently. “Guess I do owe you one, now. But just one.”

“No, because whenever I make pie, my pies are good. Though I’m much more of a cookie person than I am a pie person,” Jane wrinkled her nose. During the Christmas and Holiday season, her cookies were killer. Though she wondered if Bo would get angry if she started making cookies for everyone at work, that was her thing. Marley poked her and Jane rolled her eyes. “Just bruised, don’t worry. I don’t really feel like explaining to the hospital that that a dog cage with a rowdy ‘dog’ broke them anyway.” Jane flopped back onto the couch, kicking her feet on the table as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re buying me take out.” Jane demanded. “Thai Tanic.” 

“You make pie?” Marley said, raising a brow. “Why does everyone in this town make pie.” But it wasn’t really a question. She dusted herself off a little, stepping wide around the salt circle and coming to the couch to flop next to Jane. She wondered, for a moment, if it was alright that Jane knew about her weakness to salt. But, Jane was Jane. Her partner. Her colleague. Her-- well. No, because Marley didn’t have friends. They were just...this. “Really?” she finally said, picking up her phone despite. “I give you one entire favor, and you just want food?” Shook her head before dialing. “The usual?” 

[pleasant-boi]

Part 3 of this AU - where everything still goes to shit but Akechi has some decent parental figures this time around. (sorry if some of this stuff doesn't really work English isn't my native and I'm on so many painkillers rn)

I'm really in the 'Akechi actually likes Detective stuff ™' club (which could make some really cute Naoto interactions zdxdfc)

Akihiko asking him if there's anything he likes because there's literally almost nothing to do in his house - especially since he's injured - and Akechi kinda reluctantly admitting he likes reading, especially detective novels.

Akihiko kinda laughs at that 'Should have guessed with your name... Did your mom also like them?'

Akechi tensing up, because people mentioning his mother never meant anything good, before nodding yes.

Akihiko leaving it like that, because Akechi was probably sick of people either treating him like shit or pitying him over it and those 'talk about your parents' conversations when he was a kid made him feel angry at best and like shit at worse. If he wanted to talk about it, leave him be until he brings it up.

Ken is the only one out of sees not knowing immediately, because he has some uni stuff to deal with so they decide to tell him later.

Around the second maybe third week, Ken drops by Akihiko, with 3 hours of sleep, Koromaru and a crate of puppies.

'Hey, sorry for dropping of like that, could you maybe take care of them for like a day or two because - There is a small child here... Is there a small child here or am I starting to hallucinate from the lack of sleep ?'

Akihiko briefly explaining and Akechi being torn between 'I'm not a fucking child, I'm 12.' and basically vibrating from excitement because holy shit!! Dog!!! Puppies!!!!

While Akihiko and Ken talk, a puppy jumps out the crate and they only notice when it has practically jumped on Akechi, licking him and demanding pets, wagging its tail.

Koromaru is somehow looking really proud.

It is really adorable, especially when the rest of the puppies join their sibling and Akechi genuinely laughs for the first time in a long time, because 1)it tickles and 2)he only has two hands and the puppies are all trying to get his attention.

Puppy pile puppy pile puppy-

Everyone - even Mitsuru reluctantly, this is still a bad idea but the kid is growing on her and it does sound like a heartwarming moment - is pissed there weren't any photos when they hear about it.

Also I want you to imagine how awkward Ken would be with interactions with Akechi because the fact that Ken was a homicidal, trying to act like an adult, unresolved mommy issues 11 year old living with a bunch of teenagers MUST have been really awkward at first and Ken not really realising it until he interacts with a homicidal, trying to act like an adult, unresolved mommy issues 12 year old

'shit was it this weird when I first moved in the dorm??'

Yes. Yes it was.

Even more concidering the fact you were recruited to fighting monsters.

Akihiko is given like a file and a warning from the social services that Akechi is violent and a problem child, but honestly? The kid mostly just avoids any interaction. The worst is some nightmares which are probably worse for him more than anything

Until - Akechi is doing missing work, because he can't really use crutches with broken ribs so no school for at least two to three weeks, Akihiko being in another room and the TV playing quietly as background noise

You can all probably guess who appears on the screen. (it gets bad so skip the rest if you want)

Akechi immediately freaks out. He's staring at the screen, gripping a glass of water and just gritting his teeth and gripping tighter and tighter as that asshole talks, until the glass breaks.

Akihiko thinking oh he probably knocked something over and it broke no big deal - until he sees him mumbling to himself, a huge piece of glass in his palm blood dripping.

Akechi not even remotely calming down, instead starts screaming about how he shouldn't even exist, how that man should be dead instead and it was all his fault, how the whole fucking world is sick and rotten

Akihiko tries to calm him down screaming internally because what is happening?

Akihikos biggest muscle is ultimately his heart but that doesn't mean he isn't an hugely intimating presence. Which means that it has really the opposite effect.

Akechi grabs another piece of glass and tries to stab him, still screaming.

[tss-grimmverse]

Chapter 3: Lilac

i wish you out of the woods

and into a picture with me

The Youngstown Grimms had made it sound like Logan possessed arcane knowledge, and would cast some sort of protective spell over Virgil. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this whole protection business being based on proximity.

Had those Grimms warned Logan that they’d signed Virgil up for college classes? Did they even know how Logan’s “protection” worked? It took Virgil nearly the entire allotted thirty “digestion” minutes to muster the courage to bring it up again.

Honestly, with his track record, that wasn’t so bad.

“So…” he drawled, as the two were slipping on their shoes to leave. “How is this gonna work, anyway?”

“This?” Logan pocketed his phone.

“Me, staying here, with you.” Virgil gestured between them. “Like, do I have to stay within a certain distance for your protection mojo to work?”

“For the time being, yes,” Logan explained as they exited the apartment and started down the stairs. “My long term plan, however, is to make a charm that will shield you in my stead.”

That didn’t sound so bad.

“But I will be able to leave?” Virgil clarified. “Like, during the day or whatever?”

As much as he didn’t mind sharing space with an absurdly gorgeous…if a bit standoffish…guy, being trapped inside day after day would drive him up the wall.

Logan made a noise of assent.

“The charm I intend to make will ensure that our arrangement does not overly restrict your freedom. Shelley has informed me of your intention to attend fall classes at Stetson University.”

‘My’ intention, sure.

Truthfully, art school had simply been the cover story to explain why Virgil would suddenly abandon Ohio and his Faire family. The Youngstown Grimms warned him that the whole Ren Faire circuit wasn’t safe for him anymore, not even as far away as Florida, not when his master had already tracked him down once. He still couldn’t imagine what strings the Grimms had had to pull to get him into a fancy, expensive-as-fuck university on such short notice, with only a GED to his name and no other transcripts…but they had, and they’d told him all his expenses would be covered besides.

Virgil was smart enough to recognize an opportunity when he saw it…and too selfish to turn it down.

“Oh, I suppose I should ask.” Logan paused before they left the stairwell. “How sensitive are you to iron?”

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck.

“Cars don’t bother me, if that’s what you’re implying. Most metal doesn’t if it’s refined enough.”

“You are fortunate.” Logan absently thumbed one of his pointed ear tips. “I hypothesize that my sensitivity lies somewhere between that of a true faery and an older changeling. My disguise glamour protects me somewhat, so driving around town is not a problem, but a cross country trip would be…taxing.”

Virgil winced. “That still sucks.”

Logan hummed, adjusted his glasses, and they left the stairwell for the overly bright, bleached parking lot.

Florida, ugh. Virgil squinted in the unrelenting sunlight. No wonder Logan’s house brownie wears sunglasses. He would need to buy a pair of his own, and soon.

Logan unlocked a nearby blue Honda Fit and they climbed in. Virgil observed how Logan’s dark, graceful hands did not linger on either the door handle or the metal seatbelt buckle.

“I can eat stuff cooked in ordinary pots,“ Virgil added as they pulled out of the parking lot. “But cast iron skillets, man…” He shuddered.

“An iron skillet would outright poison me.” Logan grimaced. “Even heavily refined steel is distasteful to cook in.”

That’s why he owns a copper kettle, Virgil realized. Probably all his cooking utensils are copper or aluminum.

“I was shoved into a wrought iron gate once at a Faire,” Virgil went on. “Burned like a bitch, and I only touched it for a few seconds. I haven’t really tested my sensitivities beyond that.”

“I recommend against it.” Logan answered Virgil’s raised eyebrow with a sharp look. “The enmity between iron and Fae is an ancient one. You won’t develop a tolerance.”

Something in the tone spoke of past experience to Virgil. Another little interesting tidbit about the man he’d moved in with.

His charged iPod and headphones lay nestled in his hoodie pocket, but for once, Virgil chose not to tune out the world. Instead he observed Logan’s long fingers on the faux-leather steering wheel, the flex of muscle in his forearms, the crease between his eyebrows as he navigated downtown Deland’s narrow Main Street.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Logan said after a long silence, as though weighing the words. Which of course made Virgil’s anxiety skyrocket.

“What fae abilities do you possess?”

Virgil’s mouth twisted; he’d been dreading that question.

His own hands, caressing bits of straw, color and softness bursting from the hollow shafts. Sewing needles and the dark, metallic scent of blood. Mocking words and cruel fae lips and under it all his power, flowing from his chest into waiting bodies…

Dolls. Abominations.

“I make flowers,” he answered at last.

Logan glanced at him and arched an eyebrow.

Virgil sighed and patted his pockets, finally plucking a loose thread from his hoodie sleeve when nothing else turned up. He laid the tiny string across his palm, and mentally pulled. Warmth blossomed in his chest, like unfolding flower petals, racing down his arm, rippling under his skin, seeping into the thread he held.

It quivered, and expanded, buds bubbling along its length before silently exploding into leaves, the end growing bulbous and green and peeling into delicate violet petals and a yellow center.

He stuck the newly created forget-me-not, stem barely as long as his pinky finger, behind his ear.

“Go on, you can say it,” he challenged, chancing a look at Logan, whose expression hadn’t changed. “Sixteen fucking years in Arcadia, and I end up with the most useless changeling power in existence.”

It was safer, disparaging his magic like it really was nothing but flower-making. Those Grimms in Ohio would never have helped me if they knew what I was, and why my master wanted me back.

The half-faery’s eyes were a mystery behind his glasses. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

But then they were pulling up to an ordinary suburban house and Logan was parking the car, and Virgil had a whole different, slightly more ordinary situation to fret over.

Interacting with people.

“Come,” Logan said, getting out. “Time to meet Nicodemus.”

Virgil dearly hoped ’Nicodemus’ wasn’t another brownie, or a pixie or a hobgoblin, or…

To Virgil’s vast relief, Nicodemus turned out to be a brown Labrador that barked joyously at Logan’s arrival and spent the next five minutes on its hind legs, eagerly licking the half-faery’s face.

Logan rubbed the dog’s head, heedless of the spit bath, and exchanged words and money with the gray-haired woman of the house. Virgil gathered that she often watched Logan’s dog when he was away. The two of them, dog bouncing between, carried a crate full of hairy blankets, some dishes, and several toys out to Logan’s car.

Virgil hung back in the doorway, hands stuffed in his pockets, hoping he wouldn’t be called over to socialize. He stiffened when woman gestured towards him, and Logan said something at length. Virgil shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, wondering what excuses Logan gave to people for his changeling houseguests over the years.

Nicodemus trotted over, eyeing Virgil with curious black eyes.

“Hey…boy.” Virgil gingerly held out a hand. The dog sniffed it, sneezed, and gave his fingers a few licks. (Virgil grimaced and wiped them on his hoodie).

“I was hoping he would like you.”

Virgil startled, having not heard Logan approach. “Is that…what the licking means?”

The half-faery’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile.

“Thank you again, Stephanie!” he called, waving as the woman went inside. “Nic, come!”

Nic leaped obediently into the car’s back seat and settled with his snout just above Virgil’s shoulder.

“I suppose it is a bit late to inquire whether you are amenable to sharing a living space with an animal,” Logan commented in an uncharacteristically wry voice.

Virgil shrugged, reaching back to pet Nic’s neck.

“Dogs are okay, I guess. I’ve never had a pet, so…I don’t know much about taking care of them or whatever.”

Logan waved a hand. “I would expect no such thing. Nic is my responsibility.”

“Um, speaking of responsibility.” Virgil rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was thinking I should probably start looking for a job? So I can, you know, help out with rent and stuff?”

“Why?”

There was no judgement in Logan’s tone; only curiosity.

“I dunno, I just don’t want to be a freeloader.” Virgil shrugged, his shoulders hunched. “The Youngstown Grimms are already paying for all my school stuff and honestly I feel kinda bad about that.”

“I wouldn’t.” Logan raised an eyebrow at Virgil shocked face. “Do you truly think that an organization run by changelings, some of whom can literally transform physical objects into other objects, would have issues obtaining something as mundane as money?”

Virgil’s mouth twisted and he touched the flower still stuck in his ear…the forget-me-not he’d grown from magic and a bit of loose thread. Maybe making random objects bloom wasn’t terribly useful…but sometimes he forgot that such power was still extraordinary from a normal perspective.

Knowing that didn’t make his insecurities go away.

“Look, I dunno what they told you about me, but I was on the road with a Renaissance Faire for nearly two years before De…” Virgil swallowed, unwilling to say even the made-up name aloud. “Before my faery master found me. We didn’t have a lot and we never stayed in one place for long, but it was a good life, you know? They were the closest people I’d had to a family on the outside. And we all worked hard; you had to, to keep the Faire running. Everyone earned their keep.”

Logan hummed, rubbing a finger absently on the steering wheel. “Do you fear letting others pay your way will give them too much control over your life?”

Virgil picked at a rip in his skinny jeans. Logan was not as oblivious as his stilted language would suggest.

“I…yeah. I guess?”

“I am financially solvent enough to support myself and anyone the Grimms send to me, for however long that individual needs to stay.” Logan shot Virgil a look, his stormy eyes softening slightly. “However, I will not be offended if you wish to obtain employment and ‘earn your keep’, as you put it.”

Virgil leaned his head against the window glass, his lungs tight with memories, with fears, with feeling like any joy he scratched out of the barren soil of this existence would always be one faery whim away from being crushed.

Again.

“It’s just, last week I had a life,” he admitted softly. “Now suddenly it’s gone, and I feel a little…lost, I guess.”

Logan drummed thoughtful fingers on the steering wheel.

“Where were you initially rescued?” he asked. “Not four days ago, but when you first left Arcadia?”

Virgil didn’t quite suppress a shudder at the word Arcadia.

“Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I think,” he answered lowly. “Some Grimms…not Youngstown; a different chapter…shut down an illegal trade between two minor Courts. My master was…”

He swallowed, unwilling to admit his faery master had been a fetch-dealer, that the operation those Grimms shut down that day had been a fetch trade. Trafficking in human dolls was the only Unseelie vice specifically forbidden by the Accords themselves. Faeries caught using them in their kidnappings earned an immediate price on their heads. And human thralls forced by said faeries to make those dolls…well.

The usually went mad.

The whole mess carried a well-deserved stigma.

“Let’s just say he was involved in a lot of shady Unseelie shit,” Virgil muttered, looking out the window again.

Logan’s fingers traced the wheel again, his gaze on the road but somehow also miles away.

“You escaped in the confusion?” he prompted.

Virgil shrugged. “Yeah. I hitchhiked to upstate New York and met old Betsy in a bar.” He smiled at the memory. “She introduced me to her Faire buddies and the rest was history.”

“And you were with them for two years?”

Virgil frowned.

“Yeah. What’s with the twenty questions?”

They’d reached the apartment lot; Logan turned off the car.

“Shelley and the Youngstown Grimms were wise to send you to me,” he said cryptically as they got out and opened the back hatch. It felt like the half-faery was changing the subject, though Virgil couldn’t say why.

“You know, before I left, Shelley told me that you asked for me.” Virgil narrowed his eyes. “When they told you my situation, they said you wanted me to come.”

Logan wore an unidentifiable expression as he hefted Nic’s crate from the back. Virgil moved to help. The shared burden made it easy for the half-faery to not meet Virgil’s gaze as they moved upstairs, Nic following placidly at their heels.

“I wanted you to come because I am in a unique position to keep you safe,” Logan allowed at last, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “Both because of my heritage, and because Florida is such a long distance from your previous life.”

Virgil liked to think he had an excellent trollshit detector, mostly because his Fae master had been, among other things, a master liar. Body language, tics, tone of voice. Everyone had tells, even stoic half-faeries with extraordinary control over their facial expressions.

Logan was not lying…but he was definitely fae-dancing around something.

“If we are able to keep you out of sight long enough,” Logan went on, “it is possible that he will give up looking. As much as faeries love the chase, a single human thrall is, for better or for worse, simply not worth their time in the end.”

Unless that thrall was a fetch-maker.

Virgil swallowed hard. Well, if Logan wasn’t going to share his secret, Virgil sure as hell wasn’t revealing his own.

“So you’re saying I’m not worth their time?” he quipped instead, attempting to lighten the mood as they reached the top of the stairs. “Now I’m not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.”

Logan cocked his head. “I…had meant the words to be comforting. Did they not come across as such?”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

“How are you that literal? I was kidding.”

“Oh.” Logan frowned, shifting the crate to adjust his glasses again. “My colleagues tell me I am, in their words, ‘spectacularly’ inept at detecting sarcasm.”

Virgil swallowed a smirk. No shit, Sherlock.

“You’re gonna have a hard time with me, then.”

“Well, surely with sufficient communication we will…” Logan trailed off, and narrowed his eyes. “Ah. That was another joke.”

“You’re learning.” Virgil made a finger gun with one hand, prompting an answering eye roll.

Logan fished out his keys and the two guided the crate into the apartment. Nic bounded down the hallway and into Logan’s room; a smiling, irate Logan on his heels, grumbling that he’d better stay off the bed.

For a moment, Virgil breathed in the pleasant scent of the apartment, and listened to the soft sounds of Remy snoring in his cabinet, and allowed something like hope to lighten his heart.

He missed Ohio, but…this really wasn’t so bad.

“Oh for goodness sakes, really Nic?” Logan’s irritated voice drifted into the living room, followed by the man himself, holding a mangled stuffed animal. “That dog, I swear. Every time I have to leave him in another’s care, he destroys at least one of his toys.”

He made to toss the toy in the garbage, but Virgil scurried forward to stop him.

“Hang on, let me see,” he murmured, taking the toy and turning it over in his hands. It was a stuffed lion, chubby and smiling, with a squeaker in its belly. Stuffing was poking out of several messy rips, and the head was dangling by a mere thread.

“Yeah, I can definitely fix this. Do you have needle and thread?”

Logan nodded and went back into his bedroom, which Virgil barely noticed as he pressed fluff back inside and located all the busted stitches with practiced fingers. Logan reappeared with a sewing kit.

Virgil settled on the couch with the toy.

For a time the world faded; there was only cotton, yielding under his fingers; ragged edges folded and hidden; slick metal needle parting cloth and perfect stitches pulled tight. The satisfaction of tying the last knot and examining the body, ready to breathe life into its flowery heart and flaccid limbs, hear its first cries…

Virgil pulled out of the memory with a gasp, hand closing reflexively around the repaired lion, making it squeak. Slowly his surroundings filtered back in, easing the panicky tightness in his chest: couch, counter, front door, Remy’s cabinet. He was safe and out of Arcadia, out of Arcadia, and Deceit does not know where I am.

Logan sat in the chair opposite the couch, eating a sandwich and watching Virgil. A plate piled with more sandwiches sat on the coffee table between them.

How did he have time to make all those? How…how long has he been watching me?

Virgil flexed his sore right hand, trying to look casual but borderline freaking out on the inside.

He could have seen everything, I was seconds away from bringing that stuffed animal to life because it’s been so long and I got caught up, he’s gonna know what my power really is…

“Um, I think I’m done,” he muttered, gripping the lion and making it squeak again. An answering bark from the back bedroom made Virgil startle.

“May I?” Logan asked, holding his hand out for the toy.

Virgil held his breath as Logan pulled at the stitching, tugged at the head, waiting for the half-faery to call out how weird he’d just acted. But Logan only nodded.

“Excellent. This is one of Nic’s favorites; I know he will appreciate having it back in one piece.”

He stood and flashed Virgil a half smile, one that made his pulse race.

“Eat, I made plenty,” Logan added, gesturing at the plate and then disappearing into his bedroom.

Virgil let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and ran shaking hands through his hair. The fading tightness in his lungs shifted into dull, stabbing pinpricks, making him hiss softly. It felt like thorns, choking his heart, brushing his ribcage with every movement.

The needle he still held in his fingers swelled and burst into flower: a single bunch of tiny purple blossoms framed by soft emerald leaves. Virgil bit his lip hard, tasting blood.

Lilac.

No, no, no, I had my power under control, I swore never again…he clenched his fists hard, crushing the delicate flower stalk, nails imprinting on his palms. Virgil focused on that pain, determined to push the dangerous feelings down, focused on his breathing, in for four, hold for seven, out for eight, come on, Virgil…

The stabbing ebbed and he drew a deep, unsteady breath.

I’m safe here.

I’m safe.

And I can’t ever tell Logan what I was.

Purple lilac: first emotions of love

[venactricisfics]

Training Day

Part 1

The Unit Based Story

"Did you kill it?" I smile at Beau's crate filled with the fluffy guts of the stuffed squirrel Charlie gave him. Beau gives me a look that confirms he did, in fact, destroy the intruder. I open and clean the crate. Beau watching me intently. 

"It takes you being surrounded by all this sweat testosterone to bring out your inner puppy?" I clip his leash to his harness. "PT time." 

I step out the back of the cage, dressed in a grey army t and black shorts and walk with Beau toward the track.  The run was invigorating. Opened up my mind to all the new that happened since I came to Fort Griffith. It was still me and my dog. But for the first time, I was falling in sync with people. Or at least I hoped I was. 

Beau ran through the obstacles three times before it was time to head back to the cave. We were running drills before our next mission. I had to prove how I meshed with the team with and without my dog. 

"Shit, " the locker room was full of guys, I wouldn't be able to change before the drill. I get Beau settled and grab my weapon from the locker. I didn't go overlooked by any of the men there. 

"It's true, " I hear a man scoff, "they have cracked and are letting women in here." 

"Women shouldn't be trusted with heavy firearms, " another says. 

"Really?" I cock a brow turning towards him, "Why is that?" 

"Women just have bad aim, " he stumbled over his words. 

"I have four brothers, I guaran-damn-tee you that men have worse aim than women, " I look between the men. "But you don't have to worry about Lil' old me. I don't fire a gun with my pussy so it's all good." His mouth falls open. 

"Damn, " I hear Charlie's voice smiling from behind me as I slam my locker closed. "That would be an interesting party trick." 

"Probably, " I relax a little and tighten my holster strap around my thigh and tug it tight to keep from rubbing against my skin. Once I had my kevlar on I was happy to only have shorts and a t-shirt under. The training area is hot as fuck. 

I listen as Mack runs through the drill instructions. Jonas and Col Ryan would be watching, judging. I supposed to see how well I actually fit. 

