#anyway i just got hit with the memory of that existing and the working escalator being the pinnacle of technological advancement

[figueroths]

barbie this barbie that where are my melanie’s mall girlies

[eliemo]

Behind Closed Doors

Summary: The light sides are still learning how to help Virgil recover, and Virgil is still learning how to ask for what he needs. 

TWs: past abuse, blood and violence mention, past manipulation, yelling, arguments, misunderstandings 

Notes: This chapter literally would not exist without @self-taught-mess​ they’re amazing I love them - sympathetic light and dark sides, taglist at the end

Masterpost

It wasn’t like he’d never had any privacy before. 

Virgil had spent most of his life alone, and as much as he’d hated it, the isolation had been preferable to the beatings. 

Everybody had wanted as little to do with him as possible, and he’d understood perfectly. The only time any of the Others would enter his room was when they were furious, throwing open his door without warning, slamming it against the wall so loud it sent Virgil’s anxiety skyrocketing before a hand was even put on him. 

Now...just like with so many other things, the rules around his privacy were proving to be different. 

The light sides actually came to see him. He spent less time cooped up in his room now that he was gradually starting to feel welcome, slowly learning not to be so terrified to just walk into a room. 

If he tripped or stumbled, if the floor creaked under his weight or if he talked just a little too long...they wouldn’t hurt him. They’d promised they wouldn’t, swore to him no one ever would again, and Virgil was beginning to trust them. Slowly. It was still...hard to believe that things could actually be this nice for him. 

And when he was in his room, safe and closed off, he quickly realized how much...calmer it was when people came to see him. Virgil was always hyper aware of movement outside his door, of footsteps in the hallway coming closer, of someone angry storming towards his room. He was still working on memorizing each of the light side’s footsteps, but it soon proved unnecessary. 

They seemed to understand he liked his space, but when they did come to find him in his room, Patton and Logan always knocked. Other than the few times Deceit had needed to speak to him, no one had bothered to do that before. 

Then again, before the light sides no one had come into his room with any intention other than to punish him. There was no need for knocking when he was in trouble anyway. 

Patton’s knocking was slow and gentle, and the moral side would always call out to make sure Virgil was alright with company before opening the door. 

Logan’s knocks were quick and curt, but there was no aggression or impatience to the sound, and he always waited until Virgil said it was ok to come in. 

Roman had been careful to give Virgil his space when he was up in his room, but the two of them had gotten closer in the recent weeks, and there had been a few times Roman would come to him for help with an idea or an invitation to movie night. 

It didn’t take Virgil long to realize that Roman...didn’t knock. 

Which shouldn’t be a big deal. At all. Of course Roman didn’t knock- he was Roman. He was grand and dramatic and he liked to make an entrance, barging into rooms with dazzling smiles and powerful words. 

And of course it didn’t matter to anyone else, because no one was pathetic enough to dwell on meaningless things like that. God- this was why people wanted to hurt Virgil. He was annoying and panicked over stupid little things like the way someone entered a room. 

Nobody had ever knocked on his door before. So Roman not knocking shouldn’t be fazing him in the slightest. 

Except...except before, whenever someone would enter his room without warning, it meant they were angry enough that the beating couldn’t wait until Virgil came downstairs. 

He knew Roman wouldn’t hurt him- he knew that. Roman had been the first one to promise him safety, to hold him and tell him he didn’t deserve that, to swear to protect him as vigilantly as Virgil protected everyone else. 

But every time Roman would barge into his room, footsteps thundering in the hallway just seconds before the door flew open, Virgil had a hard time remembering that. 

The sickening panic would return each time, defenses raising automatically, Virgil hunching his shoulders and tensing, waiting for screams and punches that of course didn't come. 

He always missed the first few things Roman said, busy fighting to calm himself down before the Prince could notice his distress. 

Because how pathetic would that be, if they found out a door opening was enough to make him want to throw up? Each time he had to fight to keep himself from scrambling under his bed in a desperate attempt to hide from a punishment that wasn’t going to come. 

So he stayed silent. They already had to be ridiculously careful around him, he didn’t want to risk pushing his luck by asking for something else. 

He should have known that plan was bound to go wrong. Most things in his life always seemed to. 

Virgil was already tense and on edge from a particularly bad nightmare, hiding out in his room all morning, still too anxious to go to anyone for help despite them assuring him it was alright if he needed it. 

So when Roman burst into his room, calling his name with his usual extravagance, it was of little surprise to Virgil that he snapped before he could stop himself. 

“Jesus Christ, will you just knock?” 

Roman froze, smile dropping slightly as he furrowed his brow at Virgil. “Well excuse me, Doom and Gloom. You wouldn’t hear it anyway if you have your headphones in.” 

