#anyone here know stuff about hanging things from the wall? specifically how much weight a screw can take

[bookshelfdreams]

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[writing-in-april]

Soured Nostalgia

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: When Reader moves their stuff in to Spencer’s apartment they find photos that he kept over the years. One photo of the past springs up memories of Spencer’s precious relationship with Elle.

A/N: hey heeeyyy everybody- here’s a fic I’ve been really excited to share with everyone. It’s my eleventh fic for my 30 fics in 30 days!!! This was the original request (I made it a little different lol I hope you like it)I had a fun time with it mostly cause I totally think Spencer and Elle had something going on at some point 😉 Plus I got to incorporate older angsty post prison Spencer and mention how he used to be a little baby ☺️ I’m curious to hear y’all’s thoughts about the Reidaway ship, or really anything so feel free to drop an ask to my inbox here. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Joking about being jealous???, Reidaway in the past, Spencer being sad about the people who’ve left him, Sub Spencer, Only a bit of dry sex, Masturbation, Unprotected sex, Use of a belt to restrain, A few taps on the cheek, Reader’s hand is around Spencer’s throat for a second

Main Masterlist Word Count: 3.2k

Reminiscing on the past was difficult depending on how the story had ended. Memories that may have been happy could turn too painful because of the ending result. Age turned the memories into unreliable accounts as well, unable to truly remember how things had been back then and how you had truly felt.

Memories were still something to hold onto and cherish even though they got twisted with age and opinion. Nostalgia, a sentimental or wishful affection for the past, was an addictive feeling even if it made you cry. It remained addictive even if most of your past memories had hurt you with no sentiment attached. Everyone always chased the euphoric feelings they had when looking at the ghosts of their past. Sometimes even when looking back you can find something that had once soured had turned sweet again.

Spencer had many memories that he was no longer able to look back upon for a host of reasons. Most often it was because he could no longer bear to look back on a memory of someone who had left him. Whether it was his Dad, Gideon, Hotch, Blake, Elle, and many others, looking back at them just made him often feel like everyone in his entire life had left him.

That wasn’t true of course, he still had his Mom- and you. Even with his Mom there were still many of his memories with her were still stained with guilt, though that had gotten better with time and with your help.

You had begun helping him find the benefit in looking back, trying to make the soured nostalgia a bit sweeter again. It was getting easier as time ticked by for him to open up to you about everything in his past, the good and the bad. At first you had been staring at a wall that he had been building higher and higher throughout the years, it was daunting how tall it was. When you helped take a sledgehammer to it, making it crumble beneath your effort, he pulled away for a while. He felt comfortable by himself behind his own Great Wall until you showed him the benefits of sharing the secrets he held behind it. But, you still stayed, helping him as much as you could until he was willing to open up.

It had been many months since you started your effort to help him break it down. At some point in the last months you had both fallen into a relationship, a romantic one. What had once been a platonic relationship forged from shared interests evolved into a romance emerging from the rubble of his wall.

He had even given you a key to his apartment at one point, which he had never done with anyone except the bureau. Emily was the one that really had it, but that was strictly for work reasons. This was a show of trust which was much more helpful than his wall that had reached the heights of a skyscraper.

A simple key soon turned into you staying at his place more often than at your own. You had casually mentioned one day while watching one of Spencer’s favorite documentaries that you basically lived here now. It was a true statement, most of the clothes you wore on a daily basis had been given a spot in his dresser and the toothbrush you kept there was not the one you used for travel- that one was at your place. You had begun to put your mark on Spencer’s life in a more permanent way than before.

When he had spontaneously suggested the next day that you should move in with him, you knew that your small comment had stuck in his brain. It was easy to agree to, you had said you basically already lived here, plus living with the love of your life sounded like a dream. You only had a few things that you wanted to bring over and it was mostly decorative stuff that you could’ve let go if Spencer hadn’t insisted that he wanted you to make the space your own.

While turning the space that was once solely Spencer’s into something for you both, you had found a small clear box with a blue lid, filled with pictures. Spencer didn’t have a lot of personal pictures framed, there was one with you and him by the bed, one with the team by his desk, one with him and Morgan on the living room wall, and one with you two and his Mom also hung up in the living room.

When you had shown him the box he could tell you were curious, letting you look through it without a moment of hesitation. In the past Spencer would have been wary sharing his memories with you, but now he’d let you look. If only you could get him to look at the box with you.

You weren’t surprised he didn't want to look with you once you saw the people littered throughout the snapshots. Varying people that had left were in most of them, even some you never met.

Ones with Hotch and Gideon- even one from a long time ago with his father buried at the bottom. As you browsed through them you were glad he was able to hang up that photo of him and Morgan, at least they had parted with some closure. It also helped that he still saw him regularly, he had never fully left like some of the people from his past.

One picture in particular stood out to you, it was another team photo, they seemed more carefree in this one compared to now. There was baby Spencer, before you had known him, in a birthday boy hat smiling with the rest of the team. You guessed it was around his 23rd or 24th birthday, going by the slick back gelled hair he had sported in his earlier years. He seemed so much more different back then, perhaps more carefree compared to now. But, he also seemed much more unsure of himself, maybe a bit self conscious. In the photo you could tell he was nervous, just by the look in his eyes. He still had that same look in his eyes whenever he felt nervous.

Then you looked closer at where his eyes were focused on, there was a clear line of sight from him to Elle. Elle was way less nervous in this captured moment compared to Spencer, though from what you had heard she had always been like that.

Your gaze on the photo was broken when Spencer then came into the living room where you were sitting on the couch.

You decided to test the waters to see if he might want to take a look at the photo with you, “Why do you look so nervous in this photo?”

He stopped the path he had been taking, then stood still for a second before deciding to sit next to you on the couch. Straining his neck he gazed over at the photo you were holding in your hands. It was silent for a while as he looked over it, stopping to look at his old team. Some of the team still remained intact, namely JJ, but she wasn’t the same as she had been all those years ago. You let him take it from your hands, so he could look at it closer. He cleared his throat a little, though his voice still came out slightly raspy when he spoke, though he didn’t answer the question you had asked him,“It’s the only picture I ever had taken with Elle…”

“I know you guys were- close.” You didn’t ask your previous question again, sensing that it was still too much to talk about in specifics. What he was telling you right now was even more than what he told you, only telling you that she was his first, everything. Any supplemental information was from talking discreetly to JJ about it one night because you were somewhat curious.

Tiptoeing around the relationship you knew that they had previously was like walking through a minefield. You tried the best that you could to avoid making him too upset. When you got him to open up, it wasn’t by forcing him to talk all at once. Busting the wall down was done brick by brick, not all at once.

“I’m glad you aren’t jealous of her.” His comment was said with less sadness than before. It was nice to see a glimpse of the weight coming off of his shoulders, even if it was just for a moment.

“What? Do you want me to be jealous of her?” You teased, lightheartedly so he wouldn’t dwell on the sad aspect of their past relationship. He smiled softly which deepened when you playfully stuck your tongue out and crossed your arms.

“No- you’ve got nothing to be jealous about…” Any playfulness in his voice was erased as his sentence trailed off. You didn’t say anything for a moment in case he wanted to continue his thought. And, after a moment of silence he did, “I haven’t spoken to her since she left…”

“I know- I was just joking about being jealous. I know how much she meant to you…” His eyes moved away from you, at first you thought it might be because he was still feeling the pain of losing her all those years ago. But, there was something else in his eyes, it naturally made you curious, “What are you thinking about?”

“If you were jealous- what would you have done?” His mind must have shifted away from thinking about the ending of his memories with Elle, which was a step in the right direction. At least he wasn’t avoiding the topic all together, he was still talking about her in a sense.

You bit your lip, thinking about what direction you could take this in. You weren’t going to lie, your mind had gone straight into the gutter at his suggestion and by the look on Spencer’s face so had his.

“Hmmm…” You pretended to ponder while you moved from where you were sitting on the couch to sit on something better, Spencer’s lap. Straddling him then with ease you looked down at his face tracing his cheeks with your fingers. His pupils were blown wide now, almost completely devouring his iris that had become a small ring. He didn’t say anything yet, waiting for you to continue your thought obediently, “I think I would do things to you that I suspect she never did.”

He gulped hard, hard enough that you could hear it. You continued to trace your fingers along his face, sometimes picking a lock of his hair to twirl, waiting for him to say something else like you knew he wanted to. It only took a few more seconds of your touches and your eyes staring into his own before he asked, “C-Can you show me?”

You stopped your movements, pausing for dramatic effect before crushing his lips onto your own. He squared into your mouth at first, clearly taken off guard by your sudden kiss. Before he had processed what was going on enough to let you, you forced your tongue into his mouth, earning you a delicious moan from him.

When you moved again suddenly, separating your mouth with his for just a moment, he tried to chase your lips. Pushing a finger to his lips you then used that to push him back into the couch, then answering his question, “Gladly.”

You kept your finger on his mouth to seal them shut. He could have opened it easily to respond to you, but he wanted to see what you might do next.

Instead of going back to kissing him you started to pull his belt off of him. It was difficult with one hand, taking much longer than it would be with two. But, you still kept your finger rested in the position most people use to shush someone.

Once the belt had finally been pulled from the belt loops of his slacks you finally removed your finger from his mouth. He still remained quiet, his eyes following your every move intently. You then went to work, pinning his hands above his head, then beginning to restrain them with his belt.

“Did she do this to you?” Goading him while you looped the belt around his hands. You made sure to go as slow as possible while you restrained him just to make it last longer until you gave him what he wanted. You even began to grind down on his cock a little bit, it obviously ached to be free from its confines in his trousers by how strained the slacks were getting.

“No!” His voice was broken and breathy, exactly how you wanted it as you tightened the belt around his hand a little more.

Once you were satisfied that the belt was tight enough you got off of him to remove the shorts you had been wearing, along with the rest of your clothes. Normally when you were naked and Spencer was clothed it would be when you were underneath him as a sort of power play. In this position, where he couldn’t move without fear of consequences while you restraddled him completely naked was almost even more empowering.

To play with the dynamic even more you had him remain confined in his slacks for a while longer, while you touched yourself. You were already quite wet from seeing Spencer in this position and exerting that power by pumping your fingers in you while he could do nothing had you dripping onto his slacks.

Spencer’s jaw had gone slack while watching you moan above him, completely speechless from your actions. It was almost comical and entirely too easy to tease him about, “Close your mouth you might catch flies.” His mouth clenched shut at that. It soon fell slack again at your next words while you brought yourself closer to the edge with your fingers, “What? Did she never do this for you?”

All Spencer could do was sit there and take it, shaking his head side to side, only a little so he could keep his eyes on you. You decided to be merciful, pulling your fingers out of you just before you orgasmed. You wanted to finish at the same time as him anyway.

Finally, you pulled his aching cock out of his slacks. It was throbbing in your hand as you spread your wetness with the fingers that had been inside you. Because you had edged yourself earlier, you couldn’t take teasing him any longer. You lined the head of his cock that was red and weeping up to your entrance, sinking down as fast as you could take him. While you sunk down you rubbed your clit in slow circles, not enough to make you orgasm, but enough to make it easier to take him.

Once you had fully taken him you wasted no time, immediately beginning to build up a fast pace. And, of course you couldn’t help but goad him again,

“Did she make you feel this good?” Your pace you had chosen was rough, bouncing and rolling your hips with reckless abandon while he had to take it without being able to move. He could have thrusted up into you even without the use of his hands, but he had one too many of your punishments in the past to be willing to break the rules so explicitly. Now if he ever broke the rules now it was him subtly bending them. Though, you could tell by the way his eyes rolled back into his head that he had no intention of doing that tonight. It felt too good to be used like this by you.

He still had not answered you though, not on purpose, but you still needed an answer. Tapping his cheek a few times, just hard enough to get his attention. It caused him to whine, but he still didn’t give you an answer. Since that didn’t work you decided to ask again, “I asked you a question. Did she make you feel this good? Did she use you like this?”

To add an extra edge to your words filled with a deadly tone you reached one of your hands forward to grasp around his neck. To make him look at you directly you forcefully tilted his neck, eyes once again trained on yours. He finally found it in himself to answer, “It felt good with her, but it feels best with you! I love you!”

“Good.” You simply stated and dropped your hold on his neck so you could return it to its place on his chest, using it as leverage to help you continue your fast pace. Your orgasm was fast approaching, his cock hitting you in the perfect spot, all you needed was a bit more stimulation. When you brought your hand down to run fast circles onto your clit, you soon fell apart above him. Spencer couldn’t help but look up at you in awe, speechless at how beautiful you look while you writhed on top of him.

Your own release pushed Spencer close to the edge and he started to beg, “I’m gonna cum! Please, can I?”

His hands had tightened into fists above him, knuckles going white over the effort of keeping them right where you had placed them originally. You were pleased with the way he had begged, glad that he had asked permission before even thinking about cumming. You still left him in suspense for a bit longer as you continued to work yourself on his painfully hard cock. Pressing a few kisses to his exposed skin under his collar was admittedly just to torture him a bit longer before you finally gave the command.

“Cum for me then.” Spencer followed your command eagerly, taking only two more of you bouncing on top of him to release inside you with a groan. While he rode out his release his lips captured around one of your pebbled peaks, sucking hard to get one last moan out of you.

Slumping forward after you had both finished and you had taken the belt off his wrists with the promise you’d lotion them up after you cuddled. You rested your head on his shoulder, wanting to stay as close as possible for a little while longer. He started tracing his fingers up and down your spine, relaxing you even further, almost to the point of falling asleep.

Before your eyes closed shut in post coital sleepiness your mind wandered a bit back to Elle. Elle had been an important figure in his life, his first real connection with someone special. Sure you teased about being jealous, but you thought it was important to tell him that you were ok with him thinking back on her. You knew he loved you. It most likely would take time till he was able to think or talk about her without a sharp pain in his chest, reminding him of how it all ended.

He hadn’t told you exactly what had happened, but it wasn’t hard to fill in all of the gaps. You turned your head, eyelashes fluttering when you nuzzled into his hair. Then you spoke quietly just enough so the sound could travel the short distance to his ear, “You should frame the picture, you look cute in it. And, I meant to say it earlier, I love you too.”

Ask Me Anything

—-

Tag lists (message me if you want to be added):

All works: @shotarosleftpinky @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg @takeyourleap-of-faith

All MGG characters: @muffin-cup @willowrose99 @princesssmooshie

Spencer Reid/CM: @calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes @onlyhereforthefanfics @jareauswifey @princesssmooshie

Sub Spencer: @thatsonezesty13 @pastathighs @virtualpeanutartisanjudge @calm-and-doctor @princesssmooshie

[highsviolets]

waterfall inquiry: javier peña x reader

pairing: javier peña x young analyst!reader

summary: words should not make you feel so much.

warnings: age gap. kissing. and - the worst of all - f e e l i n g s. (soft ones)

a/n: [edited 10 June ‘21] this was supposed to be three parts...and now there’s more. I regret nothing :) 

[next] [series masterlist] [main masterlist] * gif: @anakin-skywalker​

“Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name”

 “as kingfishers catch fire” | gerard manley hopkins

Neither of you should be here. Strictly speaking, at least.

The Embassy maintains regulations about these sorts of things, you’ve heard in jagged claims that coat the walls in a sickly iridescent sheen. Not the pretty kind that makes glitter sparkle. No, it’s the perverse shine — pyrite and oil spills on tepid water and those cheap kaleidoscopes they sell at county fairs.

Everything, it seems, is whispered here. Here at the Embassy, anyway; Colombia itself is a messy, irreverent place. A dreamlike people, an altered state where God acts as the intermediary between man and demons, not angels.

Perhaps that is why the Embassy is always quiet. The shrill clang of a phone ringing makes everyone start, fearful of keeping demons at bay. Even the PR reps speak in hushed tones, the words soft and soothing like cotton balls dipped in baby oil gliding across skin — crafting press releases each word slotted for a specific purpose, hand-picked with evolutionary precision.

It harasses you, stinging pricks drawing blood from beneath the surface of your bronze skin. Words should move freely, you believe. Like the way the Mississippi runs in during the spring melt: coarse, unimpeded, roiling in caught light, caressing the riverbanks as it soaks up all the world gives it — thrusting forward after a winter fraught in immobility, reveling in flinty purpose.

There’s a difference between words of fabrication and phrases of culled authenticity — the ones that stream from bleeding hearts, bound tightly by shoves and glares and hands that can’t keep still. Hands that grasp for something tangible. Anfractuous reminders of why they must be so careful, why they must keep the truth of themselves limited to brief instances of throwing back light or heat.

There is one man, you know, who thinks like you do — and he laughs at the fact that your jobs depend upon other people being careless with their words. Bandying about locations, codenames, numerals, what to buy at the grocery store. You can almost hear him, that marmalade voice spreading over you, eyes gleaming in smoke and fervor: yeah, carelessness gives us both a job. But it hurts, too.

Tonight, though. When you both are here when you really shouldn’t, you really fucking shouldn’t, not when you’ve been dreaming about him for…for how long? How long have you been in this country that makes a mockery of verisimilitude? Long enough, apparently, for everything else to blur when you look at him, for you to have memorized the way his shirts pull tight over his back when he’s leaned over his desk.

Eyes climb up the length of his torso, the slope of it heightened by the way he’s bracing his weight on his hands. His palms are spread wide and god as much as you think you want to stop the way your mouth runs dry at the sight his large palm, you can’t.

A sigh leaks out. The man in question spares a glance your way, matching the twist of his neck to the cigarette he brings to his lips. “You alright?” he mumbles around the thing, and you grip the desk’s edge a little harder at the sound, at the sight, of him in his element. His exhale — a finely tuned purse of the lips, discreetly directed away from your work — should feel the same as your sigh, but it doesn’t. It washes over you instead, and you rock in the way his existence ebbs and flows in and out of your person. Easy. Like breathing. Like all you have to do is breathe, and he’ll be there.

There are stories about him. When you had been sent down to Columbia as a junior analyst after the death of Escobar, you had quickly dived into the mythos the man. How could you not, when he was everywhere, the scent and swagger of him drawing eyes from every corner of the barricaded building?

The others — the replacements, someone had once termed the batch of new personnel flooding the country to fight Cali — had told you the stories; where they had heard them, you weren’t sure. Huddled over tepid drinks in the bar after work, blazers shrugged off and shirtsleeves rolled up, you had let them regale you of how he fought for years to bring down Escobar, only to be in Miami when his partner did the deed. How he fucks his informants; although, one of them admitted with a sigh, he hadn’t been known to do that in a while. How he was ruthless in the pursuit of justice. A fucking legend, man, someone had crowed about the older man, tongue loose with overpriced alcohol.

And through it all, there was you, eyeing the man himself across the bar. The embrace of his hands against the whiskey glass, the way he barely shuddered at the consuming burn of the stuff when he tossed it back in a behavioral gesture. He seems sad, is what you had thought. Whatever opposite of sad existed in this opulent measure of time by which you both abided — that’s what you wanted to do for him. To make him not-sad. He is aged, perhaps, but not old, rather like someone who could be young if they could shed the pallid skin of responsibility.

But you can’t play God in this country of fallen beings. Being consumes you instead, devolving into an obsession, hanging onto the ledge of yourself — gripping humanity and slicing rocks and graphite that stains your skin even as it slides away, too smooth to be held in hands that ache, swollen, from typing up reports detailing the tumbled-gravel sins of humanity.

He likes you. You think he might, anyway. He consults you before any of the others, and once or twice he’s dragged some Columbian officer into your tiny workspace, asking you to confirm the intelligence on whatever operation he’s desperate to get approved so he can do something. He asks with words that curl up and over themselves like whitecaps, one hand resting on his hip as he nods along to your recitation.

But it’s really his eyes you watch in these moments, aching in fluttering hope whenever they rest on yours. Javier Peña’s eyes when he visits you in your workspace are pleading thermoses of life under sterile fluorescent lights. He likes to send you a half-smile and a nod when you’re finished, tossing them over his shoulder as he escorts the man back to the Ambassador’s office. You are both too good at your job not to love it in some sick & twisted way, and he knows.

Other times he simply drops by. Leaning against your cubicle, he fiddles with a cigarette and chats with you as you work, asking questions that he knows he’s the only one examining.

Talk to me about the families of la cartel de Cali, he mutters, the hoarse sound deep and aching in your gut. About their mothers, daughters, sons, cousins, in-laws. Is anyone sick? Do they want to go on vacation? What’s the drama of the week, no, don’t laugh, — he smiles, here, barely, the delicate minutiae of the expression an external revelation of his magnetism — there always is in families. They’re human just like us. And that’s when he sighs, and looks across the hall, where in his office there’s a diagram of the Cali bosses splayed over the wall. Yeah...they’re like us.

Javier makes a slowly forms a habit of it, of stopping by your cubical and wrapping you in currents of charisma and truth. He does you a solid, too, bringing you to the attention of your superiors when he mentions your diligence. And you repay him in kind, taking care to slip into his office with new intelligence before the brass gets word. You tell yourself it’s simple mentorship. Mere patronage. He’s paying it forward, helping the young analyst get ahead in their career. These meetings are nothing to him, and they ought to be equally as empty to yourself. It’s just exchanges of information. Conversation between colleagues.

Of course, that doesn’t explain why you look forward to his fingers touching yours when you lend him a pen, or, when he makes some half-whispered joke in Spanish, it makes you shiver. Or the pride that blossoms in your chest, embracing you all soft and balmy, when he considers your words. He handles them like he does his favorite cigarettes, rolling them between his fingers, palming their weight, letting the texture seep into his skin before he lights them on fire.

You drop your pen a lot; he brings a finger to his mouth in thought. You don’t see the way he smiles when you do that, grinning at the muttered curse and roll of your eyes. And he decides that he likes the way you laugh about it; poking fun at your own mistakes, the skin that matches his own gleaming in the warm sun.

He can never do that. Perhaps he should? But he doesn’t make mistakes like that, toss-away interruptions of intended action. The mistakes he makes get people killed. All the more reason to keep checking with you, he reasons, to double-insure the intelligence. Can’t have another mess. And he likes to hear your laugh. Nothing wrong with that, he says. Nothing wrong with something that makes his heart stir and entices the eyes hidden behind yellow aviators to trace the length of your neck a little longer than strictly necessary when you throw your head back in unmarked joy.

And tonight, in his office? Tonight he seems melancholic again, like the first time you saw him across the bar. He keeps shifting his weight, one hand on his hip, and then on the table, and then shrugging off both his jacket and his tie and tossing them unceremoniously onto the couch, limbs extending listlessly. It’s as close to careless as he gets.

Or maybe it’s just the exhaustion fusing into you both. You feel slow and hazy, torn between staring at him and bleary eyes glaring at the map beneath his fingers. if you just look at it longer, you think, you can will it all to fall into place. and maybe if you did he would kiss you, and maybe he would kiss you the way he has always wanted to live.

Maybe if you traced your tongue along his exposed collarbone, penning of licks of hope in the space where his words seem to get caught, where his perpetually open collar leaves him defenseless to an onslaught of physical impressions…maybe then, he’d exhale in blessed adoration, taken outside of himself for just one moment.

He’s asking you a question. You alright? He does that a lot, you realize. Checks in with you. When you answer, he laughs — those delightful eyes seeping warmth into your weary bones as they crinkle in a smile — and he reminds you to call him Javier. He — Javier — has rebuked you at least three times tonight alone, but you’ve yet to oblige his request. If you do, if you let your tongue caress his sacred name and rest in its life-sodden weight, you fear…

you do not know what you fear. you do not know how saying his name will shift the tides in your life. but you know that you will remain forever anchored to him, tethered to his lunar opacity.

“What’s this?” you ask instead, shifting to rest against the desk. You’re beside him now, hip adjacent to his as you look up at him. Latent smoke hovers overhead, and locks of his hair have come undone after the long hours of work and now rest over his forehead small waves. It looks like it aches, being so out of place, and yet so distinctly him. Caught. Destined to arch over his tanned skin, all the while lingering in a place where it should not. Not here, anyway. Not tonight, in his office, far after everyone else has gone home.

“What’s what?” Javier rejoins, distracted, still bent over the desk, still bracing his weight on those fingers.

Rustling papers catch his attention, and he twists to meet your gaze. “This.” You point to the unfamiliar word, stamped out in standard font. “My Spanish is decent, but I’ve never seen this word before.”

The wrinkles behind the shield of his fallen hair press together as he cranes his neck, adjusting his stance to read the word on the paper you thrust in his direction. It clears rapidly though — the visage sailing and unfurling itself when he absorbs the story hidden in-between letters on a page.

He repeats the word back to you, leaning into the sound the way he leans into you, inching closer in his explanation. You stare at his lips, completely captivated — his tongue catching between his teeth — the purse of his lips — the rearrangement of his jaw as it conforms to the aerodynamics of structured syllables.

“Strictly speaking,” he says, eyes roving your face, deep and dark, “it means elf, or spirit. Something ethereal. It’s used in stories a lot.” The words are smooth, smokey, whiskey-like as you let them drip down your skin, the insides of your thighs. “Entiendes?”

Your body temperature rises. You can feel it — the way your mouth’s run dry and the paper’s slippery in your grip. Did his voice drop lower when he used the familiar form of the verb, not the formal? You think it did. Oh god, he’s so close, he could just extend a hand across your body and it could rest on your hip. You had never really noticed his height either, always in heels. Tonight, though, the heels are in the corner with his jacket and tie and you realize that he’s inches above you, yet somehow still within reach.

“What’s” — you swallow thickly, desperate to remain professional despite your wide eyes, the tongue tracing your lower lip — “what’s the non-strict definition of the word?”

He gives you one of his trademark smirks. “It can also mean,” he says, “enchanting. Charming. For someone or something to be magical.”

Nodding slowly, you drop your eyes down to the paper again, desperate to avoid his gaze. It follows you, watching your eyes hide even as you adjust to be ever-closer, a bare foot extending outward and brushing against the fabric of his dress pants. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Say it,” you hear him urge, your head bolting up, incredulous. And you try, you really do, but it’s so new and unfamiliar and you’re so goddamn nervous with him looking at you, that you fuck it up. Words are but the vessels by which emotions themselves are expressed, so maybe the act of speaking should not make you feel all by itself. But it does — oh, god, it does, and you feel like you’ve shrunk in the process, dwarfed by this man with rolled up shirt sleeves wrapped around muscular forearms, who grins impishly around his cigarette.

“Not quite.” He stubs out the thing, and to your surprise, brings hand to your jaw, cupping your chin in-between his thumb and forefinger. “Say it again.”

“No, I can’t; I..“ you protest, and for what? because you don’t want him near you? no, that’s not it, but you’re being branded by his touch all the same.

“Say it again,” he commands again, more gently this time, his words accompanied by an encouraging nod.

You comply readily, sounding out the syllables. His strong fingers manipulate your movements, guiding you in pronouncing the difficult phrase. It’s forceful and noble, a tender yet compelling influence that teaches you how to wrap yourself in the meaning of the word as much the word itself. You’re tingling; is it from the thrill of achieving or from his sturdy hand against your bare skin?