The room was divided into five sections. Mach assigned us our spot. We were responsible for taking out the pseudo threats without hurting the pseudo hostages. The hostages I noticed was the other team, including the two men who doubted me. 

I pushed all the shit from before away. I'd known guys like that my whole life. I couldn't let them get in my head. I didn't have shit to prove to them, just to my team. 

"Bet she's shit without that dog to protect her, " I heard one say as the door swings open. I push it down. No fear, no anger. I couldn't express it, at least not until the job was done. 

Bullets flew, expertly, each one of my teammates taking down their assigned targets. I aimed and fired. Narrowing my eyes at the target. Instead of a hole being blown through the paper target, an explosion of pink paint erupted. The two men just laughed as target after target was covered in pink paint. I changed my clip and fired again. More of the same. 

My cheeks burned with anger but I didn't react. They wanted to see me cry. To see me wash out of the Unit. 

"What in the fuck happened in there, Mitch?" Mack shouted as we left the staged room. "We run drills with live rounds." 

"I know, " I told him, "I loaded both clips with live ammo before I went for my run this morning." 

"And you left your clips in your locker?" Bob asked his voice calmer. 

"Yes, " it started to sink in, "Laurel and Hardy were in the locker room when I got back." 

"We'll take care of it, " Mack stated. "Come with me." He leads me back into the staging room. He scans each of my targets. The pink paint splatter a perfect bullseye. "Give me your weapon, " Mack says to me. I nod pulling my gun from its holster. He slides the clip open and pops the round out of the chamber. He drops the trick bullets in the laps of my hazers. 

"This is not a fucking game, " Mack inches his face closer to them, his fingers curling tight into the man's shirt. "You feel me?" 

"It was just a joke, " the man responded. 

"Does it look like any one of us is fucking laughing? You do shit like that in the field you get her and the rest of us killed," Mack pushes him back hard and draws his fist back landing it in his face. 

"Enough, " Col Ryan's voice barks from the doorway behind us. "Let him go Mack." Reluctantly Mack releases him.  "As for the two of you, " the Col's eyes narrow. "You pull a fucking stunt like that again you'll be booted so far out of the Unit you'll forget its existence." 

"Yes, sir, " they say in unison. 

"Get the fuck out of here, " Col Ryan orders. The two stumble over each other to leave the room. 

"You alright, Mitch? " I'd been watching the entire scene play out in shock, I barely heard Hector's voice over the noise in my head.  

"Yeah, I'm fine, " I told him. "No one other than my brothers has ever defended me like that." 

"We're your brothers now, " Bob said.  The rest of the guys nodded in agreement. 

"Carlito, " Mack grins, "is like that stepbrother that wants to fuck you." 

"Why you gotta make it sound like that?" Charlie scoffs. Though his lips curve into a smile. 

"I'm strangely ok with it, " I felt the weight of everything lifted from my shoulders. 

[foxtophat]

HEY I’M REALLY GOING TO TRY AND GET THIS POSTED IN ITS ENTIRETY BY SOMETIME THIS YEAR. SO here’s the beginning, where Nick is Kanye and John is that water bottle he’s now responsible for.  no ships, no violence, just good old fashioned self-indulgent fix-it fic.

i love writing fix it fic, and i love the idea of john sitting in time out for 8 years, only to show back up in Nick and Kim’s life like a mangy street cat that just will not die. i wrote a lot of this from john’s pov, before i scrapped all of that and reworked it into this.

below the cut is the full text of the chapter, in case you don’t feel like going off-site. reblogs and likes mean the world to me!

2026

Nick isn't sure what to expect as he picks the trail out of the brush. That's sort of been the big theme of the apocalypse as he knows it. Between the super-bloom, the funky looking deer and the total decimation of everything he's ever known, Nick has been operating pretty exclusively on the fly. After eight years of monotony underground, the adventure is almost worth it, although he could do with some basic infrastructure like, you know, roads, gas, electricity, maybe a school so he and Kim don't have to be the ones to teach Carmina math and critical thinking and shit.

Either way, finding strange footprints in the woods is a pretty standard mystery, and Nick doesn't see why he shouldn't follow them. He doesn't even think to leave it alone — how could he? If there's somebody roughing it this close to home, Nick figures he might as well extend a friendly hand. Or at least make sure a crazy murder-hobo hasn't started lurking around the woods his daughter plays in. That's pretty unlikely , given the state of things, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

From all the games and movies Nick had digested growing up, he'd always figured that the nuclear wasteland would be either entirely uninhabited or infested with a population of power-hungry raiders looking to destroy everything in their wake. So far, though, most of the people he's come across have been pretty friendly. Wary as fuck, not really willing to share and definitely not interested in sticking around for long, but nobody's pulled a gun on the Ryes and their hospitality. As bad as Nick had thought living in the bunker had been, it's clear that surviving above ground had been much, much worse, and those who made it this far aren't in the habit of shooting generosity outright.

That's mostly what he's expecting as he follows the bootprints dug into the dirt. Strangers trying to get by in the lushness of Hope County, maybe people whose names he knows. Maybe even old friends who haven't reappeared yet. He expects a small camp, expects maybe he's going to have to negotiate with some new neighbors to keep the peace. There's plenty of land here for everyone, after all, and Nick isn't opposed to some friendly faces to rely on in hard times.

But Nick's luck has never worked out the way he expects it to. Instead of another family, a possible friend or even just a days-old campsite from some wanderer, Nick almost walks himself into an open bunker. He catches himself at the edge of the hatch, staring down into the darkness at the bottom of the ladder. It smells fucking terrible, like something up and shit itself to death down there, and now Nick is pretty sure he's going to find yet another goddamn corpse.

"Uh, hello?" Nick calls, unable to help himself. "Anybody... down there?"

There's no response.

Nick looks around, but the overgrowth is too thick here for him to keep following the tracks. Goddamn — falling to your death after surviving the nuclear holocaust? What a way to go.

It's only on his second look around that Nick catches sight of a scrap of yellow between the trees further ahead. It looks like fabric that's been stretched out over a branch, and as Nick approaches he starts to recognize it as nylon. Like a parachute, maybe? Shit, even if nobody's here, they could use that kind of sturdy fabric.

The parachute's in tatters, dragged through sharp tree-branches and the apocalypse alike. It's sort of like a... lean-to, maybe? Nick's not sure; whoever threw together this campsite was relying on instinct to build a decent shelter, not skill. There's a fire-pit in front of him that looks like it hasn't been burning for days now, and a crate of miscellaneous components, likely scavenged from wherever this parachute came from.

Nick goes to take the fabric down — one man's trash, right? — but he finds himself stopping cold as he catches sight of a corpse huddled under the lean-to. Jesus Christ , and here he was about to scrap the whole place! Talk about disrespectful! From the look of it, the guy who had camped out here must've starved to death — curled nearly fetal, visibly malnourished even fully clothed. Between the thick beard and the wild mane of brown hair, Nick can't see the body's face; all he can make out is a heavily scarred mess near where the guy's ear should be. It looks like it got melted off. Or maybe blasted off.

The body moves . The noise that accompanies it is something like a hiss, air wheezing sharply through tightly clenched teeth.

"Holy shit ," Nick gasps, dancing backwards in momentary terror before getting a fucking grip on himself. "Holy shit, buddy, you're alive ?"

In response, the corpse shudders like it's trying to rise, managing to twist enough in its spot that Nick can now make out a face to go with the rest of the body. There's something strikingly familiar about the bloodshot, glassy blue eyes, the thick beard, the tangled mass of brown hair...

The arm that had been hidden under the body has the sleeve rolled up to the elbow, and Nick can clearly make out ritualistic scars cross-hatched over tattoos that have faded after so long without any touch-ups. Nick stares uncomprehendingly at the damage, unable to think of a single person capable of so much torturous work. The hand curled in the dirt underneath has shiny scars over one of the knuckles, but Nick still recognizes the word EDEN even missing most of the N .

Nick's whole body jolts with a white-hot rush of terror. " Jesus, Christ! " he shouts, jerking away as if expecting a real bomb to drop on him.

It's John goddamn fucking Seed !

Nick raises his rifle before he's processed the situation, finger on the trigger and barrel pointed down at the body slumped in front of him. He almost pulls the trigger, too, wants to pull the trigger, but John is just lying there. He isn't moving, he's barely breathing, and Nick... he can't do it. God, he knows he should — but it's been eight years since he's had to shoot another human being. He doesn't want to break that streak, not even if John barely counts as human.

John smells like shit and looks like a goddamn murder-hobo. Coming close again, Nick can hear his breath rattling in his lungs. It isn't until Nick has the barrel of his rifle almost touching John's chest that the man's eyes drift towards the gun; even then, it doesn't look like he recognizes the danger he's in.

"Holy goddamn," Nick says, unable to help himself, "You look like shit ."

The noise John makes in return could be called a laugh, if Nick were feeling particularly charitable, but it's closer to a tired hiss. It flips his stomach, instincts deeper than reason keeping him glued to the spot while he slowly lowers his gun.

Shit. Shit! He would be doing the world a favor, eradicating this goddamn beast. This is the fucking monster who'd terrorized his family, tried to force him from his home, tortured him — he still carries the dark, thick band of a scar from where John literally fucking flayed him! This county spent years being subtly and then overtly terrorized by this shit and his family, and a quick execution is more than he deserves!

John is barely more than a corpse as it is. He was never meant to make it this long, and his survival is a testament to how little God cares about this miserable planet. Nick would be doing everyone a favor.

Nick listens to him wheeze, something rattling deep in his chest, and finds himself lowering the barrel, finger reluctantly pulling away from the trigger.

He calls himself all sorts of names as he moves into the shelter. Mostly, "Fuckin' idiot, goddamn fool," which doesn't stop him from acting like one at all but at least it makes him feel better.

John doesn't react as Nick crouches beside him; the most he does is close his eyes and try not to throw up as Nick struggles to prop him up. He struggles to swallow, gulping thickly against his dry throat. Nick pulls his canteen off of his belt and pushes it into John's shaking hands, but it's only when he helps bring it to his mouth that John actually drinks any water. He clutches at the metal and drinks desperately, greedily, and it makes Nick so fucking angry to see his relief that he rips the canteen away before John can get his fill. The guilt he feels immediately after is worse than the anger by leagues, but he's got no way to process that shit right now, so he'll stick with the more understandable outrage.

"I've got every right to leave you for the fuckin' wolves," he grunts, shoving the canteen back into John's hands. "I'd be doing the world a favor if I shot you right here myself."

Nick doesn't expect John's delirious nod in response. He doesn't know what to do with it. John Seed has too much goddamn pride to accept a miserable end like this. He's a self-centered narcissist who probably expected the whole cult thing to blow over in court — how can he lie here like a skeleton and let Nick talk about putting him down like a dog?

"Every fucking right," Nick repeats helplessly as the choice vanishes in front of him. John gasps as he pulls away from the canteen, swallowing thickly several times. He looks like he wants to speak, but he can't find the words. Well, good . At least something's going right in this post-apocalyptic nightmare.

Nick can't leave him here to die. He wants to, but the idea makes him sick to his stomach. The only person he can think of that might be able to stand dealing with this better than him is Kim, but... God, what's she gonna do to him if he shows up dragging this sack of shit with him? He's pretty sure divorce in the wasteland involves buckshot and an unmarked grave.

"Okay," Nick sighs at last, "On your feet."

Ordering him doesn't do much, considering John doesn't seem fully aware of his surroundings, but it makes Nick feel better that he tried before resorting to helping him.

John can barely hold himself up. He keeps his legs under him, but even while he's leaning heavily on Nick, his gait is toddler-wobbly and his knees keep buckling. He breathes hard through his nose and gets pretty green around the gills as they march on, but he doesn't complain. Honestly, the most unnerving thing about the situation is how John says nothing . Nick remembers listening to the guy ramble for hours over the deputy's radio, just wishing he would shut up. Now, Nick finds himself trying to fill that same silence while wishing John would just contribute to the conversation.

"This - none of this means I'm helping you ," Nick explains to the silence in frustration. "I just - don't think you're worth wasting bullets over. That's all." It's definitely not a good explanation, but John probably isn't coherent enough to notice. Thankfully, that means he won't notice as Nick works out the problem aloud. Nick's always preferred talking his thoughts out - it's easier than trying to listen to them being just thought . "And anyway... I can't risk you gettin' better out there by yourself and... running around, meeting back up with your whackjob followers, any of that! So I couldn't leave you there, either. Can't have... fuckin' cult shit in the apocalypse... Not gonna happen, not on my watch."

John grunts, but Nick isn't sure if it's in response or just because he tripped over a rock.

"So... Yeah, sure, I'm takin' you home, but it's only because somebody needed to keep an eye on you," Nick finishes. The excuse does... well, it doesn't do much to paper over the guilty empathy Nick had felt finding John in such a way, but it'll at least get Kim off his back for a couple of minutes until he can come up with something more convincing.

"Damn it, Kim is gonna murder me," Nick realizes aloud as he finally catches sight of the house through the trees. John grunts again, this time definitely in response, and Nick imagines a normal, healthy John Seed would be throwing a sarcastic quip in his face. Probably something kind of lewd and predatory about the state of their marriage. The image manages to make John's silence more palatable, anyway.

Father of the year that he is, Nick only pauses to consider Carmina when he's nearly at the door. She's only eight years old, and she doesn't know anything about the cult. If he isn't careful, this whole thing could blow up in his face. He could wind up getting his own daughter indoctrinated in an old-timey psycho cult! All because he couldn't stomach killing this jackass? Is that really what he wants?

Well, he has some time before Grace comes back with her — hopefully Kim will have shot John before then. ...Shit, hopefully she shoots John, and not him, too .

He's gotta bite the bullet one way or another, and so he drags John in through the front door. It's like a bandaid; you just gotta rip it off and deal with the consequences.

"Oh my God," Kim says as he stops by the door, eager to not be touching John any longer than necessary. "What happened?" Nick turns to prop John up against the doorframe, reluctant to meet Kim's face. She must see something that gives John away — maybe his tattoos, or his eyes — because she stops halfway across the dirt-encrusted floorboards and sucks in a horrified breath. "Is that John Seed ?" Kim shouts, "Nick, what are you doing ?!"

Panic flashes across John's face as he half-slips out of Nick's grasp, but he's got the wall right behind him. "Easy," Nick mutters, bracing John's shoulder until he recognizes the support at his back. The relief on his face is hard to look at, but Nick's not sure Kim is gonna be much better.

" No ," Kim shouts. "Nick, are you crazy ?!"

"Kim, c'mon," Nick replies, turning at last, "Hear me out."

"I'm not hearing you out ," Kim hisses. "The fact that you brought him here instead of putting a bullet-! "

She cuts herself off, stalking back into the kitchen. Now Nick is desperate to watch her face, but of course she keeps her back turned to him, even as he chases after her. He gets close enough to rest his hands on her hips, which he does almost out of instinct — she tenses, but at least she lets him keep his hands.

He opens his mouth to repeat all the excuses he'd come up with, about not wanting to waste bullets and not wanting to risk another cult uprising, but to his horror, the only thing that comes out of him is the simple, guilty truth. "I couldn't do it," he whispers miserably. "I couldn't - Kim, I fuckin' hate the guy. If he could hold a gun, if he weren't - he wouldn't be here. I would have shot him dead. No regrets."

"That's what he deserves," Kim mutters. She drops one hand from the counter, resting it on top of Nick's, fingers wrapping around his palm.

"It is," Nick agrees, and he means it with all his heart. It's just... his heart is kind of soft, and it's put him in a sticky situation here. He admits with a tight, rasping voice, "I just couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. And I couldn't leave him there. I mean... what if the cult found him?"

Kim sees through the excuse immediately, turning in his arms to stare him down with that skeptical squint of hers. At last, though, she sighs, taking both of his hands up in her own. "You're too soft," she tells him fondly. She's right, though. One of these days, his tenderhearted mercies are going to get them in a whole load of trouble. With John Seed slumped in his doorway, that trouble might have already come.

"I don't know what to do," Nick tells her, knowing he can rely on her to help him find direction again.

Focusing her attention on the figure slumped in the doorway, Kim eventually shakes her head. "It might be what he deserves, but we don't deserve it," she says at last. Nick can't help but feel relieved, even if it's a guilty kind of relief. "We'll have to find somewhere to put him. Somewhere Carmina can't find, or won't go."

There aren't a lot of places around the homestead that fit that description, but Nick agrees that keeping Carmina away is key. "I dunno, we could... put him in the bunker, maybe? Carmina hates it down there. She'd never bother looking..."

Behind him, John's breath hitches, and at last he finds his voice. "No," he rasps with a shredded voice, "Not that."

"You're not in a position to argue," Nick snaps over his shoulder.

Kim fixes her eyes on John, but Nick can't tell what she's thinking. He expects her to tell John to get fucked, even half-expects her to throw him in the hole herself. It's the least John deserves. But her stony frown cracks just a little, and Nick recognizes the same pity that started this whole mess.

"The..." She clears her throat and begins again, "The spare room has a lock on the door. It'll do for now."

Nick nods. "Okay," he says. "I'll... I'll dump him up there, and then..."

"And then we'll talk about how we're going to deal with him," she says.

It's going to be one hell of a conversation, but Nick is willing to lie in the bed he's made. He gives her hands a gentle squeeze before he pulls away, turning to regard John's collapsed form in the doorway.

"Okay, asshole," he grunts, although it doesn't seem like John catches the insult. When Nick picks him back up, he settles even more heavily on Nick's shoulders. Nick barely manages to make it up the stairs without dropping the dead weight hanging on to him.

There's not much in the spare room, aside from some boxes of sentimental trash and a rat-nest pile of potentially useful garbage. The room itself was going to be Carmina's nursery — it's pale yellow and blue colors have faded and cracked, and of course Carmina doesn't like any of it, anyway. She's more interested in learning how to shoot and sharing a room with her parents in case a pack of wild dogs comes through the area.

Nick puts John down on a folded tarp he's been meaning to use to rain-proof the roof. He looks just as corpse-like lying here as he did in the woods, but at least now Nick can pretend like he has control of the situation. He's gonna have to burn the clothes John's wearing, and probably give him a bucket to clean himself up with... Ugh. The logistics of keeping John hostage in the room don't make too much sense. It would be smarter to throw him in the bunker, where he would at least have his own bathroom. It would be even smarter to put him back in the woods where he found him.

"It'd be better for me if you croaked while I'm gone," Nick tells John. Still, he leaves his canteen with him before he goes; he's pretty sure he knows where the key is for the lock, but for now it's safe to say John isn't going to be staging a breakout any time soon.

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: Kicking Roses, Folding Cranes

Author: @zombiekittiez

For: @irl-miu-fuckin-iruma / @miu-has-commoncold

Rating/Warnings: Teen, Language, Suggestiveness, Unhealthy Relationships

Prompt: 1) some cuddles 2) soft kisses 3) anything angsty

Author’s notes: Heyyyy it’s, uh, like really way longer than I meant and is way more 3) 2) 1) but then it was due so like… I hope you like it!

It starts, probably, when they find the pallet of triple-wrapped boxes at the back of the warehouse. It takes some maneuvering to uncover what was so carefully preserved, so the whole class ends up making a day of it. While Nidai leads a veritable army of Minimarus to the challenge, Imposter takes bets on the contents, writing each name and guess and wager in neat, even strokes. Mostly, Hajime thinks, the bets are centered more on wishful thinking than any concrete proof. It is highly improbable that Saionji will find a “fuck ton of gummies” or that Souda will stumble across a “disassembled liquid fuel cryogenic J-2 engine,” but he supposes that they are having fun and that is what counts.

While Nidai and Sonia eagerly attack the plastic sheeting, Hajime becomes aware of Komaeda, standing two steps back and to the right. It’s a habit he’s developed, since waking up, deferential hovering like some lady-in-waiting. It annoys Hajime, who has learned better than to confront Komaeda directly about things like <i>equality.</i> Rather, he takes a perverse sort of pleasure in thwarting Komaeda indirectly whenever possible.

Hajime takes the book from Imposter and makes a show of frowning at the page. “Komaeda,” he calls. He holds the page so closely that Komaeda must lean in, long hair falling in his face, to follow his line zig-zagging down the columns, scarcely any space at all between them. “I don’t see your bet.”

Komaeda laughs softly. “Wouldn’t that be rigging the game?”

“Depends on your guess.” Hajime points out. “There is a certain amount of logic involved in gambling, one reason you’re so good at it.”

“Logical… is that how you see me?” Komaeda asks, bemused. “I suppose I could make an educated guess.”

“Humor me.”

“Something totally impractical, most likely.” Komaeda hums a little to himself, turning to face Haime fully, his back to the unboxing. Souda and Nida work the crowbars at the top of the crate. “So much wrapping means it’s probably easily ruined by wet weather…”

The crate is open. Owari looks inside and gives a loud snort of disgust. Can’t be edible.

“Stationary? No, that’s too general…” Mioda picks up a something small and square and colorful. She gives it a shake.

“Origami paper,” Komaeda says brightly, smacking a fist against his open palm just as Mioda drops the packet, small perfect squares of colorful paper scattering across the floor. Collectively, class 77B groans.

Souda leads the charge, ignoring Komaeda’s protests with “it counts, it totally counts!” so Komaeda leaves weighed down with various odds and ends according to the bet book- konpeito, a seashell in the shape of a dinosaur, a seaweed based health tonic, pictures of a particularly cute dog, an alarm clock that sprays the sleeper with water, a set of mostly unbroken watercolor pencils, a peach cobbler, a tarnished silver pendant in the shape of a rabbit, slightly squashy strawberry chocolates and several hundred sheets of origami paper. Hajime, as instigator, is voluntold to help carry the items back to the first island cottages.

“For your services,” Komaeda announces at the door, dumping the candy and pastries into Hajime’s arms.

“And because you don’t like sweet things.” Hajime sighs. “You don’t have to keep all their junk, you know, Komaeda. We can find some use for the paper. It probably burns well.”

“No,” Komaeda says firmly, and while he generally does what he pleases, he is rarely so confident affirming it. “That would be a waste.” Hajime blinks.

“Oh.” He makes a note to tell the others to leave the remaining paper alone. It’s not like it’s hurting anyone. It’s nice, he decides, for Komaeda to show interest in something. Whatever reality he was living in when dead and buried under layers of code, it left him subdued. Without the fanatical desperation of his looming luck or the drive of despair, he seems a little empty. With his white hair and his pale face and his fading smile, he has become something like Hajime’s personal ghost, only scarcely glimpsed in mirrors or around corners of buildings. Hajime half expects to wake to see Komaeda in his cottage in the middle of the night, looming over the bed. He wonders why that thought is less disturbing than it should be and chalks it up to a Kamukura thing.  

Komaeda tends to work salvage shifts in the library with Sonia who reads thirty-two languages, though, she admits, her Hindi is abysmal. He sorts and cleans wonderfully, and, Sonia assures Souda regularly, is a perfect gentleman.