“Yes I would,” Virgil argued. Unless he needed the noise to drown out rising panic, he always kept his music quiet enough to hear movement outside his door. “But still, it doesn’t mean you can just barge in like you own the place. What if- what if I’m changing or something?” 

Roman scoffed, and Virgil suddenly felt small and cornered. “Oh, please. You mean the two seconds it takes to snap our fingers to switch clothes? Wanna try another excuse, Stormcloud?” 

Even the familiar nickname, usually gentle and endearing, felt cold and patronizing now. Roman smirked and crossed his arms, and Virgil knew the Prince was just teasing him. He’d been a dick, and Roman was responding with their usual banter. 

Virgil swallowed, frantically trying to come up with an excuse. ‘I blindly panic every time my door opens because I think you’re going to beat me’ would just make things awkward, and Roman would probably laugh and call him ridiculous. Or get angry. “Well...what if…”

He trailed off as Roman raised a cocky eyebrow. “Yes?” 

“Well maybe I just don’t want you in my room, Princey!” 

He shouldn’t be getting defensive, he shouldn’t be lashing out to combat the sudden panic in his chest. He should just tell Roman he wasn’t in the mood- tired from another round of nightmares- and if the Prince didn’t leave right now, things would only escalate. 

“Oh, please,” Roman scoffed. “Of course you do. You need something to lighten the mood in here. Were you planning on sitting in the dark all day?” 

He had- at least until the tension in his muscles had seeped away, the nightmare becoming nothing more than a faded memory, and he could function like a human being again. He really, really was not up for company, and he would have said as much if Roman had just knocked. 

“Maybe,” Virgil snapped. “I didn’t realize that was a problem.” 

He tried not to think about how if he’d ever dared to speak this way to one of the Others, he’d have already been a bloody mess on the floor. 

“It’s not a problem,” Roman replied instantly, his voice a bit too sharp for Virgil’s liking. He won’t hurt him, he would never hurt him. He had to keep repeating the mantra in his head. 

Roman continued with a quick flip of his wrist, moving his hair from his face in usual dramatic fashion. It really shouldn’t have put Virgil so on edge. “I just can’t understand why you always hermit away in here. I’m just coming in here to say hello, and personally I think you should be honored that I actually want to step foot in here at all.”

Did Roman sound angry? No. No, he...he was just annoyed. Irritated and judgy, maybe, but not angry.

 So there was no reason Virgil should be curling up just a bit tighter to try and hide how bad he was shaking. He really needed Roman to leave before he noticed. 

“Yeah, okay, well maybe not everyone thinks the way you do, Princey,” he snapped back, voice just as sharp as Roman’s had been, if not more so. “Maybe if people wanted you in their rooms they’d invite you.” 

Roman scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Knight in Shaking Armor. If we waited for an invitation we’d never see you.”  

Ok, ouch. It wasn’t Virgil’s fault he’d spent his entire life thinking that everyone would try to hurt him if he stepped out of his room. (Yes it was. It was his fault, he was the one stupid enough to believe it.) 

“What’s your deal?” Virgil demanded, ignoring the dark, terrified thoughts telling him to just shut up before he got hit. “Jesus, I just asked you to knock! I didn’t realize you had such a problem with privacy, Princey.” 

“Well maybe I’d respect your privacy if you weren’t being such a jerk about it!” 

Virgil reared back like he’d been struck, stomach dropping as his heart began to pound. He knew he was pushing Roman unfairly but he hadn’t thought...he’d just kind of hoped the light sides would be more gracious about this sort of thing. 

A naive part of him had hoped they hadn’t had rules like that at all.

Virgil was still the embodiment of anxiety, still wired to respond solely with fight or flight. He was already in his room, practically cornered, which meant there was nowhere else to flee for safety. 

Fight took over Virgil’s instincts. He could feel adrenaline start up through his veins as he moved to the edge of the bed and sat up straighter, glaring at the Prince still in his doorway.

“Roman, I swear to god it’s not that difficult to knock on a freaking door. I do it before bursting into your room, but you can’t return the favor?” Virgil gripped his bed sheets to hide how bad his hands were shaking. He suddenly couldn’t convince himself he wasn’t in danger. 

“Seriously, I thought  you were supposed to be a Prince.” Virgil’s own voice was reminding him of the growl of a frightened animal, guarded and too aggressive for this to still be considered friendly banter. 

“Oh, forgive me for not obeying your every command, Virgil. I came in here to be nice. I didn’t expect to be shouted at the moment I stepped inside! You’re being utterly uncouth!” 

“Uncouth?” he echoed. “Roman will you stop being a child and just get out of my room?” 

Roman rolled his eyes but at least took a step back out into the hall, not bothering to close the door as he went. “Fine. I’ll just go tell Logan and Patton how ridiculous you’re being.” 

And then he was gone, storming down the hallway with an undeniable air of anger and frustration, and Virgil was left completely frozen on his bed with the dawning realization of what he’d just done. 