He doesn’t back away when you’re finished speaking, but holds your stare. Dimly, you register the steady crescendo in your breathing. He’s not immune to your proximity either: his Adam’s apple bobs as he pushes down the deficit of hope flooding oppressive maxim of his presence. Times stretches as you remain caught in his hold, coursing through you, carrying you downstream in brash, coarse recklessness. Are the emotions you swim in those eyes yours, or his, or some measure of both?

The pads of his fingers migrate, drifting to rest along your cheek and tumble into his touch like a moth to flame, or fish to water, or whatever trite phrase people use to make sense of such profound belonging.

Javier is mesmerized with the way his fingertips trace your cheekbones, the shell of your ear, along your jaw, returning to outline your lips.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice scrapes along your bliss, and you force your eyes open to see that he’s moved even closer, closer-than-close, so tight against you that you’re nearly leaning back over the desk.

“Do you want me to?” His eyes are dark and still now, but for the way they’re trained on yours as you whisper fate into existence.

“No — fuck — I shouldn’t, I —“ his jaw shifts again, this time in agitation, but it is you who does the deed, cutting him off, reaching out to tug on his collar. The action pulls him forward, pressing himself against you, caging you between the desk and the broadness of his firm chest.  And you do know it’s firm now, at last slipping your hands underneath that truant fabric and gliding along his smooth skin. His hands find your waist, gripping your hips as he meets your lips in an open-mouthed kiss.

He — Javier, now — kisses you a single-minded intent, letting his lips slide over yours lazily, over and over, memorizing the imprint of you against his mouth. One hand drifts upward again, cupping your cheek as he tilts your head slightly, letting his tongue delve into your mouth and trace your teeth. It makes you gasp, and you retaliate with a gentle nip to his lower lip, silently begging for more. Javier moans into your mouth, the pressure sending a jolt of pleasure through his body.

Tightening his grip on your waist, Javier lifts you, placing you firmly on the desk, feet dangling a few inches from the floor. You know what he wants before he even has to ask and you give it him readily, wrapping your legs around his waist. Javier’s weight conforms to your own, molding against your body as you press into him, back arching in your submersion to his touch.

He is so eager; his kisses drench you in a deluge of incubated affection interspersed with need. Grasping at his shoulder, you pull him even closer, your other hand anxiously fiddling with his buttons as you sigh, reveling in the storm of his attention. Slowly, painstakingly, driven by a clamoring need for oxygen, he drags himself away from you, parting slowly, ever-loth to break the kiss.

You can’t help the shy smile that dances around your lips when you look up at him, standing above you. His chest is heaving, out of breath, hair somehow even more mussed than it was before. You suppose you can touch it now, so you do, two fingers brushing aside the fringe on his forehead.

Time, and space, and whatever else this stuff is made of have prevented from this alternate reality. until now. it has broken through the dam and caught you up in its awakening, broad and unrepentant.

Javier captures your hand as it lowers, pressing a kiss to the side of your palm. He’s so tender it makes you ache, and you wonder if this is why he stopped fucking his CIs. He requires something more intangible than what they could give him. “Javier,” you whisper.

He hums a question, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles as he watches you consider him, emotion lapping at the shores of unkempt eyes.

“You asked me to use your name. Earlier, I mean.” Should you feel embarrassed? Kissing a man several years your senior? Maybe you should. But you don’t. There’s a cordial warmth spreading through you, bolstered by his gentle touch, the outward connection of him and you that’s been built through months of inanimate remembrances.

“I know.” Javier nods and leans in again, his breath rippling across your skin. “Can you say it one more time, princesa? They say you need to do something three times” — a kiss to your cheek — “to make sure you really —“ a kiss to your forehead — “understand” — a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

The words fall out of your mouth, splashes of unrestrained affection dappling each letter. “Duende, Javier,” you murmur against his lips. “Duende.”

javi tags: @frannyzooey @yespolkadotkitty @rentskenobi @goldenkenobi ​ @goldafterglow @teaofpeach ​ @justrunamok ​ @huliabitch @cri-me-a-river @littlevodika @catsnkooks @themarvelousbear @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @ladytrashbird @princessxkenobi @roxypeanut @dracos-jedi-marvel @a-seeker-of-imagination​ // taglist link in bio!

[bitacrytic]

Black Rose (6)

Read previous part HERE

♧

“You’re selling this place,” Yohan said, gently nudging the makeshift posts beneath Gaon’s bed.

“Excuse me,” Gaon replied, closing the door, but making no move to come back in, careful of the distance between them.

Yohan hated the distance.

“You can’t keep running back here every time we get in a fight.”

Or if he’d somehow laid himself bare to a man, he knew nothing about.

♧♧♧♧♧

Yohan took a tentative step into the apartment, into Gaon’s world. It wasn’t lost on him that they’d only ever interacted at the office or at the mansion, or anywhere else that was of Yohan’s machinations. He wondered if it was to his advantage that things between always happened on his turf, on his terms.

The apartment was small but roomy enough to afford him movement because Gaon didn’t clutter the inside. He just had a bed, a closet, and a reading area. Gaon reserved all his clutter for the veranda right outside his door where there was barely any room to step for fear of crushing a potted plant.

It was quiet, but not in the menacing way that the mansion was. He could still hear cars from the road and conversation from the street and other apartments. Living in this apartment, was not insolation. This was comfort. This was calm. This was an avenue to community. Three things that the mansion was not.

No wonder Gaon kept coming back.

“You’re selling this place,” Yohan said, gently nudging the makeshift posts beneath Gaon’s bed.

“Excuse me,” Gaon replied, closing the door, but making no move to come back in, careful of the distance between them.

Yohan hated the distance.

“You can’t keep running back here every time we get in a fight.”

Gaon clenched his fist, then buried them in his pockets.

“I’m not selling my house.”

“I’ll buy you a better one. One closer to the mansio-"

“Did you come here for a reason, Sir?”

Yohan wanted to ignore him and finish what he’d started saying. Instead, he sat on the bed. Soft. He tried to bounce on it, but it didn’t bounce. It just absorbed his weight and pulled him in.

“Come back with me.”

“Sir-"

“It’s what we do Gaon. We fight and then we make up.”

Gaon leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his hands in front of his torso.

“That’s not the best way to live.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do. And I don’t want to pressure you-”

Yohan laughed.

“-into anything that you don’t want.”

“Do you think we’ve done anything that I don’t want?”

“You may have wanted it at the moment, but regret tends to colour memories of the experience.”

Gaon was right. Yohan had wanted it, God, he’d wanted it like his skin was burning and Gaon had a bucket of water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so desperate for anything before that day at the office where he’d kissed Gaon and sucked him off.

The moment they were done, Yohan was wrought with shame. His depraved needs were usually confined to protected walls with partners who knew better than to speak of it.

“Do you know where I’m supposed to be today?”

Gaon shook his head.

“Think.”

Comprehension dawned on Gaon.

“It’s the third Saturday of the month.”

“Yes.” Yohan nodded. “I have a standing appointment that I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep.”

Gaon pushed off the wall as his hands fell to his sides, then he schooled his expression, attempting to pull back the veil of nonchalance he’d worn ever since Yohan entered the apartment. Eventually, he gave up, placing a hand on his hips.

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean?”

As the words left his mouth, Yohan didn’t think truer words could have existed. He was starving and for some reason, Gaon felt like the perfect source to quench his thirst. He could go for his appointment. He could have Josephine or Stephen whip him till his body quivered and craved release. He could do that. But it wouldn’t be enough. Not anymore.

“What does that mean?” Gaon asked again, sounding worried. “We’re not doing anything until we understand what we want from each other.”

“I want everything from you,” Yohan replied quietly.

“Sir,” Gaon said softly taking a step forward, but backing up immediately.

Yohan frowned at Gaon’s feet. He wanted Gaon to cover that distance, but he didn’t know how to say it. He couldn’t find the words.

“I should be more specific,” Yohan said. “I don’t want you to hurt me. I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I hate it when you leave.” His voice shook.

“I’m right here, Sir.”

“I hate that you still call me Sir. Gaon, you’ve ejaculated in my mouth for fucksake.”

The words came out harsher than he’d intended. As Gaon’s frown deepened, Yohan rushed to rectify his mistake.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound that way. You can... you can call me whatever you-"

“Yohan-hyung.”

Every word in Yohan’s mind screeched to halt after Gaon spoke. Unable to speak, he just sat there with his mouth hanging open.

“Hyung-nim?” Gaon asked, walking towards Yohan, slowly. “Or just Yohan?”

Yohan-hyung. That was the one Yohan liked the best. But he couldn’t convey that because Gaon was getting closer and closer till he crouched between Yohan’s legs and knelt on the ground.

“Which do you prefer?”

“What are you doing?”

Gaon took Yohan’ hands in his own and held them to his chest. He was so close. He was still so beautiful. Oh, how Yohan just wanted to kiss him.

But before he could, Gaon leaned up and pressed his lips to Yohan’s in a soft, fleeting kiss.

“We’re talking terms and conditions, right?”

Yohan nodded.

“Yohan-hyung,” Gaon said, sounding like he’d decided. “But I’ll still call you Sir at the office.”

“Anything you want.” He licked his lips, looking down at Gaon’s and wanting another kiss.

“I want you to talk to me.”

“I can do that.” If things were going where Yohan thought they were, then he was going to agree to anything.

“Listen to me,” Gaon said, squeezing Yohan’s arm and drawing his attention away from Gaon’s lips. “I don’t want you to agree to anything just so we can have sex.”

“I can talk.”

“I mean, reallytalk. If I ask a question, I just want answers. That’s how we can avoid hurting each other. Usually, you make vague statements that mean nothing and eventually it blows up in both our faces because I draw all the wrong conclusions. If we’re going to do this, my biggest condition is that we talk to each other.”

Yohan knew that. Most of their fights escalated because they didn’t communicate when they should have. Question and answer. Right? It could be that simple if Yohan allowed it to be, right?

“Alright.”

“You have to be able to ask for stuff too.”

“I ask for things.”

“Do you?” Gaon asked back. “You set traps and beat around the bush till I do what you want. Just ask me anything. You’re my hyung now, right?”

Yohan’s insides felt mushy and giddy hearing Gaon speak that way.

“Can you kiss me?”

Gaon smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him again. Yohan kissed back, holding on to Gaon like his life depended on it. When Gaon pulled back, Yohan went down and kissed him again before he sat back.

“One day,” Yohan said. “One day I’m going to…” he cleared his throat. “One day I’m going to ask you to do something that… uh… something that I don’t think you’d like.”

“Are we talking about the reason for your monthly appointments?”

“If we’re going to do this, we have to be honest, right?”

“Yes.”

‘Then you should know about the things that I want.”

Gaon stood, gently pushing Yohan against the bed as Yohan obliged, shifting to accommodate him. Together, they lay, facing each other.

“I’ve’ been reading about it,” Gaon admitted, picking at Yohan’s collar, and avoiding Yohan’s eyes. “Honestly,” he said, as his cheeks colored. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else.”

“Really?”

“But I don’t know exactly how you like it.”

“I can show you.”

When Gaon met Yohan’s eyes, the open adoration in them was enough to take Yohan’s breath away. This foolish boy who thought he could handle anything. Yohan didn’t know he could ever feel this way about anyone. He had no idea anyone could ever feel this way about him.

“You can show me,” Gaon agreed, caressing Yohan’s lips. “I’ll learn anything from you.”

Yohan liked that too much. He scooted closer, lifting himself till his upper body was above Gaon’s.

“I like that,” he smiled.

“But I’m not selling my house.”

“You can keep it,” Yohan allowed. “This bed is growing on me.”

Gaon reached up, running his hands through Yohan’s hair, a gesture that was so reminiscent of that first time in Yohan’s office, when Gaon had done it. Yohan leaned into his touch, soaking it in, anticipating what it would feel like to have Gaon’s hands all over every other part of his body.

“Are we doing this or not?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Yohan said, diving down and capturing Gaon’s in a kiss so full of intention that he was quaking in his bones. He’d wanted this for so long and even though he’d thought he’d only get it as some broken thing, some secret, some stolen moment that could never truly be, he couldn’t believe that he was here.

He was getting Gaon, intentions bared, and wounds left open. Because he’d been a fool to think he deserved anything less than everything Kim Gaon had to offer.

[galahadwilder]

Future Perfect

This is my @mlsecretsanta fic for @crispypata! Crispy asked for DJWifi and Bunnyx, so I delivered.

*

It’s been a long week, and Alya is grateful for some alone time. While it’s always nice to have the others around, there’s an unstated pleasure in being the only one of her friends awake this early. Nino and Marinette are always asleep until very shortly before class, and Adrien may be awake, but his driver won’t be here for at least another twenty minutes. That’s a precious twenty minutes away from her sisters, away from anybody else. A precious twenty minutes of quiet.

Normally she’d spend this time updating the Ladyblog, moderating comments, writing posts, but after last night’s battle she just… she needs some time. Time to herself.

She’s shaking, just a little. She’s not even touching her phone. For the first time in a while, she’s actually reading a physical comic book—specifically, The Mighty Majestia Issue #48. Her first comic. A gift from her father when she was a little girl. It used to make her feel better when things were going bad. She needs that, a little bit, today. The feel of the paper under her fingertips.

It wasn’t her first near-death experience—she’s had a lot of those since Hawkmoth appeared in Paris. But Ladybug almost hadn’t made it last night. Alya had gone running after the Akuma, like usual, and…

A body flops down next to her on the bench. The warmth and weight of it—she glances to the side, and meets the familiar warm eyes of Nino.

“You okay?” he asks, laying his hand on top of the comic. “You haven’t read this since before we met.”

Alya nods. “Last night was bad,” she says.

Nino nods. “Yeah,” he responds. “Yeah it was.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Alya is rarely the most perceptive person—more passionate than perceptive, honestly, though not for lack of trying (she tries really hard, it’s just… hard to tell what other people aren’t saying sometimes)—but she cares, and Nino is at school forty minutes before he’s usually awake and he seems unusually tense. She closes her comic. “Babe?”

Nino sighs, looking down as he picks at a hangnail on his thumb. “I can’t keep watching you die, Als.”

Alya’s heart judders. “You’re not okay, then.”

He shakes his head. “I mean Rena Rouge is one thing. I know you can protect yourself, and Ladybug is right there if things go bad. But every time I see you chase after a giant baby with no protection but that sexy plaid shirt...”

“I have a responsibility, Nino!” she says.

“I know,” Nino says quietly. “I can’t really ask you to stop, either.”

Alya swallows. “Are you... breaking up with me?”

Nino looks at her for a moment, then snorts. “Hell no.” He reaches up to Alya’s cheek, brushing her hair away from her ear. “You ain’t getting away from me that easy, girl.”

Alya relaxes, leaning into his palm. “Attaboy,” she says.

Nino grimaces. “I might… need a day or two to process, though.” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Alya’s heart falls. “You’re sure.” It’s not a question—Nino doesn’t make decisions half-cocked the way she does. He thinks, and considers, and once his choice is made, he sticks to it. That surety—that stability—is one of the reasons she loves him. Even if right now it’s hurting her.

“I’m sure,” he says. “Just… I need a few days after. You know.” He hangs his head. “Seeing you die again.”

Oh, God, Alya wants to slap him. And maybe a year ago she would have. But today-Alya is not last-year-Alya, and, instead, she just drops her head a little. “It was a bad one, wasn’t it,” she says.

*

Alya trudges out of class, dragging her feet. It’s been a difficult day, to say the least, and Marinette—bless her—may be trying to help, but there’s not all that much to do.

“We could go to my place and stuff ourselves with Beignets,” Marinette offers, with her characteristic hyperenergetic movement. “I know you love the Majestia movie?”

Alya shakes her head. “I relax a bit better when I move,” she says. She looks at the basketball hoops. “Can you stick around for…” She catches a hint of green out of the corner of her eye—a familiar shade, one that she’s seen quite a lot. She blinks. “For a few…” She turns her head, and there—staring down at her from the roof of the school—is Carapace. “Uh.”

Marinette follows her gaze. “What are you—”

Carapace’s head jerks as he seems to realize that he’s been spotted, and he leaps down out of sight.

“What is he doing?” Alya murmurs.

Marinette’s iron fingers wrap around her bicep. “Alya,” she hisses, “that’s not Carapace.”

“What do you mean?” Alya says, turning her head, just in time to catch a glimpse of Nino—as Nino, not as Carapace—walking out of the locker room on the opposite side of the school from where Carapace disappeared. It’s too soon, too fast—there’s no way he could’ve come around the school that quickly.

“Excuse me,” she says, bolting towards her boyfriend. She grabs his arm and yanks him away from Adrien.

“Babe... what?” he says, looking at her like she just grew a second head.

“I just saw Carapace on the roof,” she hisses.

His eyes widen behind his glasses.

*

They didn’t really discuss it, at least not verbally, but they both pretty easily came to the decision that whoever this is, stealing their identities is not something this person gets to get away with. They don’t even talk it through before they’ve agreed to chase this imposter down.

“You’re sure he went this way?” Nino asks as they charge off down the street toward where Alya had last seen the false Carapace.

“Yes, I’m—!” Alya starts to snap, before she catches herself and—stopping her headlong charge by pressing a palm into a nearby wall—breathes in. “Sorry, sorry.” She glances at him. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

“God, I wish I had my shield,” Nino mutters. He grabs her hand and meets her eyes with his characteristic Nino Soft Look. “If this ends up being a bad one, please take cover?”

Alya grimaces. “The Akuma is using your face, Babe,” she says.

“Please.” His voice is calm and soft.

Alya thinks about how distraught he was this morning, how little she wants to do that to him again. “I’ll—I’ll try.”

Nino smiles. “That’s really all I can ask, isn’t it.”

Alya smiles, tugging him along. “You knew I was crazy when I asked you out,” she says, building carefully building back up to a run.

Nino snorts, vaulting over a street barrier. “That I did.”

*

It takes barely a minute before they reach the spot where the false Carapace must’ve gone, leaving them looking down wide avenues packed with people—none of whom are wearing a green hood.

“We lost him,” Nino says, puffing.

“I mean,” Alya gasps, “duh.” She leans onto her knees. “He’s got—powers, and we—we have, what—about eight—months of parkour training?”

A familiar whizz-crack comes from above, as a spotted red figure drops down in front of them. “Alya!” Ladybug says, glancing confusedly at Nino. “Did you see where Carapace went?”

“Nope,” Alya says. She leans in toward Ladybug, carefully eyeing the other people who are watching the exchange. “Definitely an Akuma, then?” she whispers, quietly enough that nobody else is alarmed.

“Maybe?” Ladybug whispers back. “Or a Sentimonster, or. Well. One other thing.”

Alya’s eyebrows narrow. “What other thing?”

Ladybug shakes her head. “Probably not important,” she says. She straightens and backs away, whipping her yo-yo in rapid circles. “Everyone stay calm and quietly evacuate the area,” she says in a clear, authoritative voice. “Calmly, please! Everything is under control.”

There’s a growing undercurrent of panic in the crowd at Ladybug’s words, but there’s a force behind her last sentence, a reassurance, that passes calm through the crowd like a ripple. Much to Alya’s surprise, there’s no stampede, no rush to flee. Everyone actually listens, beginning to carefully file away, emptying out the street.

“Any chance we could get our Miraculi?” Nino asks. “I don’t like this.”

Ladybug glances over her shoulder at him. “Not until Chat gets here,” she says. “I can’t just leave the Akuma without anyone containing it.”

A black blur drops out of the sky, rolling and springing to his feet next to Ladybug. “Good thing I’m here, then!” Chat says, leaning his elbow onto her shoulder.

Ladybug rolls her eyes. “Always so dramatic,” she says, turning to her partner. “Can you hold down the fort for a few while I grab backup?”

Chat eyes Alya and Nino. “So long as the Ladyblogger doesn’t get herself killed, yes.”

*

There’s still been no sighting of the fake Carapace by the time Ladybug returns carrying the bracelet and the necklace. Chat has been running across the rooftops, spying into alleyways, but hasn’t seen scale nor shell of him.

“Alya Césaire and Nino Lahiffe,” Ladybug intones, holding the two Miraculi aloft. “I’m trusting you with the Miraculous of the Fox and Turtle.” She purses her lip. “I’m going to ask you to switch, though. I don’t want us mixing up our Carapi.”

Alya grimaces, but Nino just nods. “Makes sense,” he says, taking the necklace and draping it around his neck. It sparks, and a tiny fox spirals out from it. “Trixx, Let’s Pounce!” Nino calls.

He flashes orange, sparks running across his whole body, and suddenly Nino is gone, replaced by an orange-clad superhero. He still has Carapace’s hood, peaked down over his forehead, with ears poking through holes in the top. Leggings are tucked into combat boots, black gloves cuffed over white-and-orange sleeves. He looks down at his arms, twisting his hands to look at both sides. “Hmm,” he says. “Pretty cool.”

“What should we call you?” Ladybug says.

Nino meets Alya’s eyes. “What about… Reynard?” he says.

“Reynard it is,” Ladybug says. She turns to Alya, handing her the jade bracelet. “You ready?”

“Always,” Alya says, sliding the bracelet onto her wrist. “Wayzz, Shell On!”

She feels her hair lift into a high ponytail as her glasses meld to her face into a domino mask. Unlike the Rena Rouge transformation, which slims her down, she feels herself bulking up. Armor plates slam into place around her chest, shoulders, and thighs. Everything feels heavier, but also stronger, more stable.

Reynard whistles. “Damn, babe,” he says. “Green looks good on you.”

Tortue Verte grins. “You expected anything else?” she ask. She absently lifts the shield. “Damn, this thing is heavy,” she says, looking at Reynard. “How do you even lift it?”

“Practice,” Reynard says, twirling the flute. “This is really light!”

“It’s basically bamboo,” Tortue replies, slinging the shield onto her back. “You ready?”

Reynard sheathes the flute on his own back. “Let’s take this guy down.”

*

Tortue Verte’s super jump is a lot like Rena Rouge’s—though, given the balance between her being slightly stronger with the Turtle and also being heavier, it’s a little weird to balance. She gets more distance but less height with each jump, and since her brain keeps expecting Rena’s jump arc, she keeps misjudging where she’s landing.

She lands hard on the side of her foot, twisting her ankle and stumbling shoulder-first into a chimney with a yelp. Her ankle is struck by stabbing pain, and she immediately collapses onto her side. She lies there on the roof, huffing, feeling desperate and foolish. This is not what she was hoping for.

She carefully drags herself up the chimney into a sitting position, carefully pulling the shield from her back and dialing Reynard.

“Hey babe,” he says, his orange-hooded face filling the screen. “You good?”

She shakes her head. “Landed bad,” she says. “I think I twisted my ankle.”

Reynard’s eyes widen behind his goggles. “Where are you?” he says. “I’ll be there in a—”

“Babe!” she interrupts. “Akuma. I’ll be fine up here.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods. “I’m sure,” she says. “Give that fake hell.” She hangs up, then collapses backward against the chimney with a gasp.

“Sorry I didn’t catch you,” a voice—a familiar one, but one she can’t quite place—says from behind her. “I think you’d have broken a few of my bones.”

She whips her head around to see a red-haired woman dressed in blue and white, bunny ears sprouting from her head, leaning on an umbrella as if it were a cane. Tortue tries to leap to her feet, shield up, but pain spikes through her ankle the second her foot meets shingle. “Augh!”

The woman immediately drops the umbrella, and her arms are around Tortue’s body. “Careful,” she says. “Don’t want to put too much weight on that.”

“Don’t touch me,” Tortue growls.

The woman laughs. “Relax, Foxy. I’m not an Akuma.”

Tortue blinks. Foxy? She’s wearing the Turtle, not the Fox, which means… “You—you know who I am.”

The woman smirks and throws up a peace sign. “The name’s Bunnyx,” she says. “Wielder of the Miraculous of Time, from ten years in the future.”

“Prove it,” Tortue says. “What’s Ladybug’s real name?”

Bunnyx snorts. “You’re not getting it that easily… Alya,” she says. “Also, Nino’s sort of downplaying how worried about you he is. You really should start being more careful before you give him a heart attack.”

Tortue stares at Bunnyx, then blinks. “...Okay, you’re for real,” she says. “What are you doing here? Are you warning us about something?”

Bunnyx shakes her head. “I brought Carapace and Rena back from my time for one reason,” she says. “Future Hawkmoth has discovered Ladybug’s identity, which has put her daughter in danger.”

“Daughter?” Tortue says.

Bunnyx continues as if she hasn’t heard. “Ladybug asked me to bring her back in time to protect her from Future Hawkmoth, but I needed backup just in case she followed us. You and your boyfriend were the obvious choice.”

“Where is she?” Tortue says, trying to work her way to her feet. She hisses as pain lances through her ankle again.

“Jeez, stay down, Tortue!” Bunnyx says, carefully easing her back into a sitting position. “You need to be careful. We need you for this one.”

“Don’t bother,” says a voice that sounds like Tortue’s own as an older, taller Rena Rouge lands in a crouch. “I had absolutely no self-preservation at that age.”

Carapace lands next to her, softer, gentler. “You nearly killed me like eight times,” he says, cradling a baby in his arms. He looks down at Tortue. “Hey, babe.”

Rena rolls her eyes, gently punching Carapace’s shoulder. “Don’t flirt with young me, you butt,” she says.

Tortue stares at the baby, wide-eyed. “Is that…” she murmurs.

Rena nods. “Our god-daughter,” she says.

Carapace smiles. “Do you want to hold her?”

*

“She’s… mine?” Ladybug says, gazing down into her daughter’s emerald-green eyes.

The baby laughs, reaching up toward her mother’s face and pressing her chubby palm into Ladybug’s cheek.

“Who’s the father?” Chat says to Bunnyx, hope shining in his eyes. (Tortue admits to herself that she’s just as interested in finding out.)

Bunnyx smirks. “Oh, Kitty Noir, you know I can’t tell you.”

Chat looks crestfallen. “Not even a hint?”

“She’s so small,” Ladybug whispers, pointing a finger at her daughter’s face. The baby laughs again, gripping her mother’s finger in between her hands.

“You said she’s my—our god-daughter?” Tortue says.

Rena laughs. “My boyfriend has spent more time pampering this little terror than he has me lately,” she says. She turns and pokes Reynard in the chest. “You’ve got some growing to do, babe.”

Carapace rolls his eyes. “Please don’t flirt with the babies, babe,” he says with a smirk.

The laughter that follows seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, and Tortue looks around, unsettled.

“...Wasn’t that funny,” Carapace mutters.

Bunnyx walks toward the edge of the roof, looking down. “Missing the point again, Shelly?” she says, pointing down. “It’s starting.”

“What is?” Chat says.

“ATTENTION PARIS!” a booming, feminine voice echoes deeply through the sky as if it’s rebounding off the very atmosphere, followed by a sudden eruption of Wagnerian opera. “YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED TO JOIN THE RANKS OF ODIN’S MIGHTY WARRIORS IN VALHALLA!”