Two days after what Mioda dubbed <i>The Origami Incident of ‘85</i> for no discernible reason, Sonia distributes tiny metal cards to everyone at breakfast. Each is embossed with a name and a tiny scanner.

“Library cards,” she explains. “The library committee has decided to allow checking out up to three items at a time.”

“You just scan the book’s UPC code like this-” Souda aims his card at a book in Sonia’s arms titled <i>Baphomet and You! Occult Leanings in 19th Century France.</i> The card gives a little beep, a light on the side blinking green. “Blammo! You got two weeks.”

“What happens if you keep them past the due date?” Hajime wonders, holding his card up to the light. When he lowers it again, everyone in the room is staring at him in disgust.

“I know that conditions are different than what we have, in the civilized world,” Sonia says very slowly, as though talking to a child. “But we are not animals, Hinata.”

Hajime rolls his eyes, unable to summon the patience or the interest to defend himself. “Where’s Komada’s?”

“It was his idea, so, of course, he had first choice.” Sonia explains.

Komaeda, sitting at the table by the window, drinks his blackened coffee and flips through a copy of <i>Origami for Beginners</i>.

“Huh.” Hajime puts his card into his pocket and gets up. It’s his turn for dish duty.

Later, Hajime finds the origami penguin in the downstairs lobby, balanced on the bar top across from the arcade machines. The lines are a little uneven so it stands lopsided on one end, like it’s hunched over protectively from the invisible cold. He picks it up and looks it over before setting it gently back into place.

An origami fox sits on the library shelf above the DIY section. Its ears were creased in the wrong direction at first so they curl under a little, giving it a hangdog sort of expression. Hajime picks up a book on water purification systems. He scans the book jacket with his library card until he hears an approving sort of beep. Sonia waves goodbye when he leaves. She is the only one he sees.

When Hajime goes up for lunch, the bar penguin has a friend. The second penguin is a little crisper and neater.

“I haven’t seen Komaeda around much today,” he brings up to Souda over curry rice. He tries to make it seem off-handed.

“It’s probably that thing,” Souda says unhelpfully.

“That thing.” Hajime echoes.

“The paper thing.” Souda gestures with his spoon. “He’s getting pretty good. Those invitation whatevers turned out kind of neat.”

“Invitations.”

“Yeah, how they opened up like flowers? Koizumi put mine back together for me after I couldn’t cause I’m clumsy. I put it on the mirror in my room. Maybe that’s girly, I dunno.”

“Invitation to what, Souda?”

“That origami meet up on Thursdays,” Souda says like it’s obvious. “It was on the invite, man.”

“I didn’t get an invite, Souda,” Hajime explains with what feels like infinite patience.

“Oh.” Souda pauses. Hums. Takes another bite and a swig of banana milk. “Probably he just didn’t want to bother you,” he decides.

After lunch, Hajime pauses on the stairs, seeing movement. Down below, Komaeda folds a half sheet of paper, eyes narrowed in concentration, adding to his Arctic tableau. After a few minutes of careful creasing, a half-sized penguin nestles between the two bigger penguins in a little penguin family.

“Can I try?” Hajime asks and Komaeda startles.

“Ah… yes, of course.” Komaeda hands him a sheet and steps to the side, cradling the How-to book to his chest. He doesn’t offer to show Hajime the diagram and Hajime doesn’t need it. He folds a crisp and perfect penguin without even trying. He hardly ever feels like he’s trying, when it’s not people.

“Here,” he says, handing it to Komaeda, who looks over its flawlessly symmetrical lines with a neutral expression. He walks to the end of the bar top and puts it down, far away from the messy loving penguin family.

“Don’t you think they’d want to stick together?” Hajime asks lamely, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Like… don’t you think he wants to be friends?”

“He’ll be happier over there,” Komaeda says with finality, stepping back to admire his work. If he moved the penguin any further away, it would fall off the counter.

Hajime sighs again. He’s been doing that a lot lately.  

On Thursday, Hajime decides to sort through the junk bins in Electric Avenue like he’s been avoiding for the past couple of weeks. It’s better to do this sort of thing alone, he reasons. It is tedious, automatic work, and by the end he has a solid organization system going. He sets a couple of things aside, bundling them into his bag and bringing them back across to the main island via schooner.

The kitchen is dark. The meeting must still be on. Hajime makes himself a sandwich and eats it with his feet in the pool, which Koizumi hates because she’s worried about crumbs. It’s nice, in a childish sort of way.

It’s not like he’s <i>waiting,</i> exactly, he reasons. He just happens to be out here, aimlessly footing around. He plays some Gala-Omega. He plays some Pac-Man. He peeks outside periodically, feeling like a creep. Souda is the first one coming around the bend and that might be his luck working because this is probably the best possible solution.

“Hey, c’mere a second.” Hajime gestures him into the downstairs lobby.

“What’s up, soul friend?” Souda grins at him cheekily.

“Here.” Hajime shoves two bundles at him. Souda pulls open the first.

“Heck yeah, you found me one! I thought if you had your luck you might.” He pokes at the Liox Li-air battery pack with obvious glee. “What’s this other stuff?”

“Komaeda needs it for the prosthetic upgrade.” Hajime clears his throat. “Can you do that?”

“You want me to work on his robo-arm? You wouldn’t let me near it during development, like it was your damn baby. What gives?”

Hajime’s eyes focus off in the distance, toward the bar top. “I’m just… busy right now.”

“Busy.” Souda looks at Hajime, bare footed with the cuffs of his pants rolled up, still a little damp around the bottom. He then looks pointedly at the new row of top scores on their two working arcade machines.

“Really busy,” Hajime insists.

“Hey, man, if this is about-”

“Ultimate Mechanic,” Hajime interrupts. “I bet you want to do all kinds of upgrades.”

Souda shuts up, eyes gleaming at the thought. “What about-”

“Not a rocket launcher. Not with his luck,” Hajime admonishes.

“You never let me have any fun,” Souda gripes, taking the parts and heading back outside.

Hajime takes his perfect penguin back to his cottage. He thinks about crumpling it up, but Komaeda is right. It would be a waste. He puts it on his desk, the single ornament in a plain and boring room for a plain and boring person.

“Yeah,” he says to no one in particular, and he goes to bed. Even after resting, he has a hard time focusing.

“Are…. a-are you doing okay?” Tsumiki asks hesitantly during inventory at the pharmacy. They’re in the back with all the really strong stuff, checking expiration dates and carting what’s salvageable to the hospital dispensary.

“Yes. The Ultimate Pharmacist talent is an easier one,” Hajime assures her, flipping through the steroids. The Prednisone is still properly sealed. He shakes the box a little and then puts it into the usable pile.

“T-that’s not what I meant,” Tsumiki murmurs. There’s a bright green origami rabbit peeking out from her apron pocket. “You haven’t been coming around much, and w-we were worrying-”

“If no one asks me for help, it’s because they don’t need it. If they don’t talk to me, they don’t need to talk to me.” Hajime discards several thoroughly crushed blister packs of allergy medicine. “I’m helping you, aren’t I? Because you asked. If someone asks me, I’ll help them.”

“W-what if Komaeda asks?” Tsumiki asks timidly.

Hajime snorts. “Komaeda is never going to ask me for anything,” he says with finality and after that they work in silence.

~~

Nagito is in the back practicing penguins like usual when Hinata next comes to visit the library. He stays out of sight, but the open door lets him listen in as he presses folds into blue and white paper.

“Your mortal shell lacks vigor,” Tanaka notes from behind the counter where he is helping Sonia remove the unsightly relics of time lost past- his phrasing for wiping the dust jackets free of dirt and pollen. Hinata’s returned the book on electrical system hybridization, so Nagito supposes that the rewiring has gone off well. Lately, Hinata’s productivity has been at a record high. It is abominably conceited for one such as himself to take even the slightest credit for such an endeavor, but he can’t help feeling a little personal pride.

Hasn’t he kept his distance beautifully? Hasn’t he distracted the others and kept them entertained so as to not disturb Hinata’s most important work?

Origami Thursdays are a terrific success, he decides. Perhaps he’ll ask Mioda about a Karaoke Friday or something.

“We have not seen you for breakfast recently,” Sonia tells Hinata worriedly.  

“I’ve been getting an early start,” Hinata says.Nagito chances glancing up as he leans over to pick up a fresh sheet of paper off the pile. Hinata has not noticed him, or is ignoring him, perhaps. His eyes are fixed on the high shelf behind the counter. There’s a little fox family there now, too. Three little kits. They are a disgrace. The Papa Fox has to be discreetly propped up using the corner of a children’s book. Hinata should not have to look upon such trash. Nagito’s fingers fairly itch to hide them away.

“Do you like them?” Sonia asks, noticing Hinata’s gaze. “They are so very cute! Komada has been putting them around. We’ve been helping.”

“The ice-visages in the den of inequity are particularly enchanting,” Tanaka agrees.

“I do so love penguins! Though I thought I saw four, earlier. There’s only three now.” Sonia says thoughtfully.

“You must have miscounted,” Hinata shrugs.

On his way to lunch, Nagito checks.

Hinata’s penguin is gone.

Well. That’s fine.

Hinata’s origami was so obviously superior. Ultimate Handicrafts, probably, or something of that nature. To put his creation alongside Nagito’s amateurish mess was an insult. It probably had a much better place to live now. Perhaps he should check.

When Hinata goes for a run by his lonesome after dinner, along the sandy beach, Nagito takes a quick look inside his cabin. It’s not hard to jimmy the lock, with a hairpin and a bit of luck. The penguin sits on Hinata’s desk and Nagito feels a small swell of pride at that too, though undeserved. It was his paper, his past-time, perhaps even his influence. He picks it up and looks it over, admiring its perfect creases. He gives it a tiny kiss on its little beak, feeling a bit foolish and lovelorn and yet… it’s nice. Hinata made it, after all.

He locks the cabin and leaves without disturbing anything. It might be a bit creepy, but then Nagito is perfectly aware of his own glaring faults. Besides, it’s not as though he breaks into Hinata’s cabin often.

Once or twice a week, at most.

Rarely when he’s sleeping.

~~

The thing is, Hajime isn’t without sympathy. This used to be what it was like for <i>him,</i> wasn’t it? Komaeda.People just putting up with you. Of course they like Hajime, of course they do. He saved them. It’s just- he’s kind of creepy, right? And even when someone talks to him, he’s not great at it. No Ultimate Conversationalist skill, ha-ha!

It’s only fair, he reasons. Ultimate Sociologist totally gets it. Pack dynamics. Social identity approach. Secondary Interpersonal attraction. These terms apply to class 77-B, with shared history and loss and recovery. This current hierarchy, with him perched along the top, is different altogether. The Ultimate Despairs are an emergent response group. Temporary bonds formed according to external trauma. And now they are dissolving.

Because Komaeda has memories with them, memories of before, memories with Nanami. All Hajime has is shared Despair.

Hajime is helpful. He knows he’s helpful. He’s a human multitool, for crying out loud. And he keeps them in line, mostly. Keeps them from breaking anything too important. It had been annoying, all the hovering and fluttering but now it’s gone. Respect. Reverence. Not love.

But maybe that’s not good enough. Not when you’re looking for reasons to stay.

It isn’t like he sat down and planned it out, his leaving. It’s just that he looked up during dinner, in the middle of a table, in the midst of conversations that do not invite him in and realizes he is an empty chair. This would be the same either way, and wherever he goes, he will be just as hollow.

“I haven’t seen you smile like that before,” Komaeda says quietly, when he picks up Hajime’s dishes. He’s on clean up duty tonight. Hajime shrugs. It was a smile of relief. Once a problem is identified, it can be corrected.

Physical work always helps his mind clear, so it’s a few days later when Hajime takes a break from ripping the piping out of the walls outside the factory, the sweat running down his face and soaking his shirt. It’s too hot for this, just a little past noon, but he doesn’t want to sit still. Busy, he decides, is better.

He pulls off his shirt and uses it to wipe his face. When he looks up, Komaeda and Saionji have stopped where they were coming down the middle of the path. Komaeda stares.  

“What?” Hajime asks, annoyed.

Komaeda turns on his heels and heads to the warehouse.

“Good talk,” Hajime mutters, throwing his shirt to the side of the path.

“He’s probably just really grossed out,” Saionji says, voice syrupy sweet. “You’re pretty disgusting right now, bro.”

“What are you two doing out here anyway?”

“More origami paper,” Saionji grins. “I’m giving <i>private lessons.</i>”

“Gross,” Hajime says with feeling.

“Are you jelly? Lime green jelly?” Saionji crows. “I’m a master of Japanese arts, you know!” She smirks up at him and Hajime just feels exhausted.

“So go get your paper and leave me alone,” he mutters.

“Don’t have to tell me twice!” Saionji sings, disappearing from view.

By the time Hajime finishes converting his irritation into manual labor, he’s got a sky-high pile of copper pipes and two pulled muscles in his back. He hobbles into the warehouse, looking for something to use as a walking stick till he can get to Nidai’s healing hands and sees the open crate, still ridiculously full of paper. On top, haphazardly discarded, is a single paper crane.

Komaeda’s paper crane. He can tell by the way the edges overlap slightly to the right. It must be particularly hard to do, with one robot hand. He imagines Komaeda unfolding and refolding, unfolding and refolding, mouth twisted to one side in concentration, wonders what it would be like to mess that up for him, to touch that expression.

He folds one. Two. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. By the time he gets to one hundred, his breath is even and his back hardly throbs. Speedy recovery and all that. He puts them in an empty box and slides it behind the crate.

When he gets to the dining hall, the chaos is in full swing but he still feels calm and centered. Souda notices him in the doorway after a bit and waves him over to try and make room, but Hajime just grabs an orange juice and waves.

“I need a shower, I’ll eat later.” Komaeda’s eyes follow him out of the doorway.

He can’t remember the last time he was in such a clear thinking mood. Ten days, he decides. Ten times one hundred is one thousand. Ten days is plenty of time. He will prioritize the repairs, focus on the ones that require varied talents, and then he will leave a thousand paper cranes and this island behind.

~~

Nagito is suspicious.

Ever since he’d caught that peculiar smile on Hinata’s face, he’s been suspicious. Nagito is not particularly clever or capable or even useful, but he does have a head for delicate tasks like cleaning or folding origami and he is the resident expert on Hajime Hinata.

Of course the others had noticed and asked and of course he had answered them vaguely, with a reassuring smile but underneath it all, Nagito watched as he always did and waited and thought.

It was so <i>hard</i> to maintain distance, sometimes.

Hinata, sweat slicked and muscles stark as he worked outside in the unforgiving sun.

“Put your tongue back in your fucking mouth,” Saionji had sneered once she’d found him in the warehouse after their run in, hugging his own arms tightly and blinking brightly at the wall, overloading on the memory. She threw a piece of paper at him and he had caught it and folded a perfect white crane. The motions calmed him back to normalcy and he left it on the top of the crate, whimsically.

But he doesn’t like how hard Hinata is working. Like there’s a kind of deadline approaching. He goes for a walk, letting his feet carry him along. With his luck, he’ll figure it out in no time. It takes a day or two to figure out where in the warehouse his luck is telling him to look.

One hundred paper cranes.  

“I-I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Tsumiki says happily as Hinata closes the panel of the MRI, the light on the side glowing a sudden reassuring green.

Two hundred paper cranes.

“Ibuki is totally gonna write a song about this!” Mioda crows when the lights flicker on properly backstage at the Titty Typhoon and the fog machine whirs to life.

Three hundred paper cranes.  

“I thank you for your dedication,” Imposter murmurs imperiously as Hinata brings the diner oven to a steady, even flame. Imposter has a basket of oysters under one arm, ready to roast. He might be drooling a little.  

Four hundred paper cranes.

“Fuckin’ unbelievable,” Kuzuryu blinks when Hinata makes the adjustment and then his bionic eye flares to life. “I feel like a goddamn superhero.”  

Komaeda checks nightly and sees the number growing and growing, strung together in long strands. What is it for? What does it mean? Every crane is so perfect and Hinata is working so very hard. He sets up Koizumi’s dark room. He works on the desalination station. The greenhouse. The atmospheric purifier. Communication encryption.

Five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred.

“You look tired,” Nagito says nervously, running into Hinata in the the storage room accidentally-on-purpose. He takes two large steps backward.

“I’ll take a break soon,” Hinata explains, shutting down the back up generator now that it is running smoothly. “Then I’ll sleep for a week.”

“We will take pains not to disturb you, then.” Nagito assures him and Hinata just smiles vaguely in response. Nagito loves Hinata’s smiles. Not that one, though.

Nagito’s luck had fizzled out that morning during dish duty and caused a power outage for two hours, just long enough to collapse the delicate souffles Hanamura had planned for a special dinner treat. He decides that it’s better to keep his distance for now, in case there is more bad luck on the way. Nagito heads to the warehouse, to drag out the crate from under the worktables and to count the paper cranes. It’s wonderfully soothing. He wonders what will happen when Hinata reaches one thousand. Something wonderful, he bets.

In the crate, there are nine hundred perfect paper cranes. Beside the crate is a knapsack. It has dried rations, a portable water purifier, a multi-tool and a stun-gun. Crumpled in the pocket is a draft of a note. To him. To all of them.

<i>By the time you are reading this…</i>

Nagito takes a deep deep breath. His mouth twists up on one side.

What terrible luck.

~~

After Hajime finishes the last of the essential repairs, he decides to head back to his cottage to shower up and to try writing his farewell note again. All the eloquence of the Ultimate Literary Genius, unable to write a short and sweet goodbye. Pathetic. After dinner, he’ll slip over to the warehouse and finish the last hundred cranes. His one small bag is already packed and waiting there. The shower he takes is a long one, and very hot. He enjoys it- it may be the last hot shower he has for a while, the world being what it is out there. He’s still toweling his hair roughly when he walks back into his bedroom and sees it- a single, perfect crane on his bed. White.The same crane he’d first seen in the warehouse, he realizes, picking it up.  

Then someone clamps a rag around his nose and mouth from behind and everything goes black.

It is some time later when Hajime wakes up in bed. It is soft and he is comfortable. Someone has tucked him in on all sides, something he can’t remember ever experiencing before, even as a child. He blinks sleepily. Someone is banging on the door. It’s very annoying but he can ignore it, if he likes, so he does. There’s yelling now, too. What is it they’re saying… Fire? Someone is yelling <i>Fire, Fire,</i> how cliche.

He’s nearly asleep again when he recognizes Souda’s voice.

“YO!” Souda screams. “Get the fuck up, </i>Komaeda set the warehouse on fire!</i>”

Hajime blinks. He sits up.

“…Again?”

~~

Nagito whistles tunelessly as he watches the building burn. As an after thought, he pulls the origami penguins from his pocket. One, two, three from the lobby, one from Hinata’s cottage, liberated during what he likes to think of as the <i>Sleepytime Phase.</i> Mioda had been less than amused by that, actually. She’s over with the others, staring at him and the fire and him and the fire as though something will change. It will not. He wanders closer to the building and they shy away. Nagito drops all the penguins into the fire together.

“If you’re going to burn, better to burn together,” Nagito murmurs, smiling.

He’s not crazy. He isn’t.

Probably.

~~

“Wow.” Hajime crosses his arms, watching the Minimarus fighting the flames. It is both adorable and futile. The rest of their classmates huddle in a little group on the other side- as far away from Komeda as they can manage.

“The accelerant was a bit more potent in real life, I’m afraid,” Komaeda smiles cheerfully, two careful steps behind.  

“Komaeda?”

“Yes, Hinata?”

“… why did you set the warehouse on fire?”

“You only had a hundred left,” Komaeda says, like it’s obvious. “You had to be stopped.”

“You set the warehouse on fire because of <i>paper cranes</i>?” Hajime wonders sometimes if he’s actually just having some kind of aneurysm and this is all some long, drawn out hallucination sequence.

“No, Hinata,” Komaeda says very slowly and Hajime swallows back the urge to hit him in the mouth. “I set the warehouse on fire because you were leaving.”

Hajime blinks.

“I knew you were up to something when you started working yourself to death. That list,by the way, the one you keep in your desk? Not the order I would have put those tasks in, but I’m sure someone as talented as you had your reasons. When I saw you had already packed your bag last night, I knew I had to act quickly-”

“Wait, when did you-”

“When you were sleeping, obviously,” Komaeda continues, as though this is the least important detail, “But I think you were really quite unfair, you know. I’m not sure what else I could have done. I was trying to be considerate, distract the others to let you have some breathing room, and then you go and do a thing like that. Honestly, I’m disappointed, if that’s as far as your hope can take you.“

“Can we go back like… to step three? Or something? Because…” Hajime trails off.

“The point is that you’re not allowed to leave the islands.” Komaeda shrugs carelessly. “Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

“I’m not allowed?”

“Nope.” Komaeda smiles again. “No more cranes, no more leaving.”

“The two aren’t… I mean, I could just… make more paper cranes.” Hajime says, bewildered.

“Most of the origami paper was lost in the fire. Turns out it does burn well! You’re so clever, to have known that. But if you find more or you make more, that’s okay. I’ll just burn those too.” Komaeda’s face settles into a peculiar expression. “But there’s no need for that. Someone as important as you has to be here! I can help. I can stay further back, if you like? Three… no,five steps? I can stop speaking to you directly, if the sound of my voice is too unpleasant to bear. Maybe I could only come out during the night, once everyone is asleep, so no one has to see trash like me? Those are just suggestions, please feel free to direct me how you please-”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hajime runs a hand down his face in utter exasperation. With his free hand, he grabs Komaeda by the wrist and drags him over to the others.

“Tell them you’re sorry,” Hajime orders.

“I am very sorry you must all co-exist with such a garbage human being,” Komaeda chirps.

“About the fire!”

“Oh. Did you want me to lie, Hinata? That doesn’t seem very nice.” Komaeda temporizes, tilting his head to the side.

“You are such a freak,” Saionji sneers.

“Crazy son-of-a-” Souda clutches at the front of his jumper, gritting his teeth.

“Somebody oughta put you down,” Kuzuryu says darkly and Pekoyama puts one hand on her bamboo sword.

Komaeda nods and nods. “But it was necessary, you know! For hope. And now our hope will stay.” Komaeda turns huge adoring eyes on Hajime. So does everyone else.

“Wait… what is he talking about?” Koizumi asks suspiciously.

“You were gonna <i>leave?!</i>” Owari bellows.

“Where the hell d’you think you’re going, punk? Too good for us now, is that it?” Kuzuryu turns on him and Pekoyama puts her hand back on her bamboo sword.

Hajime holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Look. I thought… and I was… it doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving,” he says. “Anymore,” he adds. They look thoroughly unimpressed. And there’s Komaeda, looking friendly and gentle and sooty and only maybe one tenth as insane as he actually is, but. Also. Didn’t it… wasn’t it… sort of… working?

He isn’t leaving, is he?

“Fuck, I’m tired.” He groans, almost to himself.  

“Chloroform does that to people,” Komaeda agrees in a knowing sort of way.