Maybe...maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he didn’t have to panic yet. They’d stopped themselves from hurting him, even weeks after their promise, so maybe they didn’t have any plans to use nonviolent punishment either. 

He...he knew better than to really believe that. But maybe if he hurried, if he explained himself, they would understand and give him another chance. Because for the first time, he had people who actually accounted for his feelings before making a decision.

Looking back on the way he’d just treated Roman, he didn’t understand why they didn’t just grab him by the hood and slam him against the wall until he couldn’t see straight. 

He scrambled off his bed, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a moment to breathe, to will himself to stop trembling. Nobody was screaming for him, nobody was marching up the stairs to tell him of his punishment yet. He still had time to fix things. 

Roman’s remark about earning privacy was still ringing in his ears, an unfortunately familiar warning, and Virgil knew all too well what that would entail. But maybe he’d take it back if Virgil just swallowed his pride and apologized. 

He made his way down the hall, silently hoping he could make it downstairs before everyone decided it was best to go back to treating him like the villain. 

Those hopes quickly vanished when he made it to the bottom of the stairs and was immediately met with three pairs of eyes, all with varying levels of confusion and annoyance. 

“Oh, look who it is,” Roman announced and Virgil flinched, gripping the railing like a lifeline. “Patton, will you tell our local hermit to please control himself?” 

“Kiddo,” Patton warned, but quickly turned his gaze back on Virgil, frowning slightly. “Logan and I could hear you two yelling from down here. What’s going on?”

Virgil shrugged, suddenly intensely focused on his feet. “Nothing.” 

“He wanted me to knock,” Roman explained with a huff. “Which of course I would have done, if he had asked politely.” 

Logan raised a curious eyebrow, briefly glancing between the two. “Virgil, if there are boundaries you would like us to be aware of, you only need to say. There is no reason for a request like that to turn into an argument.” 

“Yeah,” Virgil muttered, fighting against the urge to flee. “I know.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Roman cross his arms, and he had to remind himself over and over again that no one was going to strike him. Even if they should. “Then why are you so worked up about it?” 

And Virgil had fully intended on explaining, on getting across to Roman that he knew it was stupid and selfish but when his door opened without warning it was impossible to see through his panic, to convince himself he wasn’t about to be left bleeding on his floor for the next few hours. 

But now, with everyone staring at him expectantly, cheeks burning red under the attention, he...he couldn’t. “I’m...I’m just tired.”

Roman laughed, short and void entirely of any humor. “He was tired. Well that excuses everything, doesn’t it?” 

Patton was watching Virgil with something much too close to pity. “Kiddos--” 

“You used to lock yourself up in your room all the time,” Roman complained, and Virgil felt that same spike of defensive anger. Because that hadn’t been his fault. Wasn’t that what they’d been trying to teach him to accept? “We just don’t want that to happen anymore!” 

Virgil tensed, holding the railing so tight his knuckles turned white. He...he hadn’t been trying to isolate himself again. Being welcomed and openly tolerated for the first time was one of the best feelings in the world. He wouldn’t trade his newfound family for anything. 

“Just...why are we even still talking about this? Why are you two involved?” 

He risked a glance up, wincing at the cold glare Roman was giving him, and the obvious confusion from Patton and Logan. 

“Because anger is not an effective way to communicate,” Logan said. “I understand that it is what you are used to, but it needs to be--” 

“Don’t say that to me,” Virgil snapped because- because no. No. He wasn’t doing that. He was not acting like the Others. He wasn’t like them. “Don’t ever say that to me, Logan.” 

Logan tilted his head, clearly a bit irked at the interruption. “Apologies, Virgil. But am I...incorrect?” 

“Yes! N-no...I- I don’t--” 

“Alright,” Patton mercifully interrupted, but his patience sounded forced. Virgil briefly wondered which one of them would lose their temper and advance on him first. “I think we all need to settle down.” 

Roman waved a hand at the stairs, and Virgil was glad no one was looking to see him flinch. 

“But it’s his fault,” the Prince argued. “He got mad first! For no reason!” 

“I just-” Virgil groaned, running a shaky hand through his hair. “Look, just knock. It’s not hard.” 

Roman whirled back around to face him, eyes brimming with exasperation and anger. “But it doesn’t matter!” 

“Yes it does!” 

“Why?” 

Virgil opened his mouth to answer, but the words got caught in his throat. God, he was shaking so bad. Why couldn’t he just shut up and let them do whatever they wanted? They already put up with so much. 

The amount of pain he should have received as punishment for this conversation alone-

He couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t let himself panic. It wasn’t like that anymore. 

 “Look, it’s...it- it’s not…” He found himself glancing at Logan, who always seemed to somehow know what Virgil needed, but the logical side just raised an expectant eyebrow. Virgil groaned, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You- why are you being such an ass about this?” 