“Ah,” Chat says, nodding. “Akuma time.”

“Bad one,” Bunnyx agrees, nodding. “We picked today for a reason. Two illusionists needed at minimum.”

Tortue gingerly attempts to stand, only for the pain in her ankle to spike like a jagged piece of bone. “Ah!” she yelps, collapsing backward.

Immediately, two sets of hands are holding her up—Reynard’s and Carapace’s. “You okay?” Reynard says, his eyes soft and concerned.

Carapace swallows. “I’m sorry, babe, but I—” He glances at Rena. “We are going to need you to stay out of this fight. You’re injured.”

“I can help!” Tortue protests.

Carapace shakes his head. “I know how much it means to you to be out there with us, but A—um, sweetie, I need you alive, okay?” He smiles, glancing back at Ladybug. “Besides, um. Someone needs to keep the baby safe.”

Reynard raises an eyebrow. “You are a braver man than I,” he says.

Rena laughs. “Oh, it’s just ‘cause she’s a baby,” she says. “He knows I’d rip his throat out if he tried that.”

“You are also much less suicidally reckless than she is,” Carapace shoots back.

Rena shrugs. “Fair point.”

Ladybug approaches, carefully laying the baby into Tortue’s arms with a look of regret. “Stay safe, okay?” she says. She looks down and presses a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “And keep her safe.”

Tortue swallows, overwhelmed by the—the everything. The trust Ladybug is showing her, the softness of the moment, the sadness in the child’s eyes as her mother goes back off to battle… it’s too much.

“I’ll do my best,” she croaks, trying not to tear up.

*

Carapace had carried her away from the battle. Vilekyrie controlled the sky, making it difficult to keep the baby out of her reach, but he’d found her a little out-of-the-way cubbyhole that nobody would come looking in during the attack. Or, well. Not a cubbyhole, really. More of a luxury suite at the Hotel Gran Paris.

“How did you know nobody would be here?” Tortue had asked him.

He’d only smiled in reply. “Spoilers,” he’d said. “Love you forever, but I gotta get back there.”

“Good luck!”

Now, about forty minutes into the battle, she can hear the clash of swords, the clanking of armor, the screaming of horses as they flew past her shaded window. She’d looked outside earlier, caught a glimpse of the copies of Vilekyrie flashing across the sky—copies of her that kept growing by the moment—and the marching of ghostly Viking soldiers on the ground: the Einherjar she’d selected from Paris’ citizens, transformed into undying warrior spirits. It doesn’t seem to be going well, but then, she doesn’t really have the best vantage point.

The baby is fussy, fussier than she was when Ladybug was around—Tortue can only guess that it’s because she wants her mother. The room has been stocked with formula and fresh diapers, and, thanks to her experience with the twins, Tortue has plenty of experience with taking care of a baby, but the girl just won’t settle down.

There’s a quiet footfall on the balcony—not a Vilekyrie, and the Einherjar can’t seem to climb. Tortue turns around to see the balcony door creek open, followed by a pair of large orange ears. “Hey. Mini-me,” Rena says. “You hanging in there?”

Tortue smiles, rocking the baby gently in her arms. “You didn’t tell me her name,” she says. “Feel weird just calling her ‘baby’.”

Rena ducks around the door, shutting it behind her, then bends down, cooing over the child’s delighted face. “HellooOOOooo!” She tickles the baby’s nose with her finger, and the girl laughs.

Rena looks back up at Tortue with a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” she says. “No names. Spoilers.”

Tortue rolls her eyes. “Am I always this aggravating?”

Rena gently wraps her arms underneath the baby’s back, lifting her from Tortue’s arms. “Pretty much!” She turns back to the baby and blows a raspberry.

“What’s up?” Tortue says. “Why aren’t you with the others?” As if to punctuate her point, an explosion sounds in the distance, and Tortue raises an eyebrow.

“Needed to talk to you,” Rena says, sitting down on the plush velvet bedspread across from her. “Also, I told them you were planning on running into the combat zone, so…”

“I was not!” Tortue yelps, leaping from her desk chair. The baby immediately squeals in distress.

Rena grins. “I know,” she says, gently tickling the child’s nose. “But they believed me when I said it, and by the time they figure it out…”

Tortue sighs. Gods, her older self is annoying. “What do you want, Alya?”

The animation in Rena’s face slackens, and she looks down at her own stomach. “I… want to show you something.” Keeping one hand under the baby, she reaches behind her and unslings the flute, opening the space within. “Take a look.”

Tortue reaches inside the extradimensional storage space inside Rena’s weapon, confused—and then her fingers close around something small, round, and metal, and she understands. “You’re going to propose,” she says, fishing the ring out of the flute. She stares at it, entranced.

“Yep,” Rena agrees with a nod, gently bouncing the baby. “Bought the ring last week.”

Tortue doesn’t even know what to say in this situation. Is it… weird to congratulate herself? Some situations, there aren’t just good responses for.

Rena sees her face and laughs. “Don’t look so shocked, Mini-me,” she says. She carefully rocks Ladybug’s baby, staring into her green eyes. “I mean, you always knew we were gonna do this eventually.”

“Yeah, but… kinda young?” Tortue says, handing the ring back to Rena.

“Ladybug’s younger.” Rena absently places the ring back inside her flute, still bouncing the baby in her other arm. “About a year younger than you, actually.”

Tortue blinks. She’s—well, she figured out a while back that Ladybug wasn’t actually 5,000 years old, but she’d always assumed she was, maybe, Anansi’s age? The thought that Ladybug is younger than she is... “Yikes.”

“Yikes is right,” Rena says. “And she has anxiety. So every time you go running face-first into danger like you’re never gonna die…”

“Is this a lecture?” Tortue says.

“Little bit,” Rena responds.

Oh, great. The last thing she needs right now is a lecture from herself of all people.

Rena rolls her eyes. “Listen, Kit, sometimes—sometimes Ladybug isn’t gonna be there. She doesn’t always show up, you know.”

Tortue narrows her eyebrows. “Yes she does?” That’s, like, the big consistency. Aside from that one time where the Akuma and the Sentimonster were in different cities, Ladybug has shown up for every single Akuma battle.

Rena shakes her head. “She has a life, Alya. And, well, sometimes she needs Chat to cover for her.” She looks toward the curtained window, toward the sounds of the battle still filtering in from outside. “And sometimes, Chat and Viperion get taken out early, and the only person who can use the Ladybug is you.”

A chill runs down Tortue’s entire body. The responsibility of using the Ladybug Miraculous—it’s terrifying. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it might pass down to her, that—oh, no. This is… this is what Ladybug feels all the time, isn’t it?

“Listen, however you feel about Nino now?” Rena says. “It’s nothing compared to what it’s going to be. He and I, we’d do anything for each other.” She breathes in, stroking the baby’s head. “Which means that, well, you and I need to stay alive.”

“The Miraculous Cure—”

Rena shakes her head. “It’s good, but it’s not… 100% reliable. Sometimes, Ladybug can’t be there.”

Tortue’s mouth opens, closes. Opens again. “Oh.”

Rena stands and places a hand on her younger self’s shoulder. “Alya, someday, you’re gonna get hurt. You’re gonna get hurt in a way that Ladybug can’t fix, and you’re going to wonder if you even deserve this Miraculous. If you even deserve Nino.” She looks down at the baby with naked fondness in her eyes. “I’m telling you now—you deserve way more than you realize. But if you want to make it to see our wedding...” She trails off.

Tortue waits for her to finish, but Rena doesn’t say anything else. The implications in Rena’s words are disconcerting, and Tortue asks the question that’s burning inside her chest. “Am I going to die?”

“Of course you are,” Rena replies. “You’re going to die a lot. But some of them are going to be harder to come back from, and Alya.” Rena’s eyes bore into hers. “You need to come back. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tortue whispers.

“Miraculous LADYBUG!” Ladybug calls from outside, and pink insects swarm across the room. There’s a brief moment of pain as Tortue’s ankle snaps back into place, immediately replaced by cool relief as the pressure vanishes.

Rena puts a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Reynard, okay?” she says. “About the ring.”

Tortue mimes zipping her lip.

Rena nods. “Thanks,” she says. “Oh, and one more thing—you’re also gonna need to be more careful if you want to get into a good journalism school. Nobody wants to be the professor that killed the Ladyblogger.”

Tortue blinks. She… hadn’t even thought of that. “That makes sense, I think?” she says.

The balcony door creaks open and Carapace peeks through. “Hey, guys,” he says. “How’s everything going in here?”

“Really great!” Tortue says. She eyes her older self. Rena is fidgeting, looking away from her boyfriend’s face, and Tortue realizes—if she doesn’t make the push, Rena isn’t going to do it. “I think Rena has something to tell you.”

Rena glares at Tortue. “Betrayal!” she hisses.

Tortue laughs. “You’ll thank me later.”

Carapace glanced between them, confusion written across his face. “Um, what’s going on?”

Rena takes a deep breath, then carefully hands the baby to Tortue. “Hold her for a moment?”

“Of course.”

Rena looks at her boyfriend, then drops to one knee, fishing the ring out of her flute. “Nino Lahiffe. Will—will you, um…”

Carapace gasps and covers his mouth with both hands, his eyes shining wetly. “Alya?” he whispers.

Both of them sit in shocked silence, staring at each other, frozen, and after a moment, Tortue gets fed up. “Babe,” she says. “Say yes.”

Carapace glances at her, then back and his girlfriend... then lifts his fiancée bodily into the air in a crushing, spinning hug.

“Yes, yes, yes!” he crows in delight.

*

The portal closes, leaving just the four of them behind.

Ladybug huffs in relief. “You know, I love Bunnyx, but… every time I see her, it’s a brand new disaster.”

Chat looks at her in confusion. “Every? Isn’t this only the second time?”

Reynard sidles up to Tortue Verte. “So, how was meeting your future self?” he says, as Ladybug and Chat quietly discuss something else off to the side. “Mine was a lot more confident than I expected.”

Tortue snorts. “Kind of a butt,” she says. “But then again, that’s not much of a surprise, is it.”

Reynard coughs. “I invoke my right to not incriminate myself,” he says.

Tortue smacks his shoulder. “You’re such a dork.”

Reynard smiles. “Your dork.” He looks at where the portal vanished. “For quite a while, apparently.” He turns back to Tortue. “She tell you anything interesting?”

Tortue smiles, thinking about the proposal, about how happy she and her Nino were. About all the advice her future self gave. She has a lot of work to do.

“Sorry, babe,” she says. “Spoilers.”

[saint-14s-gay-pigeon]

Post-Hunt Nap

Atlas lets his hair down after a long day.

"Nice work, Guardian." Crow's voice crackled to life through the comms, serving as Atlas’s signal that the hunt was finally over. It had become routine by this point to check in after every successful Wrathborn elimination, and the calm cadence of Crow’s words was a welcome relief after the incessant shrieking, wailing, and roaring that the creatures were prone to. 

Atlas merely basked in it a moment while leaning against a rock to catch his breath. This particular hunt had ended up being a much more demanding ordeal than originally anticipated, and his eventual response was weighed down by fatigue despite his best efforts. "Thanks. You, too."

"How are you doing?" He hadn't managed to hide his condition very well, judging by the concern in Crow’s voice.

If Crow already knew, there was no point in lying. "Well, I'm exhausted and covered in Wrathborn gunk," Atlas admitted with a short laugh, trying to keep his complaining lighthearted. He scrunched his nose in distaste. "What is this stuff, anyway?"

There was a pause. "If you're covered in it, you probably don't want me to answer that."

"I second that," Glint chimed in.

Atlas sighed. "Lovely. Can I borrow your shower before I head out again?"

Crow wasn't entirely sure the Titan would fit inside what passed for a shower in his quarters considering even he found it cramped, but he wasn't about to say no. "Sure. Drop by the workshop when you can."

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

The water was cold and probably not much cleaner than the gunk it was washing away, and it was indeed cramped, but to Atlas it was the most refreshing shower he’d had in ages. He emerged a short time later in his civilian clothes to find Crow absentmindedly munching on a Bittersweet Biscotti while looking over the Cryptolith Lure.

"I'll admit," Atlas chuckled as he toweled at his hair with an old rag, "I thought you were lying when you said you liked them."

"They're not that bad," objected Crow, joining in the laughter as he finished his examination of the Lure. When he finally looked up at Atlas, however, he stopped short.

"Something wrong?" Atlas asked, setting the rag to the side.

Crow shook his head and swallowed, quickly coming back to himself. "I've just... never seen you with your hair down. Didn't realise how long it was." Did that sound weird? That sounded weird.

"And what do you think?" Atlas asked with a teasing grin. 

"Ah… You look good. It suits you." Crow was thankful the dim light of the workshop would likely obscure the faint purple blush dusting his cheeks. He considered it a personal favour that Glint had refrained from commenting, although he could practically feel the little Ghost’s eye on him. It was probably better to change the subject before he had the chance to change his mind.

“So… that was a hell of a hunt, huh?” 

To Crow’s relief, Atlas readily nodded, letting the prior conversation go without a fuss. “That’s putting it mildly. Didn’t expect two of them to show up at once,” he agreed. “At least the lure’s definitely working.”

“You did well,” Crow said, and Atlas fought through the fatigue to offer a grin in return, preening slightly at the praise. Crow couldn’t help but chuckle at the display; he hadn’t expected his words to carry that much weight.

With a tired but content sigh, Atlas slowly lowered himself to the floor of the workshop, leaning carefully against the most solid-looking of the walls. The shower was refreshing, but after so many hours of hunting, he was still thoroughly spent. He gestured to his side with a pat of the floor, beckoning Crow to join him. “Don’t sell yourself short, either,” he told Crow, smiling up at him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

Now it was Crow’s turn to be proud of himself. A grin bloomed across his face as he accepted the invitation, taking a seat next to the Titan and enjoying the grounding sense of calm that the subtle contact between their knees imparted. The workshop, for all its faults, was always better with company. 

“Always happy to help,” Crow replied, casually resting his elbows on his legs. And it was true; even on days when securing the perimeter ended up being uneventful, he still enjoyed getting to see the Guardian in action. “Although you caught me by surprise today,” he admitted, thinking back on Atlas’s earlier performance. “I don’t often see you use void Light.” 

“It doesn’t come naturally to me like arc does,” Atlas agreed, picking up on the unspoken question. Even now, he could feel the current of energy buzzing just beneath his skin. “I needed something more defensive, though, and Saint’s been teaching me some things. Figured it was worth a shot.”

“Saint?” Crow asked, tilting his head.

“Saint-14, Osiris’s partner,” Atlas explained. “They call him the greatest Titan who ever lived.”

“Atlas is gunning for his title,” Achilles half-joked, chiming in with an excited twirl. He never missed a chance to hype up his Guardian.

Crow laughed softly at the Ghost’s interjection, then nodded thoughtfully. “I didn’t know Osiris was in a relationship; he’s never mentioned him.”

Compared to Crow’s laugh, Atlas’s was a bright, rich sound. “That’s not surprising. Getting Osiris to share personal details is like asking Spider to donate Glimmer to charity. Hell, it took me ages to figure out he and Saint were together and I’d met both of them.” The Titan’s mouth skewed into a silly, lopsided grin of self-deprecation. “Although truth be told, I probably should’ve picked up on it sooner.”

The room fell silent after that save for the rhythmic rattling of the pipes, the conversation hanging in the air until Glint eventually spoke up.

“What about you?” he asked, dipping his shell toward Atlas. He knew what Crow was thinking, and he had no problem taking matters into his own metaphorical hands if Crow wasn’t going to say it himself. “Are you seeing anyone?” 

Crow’s eyes immediately widened. “Glint!” he hissed, his gaze snapping to the Ghost.

Glint responded by shifting the sides of his shell as though shrugging. “No harm in being curious.”

Atlas merely laughed again, seemingly oblivious to the exchange. “Not these days, no. I’d like to be, but…” He tilted his head to the side as he considered how to elaborate. “This lifestyle,” he eventually settled, “is demanding, of both your time and attention. It can be hard to find someone who’s willing to live with that.” 

Not that he could blame anyone for feeling that way. He thought back to his last relationship: a Hunter and fellow Awoken with pink hair and boundless optimism. The two of them were still good friends, but had mutually agreed that trying to forge a romance on top of saving a broken world had been too great an ask, even for them. He hoped she was doing well. 

Crow nodded slowly, his brows knitting together in an expression of sympathy. Glint had refused to give him the full rundown of Atlas’s accomplishments, but it was his understanding that there were many, and Atlas specifically was a big deal even among other Guardians. It wasn’t surprising to hear he’d given himself entirely to the cause and left little room for his own personal happiness. 

Unsure of how else to respond, Crow eventually spoke in a soft voice while staring at his hands. “I... hope you find them soon.” 

Atlas replied with a small smile of gratitude. It wasn’t a subject he’d given much thought recently, nor was he in any particular rush to find a partner of his own, but he appreciated the sentiment regardless. When he opened his mouth to say as much however, he was instead interrupted by a powerful yawn. 

The distant melancholy of Crow’s expression quickly gave way to a concerned frown as he noticed how the Titan was now struggling to keep his eyes open. “You shouldn’t fly like this,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. The calm of the conversation had finally provided a chance for the adrenaline to wear off, it seemed.

Atlas nodded and yawned again. As rich as it was to be receiving flying advice from Crow of all people, he was right, of course, and not even Atlas was stubborn enough to try to argue it. “I’ll get some rest before I head out,” he promised.

“Good. You can stay here, if you’d like. I don’t have much in the way of bedding but I can…” Crow’s voice slowly trailed off as he registered a gentle weight on his shoulder. Atlas’s head had fallen to the side and was now resting against him, navy blue hair cascading down his arm. 

One look at Atlas’s face confirmed he was already dozing off.

“Should I wake him up?” Achilles asked, hovering at a short distance. He made to approach Atlas, but Crow reached out his free hand to stop him.

Maybe he was getting used to supporting Atlas in his work, and this was somehow an extension of that. Or maybe he just enjoyed the physical contact with another Lightbearer. Whatever the reason, he found he wasn’t in any rush to chase Atlas off.

Crow chuckled quietly as he shifted on the spot, careful not to disturb the Titan as he adjusted his position to be comfortable enough to remain seated for a while. “It’s okay,” he assured the Ghost. “I’m happy to help.”

[joonkorre]

its crazy late but

@drarrymicrofic prompt: blanket fort

(there’s no plot. none. just dudes being guys, guys being pals)

(caution: not very micro, more like a one shot. a whole lot of anecdotes. i’m writing this under a blanket with snow beating at my window, so of course this has to be very soft and warm. you have been warned)

“Hello?” Harry says into the dark. He’s just gotten home and instead of seeing the familiar orange hue of their beetle-shaped lamp (a gift from Luna, of course), there’s a single sliver of moonlight slipping through the curtains. Nothing else seems to exist in the living room but the echo of Harry’s greeting. Tangerine and sage drift into his nose, followed by the bitter tang of smoke. The scent of Draco’s favorite candle, newly extinguished.

Draco just left. Discovered a breakthrough in his research and fled to the Ministry lab, maybe.

Harry sighs. Unlaces his boots and hangs up his coat absentmindedly only for it to crumple onto the floor. Another sigh. He bends and retrieves it, deciding instead to throw it in the laundry bin. Might as well; he’s been trudging around in Dayhound mucus for hours and neither his dragonhide boots nor coat were spared. 

Walking into the kitchen, Harry grabs a glass from the drying rack and pours himself water from the pitcher in the fridge. It’s ridiculous how a simple act like this can drain his energy so, but it does. Curse breaking isn’t a walk in the park; even walking hurts, considering the amount of magic he expends on shite like a 500-year-old wailing locket on a day to day basis. Exposure to different kinds of magic - dark, Old Magick, elemental, countlessly and endlessly more- for 8 hours straight more often than not result in a fierce ringing in his temples and pinpricks on his skin.

After years of doing it, he can scarcely tolerate one Portkey trip from wherever he’s assigned to back to the main headquarter before getting uncontrollable shivers. Another 30 minutes on the metro, then a 10-minute walk home. In addition, Harry has to sleep for at least 8 hours every night to replenish his energy. Morning comes, he wakes up, Apparates to the headquarter, and the cycle continues.

Why does he even stick with curse breaking at this point? Right, a wry grin graces Harry’s lips, Draco thinks the uniform is hot. Oh, and can’t forget the job benefits, insurance, whole nine yards.

With the glass now rinsed and settled once more on the drying rack, Harry drags his feet to the bedroom. The clock - an antique Draco stole from his cheating ex - hits 7:18 PM, but getting ready to go to sleep sure sounds like a decent idea. Harry palms the back of his aching neck and winces. He’d go shower, scrub the dirt and tension off his limbs, and maybe heat up the leftovers from two days-

“There you are. I was wondering how much longer drinking water could take.”

Harry looks up from his slippered feet to see Draco. Or, more specifically, Draco’s silhouette. Behind some kind of white cloth. A white cloth that’s conveniently placed where the focus of the bedroom should’ve been. 

The relief at seeing his husband evaporates.

“What,” Harry says, “where’s our bed.”

Draco’s silhouette crawls to the opening of the cloth… tent-shaped thing. Pewter grey eyes peer at him behind strands of near-platinum blonde, its icy color soothed by the orange tint of… ah, so he’s brought the bug lamp in here. Neat.

“I,” Draco answers. Pauses. “Might have brought it somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else.”

“Yes.”

Harry shakes his head. An exasperated chuckle escapes his lips.

“Is ‘somewhere else’ the recycling center?”

“Why,” Draco flops down on the floor, appearing tired of holding himself up on his elbows for more than 10 seconds. It’s peculiar to see, the gesture a bit ungraceful for someone like him. Harry is helplessly in love amused. “Do my ears deceive me? Am I being confronted, cornered, accosted for being a good husband? Were the 5 minutes it took to Shrink and Levitate the wretched old thing away from our safe haven worth your condescension, dear lover?”

“I guess I did say I hate-”

“Correct!”

“-the headboard. Nothing but the headboard. Yesterday. While I’m half asleep. Baby.”

“Oh, pish posh, I hate it too! In fact, I’m doing us both a favor disposing of the entire thing altogether.”

“God, however can I thank you? I mean, you did rid us of our bed where we sleep on.”

“You can thank me by taking off those horrid gears faster and come here,” with that, Draco crawls back to where he was sitting before.

“You love these gears,” Harry says, hanging his harnesses and tool belt in the closet and walking into the bathroom for a quick shower, “you love them against your ba-”

“Put a lock on that filthy mouth, Potter, what will the Daily Prophet think?” Draco’s yell almost drowns out the shower spray. Harry laughs, his stomach hurting for the right reason at last.

When he re-enters the bedroom, Draco is leaning out from the tent thing.

“Come, get in, get in,” he beckons with a hasty wave.

Harry points to his wet hair with the hand holding his towel. Draco clicks his tongue and waves his hand more aggressively.

His husband’s level of theatrics is directly proportional to how slow Harry is at doing what he says, so he nods, fondness overflowing, and obeys.

“What’s all this?” He crouches and crawls in, eyeing the collection of pillows and quilts surrounding Draco and what would be Harry’s seat. It seems that he had also lugged in the chairs from their dining room to provide some structural support for the tent.

“A blanket fort, lover,” Draco says, his gaze tender. Harry’s finger tips tingle with every touch of cotton, linen, silk, as he gets situated. It’s been years and years and years and years, and Harry can never get used to, can never take for granted, the weight of his husband’s undivided attention.

“Huh,” he says, sitting down with an ‘oof’, “isn’t this for kids?”

“A blanket fort is a blanket fort,” Draco takes the towel from Harry’s arm and puts the throw pillow Ron knitted in his lap. He hits a button on the laptop in front of them, and Harry’s favorite jazz collection plays. He blinks. He thought Draco would play his questionable atmospheric-white-noise-POV-you’re-having-tea-in-a-gothic-vampire-library playlist, the weirdo.

Velvety smooth sax flows through the air. Harry exhales, easy and content, and lets Draco tilt his head. He towels Harry’s hair, massaging unhurried circles on his scalp and varying the degree of pressure. In no time, his head lolls forward, eyes closed, chin a breath away from his well-worn shirt. A slender, pale hand cups his cheek and holds his head up and steady. Meanwhile, the hand’s owner leans out of the blanket fort to get something.

“Ow.” A grunt. Harry smiles; most likely a cramp from all the leaning.

Then, his husband reseats himself, this time with a smell. A mouth-watering, delicious smell, tickling the back of Harry’s nose. He opens his eyes to see Draco lifting off the lid of a ceramic bowl perched on a tray, steam floating out and fogging Harry’s glasses. It’s purple yam soup, topped with chopped up shrimp and ground beef.

“Your usual order from the Viet place nearby whenever Pepper-up isn’t sufficient,” Draco murmurs, placing a spoon in Harry’s hand, his words warm against Harry’s temple. Huh, he didn’t think Draco would notice. “You said today you’d deal with those disgusting booby traps you showed me, thus I reckoned I should put the yams on our counter into good use.”

Harry stares at the soup, stunned. Draco must have taken his expression as something else.

“Oh, right,” he says, “I heated it up on the stove, but you were taking atrociously long so I casted a Heating charm. Let me take it off, okay?”

Draco flicks his hawthorn wand, a hand squeezing Harry’s shoulder as if he could see the prickling running up Harry’s nape.

He turns to look at his husband. When Harry’s career was starting to take its toll on his magical core, Draco didn’t hesitate to dive headfirst into Muggle living. Easier said than done, and it took months for him to stop frowning at the “absolutely bizarre, Potter, bizarre” appliances, but he got there in the end. Despite his constant bitching about everything, Draco not once raised a word about the drastic switch, effortlessly guiding Narcissa to gossip about the Albescu clan’s abhorrent matriarch when she asks about how he’s faring.

“Gosh, I,” Harry says. Mumbles, really, into Draco’s collarbone, filling his brain with the woodsy aroma of potion making that no amount of expensive body products can mask, “that’s lovely, baby, thank you.”

“Eat,” Draco says, rubbing his chin on the top of Harry still-damp hair and messaging his tense neck. Harry knows he’s breathing him in too. “Or I’ll have to heat it up in the kitchen again, and forgive me but I’d rather stay here for the next 12 hours, at least.”

“Lazy arse.”

Draco laughs, a momentary rumble of his chest, then moves forward to click something on the laptop. Harry’s on his fifth spoonful of pure comfort when the jazz music stops, and on the blank wall opposite from their blanket fort is the title card of a movie. Strange, Harry didn’t even notice the mini projector. He squints.

“Why is there Korean subtitles?”

“Lover,” Draco tosses a napkin at Harry’s crossed legs, “what is watching movies online without the occasional bout of piracy?”

“Pira- piracy,” Harry chokes, the hot soup stinging his palate, “we have a Netflix subscription.”

“You can’t find shite like this on Netflix.”

“Of course we can. Baby, we don’t know anyone who’s good at computer stuff and can deal with the viruses.”

“There’s no virus here, I checked.”