“I need to lay down.” Hajime says after a solid thirty sixty seconds where he just covers his face and breathes heavily. “Now that the fire is contained, I need to <i>lay down.</i>”

Komaeda nods sagely but is then suddenly dragged up and along the path back to the bridge and the first island.

“Hinata?”

Hajime increases the pace. He can feel something building up inside of himself, as inexorably as the ocean. He just needs to get inside. If he can get back to his cabin he can sleep.  

“I can see that you’re upset with me. Completely understandable! I’m imposing upon you with my presence. The very air that I breathe is like poison around you. It would be best if I stopped my disgusting voice altogether-”

Hajime grabs Komaeda by the shoulders. “Shut up,” he orders, but the buzzing in his head is so thunderously loud that he can’t be sure the words are coming out at all. Komaeda’s mouth is still moving. Words are still pouring out.

Hajime shuts him up. He puts a hand against Komaeda’s mouth and holds it there. “Stop,” he begs. “Stop holding back. Stop putting me to the side. Stop ignoring me. Stop whatever you’re doing to make them ignore me too, Komaeda… I can’t do this. I can’t take this.” Tears of frustration are escaping but he doesn’t care. They’re still in front of the ranch, haven’t even made it back yet, but Hajime just wants to lie down in the dirt. “Pay attention to me. Be around me. Be normal, okay? Be your normal, be your regular weird fuck self, I-” his voice breaks.

~~

Nagito reaches up with his free hand and pulls Hinata’s hand off his face. He turns it around, till the fingers curl up toward the sky. He looks at Hinata impassively.

Had he always been so weak and soft? A little space and he doubts their love already. Utterly faithless. Utterly disappointing.

Nagito loves that part of him too.

He presses a kiss into Hajime’s fingers. The knuckles. The wrist. Each is a soft and reverent thing.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” He asks, between kisses. “Poor Hinata. You must be so tired.”

Hinata lets go of Nagito’s wrist and reaches up to scrub angrily at his face. Nagito takes that hand too. They’re standing in the middle of the path where anyone can see them, but if Hinata isn’t going to kick him into the dirt over it, he can’t be bothered to care what the inferior talents will think or feel. It’s Hinata’s decision, so if he chooses to have such appalling foresight as to allow Nagito free reign, well. <i>Nagito</i> won’t be the one to tell him he’s making poor life choices.

Komaeda leads, this time, their fingers laced together, and they go back to Hinata’s cottage. He makes no move to open the door; likely as not, he’d forgotten the keys in his haste. Nagito knows that fires tend to do that to even the best of people. Luckily, he has a hairpin.

“You’re too good at that,” Hinata sniffs warily.

“Thanks!” Nagito grins as he pushes open the door. He locks the door behind them. Hinata shucks his shoes and his shirt on the floor, which is a bit messy, but Hinata has had a rough day, so Nagito will let it slide this time. He tucks Hinata in on all sides and leans against the foot of the bed, head resting on his elbow, watching with a contented smile.

“You’re so goddamn creepy,” Hinata complains, throwing an arm over his eyes to keep from seeing him. “And embarrassing. And awful.” Nagito nods along. “Get off the floor,” he orders.

“The floor is too good for someone like me, but surely you don’t want to leave me unsupervised?” Nagito suggests. Hinata hauls him up by the elbow.

“Get in the fucking bed,” he says, and Nagito does, sliding happily between the sheets. He’s so warm, this steady physical presences that dips the mattress so they lay close together on the tiny bed. Nagito traces the path from Hinata’s shoulder down to his hip.  

“You smell wonderful,” Nagito sighs, face buried against Hinata’s shoulder, curled into the shape of his body from the back. He smells a little sweaty from the run, but clean and quick, and still a little like shampoo. He nuzzles the back of Hinata’s neck and Hinata shivers.

“You smell like smoke,” Hinata says flatly. “Take your clothes off.”

~~

Hajime would like to tell himself that he didn’t mean those words to come out that way. That this, like the thing about the origami, like the thing about leaving the island, was just a big mistake. It’s just that when Nagito slides back into bed, warm, soft, completely naked, and starts kissing the back of his neck with those same slow, even, deliberate kisses, he doesn’t want him to stop.

Komaeda’s hair still smells like smoke.

Hajime rolls over to face him anyway.

“You’re so fucking crazy.” Hajime murmurs, pulling him close. He holds Komaeda properly, holds him close to his chest like Komaeda might dissolve if he doesn’t. He might slip right through Hajime’s fingers and into the mattress and into the dirt. He might slip off in the night and set something else on fire. He might hurl himself off a cliff. Hajime kisses Komaeda’s cheek. His ear. The side of his nose. The corner of his mouth. “I can’t leave you alone. What the hell would you do?” He doesn’t let Komaeda answer, pressing his mouth against Komaeda’s and leaving it there, just breathing the same air. Occupying the same space. Komaeda kisses him back, gently. The wet slide of lips. Languid. Sleepy. Loving.

“You brought me back,” Komaeda reminds him, slipping his arms around Hajime too, dragging fingers down his broad back gently, making Hajime squirm. “Take responsibility.”

Hajime does.

[zelinkslullaby]

Why I had a breakdown at 3:30 am

The most stressful turn of events just happened in the span of

10. Minutes.

So, its 3 am. Lola all of a sudden goes to the door. I assume she has to pee and call her name to prevent her having an accident until I finish my task and get up. She does not answer. So i do get up, and shes sniffing viciously at something.

Never a good sign.

And then. I hear a scratch, and thump. Lola whimpers and the noise repeats harsher.

A mouse. And a large one, at that.

"Oh fuck" I say, grabbing Lola and on shaky legs try to see it. I chicken out many times hoping Lola will drive it away. It is trapped somewhere, I learn, as it does not run from Lola's anger. "Oh fuck" I say again, grabbing a tense and alert hound. Lola would never bite me, she's the best girl and only focuses on the mouse while I hold her and shes shaking.

I find it in this weird open part of the wall we have (we're currently fixing up out house) and its stuck on a glue pad thankfully (awful, I know, but they're too smart for traps here and we just really fuckin hate mice okay) Lola gets angrier at seeing it finally. I put her in her cage and decide I'll use an umbrella to drag it out.

Lola starts screaming.

The mouse is screaming bloody murder (obviously)

And Kava starts barking. Oh my fucking god.

I grab Lola from her crate and decide to do the rest while holding her cause shes fuckin screaming and its 3 fuckin am and we're gonna have another waking up dad fiasco but worse cause its NOISE.

Anyway, somehow, I succeed. I receive a "oh my god my hope and life plan are falling to shambles" but we dont have time to unpack all of that. And I decide to take them outside to pee cause ya know, they probably gotta.

It's a little difficult with Lola still in hunt mode but I manage. We go back inside, I give them biscuits, Kava doesnt get possessive which I take as progress. I feed her since shes still a puppy and eating 3 meals a day. I make sure Lola stays back cause Kava is very agressive over food.

She finishes. They're fine. I go in the living room assuming they're close behind.

And a sudden, out of FUCKING NOWHERE DOG FIGHT BREAKS OUT.

I run in and grab Kava's leash and throw her back and Lola's scruff. They're both still in "I'm gonna kill you" mode while I'm holding them apart. This obviously awakens my mother. I put Kava in her crate, look Lola over, and explain all this to my mom in utter exasperation.

No one prepared me for the severity of dog fights and that they would be like that. I was completely unprepared. Articles lead me to believe this would be a rare occurrence when it's happening multiple times a day and I'm stressed beyond belief and sleep deprived due to Kava being an actual baby crying all night.

So. That all happened. In the span. Of 10. Minutes.

I'm ready to die.

[dndeviants]

St. Andral’s Bones

The party quickly departed from the church, anxious to look for the bones before nighttime fell. Only two hours remained before the sundown, and three before the dark of night would take them. 

Alexi revealed to Ruki that the coffinmaker had approached the children and paid them to steal the bones... they were going to see if there was any truth to that claim as they approached the coffinmaker’s shop. 

The exterior was unkempt and dreary, the weight of death hung in the house and in the air... there wasn’t any liveliness in the fixtures, and it seemed as if there was no attempt to lighten up its grim purpose. This was not a place to celebrate the events of one’s life... this was just the reality of death and decay.

Aric looked up to the second floor. The windows are boarded up... Odd... isn’t this shop in operation? He could assume that there were corpses in there. A place that houses bodies should have decent ventilation... especially for summer... Aric felt a pit of nausea.

Linda pursed her lips and nodded, “Yeah, that’s pretty grim.”

“The place looks deserted...“ Aric sarcastically smiled, “Who wants to go in first?“

Ismark shuddered, “Geez, not even Kristoff’s place is this dull.”

Ruki walked over to the door and knocked. A harsh voice called out on the other side:

“We’re closed! Go away!“

Rictavio folded his arms, “Someone dies everyday... makes no sense why he’d be closed.”

Linda walked up to Ruki and replied to the voice, "We aren't here on that kind of business."

There was a moment of hesitation. A slot opened in the door, revealing beady old eyes on the other side. They peered suspiciously, "What business do you have?"

Ruki spoke bluntly, “We are simply here to retrieve the bones that belong to the church.”

"Bones?" The old man muttered, "I'm not sure about any bones...” he unlatched the door, “...but you are more than welcome to look..."

The door creaked open, revealing a frail old man hunched over, clutching a cane with spindly fingers.

Linda squinted at the man. He wore all black for his grim profession, and had a name plate: “Henrik van der Hoorst”... his cane was of fine quality, very sturdy. She cautiously entered into the shop and saw manuals and designs for various coffins and caskets. She wrinkled her nose... the smell in here was atrocious and off-putting... Most places would try to cover that smell... even stranger was that the smell was coming from the second floor.

Ireena and Ismark opted to stay outside. Everyone else cautiously entered. Rictavio looked at a workstation as Victor perused the manuals.

"If you don't mind me asking,” Linda looked to the shopkeep, “Do you keep the corpses upstairs? How unusual... Sorry, as you can probably guess, I'm not from around here."

"I keep some crates of artifacts upstairs...” he replied, “Some bones too, yes. They aren't as in immediate need as fresh corpses though. So they can smell at times."

Aric covered his nose, "I thought rotting flesh of any kind would be of immediate concern."

Linda raised a brow, "I never said anything about the smell."

Henrik made a wafting motion, "If my old nose can detect it, so can you. Besides, you aren't the first to remark. As for the concern of flesh..." The old man turned to Aric, "They can't be buried until I am paid, and a lot of times people die quicker than previous corpses can be buried. So more often than not, they are left here. It is a brutal business."

Jeeves crossed his arms and raised a brow, "What happens if they don't pay at all?"

Henrik spoke callously, "Then they rot."

Linda changed the subject, "So what kind of artifacts do you have?"

"Odd family heirlooms,” he replied, “Not my own family of course, but heirlooms from families who couldn't pay the right fees. Basically, just a bunch of junk. But artifact sounds nicer, don't you think?"

"It does,” Linda unhappily agreed. She paused, “May I just have a look around?"

Henrik gestured with his cane, "Be my guest. But if you break anything, you buy it!"

They nodded in acknowledgement, not really wanting to touch anything in the house at all, but knowing that they had to in order to find the bones. Linda peered into the main area of the shop and found thirteen coffins, all propped up, and all with outrageous price tags. 

She shook her head, What a scumbag... She saw that all the coffins were open as well, so no bones would be hidden here. 

Aric peered in a room... It was a little sitting area. Dust covered the tables, the chairs, even the tea set... It was clear no one had been in this room for a long time. Gross, Aric thought. 

Ruki walked past Linda to check a door. It creaked open, revealing the stairs to the second floor. She looked over to Vasili.

Vasili nodded, and silently gestured to the ceiling. 

She gave a gesture of affirmation, and moved upstairs. 

Aric moved over to join them all, Jeeves was on edge and close by his master. Linda pointed out the stairs to Aric. They all silently agreed to follow Ruki.

It was difficult keeping quiet as they walked up the stairs... every moment that passed was an effort in keeping down bile... the stench of death was pungent and overwhelming. 

Ruki paused and examined a door to her right. She alone entered that room.

Aric took interest in the door to his left. Linda, Vasili, and Jeeves followed him in.

Ruki looked around the room she had entered. It was humble, with a few chairs and a table... A small bookshelf rested in the corner, holding rather strange looking tomes. 

The tiefling furrowed her brow and examined the tomes... one in particular caught her interest: Manual on Necromancie and the Created. 

That doesn’t bode well in a coffin shop, she thought. She opened the book and read where the pages had been dog-eared. 

Deeply troubling, thought Ruki. The passages were all related to the creation of Flesh Golems... and with easy access to corpses... But it still doesn’t make sense why he would need the bones...

She turned over a page of the tome, and a little note fell out onto the floor. She paused in her reading and pulled the  paper off the floor, examining the small notes haphazardly scribbled:

* Creating a finer tuned and more human shaped intelligent golem. Perfect for infiltrating and spying on a target. * Fusing other monstrosities together? After all, research has shown all monsters share a common origin in the dark weaves of the Shadowfell... * So far, two successful fusions. More in the future. * Blood of vampires seems to be a more stable ingredient in the creation of golems, however also seem to impart some unwanted side effects... such as blood thirstiness and sun sensitivity. Will have to remedy in future. For now, subjects will be contained for study. * Perfect spy has been created. Not even the creature knows its own nature. Appears mostly human, with great intelligence. Subject was fitted with the soul that matches the face. Subject is stationed in Barovia Village and is unwittingly providing the Master with much needed information and materials. * Master Lion desires more of the failed spawn. To make up the backbone of the army. * Ba'al Verzi are training at HQ. More and more join the ranks ever since the exposure of the Enemy's true nature. * Going to draw the enemy to Vallaki Base of operation, the first field test of the Constructed Spawn

Ruki quickly put the note and book in her pack. She stood up...

This is a trap!

-------------------------

Aric, Jeeves, Vasili and Linda filed into the other room. The area was very spacious, and had a few crates labeled, “JUNK.“ 

Aric wrinkled his nose, water filling his eyes,  “Ugh, smells like we found the bodies...”

Linda coughed, and covered her nose, "I would agree."

Aric moved over to a crate. The sooner we find the bones and leave, the better. He knelt down near the crate... and heard a small scuffle. Odd... he reached out...

A high pitched shriek cut the air as the crate Aric was near burst open, revealing-

Aric wasn’t sure what... It was human- shaped... but its gray and mottled skin was sewn together in rough patches, tubes of red fluid popped in and out of the back of the creature... long, serpent-like fangs extended from its open mouth, and long claws-

Whatever the thing was leaped at Aric with its claws. Aric was too shocked to register... It grabbed him... It’s mouth unhinged, pulling against the stitches keeping the lower jaw in place, and sank its fangs deep into Aric’s shoulder. 

Pain woke him out of his stupor. Aric screamed.

Linda pulled out her gun, "Fuck! Aric!"

Several of the creatures burst from the crates, awakened by the scent of blood in the air. 

Jeeves immediately rushed to Aric’s defense, pulling out his shortsword. He slashed at the creature’s back and cried out, “Let him go!”

The monster hissed in pain, Aric’s blood gurgling in its throat as it did so. Aric broke out of the hold and pulled out his rapier. He thrust it deep into the creature’s chest and broke away, stinging in his shoulder... 

It seemed to be bad luck. That was where the werewolf had bitten him before... He winced. His sword arm was in trouble... He broke away from the creature and tried to hide behind a crate.

------

Ruki heard the shriek that pierced the air and Aric’s scream. She turned and tried to run out the door of the room and into the hallway-

Henrik. 

He locked the door to the other room, cutting off the rest of her group’s escape... and trapping Ruki alone with him.

He stood tall, wielding his cane in one hand... and pulling out a blade of black, red, and gold...

Ba’al Verzi.

He twirled the blade in his hand, smirking, “Frail old man is a timeless act. People think you are defenseless... I guarantee you will not live to be as old as I am.”

Ruki held up her staff, “We’ll see.”

Henrik smiled and made a small gesture with the blade, conjuring a spectral skull... the skull floated over to Ruki and passed through her chest... making her feel cold.

He had placed a mark of death upon her. Henrik took his cursed blade and struck at Ruki, the blade cutting deep into Ruki’s side... 

Cold of steel, warm of blood... the sensations made her dizzy. She cried out in pain and gripped her staff. 

------

Linda heard the door click and lock behind them, cutting off their escape... The creatures were on the other side of the room. They needed an exit plan- 

On the other side of the door, they heard Ruki’s cry of pain.  Vasili tensed, “Ruki!”

Linda looked to him, “Break the door?”

Vasili nodded, pulling out his longsword, “Break the door.”

They kicked at the door in unison, their combined efforts succeeded in breaking the door off it’s hinges, and sent the door, and small pieces of the door frame, flying into Henrik’s back. 

Henrik swore in rage, recovering from the unexpected intrusion, and facing them with his cursed assassin’s blade.

Linda aimed her revolver at the man, and shot at him. Her bullets embedded in his clothing. 

Vasili thrust his blade at the assassin, grazing his side. The man was quick for his age.

It was the distraction Ruki needed to recover. She drew her own Ba’al Verzi dagger that she had kept as a trophy. She mimicked the gesture Henrik made, and summoned her own mark of death upon him from the cursed magic of the blade. 

Henrik sensed the cursed magic, and turned to face Ruki again, “You-”

His words were cut off as she assailed him. One strike... two...

Ruki focused her mystic power into the blade, drawing into the large reserve of power her mind siphoned from the universe. Her eyes glowed nearly white...

Three...

She released the energy stored in the blade. Henrik dropped his own, and cried out. 

She hissed in Patterna,  “To hell with your order! I can wield your own power tenfold!"

She pushed him into the wall. Henrik looked to her... one final moment of realization and horror as the psychic energy pulsated through his body... intense vibrations seemed to distort the world around him as he screamed. Flesh... then muscle, and sinew... melted onto the floor, leaving only bones to collapse into a thick ooze on the floor.

What was once a human man. 

Ruki stood over the former assassin, still aglow, “As long as I stand, no harm shall come to the Lord of this land!”

The light faded from her eyes and she clutched her staff for support. The effort leaving her slightly weak, “Pathetic Ba’al Verzi filth...” she spat.

Ruki took a moment to recover before reaching to take Henrik’s dagger.

Linda blinked in shock. So this was what Ruki was capable of...  "Welp, guess you didn't need our help..." she muttered.

“However you do...” Ruki stood and peered into the open room, looking at one of the creatures engaged in combat with Jeeves, “Are there more?”

"Five," Vasili answered.

Ruki added the dagger to her belt, “Neither the spawn nor their master are a challenge.”

-----------

The patchwork monster lashed out at Jeeves. Aric was nowhere in sight. Good for him, thought Jeeves, holding up his shortsword to guard from a devastating bite... and dodging a long arm trying to pound him into the ground.

The creature narrowly missed Jeeves, smashing its arm into a junk crate. It hissed and tried to pull its arm out to attack again- but found that it was stuck.

Now’s the opportunity. Jeeves took his shortsword and quickly jabbed at the monster. 

Aric rose from behind the crates and backstabbed it, wincing from the effort. He disengaged and slunk back into the shadows.

-------

Troubled. That was the best word to describe Linda. While she could admit that it was very impressive that Vasili was able to calculate how many creatures there were-

But she, a trained monster hunter with over twenty years of experience, could not do the same. Not in such a brief moment of time. It started to raise Linda’s suspicion, and gnaw at her stomach.

Vasili went back in the room to face the approaching creatures. Linda followed closely behind.

Vasili examined the creatures, narrowing his eyes. He conjured a mote of flame in his hand and threw it forward, striking one of the six creatures in the room. 

The creature burst into flame like turpentine, and howled in a primal fear as its skin began to shrink and burn. It tried to pat out the flame, but only spread it to other portions of its body. It dropped to the ground and panicked, rolling on the floor, desperate to end the suffering.

Everyone paused, terror and disgust gripping them at the scene. Vasili stood, flame in hand. He spoke calmly, a hint of satisfaction in his voice, “I would suggest using fire.”

He hurled another flame at one of the remaining spawn. It shrieked similarly to the first, trying to put out its flames while rushing toward the still living.

Linda overcame her shock and pulled out her gun. She fired one shot at the one rushing them, and knocked it prone... she quickly opened her chamber, and pulled a speedloader of silver bullets from her belt. She popped it in her chamber, closing it and spinning it for good measure. She took aim at another and fired... knocking that one prone as well.

Jeeves did his best to pick off the one stuck in the crate... but even if one arm was trapped, the other was free, and extremely dangerous. The claws extended unexpectedly, slashing Jeeves’ arm. 

Even though the flame and silver were devastating on the creatures, they recovered quickly, rising from the ground...

They lunged at Vasili and Linda, who they recognized as the source of their pain. 

Vasili nimbly dodged the monster that targeted him, allowing the creature to shatter its nails against the wood where he had stood previously. 

One of the creatures swiped its claws at Linda, slashing through her coat. Linda winced and prepared herself as the creature raised its other hand to claw at her. She ducked her head down just in time.

 Ruki walked forth and planted her staff in the ground, focusing. Her eyes glowed white as she familiarized herself with the presences in the room. A strange wind rose from the bottom of her staff and swirled around all the monsters. 

The creatures grabbed their heads immediately, moaning, shrieking, hissing, howling... all as Ruki asserted herself as the most dominating mind in the room, psychic energy crackling in the air.

Jeeves took advantage of the pause and lit a torch, waving it at the spawn in front of him, setting it on fire.  Aric rose from the shadows and planted his rapier through the back of the creature... 

It fell limp. 

Aric still was not willing to take any chances. He nodded to Jeeves, and slid back into the shadows. 

Linda took aim and lined up her shots... One. Two. Three. Three shots, three monsters. Couldn’t get any better than this when you were out in the field. 

Vasili continued his tried and true magical flame... One fell limp... 

The others approached him erratically, delirious from the flames... One clawed at the man and missed... He held up his sword in defense, impaling one of the other creatures that was trying to hit him, and killing it.

He barely had time to withdraw his blade when another one rushed into him, and slammed him into the ground. It savored its triumph as Vasili struggled to get up, and followed through with another slam! Battering the envoy and throwing him across the room. 

Ruki gripped onto her staff, focusing on pulling back the strange wind and downing the remaining monsters as soon as possible... she assaulted the minds of the creatures again... One fell... then another... 

Only one creature still stood to defy her.

A blade emerged from the darkness, piercing the last of the horrible creatures. It paused in shock, and shuddered, falling to the ground. The eyes lost the faint blue glow... before becoming hollow. The charred flesh burnt out...

Aric averted his gaze and took his sword out from the creature in disgust. He held onto his knees and caught his breath... a glint of gold flashed in the corner of his eye. He paused and looked over. 

Jeeves sighed in relief and rustled through his pack, trying to find something to dress his and Aric’s wounds.

Ruki was of the same mind, and focused inward, willing her wounds to heal themselves.

Vasili sighed and brought himself first to his knees, pausing for a moment before standing, and wrapping himself in his cloak. 

Linda raised a brow. Even the strongest fighters took longer than that to recover from such a heavy blow. Two, at that. 