“Me?” Roman demanded, and if he noticed Virgil flinch back at the sudden rise in volume he didn’t say anything. “You’re the one getting worked up over something useless! I’m not going to adhere to your every wish, Virgil! Why does it matter?” 

“Because maybe I’m convinced everyone who comes into my room wants to kill me, Roman!” 

The outburst was met with silence, unreadable expressions on the other side’s faces. Roman opened his mouth to respond but Virgil wasn’t done. Anger had reared its head like an ugly beast, taking control in one last desperate defense. 

“Maybe if you all bothered to tell me otherwise sooner, I wouldn’t be such a- a hermit or whatever. I didn’t know it was such a problem- you never bothered to talk to me until I was useful, anyway!” 

That wasn’t fair, he knew that wasn’t fair. That hadn’t been their fault. He’d been horrible, a villain they all hated. It was his fault. It always was. 

The living room was silent now, all eyes on him, and Virgil fought the urge to pull up his hood and risked a cautious glance at Roman, who no longer looked quite so angry. Shocked, definitely, but not necessarily mad. 

Which was weird. Virgil was almost positive that if he’d taken that kind of tone with any of the Others, he probably wouldn’t be able to walk ever again. 

Logan cleared his throat and took a step forward, and Virgil instinctively flinched back with his arms raised to shield his face. 

“Virgil--” 

“Whatever,” he practically growled, and dammit his voice was shaking too much for them not to notice. “Just- forget it, guys.” 

And before anyone could call him back he stormed up the stairs, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed in his hoodie. He was still fuming, shaky and unfocused, and he channeled the rest of his anger into grabbing the handle and slamming the door to his bedroom as hard as he possibly could. 

It was hard enough to make the walls quiver, the sound like a gunshot ringing through the halls of the mindscape, and it made him feel better for about two seconds before he realized what he’d just done. 

Oh god. Oh god they were going to kill him. 

He’d started a pointless argument because he was too pathetic to get over something simple, and then he’d stood there and yelled at everyone like they had done something wrong. 

They weren’t going to hit him. They’d promised, and they’d proven over and over again that they didn’t intend on breaking that promise, no matter how horrible he was. 

And he’d certainly shown them just how horrible he could be today, hadn’t he? Maybe now they would finally understand why he’d been put through all those punishments for so long. It was so much easier to deal with him when he was in pain. 

The argument could be worked through. Maybe. But then he’d slammed his door and...and he knew what the punishment was for that. Roman had confirmed it himself. 

Virgil understood that. His room was a safe space, somewhere to stay when things got too overwhelming to manage, and for the most part the other sides understood that. 

So taking privacy away entirely was the most effective punishment they had access to since violence had already been taken off the table. 

It was preferable to the beatings, obviously, but it still made sickening panic coil in his gut at the thought of it. At least they seemed to be giving him some time to cool down before his punishment, the hallway outside completely silent. 

God, he was an idiot. He was so stupid. Why couldn’t he do one thing right? Why couldn’t he just be grateful for what he had and not ruin everything for once in his stupid life? 

He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to cry over his own mistake. That had always just gotten him in more trouble. 

Virgil pulled up his hood, breaths still short and shaking as he crawled back into bed where he’d already spent a majority of the day. Maybe the longer he stayed cooped up in here, the longer he could avoid the repercussions. 

It was unlikely. Punishments were never on his terms. 

He kept his eyes firmly shut, wrapping his blanket around him and burying his face in the pillow in a desperate attempt at letting everything fade for the time being. He was exhausted, both from the nightmares and the fight, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep and never wake back up. 

- 

He didn’t get his wish, unfortunately, but it was clear he’d at least managed to doze off for a couple hours, his room much darker than it had been before he’d shut his eyes, faint sunlight no longer shining through his curtains. 

At first he wasn’t sure what had woken him, everything still and silent, but then he heard the quiet knocking at his door again followed by a gentle voice. 

“Kiddo?” Patton called from the other side. “Can I come in?” 

Virgil groaned, still groggy and disoriented, wondering why Patton was still bothering to knock. He knew better than to push his luck by turning him away, taking a steadying breath before calling back. “Yeah. Come in, Pat.” 

Virgil pushed himself up into a sitting position, pulling his knees up to his chest as Patton slowly pushed open the door, hesitating in the entrance. 

“Hey,” he said softly, and Virgil wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer or not. “Did I wake you?” 

Virgil shrugged, eyes on his rumpled blankets. “It’s ok.” 

Patton continued to hesitate in the doorway, and Virgil scrambled to figure out why the moral side was still being so courteous. Was it some kind of trick? Was he trying to figure out how to best explain what the punishment would entail? 

“You up for talking, kiddo?” Patton asked, and Virgil knew better than to think he actually had a choice. “It can wait if you need some more alone time.” 