“How,” Harry stresses, “and again, piracy.”

“Sometimes,” Draco says, lowering the speaker volume, “not doing crimes… is worse.”

“What the fuck,” the main character, a square-faced woman with a python around her neck, has a monologue in a completely different language. “What the fuck? Is that Italian?”

“Yes, but I’m French.”

“And?”

“And they’re both Romance languages. I can understand certain words and translate it for you.”

No, he can’t.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Keep eating,” Draco settles amid the pillows, long hair settled on his satin-clad chest, white against emerald. Harry sneers at him - an unfortunate habit he’s gotten from Draco - and turns to watch the movie.

True to his words, Draco translates every dialogue and mimics the characters’ voices with zeal, contradicting his stoic expression and somber, interlaced hands, looking like a cranky judge having to deal with reckless teenagers on their anti-authority phase. Harry can tell that he doesn’t understand a thing, and soon enough he’s woven a story about how the thriller-mystery they’re watching is actually a vicious custody battle over a duck. For each of Harry’s occasional snicker at the absurdity Draco has thought up is a playful kick at his ribs.

Minutes pass. With Harry’s bowl now emptied, he puts it on a chair and goes to wash up. 

The moment he sits back down, Draco’s big toe pokes at his spine. Getting the memo, Harry grins and reclines on the pillows. His left side is flushed against Draco’s right, the kinks in his neck eased off from the angle. They, as per usual, gradually get closer to one another, and at some point, Draco lays his head on Harry’s chest and ear on his beating heart. It’s calming to him, Draco had said when Harry asked, on the third night of their honeymoon. With the war long behind them, there was nothing to fear. Only the constellations existed as their witnesses.

“You died, Harry,” he had whispered, full and tipsy. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen, despite all the shite I made you go through.

“You were so far away in Hagrid’s arms, I couldn’t see your face,” the night had been blinding, but his eyes had found Draco’s anyway. “It felt like my heart died with you.”

Harry had kissed his forehead and hugged him close. His heart had always been there for Draco to take.

“What’s up with the blanket fort?”

He has a lapful of Draco, a lungful of peach and cedar scented shampoo, and the sleepy timbre of his husband’s voice against his chest. The Italian movie is the last thing on Harry’s mind. 

“I wasn’t aware of its existence growing up,” Draco says. “Having anything other than an immaculate bed when one wasn’t sleeping was uncouth, see, so you could imagine my surprise when Teddy demanded to play in something as messy as a fort so often.”

Harry doesn’t need to imagine it; he had witnessed it himself. Draco, freshly released from a two-year sentence in Azkaban, mellowed and tentative, yet determined to reconnect with his mother’s sister and his nephew. Harry had been wary too, standing in the corner of Teddy’s bedroom, staring at the fuzz of blonde on Draco’s shorn head and his weak gait. Teddy, the darling boy with his clumsy hold on Draco’s thigh, afraid that the haggard man would trip without help, had led him to his play area.

“Fort, fort,” the boy had screamed in Draco’s ear, but he hadn’t flinched. He had nodded and gone along with Teddy’s babbled directions, then sat back on his heels and fixed a wide-eyed stare at the monstrosity Teddy had called a fort (his designing skills were, unsurprisingly, underdeveloped at the mere age of two). 

Swiveling his head, he had gawked at Harry, who had still been standing in the corner with his arms crossed, confusion and hysteria in the arch of his aristocratic brows.

It had been the first time he had looked at Harry in the eye for years. In seconds, it was 6th Year all over again, with him watching Draco pushing his food around with a fork from across the room, unable to look away. Obsession, a voice unlike Hermione’s helpfully defined, had slithered up and under his skin. It had remained there for years, stubborn and ardent, an emotion he had tried to leave behind time and time again. He’d never succeeded.

It’s Draco, after all.

“He never let anyone but him enter the fort, remember? Back when he’s still making us build it for him?” Draco’s fingers tap a random rhythm on Harry’s stomach. Harry tightens his arm around him, shifts a bit. “So many forts and I still didn’t know what it’s like to be in one.”

Somebody downs a shot in the movie. Harry doesn’t quite register it. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a proper one either until now. Didn’t have enough space in the cupboard. Plus, the hanging around the beds at Hogwarts felt pretty cozy by themselves.”

Draco hums. “Mhmm, I say. Another ‘first’ for us.”

Harry glances at the crown of his head. The man doesn’t sound surprised; Harry wagers that he already knows and decided to make one for the both of them today.

They continue to watch the movie in silence, whites and blues and purples flooding his sight, until Draco yawns and Harry blinks his eyes shut for far too long.

“Baby.”

“Hmm?”

“Sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Where, then? We have no bed.”

“I still maintain that I made the right choice”

“Jesus Christ, you’re so rash for an academic.”

“Well, in my professional opinion, sleeping in a blanket fort every blue moon does wonders for one’s quality of sleep,” Draco gets up on his elbow to smirk at Harry, “we can look at other beds tomorrow, can’t we? Now hush. Rest.”

“Ha,” Harry says, at least 5 more words to follow up on that just on the tip of his tongue. But then Draco runs a gentle hand through Harry’s hair, taking his time with it, the remaining hints of Harry’s migraine from work fading with every curl of hair carefully unknotted. He mumbles this and that, silly, insignificant things, engrossed in his task, and Harry listens carefully as his eyelids lower.

Draco takes off his gold-rimmed glasses (so sweet and soft Harry can barely feel it), cleans them and puts them on a chair. Through half-lidded eyes, Harry watches him cover them both with a quilt and return to Harry’s chest, curling up like a cat. Draco’s arm is around his midriff, peach and cedar pervading his senses anew, and Harry forgets whatever he was going to say.

Cold ankles pressed against bare calves, Harry is already deep asleep when the credits roll.

[stories-for-sell]

Crying till Numb

(An Inverted My Inner Demons short story based off an anonymous ask wondering what would happen if Noi began to cry.)

ALL CREDIT FOR THE AU, CHARACTER LOOKS, AND PERSONALITIES AND EVEN THE PROMPT FOR THIS FIRST FIC BELONGS TO THE AMAZING @myinnerdemons-inverted (au blog) @miammey (admin blog [I think..? Correct me if I'm wrong on that])

Noi was sitting on the couch in Ava's apartment, twisted around to look at the person and the daemos behind him. He had one arm just hanging over the back of the couch, while the other was propped up with his elbow, palm up as he rested his chin in it. He was listening to his fellow daemos talk with Ava about future plans for.. something, Noi wasn't really sure. He had pretty much tuned them out, hosting his usual bored and unamused expression on his face, really just lost in his own thoughts about this and that.

He made a small note that his throat felt like it was closed up. That's not exactly normal. Another observation he made was that his chest was tight. That wasn't normal either. This should've sent red flags to his brain, but didn't as he just brushed it off as his body adjusting to Earth and getting used to it's differences from Daemos.

Minutes go by, stretching on seemingly forever before anyone really took a glance at Noi. And the one who had glanced at him? Leif. Mainly to make sure he was still somewhat paying attention, because of how quiet he was being. What threw the Daemon off though, was the sight of Noi, with his, obviously, usual bored look, but his cheeks were red, eyes puffy, and tear streaks glittered under the light whenever it hit him correctly. Noi seemed unaware, but the parental Daemon quickly set into action, concerned sparking to life for the other.

"Noi what's wrong?" His voice was soft and gentle, with the tenderness of a mother soothing her bawling child. Leif walked over and around the couch, putting a knee on the coushin and leaning over to lightly grab Noi's chin and make him meet his gaze.

This obviously attracted everyone else's attention, and they all were taken aback at their usually stoic and uninterested friend and teammate having tears streaming down his face. None of the other daemos were really sure what to do but Ava quickly jogged off, returning seconds later with a box of tissues and one of her ultra soft blankets.

By this time, Noi had finally realized that he was even crying, and lifts a hand to wipe his cheek, looking at the salty, clear liquid on the back of his hand in confusion. He tried pushing Leif back some, opening his mouth to speak. But as soon as any words left his parted lips, his voice cracked and he instantly clamped shut.

Asch walked over slowly, followed by Ava as the two wrapped him in the blanket, despite his obvious protests and struggles to get them to leave him alone.

"Noi, it's ok. Whatever is upsetting you, you can tell us. We're your friends, that's what we're here for." Asch told him, smiling a bit when the grey haired daemon finally stopped struggling away, instead simply slumping down on the couch and pulling the blanket over himself more.

Why was he crying? Noi didn't know the answer to that, didn't know when it started, or why he hadn't even realized it. He hated having everyone stand around him like this, like there was something wrong with him and if they stared at him long enough, they'd figure it out. As he realized getting away from them was futile, he let out a low, inaudible growl of slight frustration, slumping down and lightly pulling the blanket Ava provided over himself more.

Pulling him out of his thoughts was the feeling of weight being added to the couch, and he looked to the side, where Asch had sat down and soon curled against him, resting a head on his shoulder in comfort. Ava did the same thing on Noi's other side, while Leif settled downnear his leg, head resting on his left knee.

Really? Was cuddling all over him really their solution to this... sometimes he never understood any of them, but found he didn't have the energy to complain.

Joining them, Rhys used Noi's other knee as a pillow of his own, eyes shut, looking like he was resting but guarding something valuable. Pierce knelt behind the couch, arms crossed on the back of it, head resting on top of them. He smiled when Noi turned to look at him, face devoid of most emotion, and chuckled.

"You ever wonder if somewhere here on Earth, there are humans who look almost exactly like us?" He asked, voice soft as to not wake any one up if they're already asleep.

"That's stupid, Pierce. And impossible. You think of the most absurd things." Noi growled out quietly, although there was no real venom in his voice.

With a sigh, he relaxed a bit, everyone else surrounding him and making him feel.. safe? Whatever he felt, it was enough to help him drift off into a peaceful slumber for the moment.

The next day, Noi blinked open his eyes growling out of tiredness and sits up to stretch, resulting in knocking Asch and Ava off his shoulders, and jostling Rhys and Leif. They all began to stirr after that, Ava rubbing her eyes as she opens them, covering her mouth as she yawns.

"Hey Noi.. you doing alright, now?" She asked, watching the daemon in question stand up and stretch some more to loosen his stiff muscles.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, raising in eyebrow as if in confusion. "What are you talking about human? I was perfectly fine to begin with."

And before anyone else who was starting to wake up could say anything more, he turned and walked swiftly through the wall into the hidden rooms they had, probably going to his own.

Leif watched him leave from his spot on the floor, letting out a small sigh and shaking his head, chuckling slightly. "Least we know he's feeling better. I just wish I knew what had upset him, but I don't think he'd tell us." He said aloud, despite mainly talking to himself.

Asch shrugged, leaning over the back of the couch and lightly nudging Pierce awake. "If we give him time, he might tell us. Let's just wait and see, and give him some space to think about things."

Nods and murmurs of agreement were given by the rest of the group as they all stood up and began to go about their day, but in the back of their minds, the sight of Noi crying stuck with them. Mabye someday soon, he'd tell them what was wrong, assuming he figured that out for himself first.

Until then, they'd just have to wait and see, like Asch said.

<[ Ah ok, so first time writing the Inverted My Inner Demons characters, so forgive me if any are somewhat ooc, I'm sorry. Gimme a few fics and time to get their personalities and stuff down cause you've no idea the mental fight going on in my head, half me screaming to write Noi as a soft cinnamon roll, the other half reminding me that this is the inverted AU and that isn't how he would act. But overall, for my first time writing for this specific AU, I'm personally pretty proud of it and would absolutely love to do more in the future.]>

[anxious-logic]

Chapter 17: Age 12, Part 4

Masterpost | Previous | First

Chapter word count: 2,365 words

Chapter warnings: Self deprecation, child hiding emotional confusion/troubles from parental figures

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Thomas knew that he couldn’t hide this forever.

He knew he couldn’t avoid the gods who raised him since- since always, practically; they had ways of knowing him, understanding what he was feeling and thinking and-

And, well. Wasn’t that kind of the whole issue?

He smiled humorlessly to himself as he felt tears roll off of his jaw, staining his gray shirt even darker. He was probably letting out enough negativity that Janus, Patton, and Virgil could feel it; probably Logan, and maybe Roman, too. Possibly Remus, but this didn’t really fall into that realm, did it? Probably not. Thomas didn’t really know; for being raised by these six entities, he really didn’t know much about what they could do or what they actually knew.

He frustratedly flopped back in his bed, wiggling his hips so that he could pull the covers over his legs to cover up to his shoulders. He curled up on his side, letting the tears slide down the side of his face and roll off of his nose.

Patton would be coming soon, probably. Either them or Virgil. Thomas had been seeing the looks that they’d both been sending him recently; he’d seen the way Patton had been checking the trustbonds between Thomas and the gods, despite how they were trying to be stealthy. He’d caught Virgil investigating the strength of the walls he’d been trying his best to put up – although the god hadn’t poked into his mind completely to see what he was hiding. Small mercies, Thomas supposed.

Janus might be able to feel something, too. The god of truth had been hanging around him more than usual, he’d noticed; he didn’t know if it was specifically because of what he’d been going through or if it was just a coincidence. The things he was telling himself weren’t lies – were they? Would they be enough to trip Janus’s internal lie detector?

(Thomas had asked, once, how Janus knew whether something was true or not. Janus had given him a rambling response that dodged the subject and didn’t give any more information about the mechanics of the powers; Thomas had never tried to ask again. Obviously, Janus didn’t want him to know. And that was fine.)

Thomas closed his eyes in exhaustion as the thoughts came washing over him, the momentary distraction of thinking about the gods coming back around to the subject of his current issue.

You know there’s no reason for you to be here. They’re all so powerful, and what can you do? Pick flowers?

Thomas stiffened as his thoughts were interrupted by a quiet whoosh that indicated that one or more of his caretakers had appeared in his room.

“Thomas? What’s going on, kid?”

Thomas didn’t roll over to face Virgil. “’m just tired.”

“That’s not true, child.”

Thomas closed his eyes as Janus spoke, partially out of exhaustion and partially out of scolding himself. He hadn’t even tried to spin a half-truth before speaking.

“We’ve noticed that something has been going on for quite some time now, Thomas. We know that you told Remus about some parts of the issue recently, but many of us have been sensing growing unease and discomfort within you since then,” Janus continued.

“The logical conclusion, and the one that we came to, was that speaking to Remus did not alleviate your feelings,” Logan continued. “We want you to feel comfortable with us and able to trust us with whatever you may be going through.”

Thomas felt a hand touch his back through the covers he’d pulled up to his shoulders, moving gently up and down his spine.

“Previously, we were waiting for you to be ready to talk to us and we had no intention of confronting you about this. However, the situation seems to be greatly affecting your thinking and daily life. We believe it is a necessary step to take.”

Thomas sighed and opened his eyes, slowly rolling over and feeling the hand slip away from his back. He was slightly surprised to see all six of the gods standing in his room, with varying expressions of worry and sadness on their faces.

“Hi, sweetie,” Patton whispered as Thomas met their eyes.

“…Hi,” Thomas mumbled back. Patton moved a hand to his forehead and gently brushed a few strands of hair out of his eyes.

“Do you feel like telling us what’s going on?” Patton’s eyes were full of gentle worry, the words soft and nonthreatening. Thomas inhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes and trying not to start crying again.

(He’d done enough of that lately. That made them feel bad, and then he felt bad, and that wasn’t good for anyone.)

“If you need to cry, that’s okay,” Thomas heard Virgil say. He tried as hard as he could to hold in the tears that welled up in response, but felt droplets escape from each eye, rolling down his face and dampening his pillow.

“Oh, little one.” Logan’s voice came closer to him and he felt a hand land in his hair, the weight comforting and grounding.

Thomas blinked his eyes open slowly. He pushed himself up on his bed so that he was sitting, feeling the hand on his head slip away, and readjusted the pillow so that it was protecting his back from the carved wooden headboard. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly.

“I- please don’t interrupt,” he said quietly. He tried to keep his voice steady. He didn’t really want to talk about this, but everyone was here and they were worried and they obviously wanted to hear it, even though Thomas knew it would make them all upset, so- so he might as well say it.

“Okay,” Roman said. Thomas tucked his head into his arms, avoiding meeting any of the others’ eyes. He took a few breaths, trying to figure out how to start.

“Do you want us to tell you what we know, then you can go from there?” Virgil asked. His voice was soft and gentle like the rest, but with something else behind it that Thomas didn’t know what to call it.

Thomas nodded into his arms.

“We know that there’s something that’s making you feel bad. We know that you think that if you tell us, then we’re going to be upset. Remus says that you told her it’s not something we can easily change.”

Thomas tried to remember the conversation he’d had with Remus. Hadn’t he said that it was something that the gods were doing…?

He tilted his head to the side to try to glance at Remus, asking her silently if she’d told the others about the other part of their conversation. She shook her head minutely.

Oh.

Thomas hesitated, then made a snap decision. “You can tell them,” he blurted out at Remus, then buried his head in his arms.

There was a pause, then Thomas heard a bit of shifting. “...The other thing,” Remus said, “that I didn’t tell you. Is that… it’s something that we’re doing, that’s making him upset. And we do it a lot. And it wouldn’t be easy to change it.”

There was another silence, and Thomas could almost feel the air become more tense.

“Oh, sweetie,” Patton said. Their voice was sorrowful and apologetic. “I can see why it feels so hard to tell us, but you can always tell us. Maybe we can’t change it, but we can do our best, okay?”

Thomas nodded into his arms. “I… yeah.” He took a few slow breaths, trying to count them out to stay calm. “Give me a minute.”

The others stayed quiet at his request, only the quiet sounds of rustling as they adjusted revealing their presence. Thomas’s thoughts were racing - where should he start? What should he say? Was explanation necessary? How much should he reassure them that it wasn’t their fault, it was just him, they couldn’t really do anything to fix it, he just needed to deal with it?

“I don’t like that I can’t do anything.”

He surprised even himself by the words coming out of his mouth. He frowned in confusion, his head still between his knees.

“How so, child?”

Thomas rocked back and forth slightly at Janus’s question. “Um- well.” He licked his lips and set his chin on his knees so that they could hear him better, but closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see their reactions. “You all have- powers. And stuff. Like- you can appear places, and feel each other, all of you can. And Janus can feel truths and lies, and Patton can see the trustbonds, and Remus can make things come to life. And Logan Knows things, and Virgil can feel the strength, and Roman can make stories come true.” He paused, taking a shuddery breath. “And I can’t do anything. Because I’m just a human, and all of you are gods. And that means I can’t do anything.”

One breath went by in silence. Two. Five.

“Thomas,” Logan said eventually, almost achingly gentle, “you can do so much.”

Thomas finally opened his eyes, feeling tears gather as he almost glared at Logan. “Like what?”

“You’ve taught me so much about trust and what it is,” Patton spoke up. “I knew the theory before you, but I never truly had practice. When we started taking care of you, I got to experience trust for myself, and that has made me infinitely better at my responsibilities.” Their face was honest, and when Thomas glanced at Janus the god nodded in affirmation of the words.

“You’ve helped me discover what life truly means,” Remus added. Her eyes were sparkling and her voice was tight from unshed tears. “I had no idea what it really meant for something to be alive until I met you. Life is more than just something growing and breathing; it’s learning, and changing, and being unique. And, little rascal, there’s so much more that you can teach me, I know.” By the end of the speech, she’d started crying, the tears rolling down her cheeks. Thomas swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to stop himself from doing the same.

Virgil took a step forward and knelt down by the side of the bed to look Thomas in the eyes, placing a hand palm-up on the covers. Thomas hesitantly placed his hand over the god’s, the warmth of his hand a comforting sensation. “Your strength has never failed to awe me. In every sense of the word - physical, mental, emotional. Even when you’re so young, you can still endure so much more than I ever could expect. And I hope you never have to,” he added quickly, “but I know that you could. And that has been so incredibly amazing to experience.” He squeezed Thomas’s hand, then rocked back to stand up so he could get out of the way.

“There are uncountable versions of the truth, but you allowed my knowledge of the true number to increase to something much closer to accurate.” Now Janus was speaking, and even though Thomas wasn’t immortal he could feel the heavy truth in every word the god said. “I had never previously experienced the world in black and white. When you came to us, you saw life as something made of truth or lies. Although that is no longer the case for you, seeing your understanding change has been imperative to me being able to truly function as I need to.”

Roman cleared their throat as the feeling of Janus’s words faded from the room. “Your imagination has nearly exceeded my own in many cases. There have been an almost uncountable number of times when I have been blocked in a project, and then I come to you and you aid me in becoming able to continue - whether that is through going under the block, around it, or in some cases destroying it.” A small smile appeared on his face. “You have been invaluable to my work, and I have neglected to tell you this. I am so, so sorry.”

A beat of silence came over the room as Roman finished talking, and Thomas could feel his eyes stinging with yet more held-back tears. Logan cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back.

“I have been able to participate in many of my passions with you,” he said, the words almost too soft to hear. “Science, especially the stars and nature. Being able to teach you about the ways the world works.” He fell silent for a moment, seeming to be considering his words. “And… you have taught me much about my own emotions and reactions to events. I struggled greatly with those in the past, but you have shown me that the feelings I have are normal and deserve to be treated with respect and understanding, as much as any of yours do.” His cheeks were tinted red by the time he was finished, and Thomas felt a few tears slowly rolling down his cheeks.

“And regardless of how much you have helped all of us,” Janus said, taking a step closer to the bed, “You do not have to do anything. You are a child, Thomas. Your only job is to learn, to grow, to enjoy life. You should not have the responsibilities of gods. Even the powers alone are far too much for any child to know how to understand and handle. I promise you, you are doing exactly what you should be. You are perfect the way you are. And we love you.”

Thomas was full-out sobbing by the time Janus finished talking, and held out his arms in a wordless plea for a hug. He felt warm, solid arms wrap around him, cradling him close and comforting him.

He felt a spark of something deep inside him, pulsing with the care he was feeling from the others. As he was passed around so that every god could remind him of how much he was loved, the spark grew into something bigger, a flame that warmed him and forever connected him to the others.

[letsbenditlikebennett]

Wolf, Bat, & Rat || Ariana & Harsh

TIMING: During Sweet Dreams POTW PARTIES: @notsoharsh & @letsbenditlikebennett SUMMARY: Ariana and Harsh run into each other while looking at knives. No wrong assumptions are made and no rat kings show up in the store. 

Humans and their fucking birthdays. Why did they even make such a big deal about them? Well, maybe when they only had about forty of them to look forward too, they were more important. Harsh didn’t care much about his own, he had forgotten when it was some hundred years ago. It didn’t matter. He kept track of the years in a vague sense, but after two hundred had gone by, the precise number was less and less important. The gap between 29 and 30 seemed much bigger than the one between 262 and 263. But Kaden was closer to the former, so he needed some kind of present. Something nice, something he could probably use to kill people. That’s what hunters liked, right? Harsh didn’t really know where to start. He had picked the store at random. Their stuff looked relatively high end, decent knives at least. The door at the bell rang, new customer probably. Harsh let his eyes drift over. Huh, she looked kind of young to be checking out weapons, but… she could be a hunter, they started young. He didn’t pay her much mind, instead keeping his attention focused on the knives lining the wall before him. This would be a lot easier if he had any idea where to start. “I wish these things had better labels,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. 

 If how things were going lately was a sign of anything, Ariana was about 95% sure she was cursed and she was almost positive the mimes had something to do with it. Every time she actually needed to use all the random shit that seemed to be popping up around town lately, it conveniently vanished from her pocket like she was in some sort of nightmare. Sure, she had other assets she could rely on, but she couldn’t just casually turn into a wolf in the middle of town. Or maybe she could. It’s not like she’d be the craziest thing anyone was seeing. There was another man over by the knives, but she mostly minded her business looking over the non-silver knives until she heard him speak. She looked to him with an amused grin on her face and joked, “You mean, you can’t tell what type of metal it is just by looking?” She picked up one of the ones in front of him and ignored the mild irritation from the silver before placing it back down. “Are you looking for something in particular? I’m no expert, but I have a decent enough idea of what I’m looking at.” 

 Oh shit, this kid actually knew something. She probably was a hunter then. Harsh gave the blade another look. It did look kind of silvery. God, he needed to be better about this. He had never really cared about the kind of wood stakes were made out of as long as they weren’t pointed his way. But he should. He flashed her a sheepish smile and shrugged. “They all kind of look the same to me. I go more on the weight and feel. Knives aren’t really my area, I’m looking for a friend. He’s got a birthday coming up and he’s really into all this stuff.” Harsh gestured to the wall, which was almost entirely covered in hunter tools. Really, he should have been more careful walking into this place. They didn’t have a wall for stakes, but he wouldn’t be surprised if there were tons in the back just waiting for slayers to ask. “What about you? Is this where cool kids hang out after school now?” She looked young… ish. He had never been great at guessing human ages even when he was one. She was sort of small, but that could mean anything. Maybe high school? Middle school age? That was probably a weird thing to ask. There weren’t any parents trailing after her waxing on and on about silver and cold iron, so she was probably at least old enough to walk around town without a babysitter. When did they stop babysitting kids now… twelve? Maybe she was twelve. 

 Judging by the lack of knife knowledge, Ariana felt herself relax a bit as she realized this man was decidedly not a hunter. Especially not a werewolf hunter. While her luck with hunters and winning them over was going, odds are the ones shopping for knives would be plenty eager to stab her. Which was something she largely preferred to avoid. She laughed a bit and said, “You’re valid. Do you know what type of knives your friend normally goes for? What does he like besides knives? Some of the engravings really give extra personality.” It dawned on her that Kaden had a birthday coming up pretty soon. She was, after all, nearly done with the final touches on his gift. What were the odds this random guy was friends with Kaden? He looked like he was maybe about Kaden’s age, but it was hard to tell. She’d still probably pick something she knew Kaden would probably like and hoped it wasn’t going to a werewolf hunter who would actually use it on her. Or one of her friends. She refrained from sighing as she picked up another nice looking knife that slightly irritated her skin. The remark about after school made her laugh a bit. “Oh yeah,” she joked, “Knives are the new makeup because why should your looks be the only thing that kill?” 

 Glancing at the selection, Harsh carefully picked up a blade. It was… very shiny. Great. Wait, the label there said silver. That might be good. He cast a glance at the kid. If she was a hunter, she would probably know what he was after as soon as he tried to get specific. “I think he’s a fan of silver or iron. It’s tough, he’s got a lot already, but that’s a good point. Maybe I could get one of these engraved for him. I should get one with stripes, he would hate that,” he said, with a soft laugh as he set the knife back down. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. Kaden had knives, he had weapons. And lately he seemed… less than enthusiastic when they talked about hunting. But what the hell else did hunters need? “You mean killing a guy with eyeliner isn’t enough now? Damn, kids have it rough these days,” he said, shaking his head. He picked up another knife, faintly trying to test the weight of it. It felt even, nice and balanced. That was probably good, even if he wasn’t sure what the hell it was best used on. Maybe he should just get Kaden something he could drink instead. “You here for knives too? Or are you more of a crossbow person?” He glanced at the kid again, she seemed nice enough… probably harmless. Or as harmless as any hunter ever was. If she was one. Hunters really needed to wear nametags or something. 