But there he was. Showing little, if any concern for his own injuries. He walked over to one of the dead creatures. He lifted one of the arms off the ground, then pulled back the lips of the deceased thing. 

“That is interesting...“ he murmured and mused.

Quick thuds of footsteps rushed upstairs. Victor and Rictavio looked in the room, fear and concern on their faces. 

“What the hell happened?“ Rictavio demanded, then made a face of disgust. He kicked slop off of his boot, “What is this... bone... soup... by the door?!“

Everyone ignored him. Ruki walked over to Vasili and presented the tome and the letter to him. 

“I found this book in the other room,“ she explained, “Perhaps it may answer some questions?“

Vasili thumbed through the book, and then examined the letter,"Very interesting...” he muttered, “It seems the Ba'al Verzi are still active after all these years. And have advanced to different means of assassination..."

Vasili closed the book.

Ruki nodded and folded her arms, “Not very well, if I may add...”

Vasili looked down at the creatures, "Trying to artificially create a vampire? With the base of a flesh golem? It would be simpler to bribe a vampire spawn, why go through the trouble? Some kind of control...?"

Vasili brushed past Rictavio and Victor as if they weren’t even there. Rictavio threw up his arms in exasperation. Victor moved curiously into the room. Rictavio groaned at everyone’s rudeness and did the same.

Vasili paused at the puddle of the man that was formerly known as Henrik. He knelt down and began to mutter a string of phrases in a different tongue, while passing his hand over the soup. He paused when he held his hand over Henrik’s cane.

He picked up the cane, and casually slung the goop against the wall. He nodded to himself, “I think I will keep this... for study.”

Linda squinted at the man, dumbfounded.

Victor kicked at one of the corpses, "Are these... undead?"

Ruki felt antic humor seize her. In a serious voice she said, “No. Watch out. They are living.”

Victor startled and jumped back from the corpse, much to her amusement.

Vasili re-entered the room, passing by Victor, "To answer your question... Yes... and no."

Victor looked perplexed at Vasili. Rictavio shook his head, unfazed. He walked around, looking at the crates, "Now, where's Andral's bones?"

Ruki looked to Vasili, “Should we break open all the crates?”

Vasili suddenly looked very ill, "I'm not quite certain...” he spoke quietly, “They should be in one of these crates... “ he pat Ruki on the shoulder, “Why don't you look? I have to do some testing on this..." he indicated the cane to Ruki and walked out of the room.

Rictavio folded his arms, but let him pass by, “Alright,” he turned to everyone else, “Let’s look.”

They began to search crate after crate... Aric walked over the the crate where he saw the glitter of gold... and smelt incense... It was a relief to the stench here. Linda and Ruki walked over to where Aric stood, and helped him move the crate lid...

The lid popped off, revealing... not individual bones, but something more akin to a mummy, sitting in a position of prayer, wearing golden robes... a red gemstone peeked out from a fold in the robe...

Linda reached for it and pulled out a platinum pendant in the shape of the sun with a ruby center. 

The Holy Symbol of Ravenkind.

The name sprung to Aric and Linda’s mind unbidden. They were certain of what it was... but how, they did not know.

“Is that...?“ Ruki recognized the symbol, and reached for the pendant.

"The Holy Symbol of Ravenkind..." Linda finished. She gently handed over the pendant to Ruki.

"Yes,” Ruki nodded, “It is one of the holy artifacts of this land.”

Jeeves tilted his head, "The holy symbol of great hope, that Eva spoke of?"

Ruki nodded, “Yes, we must keep this safe,” she placed the symbol gingerly in her bag.

Jeeves nodded and looked to Aric, "So... who is going to carry the bones back?” he shuddered, “Because I am opting out now."

Ruki made a loose gesture, “Perhaps Rictavio?”

Rictavio shrugged, "Sure, why not. They are a holy item, after all. I honestly feel safer with them than without."

Rictavio carefully packed the mummy into the crate and re-secured it, using rope to make straps to put on his back, “So let’s get these back to the church, like our...” he paused, “...friend, Vasili said...”

Rictavio walked down with the bones.

Victor pet his skeletal cat, "Not sure I like the way he said, 'friend Vasili'."

Mr. Whiskers seemed to chime in agreement. 

Linda shrugged in frustration, "Honestly, Vasili is beginning to get on my nerves. He's just so... vexing."

Victor raised a brow at Linda and shrugged, taking Mr. Whiskers downstairs. Linda huffed and followed after him. They all arrived in the main part of the shop, and saw that one of the thirteen coffins was occupied...

By Vasili.

Vasili casually looked over to them with an amused expression on his face.

Ruki called out questioningly, “My lord...?”

Linda blinked, dumbfounded, What the hell?

"Glad to know they already have one in my size.” Vasili mused, “You think he was aiming to kill us?" He spoke in a lighthearted, joking voice, "I can respect him being prepared and thoughtful enough to have one set aside just for me."

You must out of your mind... thought Ruki.

Vasili jumped gracefully out of the coffin and laughed, picking up his top hat, "Forgive my antic humor."

Ruki smirked and folded her arms, “Your antique humor?”

Vasili paused, and chuckled, "That was actually very clever. I like that."

Linda sighed and shook her head. She walked over to the door out, and leaned against it.

Vasili looked to Rictavio and squinted, becoming serious again, "Ah, yes, we should return those to the church shouldn't we?" He took out his pipe and headed to the door out-

Running into Linda.

She stopped him, "Nervous, Vasili?"

Vasili paused, "Normally, I wouldn't indulge this indoors, but anything should be able to fumigate the stench here..." he looked to her and lowered his voice, speaking gently to her, "I've been attacked twice in one day. My nerves are really on edge."

Linda nodded, "I see..." she turned and walked out the door, allowing him to follow her out of the building.

They rejoined Ireena and Ismark, who asked what happened in there. Ruki took initiative and regaled them with a grand tale of heroism to make Rictavio jealous. Ireena and Ismark were skeptical of some of it, but enjoyed hearing it anyway.

They arrived at the Cathedral. Rictavio entered first to deliver the bones to Lucien... the sun was setting. Ireena and the native Barovians anxiously followed after, eager to remove her curse, and seek shelter. Linda went with Ireena, fulfilling her promise to be there with her. 

Vasili lingered behind a little bit with Ruki in the very back pews, and let his troubled expression show.

“My lord?” Ruki looked over to Vasili, questioning.

“Hm?” Vasili seemed distracted.

Ruki glanced over to Aric and Jeeves who were nearby, and spoke in Infernal, certain that they would not understand, “What troubles you?”

Strahd kept up his Vasili persona, but spoke as himself, "The return of the Ba'al Verzi, at this time. It is... too coincidental to be coincidence. I thought their order destroyed here long ago... and removing Tatayana's curse... is it the right thing to do to protect her? Or perhaps I am overthinking it. I sense that you found my brother's pendant. You keep it on you... it must not fall into the wrong hands..."

Ruki nodded, “Of course, may whoever lay their hands on it suffer a Vistani curse. As for the Ba'al Verzi, worry not,” she brandished all three daggers in her possession.

Strahd raised a brow, "I gave you Leo's, Henrik had one... where did you find that last one, Ruki?"

Ruki felt her stomach drop, forgetting her last trophy from the other time she came from. She thought of a lie, “From your study. It was the one that did not work, but it works for me now.”

Strahd frowned. He knew he had memory trouble, but to this extent...? 

He let it pass.

"Alright...” he replied, “I suppose we should abandon this devilish tongue and go to church now..."

Strahd laughed at his pun, and returned to speaking the common language, and his Vasili mannerisms, "Wouldn't you agree?"

Ruki frowned disapprovingly, “I cannot abandon it, it is in my bloodline...”

Vasili nodded apologetically, "Ah of course, of course. I didn't mean to offend."

Aric and Jeeves looked to each other. Infernal was one of the languages Aric had picked up from his criminal contacts. Jeeves knew enough to recognize it as Infernal.  Jeeves tilted his head and spoke in Alzhedo, “What were they saying?”

Aric folded his hands together, also speaking in Alzhedo, “Well, you see...”

And he told Jeeves everything.

--------

Linda walked with Ireena and Rictavio while Ismark and Victor lingered not too far behind. It felt almost as if the stones themselves were sighing in relief to have the bones once more inside their walls. 

Lucien walked down anxiously striding forward, “You found them?”

"Talking about these?" Rictavio un-shouldered the crate and showed off the bones to the father.

Lucien nodded in relief, "Yes, right this way, just beyond the altar. Now I can sanctify the cathedral again..."

Lucien took the golden robed mummy and placed it behind the symbol of the Morninglord up above the altar. He closed the bones in, and began to speak in prayer. 

Ireena anxiously waited for the priest to be done. When Lucien was satisfied with his work, he approached the young woman. "I will keep my promise, Lady Ireena. If you would come to the altar..."

Ireena rose and followed the priest to the altar. Linda stood and watched, folding her arms. She wasn’t really religious herself, but there were few things that could stave the curse of being bitten... time, and gods. 

And Ireena had no time to spare, since she was targeted by Strahd himself, and was bitten twice...

Lucien called upon the gods, and incited the name of the Morninglord, Lathander, to cleanse the sickness of undeath from her veins... he took holy water from a silver chalice and washed the wounds on her throat, compelling the curse to expel from her body.

Ireena shuddered, and took knee as a dizziness overcame her. She took a few moments and let the feeling wash over her before she stood again. Her neck was blemish free... her skin was flush, and her expression bright.

It didn’t look as if she had been bitten at all.

Linda raised a brow, impressed.

"I feel... better. Safer...” Ireena’s eyes welled with emotion, “Thank you, Father."

Lucien nodded, and smiled. He pulled out a small golden symbol of the Morninglord, "Be safe, and carry about this with you, display it proudly and with faith, and the undead will hardly trouble you."

Ireena fiddled with the symbol, accepting it, in spite of Linda’s previous gift of a holy symbol, “Thank you.”

Linda enjoyed a brief moment, looking at Ireena and Ismark share an embrace. It was only a brief moment.

Rictavio put his hand on Linda’s shoulder. Linda turned to him, "What?"

"About that intel..." Rictavio slipped her a journal fragment. It was a piece of Strahd’s journal. But this one was almost as pristine as Vasili’s piece.

Linda slipped it into her pack, heart pounding.

Rictavio stared at her for a moment, somber, "Draw your own conclusion. I'll be in Blue Water. See you there."

Rictavio turned to leave, but came face to face with Ruki. 

“Master Rictavio,“ she purred, “Regarding the Vistani favor I mentioned before, I have a Vistani coin I would like to give you...“ she took his hand and pressed a strange looking gold piece into it, “This will be a physical token of the favor you have earned.“

Ruki charged the coin with mystic power... she would use it to keep an eye on this trouble maker.

Rictavio confusedly took the coin, “Uh, thanks... I didn’t think I did that much-”

"Enough to earn our favor.” Ruki’s tone allowed for no arguments.

Rictavio tightened his lips and nodded, “Okay, alright. If you say so...” he pocketed his coin and hastily left the church.

Vasili narrowed his eyes at the entire exchange. Under the mask, Strahd was recalculating. He knew that with how many fragments Linda had received, sooner or later, she would discover the truth about Vasili... The half-elf knew as well, otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to out him with the Zone of Truth... it was only through careful misdirection that he was able to keep his disguise... To reveal the truth now would be... devastating. 

Damage control. One way or another, they were going to discover the truth. Madame Eva had constructed this purposefully. He fumed silently as he stood. The best thing to do would be to cut them off from Rictavio. Prevent them from going to Blue Water.

He reached out to Ruki, I have a feeling... that this disguise will soon be compromised...

Vasili walked over to Linda, putting his hands in his pockets, "What was that about?" If there was only a way to get back that journal... without raising suspicion...

"Not sure..." Linda replied.

Vasili nodded and grunted a bit, thinking. He clasped his hands together,  "I would like to extend an invitation to my house. I feel you'd feel more at ease in a residence than in an inn, due to... recent events.” He turned to the rest of the party, “I'll extend the same invitation to everyone. "

Linda blushed a bit and nodded, "I don't have a problem with it. Though, some others still may. It's up to them..."

Vasili nodded at her and smiled, "Very well. Let me give you the address.... It is 62 North Seaport. Northern end of Vallaki, just near Lake Zarovich. I will go there presently, to compile notes and clean up a bit."

Vasili bowed his head to her, before turning to extend the invitation.

Linda had a thought cross her mind, and she approached the priest, "Might I ask you a favor?"

"Yes, of course. How may I help you?"

 "Could you bless a few things for me?" She took out her kits and bullets, "I need more holy water and I would like to have my ammunition blessed."

Lucien smiled and began to work on blessing her tools, free of charge.

Linda smiled, "Thank you."

-----

Aric poised himself at the ready... he didn’t trust Ruki and Vasili any more than he trusted the other Barovians. He needed some insurance against them...

That Holy Symbol of Ravenkind... whatever it really was... would be his and Jeeves’ best bet for safety. 

Ruki blithely walked past him... Aric matched her pace... stuck his hand in her pack... slowly... 

Got it!

He tucked and rolled with it out of sight, popping up next to Jeeves in the pew. He slipped it in his pack-

“I would like to extend an invitation to my residence in Vallaki for dinner,“ Vasili’s voice called to them.

Aric stood up, and tried to maintain a neutral face.

Vasili made a loose gesture, "It is on the northern end of Vallaki, just short of Lake Zarovich. 62 North Seaport."

Linda rejoined everyone, eager to hear their opinion. 

Ireena seemed delighted, "I think that sounds nice! How very thoughtful of you to invite people you just met into your home."

Ismark simply shrugged, "It's an alright gesture, I guess."

Aric nodded and pressed the symbol further in his pack, “Thank you Vasili, that would be much easier than going to an inn..."

Vasili seemed to be pleased at how well his invitation was received by his guests. He smiled, "Thank you, I look forward to it. Allow me to excuse myself so Mina and myself can prepare the house properly for guests."

Vasili bowed his head slightly, and departed from the church...

----

Outside, away from everyone and outside of the restricting confines of the church, Strahd looked up to the sky... 

Nightfall.

At last...  

He darted behind the gate, making sure that no one could see him... when he was comfortable, and certain that he was alone, he shed his mortal form for something more... appropriate for quick travel. 

Where Strahd once crouched, a monstrous bat the size of a man rested, just for a moment, before launching itself to the night sky... and flying north.

He had guests to entertain.

[exothermic-filth]

First Shot’s Mine pt. II

Ya boi’s back with a continuation of this Junker!Reader x Junkrat fic :) Non-binary reader, SFW (violence and swearing warning!)

Thank you for the support, y’alls! Especially to @motherfucking-breadcrumbs for the kind words <3 Hope I did your expectations justice! 

Finale (Pt. III)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It’s been a few days since Dusty came into work. You didn’t blame the young man: he drank enough liquor to happily satiate three grizzled Junkers. The hangover must be killing him right now. Deep down, you knew he was avoiding you: tussling with the internal conflict of turning in Junkrat. 

You straighten up, hearing your back crack. You’d been cleaning for three days straight to remedy the mess of Founder’s Day. The place looked… alright? 

You tut and take mental stock of things that needed to be replaced: you needed probably 4-5 new chairs, 2 new tables, countless mugs and glasses… 

You shake your head and walk behind the counter, thinking about everything at once is too much. You mind races back to Dusty. He’s a good kid. Hard-working kid and big dreamer. Unlike most Junkers whose aspirations started and ended at the Scrap Yard’s betting booths, Dusty wanted to see the outside world. 

On the flip side, he had a quick temper and often gave in to short-term indulgence without much thought for the consequences. The shotgun gleams in front of you, hanging patiently on its hooks. Maybe if…The passing thought makes you sick to your stomach: Dusty’s the age Jamison was when you two met. 

You purse your lips and bite them absentmindedly. Junkrat purposefully didn’t tell you his plan. You reasonably and realistically knew nothing. Dozens of other Junkers saw him in your bar, another Junker tipping off the Queen wouldn’t do much. And yet, the thought gnawed at your inside, making your skin crawl.

You give a sharp, annoyed sigh (though you’re the only one in the bar) and grab your shotgun off the wall. 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

After a quick trip to the market, you’re making your way through Junkertown’s lower east end. It’s a series of cobbled together apartments made up of the old inner workings of omnium. Crafty junkers from who knows when had split it up and boarded up walls into makeshift living spaces. 

You’ve carried Dusty home many times before. This, this was the first time you were visiting him. Your grip tightens on the sack you’re carrying, feeling the shotgun burn into your back. It was a hot day. 

You clear your throat and knock, “Hey, Dusty, it’s me, *your name.*”

You hear a bit of rustling and a thump, the sound of cans being scattered about and a bit of swearing. 

He opens the door, looking extremely worst for wear, “Oh, hey boss! I… I wasn’t expecting guests.”

“It’s fine, I probably should’ve given you a heads-up that I was coming,”

Dusty shuffles a bit in the doorway then sighs and pulls the door wide open, gesturing you to come in, “Well, no need for formalities. You’ve seen my place. Dragged my drunk ass back here plenty of times.”

You step into the apartment and close the door, “You alright?”

Dusty flashes a smile, “Never better.” 

“You’re.. you’re missing a tooth,” you grimace, setting the sack on the kitchen counter. And by kitchen counter, one means the shelf against the wall with a single hotplate on it. Unplugged. 

He laughs a bit, “Yeah, I lost it at the betting cages last night.” 

You purse your lips, “I brought you some food. Well, mostly hangover remedies.” 

Dusty turns on his heel and heads for the sack, patting your shoulder, “Aw, thanks! Make yourself at home!” 

While he rummages through the sack, you take a seat on the mattress in the corner, as it is the only “seat” in the entire room. Dusty has not a single chair to his name. The nightstand/dining table/desk (aka an upturned wooden crate purloined from the bar’s stock room) is crowded with empty liquor bottles and beer cans. 

“No, way! How’d you get this?” Dusty admires the glass bottle of orange soda in the sunlight. 

“I have friends,” you smile, “Also, said friends smashed half my bar, so the least they could do is sell me their goods at half price.”

Dusty whistles, “Still a pretty penny.”

“It’s going towards something good,” you shrug. 

He smiles for a bit, but stops. He sets the bottle back on the shelf and turns to you, “We.. we should talk.” 

You blink, “Uh, yeah, sure. What is it?”

“I.. I, uhm..” Dusty coughs, “I want to quit.” 

You feel the oppressive heat all at once, “Quit? Why?”

“I’ve been doing something thinking, *your name* and I want to leave. I want to leave Junkertown.”

You can feel the tightness in your chest relax, “That’s really admirable, Dusty. But do you have the funds? The resources?” 

“I’ve saved up quite a bit, made a nice fat stack last night at the betting booths,” he points at the missing tooth. “So, with your uh, permission… I’m quitting.”

You chuckle, “Dusty, you don’t need my permission to do anything.”

“I do for at least one thing in this world,” he looks at you with sad, sad eyes. 

Your breath catches in your throat, “I’m sorry, Dusty.”

“Nothing to be sorry, about, *your name,* it’s just.. I hope this is really what you want.” 

You bite your lip, “Yeah.”

He walks over and sits next to you on the mattress, “How’d you meet him?”

You feel the heat rise in your cheek, “You really wanna’ hear the story?”

He nudges you with his elbow, “I figure I should know who beat me to the punch.”

You roll your eyes but smile, “He had a five year head start on you.”

Dusty scoffs, “*Your name,* I was too drunk to make this point a few nights ago, but you’re literally three years older than me.”

“Fair enough.” 

“When… when did you meet him?”

You look up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with your eyes, “I was eighteen and he was twenty. I was doing a delivery run for Mick, my first real, paying job, and my motorcycle broke down right in front of Junkertown gates.”

Dusty rolls his eyes, “Fuck, *your name*, didn’t think you were the type to swoon for a man if he fixed your bike.”

You rib him sharply, “I didn’t finish, idiot. Also he didn’t fix my bike, he tried to steal my cargo.” 

Dusty pulls a face. 

You continue, “Idiot damn near blew my arm off. But he didn’t carry his grenade launcher back then, hadn’t made it yet. Just strapped on as many bombs as he could to his body.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or just fucking with me,” your barback shakes his head. 

You give a small chuckle and continue, “The idiot ended up hurting himself. Didn’t predict shrapnel trajectory when he threw a mine at me. Ended up ripping up his arm reaalll bad.”

“This story is clearly romantic as shit.”

“I could’ve left him there for the dogs. But, I don’t know… Mick had just taken a huge risk and gave me a job. Trusted me out of the blue. Junker’s don’t do that. So, I… I helped Junkrat,” you laugh, a bit cynically, “It’s fucking funny that the first time I was inspired to be selfless was for that prick.” 

Dusty shakes his head, “So you’re telling me, I lost on out on you because Mick was a decent person?”

“It’s… more complicated than that. I mean, don’t you want to be more than just a Junker, Dusty?” You ask.

His head hangs a bit, “More than anything.”

“Junkers are merciless. We steal, cheat, and murder. We run businesses for the sake of normality and slight order, but deep down… it’s everyone for themselves,” you stare at the dust motes, floating lazily through the air, “If I had killed Junkrat that day, or left him for dead… I think I wouldn’t be the person I am now.”

“So, showing mercy changed you?”

“Showing compassion changed me,” you nod, “It’s just so happened that it was Junkrat.”

“So what after?”

“Carried him and the cargo into Junkertown. Delivered it. Found him a medic.”

“And what? He just fell head over heels for you.”

“Nah, he hated me for a while. Thought I was making fun of him,” you smile wistfully, trying to snatch a golden mote out of the air, “You know, like I let him live to prove a point. I think he tried to kill me that same week.” 

“Christ, you know how to pick ‘em don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you chuckle, “After a few weeks of trying to kill me, he finally confronted me. Got real emotional and angry and defensive about it.”

“I… I can see that,” Dusty nods. 

“Going on and on about how I wounded his pride by letting him live and insulted him by having the nerve of getting him help. I was pretty annoyed by then too. He was making me late for every delivery I got assigned and Mick was getting annoyed too.”

“As one does.”

“So, I just told him, ‘I saved your life because I was trying to be a decent person.’“

“That must’ve set him off,” your barback snorts. 

“Oh, Dusty, you should’ve seen him,” you laugh. “He nearly fucking self-imploded. I told him if he didn’t believe me, then he should just leave me alone.”

“He didn’t, did he?”

“The man literally goes and finds my boss and goes off about how I’m the worst, most cruel person on earth. And how I should be fired immediately from my job for lack of professionalism.”

“…when are you going to tell me how you fell in love with him?”

“Patience, patience,” you pat his knee, “Anywho, Mick isn’t an idiot so he got him locked up for attempted theft of his goods. This was back when Mick was a good friend of the Queen and was in her good favor.”

“Oh, wow, huh, never would’ve thought that was possible,” Dusty looks slightly impressed and surprised.

“Yeah, I went and talked to Mick. Explained the whole ordeal, and Mick ends up laughing so hard he nearly threw him up his lunch. Let Junkrat go with a warning, an official one from the Queen. Would’ve fined him too but Mick convinced her that fining a penniless Junker wasn’t going to result in much.”