Virgil shook his head, heart beating frantically in his chest as he willed himself to stop trembling. The weaker he looked, the worse it always was. He cautiously raised his head to glance at Patton, a silent invitation. 

The moral side took a step forward before pausing again, hand hovering over the doorknob. “Do you want the door open or closed?” 

Virgil blinked, glancing between Patton and the hallway behind him. He didn’t...look angry, but the idea of having an accessible escape route set him at ease just a little. 

He couldn’t meet his gaze, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie. “Can you leave it open?” 

“Of course.” 

Virgil watched with tense shoulders as Patton, true to his word, left the bedroom door open and carefully made his way over to the bed where the anxious side was miserably hunched over and waiting. 

“Kiddo--” 

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said, cringing when he realized he’d interrupted. “I- I’m sorry for- for fighting with Roman and- and for yelling and...and for saying those things about you guys. That wasn’t- that wasn’t your fault. I- I should have tried harder but I was stupid, and I just didn’t--”  

“Slow down, Virgil,” Patton said softly, and Virgil instantly fell silent. “You’re not stupid. And we know you didn’t mean what you said.” 

Patton had slowly lowered himself down on the bed, keeping a few inches between them. He reached forward, slowly, and Virgil flinched back before he could stop himself, eyes going wide. 

Patton quickly pulled his hand back. “I’m not gonna hurt you, baby. It’s ok.” 

Virgil looked down at his lap, squeezing trembling hands into fists. He was hard enough to deal with normally, but he’d been awful today. He couldn’t imagine how much Patton was regretting his decision right now. 

“You...you can if you want,” Virgil said quietly. “I won’t- I won’t say anything.” 

Patton made a choked sound, eyes wide in disbelief. Virgil wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong this time, but he’d made him upset and all his defenses were suddenly up. 

“Sorry!” he said quickly. “S-sorry, I was just trying to--” 

“No, it’s alright,” Patton said, and Virgil jumped at the feeling of warm hands suddenly covering his own. “But I don’t want to hit you, sweetheart. I will never want that.” 

Virgil’s head was starting to hurt, spinning in the way it usually did whenever they had discussions like this. “But...but everyone’s mad.” 

“We had a fight,” Patton agreed, looking unbearably sad. “It got a little out of hand, and everyone needed some time to cool off. Do you think Roman should be hit?” 

“What?” The panic hit full force again, but for an entirely different reason, protective rage and disbelief clouding his vision just at the thought of the Prince being treated like that. “Jesus- no! Of course not!” 

Patton tilted his head slightly. “Then, why should you?” 

“Because…” Virgil trailed off, almost certain Patton wouldn’t like any answer he came up with. His voice was small and unsure when he spoke again. “I...I deserve it?” 

Patton shook his head, and Virgil wondered if he was even more annoyed at him for not understanding. 

“You don’t,” he said. “You don’t deserve to be hurt any more than me, Roman, and Logan do. You’re always gonna be safe here with us, honey. Even when we fight.” 

Patton looked genuinely hopeful, his hands still gently holding Virgil’s own, and even though it didn’t really make sense, Virgil found himself relaxing. Patton wasn’t going to hurt him. No one was going to hit him for this. 

“Ok,” he relented. “I’m...I’m still really sorry. For- for yelling and...and slamming my door and stuff.” 

“I appreciate that, kiddo,” Patton said. “And you and Roman need to talk this out when you’re ready. But first...can you tell me what happened?” 

Virgil shrugged, figuring it was fairly obvious. “I was being an ass.” 

Patton didn’t even correct his language, just squeezed his hand slightly and leaned forward to try and meet Virgil’s gaze. He suddenly felt like he was being read like an open book. 

“You lashed out,” Patton said, and Virgil winced. “And...while it’s not an excuse, you don’t do that unless you’re already on edge. So what’s going on?” 

Virgil swallowed, suddenly feeling trapped despite Patton’s gentle encouragement. “I’m just...I’m just tired and anxious. I get short tempered sometimes, you know that.” 

Patton was silent, clearly waiting for him to elaborate, and Virgil had a second of blind panic when he realized he wasn’t sure what the other side wanted him to say. 

Did it sound like Virgil was making excuses? Did he think he was lying? Was he expecting a different answer? 

Patton sighed, but he didn’t sound annoyed or impatient, giving Virgil’s hands another gentle squeeze. “Can you tell me why the knocking matters so much to you?” 

Virgil tensed, resisting the urge to pull his hands away. “It...it doesn’t.” 

“It does,” Patton said. “It obviously matters a lot.” 

“It doesn’t,” Virgil snapped, and- great, he was doing it again. “It- it’s dumb and selfish and I shouldn’t have yelled at Roman over it. I can- I can get over it.” 

He was absolutely not going to start crying over this. He didn’t think Patton would snap and hit him over it, but he knew how obnoxious it was to listen to. 