 This man was clearly going for hunter metals which wasn’t the most comforting thought, until he mentioned the stripes. Ariana grimaced at the thought of stripes and how she had almost been stuck with them. You ghost one mime on Tinder and suddenly they were all out to get you… or maybe they realized she also ate one of them once. Not that it really mattered. “Silver or iron, huh? And stripes… someone who likes silver and iron knives, but hates stripes. Wouldn’t also happen to be grumpy and French, would he?” Was this one of Kaden’s friends? If she helped pick a knife for Kaden, it was a lot less likely to end up in her own side. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but her brow raised in question all the same. She picked up another one of the silver ones despite the minor rash beginning to form on her hands. It had some nicer designs along the handle though she wasn’t sure how much Kaden really cared for aesthetics outside of his hair and pies. The smile that thought started only grew as this man joked around with her. “I know, it’s a tragedy… or maybe not, I’ve never been great with makeup. Knives are a little more straight-forward.” Not as much as teeth and claws, but they did the job. And were a lot less obvious. She handed the knife over the man and made sure to not show her now slightly irritated palm. “Nah, I was actually looking for the candy store,” she said with a smirk before she gave the real answer, “But yeah, never know when you’re gonna get attacked by a mime or some shit in this town. I can throw a hell of a punch, but… better safe than sorry. And yes, I do know how to use a knife. Both for cooking and as a weapon.” She realized they were having a pretty good back and forth, so she added, “I’m Ari, by the way.” 

 French? Harsh blinked. It was a small town after all. A smile snuck onto his face as he nodded. “He is. Although, I think he’s faking, I speak French better than he does. I bet he’s Canadian French,” he said, voice dropping slightly, as if conveying a deep secret. So she knew Kaden. That figured. Well, as far as hunters went, he wasn’t so bad. Huh, the more he looked at this kid, the more she kind of looked like Kaden. Shit, how old was Kaden? If this kid was twelve… Kaden could’ve had a kid young. Humans did that sometimes. Her not being all French was weird, but maybe she grew up here. Shit, why didn’t Kaden ever tell him he had a kid? “Oh yeah, the mimes are a real hazard, gotta keep an eye on them. Y’know, the first time I ever met Kaden, we got attacked by one. Good times.” He took the knife, testing the weight. It seemed fine too. Maybe a little unbalanced. “I’m Harsh, nice to meet you. I don’t think Kaden’s mentioned you before, but I get it. Probably doesn’t want you hanging around his hunting buddies. Do you take after him?” If she was a hunter, she was still dangerous, even if she was just a kid. Maybe her mom was normal though. That would be just like a hunter, train them young even if they don’t get the hunter powers. 

 Making fun of Kaden? Ariana decided she liked this man already. That paired with the fact she could practically hear Kaden cursing in French at the thought of this whole conversation. It brought a devious grin to her face as she agreed, “You know, I always knew his French accent sounded phony. And he does talk about poutine a lot.” Another knife caught her eye as it had a nice leather cover for the blade. She picked it up and it reminded her eerily of one of Celeste’s which probably meant it was good though it wasn’t the most comforting thought. Clearly this guy knew Kaden was a hunter though, why else would he be gifting him knives for his birthday? Still, he didn’t seem ready to use one of the knives on her and didn’t quite have a feel for them so that pointed to the conclusion that he probably couldn’t detect her no matter how many times that fun little paranoid thought popped right on up. “That sounds like the worst first meeting ever, but for Kaden, that doesn’t surprise me. I think we’ve both pissed the mimes off at this point. Talk about silent but deadly.” Then it came, he indicated he was one of Kaden’s hunting buddies and boy was he fucking right. Kaden didn’t want her hanging around his hunting buddies. Probably because a good chunk of them would want to kill her. And wait-- did this Harsh guy just ask if she took after him? Did he think Kaden was her dad or something? How old did he think she was? Actually, this probably wasn’t a bad rouse to keep up. “Nice to meet you, Harsh,” she said brightly, maybe even a little too much so, “You know Kaden, that sounds about right. He can be a little protective. But yeah, you could say that I take after him. We’re both pretty good at taking down beasts… and mimes. What about you?” Way better for this hunter to think she was a beast hunter than a werewolf, right? 

 “Right? He’s definitely just from Quebec.” Kaden was going to hate this. Harsh couldn’t stop grinning. This kid was pretty okay. He had never cared much for kids one way or the other. They weren’t really an option for him personally and a lot of them kinda seemed annoying, but Ari was alright. And she seemed to be buying the hunter thing so far, so that was a big plus. “It wasn’t great. The mime looked just like him. Worst date ever. Uh, not that it was a date. Cause dating Kaden would be gross.” That was close, good save. It hadn’t been a date, not really. Harsh had maybe been angling for that beforehand, but Kaden hadn’t gotten the hint. And it was old news anyway. Plus, his kid probably wouldn’t want to hear about that. Better to move on and just not talk about that. “I’m alright with mimes. I do better with bloodsuckers. Which is why I’m a little lost here with the knives. I usually stick to stakes. And usually it doesn’t matter too much what kind of material those are made out of.” There were a few exceptions to that, as he had learned. This whole ‘fake slayer’ thing took a lot more research than he would have expected. He had to actually sound like he knew what he was talking about. Such a pain. He picked up another knife. Looked like silver too, with a little wolf etched into the hilt. That seemed offensive somehow. Maybe Kaden would like it. “He’s a good guy, I feel like I should get him something nice. But you know him better than me. Do you think he already has enough knives?” He probably did. What else did Kaden like? Maybe something obnoxiously French. Harsh frowned, brow furrowed as he tried to think. It was hard with that soft, weird noise coming from the back of the store. Something was squeaking up a storm back there. He glanced over the counter. “Do you hear something?”

 “Someone better update his Yelp reviews,” Ariana quipped in response. The smile on her face only grew. Even when he wasn’t around, there was something fun about messing with Kaden. It was probably all the French swearing. Then, here eyes widened like saucers when Harsh said the word date. Kaden had gone on a date with this guy? What? It dawned on her she didn’t actually know how long he and Regan had been dating, but it was definitely as long as she had known him. Clarification soon came albeit in a manner that wasn’t the most convincing, but she’d take it at face value. The moon knew she didn’t always say the right fucking thing. “Oh yeah, the fucking mime twins. Those were the worst. I had to e-,” she cut herself off quickly and tried to recover, “Fight my mime twin, too. She wasn’t cute. But hey, Kaden’s not totally gross. He makes good pie. Still mimes are not a fun way to meet.” The last bit came out a bit rushed as she literally almost told a hunter that she ate her mime twin. Ate. Not stabbed or shot. Ate. A very distinctly werewolf thing to do. Good going, Bennett. There was a slightly puzzled look on her face about her knowing Kaden better but she decided to go with it. “He does enjoy a nice knife though I think the wolf may be a little too… not in good taste,” she noted biting back any hint of anger the knife made her feel, “He really likes baking, too. And flannel. I think a knife fits though-- for your friendship with him since you know, hunting buddies. Gifts aren’t so much about what they are as much as they’re about who they remind you of.” A chorus of squeaking caught her off guard and her head whipped over to make out what the sound was as she caught wind of an animal-like smell. “I definitely hear something,” she said as she followed the sound as she heard a scream, “Oh, what the fuck?” Was that… a bunch of rats? That seemed to be morphing into a larger, scarier rat? “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re in a knife store,” she said, gripping the knife she had in her hand still as she lunged toward the rat monster.

 Why had he said it like that? In front of Kaden’s fucking kid too. It didn’t matter that Harsh had maybe thought the meeting was a little more than it actually was. That was so far in the past. Kaden was his buddy, against every rational thought and hint of self preservation he had. And now here he was, chatting with his daughter. When the hell had his life turned into some kind of bullshit sitcom? But it probably wasn’t going to have a great season ender if they ever figured out the real reason he could never grab a round of drinks down at the local hunter bar. “Shit, you had one too?” Maybe that was a family thing. “I killed Kaden’s. Which was… kind of horrifying.” Harsh found himself frowning, a little annoyed at how that wasn’t quite a lie. Which was fucking strange. He didn’t actually care about Kaden. That soulless gaping void inside wouldn’t let him. But there was no thrill in the rearview mirror, no rush at the thought of taking out something that even looked like a hunter. Hell, talking to this kid, there was no urge to take the knife in his hand and see if it worked just as well on hunters as it did on wolves. That should be there. But… nothing. The idea was actually… not pleasant if he let it sit there. Weird. He was getting soft in his old age maybe. “Yeah, no on the wolf then,” he said, setting the knife down. “Flannel might be good. You think they have any plaid knives?” The squeaking was getting louder and weirder until the mound of twisting, shrieking rats burst in. Oh. Gross. It figured even the pests couldn’t just be normal here. “Shit--” This kid was definitely a hunter. Someday he would hang out with someone who’s first instinct wasn’t to launch themself at the closest source of horror as soon as it walked into a room. Oh well. Harsh snatched up the blade he had just set down, rushing after Ariana. He slashed, cutting through a few rats twisted up in the growing snarling mass. But some of them were way more than rat sized. One nearly Ariana’s size leapt at her. Harsh moved without thinking, taking a mouth of sharp teeth to the arm. “Fucking rats--we can’t stab all of them. There’s gotta be something--”

 “Yep,” Ariana said matter of factly, “And damn, talk about a first meeting. At least you got rid of his mime.” She was pretty sure Celeste had also encountered Kaden’s mime twin. At least from what she was able to gather from her sister. It was just a relief to be past the point where everyone had their own murderous mime twin out for blood. Stripes and murder looked good on no one. Briefly, her focus shifted back to knives and she laughed at the idea of a plaid one, “A flannel knife, now that’d be unique. Maybe they have a flannel cover for one? Or maybe you just get one engraved to say ‘putain’ along the handle or something.” All talk of knives was gone now as she found herself lunging toward a… pile of rats? Even with her sharp senses, it was hard to get a read on how this rodent mob was moving. Every way it jerked was erratic and had a tendency to take shelves down with it. Great. At least Harsh was following given he was a hunter. A hunter and a werewolf could definitely take on a bunch of rats magically tied together, right? As a rat leapt toward her, she found Harsh intervening and her grip on the knife in her hand tightened. They seemed to move together with purpose, but so chaotically she couldn’t keep up with their next move. She took a step back, kicking one on her way for good measure, “I mean, we could stab all of them, we just might also end up scratched to all hell,” she said incredulously, “I’ve never seen something like this before, but maybe, I know Kaden used fire on a hedgehound before. Since there’s so many, it may be more effective than, well, sta- Ow!” Apparently the rats didn’t like her idea and were nipping at her ankle. The one time she didn’t wear high topped boots. She lifted her foot up to stomp on the ones at her foot, “Fuck off you stupid rat,” she grumbled as she refrained from letting out a more animalistic sound. A wolf was not about to be taken down by a bunch of rats. She was a wolf, for fuck’s sake. For good measure, she kept her knife drawn. “You got a lighter? I’ve got some spray deodorant in my backpack if the- I swear on Post Malone’s life if you don’t stop trying to bite my feet I’m going to turn this joint into a rat barbecue.” 

 It was probably better to leave out the part where a second weird mim Kaden had walked in the door just after the last one was dispatched. That made him sound a whole lot cooler anyway. If there was a way to be cool when fighting some kind of horrifying mime clone. Harsh certainly hadn’t felt cool at the time. He also very much did not feel cool now. The rat that had sunk its teeth into him was a persistent little fucker, taking at least three sharp stabs before it finally let go and dropped to the floor. Jerking back, he kept the knife in front of him slashing at any of the vermin that tried to leap at them. “Yeah, I’d like to look for a plan B. There’s too many of these fucking things.” Should he be swearing in front of her? Whatever, Kaden cursed like a French sailor, he probably wouldn’t care. So not the time to worry about that crap. Kids seemed more desensitized to that now anyway. She probably heard a lot worse at school. “Fire? That could work. Hang on.” As luck would have it, he did have a lighter on him. Harsh didn’t smoke much, not breathing made it sort of hard, but it never hurt to have a light and a few extra smokes on him just in case. Plus, it made him look cool. Aesthetic was important, even if he couldn’t see himself in the mirror. He fumbled at his jacket pockets, finding the lighter and pulling it free. “Here, this should work.” Even as he said it, he couldn’t stop glancing around, looking for something bigger than a knife. There was an axe on the far wall. It probably wouldn’t do much more than the blades, but maybe they could hack the mass of rats apart if the fire didn’t take care of them first. 

 Anyone else visiting the shop had long since cleared out. Ariana could hardly blame them. She would much rather be far away from whatever the fuck his rat atrocity was. It was hard to keep track of its movements as tails, claws, and fur scurried around her. Which was bullshit. A pile of rats attacking a wolf. While Ariana didn’t necessarily consider herself to be inherently better than others, it really wasn’t too much to ask that rodents and produce knew their place in the food chain. It took a concentrated effort to keep her claws in place and not accidentally go a little wolf-y in front of this hunter guy who thought she was a hunter. At least she could still stab the little shits and she did as they lunged toward her again. “Too many is an understatement,” she grumbled as she just barely dodged more tiny yet surprisingly fucking sharp teeth. “Hanging on here but quicker we get some fire the better,” she said as she kept swatting at rats with her knife. Once the lighter was out, she grabbed it and directed, “Watch my back for a minute.” She fumbled around in her backpack momentarily before pulling out the spray can filled with deodorant she had on her for rainy days. Here goes nothing. She held the lighter up far away from her and carefully aimed the spray nozzle toward the slew of rats charging her. “Harsh, keep your distance,” she said quickly and confidently before she pressed down on the spray nozzle causing a large frame to hit the rats… And singed her fingers, but that hardly mattered. A storm of squeaks erupted through the shop followed closely by the pungent smell of burning rats. She stood her ground and tried to concentrate the flame toward the rats, but some of the fliers and carpet were decidedly also toast. Literally. It didn’t take too long for the squeaks to fade and the rats to turn to ash. She turned to Harsh as she let out a sigh. “Something tells me we should probably ditch the scene before cops and firefighters get here.” 

Of course a hunter kid would know how to make a homemade flamethrower. Not that Harsh was complaining. Hell, he should have been taking notes. He ducked back, staying well clear of the flames. They did the trick, quieting the squeaking a little gruesomely. If he were human, the smell of burning rats probably would’ve turned his stomach. Grimacing at the pile of ash, he nodded. “Yeah, don’t really want to stick around to explain this. C’mon, lets head out the back.. Less questions that way,” he said, already making for the door. It looked like whoever was supposed to be running the store had headed out when the rats made their way in, leaving the back door wide open. Either that or… maybe the rats ate them. Probably better not to think about it. He shot Ariana a grin. “It was cool meeting you. I’ll see you around, yeah? Hopefully… with less killer rat piles next time.”

[msmkcreates]

“so it’s a date?” “nope. not a date” for Slim/Reader? not from any specific fic, i dont think, though what ive read has been *chefs kiss*

I went with Mutt, since I'm not exactly sure what you meant by Slim? And also, this is absolutely not what you had in mind, most likely, so very sorry about that. On the bright side, it sets up for something else and I kinda like that.

Tags/Warnings: Eating Disorders, insults, not much fluff here, fat-phobia (?), reader has body issues and Mutt is an asshole, seriously an asshole

"Re-Hate-tionship" (SF!Papyrus/reader, platonic SF!Sans&Reader)

Was it bad, how much you hated Mutt? Was it wrong of you, as Black's best friend, to so completely despise his shit-talking older brother?

It can't be wrong, you reason, because he hates you just as much. He makes snide remarks at you, about your clothes, your hair, your anything really as long as it's something to pick at. He mocks you when you're trying to be serious, he pulls faces at the back of your head when he thinks you aren't looking, and you're pretty sure you could draw his middle finger from memory.

So, a mutual hate. A re-hate-tionship, if you will. You said that once, and he laughed, and then he looked so upset with himself for at least three days. Black has begged you both to get along, but honestly he's given up at this point--as long as nobody is throwing anything he lets you dance your dance of disapproval.

You'd asked him once, what you ever did to him, and he replied that you were a human of unknown intentions hanging around his brother...and you assumed that your retaliation had lit the flames to you being a bitch, which fed the hate. It isn't like you didn't try to be civil (okay it was rare but sometimes you tried) but it's hard to stay nice when three seconds after entering the house you're being insulted.

Today was no different, of course, you weren't sure what you'd expected when you'd come over for dinner. He hurled his usual insults at you, but this time he somehow hit a sensitive spot.

"why the fuck're we feeding you, too, again? honestly you could probably fit t'skip a meal, flesh-bag."

You stiffened immediately, and Black noticed. His face was full of fury, ready to tell Mutt off, but he didn't say anything when you sharply shook your head.

But it was too late, he'd noticed your lack of response. He didn't make another stab at your weight, at least not right away, but he smirked like he'd won something as you stabbed at your salad, perforating it over and over but ultimately pushing it away.

You weren't very hungry anymore.

It was halfway through the night, the movie still barely ramping up through the action, when he broke from his usual game of begrudging silence to take another crack at you.

"yer movie picker is shit," he said simply.

"It's a classic, everybody likes this movie," you huffed. "At least, anyone who isn't a complete degenerate. Guess I can't expect you to have any sort of taste, not like me and Black."

That earned a snicker from Black, almost a stamp of approval, and Mutt scowled. You only smiled back sweetly.

"i dunno if you can talk 'bout taste, do y'even taste the snacks you shove in yer face? or are y'just hooverin' them down?"

You pressed your lips into a thin line of displeasure, your free hand not holding the popcorn moving to Black's knee, squeezing as you felt him tense beside you. You don't respond, glaring at the TV in front of you, but you do put the popcorn aside, instead crossing your arms and wholly ignoring his presence.

It's fine. It wasn't as if you hadn't been horrible to him on other nights. You insulted him just as much for things he might be sensitive about--his scars, his golden tooth, other appearance based insults you'd be ashamed to repeat to your mother. Maybe if he didn't get a reaction, he'd poke at something else and leave your eating habits alone.

At the very least his little victory kept him in smug silence until the credits rolled.

"PERHAPS WE SHOULD SEND THE LEFTOVERS HOME WITH YOU, MY DEAR," Black said, bundling the last of it into a Tupperware. "DON'T THINK I DIDN'T NOTICE YOUR LACK OF APPETITE TONIGHT."

"M'fine," you said, waving away his thinly veiled concern. "You guys keep it."

"a shocking twist of generosity," Mutt added in a bored tone from the living room.

"I'm sorry, did I ask you? Or in some way imply that I was talking to you at all?" You huffed, glaring at him as Black rolled his eyelights, packing the Tupperware into your bag. "You know, you'd be a lot more fun to be around if you didn't spend every waking moment being an asshole."

"i don't spend every moment being an asshole," he chuckled, leaning over the half-wall that separated the kitchen and the living room. "it's somethin' i can turn off, so if that's my worst trait at least m'pretty."

"Gag me," you spat.

"now there's an image."

"Ew!" You scoffed, turning away from him to look at Black with exasperation.

"it's a date, then?" He laughed.

You looked back at him, horrified. "No, no, not a date, definitely not a fucking date. If you think you're coming anywhere close to my mouth with any filthy fucking part of your body--"

"what, i thought you liked a little sausage?" He practically purred. "y'certainly eat like ya'd suck a mean dick."

"MUTT! THAT IS ENOUGH!" Black said swiftly, but the damage was done.

It seemed he had found his new Favorite Thing to poke at about you. The unbothered look on his face as Black raised his voice at him was enough to make that blindingly clear, and you set your jaw, fists clenching as you glared at him.

"I eat like everybody else!" You said finally, hands shaking in your rage. "I'm not fat!"

"OF COURSE, HE DIDN'T MEAN IT THAT WAY--" Black tried, and you shook his hand off your arm.

"He did mean it that way!" You flipped Mutt off, with gusto. "Fuck you, and that isn't an invitation."

With that, you took off, storming out and onto the terrace. You would have left completely but your stuff wasn't all together yet and you didn't fancy coming back for it in twenty minutes. You slammed the sliding glass door as good as you could and dragged a deck chair to the edge of the balcony, plopping down and leaning on your crossed arms, staring down into the trees and foliage behind the building.

You could hear Black blowing up on Mutt inside, though the soundproofing was good enough that you couldn't hear exactly what he was saying, only the tone of it. He knows all about your history with your eating disorder, you'd broken down and cried to him after he'd asked you one too many times if you'd gotten enough to eat.

You understand that underground, resources were scarce, and that's why he always makes sure you've eaten enough. He's been good about his wording since then, carefully asking if you have everything you need, with heavy implications that he means food. It's worked thus far, and sending leftovers home was kind of his way of saying he loved you.

You assume, then, as you calmed down a bit, that Mutt really meant no offense when he said you eat well. It was probably a compliment, even, as veiled as it was. And it wasn't like you'd ever opened up to him about your strained relationship with food and your weight. He probably thought it was funny that a small compliment made you clam up in a way his insults never had.

The door slid open behind you and you sighed, closing your eyes. "It's fine, Black, I'll get over it."

"good, here i thought i'd hafta apologize."

You huffed and turned a glare on Mutt as he closed the door behind him. That was not your best friend as you had expected. "What, did he make you come out here to say sorry? Well, you can save it, I don't take insincere apologies."

"actually, he told me he's fed up with how i treat you and that he didn't want to see me within a mile of ya again." Mutt pulled up the second terrace chair and took a seat. "but i don't think i can do that."

"What, come to make fun of me, then?" You hissed, leaning back and glaring over at him. "Maybe call me names? Make pig noises?"

"i wouldn't do that," he said, seriously. "i pick my words pretty carefully, you know, if i'd'a known you had a thing about food i woulda picked 'em even more carefully."

"Since when do you give a shit about my feelings?"

"always," he said, and you snorted, disbelieving. "we may not get along, but yer important t'sans, that makes you important t'me. an' you ain't nothin' but beautiful, so i guess i didn't think that you'd take it as me callin' you fat."

"First you insult me, and now you lie to me." You stood up, and he looked right up at you as you loomed over him the best you could. "Anything else? Maybe poke fun at my dead mom, or fake-ask-me-out?"

"why would anyone fake asking someone out?" He asked, genuinely surprised. "i'm a mean bitch at heart, so is sans, but we'd never do that."

You huffed. "Well then congrats, you're better than the kids I went to school with. Barely."

He hummed thoughtful and you were about to turn and leave him behind--

"wanna fuck?"

Slowly, you turned around, looking at him in disbelief. "I'm sorry?"

"i said," he stood, crowding you against the balcony fencing, his hands on either side of you. "wanna fuck? you an' i might not get along, but you're fine as fuck, i'm not so bad, and i gotta bed we can work out our aggressions on. so, wanna fuck?"

You inhaled, hands on his chest and ready to push him away...but you're due for some stress relief and if anything you can trust him not to get attached, and despite being the opposite of friends you trust he'd never do anything to hurt you, if only for his brother's sake.

"You know what?" You breathed, straightening your posture. Your hands went from pushing to gripping his shirt. "Yeah. Let's fuck. You've had worse ideas."

[songfell-ut]

Chapter 8, sponsored by ADHD

Not being flippant, I absolutely have ADHD and can’t take any medications without getting heart palpitations. Hyperfocus, whoo!

Yeah, I enjoyed writing this one way too much. Chapter is here. I remain extremely grateful to @lostmypotatoes for not only the concept, but letting me jerk the characters around on her behalf. Enjoy!

The streetlights were starting to flicker on as the sun drifted below the horizon. Despite the chill wind, the crowds were shoulder-to-shoulder at the booths lining the street, and the glow from open doors illuminated a continuous flow of people moving in and out of shops and taverns.

One of the busiest establishments was a large inn not far from the castle. Standing patiently outside it was a lone, black-haired young woman; several passers-by waiting to join the line paused for a second look at her. She was dressed simply enough in a dark gown and white shawl, but her skin shone pale and flawless in the streetlamp, eyes lined in black and lips a dark crimson—very striking, even among the other women and a few young men wearing high-contrast makeup for the holiday. She'd done her best to achieve that effect, and found she rather enjoyed the attention; it was a relief that no one had—

"Heyyy, young lady," slurred a voice in her ear. "You lost?"

—hit on her yet. Frisk sighed and shifted her weight away from the beery stranger. "My husband will be out in a moment, thank you. Goodbye."

The man scoffed and leaned in closer, trapping her against the people standing in line. "Aw, darlin', don't try to pull that on me. Where's your weddin' ring?"

Frisk blinked. She hadn't accounted for anyone being drunk and observant. "Really, sir, I'm asking you nicely. Go away, or my husband will probably break your arm."

"Pffft! Right, right." The man made a grab at her shoulder. "C'mon, let's—"

Something large, swift, and angry loomed behind him. The bones of the stranger's hand went grch as a bigger hand grabbed it. Before the man could react, a glass mug smashed into the back of his head, bouncing him off the brick wall and sending him sprawling. "'Scuse you, asswipe," the newcomer said conversationally.

"Sa—honey," Frisk reproved him, accepting a mug. "You promised not to make a mess."

"'m not makin' a mess, kitten. I'm cleanin' it up." Even in his disguise, Sans towered over most of the people in the street, especially the one moaning on the cobblestones. The human-shaped boss monster draped a long arm around Frisk's shoulders, glaring down. "Ya wanna fill me in on yer conversation, pal? Sounded pretty interestin'."

The man scrambled to his feet and hobbled off into the crowd. Sans watched him go, as if debating whether to follow, then checked the people around them. No one seemed fazed; the few paying attention were pleased to see justice served, and at least one man indicated Frisk and made congratulatory gestures at him.

Sans was more than content to stay like that, but Frisk elbowed his side, wiggling her shoulder. "Sorry," he muttered, removing his arm. "Just tryin' ta stay in character."

"It's fine. You were just pulling on me a little." The High Priestess discreetly adjusted her long black wig, one of many from her predecessor's collection. She took a sip of spiced cider, impressed that he hadn't spilled any. "This is fantastic! Thank you for standing in line. This isn't too much for you, is it?" She gestured at the crowds. "Do you want to go somewhere quiet for a bit?"

"'m doin' okay," he said, but he hadn't figured out how to lie yet with a human face: he kept twitching and wrinkling his nose at strange smells or touches, and every time he scratched his neck or ear, he visibly startled himself. "'s not like I couldn' feel anythin' at all before. This is just...more." The wind picked up, and his eye twitched again.

It would have been funny if she hadn't felt so guilty. "Here." Frisk took his free hand to guide him toward a side street, marveling at how different a human hand felt than a ten-foot skeleton's—smaller, of course, but rougher, and somehow a little colder. She felt his fingers tighten and just as quickly relax, trying not to squash her. She squeezed back, and had another pang of guilt as he twitched yet again. The poor thing must have felt so overwhelmed!