“An official warning… they roughed him up?” Dusty pulls a face. The Queen had a thing for making examples of people. 

“Roughed him up, pretty good,” you shake your head, “So much fucking’ blood.” 

“That how he lost his arm and leg?” Dusty asks softly. 

“Nah, those were… separate occasions. I dragged his sorry ass to the medic and this time around, he was incapacitated enough he couldn’t try and kill me.” 

“Ah, played nurse and he fell right into your arms,” Dusty swoons dramatically. 

You allow yourself a small laugh, “Not quite. While he was bedridden, I got to have an actual conversation with him. Managed to convince him that I really wasn’t making fun of him or insulting him. I was just… just trying to be something else. Something different.” 

“He fall for you then?”

“Every time we talk about it, he says that while I was talking, something ticked inside of him. Like he was seeing ‘life for what it could be’ for the first time,” you say, then laugh, “But I’m almost certain it was the drugs. He was high off his ass.” 

“No, no, I can see what he’s talking about,” Dusty pulls his knees to his chest. 

“And… I guess that’s that. He started hanging around the gate more and I’d stop after my delivery routes to talk to him.” 

“Huh,” Dusty muses. 

“I know, I know, it’s a bit of a lame story.”

“Still haven’t told me why you love him.”

You take a deep breath and get, pacing the small room, “He… he’s wild, reckless, but adventurous and brave. He’s courageous and resilient in the face of absolute defeat. He never gave a shit about the Queen’s rules and honestly, out here that means something.”

“I thought you and the Queen were chummy, like mates and all,” Dusty frowns.

You take another deep breath and lift your shirt up, revealing the jagged, snargling scar stretching across your stomach and up your side. 

Dusty leaps up and is immediately at your side. 

You look at him, “She made an example of me ages ago. She’s only kind to me now because I bend my knee like the little pet I am. Just another loyal follower.” 

Dusty tentatively reaches out to touch you, but he stops himself, “I’m sorry, *your name.* You should’ve told me.”

You smile, “It’s not your problem. I can handle myself.” 

“Is he really worth all this? If the Queen finds out, she’ll do worst than make an example of you,” his voice rises in panic.

You cup his face with your hands, “I’m fine, Dusty. I don’t know anything. You saw it yourself. I was just as surprised as all of Junkertown when he showed up.” 

He leans into your hands, nudging them gently with his cheek, “I… I don’t want you to get hurt. Especially since you’re with… with him.” 

You speak softly, quietly as though the walls could hear, “The Queen is not who she appears. She’s cruel. Manipulative. And a liar. No one here knows much about the outside world and she sings the same old song about revolution and war to keep us content with isolating ourselves. Don’t do that to yourself, Dusty. Leave here if you can.”

He gulps and embraces you, his voice cracks, “I will. I just wish you’d come with me.”

“My job isn’t finished here,” you smile, parting from him. 

“He’s… he’s fucking lucky to have you,” he says, starting at the corner of the room rather ruefully. 

“I think so too,” you try a small joke but he doesn’t laugh, “I’m gonna’ get going, Dusty.”

“Oh yeah, right,” he clears his throat. 

You begin to turn to leave. 

“Uh, *your name*, your gun,” he hands you the weapon, a distinct waver in his voice as he did. 

“Oh, yeah, thank you, Dusty,” you take the gun back. 

“Well, thanks for stopping by boss. And thanks for the snacks.. and..” his voice trails off as he suddenly grabs your hands, “Thank you. Truly, for everything. And thinking I can be better than all of this.” 

You can feel your eyes growing wetter. You clear your throat, “Of course Dusty. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“I’ll make you proud,” he nods his head firmly, “And maybe I can help you too, some day.” 

He smiles and closes the door. 

You walk a couple steps down the long apartment hall, before stopping and leaning against the wall. You choke back some tears and chastise yourself for even bringing the gun. Dusty is no fool. He knew why you brought the gun. 

You finally compose yourself enough to complete the walk out of the building. You thank the heavens and stars for not having to use it. And you wish with all your heart that he have safe passage across the Outback and away from this hell hole. 

~ ~ ~

The next morning felt strange. Quiet. Usually when you came into bar, Dusty would already be there. He’d hit you with a smart-ass comment and you’d banter back. The place felt different. Colder without him. 

You set to start the third round of cleaning when two armed Junkers walked through the door. 

“I’m sorry, friends, bar’s closed until-” You note the their armbands. “Ah, the Royal Guard, what can I do for you?”

The Junker closest to you gives you a brief nod as a greeting, “The Queen heard that Junkrat was in your bar a few nights ago.”

“That he was,” you nod. 

“She’s pulling in any Junker who saw him and asking questions, but so far-”

You give a friendly smile, “They’ve all been drunks. I get it. Give me a second, let me pack up shop.” 

“Thank you for cooperating,” the guard grins back. “Queen’s really got it out for this wily fuck.” 

You keep smiling, “Anything for an old friend.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The guards escort you to the Queen’s palace. It’s been years since you visited the Scrap Yard. The distinct smell of rust and cheap booze sting your nostrils. Past the mech battle grounds stands her throne. An impressive long weapon rests against it.

You’re admiring the large open throne room when your eyes land on the Royal Guard standing adjacent to the throne.

You knit your brows in confusion, “Dusty?” 

He meets your eyes and he looks so… sad. So guilty. 

“What’s going on?” You ask, but you already knew. You could feel it in the air. 

“Glad you, could join us *your name*,” a very familiar voice greets you.

You drop immediately to your knees, placing an arm across your chest in salute, “Your highness.” 

“*Your name*, darling please, no need for formalities, we’re all friends here,” she gently pulls you up. “Now, I heard a little rumor that Junkrat was back in town? In your bar?”

“Rumor’s right. He burst right in during peak business hours. A full fucking brawl broke out and ruined my bar,” you scowl. 

“Didn’t think to tell me?” She pouts a bit. 

You put up your hands disarmingly, “I apologize, my Queen. I honestly thought you’d hear about it your own guard. They were drinking there that night as well, and well… I have my business to worry about it. But you’re right, I should’ve also notified you as a citizen of Junkertown.”

“Ah, no worries, no harm done really, besides to your poor bar.” 

“Is this all, my Queen?”

“Not quite,” she sits back on her throne and toys with her gun, “Lovely, ain’t it?”

“Exceptionally,” you nod.

“Now, tell me *your name* how does Jamison plan on ‘getting back’ at me this time?”

You feel your heart skip a beat, “Excuse me?”

She smiles, “I know you’re his lover and thus his weakest link.” 

Your eyes flit towards Dusty. He doesn’t meet your eye and you clench every muscle in your body.

The Queen gets up, with her terrifying gun in hand, “No use running, love. I have you surrounded. But back to the point… Darling, I adore you. You’re not like the other Junkers in town. You’re smart, decisive, and above all else, compassionate.”

“Uhm, thank you?”

“You know why I love compassionate people? They’re predictable. They care. Once they care, they have a weakness that can be exploited.”

You gulp quietly.

“Jamison never had a weakness. The man was wild, reckless, a total nuisance since he came to this town,” she practically snarled while thinking about him, “But you, you made him weak. You gave him a weakness.” 

She’s standing inches away from you, smiling. Smiling that awful shit-eating grin of hers. 

She continues grinning, “How do you do it *your name*? All of these weaknesses, so easy to exploit. You even gave your poor barback a weakness.”

You turn to Dusty, feeling your heart drop, “Dusty. Why?”

He balls his fists up, “You can’t be stupid enough to think things will go well if you stay with him, *your name*.”

The Queen nods, pulling a sympathetic face, “Listen to the cute barback, *your name*, he only wants the best for you.” 

Dusty walks up to you and clasps your hands, “Please. The Queen is willing to fully pardon you of harboring a fugitive, if you just give him up.” 

You shake your head, the horror and disgust welling up inside you, “Give him up?”

He holds your hands tightly in his, you can see tears forming as he chokes them back, “You don’t have to love me *your name* but I can’t fucking stand by and watch you throw away your life because of him.”

You break free from his grip, the anger in your voice is biting, “What about quitting? About leaving Junkertown? About wanting MORE? Or was that just a fucking lie, Dusty?” 

He doesn’t say anything. A single tear rolls down his cheek. 

The Queen walks up next to Dusty and pats his shoulder, “Young Dusty here was offered a position last night. Usually, there’d be a test but he offered some tantalizing information about Junkrat. And Junkrat’s apparent weakness… He’s a smart young man. He knew if he left then there’s a good chance his one love would be hung right next to the criminal. So Dusty valiantly gave up the criminal to save you.” 

You take in a deep breath, the reality of the situation hitting you. There’s no escape. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged him as your type. You’re too sweet,” she steps towards you, “Too… good for him.”

You take a deep breath, “You know nothing.”

She grins, but you can feel like something has cracked beneath the surface, “Know nothing about him? I know he is a worthless, conniving, rotten piece of shit who doesn’t know the front end of a fucking missile if it was hitting him balls first.” 

“…I don’t know what beef you have with him-”

The Queen laughs, an unsettling cackle, “Darling, you have no idea.” 

“I don’t,” you say flatly, “I really don’t know anything.”

She growls, “Liar.” 

“I. Don’t. Know,” you huff. 

She looks like she could strangle you. But the look suddenly passes and she’s back to her smarmy, shit-eating grin, “Oh no, oh darling. Can’t you see what’s happening?”

You knit your eyebrows together. 

“He doesn’t trust you,” she tuts. “He cares more about his plan than you… that he rather not have a liability.”

“You’re wrong,” you interject firmly, a bit too indignantly for your liking. 

“My dear, this man has successfully left Junkertown and trekked across the entire fucking world on his mad crime spree. And now he’s back. He could’ve gone back for you, but no. He’s back for me,” her smile is maddening. 

You take in another deep breath, “It’s clearly important to him.”

“Is this really the man you love? His thirst for revenge outweighing the desire to be with you?” The Queen shakes her head. “For someone this smart, you sure are stupid when it comes to men.”

With steely calm and composure, you look at her, “I know what you did to him.”

Her smile fades and she eyes you coolly.

You keep talking, “And I respect what he has to do.” 

The Queen growls and moves towards you in a blur, “You think this is a game?!”

“No, I do not,” you snarl. 

She grabs you by the neck. She’s terrifyingly strong, “What. is. he. planning?”

“Fuck you,” you wheeze.

Her face contorts into the ugliest, angriest expression you’ve ever seen.  

You barely knit your eyebrows in confusion when it hits you.  

You feel searing pain in your left knee and suddenly you’re on the ground, the sound of a gunshot ringing in your ears. Your head slams into the dirty, sooty ground and your vision ripples, blurring. Everything moves so slow, the air feels so thick. And your leg. Your fucking leg is alight with fiery pain. You try to prop yourself up but there is no energy in your limbs. 

“YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD’NT HURT *your name*!!!” You hear Dusty scream… his voice sounds so far away. 

You feel your eyes grow so, so heavy. You blink just in time to see the Queen walk towards you. She stoops down and gives you the sweetest smile, caressing your cheek with the back her hand. She looks up at him, “I lied.” 

[thetradeway]

Session 30: Jan 30 2021 An opportunity for Dwarven gumption

I’m late in, they all got there ahead of me. Mina is hungry, apparently. Also she has a bottle of cider.

Ed has been thinking about last week’s session; we beat the boss lady and followed a dog into a dungeon, but we haven’t actually asked Melaina why she was imprisoned by an elf lady.

Melaina: “That’s just how I roll.”

What were we doing? Oh yeah, still looking for Raeph. Kessler threatens to make tracking devices and inject us all with them; I’m not entirely sure why.

We move west after a bit of an argument. We find ourselves back outside; it is dark. Gideon uses his wily dwarven stonecraft to see if there is anything unusual about the stones here. Looking at the way they are broken; it was part wear-and-tear, but he also thinks they have been singed by some kind of spell. Gideon inspects further with an 11 (plus Guidance). It was definitely some kind of fire magic - more intense burning than a standard fireball.

Ahleqs has heard tale of Hellfire; he informs us through trembling lips that it burns more intensely than ordinary fire magic. Gideon is angry with himself for not knowing that. Melaina finds some doors back in the corridor we just left. She has gone out for a cigarette but Gideon is certain that she would check for traps. She checks, but does not find any.

Gideon and Gunna decide that we want to check further. Gunna wiggles the doorhandle. DM asks him to roll 2D8; oh no.

He rolls 11 total - it could have been worse apparently. A spectral hand reaches out through the door to grasp him; he takes 11 necrotic damage and a level of exhaustion. Ah shit! Ahleqs remembers that he has Mage Hand. He’s been using it to turn the pages of the books he reads when he wants to take a sip of his coffee, apparently.

Gideon wants to know about sources of Hellfire; devils and demons - mostly. Sometimes evil mages can wield it. Melaina goes for the door with her Mage Hand - but it is locked. The spectral hand doesn’t trigger again, so she is fairly certain that it is spent. She picks the lock.

And we roll initiative - huh??

Melaina swinging the door open isn’t especially stealthy, it turns out.

Popcorn is first; he rushes in, hates what he sees, can’t reach it so readies an attack. Tarragon comes forward but can’t see anything, so she readies a Thorn Whip.

Kessler throws some lightning at whatever it is, hitting with a 25. The creature shrieks as it is hit with 11 points of lightning damage. She shoots at it again with a 14 which also hits for 5 points of lightning damage. She uses her movement to back up, calling the creature a dick.

It’s another dretch, apparently. It shrieks and rushes at Melaina, past Popcorn who unleashes his attack and kills it. It skids along the floor, dead, fetching up at Melaina’s feet. Fucking hilarious.

There’s not many places to hide in there so Melaina will simply shoot the remaining dretch, in a simple way. She one-shots it in spite of not having any sneak attack damage. She rushes forward toward the shiny chest in the room. Can she Mage Hand it?

Yes. How far back does she want to stand? Mage Hand has a 30 foot range but she’s quite excited about the contents so she stands 20 feet back. She tries to open it - it opens and the flagstone on the floor in front of it swings to one side revealing a pit trap with spikes at the bottom. She approaches the chest and peers inside.

Three healing potions, a coin purse containing 30gp and two matching daggers, as well as three gold buttons worth 3gp and 1sp each. She shares the money and pockets the buttons, telling us that she always had them. We admire them; they are very shiny.

This room was a store room at one point. Barrels and crates, but whatever was in them is long gone. It stinks in here, thanks to the dretches, and there is graffiti on the walls that makes us think that it was used as a prison cell at some point.

Ahleqs turns to the door opposite and has a waggle of the handle with his Mage Hand. As it touches the handle the spectral hand grabs at it but it passes right through. Ahleqs does a little shriek, and gives the hand the finger with his mage hand. The mechanism clicks and the trap is spent. Gunna slams a potion.

The door isn’t locked. Open the door and charge! Ahleqs opens it with the mage hand, and retreats to the second rank. More dretches!

Grease wizard rolls good and goes first. He’s the one that we want. (arf.) He does an Acid Splash. They roll a 20 and a 10 for their saves, and they are in no way resistant to acid. He melts off one of their toes.

Tarragon tries to wallop one and misses; it emits a Fetid Cloud. It then bites and swipes at her, but she bends over to throw up because of the stinky cloud and it misses her. Popcorn goes to rush in, sees the cloud and backs up. He don’t want none of that.

Kessler wisely fires from a distance, with her lightning launcher. It doesn’t do full damage, but the dretch is still on its last legs. She crouches down so anyone behind her can fire over her head. Gunna helpfully points out that she doesn’t need to do that. Sick burn. Zing!

Melaina natty 20s her attack and we are all caught in the splatter when she does 54 - that’s FIFTY FOUR - damage. Holy shit.

We open the chest - Melaina does it at a distance with her mage hand and a dart flies out, harmlessly missing everyone. Inside is some more money and a stylus; what is that exactly? It’s for an iPhone. Or a DS. (It’s actually a sort of inkless pen, used to scratch on stone or clay tablets.)

Well we’ve done west now, shall we do east? Joe goes for a coffee to give us time to plan. Or procrastinate!

We get into a discussion about Wee Jock’s bag of holding; he kept heads in it so every time he opened it it smelled like a burning zoo.

We go east - definitely not south - and find a dead end and some more doors. Neither Gunna nor Tarragon can afford another level of exhaustion so we hang back. Melaina Mage Hands it. As it touches, the door comes alive with electrical energy which then dissipates. She picks the lock. The door swings open - there is nothing living inside. Gideon pokes the chest with a quarterstaff - it rocks back and forth so he smacks it. Checking for traps, he finds a wire inside - he does an Acid Splash and melts the lock and the trap in one.

Gunna was wrong; clearly this was an opportunity for dwarven gumption. Having discovered a taste for melting things, Gideon has a go at the door further along the corridor, near the dead end. It doesn’t quite give; Melaina asks if he would like to stand back. The acid on the door melts her lock picks. Gideon boots the door with a nat 20. A small amount of wood flakes off the bottom. Kessler has a go but fails as well. Ahleqs is proficient because of his urchin background but doesn’t have any tools; he borrows Melaina’s and gets Guidance from Tarragon. He is impressed with the tools, and says he might get some of his own.

The door swings open. It takes Joe’s a computer a while to let him delete the doors; Ahleqs considers taking a level of rogue. He already wants to hide basically all the time, why not be good at it?

The door opens - we pile in. Behind is a corridor and some steps leading up. Around the corner at the top is a pit with bones in it - on the other side of the pit is a door. Ahleqs checks the ceiling. It’s too far away to see. Gunna looks at the door we passed; it’s definitely a door. He bends down to Naysa and offers her some jerky.

Ahleqs goes back to Gunna and the other door, and offers to Mage Hand it. More lightning.

Ahleqs: “Gunna, do you have any thieves’ tools?”

Gunna: “Uhhhh, I got a battle-axe…?”

Melaina Mage Hands the door across the pit; it opens. The pit is about ten feet wide, so most of us could jump it with a ten foot run-up. Trouble is, we only have five feet to run. There are no spikes in the pit, only bones. The skeletons are piecemeal, but none of the bones are broken.

Kessler decides to take a rope and take a flying leap. She rolls a 7 - with Guidance - for her athletics check, but just in time Melaina manages to pull the rope taut. She is now dangling into the pit, but takes no damage. We pull her out and she tries again and makes it this time.

Tarragon tries, but thanks to her exhaustion she fails miserably. Melaina tries to help but ends up dropping her. Finally she gets across but not until she’s taken four bludgeoning damage. Ow.

Gunna, lured by the siren song of treasure, is battering the door way back down the corridor by himself.

Kessler and Tarragon make Insight checks; it turns out we are back in the first room, where we started. Goddammit, Gideon!

Kessler and Tarragon trudge back around, not wanting to jump the pit again. We pass the monster behind the barrier. Tarragon at Disadv. alerts it; it can’t get to us any more than we can get to it, but it’s still fucking scary.

We meet up with Gunna and Ahleqs. Melaina opens another door, to reveal the first room again. There is one more door to check, and we haven’t been south yet either. Melaina mage hands the door, but flubs her sleight of hand to open it so Gunna uses his battle-key.

A male voice sounds from the other side - “Althea? Is that you? Just open the door!” he is speaking a strange dialect of elvish. Gunna wants to bum-rush this guy; Melaina suggests we just use our faces instead. Ahleqs opens the door - the man is devastatingly handsome and has horns, and Ahleqs falls instantly in love. Melaina tells him to get off, he’s hers.

(Hilariously, the picture Joe chose to represent this guy is Molly fanart. I love it.)

He sees us, goes “who the fuck fucked this?” and disappears. In his place appears a light that looks a lot like the barrier in the other room. It is an orb emitting light. It looks like it could twist, as it has two hemispheres. It looks easily smashed, and might be connected to the barrier that is holding back the demon.

Huh.

Ahleqs picks it up and adds ‘strange blue glowing orb, probably safe, nothing to worry about’ to his inventory.

(It is around now that we notice that Ed has dropped out of the Discord.)

The ceiling at some point has collapsed, blocking the way to the south.

Wait - the elves here took Melaina to impregnate her with demons. They want to continue their half-elf, half-demon species. Have they done the same with Raeph? What about the big-ass demon, is that the one that does the breeding? (Ahleqs thinks that as long as all parties are consenting then what’s the problem?) Are we saving Tarragon’s boyfriend, or interrupting his shag sesh with the demon?? We pause momentarily, suddenly uncertain how to proceed.

We decide to take a long rest with watches, since it appears that the only way forward is through the demon. We discuss long versus short rests; the DM suggests a long one so we very quickly make up our minds to do that.

Melaina remembers that these fey’ri are descended from House Dlardrageth. Also, Ed pops back in.

We decide to wait until next week to fight the demon but before we go the DM has Gideon and Ahleqs make arcana checks. They both roll real good, so next week anyone who picks spells, knows that demons are resistant to: ice, fire, lightning, and bludgeoning piercing and slashing damage from non magical weapons. They are also immune to poison damage and the poisoned condition. If Joe is telling us this, it’s because he thinks we might actually die this time. Oh shit... 

[mzargentum]

Marshmallow 💕

Prompto’s Birthday! SO LATE, but Tumblr kept eating it.

PromptoXOC

Word Count: 4,703

Warning: Fluff, slight NSFW (not really).

OC’s: Muerlinian Zephyr and Six Ulric (created by @insomniasix)

No.

Not this couldn’t be…this couldn’t be happening. How could this happen? Of all days. How could…something go so wrong? So…so horribly wrong?

This must be some sort of nightmare. Some sort of cruel hallucination. Some sort of daemonic entity must have been playing horrible mind tricks with her. Toying with her brain. Driving her into hysteria as she stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Placing her sweat covered palm against her chest to feel for a pulse for she wasn’t sure if she was still breathing. Her eardrums pounded in her skull to the sharp echos of her heart as it hammered against her chest.

None of it was real. None of it could be. She wouldn’t believe it. No. She refused! Everything was fine! …she should’ve listened, but she was too stubborn, too stupid, too prideful and now….she was going to pay the price.

When it all began, it was the best day ever. The sun settled in the morning skies of Lucis. The blue jays chased the sparrows through the wind with a gentle song on their beaks. Cars buzzed by as people of all kinds rushed to classes, meetings, and brunches they were probably already late to, but nobody really cared. Nobody was really bothered.

Why would they be? After all, it was Wednesday and everyone loves Wednesday. The median between I’m about to choke someone and I’m about to get wasted in a bar and fuck a stranger. Where people are chill…and still give a shit. The fork in the road separating chaos and chaos….and it couldn’t be more perfect. Especially for one cheery young lady with glistening silver hair bobbing her way down the mellow streets of Lucis getting ready to give someone a Wednesday he’ll forget.

*ring ring*

“Agh, bugger”, Muerlin groaned at the sound of her cellphone. She was carrying a semi-large crate, and due to not only the size of the wooden container, but also the fragile cargo stored within it’s confinements, that required both of her hands and maximum diligence. 