“Honey,” Patton said, in that gentle, understanding voice that could always coax Virgil out of his spiraling panic. “Can you please tell me what’s wrong?” 

Dammit. Patton really sounded like he cared, like nothing could convince him that it wasn’t just another one of Virgil’s useless problems that he needed to get over by himself. 

Virgil groaned, pulling his hands free despite the way his chest ached at the loss of comfort, instead moving to run them through his hair. 

“It...it’s just…” He closed his eyes again, deflating, suddenly too tired to keep fighting. “This- this is the first time anybody has come into my room because they wanted to. You guys- you guys want to see me when you come in here.” 

Patton was watching him carefully when Virgil opened his eyes, looking a little lost but beginning to understand. He nodded, gently urging him to continue. 

“Nobody...the Others never came to see me unless they...unless they were mad. And they- they didn’t bother to knock, obviously, if they were just- just going to h-hurt me. And then you and Logan knocked and- and I know it’s dumb but it just...made me feel like I had some control, you know?” 

He took a shaky breath, once again refusing to meet Patton’s eyes. “When Roman kept...walking in without warning I just...forgot. I kept forgetting I was safe. The only time someone had done that was when they were...you know. It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid and I can’t expect to--”

“Kiddo no.” Patton’s hands were suddenly slipping into Virgil’s again, and where he’d expected resentment or annoyance, Virgil found only quiet concern. “It’s not stupid! Not at all. Kiddo...Virgil, why didn’t you tell us?” 

Virgil shrugged again, hating how obvious his trembling had become. “Because it’s just...it’s just knocking. I shouldn’t...I can get over it, it’s--”

“It’s not just knocking to you,” Patton said. “It might be small to us, but that means it’s something we can easily do to make you feel safer, Virgil.” 

“But it’s stupid!” 

“It’s something you need,” Patton corrected, continuing over any halfhearted protests. “Remember what Logan said about your recovery? We’re all doing our best, but we’re gonna end up stepping all over your triggers sometimes. You don’t need to feel bad for helping us learn. You never should be afraid to ask us for something that makes you feel better.” 

Virgil couldn’t bring himself to pull away from Patton this time, just miserably curled in on himself and frantically tried to think of an acceptable response. “I...I’m sorry. For turning it into a fight.” 

“It’s alright,” Patton promised. “But you need to tell Roman and Logan why this is important to you, ok?” 

Virgil pushed down his panic, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get out of this. “Is Roman mad?” 

“Not anymore,” Patton said. “He knows he pushed you a bit, and he’s a little worked up about it. But he’ll be ok after you come down.” 

“It’s not his fault. I’m the one who--” 

“Placing blame isn’t important.” Patton slid off the bed, still holding Virgil’s hands, and carefully helped the anxious side to his feet. “Are you good to go downstairs? We can always wait.” 

“I’m...I’m good. I need to apologize.” 

Patton didn’t argue, just gave him a small smile and led them both out into the hall, hands still interlocked as they made their way down the stairs. 

Logan and Roman were in the living room when they arrived, sitting in silence on the couch and clearly waiting for whatever awkward scolding was inevitably going to occur after Virgil worked up the courage to properly explain himself. Great. 

“Hi,” he muttered, not sure how else to start, hesitating at the bottom of the stairs. He felt like a child, small and defenseless. “I’m...really sorry, you guys. All of you. I shouldn’t have snapped at you and- and I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean it.” 

Virgil heard Roman sigh, tensing on instinct until he glanced up to any anger or annoyance completely drained from his expression, his posture almost relaxed. 

“It’s alright, my Starry Night,” he said softly, and Virgil wanted to sob in relief. “I shouldn’t have gotten so defensive over something so silly.” 

And then the relief was gone, replaced with something cold and painful, and he suddenly remembered what had made him lash out in the first place. Because it...it wasn’t silly. It mattered to him. 

Luckily, he didn’t have the energy for anger anymore and Logan was speaking up before he could let himself say something stupid. 

“I also feel as though I should apologize,” he said, which was not what Virgil had been expecting. “While I was only attempting to decrease the tension, it appears I may have misspoken and succeeded in doing the opposite.” 

Virgil wrapped his arms around himself, trying not to dwell on the way he’d blindly snarled at Logan. “It’s fine, Lo. You didn’t do anything.”

“Still,” Logan said. “I want to make sure you are aware that it was not my intention to make any sort of comparison between you and...the people from your past. You are nothing like them, Virgil. And you never will be.” 

Virgil swallowed against the lump in his throat and quickly looked away, eyes suddenly embarrassingly wet. 

Roman made a sound that Virgil would have killed him for if he wasn’t suddenly so grateful for every person in this room. Even if he’d still lost the right to his privacy for however long they deemed appropriate, at least no one hated him. 