The alley was cold and dimly lit, but almost silent. She released him and wrapped both hands around her mug, examining the little spices floating in the amber liquid. "Have you ever tried cider before?" she asked over the rim of the glass.

"Nope." Sans took too deep a sniff and recoiled, then brought it up more cautiously. "I had some dried apple slices once, but nothin' like this." He took the tiniest sip, smacking his lips the way she'd specifically told him not to. "Huh. Not bad." Another, bigger sip. "This's pretty good. Ya sure I can't try one of the drink-drinks they had?"

"No alcohol, Sans. We don't need you getting drunk and taking us the wrong place by accident at the end of the night."

He made an eloquently disgruntled sound, and gulped down more cider.

Frisk leaned against the wall, shivering in the breeze. Sans moved to block the wind for her, and she murmured thanks as he hunched his shoulders. The collar of his overcoat was trimmed with white fur, his shirt a bright red; his borrowed face wasn't handsome, Frisk thought, but the rough features, light hair, and blue-gray eyes made an intense and interesting picture. She liked it.

"Man, that's good stuff," the boss monster remarked, tipping the last few drops out of the mug. He glanced at hers, still half full. "Ya gonna finish that? I don't wanna wait in line again."

This was a far cry from when he'd complained about her germs on that stupid fork, but he was being good – better than good – so Frisk handed him her mug, taking his empty one to the receptacle standing on the nearest street corner for that very purpose.

As she deposited the glass, a sound at the other end of the alley brought her up short. "What's up?" Sans asked at her shoulder.

"Uh..." Frisk listened, and felt her cheeks grow hot. "We should go. We should go back right now." She pointed to the brightly lit street behind them.

Sans wasn't paying attention. "What're they doin'?" To her mortification, he downed the rest of the cider, handed the glass to her, and started ambling toward the source of the noise.

"Sans!" The priestess grabbed his arm. "I said—"

They both froze as a small, motion-activated floodlight clicked on and fully answered his question. "Huh," he said distantly.

"Sorry!" Frisk half shouted at the couple, who...why were they still going?! She dropped the mug and yanked back to the street, wondering how anyone could be that drunk already!

When she risked a glance at Sans, he looked thoughtful. "So...what was that? How were they not freezin' their butts off? You'd think they'd at least find someplace they could sit down and keep their clo—"

"Yes, you'd think!" For the first time, she wished the wind was colder on her face. The priestess stepped over to the first booth she saw. "Excuse me, ma'am. Where is the ferryman?" she asked hurriedly.

"The ferryman?" The woman behind the counter looked up and frowned in thought. "I don't know that he's here yet, dear. If he is, you'll find him near the old well on the far side of the square."

"Thank you very much." Frisk retrieved a two-dinar piece from the pockets of the dress she'd been sure to wear because it had pockets, and set it on the counter. "This way, S—honey."

"The hell are you guys talkin' about?" Sans asked as they waded back into the street, Frisk hanging on to his arm and ducking against him as crowd physics required.

"Remember, I wanted my fortune told? On All Souls Night, you're supposed to bob for apples and use the peels to tell the future, so actual fortune-tellers like to set up here. For years, I've been hearing about a man who uses some sort of card deck and is never, ever wrong. He always shows up near the river, so everyone calls him the ferryman. The problem is that he's never here at consistent times. He also charges anywhere from two hundred to a few thousand per fortune."

Sans was gaining sufficient knowledge of human society to say, "Holy shit, that's a lot. Are ya seriously gonna waste that much cash on some random guy playin' with picture cards?"

"No, I've spent all my money," Frisk said loudly, glancing around in case someone was listening, and he got the hint. The festival was fairly safe, but anything could happen in a large crowd; she was more glad than ever to have Sans with her.

They battled their way forward, the boss monster going first to carve out a path and the priestess steering him with a hand on his arm or back. "Let's stop for a minute," she said, on tiptoe, as they paused to let someone to cross the street the wrong way. "See over there?" Down a nearby side street was an avenue full of tables set with white cloths, portraits, and tiny candles. "Those are all the altars for departed rulers and other public figures. Can we take a look?"

Sans waded them across and, when they were clear of the worst foot traffic, said to her, "Never seen one before. When we have a funeral, yer loved ones spread yer dust on somethin' that meant a lot t'you, 'n that's it. They don't need ta be reminded what ya looked like every single year after that."

Frisk shrugged as they turned a corner. "There's nothing wrong with rememberi—"

The words died as they faced the other side of the street. "Oh, damn," Sans said, surprised. "Look who it is, Fr—honeypie."

The priestess numbly followed him to join several other people around a large, opulent table, boasting golden candles, a lacy cloth, fresh flowers, and a huge portrait in a gilt frame. It showed a lovely woman standing on what looked like an opera stage and waving to the audience. Her white gown almost glowed in the stagelights, as did her crown of golden flowers; more flowers lay at her feet, as if thrown by the audience, matching the bouquet cradled in her arm. She was looking up, probably smiling at someone in the balcony.

A cold hand seemed to have closed around Frisk's throat. Why hadn't she realized this would be here? "Yes?" she croaked.

"Dunno if you heard about her when you were a kid, but her name's gotta be in yer history books." Sans was tapping on the brass plate under the portrait. "I'll be damned. They actually spelled it right." He traced the engraved letters by candlelight: CHARA DREEMURR. "You know the story?" Frisk shook her head blindly. "Seriously? Welp, she fell into the Underground as a kid, and the royals adopted her. She was basically our princess till she grew up an' went back t'the humans...I wanna say it was a little over twenty years ago. Then she came back with that last delegation as a goodwill ambassador, just in time ta get blown up. Poor Tori didn't stop cryin' fer weeks."

Frisk made a politely sympathetic noise and turned away. Sans leaned in to squint at the picture, poking the canvas the way people were not supposed to. "That's messed up. Ya know what this is? This's the way her last performance shoulda ended. That's the stage they set up for her, and that's what she was wearin' that day. It was right in the middle of her last song when the thing that was supposed t'do the lights expl—"

"Are you all right, miss?" someone asked nearby. To his horror, when Sans turned around, Frisk was sitting on the curb with her head between her knees. An older man and his wife were standing over her; the woman looked up as Sans zipped over. "Is she with you?" the latter inquired.

"Yeah. Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong? Ya feelin' sick?" Sans crouched to look into her face, but she didn't move.

The older woman clucked at him like a misbehaving horse. "Look at her shaking! Get her inside and warmed up, young man!"

"Okay, okay." At a loss, Sans stood up, and crouched again. "C'mon, hon, let's go. D'you need a piggyback ride?"

Frisk was quiet, but after a moment, he received a faint nod. The boss monster turned and knelt, and the older couple helped settle Frisk on his back. "Thanks," he said as they moved away, and set off in the direction they'd been heading before their detour. At least there were some nice humans, he mused. It was a better thought than wondering what was wrong with Frisk, or how weirdly easy it was to pet-name her.

He held on tight, but not too tight, as he rejoined the crowd. Frisk was too short to hold onto his neck without throttling him, so they'd tucked her arms under his for warmth and security. She was shivering, and he could feel her heart thundering like she'd just run a mile. Everything about her was as impossibly soft as he remembered from...was it really just this morning that she'd hugged him? It felt like a year ago.

Someone jostled them, pushing her leg into him. Sans instinctively turned and snarled, "Watch where yer goin'!"

The erstwhile skeleton hadn't meant to raise his voice so much, but he didn't regret it: the crowd hastily gave way as he stomped towards the nearest building. He'd kept such a tight rein on himself since they left the castle that as long as she was acting as though this was all normal, he found that he could, too; it was actually kind of fun. But now he found himself glaring around them, almost hoping someone else would bother her. He didn't know whether it was a normal body-guarding mindset or if he'd simply gone too long without killing something.

They entered a candy shop with displays of sugar skulls, candied apples, and bottled cider. Sans found a chair against the wall and set her down, making sure she could sit up. "Heya. You okay?" he asked as she raised her head.

"I'm...I'm fine." It was as lying a lie as he'd ever heard, but Frisk did look better. She rubbed her arms and glanced around. "I'm sorry about that. ...Can I please have a caramel apple?"

Sans would have given her the entire display case – the entire store – if she wanted. He still had some "allowance," as he called the portion of his salary she'd given him before they left, and procured two apples and a bottle of cheap cider for them. She tried a sip of the latter, didn't quite make a face, and tore a huge bite out of her apple instead. "Better?" he asked.

Frisk nodded blissfully. "I didn't think I was that hungry," she said around her mouthful. "We should get a turkey leg on our way through the square."

He had no objection to that, especially when he tried a nibble of caramel apple and got his teeth stuck. Frisk held in her laughter fairly well, and nobly volunteered to eat the rest for him.

She did seem better, so he allowed her to walk, ignoring the little whine in his SOUL that wanted her closer. The festival was in even fuller swing now, but he plowed his way through to a turkey leg stand and got one for them to pass back and forth as they walked. It tasted as good as it smelled, which was amazing.

Sans was on the verge of stopping to ask if she knew where they were going when she tugged at his sleeve. "There's the old well. See the river? Let's start there."

As it happened, they didn't need to start there. No sooner had they looked at the wharf than a streetlight switched on to reveal a heap of black robes smack in the middle of the street, seated behind an oddly carved table. Both the robes and the table turned in their direction as Frisk jumped and Sans held out a protective arm. "Tra la la," said the robes.

People behind them had noticed and were starting to surge forward, fumbling in their pockets. "The lady first," the fortune-teller ordered, stopping them in their tracks.

Feeling unusually self-conscious, Frisk stepped around Sans and stood in front of the table. She had a feeling that she didn't want to look too hard under that hood; its whole figure was disquieting. "I have two questions," she said. A glance behind them confirmed a growing, impatient press of people standing a few feet away, kept at bay by Sans' glare. "Er...can I ask you privately?"

"You can't." The otherworldly voice was very matter-of-fact. "More detail, more money." There was an impressive pause. "Tra la la," it added helpfully.

"I...see." Frisk dug into her pocket and flipped the lining inside out. "I saved all year for this," she said, in case someone saw that she had placed a thousand-dinar piece on a shadowed part of the table.

"Tra la no, you didn't. Ask."

The priestess cleared her throat. Fortune-telling was all in the phrasing, so she had to be very careful. "Why did the thing from my nightmares want me to hurt him?"

A tiny flash of blue under the hood. She expected to see cards or some other divination tool, but it merely said, "He does not belong here. The child has unfinished business with him, and you are its strongest connection." The figure seemed to look at the coin for a moment. "If you want to know more, don't ask me. Beware the man who speaks in hands—he won't charge you. Tra la la."

The people waiting behind them were unimpressed, and Frisk was lost, but Sans made an incoherent sound. She looked at him, but no explanation was forthcoming, just a strange expression.

Well, if there was a chance Sans could tell her something, she wasn't going to try to get more on that subject out of the strange fortune-teller. "Second question," she said, trying not to let her voice wobble. This was the big one, so she fished another coin out and slid it next to the first.

The robed head tilted, probably because she'd just put down another five thousand. "Ask."

She swallowed. "What will be the principal differences in my life should I choose to open it, versus leaving it alone?"

There was a hissing sound, as if the figure was breathing out, or in. "An excellent question, Your Eminence." Frisk winced as the crowd whispered among itself, but the voice from under the robes went on, "You're very lucky. Most changes in life result from a thousand tiny decisions snowballing into major events, and there is no telling which of them nudged you in what direction. But you, my lady, are at a crossroads. You have two distinct futures, depending on a single choice."

The people behind them were quiet now, listening in keen interest. Frisk was half-consciously holding her breath.

"If you throw the box away, your life will be much as you expect. You will have a kind, wealthy husband who will take an interest in your happiness and be a loving father to your four children." Frisk's eyes widened, but she didn't dare interrupt him. "Your current efforts will not bear fruit, but they will be baby steps towards your mutual goal, to be possibly realized by your descendants. Your life will be like that of many others, full of little triumphs and large regrets. You will have much, and you will die of old age, surrounded by caring in-laws and adoring grandchildren, able to look back on a life that was...adequate."

"Holy fuck," Sans muttered, and Frisk felt light-headed.

"Should you open the box..." The robes were silent for a long moment. "Tra la la."

Frisk could have killed him, or her, or it. But then:

"Should you open the box, my lady, your worst fears will be confirmed. You will regain more than you ever suspected you've lost. The pain of that sorrow and regret will be unbearable for a time, and they will not be yours alone. But...neither will the joy, or the love, or the power."

Another pause. Was that it?

"Tra la la. You will lose and gain one father, discard and gain one mother, and be richer for it. Your family will be innumerable, though you will bear only one child...who you will attempt to bring to see me at this very festival next year. I will not be here, and you will in fact never see me again, but your child's father will be unable to stop you from coming to check."

Frisk's mouth fell open as the crowd tittered behind them. "Next—"

"You will change the entire world, largely for the better, though you will have to work tirelessly to achieve your goal and maintain peace. You will not die an old woman, but you will have lived five times as much. Your triumphs will be great and your regrets...manageable." The figure sat back. "You may choose only one future. To attempt otherwise will grant you neither."

There was a deeply impressed silence. The crowd would probably have applauded if Sans hadn't slammed his hands on the table and demanded, "Who's the father gonna be?"

More silence. Then the crowd started snickering, then laughing, and then nearly rolling on the ground after the look Frisk gave him. It took Sans a moment to remember that they were posing as a couple, and that casting doubt on her potentially-soon-to-be child's parentage might not reflect well on either of them, and his expression made the people laugh even harder.

The robed figure didn't move, except to look at the coins sitting on the table, then at him. Sans had just enough presence of mind to fumble in his overcoat and randomly toss out two hundred. "There! Also, what happened to Kris? How's my brother doing? Was that lord guy telling the truth?!"

The robes rose and fell in a great sigh. "Don't kill anyone."

They waited, breathless. Sans gestured impatiently. "Yeah? And?"

"And..." The fortune-teller turned to the crowd. "Next, please."

[julemmaes]

Lucie, my love

“I thought I’d lost you.”

Matthew Fairchild and Lucie Herondale angst/whump one shot

This turned out way fucking longer than I expected, but I cried while writing (both from exasperation that from despair because of what happens in this os) so I hope I’m gonna make everyone suffer like I did, expecially @clara-sm. This is for you. Sorry if this took so long, but I had some connection problems.

(If you want something specific don’t hold back and dm me everything and whenever I have time I’ll gladly write that for you. If you want to be added to my very-short-nearly-non-existent taglist let me know in the comments and I’ll add you)

Word count: 4,735

Lucie was in the Herondale Lounge at the London Institute that night. She was laughing carefree with Cordelia. Initially the idea had been to sit at the table to write something, and she had succeeded in her mission, for twenty minutes, but then Math and her brother had entered, followed by her parabatai, and focusing on anything other than the caresses of her future husband on her arm had become impossible. They talked about the upcoming wedding for a couple of hours before the boys went out to the Devil Tavern with Christopher and Thomas, leaving them alone to talk about what they would call “girl stuff”.

“So.” Cordelia said looking at her with a lively glance over the edge of the cup.

“So… what?” Lucie asked, sipping her own tea.

“Oh, I know I’ve already asked you a billion times, but I really need to know, or I’m gonna go crazy. What did Matthew get for Jamie?” she asked with a shrill voice, tormenting her hands, “I’ve bought at least twelve books in Persian, but I’m sure he will not like half of them.” said Cordelia desperately, bringing her right hand to hold the daisy-shaped pendant James gave her right after their wedding. Lucie had almost cried when she saw it.

She sat still, fixing the foldes of her dress, “I can’t tell you,” she said taking another sip of tea, “because he didn’t tell me either. I know dad has something to do with the whole plan, but he’s been avoiding me for a week.” bewildered she shook her head, “He seemed so happy to have to leave today and not have to lie to my face every day. Unbelievable.”

Cordelia sunk even deeper into the chair, puffing, when the living room door slammed against the wall, causing her to snap. She brought her hand to Cortana so quickly that Lucie didn’t even notice when she pulled it out, she only saw a golden glow, but then she felt it. She felt as Cordelia’s mood changed, while dropping the sword to the ground. She looked at the door ready to fight whatever thing had gotten into the Institute and her stomach fell under her feet when she saw James holding himself with a bloody hand to the door and his face almost unrecognizable. He was wheezing, like he had been running, but it was visible how much even that slight movement of his chest was hurting him. Normally pink skin was pale as ivory under that dry layer of blood, and golden eyes now shone, bright with tears.

She felt, rather than saw, Cordelia moving between the chairs and reaching for Jamie. She was gonna ask him what the hell had happened, where the others were, but he beat her to it, “Matthew…”

Lucie held her breath as the doors opened wide and Thomas and Christopher entered, a body hanging between the two of them, and that blonde hair, which she could recognize in the midst of a thousand heads, was dark, covered with blood. By the Angel, there was so much blood, so much… She squeezed the cup so hard that her knuckles turned white, and she didn’t recognize her voice when she asked, “What happened?” she still couldn’t get up. She was motionless in that wooden chair that had never seemed so fragile, as if at any moment it would break under her weight. Christopher looked at her with a pleading look and she saw with horror the cut across his right cheek. An image of another night, two years away from that moment, formed in her head, but she immediately put it away.

“Move everything, we have to put him on the table.” said Thomas grunting, but Lucie didn’t move. She couldn’t bring herself to. “Dammit Lucie, move that teapot!” there was an edge in Thomas’ voice, Lucie had never heard it before. Cordelia called her and she moved her head to the side, looking at her, but not really seeing her. James held an arm on Cordelia's shoulders and they were moving towards the couch, his wife the only support of his brother in that moment. Just as she had been Jesse’s only support the night those Kuri demons had hurt him so badly that she had struggled to recognize him when they’d found him.

“Luce I need you to do me a favor and move all the things on the table so Tom and Kit can lay Matthew down. Please.” Cordelia’s voice betrayed her, breaking on the last word, but that was enough to startle Lucie. She remained silent while with a single movement she threw everything on the floor. If something broke, she didn’t care. She heard Thomas swearing and then her heart tightened in a press so tight that she thought she was dying, because Matthew had just woken up. And he was screaming. Christopher pushed him on the table and Lucie walked away with her hands on her mouth to stop a sob, as her sight blurred.

“Shit! James!” Thomas turned to her brother as his body bent over Matthew’s to keep him down. Matthew, who was shouting so loudly with his mouth wide open that it was difficult to be heard over the noise and that with his hands closed, was trying so hard not to faint. Lucie wouldn’t have been surprised if he had half-moon marks on his palms the next day. “James, you have to come over here and make him an iratze! Mine aren’t working!” Thomas was trying to stay calm, but holding Matthew down was getting too complicated.

“I-” James looked at him and the desperation imprinted in his features almost made Lucie scream, “I’ve already tried. I couldn’t… mine didn’t work either.” He was crying when he finished talking. Cordelia’s hand holding the stelee on James’ skin stopped for a second, long enough to glance at the table, before resuming her task faster.

Christopher went running out of the room, saying he was going to call someone, anyone. Thomas turned to Math when he stopped screaming, started whimpering. Lucie approached slowly when he began to whisper and move his head frantically. His legs kept kicking, but his body was relaxing enough to make Thomas move away so she could see the situation better. The agonizing expression, so similar to that Jesse had had in the last minutes of his life…

“Jamie. Jamie, where are you?” Matthew was saying, “James.” he sobbed, opening his eyes and reaching out to his parabatai. James tried to stand up driven by the voice of the other, and when the wound on his waist prevented him, he sat down again and closed his eyes, “I’m here, Matthew, talk to me. I’m here.”

Lucie, taking a deep breath, stood beside him, holding a hand to his cheek. When he turned to her, leaning completely on her touch, he said, “Luce, my love,” they sobbed together. She knelt beside the table and took one of his hand with the other, holding as tight as she could, trying to draw his attention to that contact and not to the pain he was feeling.

Matthew grimaced, closing his eyes when Thomas ripped his shirt off, but Lucie kept her eyes fixed on his face. If she looked at her future husband’s chest, she would lose all hope, she knew, she had to stay focused on his features, his eyes. She was going to ask what happened, but Tom put a piece of rolled up cloth in front of his mouth, “Sorry, Math, but you have to bite this.” Matthew looked at him, appalled, shaking his head slightly, “You have a bone that is not where it should be, and I have to put it back in before I can do anything else.” He said, “Bite it, please.” Thomas’s eyes filled with tears and at that point Lucie could not resist any more, she burst into tears taking the piece of cloth from her friend’s hand, caressing one last time her boyfriend’s cheek. “Open your mouth, love, for me. It will all be over before you know it, I promise.” she smiled despite the tears.

“Promise me?” he asked, frightened, inhaling abruptly.

“I promise you, now bite it.” she said, making him open his mouth. “Take my hand. Stay here, stay with me.” she looked at Thomas from above her shoulder and felt Matthew stiffen as Tom touched his knee. He nodded his head, and she gripped Matthew’s hand tighter, holding back the tears when both Matthew and James shouted and Thomas put Matthew’s bone back into its place, straightening his shin with the torn shirt.

Math was crying again, clenching his teeth as hard as he could. He turned his head to his side, toward his parabatai, and tears fell on his nose and temple as he looked at James and took one last breath before he passed out.

“Math? Math, Matthew.” she said, shaking his shoulders. She glanced at Thomas, looking for help, but his friend was looking at Matthew as one looked at a lost cause, and took a step back. No, no. she wouldn’t have allowed it. “Love you have to wake up. You have to keep your eyes open.” she whispered to his ear. A sound of frustration escaped her control and she finally allowed herself to look at the chest of the boy lying on the table, when he gave no sign of hearing her. No, she sobbed and her sight blurred once more, not again. Three cuts… No, three claws, those wounds could only have been made by claws. Three claws so deep that Lucie could see the bones in all that shredded flesh. She choked another sob, wondering how he still had vital organs inside his torso. Another wave of panic poured over her and closing the gap between her and James in a few strides, she took the stelee from his hand and quickly returned to Matthew, starting to draw as much iratze as she could, wherever she could find a spot that wasn’t reduced to minced meat.

“Lucie,” James tried to call her.

She burst into a desperate cry and could no longer stop, while every rune she drew disappeared immediately afterwards. She tried to stop the blood from pouring out with her own hands, resting them on his wounds, and when Matthew gave no sign of feeling that either, she screamed. She screamed until Thomas put his hands on her shoulders, taking her away from Matthew’s body. She tried to free herself from his grip, but he held her tightly, and kept pushing her further and further away. Further and further.

Only when Cordelia touched her elbow did she realize that Christopher had returned and with him was Ragnor Fell. The warlock took in the surroundings wide-eyed and bleached, and signaled everyone to go out, but Lucie was still crying and would never have been able to leave Matthew alone.

“Luce please, he can’t focus if you stay here and,” Christopher’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she finally managed to detach her gaze from Matthew’s chest, which was moving more and more slowly, “you need to calm down. Stressing yourself so much won’t help you. You have to stay stable in case you need to bring him something. You could make yourself useful.” Kit put his hand on her back, pushed her out, and Lucie knew what he was doing, he had done it two years before, when she had lost Jesse. Jesse. Raziel, she would’ve lost Matthew, too.

“I can’t get out.” her voice stuck in her throat and Thomas joined her on the other side, “You have to come out. Come with us, you’ll make an iratze on my arm, and as soon as he’s done, you can see him. Now come.”

“No you don’t understand. It’s already happened, I can’t go out. If I go out he’ll die and it’ll be like with Jesse, again. I, I can’t… He can’t.” she took a trembling breath and saw Thomas and Christopher exchanging a look of understanding. They tried to move her, but Lucie couldn’t.

“Lucie?” At the sound of her brother’s voice she looked up and when he smiled at her, she sighed. If James smiled, it meant that there was no danger of death. However, she looked over her shoulder towards Matthew and it was not possible that he would make it. “Lucie.” James called back, “Come with me. Let Ragnor work.” He took her hand encrusted with blood, Matthew’s blood, and carried her out with the help of his friends.

Once in the hallway she leaned against the wall and with his brother, she let herself fall to the floor. She looked at her dress and squeezed the heavy red cloth between her fingers. James’ hand landed on her knee and she looked up at him, seeing how his wounds were closing. Why were iratze working on him? What had hurt Matthew so badly?

She turned to the others and was surprised to see Cordelia, laying the stelee on Christopher’s neck. Thomas was resting his head on Alastair’s shoulder, who in the meantime was drawing healing runes on his left arm, next to the real tattoo. He must have arrived with Christopher. Not that she really cared in that moment.

“What happened?” her voice came out much harder than she intended.

“We were going to the tavern and we met Alas on the way there. We… I greeted him and a pack of werewolves passing by saw us. They’ve started making unpleasant comments.”

Answered Thomas promptly, his face hardening while staring at Alastair the whole time he was talking. Now that she was paying attention, Lucie had never seen her parabatai’s brother so pale in his life. He had not yet said a word, and it was rare that he did not comment on everything as he did since he joined their group.

“Matthew did not take it well and we had already had a drink on the way. A fight broke out.” James ended up for him. Lucie sighed, typical of Matthew.

“Why is he the only one who’s not healing?” she asked. A moment later, Cordelia was at her side and, like Lucie, she had a confused frown on her face. She stooped to check James’ wounds, but he moved her gently, trying to look Lucie in the face.

“The leader of the pack has targeted him and must have had something on his claws, because they glowed. Christopher noticed, but it was too late.” said James.

Lucie was on her cousin in an instant, “What was that? Tell me, Christopher, or I swear on the Angel I’ll rip your arms off and-”, he put his hands on her shoulders looking at her a little scared. “I’ve already told Mr Fell everything. He knew what I was talking about, but he needs silence to focus and be sure to get all the poison out of Matthew’s body. You just have to be patient.” Lucie lifted her chin, making a small nod of assent, and sat down next to her brother again.

She was still worried and the second she saw Matthew she would burst into tears, but at least someone was healing him. She closed her eyes counting the breaths she took, as Uncle Jem had taught her to do every time she got upset. One, two, three, four… she did not reach the fifth, that a ghostly presence attracted her attention. She opened one eye and almost jumped up when she saw Jesse’s ghost across the hall. She excused herself before heading to the common room next to the entrance. She didn’t dare opening her mouth until they were totally alone and out of reach of prying ears. Her friends knew about her power, but she didn’t want them to know that Jesse was there.

He was looking at her from the window, where he sat down, as usual, and smiled down at her.

“Hey.” He murmured to her like a prayer.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” she asked, smiling shyly, feeling all the fatigue of that evening overwhelming her in an instant. She leaned on the door.

“You called me a couple of times. It’s not as if I could decide whether or not to come.” He replied, “Is that your blood?” Lucie noticed a note of concern in his tone, but she didn’t give it much thought.

She shrugged, “It’s Matthew’s.” He nodded, reducing his lips to a thin line, as if that explained everything. What had happened and when. Why.

“Are you all right?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” A trembling breath came out of her as her eyes circled with silver. Jesse made to move, but he froze, as if he remembered that he couldn’t touch her anymore, and he sat straight back down.