As the vibrating in Muerlin’s pocket started to tickle her thigh, she cautiously hurried to an outside table near a small cafe to place the box onto so she could fish out her cellular.

“Hello?”, she answered as she finally located the device.

“Goodmornin’, Little Muermaid. How’s land treatin’ ya?”, Six Ulric, Muerlin’s best friend, greeted in cutesy tease.

“Well, my feet hurt”, she playfully whined to get on her friend’s nerves which worked given her immediate reply of “wuss” followed by an eye roll.

“Wow, I can see why you and Gladio are together”, Muerlin teased. “Yeah, yeah”, Six replied with a chuckle. “Hey, quick question though. Does Prommie like ice cream in or on his cake?”, she asked collecting ingredients from the numerous cupboards and the pantry, organizing them on her counter top. 

“Both”.

“Okay, and what flavors should I use?”, the glaive asks as she opens the freezer examining the plethora of tubs of various ice cream flavors.  

“Well, that depends on the combination and what exactly you’re putting in or on”.

Six’s face scrunches in confusion. “……what?”

“Okay”, Muerlin begins to explain taking a seat in one of the chairs by the table, “how many flavors are you going to use? 2, 3, 4? You have to pick flavor combinations that make sense with not just the ones you put INSIDE the cake, but also what you put ON the cake because if you mix two or more flavors that don’t go together IN the cake, then that’s a setback, yes, but you could compensate for the ice cream ON the cake”, she rambles on as Six just blankly stares into the contents of her freezer. “BUT if the wrong flavor combination ON TOP of the cake as well as IN the cake, then the WHOLE cake is rubbish and you can’t-”.

“Okay”, Six cut off her friend waving her hand in the air, “I…got it. Don’t make a shitty cake. Did you buy the camera set yet?”

“Ermmmmm….”, Muerlin audibly sighed scrunching up her nose in apprehension. Six halted wide eyed at her friend’s noise. “Muerlin…did you?” Muerlin curled in her seat a bit as she averted her gaze to the crate beside her. “Not exactly….”, she vaguely confessed. “Muerlin”. The frustration in Six’s voice rising. “Y’know…it’s possible”. “Muerlin!” “T-THAT I….mmmmay have…gone with…the a..alternative”.

“AWWWW, MUERLIN!”, Six shouted over the phone in annoyance startling the silver haired woman. “Aghh, Gods”, Muerlin winced at the sharp pain in her ear. “What?! Every household deserves a pet”. “Yeah, but a CHOCOBO?!”, Six angrily whispered as to not alert the sleeping giant in the next room.

Muerlin was from the kingdom of Willownoire which is known for it’s vibrant wilderness, immunity to natural disasters, but mostly for it’s wildlife. Every creature and critter that walked upon Willownoire’s rich soul was the purist of its species, and was also granted immortality and within that dusty, rugged ol’ crate was a shimmery pearl egg harboring the purist, fairest and most authentic white chocobo in all of Eos. 

Sure, her goofy photographer boyfriend would’ve loved a fancy new camera that would surely get replace with a newer and fancier camera in a few years. Honestly, he’d probably cry sweet tears of joy. 

But a CHOCOBO? 

Nay, the purist chocobo currently in existence…and THEY, together, be the very first souls it lays its precious little beads upon…and then they, TOGETHER, gain all of its love and trust?

He’d swoon.

“What’s the big deal?”, Muerlin retorts at Six’s protests, “It’s a cute fluffy bird”. “Okay, it’s a GIANT bird that is generally wild and is a gigantic responsibility”, Six explained.

“I have a pet behemoth at home!”

“An IMMORTAL and TRAINED behemoth that is really just a giant lovable guard dog. Also….she’s a behemoth. They can usually take care of themselves”.

Six had a point. Friday didn’t really need anyone, but Muerlin was determined to make her blonde beau’s day. She crossed her legs in the chair and folded her free arm. “You have no faith in me! Absolutely no faith!”

Aw, damn, here we go. Six rolled her eyes and slumped over the counter top. “That’s not it. Of course, I have faith in you”.

“Did you read the best friend contract before you signed it because it promptly states that you’re supposed to have faith in my shenanigans and tell me I’m awesome”, Muerlin playfully spouted in a slight whine.

The glaive smirked.  “It also says that I’m to intervene when I feel like you’re going a little overboard”.

“I know, I know, but this time I’m not, okay?”, Muerlin responded with sincerity.

“You’re 100% sure?”

“Six, trust me, everything’s gonna be fine”.

Remembering those words made Muerlin want to kick herself as she stared at the small nest sitting in the now open crate, covered in pearly eggshell shards. Reluctantly, she lifted her phone to her ear as the dial tone rung out through the speaker.  She hated this moment. Why didn’t she just listen? Why didn’t she just get that damn camera set like Six said? She pinky promised. The pinky promise is sacred! She broke a sacred oath! For what? LOVE? To give Prompto the best birthday he ever had?! WELL, LOOK HOW WELL THAT TURNED OUT.

“Yyyyo”, Six answered a short time later.

“Hey, um….so remember when you said, uh….that I go overboard sometimes and…when I said everything would be fine?”

“Yeaaah?”

“Well….everything’s not fine”, Muerlin screeched in slight panic.

There was a pause. Six blinked with her hand against her temple. Her voice returning to that low monotone.

“……you lost the chocobo, didn’t you?”

“….yes”.

A half hour had passed and Muerlin couldn’t find that little walking cotton ball for the life of her, sending her panic through the roof.

“Still haven’t found it?”, Six still on the phone with her hysterical friend. “Noooooo!!! What am I gonna do?!”

“I’m sure you’ll-”

“What if it gets out?! It’s dangerous out there for a little chocobo!!”, Muerlin screeched beginning to panic.

“Okay, Muery, I don’t think-”.

“What if it gets hurt?! I may have just extincted the purist chocobo species in Eos!!!”, the agitated woman flailed.

“Ooooookay, I think you’re overreacting just a little bi-”.

“What would Prompto think?! ‘My girlfriend got the most perfect chocobo crushed by a car somewhere!!’ I’M SO DUMPED!!!!!!”, her breath hinged, “I can’t breathe....I CAN’T BREATHE!!!”

“MUERLIN!”

“WHAT?!”

“He’s not gonna dump you. It’s a little chocochick. It wouldn’t be able to get out of the apartment by itself even if it tried”, Six calmly reassured her friend as she continued mixing the cake batter.

Muerlin sighed, trying to catch her composure. “Yeah...yeah, yeah, you’re right”.

“There we go, deep breaths”. Six smirked at her friend’s panic. Her Prompto was showing and not in the good way. “When’s lover boy supposed to be home?”

“He called earlier and said he’d be home in an hour. That was 45 minutes ago”, the silver haired woman answered as she nervously nibbled her knuckle.

“Leaves us plenty of time”, Six tried to reassure her friend. “Now, listen carefully....”. Six paused suddenly, disturbing her panicked friend. “Do you have any lettuce?”

“...Wwwhy?”

“Just trust me. You got any?”

“Um...I-I think so”, Muerlin stuttered as she shuffled toward the fridge, scanning its contents. “Now what?”, Muerlin questioned her friend upon grabbing the veggie.

“Well, where have you already looked?”

“The living room, the kitchen and the bedroom”, Muerlin answered Six as she curiously eyeballed the frosty veggie in her hand.

“Okay, so that leaves the studio, the spare bathroom and the laundry room”.

Muerlin sighed as she averted her gaze to the other rooms. “Yeah”, she replied in slight frustration, “and Prom practically lives in one of them”.

“Don’t worry, just shut the doors and keep him busy”, Six delightfully explained. “Once the rest of us get there, Prompto will be distracted by the guys and we can go chocobo hunting. Easy”.

 “Okay...but what’s with the salad ball?”

“It’s a chocobo, Muerlin”, Six replied with a chuckle, “it’s gotta eat”.

“Huh”, Muerlin raised an eyebrow as she retreated to follow her friend’s instructions, “no wonder you’re a glaive”.

“Psh, oh yeah. All that serving the Lucian Empire is just a ruse to assist my stubborn best friend when she doesn’t listen to my advice”, Six sarcastically teased her the silver haired woman reminding her that this was still her fault.

“Okay, okay, point proven”. Muerlin lightly rolled her eyes at Six’s remark. “Now, ya gonna tell me how I’m supposed to keep Prompto bus for 4 hours?”

“Pfft! I don’t know! You’re the wizard”, Six retorted. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW?!”, Muerlin screeched, “THIS WAS YOUR IDEA AND PROM’S GONNA BE HOME ANY MINUTE”.

“Like I said, YOU’RE the wizard”.

“Well, it’s not like I have a magic pussy or something!”, Muerlin spatted. Six giggled at her friend’s statement. “Well, remember, it is his birthday, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, you’re not wrong”, Muerlin replied, a mischievous grin stretching across her face. “And you like ridin’ chocobos, don’t ya?”

“Aaaall day”.

Suddenly, a gust of wind whistled through her ears as the front door swung open. A familiar voice, cheerful an bubbly echoed through the room.

“Babe, I’m home!”, Prompto sang as he shut the door behind him. “Ya here?”

“Speak of the devil”, Six chuckled upon Prompto’s entry. “I’ll call you later”, Muerlin whispered.

Six rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure ya will, honey”, she teased before hanging up.

A few moments later, as Prompto put his stuff down, he assumed he was home alone given his unanswered greeting. “Hm...guess she had something better to do...”, he sighed in a slight pout before retreating to his room.

As he approached, the sound of running water took over his sense. Steam floated from the bathroom upon the floors. “Uh...M-Muerlin?”, the blonde nervously called as he proceeded toward the open bathroom door.

His freckled cheeks flushed once his vision cleared beyond the steam as he gazed upon the bare back of his beloved Muerlin, the water droplets twinkling like stars upon her flesh. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. As she slowly turned to face her cherry faced chocobo, his heart began to sweat. She smiled fiendishly, his legs started to shake. 

“Hey, stranger”, she sensually hissed. “You gonna come in here and let me wish you a Happy Birthday?” “Abso-fucking-lutely”, the blonde hurriedly stripped nearly tripping over his pants as he bolted toward the shower. Shutting the glass door behind him before Muerlin’s thin bronze arms wrapped around his neck, gazing into his loving stare.

Damn...how could eyes be so blue.

Wrapping his thick arms around her, Prompto pulled her against his bare torso. ��So, Madame Zephyr”, the blonde smirked, “something you wish to tell me, is there?” Muerlin giggled at her chocobo doofus. “Happy Birthday, my little sunshine boy”, she smiled before perching up on her tip toes planting a passionate kiss to his pink cat lips.

The two hadn’t been together that long and this is the first time he’s ever seen her naked. Despite the fact she tried to suave, she was probably sweating more than he was and not just because of the hot water, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Although, pretty sure this time she didn’t mind.

4 and a half hours later...

“Are you sure they knew we were coming?”, the behemoth Shield asked his glaive girlfriend as their party, also consisting of the Crown Prince and his dapper royal adviser, receiving a sigh and an eye roll. “I texted her”. 

“Perhaps, she’s making last minute preparations”, Ignis begrudgingly interjected as he pushed his glasses further upon the bridge of his nose. “Or Promp’s fallen asleep”, Noct nonchalantly chuckled as his razor sharp focus was fixed on King’s Knight. “Not bloody likely”, Six quietly mumbled imitating Muerlin’s accent as Gladio stifled a chuckle.

Muerlin, attempting to stay quiet, opened the door making a shush gesture with her finger against her lips as she waved them inside. They quickly assorted the food, beverages and presents. “You’d call me, tch...right”, Six teased her friend in a whisper. “Oh, shush, it was your idea”, Muerlin replied with an eye roll.

“So where’s the birthday boy?”, Gladio asked with a light smirk. “In the bedroom. I told him to dress nicely. I hope he didn’t put on his suit...”. “Didn’t even though he owned a suit”, Gladio chuckled.

“Noct”, Ignis addressed the distracted Prince, “would you assist me in sorting the table?” “Just put ‘em on the table”, Noct groaned. “Noct, please, they need to be arranged around the cake in an orderly fashion”. The raven haired prince slumped in his seat. “The refreshments in front, with appetizers on the left, entrees to the right with silverware and saucers for dessert in back”. Noct sluggishly assisted the nagging adviser for a few moments before being shooed away due to his inefficiency.

As the boys continue their banter, Six lightly pulls Muerlin to the side. “Any of the doors been opened?” “Nope”. “Prompto’s completely oblivious?” “Yep”. Six smirks at the silver haired girl, noticing the triumphant look on her face. “Well, done, Little Muermaid”. Muerlin giggles at the glaive’s compliment.

“Alright, everything seems to be in order. Shall we proceed?”, Ignis asked the party with a smile.

“Sounds good”, Six replied with an affirming nod. “Noct”, Ignis gestured to the lights, “if you would please”. “Don’t mind if I do”.

A few moments later, Prompto emerges from the bedroom. “Muerlin, does this look alri-”, he paused once he realized all the lights were off. “Uh...babe?”, he called out in the silent room before cautiously making his way into the void to find the light switch. “C’mooon”, he quietly groaned, “where is it?”

Growing impatient with his best friend’s inability to find the light switch, Noct abruptly flicked the lights on, causing everyone to shout “SURPRISE!!!!” and the girlish squeal that left the freckled plebe’s throat sent the party into a tizzy of hearty laughter. “WHAT? WHERE? WHO?”, Prompto panted with his hand over his heart, his eyes darting to everyone in the room before landing on Muerlin. “WHEN DID-”.

“About 10 minutes ago”, his girlfriend giggled as he gazed upon the spread of food and presents. “Is...is all that”, he waved his arms around pointing at everything that was brought, “for me?”, he asked pointing to himself. “Well, it is your birthday”, Noct teasingly answered.

“You didn’t think we forgot, didya?”, Gladio asked folding his arms. “Well...I mean...sorta”, Prompto responded timidly. “Nonsense. As our loyal comrade, we take priority in expressing gratitude in any way we can”, Ignis added with a sincere smile, much to Prompto’s surprise. “He actually let me make the cake”, Six giggled as she playfully smirked at the royal adviser receiving a “hmph” from his smiling face.

Prompto was beside himself with joy. All his loved ones here to celebrate HIS birthday. His friends, his girlfriend. They all pitched in and planned this for him. Iggy prepared all his favorite foods and drinks, Six made an ice cream cake covering it with chocobos and soooo many presents. He could tell which ones were given by who. Iggy’s had the best quality paper and were wrapped the neatest. Six obviously wrapped all of her and Gladio’s presents. They weren’t as neat as Iggy’s, but there was a feminine touch to them. They had puffy bows. Noct’s were 80% tape, but the amount of effort he actually put into it warmed the freckled boy’s heart. Although, he couldn’t see any from Muerlin.

Oh, well, he thought to himself. She would probably give him hers later. Like a secret, super private gift or something and the mere idea of it excited him even more. The pure elation that overwhelmed the man sent a wave of heat to his freckled cheeks as well as the pleasant burning from his constant smile.

“Thanks, guys. You’re the best”. The shimmer in his eyes melted Muerlin’s heart. “No sweat”, Gladio approached the blonde to lead him to the food, “now, c’mon, food’s gettin’ cold”.

As the party continued, the boys chatted endlessly about video games, Gladio badgered the two younglings about their training, Iggy displayed a little savage humor here and there while they enjoyed the many fine delicacies he prepared. The night was going rather well. Except for one little thing...

The glaive lightly bumped into her wizard friend, who was silently observing the festivities, grabbing her attention. “So, the studio, bathroom and laundry room, right?” Muerlin nodded smirking at her. “Well, what a coincidence, I suddenly have to pee”, Six joked before slipping away toward the restroom. She quickly slide through the door, as not to potentially startle the floofy bird only to discover the leaves of lettuce on the floor next to her foot. “Huh...”, Six said to herself as she turned to examine the room. Nothing. No chocobo, anyway. After a few moments, the glaive exited the bathroom returning to the party. “That’s one down”, Six whispers to her friend as passes her. Muerlin sighed. Oooookay, she thought to herself. Her turn.

It would’ve made more sense for her to check the studio, but the last thing she needed was her clumsy boyfriend accidentally trapping a rare defenseless chocochick in the washing machine. Especially considering that he doesn’t really know how to use the thing. Or the dryer for that matter. “Great”, she groaned as she piled a load of their dirty laundry into a basket, “this isn’t gonna look weird in the slightest”. She rolled her eyes. “Hey, babe, just doin’ a quick laundry run during your birthday party because that’s normal. Ugh....I really didn’t think this through”. “Muerlin?”, a lighthearted voice cut through her frustration. “Huh?”, she pivoted slightly to see Prompto standing at the door. 

“What’re ya doin’ in here? Are you okay?”, he approached her obviously concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine”, she pleasantly responded. “I was just getting some of our laundry together so I could-”. “Baaaabe”, the freckled plebe whined as he gently took hold of his girlfriend’s hand, “you’re thinking about laundry now?” “W..well, we’ve got a lot”. Aw, hell. What was she supposed to say honestly? “C’mooooon, we can do it laterrrr. I promise I’ll listen this time. Pretty pleeeease?” 

Uggghhh! Not with the eyes! Those precious blue eyes! That puppy face! She couldn’t resist...but she needed to find the chocobo...but....ugh. 

“Alright, alright”, she complied with a smile, “since you promised this time”. “Yay! Now, come on. Iggy made cheese frieeeees”. That does it. Mission: abort. Prompto’s eyes widened at the sudden clutch against his wrist before being practically dragged from the room by his girlfriend. He had completely forgotten how strong she was....with the proper motivation. Like cheese fries.

After stuffing her face with fries and ice cream cake, Muerlin began to grow more and more nervous. It had been hours. Prompto had just finished opening his presents. The boys were mingling among themselves, Noct was nearly asleep while Prom, Iggy and Gladio continued to enjoy Six’s masterpiece of a cake. 

Six planted herself next to the wizard on the couch, “I see someone still can’t resist the baby boys”, she teased her smitten friend. “Psh, like that garnet gazing Gladdy doesn’t tickle your ivories every now and again”. Six lightly glared at her friend, “smartass. Now...what’s the plan? I take the laundry room, you take the studio?” “I have more reason to go in the laundry room than you do”, Muerlin replied with a sigh. “Okay, then you take the laundry room, I get the studio?” “Same”, she slumped.

Meanwhile, as the girl’s pondered their next move, Prompto had gotten another craving. For a photo, but where was his camera? He started looking about the room for it. “I could’ve sworn...”, he mumbled before turning toward the studio. “Maybe...”.

“Well, what’re we gonna do?”, Six asked, “knock ‘em out for a bit?” Muerlin chuckled, “oh yeah, Happy Birthday Prom, I got you a concussion”. “Well, what do you propose we....”, Six suddenly paused. Muerlin turned to face her with a raised eyebrow as her friend stared on. “What?” “Uhh...”, the glaive started as she pointed behind the wizard, “...was that door open the whole time?” Muerlin quickly turned around to notice the studio door wide open.

“SHIT!”, Muerlin squealed in panic as she leap from the cushions and bolted for the door noticing the lettuce she left earlier was gone. Oh, no. Oh, GODS! DAMMIT, WHO OPENED THE DOOR?! WHAT IF IT ESCAPED?! WHAT IF IT HAD GOTTEN HURT?! WHAT IF-

“KWEH!”

A sudden chirp from inside the room quieted her racing mind, her eyes slightly widened. “Prom?”, she lightly called as her boyfriend stood before her, his back facing her. “O...M...G”, the man panted as he turned toward Muerlin, “there’s a chocobo in our house”, Prompto squealed with the fluffy chick nuzzled against his chest. Muerlin’s jaw nearly hit the floor. He was SO CUTE. TOO CUTE.

So small, yet chubby and plush. The feathers were so pearly white that the glare from the light shown shades of pinks and blue. A sharp squeak escaped Muerlin’s throat as she gazed upon the precious ball of floof alerting their friends from the living room. As they entered, they all gasped and sighed at the sight of the beautiful baby bird. 

“Woah”, Gladio gasped. “Well, would ya look at that”, Noct declared in his nonchalant tone. “My word”, Ignis exclaimed astounded as he approached, “a pearl chocobo”. “A what?”, Gladio asked in confusion. “A pearl chocobo. I have read of them. The most pure of the species. Thought to be extinct centuries ago”. “Seriously?”, Prom gazed in amazement at the little critter. “Then...how’d it get here?” “Ask your Little Muermaid”, Six smiled sweetly glancing at  the blushing silver haired woman next to her.

Prompto rose his gaze to his girlfriend, standing in front of him. “Muerlin?...You...”. “Happy Birthday, Prommie”. Her voice like a soft flute in his ears. “But....how?” She gingerly shrugged, “I’m a wizard”. Tears began to fill Prompto’s sea blue eyes as he cuddled the sweet bird and lovingly stared, in disbelief and admiration, at the timid woman. “You....you really did this....for me?”, he asked as he approached the young woman, Six graciously shoving her toward the blonde. “Well...I wanted to get you something special...I mean...this is your first birthday with us living together and...well, I know how much you love chocobo’s and I love you so...”, everyone’s eyes suddenly burst open at Muerlin, including Prompto’s, “I figured...y’know, he could always get a new camera, but a chocob-”. 

“Ahbahbahduh!!”, the blonde interrupted, startling the silver haired woman, “what did you say?”

“Th...the camera?”

“No, before that”.

“Wanted to get you something special?”

“After that”.

“First birthday living together?”

“Oh, for the love of....”, Gladio mumbled to herself receiving a elbow to the gut from the glaive.

“After that”.

“...I love you?” Muerlin began to sweat again remembering they had never exchanged the big 3 to one another yet. Oh, bloody hell, she thought to herself anticipating his response only to be startled by a sudden pressure against her lips as Prompto delivered a passionate kiss to his wizard, a soft and callused paw against her bronze cheek leaving Muerlin astounded by his sudden boldness. Once he broke the kiss, Muerlin finally felt the abundance of eyes on them and their satisfied grins. She could only imagine the plethora of texts of merciless teasing she was gonna get from Six later.

Brilliant, just what I needed. She’s never gonna..

“I love you too”.

..let me live this-WAIT, WHAT?

“P...pardon?” She could hardly believe it.

“I love you, Muerlin. I do...I’ve never met anyone that has ever made me feel this whole. This special. You are so good to me and...I promise, I’m gonna do everything in my power to do right by you”. His words brought tears to her eyes. Was this really happening? Yes...it was real, it was really real. “AND our baby”, he dramatically added cooing at the ball of feathery cuteness in his arms.

“KWEH!” Muerlin looked toward the little floof in Prompto’s arms who was beaming at her rubbing his feathered head against her chest. “Ya here that?! He said mommy!” Muerlin giggled at her boyfriend’s enthusiasm as he held his two loves close in a deep embrace. 