“Kiddo.” Patton was suddenly putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Virgil remembered they weren’t nearly done here. “Can you please tell them what you told me? About why it’s important to you?” 

Virgil thought he might actually prefer to fling himself into the sun than to admit it again, but Patton had said please and Roman was looking at him curiously, no judgment or tension to be seen. 

Besides, Roman deserved to know why he’d practically been screamed at out of nowhere, as shitty of an excuse as it was. 

“I still shouldn’t have yelled,” he said. “It’s just...before- before you guys, people only barged into my room if...if they were mad and didn’t want to wait until I came out to...do whatever they were gonna do to me. And I know it shouldn't be a big deal but- but when you open th-the door without knocking I just...panic. I- I forget that I don’t have to be afraid of you.” 

His words were met with heavy silence, and Virgil’s legs suddenly felt weak, knees wobbling under his weight. He dug his nails into his hoodie sleeves, refusing to meet Roman’s eyes, not ready to face any scorn or disbelief. 

“Virgil,” Roman said, barely a whisper. “Oh, Virgil I’m so sorry.” 

What?

Roman stood from the couch, but he didn’t approach or yell or call Virgil ridiculous. His eyes were wide and he looked...distressed? 

“I-I had no idea...Virgil I’m so sorry! I should never have gotten so angry with you, I...I should have just listened.”

“What?” Virgil hadn’t actually meant to speak aloud, but Roman was slowly walking forward, brimming with regret and hope as he reached for Virgil’s hands, which he numbly offered. “No, Roman don’t be- you literally couldn’t have known.”

“No, but I should have listened to you! I...I just thought...God, we always tell you to let us know how we can help you feel safe and- and I just got mad at you for it. I’m...Virgil I’m so very sorry.” 

“I should have just told you.” He’d messed up. He’d messed up, he’d lost privacy privileges and he’d made Roman upset. “I- I should have known you wouldn’t be mad. I don’t know why--” 

And then Roman had his arms around him, pulling him close in his familiar embrace of warmth and safety, and Virgil practically melted against his chest, returning the hug almost desperately. 

“Group hug!” Patton cheered, hurrying over to join as Virgil laughed. “You too Logan!” 

There was a sigh from the couch, though Virgil knew there was no real resentment from the logical side. “If I must.” 

The hug only lasted a minute or two, but Virgil let himself close his eyes and relax under the knowledge that he was still safe. Even if he’d messed up, even if he still needed to be punished, they weren’t going to hurt him. 

When they all pulled back, Roman lingered a moment with his hands ghosting over Virgil’s arms, smiling hopefully down at him. “Are we...good?” 

Virgil matched the smile, fighting to push down any thoughts of future punishment. “We’re good, Princey.” 

Patton actually clapped, grinning as he reached over to ruffle Virgil’s hair while Logan squeezed his shoulder, and Virgil was suddenly reminded that he was surrounded by the biggest dorks in the universe.  

“Thank you for informing us of the trigger, Virgil,” Logan said, blunt as ever but somehow...Virgil didn’t really mind. “You deserve to have control over who enters your room, and we will all be careful to respect your privacy in the future.” 

Virgil stepped back, a panicked ache returning to his chest at the reminder of what was coming. They were going to be careful in the future, which meant the world to him, but…

But he knew how this type of punishment went. He knew that he’d be suffering sleepless nights of staring into an empty hallway, always on edge and constantly looking over his shoulder, feeling miserably exposed and vulnerable. 

“Virgil?” Patton asked softly, and Virgil abruptly realized how tense he’d gotten, jaw clenched tight because he refused to cry over a punishment he deserved. “You ok?”

They were all so...nice. They were so, so kind to him. Maybe...maybe they’d be a little more lenient with this too? Maybe they’d at least tell him how long it would last in advance. 

“I- I know it’s kinda selfish to ask,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, but...how- how long until I can have it back?” 

His question was met with silence and blank stares, and he saw Patton frown and glance curiously at Logan, who furrowed his brow in response. 

Virgil flinched, even when no one moved, because he’d just managed to repair the damage he’d done, just gotten them to stop being angry with him, and now he’d messed everything up again-

“Virgil,” Logan said slowly, and Virgil warily met his eyes. “Until you can have...what back?” 

Virgil blinked and glanced briefly at the others, wondering if this was some kind of trick. But all he was met with were confused, worried stares, and he was painfully reminded of the first time he’d asked when they planned on hitting him. 

“My...my door?” 

He immediately regretted saying anything when Logan’s eyes went wide. “Your door?” 

“Wait, you think we’re going to take your door?” Patton asked, sounding oddly alarmed. “Why on earth would we do that?” 

“Because...because I have to earn privacy,” he said, like it was obvious. He sort of thought it was. “I was loud and I- I yelled. And I slammed my door, so obviously--” 

“Did they do that to you?” Patton asked. “Did they...did they say you had to earn your privacy?” 