“He will recover, you’ll see.” he tried to reassure her. She looked at him, making a nervous laugh slip away.

“You said that to me the night you died. Oh, but I’ll be fine, you’ll see.” She said imitating what sounded more like the voice of a Silent Brother than an 18-year-old. He burst into laughter, and to Lucie it seemed a little forced, but she didn’t care about that either. He was just trying to cheer her up.

“I don’t have that voice. And he’s really going to recover, I can’t see him. Or feel him, for what it is.” he said running a hand through his hair. To Lucie that gesture looked so normal, so alive, that it seemed to her that the world was shaking for a second. And then, “I miss you.” Jesse held his breath, “I miss you every day. And every time he goes out and comes back with a black eye or… or his belly completely open,” she said gesturing to the salon where someone was taking care of Matthew, she sighed, “I can’t help but think that one day he won’t come back. And I’ll have to relive it again. And I can’t do it, J. I can’t.” she said, starting to sob. The other remained silent starring at her and, as if he had never been there, he disappeared. Lucie bent in two when the pain in her chest seemed unbearable, closing her mouth so as not to be heard, when someone knocked on the door and it opened slightly. Cordelia told her that they had moved Matthew to their rooms and that if she wanted, she could go to his bedside. Lucie quickly wiped her tears away with a final sigh of relief. If they had moved him, it meant that the wounds had been cleaned at least. And maybe now they could have put come iratze.

Thomas had already warned all the adults with various fire messages and in a few minutes they would all be here, asking them all kind questions, so she might as well have gone next to him and enjoyed those last moments of peace before the storm.

***

Matthew had never felt worse in his life. He had spent the last three days in a state of half-sleep that had stunned him. He vaguely remembered Lucie’s hands on his chest as she changed his bandages and the cold tip of James’ stelee when he was able to stand to draw some iratze. He remembered the voice of his brother Charles, who offended him for not being responsible enough, and his mother’s gentle touch on his forehead when she told him she loved him.

In all of this, Matthew could only agree with his brother. He had been a fool and a reckless. What exactly did he want to do? Fighting against an entire pack of werewolves, breaking the Law? Raziel, the Accords. His mother would have killed him.

The thought made his head spin and he grunted when the light blinded him. He felt someone move beside him and someone else taking his hand, on the other side of the bed.

“Math? Are you awake?” Jamie asked, whispering, as if he were afraid to scare him.

“No, but I was dreaming of you and I had to share my sorrow.” He joked, bringing his free hand to his face, to protect himself from the sun. He heard Lucie laughing and his heart stopped, and then started beating faster again. Only for her.

“Idiot. You really are an idiot. Next time you do something like this, I’m not gonna let anyone cut your chest open. I’m gonna do it myself.” When he finally saw his parabatai, he had a band around his arm that held it close to his chest, but he was smiling widely, despite the dark circles under his eyes. He turned his head to the other side and nearly cried at the sight of his future wife.

Lucie was staring at him with a shy smile on her lips, as if nothing had happened, and as if she had not stayed by his bed for those long and endless days. But darker circles than her brother’s told Matthew enough about how she must have spent all that time. He gripped her hand before looking at James again, making him understand that he wanted to be alone with his fiancée, and he, after having left a kiss on his head, that Matthew noticed only in that moment was bandaged, went out.

Matthew saw her, staring at her finger where their engagement ring shone and biting her lip thoughtful. He had never noticed it before, how often she did it. It was a nervous tic that she had acquired after Jesse’s death, of that he was sure, but lately it had become a daily occurrence, and Matthew knew that it was partly his fault.

“I thought I’d lost you.“ she said suddenly, staring at the ring. Matthew wasn’t sure how to breathe anymore. He went to talk, but she stopped him, “I thought I’d lost you. And that I would never touch your hand again.” she repeated. She looked up at him and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “I would have lost you, but I would have kept seeing you, because I would have called you every single moment and you would have appeared and this time I wouldn’t have moved on.”

He reached out a hand, brushing her cheekbone with a thumb, removing what was left of her crying, “Luce,”

“No, Math, no Luce here, Luce there.” She said in a sharper tone than she intended, “I spent almost four days watching you turn in your sleep and repeat my name and that of Jamie and your mother.” She grasped Matthew’s hand before she took it back and put them both in her lap. “You’re gonna have to change your way of having fun, or the next time you do something like this, I’m gonna leave.”

Matthew snapped to a sitting position, and the dizziness almost made him fell to the side, but her quick hand grabbed him by the shoulder. He looked at her wide-eyed, gasping, looking for the right words to say to her to make her understand that without her, he would not keep living.

“I tried to make you understand that this kind of life is not good. Not for me, not for Jamie, not even for you. And you go on and on exaggerating every damn time.” Her voice broke, “I’m done with this bullshit.” he flinched at the use of that word. Not that she wasn’t right, but he never thought he would hear Lucie say it with such spite. “I’m letting you decide Math, it’s me or the alcohol. I’m giving you one last chance.” she got up from the chair taking the Fairchild ring off her finger and giving it to him. All without looking at his face. A traitorous tear slipped on her cheek, but she was quick to remove any trace of it. Matthew first looked at the ring and then at her, and then again at the ring. He gently lowered her hand, “No.” he said.

“No?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead.

“No. I love you Lucie and, and this thing, this disease I have…” he was struggling, looking for the right words to say, “You know.” He looked for her eyes and when she finally looked back at him, Matthew started talking again. “You know what happened. You know about the baby. I can’t stop, there’s no solution to that kind of mistake, and if I can’t fix it, then I have to forget. Because if I don’t forget, Luce,” he interrupted and caught his breath, “If I don’t forget, I’ll go crazy. And I don’t want to go crazy. I don’t want to go crazy.” he was starting to repeat himself, and Lucie knew that when he started to repeat himself, it wasn’t a good sign. It meant he was spiraling down his thoughts.

Closing her eyes and gathering her last strength she picked up the skirt of her dress in her arms and made a sign to scoot over to her boyfriend.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting into bed with you, what does it look like? Now move.”

Matthew did, and she sat beside him, circling his shoulders with one arm and carrying his head on her lap. Now he was curled up on her side, and she was passing her hands through his hair, being careful not to bump the bandage, “I’m sorry, Math.” she whispered to him.

“No Lucie don’t, I should be the one apologizing. I should apologize for the way I am, for the way I’m acting. For being the worst friend and fiancé a person could have.” he murmured, “I’m terrible.”

“You’re not terrible. And I love you, Matthew.” She said, taking his chin and making him turn towards her, “I love you because you are the most extraordinary person I know, and I would not have anyone else beside me. I’m not telling you that I want to leave because you’re a bad person, I’m saying that if you decide to deal with this problem, I will deal with it by your side and I will never leave you alone. I’m saying I can’t be the one to make this decision, because it has to start from you.” Matthew sat down in front of her, his lower lip trembling, and when she touched his cheek, he melted on that touch, like every time she grazed him. “I’m telling you I’m here, if you want me, but if you don’t see that there’s something that needs fixing, then I can’t be a part of your life. Do you understand that?” He nodded, always with his face on her hand. He took hers in his and kissed it before looking at her and reaching out to her face. They were about to kiss each other when a sharp pain in his chest caused Matthew to bend over. He groaned for the pain and brought one hand to his side, while the other went to his head, which had just slammed against Lucie’s. She, in turn, started giggling and massaging her forehead, “Yeah, you’re really terrible.” she teased him. When Math didn’t answer, she started to worry. He started breathing irregularly and his shoulders were shaking, but she didn’t think he was hurting that bad. The wounds were almost healed.

“Math?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I think it’s the heart, you know. The fact that you’re not wearing the ring bothers it.” He finally said, raising his eyes lit with fun on her face. She made an exasperated noise, pushing him to the side, before grabbing the ring left on the chair and putting it back on her finger. Matthew took her hand smiling and like a few seconds before, kissed the finger with the family ring on it.

He leaned on his back and brought her to his lap, “I’m so lucky to have you.” He kissed her cheek and she blushed to the tip of her feet. There were few who made her blush with the demonstrations of affection and unfortunately for her, but fortunately for the playful side of her future husband, he was among them.

“And I’m lucky to be loved by someone like you.”

She took his face in her hand and finally, after days of waiting, she was able to kiss him.

[reverseblackholeofwords]

Bo and Yancy

As the possible paths dwindle down to a single choice, Professor Beauregard has to figure out how she’s going to get Yancy out of a tight situation. The Warden and Actor Mark aren’t letting her go easily, and her gamble might just cost Yancy his life.

Part Eight: I Don’t Wanna Be Free

The prisoners shout from their cells. As the Warden leads Yancy down the cell block. His friends reach their arms through the bars, calling out to him, but he refuses to look up from his shuffling feet. Beauregard follows behind with heat in her cheeks and ice in her heart.

She didn’t have another choice, did she?

Warden Murder-Slaughter marches Yancy into one of the cells and shuts the door behind them, handing the keys off to Actor Mark through the bars as he gives one final, cocky glance in the professor’s direction. They move aside the toilet first and then the fake section of the wall to reveal the hole, perfectly shaped for a human being, maybe even Yancy specifically.

“You’re really a cruel little thing, aren’t you?” The Actor teases watching Beauregard twitch as Yancy stares emptily at the strange hole in the wall of cell 13. “You remind me of someone I used to know. She would’ve liked you.”

She wants nothing more than to dissolve him slowly in acid. “Did you stuff her into a human-shaped hole, too?” Bo snaps at him, but the Actor only smirks.

“No, I fed her to a shadow creature haunting my house, and she and her twin brother became trapped in my old, dead body.” He inspects his nails with a sigh as Beauregard stares up at him in a mix of horror and disbelief. Actor merely shrugs. “Don’t worry. I hear they’re doing just fine these days.”

Warden Murder-Slaughter claps his hands together once, and the thunderous echo nearly bursts Beauregard’s ears along with the cries of the inmates. He’s smiling, everything he’s ever wanted right here at his fingertips at last. Actor told him that he could bring him someone powerful enough to finally answer the Warden’s questions, and he hasn’t failed him. “Alright, my boy, are you ready to find out the answer to the Enigma of Happy Trails Penitentiary?”

Yancy eyes are all but dead. His hands, marked with names he does not know in a struggle he does not understand, hang limply at his sides as his tattoo on his arm grows one final pair of boxes, resting on the inside of his wrist, right above his pulse. He stares into the human-shaped hole, takes a deep breath that might be his last, and plunges in.

Beauregard’s heart stammers in her chest.

Has she made a mistake? Will Yancy really survive this? She grips the bars in front of her, useless to help him now as he disappears into the darkness. The Warden scarcely makes a noise. The whole penitentiary draws a collective breath. Everything is perfectly silent aside from the blood pounding in her ears.

And then...

Nothing. There are no death screams, no sounds of bones cracking or skin breaking open. There is not even a whisper. They wait and they stare and they wonder, but nothing ever happens.

Yancy never comes back out.

The Warden paces back and forth. He goes to the entrance, his hands resting on either side as he leans his head in, calls after Yancy. But he receives no answer. The young man is simply gone.

Beauregard’s knees buckle, and she falls to the ground outside the cell. She was so sure, so sure that he would somehow make it out. He trusted her. Right up until the very end, and she failed.

“Well,” Actor says, not an ounce of remorse in his show-host voice. “That was anti-climactic, wasn’t it?” He chuckles, and a few of the inmates jeer at him.

The rest of them are silent. They stand there in their cells frozen, eyes wide and mouths agape. Most of them cannot see what has happened, but somehow they know. They all felt it. That they lost someone, someone who meant the world to them.

Beauregard drags herself up by the bars of the cell, leaning her weight into them as she tries to make sense of it. “I hope you’re satisfied,” she spits at the Warden. “He was a good man, better than you even if he did kill people. At least he felt remorse for it.”

The Warden’s face is red with anger. He shakes as he storms up to the bars and stands over Beauregard even though he is a prisoner in a cell of his own making. “Oh, and you’re so high and mighty, are you, Professor? You let this happen. You didn’t save him! You sent him to his death just as much as I did!”

“Tell that to your lawyer,” she says, all the fight gone from her words, but her eyes do rise to meet his. “I’m pressing charges for what you’ve done here today. Maybe they won’t believe everything that’s happened here, but they will see what you did to Yancy. And they’ll come looking for him, only they won’t find him.”

“And just how do you think you’re going to prove any of it?” he sneers.

And Beauregard taps a pin on her lab coat, with a perfect black circle in the center, a camera. “Because I came prepared, Warden.” She releases the bars and takes a step back. “Get used to that cell. You’re going to end up in one just like it.” Then she turns on her heel and stomps out of the prison, the clacking of her shoes ringing like nails in a coffin.

It takes a year for the trial. Beauregard sees it through to the end, stands in front of everyone and tells all she knows, all they will believe at least. She even submits the recording Yancy left for her, just to prove that he never intended to escape. He never wanted to be free.

None of this was his fault.

And she gets what she wanted in the end, in a way. The Warden becomes the inmate, but she’s thrown herself under the bus, too. Breaking into a prison, releasing a known murderer, performing unlawful tests on a human being--not to mention threatening a governor, though she certainly doesn’t regret that one.

That gets you a few years no matter how you slice it.

But Bo doesn’t really mind. Someone once taught her that when you make mistakes, you have to pay for them. And, he was right, the amenities are nice.

“So, you really never think of breaking out?” Dr. Flemming asks her during their session. “Not ever?”

“No,” Beauregard answers truthfully. “I don’t kid myself. I know I wasn’t innocent.”

“But you had good intentions,” the doctor urges. He asked to work with her personally when he found out what happened, and Beauregard supposes that she appreciates the thought even though she does find him somewhat annoying. Too endearing, too eager to please. “You were just trying to bring to light the injustice you saw in the world.”

The professor shrugs. “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean my hands were clean. And besides, there’s no zombies in prison. If a time anomaly ends reality as we know it, at least I can die in peace knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it.” The therapist’s eyes go wide. He probably thinks she’s delusional, but Bo can’t bring herself to care. “So no, I don’t want to break out. Maybe if I had someone out there, maybe... But I don’t. So it doesn’t matter.”

“It says here in your file that you have a brother, Dr. Cawthon, I believe?” He checks the file again to confirm. “What about him?”

Bo shakes her head. “No, we had a falling out a long time ago. He couldn’t care less about me.”

Dr. Flemming looks like he might say something, but in that moment, his phone rings. And he stands. “Excuse me a moment, Professor, while I take this.” He steps into another room, leaving Beauregard alone with her thoughts. She smooths her hands over her prison uniform. She always hated the color orange.

“Break out? O’ this place?” An exasperated laugh. “Why would anyone want to break out?”

Bo turns around in her chair to see him leaning in the doorway behind her. Still wearing that white shirt and striped pants, his hair slicked back, a smile on his face. “Yancy!” She jumps up, and he sweeps her into a hug.

“Hi, Miss Bo.” He laughs, squeezing her tight. “Sorry it took me so long, but after Happy Trails shut down, it took me a year to find where everyone was transferred to, let the gang know I was alright.” He sets her down and takes a step back. “And of course I wanted to save the best for last.”

“How?” she asks, tears in her eyes. They never found a trace of him, not even a scrap of clothing. He disappeared so completely. She never thought she’d ever see him again. And here he is, whole and happy and everything. “How did you make it out of there?”

Yancy scratches the back of his head. “I don’t really knows myself, and I certainly don’t have time to explain right now.” He elbows her gently, wiggling his eyebrows. “What do youse say? There’s still a time anomaly out there what needs stopping! And since I’m legally dead and all, I guess youse could say I’ve atoned for my crimes...”

Beauregard looks around, the bars over every window, the security cameras watching them right now. “B-but, how? How are you going to...?” But he just puts an arm around her shoulder and smirks.

“Don’t worry, Miss Bo. Nobody knows how to break out better than Yancy. Youse just leave it to me!” He reaches behind the door. “And besides, I thought you might needs this.”

He puts her laser gun into her hands, and with a deep breath, Beauregard feels like herself again for the first time in year. “Well,” she laughs, absolutely dizzy with happiness, “for the love of physics...”

The End?

[lxiewrites]

hey there ghouls, it’s ya boys

Ao3

Summary: Keith and Lance try to contact the dead... and it kinda works?

Thanks to @gigili-jiggly for letting me ramble about the boys and ghosts and @bleusarcelle for being such a STICK IN THE MUD with Halloween! Xp

Lance laid on his back, rhythmically throwing this little stress ball he found in the air. It was in the shape of a star and spun when it reached its highest point. He more or less tuned out Pidge and Hunk's scientific ramblings or whatever they were doing, he had no idea what they were talking about anyway. He was in the zone with throwing and catching the squishy yellow star, up and down, up and down. It actually was pretty soothing.

"What are you guys doing?"

...Aaand soothing relaxing time is over.

He scowled over at Keith, tummy turning over. What was he even doing here? He didn't think that Keith would be the type to stay after school. Probably thought he was too cool to join a club or a team. Always a broody lone wolf, with a giant stop sign over his face saying 'don't talk to me'. Okay, something is weird with those metaphors but whatever! It's his own thoughts! He can do what he wants!

"What's it look like, Mullet?"

"Lance," Hunk admonished before turning to Keith with a smile, ignoring how Lance threw up his hands in a massive 'what?!' gesture. "We're just here for robotics club, we're, uh, a little shorthanded right now but you can join if you want?"

Keith's brows furrowed, eyes darting across the three of them. Hunk with his big smiling face hands fiddling with wires and a thing to strip the color from them. Pidge with their smarmy little grin sitting in a circle of discarded parts giving him a short salute and… Lance. Obviously the most brilliant and handsome and charming of the group who's obviously supervising from his position on the couch but whatever. Details.

"This is the robotics club?" Keith drawled, eyes going directly to him.

Instantly something inside Lance prickled, stomach all spikey and annoyed. "Yeah, got a problem with that?"

He could hear Hunk using that mother-hen tone with him again and he knew for sure Pidge was rolling their eyes and he could look over and throw the star at them or something, take the prickly pressure off of him, but he kept his eyes locked on one Keith Kogane. Watching how those weird purple-blue eyes--honestly it really depended on the lighting (not that he spent a lot of time wondering at the color of Keith's eyes or anything)-- narrow, head tilting as those indigo (the lighting wasn't the greatest so it was closer to indigo) eyes flickered around the room, no doubt taking in the cobwebs and black and orange streamers. "No, but... isn't this the art room?"

"Technically," Pidge piped in, pushing their glasses up their nose. "But it's not being used for anything today and the shop room is being used for a car or something. I don't know but it's a mess."

"Oh."

Keith shifted a bit on his feet, almost squirming under their stares, his thumb running over his knuckles wrapped around the strap of his bag.

"If you want you can join us," Pidge said. They looked around and shrugged. "It's a little messy but you could probably find a space."

"Yeah!" Hunk agreed, "Just sit anywhere, dude, we're pretty chill."

Hunk looked over at Lance, eyebrows raised, trying to communicate via facial expression. Which Lance pointedly ignored. They specifically left the couch alone and he called it and he was having a nice and relaxing time with his--oh fine!

He sat up, moving his legs over to give Keith room, embellishing the move with a wave of a hand.

Keith made his way over, carefully avoiding small parts and pieces scattered over the place. They definitely did some rearranging before they completely took over. The tables were all shoved to one side of the room, pressed up against the wall displaying the best work and portraits, nearly impossible to work at unless you wanted to sit on top of the tables. And while he's all for anarchy those tables have been around since the eighties he did not trust sitting on one of them. They left the paint-splattered couch in the back alone to actually sit on while Hunk and Pidge scattered their work across the floor. Delicate pieces of machinery and wires laying out where anyone could step on them along with tools and various nuts and bolts.

Keith finally made past the minefield and the way-too-old couch sagged under his weight. Lance shuffled even more to the side until his arm brushed against the art cabinets, fiddling with the stress star in his hand.

"What are you doing here, Keith?" Hunk asked as conversational as ever.

Keith shrugged. "My ride isn't coming until later. I didn't think anyone would be here."

"Ah, sorry for interrupting your alone time, dude. Do you come to the art room often?"

"Sometimes."

Eloquent as always. He peeked over, noting how stiff he was. The couch was old but it was comfortable and plush, but Keith looked like a statue, backpack on his lap like a shield. He was going to wear through the straps with how much he was rubbing the course fabric between his fingers. Silently, Lance tossed him the stress star.

Keith fumbled, lips pulled into a small frown and turning to look at him. Lance was carefully keeping himself sitting forward and occupying himself with his cuticles, biting off a section of dead skin. He fought down a satisfied smile when he heard the backpack hit the ground.

"Well, it's a nice place.” Hunk continued, oblivious, hands and mind preoccupied with the device in his hands. “My friend Shay comes here a lot. She's really good." Hunk nodded to the artboard barricaded by all of the tables.

Pidge scoffed, "Yeah, sure, friend." Their hands leaving their robot part to put up air quotes.

"She is!"

Lance laughed as Hunk sputtered, his deep rich brown skin turning ruddy and red. "Buddy, you went on and rambled about her for, like, an hour."

"I just respect her as an artist!"

He could feel Keith relax into the couch, back slumping, hands rhythmically squeezing the star, tracing his fingers around the letters printed on the side... He could even see a little smile.

"Maybe we should make a truth detector," Pidge teased, hazel eyes glimmering, smirk in place.

Hunk groaned, "Guuuyyyss, I'm serious! She's just a friend!"

"For now!" Lance had to add, just to see his friend blush so hard he could almost see the smoke burst from his ears.

"What are you guys working on right now?"

Lance turned to see Keith star at the different parts scattered around the linoleum floor.

Pidge lit up, brandishing her piece into the air like how Rafiki did to baby Simba. "My greatest creation!"

"It's going to be a recon offline virtual encryption radar or ROVER for short. It's basically a droid."

"It's way cooler than that!" Pidge insisted, glaring at Hunk for his betrayal of their creation. "It's going to be able to scan a surrounding area and break any encryption code that might be present. It's going to be able to send signals into space and pick of distant radio chatter and…"

This is usually the part where Lance tunes them out. They start getting into the details and using terms he doesn't know. All he knows is that it might be slightly illegal and probably could've helped Nicholas Cage steal the Declaration of Independence. The more technical mumbo jumbo and his brain decides to vacate.

He could practically feel his eyes glass over as they start feeding off of each other, looking over to Keith to see if he got anything from their ramblings to find him staring at him with a confused look on his face. It almost struck Lance at how much... cuter he was? Instead of a permanent frown and a 'don't mess with me or I'll punch you' attitude he looked a lot softer. One eyebrow higher than the other, mouth softened into something that wasn't a smile but it wasn't an angry scowl, his head was even tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

Deflect, deflect, deflect. He cleared his throat and shrugged with an 'I don't know' sound.

They looked back at the two on the floor who somehow got to arguing about some sort of thing and doing it once or twice? Whether it was safer or unneeded? Listen. He doesn't know crap about robots or what they're talking about he's just here to test stuff out.

God. He could just feel the awkward descend on them. Should he say something?

He shifted, the silence uncomfortable and heavy in the air, he blurts out, “So what are you doing for Halloween?”

Keith’s brow furrows when he looks at him, “Halloween?”

“Y’know, trick or treating, pumpkins, costumes, ghosts?”

Slowly Keith shakes his head, brow still furrowed in confusion, like Halloween isn’t this national holiday that is beloved by all. “I don’t really celebrate Halloween, it’s kind of… boring?”

Lance reared back like Keith just bitch slapped him. ”Boring?” Lance turned to face Keith fully, he looked mildly suspicious but otherwise impassive as Lance smacked himself in the chest. “Halloween is my lifeblood. How dare you.”

Keith’s lips twitched, scooting around to rest his arm along the back of the couch. “It’s just another holiday that’s capitalized by the candy companies.”

Lance stabbed a finger in the air between them. “You earn that shit. It’s in fun shapes like fangs and eyeballs and you go around in costumes and scare the shit out of your friends.” Both hands come up, clenching in the air like he could grab the spirit of Halloween and shove it in Keith’s face. “It’s hanging out with your friends and getting candy, and it’s watching scary movies and all of the spooky stuff.”

Keith is completely unconcerned by how Lance is so close to tackling him and shoving candy corn down his throat. “Yeah but you can do all of those things at any time of the year. The candy is just candy but in different wrappings, you can technically wear a costume at any time, and all the spooky and scary stuff can happen any day of the year. Ghosts and hauntings can happen at any time not just Halloween.”

“Okay, point, but the aesthetic. All of it is amplified by Halloween and ghosts are more likely to come at Halloween because that’s when the veil is thinnest and they have an easier time coming to Earth or something.”

“You guys believe in ghosts?” Pidge scoffed, face scrunched up in amused disbelief.

Lance gave her a funny look. “And you don’t? I would’ve thought out of all of us you would.”

They chocked on their laugh. ”Me? Why?”

“You know, like, like,” he waved his hand in the air like it could physically keep his thoughts going, “all that energy has to go somewhere, so the souls or whatever become ghosts or spirits.”

“Lance,” Pidge said, “there is no scientific proof of a soul. And if the argument is energy then it would just be the electricity in the brain keeping vital organs alive until it runs out. No ghosts.”

“Okay, but there are so many weird things that happen with no scientific explanation. Why can’t here be ghosts?” Keith chimed in.

“Can we just, like, not talk about ghosts? Is that a thing that can happen?” Hunk smiled a queasy smile, shoulders shuddering.

“Hunk! Not you too!” Pidge cried.

Lance leaned forward, an evil smile creeping across his face. “Our school is built on an old cemetery you know.”

Keith leaned forward; eyes gleaming smile tugging at a corner of his lips. ”Really,” he said, not quite a question.

He grinned. “Years ago the old cemetery was too full and there wasn’t enough room. So they decided to move it but they only moved the headstones, not the bodies.” He tapped his foot on the floor. “Corpses are rotting under us right at this moment.

“LALALALALA,” Hunk shouted, fingers in his ears. “Nope! Nope! Nuh-uh, we’re not talking about this.”

“Oh my god, there’s no such things as ghosts!” They shouted over Lance’s laughter. “Ghosts aren’t—“

The lights turned off, shrouding them in darkness.

“—real.”

Lance’s heart jumped when he heard a scream, matching it with his own, two more joining his. Leather wrinkled under his fingers, as he blinked his eyes to adjust to the dark. He could just make out the shape of Hunk’s hands covering his mouth. He relaxed his grip. “Hunk!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” His hands waved in the darkness. “My bad!”

“Can I have my jacket back?”

Lance jolted at Keith’s voice right next to him. As in right next to him. “Fuck, uh,” he released his hold on Keith’s jacket, haltingly smoothing it out, “sorry.”

Lance didn’t hear his response, or if he made one in the first place because Hunk decided to screech again, sending the hairs on Lance’s arm straight up.

“Oh god, I felt something brush against me!”

Lance felt his pulse in his wrists and his cheeks, his nerves getting twitchy as adrenaline started pumping. “Hunk, please tell me your joking.”