“So what’re you gonna name it?”, Noct asked with a smirk. “It’s gotta be something epic”, Gladio interjected receiving an eye roll from Six. “Possibly something to distinguish his features”, Iggy proposed with a smile. “Like Fluffy”, Noct suggested eagerly. “Really, Noct?”, Prompto whined at his best friend’s lack of effort. “Or Snowball”, Six added. “Cloud?”, Gladio spouted. “You’re serious....”, his glaive girlfriend lightly glared at him in disapproval.

“How about Marshmallow?”, Muerlin suggested, looking toward her love. “Marshmallow, huh?” He pondered for a moment. “Yeah..yeah! I like it! That’s perfect! Soft and squishy!” He looked down at the little chick, “whaddya say, little guy?”

“KWEH!”, the little baby chirped with joy. “That settles it”, Gladio chuckled. “Welcome to the family, Marshmallow”, Ignis playfully greeted the bird. The little floof excitedly wiggled in his daddy’s arms as the others cooed. An elbow to Muerlin’s side caught her attention, “ya did good, Muery”, Six whispered to her friend as she pet the floof and Muerlin was proud. “Ooo! Come on, let’s get our first picture with the baby”, Prompto beamed grabbing his camera to set it up on the other side of the room. 

Once he returned to the group, he and Muerlin proceeded to make their usual adorably goofy stances filling the little floof with glee. “Alright, on three. Everyone say “KWEH!”, Prompto delightfully instructed. “One....two...THREE!”

“KWEHHHH!” *click*

Thinking back on what Six said, Muerlin realized, despite the havoc she endured today, she did do good. She made her love happy. Gave him a birthday he’d never forget. Sure, she could’ve bought him that silly camera, but he deserved the very best. He was her everything. Her sunshine. Her chocobo.

...And no photo could do justice the love of a chocobo for his chocobo.

Tagging: @aquathemermaidstripper @digitalkanvas @a-new-recipehhh @prettyprompto

If you’d like to be tagged in further pieces, let me know! ^^

[superprincesspea]

Knock, Chapter 6

You might not be perfect, alright, so you’re not perfect. Who is?

Fluff, Angst, Simon/Reader

Words: 2284

Chapter 1    Chapter 2    Chapter 3    Chapter 4    Chapter 5

It’s points day and it might not be the best idea you’ve ever had but you know exactly what you want to buy. Once a smoker, always a smoker. Still, you find yourself muttering the request under your breath like a dirty word. It is a dirty word. You’re pregnant and no doubt Negan has already spread the good news with his almighty mouth.

It’s a woman called Doris working the desk today and she’s never liked you, you don’t think Doris has ever liked anyone. She looks you up and down, not even trying to hide her distaste as she slowly eases stiff legs off her chair to fill your order. When she returns she’s holding a grey plastic crate filled with supplies, she sits them in front of you and slumps back onto her seat with an overexerted heave of stale breath.

It makes your stomach turn but you manage to swallow the feeling down as your eyes quickly scan the contents of the crate. It’s mostly filled with fruit, tinned and fresh. But it's what’s sitting on top that truly catches your attention. A tub of Prenatal Vitamins next to a box of decaffeinated tea. “What’s this?” you hiss, trying to keep your voice as low and even as possible.

Doris doesn’t even bother to look at you, she just starts flicking through the pages of her ledger, placing a big red tick next to your name, “that’s your allowance.”

“I didn’t ask for this crap.” Even if you probably should have. “I asked for cigarettes,” you say a little louder, you’re not trying to win any parenting awards here. You’re trying to ease the tension that’s been knotting around you body every time you picture the next few months and beyond.

“Look sweetheart,” Doris gives you her full attention now. “Simon said this is what you’re allowed and I’m not about to get myself on the wrong side of the boss man so you can have your cancer sticks and” she said the next part with a cruel smile, “suffocate that poor little baby.”

You thought you knew what it felt like to feel guilty but apparently you didn’t. Your hand found a home on your belly and you hated yourself for even considering smoking a cigarette, you just didn’t want Doris to be the one to make you feel like that. “You’re a real mean old bitch, you know that?”

Her smile beamed even wider. “That comes with age and infirmity, now move your pretty little ass along so I can serve the others. Not everyone is lucky enough to get knocked up into a free ride and have their boyfriends buying up all the fresh fruit.”

You let the boyfriend comment slide, grabbing your crate, your jaw set with indignation as you yanked it from the table and yes, you are petty enough to purposely knock her stack of ledgers onto the floor as you go.

You don’t even hear what she says as you walk away, you’re too busy thinking about your husband to be as you storm through the Sanctuary reeling with a mix of emotions. You barge straight into Simon’s room, your foot kicking open the door, the crate of food practically spilling over.

He’s standing shirtless, his face half covered in foam and a cut throat razor in one hand. “Now who’s forgetting to knock?” he teases and you slam your box onto a little glass dining table that sits close to the door.

“This is bullshit!” You say.

“I’m pretty sure I asked for fruit and vitamins,” he replies, not missing a beat.

“Don’t be cute! I’m about five seconds from shoving this cantaloup up your ass.”

You can see he’s trying to bite back a smile and his effort does nothing to stop you wanting to start throwing fruit at him.

“I was thinking about the first time I saw you,” he says, ignoring the way you’re scowling at him. “I asked you if I could help you to your room and you told me to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” you try not to laugh, laughing wouldn’t exactly prove the point you’re trying to make here, “well, my feelings remain the same.”

His smile sneaks across his face, now completely unhindered and your feelings really are the same as the first time you ever saw Simon, you still think he looks just as handsome when he smiles.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, sitting on the edge of the dining table, his thigh pressing against yours, his face just that little bit too close to yours.

Suddenly you’ve forgotten what you were saying or what point you might have been trying to make. “What?” you whisper.

He brushes your hair behind your ear, “you don’t want me to fuck off.”

A shiver of goosebumps follows where his thumb brushes down your neck and you push his hand away, you don’t want him to be be right and “you don’t know the first thing about me, Simon.”

“So tell me. What’s the first thing about you?”

What was there to say? Everyone you ever knew and any life you thought you had was gone. For the longest time all you’d had was survival, one day at a time until you came here, you became a Savior and you got your own little room. It had been enough, you didn’t need anything more and now more was sitting in front of you and growing inside your belly like an unwelcome guest.

“Sit down,” you pull out one of the dining chairs and he raises his eyebrows questioning your motives. “I can’t talk to you with that all over your face,” you say, gesturing to the shaving cream before moving to pick up the razor.

You hear him chuckle as he takes a seat, stretching his long legs under the table that now seems ridiculously tiny when you turn to see him sitting at it.

You stand behind him, tilting his head back until his eyes are locking with yours and your lips curve into a slow smile. You press the blade to his neck, just enough to keep him steady and completely at your mercy. “The first thing about me… I don’t like being told what I can and can’t spend my points on.”

“I didn’t want you smoking,” he says, barely batting an eye at the fact that you’re holding a knife to his throat and he’s not trying to manipulate you or lie about why he ordered the fruit. The way he’s looking at you with his eyes so big and wide reminds you of a puppy dog and you find yourself letting the blade slide away away from his neck. In his own overbearing way he’s trying to look after you but that doesn’t mean you’re going to like it.

“Cigarettes are my stress relief,” you admit, carefully scraping the blade against the stubble that lives on his cheek before wiping the foam on the towel he has draped over his shoulders.

“I get it. I’ve seen the bottom of more than my fair share of gin bottles since the world went to hell but it doesn’t change things and there are better ways to relieve, tension...”

You knick his chin and he hisses, a drop of blood rolling down his neck and weaving red with the white foam. “Have you ever done this before?” he asks, pressing his finger against the cut.

You bite your lip, feeling sheepish before admitting, “no.”

“Never?” Simon exclaims, turning to look at you with more amusement than anything else and you shrug one shoulder feeling even more sheepish when he laughs at you.

“I can’t believe I let you near the ‘tache!” he exclaims even louder, standing and striding to grab the mirror he’d been using when you entered the room. He sits it on the dining table before sitting back down.

You feel wooden when he takes your hand, guiding you back to his face, the blade against his cheek. “Go with the grain,” he says, instructing your hand with his and maybe you should have been concentrating while he guided you but all you can think about is the way his hand emcompasses yours and how big those sames hands would look changing a tiny diaper.

You don’t even hear the rest of his instructions or even watch what you’re doing. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your mind lost to imagination until he releases your hand, his wide grin reflected in the mirror, “just like that. You wanna do the rest?”

You shake your head, placing the blade on the table in front of him, “I should go.”

“I haven’t rotored you to work today…” he laughs quietly, shifting in his seat, “you should stay.”

“I might not have work but I have better things to do than spending my day pampering your face,” you snap, turning on your heel and walking away.

This time Simon doesn’t let you walk away. He chases you down the hallway, his hands taking hold of your shoulders. “No running,” he commands, steering you back to his room and kicking the door shut with his foot before sitting you on the sofa.

He looks at you thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side, “I think we should spend some time together.”

“I think that’s what got us into this mess.”

Simon laughs, “well we’re in it now sweetheart and I you don’t have anything better to do today.”

He’s right of course, when you’re not working there’s not much to keep you occupied. Sometimes you play a hand of cards in the common room, sometimes you share a cigarette with Laura but mostly you try to avoid making any real friends and spend your days alone.

He grabs his razor, continuing what must have been the longest shave of his life, leaving you with nothing to do but watch and realise just how nice Simon’s room is compared to the shoebox you called home. It’s like a studio apartment, one large space all sectioned off into different zones. A kitchenette with a dining table for two, a bed big enough for three and living area complete with a TV and an actual jukebox.

You pick up a book from his bookshelf, sinking into sofa and when he passes you a steaming cup of decaf tea you can admit, at least to yourself, that this isn’t so bad. He takes a seat next to you, the smell of his coffee piquing your interest as you look at the murky water of your tea. It’s not that you don’t like tea, its that you love coffee.

Simon barely takes his eyes off you as silence begins to build between each sip of too hot tea.  “Well this is awkward,” you announce.

Simon chokes on his coffee, “you’re making me nervous.”

Simon, nervous, it doesn’t seem probable but then he has that same bashful look you saw last night and it makes you smile a little. “Maybe it’s because you kidnapped me,” you say, tartly, he’s the one forcing you to be here right now even if you do kinda like it.

“Be fair, I wouldn't say I kidnapped you.”

You settle your cup onto the edge of the bookshelf, “you wouldn’t let me leave.”

Simon snorts, leaning over you to place his mug next to yours, “I wouldn’t let you run away.”

“Same. Difference.”

“You always have to get the last word in?” he teases, the smell of his aftershave balm making your mouth water, the way he smiles making your heart flutter.

You want to ignore the way he’s crept along the sofa so your knee is flush with his, but you can’t,  “yes.”

“Okay then,” he swallows hard, his gaze falling to your lips and resting there like he’s forgotten he was talking to you.

“Fine,” you whisper mirroring the way he’s leaning closer, your mouth parting, your heartbeat more thud than flutter and when your lips touch Simon’s you moan, the sound escaping before you can even think about controlling your reaction to how good it feels to kiss him.

He takes the sound as a sign to pull you towards him, his hand brushing down your spine, the kiss deepening as you sink down into the sofa. Simon’s weight covers you, possesses you, the smell of his skin is intoxicating and the tickle of his mustache sends shivers that heat between your thighs. You make out like teenagers with an empty house, hands exploring clothed bodies, hips grinding together as his lips explore down your neck, his thumb pushing open the buttons of your shirt and your nipples bunching for his touch.

“At least you can’t get any more pregnant, right?” Simon pants and suddenly you’re shoving him away, your heart pounding and common sense signalling a million alarm bells around your head.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you say, buttoning your shirt, the more you do this the harder it will get to keep him away.

“You’re wrong,” Simon’s fingers traced along your thigh in a lingering touch that threatens to throw all common sense right back out of the window.

You don’t reply. You can’t. You have no idea what to think or feel when you’re with him. He has a way of making you forget everything you thought you wanted and you don’t like feeling so unsure, so vulnerable to him. “Don’t stop me from leaving,” you say.

“You can leave, just don’t runaway.”

You grab your crate and hover at the door before saying, “bye.” Simon’s right, you can’t keep running away but that doesn’t mean you can’t walk.

Thank you for reading! Where should we go with this? More tension? More fluff? More sex? Let me know and let me know if you want to be on or off the tagging list for this story.

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[nwkrp-blog]

                                  ⋆ — WELCOME HOME, TRAVELER.

THE SHORES HAVE GIFTED US A NEW RESIDENT. born on APRIL 10TH, 1995, YOON JEONGHAN has been on the island for 2 MONTHS and is currently a CONVENIENCE STORE CASHIER. you can always find them at PARADISE SHARE HOUSE, 101.

                                          ONWARD !

                                           ⋆ EVERY STORY HAS A REASON

it’s unplanned, as most of the things in jeonghan’s life go, and unexpected, at best.

four years around the globe is a high that’s difficult to settle down from, and it’s a crashing reality that wraps around his ankles and jerks him down. it’s not as if he expects to live a life of constant visa applications and a blur of languages forever ( is that even a thing? ), but the sudden stability comes as a shock as compared to the carefreeness that’s almost embodied into his being.

it’s no surprise when he screams sceptisicm! from head to toe the minute he steps onto mido, all sunshine and trees that come off to him as unbelievably cheery—fake, to an extent. he sees plastered smiles along the sidewalk, amongst the crowd, and even in the sunset glow, in almost every crevice he peers into.

it’s simply hard to believe that in a world that’s so cold, there is such warmth.

it doesn’t take long, though, before he’s dragged into the charismatic lull of the island and the sea—especially the sea—and life, at least temporarily, diminishes to a quiet hum, something it hasn’t been in a long time.

it’s as unsettling as it is unfamiliar, and it’s probably only a matter of time before he gets bored and leaves again ( just as he does with everything else ). after all, jeonghan doesn’t like staticity—never has, and never will. but there’s something about mido that’s almost irresistable, funny as it is, and jeonghan can’t help but think—

this isn’t home, not quite. but it’s shelter, for now, and he’s only twenty-two! astounding. it gives him about another sixty years to figure his shit out. not bad, really.

( who is he kidding? )

oh well. he’ll just have worry about it later.

                                          ⋆ EVERY STORY HAS ITS ROOTS

DESTINATION #0: HOMETOWN newark liberty international airport, usa

here lies a story of a boy, and an atlas.

yes, really, that is all.

it tells of how he clutches it tight in his hands at age seven. it tells of expectations and wonder, tucked away for later.

“boy, are you okay?”

“boy? boy. do you know where you are?”

“are you lost?”

smile.

“i don’t get lost. i don’t think that’s possible.”

DESTINATION #1: HOME AGAIN (EXCEPT NOT REALLY) seoul incheon airport, south korea.

rosewood and the coastline. that’s the general idea—theme, really, of the coffin jeonghan’s dad makes for his mom. it's what bad luck, people say, to have your husband who ultimately creates the vault in which your body lies in, with instructions to bury me near the sea please, near the shrub of ixoras and the cacophony of the waves, thank you. it’s a wish that, needless to say, is complied with.

and so this is how mrs. yoon ends up right by the coast, six feet under.

year twenty-eleven sees mr. yoon following right after, lying amongst his own crate of bamboo and the woodlands.

this tells of how jeonghan is stranded alone at sixteen.

soon adulthood—or something of the like, anyway—is bestowed upon him, and he suddenly finds himself ( young boy in a big city, fresh out of foster care and high school with no sense of direction whatsoever ) with a hefty trust fund and a sudden freedom that smacks him head-on with startling realisation.

the first plane ticket he holds is one he pins his hopes of something at least akin to happiness on, something that seems frighteningly close to a promise of a new beginning and many more tales to be told—and so is such.

DESTINATION #28: VOYAGE taoyuan international airport, taiwan.

where does he go, after all this?

his journey is still in its early stages. there’s so much more to discover.

but he detests the fact that someday, someday, he has to settle back down into a house and marry and have five children and a dog and earn big bucks, and he can’t just continue to live this fantasy of his own to travel around the globe and back again for the rest of his life ( and frankly, that scares him. ) normalcy is something that he’s never craved. impractical? yes. but what’s to stop him from chasing his dreams?

( in which, he has none. )

it’s not like he has a plan, anyway, but he’ll see how it goes. what’s there to lose?

where’s your sense of responsibility, jeonghan?

and if there’s one thing he’s learnt—really, you don’t have to have one to live your life the way you want to.

DESTINATION #56: REDEMPTION galeão international airport, brazil.

it’s amongst the colourful vibrancy of rio de janeiro’s favelas where jeonghan wonders if people simply see each country—each place, as just a name. it’s a pity if they do, he thinks, for each destination holds so much potential and he wishes everyone could see it.

it’s the sights and the people and the rough edges of each country’s native tongue that’s rubbed raw by familiarity that counts, and it’s almost hard to think of a life that lacks of such thing. it makes him wonder what he’d be doing now, if not for all his travelling. an office job? out in the streets?

guess he’ll never find out.

after all, he’s learnt a lot more while journeying across the world than if he were to be stuck in an office chair for ten hours straight—more than the languages and the culture. more importantly, he’s seen the beauty, and the ugly.

beauty is world heritage sites and tourist attractions. it’s the loud hubbub of people making their way through crowds and the overly commercialised goods sold in pricey stores. it’s theme parks and childlike excitement and dollar signs everywhere you look. it’s moneymoneymoney because only money can buy you happiness.

or at least that’s what everyone thinks.

ugly, however, is the darkened alleyways and shivering people crouched in a corner. it is the pickpocket that hungrily steals from your wallet and the sorrow in the eyes of the children that sit by the roads and cry for food. the ugliest of it all, though, is the way people walk away from them with nothing more than mere disgust or ignorance.

( but then you look again and there’s a man wrapping a blanket around the family and a woman that sits down and opens a feast in front of the child and a teenager who says please don’t steal i’ll buy you food and you see the hope hope hope and maybe there is beauty in the ugly after all. )

because first and foremost, we’re all human. some are just luckier than the rest.

DESTINATION #74: PITSTOP melbourne airport, australia.

it’s funny, jeonghan thinks, how even a mess of a hotel halfway across the globe feels like home away from home.

( but then again, home has never really held much meaning to him, has it? )

australia is mostly crisp leaves and cold air, but even as he walks through the bustle of the victoria street market, coffee warming in his grip, he stands out like a smear of charcoal against a white canvas. a mere wisp in the crowd, perhaps, but it’s never been clearer that he doesn’t belong here. or anywhere, for that matter.

it’s exhausting, to be frank. thirty-two languages and twenty-four countries later and he still hasn’t found a single place to ease himself into. it’s almost strange how he passes by an average of four hundred and sixty-two people a day, traipsing through a good twenty kilometers on worn out sneakers and yet, yet, all he’ll be remembered as is a blur of blonde without a name that sticks out like a sore thumb. or maybe he won’t be remembered at all.

who are you, jeonghan?

it’s a question he doesn’t think he’ll ever find the answer to.

DESTINATION #131: TAKEOFF stockholm arlanda airport, sweden.

sweden finds him as a barista in a quaint coffeehouse two hundred meters away from his lodging. he’s four months in—an amazing feat, to be honest—it’s practically unheard of for him to last this long.

it’s mostly only because he’s fucking tired.

he’s walked the streets of forty different countries and seen a thousand different sights ( but who’s counting, anyway? ), and the taste of korean is foreign on his tongue at this point. time’s a paradox and money isn’t pooling from his fingertips anymore. he’s exhausted—even the simplest act of booking tickets for a trip is one he doesn’t look forward to.

so when he hears of mido, it seems like a godsend. a ticket for an escape of this neverending cycle of pack travel leave, to a sunny island with promises of security and solidarity.

everything he hates.

you’re walking right into your own deathtrap, jeonghan.

( but what’s he escaping from at this point? the last time he checked, it was reality. )

and so he looks back, the residue of each country marked on his passport, and boards the last plane he thinks he’ll be on for a long time. he’s seen enough of the world for a twenty-one—almost twenty-two—year old, anyway.

maybe this is his ticket to happiness.

DESTINATION #0: SQUARE ONE seoul incheon airport, south korea.

mido island. a new beginning.

( a lie. )

that’s what he said the last time, isn’t it?

[sparkkeyper]

I fucking hate having a dog in my house.  To be clear, I don't hate the dog itself. It's very sweet and fairly well-behaved for its age.  No, I hate the fact that it's in my house. The entire downstairs belongs to the fucking dog. If I venture down there at all, I better be prepared to deal with the fucking dog. The roommate lives there now, sleeps there, everything, until the animal is trained. I can't play video games because the only TV that can play them is downstairs and video games are "me" time, I am NOT hanging out with roommate and dog while I dungeon-crawl. I can't do anything remotely noisy in the kitchen at night because again, roommate sleeps there now. So forget trying to make dinner after work, guess I'm just living on fucking McDonald's now. I can't do anything remotely noisy in the kitchen when I wake up either, because somehow roommate is still asleep there 12 hours later?? Trying to get to the fridge at night involves climbing over a MASSIVE baby gate that rattles like fuck, so screw late night snacks. Just getting up or down the stairs involves another massive baby gate that I'm gonna break my neck on, I just know it. Heaven forbid you open the garage door when he's in the cage, because he's figured out that garage=roommate is home=cage opens so there goes the howling again. I don't even want to think about once he's big enough to get into the trash cans and knock our collections of statues off the shelves, because he will be.  I've put a LOT of work into this garden because it was shit when we got the place, and now this overgrown rat is gonna dig it all up, he's already decided that the croton bushes are delicious. I'd just bought high-strength weed killer and now I can't even use it because this little monster likes to chew everything green so with my luck he'd eat the exact thing I put weed killer on and poison himself.  Roommate is so excited to have this little shit. They're giving up their smaller cage pets in order to keep the dog. I've always gotten along well with them and they said before they bought the thing that they didn't want it to ruin our friendship or roommate situation and I don't want to lose that either but as time goes on, I really don't like the dog. Roommate #2 hasn't objected and seems to like playing with it. Roommate #2's girlfriend may be moving in and I know she likes it. Roommate #3 isn't around enough to tell what they think and idk if they really care. I realize I'm outvoted and I promised I wouldn't put up a fight if that was the case. But big pets aren't a temporary thing. He's only a puppy now and he's probably going to stay with her until he dies.  The whole fucking house smells like dog, even the floor he's never been to. If the roommate is at work, I still can't go downstairs to do anything unless I want him howling and whining to be let out of his crate for the next half hour. I was looking forward to staying in this house for a couple years but now I'm really not because I can't DO half the things I want to do! I'm not miserable or anything but it's hard to enjoy living here with that rat dictating what I can and can't do. I'm used to sharing living space with other people, that's fine, but I hate having to schedule my life around the fucking animal.  I want to play some Kingdom Hearts or Dark Cloud without babysitting the furry monster. I want to do dishes at 3am if I fucking feel like it. I want to go up to my own room without climbing over a fence. I want to sweep the floor without a fuzzy shark attacking the broom. I want to walk through my own house without a ball of hair and energy running after my feet. A few cute pettings does not NEARLY make up for having to build a whole world around this animal.  Fuck having this thing in my fucking house.