“I’m not, man! Something brushed against me! And it felt cold!” A dark shadow that he was hoping, praying, that it was Hunk stood up.  “What if it’s a ghost?! What if it’s one of the people in the cemetery that really doesn’t like art or robots or something?!”

Lance stood up, squeezing his hands into fists to get rid of the unsteady feeling in his limbs, heart starting to pick up. “Okay if there is a ghost I say we just book it.”

He felt Keith stand up next to him. “If it’s a ghost they probably need help, to, like, move on or something. We should try to communicate with it and help it.”

Lance turned to look at him, only wishing that Keith could see the incredulous look on his face. “Keith, buddy, I don’t know if you have seen any horror movies but that never goes well.” He punctuated the syllables in never to drive the message home.

He winced at a bright light that blinded him, blinking away the black spots that appeared in his vision.

“Yeah, except it’s not a fucking ghost you dumbasses,” Pidge said behind their phone light their tone the definition of “done”.  “It’s probably a short fuse, c’mon, Hunk, we’re the only ones that are gonna be able to fix it. I don’t trust these two yahoos.”

Hunk whined, head tipping back. “But there are ghosts. And we shouldn’t split up! That’s just spelling disaster in horror movies! We’re going to be picked off one by one!”

“Would you rather sit in the dark?” They rolled their eyes at Hunk’s whine, moving behind him to push him to the door. “Come on big guy, I’ll protect you. Ghosts can’t hurt those that don’t believe in them.”

The last thing Lance heard was Hunk whining down the hall. A fading, “They’re the first one’s to go!”

“Why are they going to fix the fuse?” Keith said behind him, making him jump. He almost forgot he was there the guy was so quiet.

“The maintenance guy, Coran, is sick or something. I think he said slipperies but I have no clue what that is.” He nodded to where his friend’s left. “They help him a lot. I don’t think the school even knows, pfft. That good ‘ol school funding!”

He felt a little shot of pride at the little huff of laughter but immediately tensed when something crashed. A scream in his throat he whipped around, eyes darting around in the darkness seeing nothing.

His muscles jumped, throat closing, when a hand wrapped around his upper arm, a bright beam of light illuminating the wall before them. His arm hurt where Keith’s fingers dug in, his lip nearly white from how hard he was biting it, eyes intent as he looked to see the source of the crash.

Lance drew closer, arms brushing but Keith still didn’t let go, eyes settling on a brass corner sticking out from behind one of the tables. Relief came but it didn’t stay, muscles still poised in fight or flight, heart pumping and insistent against his chest. “It’s fine,” he croaked. “A painting just fell.”

“Did you mean what you said about the school being built on a cemetery?”

“Maybe,” Lance cleared his throat, ignoring how it cracked, “My older brother Marco told me, he had to move to this school when they rebuilt it here, like, twenty years ago.”

“Maybe the ghosts need help moving on, like, if they receive closure on their resting ground being disturbed.” Keith’s voice was just above a whisper, hushed.

Lance’s skin fucking crawled. He whirled on Keith, his dark, dark eyes wide and serious. “How do you supposed we do that?!” A harsh whisper that scraped through the air like nails on a chalkboard.

“We communicate with them,” Keith whispered back, not nearly as harsh. It was actually annoyingly even. “An Ouija board. We can write it out on a piece of paper and use a necklace or something to hold above it as a pendulum or cut out a circle.”

“How do you even know this?!”

“…I watch a lot of paranormal videos.”

“Jesus Fuck.” Lance scrubbed his hands against his face. “How do you know we’re not going to contact a demon or something?”

“I don’t.”

“Fuck, fuck, no.Absolutely not. Not happening, nuh-uh, no—“

Ten minutes later he was sitting on the ground in a little circle of discarded robot parts—were these parts like… body parts of robot pieces? Ugh, okay, no thinking that—across from Keith, a piece of paper between them and Keith’s phone light next to the paper casting shadows across their faces.

“I hate this. I want you to know I hate this.”

Keith only gives him a noncommittal hum, finishing cutting out the circle with safety scissors they found. At least if they’re killed by a poltergeist it won’t be by overly sharp scissors.

Keith slaps the circle on the paper, eyes narrowed and determined. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

But he sets his hands on the paper anyway, fingertips brushing Keith’s as they start to slowly slide the improvised Ouija thingy over their improvised Ouija board.  They aimlessly slid it around the letters, the paper sticking to itself slightly.

It was silent between them. Which was new. They’re almost never quiet with each other, someone—usually Lance— saying something. It felt heavy. Weighed down. Like another presence in the room. Like a gho—

There was a lump in his throat as he tried to ignore the silence. His attention expanding all at once like someone turned the dial in his brain up to an eleven. And somehow that was better and worse than the silence. Every tiny sound from the wind rattling the windows to the minute creaking of the room, amplified by the silence between him and Keith, loud enough that it was distracting. The darkness so black there was color.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the soft shh shhhof the paper. Ignoring the shuffling sounds in the walls his brain conjured up. Focusing on the soft huffs of breaths between them as his heartbeat took center stage as a rapid beating drum in his inner ear. Reminding him of how all those victims in horror movies could hear their blood pumping as they died. Pushing down that voice in the back of his head reminding him of all the stupid horror movies he watched like Paranormal 3 or The Ring or The Conjuring—

“So how are we supposed to contact them or whatever?!” Lance said, a little too fast, a little too loud, trying to drown out the voice and images flashing across the forefront of his mind.

“I don’t know, don’t you just shout at the spirits to make contact and they… just… do?”

“Why are you asking me?!” His heartbeat was loud as he looked at Keith, fuzzy with black at the edges as his eyes adjusted again.

Keith’s jaw and eyes were tense, little lines creasing at the corners as he stared down that their hands.  “I don’t know! I don’t like this any more than you!”

“You know, if we were smart we would just leave.”

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t fix anything!”

“We’d be fixing our lives, Keith!”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“You know,” Lance brought up his hands, clapping them together, mouth pressed in a straight line, “this is a bad idea. We should go and leave and come back in the morning.”

“Fine. You go, I’m staying.” Keith crossed his arms, mouth firm as he stared at Lance.

Maybe another time Lance would have left. Shouted something at how he was just being plain stupid. Which he was! But he could see the rapid pace of Keith’s jugular in his neck. How pale he was, his fingers rubbing together. His normally pink and plush bottom lip thin and white as he bit it.

He sat back down.

He really wanted to find his friends and leave, and while he knew somewhere deep down they were not being haunted a bigger and louder voice was telling him there was a chance. A slim chance but there was this big, gaping possibility. And he would never forgive himself if Keith got his guts ripped out by a ghost if this possibility happened to come alive.

“Fuuuck, I hate this.” He glared at Keith who looked at him with relief, the tension between his eyes a little less stressed, his shoulders relaxed away from his ears. Lance could feel his heart kick up a notch and he didn’t think it was because of ghosts this time. He intensified his glare. “I hate you.”

Keith smiled at him. “You ready to contact the dead.”

Lance shook his head. “Jesus fuck.” Put his hands back onto the paper circle.

“Spirits,” Keith called out, eyes darting to the corners of the room. “Please. Let us help you.”

They waited a beat. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to feel like to use an Ouija board, if there was supposed to be a pull or a tug or, hell, an electric shock or something. But he was getting zip. He looked at Keith who just shrugged.

Keith called out again. “If there’s anyone here, please say something.”

This time Lance closed his eyes, who knows maybe the ghost was shy or something. He let his hands slide side to side with Keith’s, not feeling a particular pull but—

Fuck

Lance shot his eyes open. Heart beating fast and this time it definitely was not because Keith had a cute smile or pretty eyes. He heard something.

That shuffling from before. In the walls. It wasn’t in his head but he could hear it. In the room. Around him. And once he heard it heard it he couldn’t un-hear it.

“Keith,” he whispered. “I think I hear something.”

Keith looked at him with wide eyes, so wide he could see how his purple-blue-indigo irises were nearly engulfed by fear, the pupils only leaving a thin rim of color surrounding them.

“What,” he whispered back.

The sound traveled. Started at the back, right behind him and the couch and moved. And if his body wasn’t fucking paralyzed it would be shaking because that’s how his insides felt. Organs trembling as the rest of it locked up tight.

He didn’t look, didn’t want to look. Looking only makes it real; he’ll see whatever is there and get his face eaten off by a fucking demon. But he could still hear. Hear how that scrabbling turned to scratching. And by now, with him being so quiet, barely breathing, Keith could hear it too.

They locked eyes, both hearing it. Adrenaline starting a slow course through his veins, muscles twitching, heart jumping. He could see how Keith’s eyes slowly slide from his and he squeezed his fingers bringing them back to him.

He mouths, “I don’t see anything.”

Lance squeezes his eyes shut until colors flash in a kaleidoscope behind his eyelids, the scratching sound even louder, getting closer. Nails on a chalkboard, nails at his throat.

It was a ghost. It was a fucking ghost and he and Keith were gonna die and their corpses were gonna be found in the morning because of course Halloween was on a school’s day—

He felt a ghostly hand brush against the small of his back and he fucking leaped—

Straight into Keith's lap screaming. Keith’s hands fisting in the back of his shirt shouting in his ear so loud it was going to be ringing the next day— if he lived.

Heart in his throat he waited for the ghosts to do some shit where they pried him off of the newfound lifeline he had grasped in his arms, pulled around the room and shook like a doll.

And all of a sudden it was bright. Bright, bright, bright, bright. And all he could think of was ’do ghosts glow?’before he heard.

“What the fuck is wrong?!”

He shot his eyes open, black dots and bright light blinding him for a second before he could see Hunk and Pidge in the doorway eyes wide with panic.

Throat sore, he stopped screaming Keith quieting down soon after though both of their chests heaved as they tried to catch their breaths.

“What. The fuck. Is wrong?!” Pidge shouted again.

No ghost. The light was on. His friends were here. He dropped his head to Keith’s shoulder and breathed. Arms tightened around him.

Not looking up, he declawed his hand from Keith’s back, waving it at his friends. “Wanna explain, Keith?”

He felt a similar press of a forehead against his shoulder, the sigh fanning across his collarbones. Keith murmured something into his shirt.

Using his body he shook them both. “Come on, Keith, tell them what your idea was.”

Another sigh. “ We tried to use an Ouija board to contact the spirits.”

“Eh, eh, eh, it was Keith’sidea! All his! I wanted to leave!”

“You would’ve left without me?” Hunk said, pouting. He placed a hand on his chest. “Buddy, I’m hurt.”

Lance reached a hand towards him. “No, no, buddy! I would’ve found you first and then booked it!”

Hunk thought for a moment before nodding. “Accepted.”

“I told you guys there were so such things as ghosts,” PIdge said, exasperated.

Keith finally let him go to turn around. “But we did make contact with the ghosts!”

“Yeah!” Lance nodded, fervently, backing up what Keith was saying. “There was a ghost and it touchedme!”

Pidge squinted and looked between them while Hunk’s face screwed up in horror. “How did this hypothetical ghost make contact?”

“There was a lot of scratching noises, like it was in the walls and, again, it touched me!”

Pidge's suspicion fell from their face, expression blank. They smacked their lips together and looked at Hunk. The big guy losing the horrified look on his face, lighting up in relief and understanding. Pidge blinked slowly before bringing up a hand to rub at their forehead, pointing their other hand toward the cabinet doors. “I found your fucking ghost, morons.”

As one, Keith and Lance turned to look and found a little mouse cowering in front of the cabinet. It paced in front of the doors, little claws scrabbling at the wood, trying to find its way in.

Lance felt blood rush to his face and shared a look with Keith, who was also red from the tips of his ears to where it disappeared under the collar of his shirt. He cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from Keith to look at Pidge and Hunk sheepishly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“It’s a good thing you got the lights going,” Keith piped in, cheeks still red.

Hunk’s nose wrinkled. “Actually, we didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Lance asked.

“When we got there everything was fine. Nothing looked out of place and we didn’t know what to fix, so we just left and were going to tell Coran in the morning.”

“The lights came back on when we were walking back and heard you yahoos screaming,” Pidge finished.

Lance took a deep breath. Nerves fried and muscles sore from being so tense. That entire fiasco might have been a mouse but no. Just no. He’s not risking it. He got up and helped Keith up, a single-minded mission to get the fuck out of dodge.

“Okay, we’re all leaving.” He grabbed their backpacks and tossed them to their owners and started shooing them out the door despite Pidge’s protests and Hunk’s comments about cleaning up. “Let’s go.” Next to them another painting from the art wall fell. “NOW!”

A/N: okay, yes, it might be a day late for Halloween but in my defense I got sick and my body snuck up on me and hit me over the head with a club

[bnhascribbles]

Better Late Than Never

Kirishima x Reader

Music AU, Fluff, Pining; A (late) birthday present for the vibrant @sunlikesthis!  Kirishima is precious and SO ARE YOU MY PAL.  YOU’RE FRIEND CAN’T FINISH STUFF ON A DEADLINE SO HAVE SOME FOOLS THAT HAVE THE SAME PROBLEM.

Words: 3K

Warnings: Swearing (only slightly because Bakugo)

The first thing that strikes you is the fact that it is absolutely freezing in the hall.  Then again, that was the case at all of these concerts; the AC always seemed to be cranked up to “Antarctica,” and the fact that your clothes are sopping wet only helps the chill seep into your bones that much faster.  The second thing you notice is that the lights are already out, the stage already lit up, the quintet already...performing?  No, they couldn’t be—maybe they were just warming up.  With the lights off.  For a silent crowd.  You hang back against the wall, checking your phone and doing what you can to cover up some of the light from the screen.  When you see the time, it takes all the restraint in you not to gasp over the sound of the group onstage.

You were late, and not in the fashionable way either, if that rule could even be applied to musical performances (it can’t).  The rain—it must’ve been the rain.  People always forgot how to drive when the sky got even a little cloudy, and you could never trust buses to arrive on time, even on sunny days.  You thought you’d accounted for that.  Keyword: thought.

The musicians were already well into their piece and you’d just walked in and slammed the double doors behind you like some sort of moron that’s never been to a recital before.  You become acutely aware of the eyes on you—the old woman shaking her head in the corner, the mother and son glaring daggers at you as you just stand there, frozen and looking just a little too casual in your soaked tee and sneakers.  The way they saw it, you were probably the poster child for “what not to do as an audience member.”  Your head throbs, the weight of the sheer embarrassment threatening to topple you and create an even bigger scene.

With legs like jelly, you shuffle down an aisle, crawling over more than one frustrated concert-goer and sinking into the first empty seat you find.  You can still feel their stares though, and somewhere at the back of your mind, a little voice tells you to stand right back up and nope out of there before anything can get worse.  It’s tempting, but then again, listening to it would mean you’d have to do that weird seat-waddle thing through the aisle again.  Your shoes are full of water too—there’d definitely be some sloshing on the way out, and that wouldn’t really help make your escape any more subtle.  It would also mean you’d be breaking your promise to Kirishima.  That would be worse than any amount of embarrassment you could ever experience.  You might be a disaster, but you were a disaster that supported your friends, dammit.  That meant that your personal policy on tardiness at recitals was a bit more lenient today—a “better late than never” sort of deal.  

Hands pressed firmly to the sides of your face (like that’ll do anything to hide you from the looks), you peer up at the stage.  Kirishima’s there beneath the blinding beams of light, sitting right of center-stage with his trumpet propped in his lap.  He looks impossibly casual—in his element—even decked out in a suit and tie instead of his usual cargo-pants-and-crocs getup.  Casting a quick glance at Bakugo across from him, then to his music below, Kirishima lifts his instrument to his lips, begins to play.  You’ll never understand how he does that, how he just performs and forgets about the hundred pairs of eyes trained on him while he does it.  You know from experience (some of it very, very recent) the way that any sort of attention could shake a person, make them feel like they’re breathing underwater—dizzy and nauseous with lungs that can’t seem to do their job right.  But you suppose that’s the difference between him and you.  He’s meant to be a frontman: his sound is strong and his disposition perpetually sunny—he’s the sort of person that people flock to without even realizing it.  And of course he has to be humble about it; Kirishima couldn’t just be an egotistical jerk like Bakugo.  No, he had to be perfectly kind, perfectly charming, and perfectly out of your league.  In regards to friendship and...anything else.

Not that you need more with Kirishima.  Friendship is fine.  Friendship is awesome.  Sure, that intense look he gets whenever he practices makes something curl up on itself deep in your belly.  Sure, whenever he gives you one of those playful pats on the back, you wish he would linger for just a little bit longer. 

Sure, you can’t seem to shake the image of his hard body melting into yours—a fantasy where your hands are knotted into his wild hair, dragging him in closer as you gasp, finally begin to understand what all those long hours spent perfecting embouchure and technique were good for when he starts to—

But friendship.  Right.  Your friendship with Kirishima is perfectly acceptable.

The piece ends in what feels like a minute.  You barely notice.  It takes thunderous applause all around you to snap you from your trance, and you join in clapping before anyone can find another reason to accuse you of being disrespectful.  The group stands, instruments at their sides, and they bow, but you’re hyperfocused on Kirishima.  He’s squinting into the audience, nose crinkled and sweat dripping down his forehead.  Searching.  You can’t imagine it’ll do any good; you’re not in the seat you’re supposed to be in—the one he’d reserved specifically for you—and the blinding stage lights shining down on him probably don’t make looking for any one particular person easy.  Still, the silent moment of recognition that passes over his face when his eyes scan over your area of the crowd makes you think, just maybe, he sees you there.  Kirishima grins wide, lopsided, and you can feel your heart do a minuet in your freakin chest.  Because he looks good when he does it.  Really good actually.  And he isn’t looking away, even when he sits—when the rest of the quintet starts fumbling through their sheet music in preparation for the next piece.  

It takes a subtle, but firm, kick to the shin from Bakugo and a whispered something from Sero on his right to get Kirishima back in his “performer mode,” emptying the valves on his instrument and flipping through the paper on his stand.  Kaminari and Ashido turn to each other with these smirks plastered across their faces, and it’s barely a second before that earns a murderous glare from Bakugo.  Their smiles don’t fade, not even a bit, but they shift in their seats, sitting up a little straighter.  The damage is done though—you feel fuzzy and hot and hopeful.  And maybe you’re reaching, but you think you see a bit of a pink color creeping up Kirishima’s neck.  That’s only fuel for your fire.

The rest of the concert passes in a blur.  You can’t say you exactly remember standing up for the final applause, nor elbowing your way out the hall and into the lobby, nor walking outside and looping around the building to stand, shivering at the backstage entrance.  Your damp clothes feel like they’re covered in icicles by the time someone finally swings open the door, nearly knocking into you in the process.

The encounter is a surprise for both of you, so much so that for a second, you’re seriously concerned Ashido is going to use her French horn case to bludgeon you.  Thankfully, she only gets as far as drawing her arm back in preparation for the swing before a bit of light from inside reaches your face.  Ashido lowers her “weapon” and clutches her chest in relief.

“Oh my god,” she pants, leaning on the doorframe for support, “oh my god, oh my god, you scared the shit out of me.  I thought you were gonna murder me or something.”

You swallow hard, choking down most of your own shock before speaking.  “I could say the same for you.  Do you always swing first and ask questions later?”

Ashido lets out a short laugh, having caught her breath a bit.  “Only when the other person looks like the fuckin’ grim reaper.”  She blinks and gives you a once-over.  “Seriously, how are you not actually, like, dead?  Or at least frozen?  You’re soggy and...where’s your coat?”

“Didn’t have time to grab it; had practice earlier today, so I ran home to drop my instrument then booked it to the bus stop.  I still wound up getting here late.”  You sigh, remembering the horror of it all.

“So you were late—big deal.  You know, it’s fine to miss a concert or two if you’re busy.”

“It is a big deal, Mina.  And it’s not fine to just be a flake when—.”

“—when Eijiro is the one inviting you.”  Ashido finishes your sentence, lips twisting up into a familiar smirk—mischievous and all-knowing.  Your brain shoots into panic mode at the suggestion, and you frantically search for anything witty or sarcastic or just plain contradictory to shoot back with.  You’re at a complete loss though, your mouth forming the words without any sound coming out.

“Just get inside already.  Things’ll never get interesting between you two if you die of frostbite now”  Ashido ushers you through the door and into the warmth, still doing absolutely nothing to contain her smug expression.  When you scowl, she rolls her eyes and gives you a gentle shove forward.  “Kidding, kidding.  Come on, ever heard of a joke?”

“No.”  You deadpan, peering back at her over your shoulder.  Ashido gives you another shove, and you’re about to tell her off, but before you can, you’re colliding with something—something that feels like a boulder wearing a suit jacket.

Kirishima grabs your shoulder as you bounce off his chest, steadying you before you have the chance to fall back too far.  Ashido cackles the entire way out to the parking lot—you can hear her shrill laughter long after the door slams behind her.  

“Hey!” Kirishima greets you a little too loud, obviously caught off guard by the whole scene.  It only takes him a second to recover though, and once he does, he flashes a toothy grin and gives your shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Fancy bumping into you back here.”  

You groan.  “Puns don’t suit you, Eijiro—leave em’ to Kaminari.”

“Aw, really?  I thought that one was pretty good, though!”

“Nope.  Stick to trumpet; if today’s concert is any indication, you’re way better at that anyway.”

He chuckles and ruffles his hair with his free hand, smile softening a bit.  “I’m glad you made it.”

“Me too.”  You say, a smile forcing its way across your lips.  That always seemed to happen when you were around Kirishima, and you like to pretend you don’t know already know why.  “The rain slowed me down so I wasn’t even sure I’d make it in time.  But better late than never, right?”

“Right.”

There’s a moment of silence between the pair of you—the sort that happens when neither person has the slightest clue how to continue the conversation.  You definitely weren’t going to be the one to say “see ya’” or “bye,” mostly because you really didn’t want to; Kirishima had been busy all month prepping for today, and seeing as you hadn’t even gotten to speak with him before the recital (once again thank you so much public transportation), you were seriously falling short of your “Kiri Quota” for the week.  Consequences associated with a failure to meet it included: an empty feeling in your chest, an unexplainable preoccupation with the color red, a sudden desire to google pictures of crocs, and the inability to stop thinking about how good his lips would feel if he’d just lean in a little and—

No!  Bad!  You need to stop doing this—stop daydreaming, stop making up these impossible scenarios in your head.  Your crazy games of what if were the reason these awkward silences even started happening in the first place.  

One little comment from Bakugo had been all it’d taken.  Seriously.  One exasperated exclamation of “just fuckin’ get together already” shouted in a drunken stupor had been enough to create a rift between you and Kirishima.  Which was ridiculous really, because if anything was meant to happen between the two of you, it would’ve happened already.  One of you would’ve abandoned all your fears of horrible embarrassment and a wrecked friendship and would’ve just gone for it.  That's the way it worked, right?  Because if it didn’t...well then, hell, you didn’t know what you were supposed to do.

The buzz of the lights is almost deafening.  Kirishima shifts in place while you clench your jaw tight in a desperate attempt to keep your teeth from chattering.  

“Are you—”  You both begin at the same time, then stop abruptly.

“You first.”  The two of you do it again, laughing nervously when you end up copying each other a second time.

“You cold?”  Kirishima offers.  You raise an eyebrow and his eyes drift down to your folded arms, hands nestled tightly beneath your armpits.  The moment you notice his gaze, they fly out, adopting a frantic, placating gesture.

“Oh, I’m fine!  My clothes are just a little wet from earlier and you know how the staff likes to turn up the air, even when it’s negative whatever degrees outside.”  You shove your hands back to their original place.  “It’s alright—really.”

Kirishima nods like he understands, but still pulls his hand back from your shoulder and shrugs off his suit jacket.  

“Eiji—”

He cuts you off before you can finish.  “I was actually thinking it was hot in here.  Besides, I’m gonna be hauling chairs and stuff and I don’t need to sweat while I do it.”  Kirishima reaches around you and places his coat over your shoulders.  “So this works better for both of us, right?”

You huff, but that’s the extent of your complaining.  Because it is warmer—you can still feel the residual heat from Kirishima’s body lingering in the fabric.  You try to pretend that fact doesn’t make the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

You clear your throat, resolving to ask your question and distract yourself.  “Are you sticking around to pack up?”

Kirishima sighs, heavy.  “Yeah.  There’s not a ton to do, but Katsuki will kill me if I leave before him.  As it is, he’s already pissed that Mina bailed on us.”  

“I can help if you need a pair of extra hands.”  You offer.

“Nope.  You’re my guest, so I’m not gonna have you lugging around our stuff for us.  That’s what Hanta and Denki are for.”

“But I’m—”

“We’re good.”  Kirishima assures you.  “With the four of us, we’ll have it done in, like, 10 minutes.  Just hang tight and, if you’re willing to wait, I’ll give you a ride home.”  He extends his hand outward towards you.  “Deal?”  

You take it, but make sure that he can see you rolling your eyes when you do it.  “Fine, I’ll wait.”

Kirishima gives your hand a firm shake.  But once that’s done, he doesn’t let go.  When his thumb brushes up against your knuckles, just barely there, you tell yourself it’s chance—he has something he’s forgotten to say and he doesn’t want you rushing off into a dressing room before he can say it.  When he rubs at the bottom half of his face with his free hand, covering the beginnings of a blush, you convince yourself it’s because he really is hot—in the temperature sort of way, of course.  When his face seems to drift in closer to yours, agonizingly slowly, millimeter by millimeter, you discount that as...well, you don’t have an explanation for that yet.  At least, not one that won’t get your hopes up.  

Still, you can’t help it.  You find yourself chewing on your bottom lip and leaning in, determined to meet him halfway.

Before you can, a gruff voice calls out from beyond the stage door.  “Take your fuckin’ time, Kirishima!  Not like we’re waiting for you or anything!”

Kirishima practically throws your hand and hops back, expression looking almost guilty as he peers over his shoulder, then back at you.  Then he laughs, but it’s completely forced.  Awkward and full of tension.

“Uh, I’ll be right back.  So just—” he rubs furiously at his jaw, “—don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“I’ll wait right here.”  You say, scratching at the back of your neck and praying that your feeble voice doesn’t betray you.  

Kirishima nods and, as you watch him hurry away, your insides are churning.  Damn Bakugo for starting this fiasco, and damn him for not letting you see it through to the end.

Thankfully, you don’t have much time to feel sorry for yourself.  Kirishima groans just as he reaches the stage door.  He presses his clenched fists to the wall beside the doorframe, just for a second, then turns on his heel and faces you once again.  His expression is much different than it had been before.  It’s intense—like the look he gets when he’s practicing.  When he has a goal in mind.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore.”  He says, his voice gravelly and strained.

Kirishima stomps back over to you in a hurry, and before you have the chance to question him, he takes the sides of your face in his hands.

“Better late than never?”

You understand the meaning of the question immediately, and your pulse beats wildly for it.

“Better late than never.”  You exhale, pressing your forehead to his.

And then he kisses you.  Hard.  You suppose that his way of making up for lost time.