“I- I mean, yeah. If I was too loud and they didn’t think I learned my lesson with...you know...the usual stuff, they’d take it down for a while.”

“Kiddo--” 

“Only sometimes, though,” he added, like he needed to defend them. “They- they knew I got really on edge when I couldn’t...uh, close myself off. I- I can’t really sleep without my door, so could it...maybe only be a couple days? I promise I won’t ever--” 

“We are not going to take your door,” Logan cut him off, watching Virgil with something unreadable behind his glasses. “That was yet another form of abuse, Virgil. You do not have to earn your privacy.” 

“You don’t have to earn anything,” Patton jumped in. “Your door isn’t a privilege!” 

Virgil shook his head, that same lost, hopelessly confused feeling returning with a vengeance. He wondered why it was always so hard for him to understand kindness. “But I thought...Roman said I had to earn my privacy, I thought--” 

“What?” The Prince looked affronted, taking a startled step back. “No I didn’t! I would never imply something like that!” 

“You...y-you did.” He wasn’t trying to argue, he just...didn’t understand. “You said...you said you wouldn’t respect my privacy if...if I was a jerk. After...after I yelled. I thought that meant--” 

“Oh, Virgil no.” 

And then Roman was pulling him into another hug, and as confusing as it was Virgil couldn’t find it in him to complain. 

It only lasted a few seconds, the Prince pulling back to cup Virgil’s face in both his hands, forcing him to look Roman in the eyes. 

The Prince gave an almost lopsided smile, his hold gentle. “I really need to start thinking before I speak, huh?” 

“What?” Virgil couldn’t shake his head without risking dislodging Roman’s hands, only able to stare with wide eyes. “N-no, it was my fault. I’m the one who--” 

“I’m the one who ignored your discomfort, Virgil. I wasn’t thinking. If anyone’s at fault here, it’s me.” 

“But I--” 

“I do not believe blame is important,” Logan spoke up, and Roman and Virgil quickly turned to him, the Prince’s hands dropping to his sides. “And we definitely do not need another argument over who is at fault.” 

Virgil winced, hunching his shoulders even if Logan sounded more amused than annoyed. “Sorry.” 

“No more apologies necessary,” Logan said. “We are all still learning to respect and understand each other. It will take some time and a lot of work, but today was a good learning opportunity. For all of us.” 

Virgil didn’t quite relax yet, still reeling from the revelation that he didn’t have to worry about losing his door now or ever, and entirely unable to comprehend how today could be anything other than exhausting for everyone. “How?” 

“You did really well explaining to me what was wrong,” Patton said, quickly continuing before Virgil could argue. “It took a bit of coaxing, but you’ve been taught to be scared of opening up, kiddo. That’s not gonna go away overnight.” 

“But you did it,” Roman added. “You were brave, Stormcloud, and I’m proud of you. And...and now I know what you need, and why I hurt you. I...I should have realized sooner, but--” 

“It’s ok,” Virgil said quickly. “It’s...it’s ok. You...you know now, right? And I- I know you won’t get mad if I tell you the truth.” 

“Of course,” Roman promised. “Of course I won't be mad at you. I- I know I messed up today, but I swear to you I’ll do better next time.” 

“We all will,” Logan agreed. “There will be misunderstandings and mistakes, from all of us, but they can always be worked through. You’re safe here, Virgil. That will never change.” 

They...they meant it. All of them, watching him with unabashed hope and adoration, wanting him to believe them. And he did. Even when a part of him, the parts that had been hurt over and over again, screamed at him not to. 

“Ok,” he said, still quiet and unsure, but steady all the same. “And I...I get to keep my door?”

He was almost afraid to ask, like maybe he’d crossed some sort of line by bringing it up again and all of their kindness would be abruptly ripped away. But Patton just smiled sadly and took his hand. 

“Nobody’s gonna take your door away,” he said. “Privacy isn’t something you earn, you don’t ever need to worry about that. We won’t hit you, kiddo. But we’re not gonna take away the things you need to feel comfortable, either.” 

Virgil’s throat felt tight, vision blurring as tears gathered against his will, but something loosened in his chest. “Oh.” 

He felt lightheaded, far away and a bit dizzy, and he was suddenly reminded of how little sleep he’d gotten, how endless the miserable night had been. 

“How about we move over to the couch?” Patton suggested, running his hand through a teary eyed Virgil’s hair. “I’ll get us some food, and you can doze off when you’d like, Virge.” 

Virgil nodded, not able to do much else in the moment, smiling when Roman began to lead him over to the couch, gently rubbing his back. “Sounds good to me, Padre.” 

Patton had sandwiches and chips on the coffee table in a matter of minutes- or maybe time was starting to move in a distant blur now that Virgil’s exhaustion was starting to catch up with him. 

They ended up curled up together with a vaguely familiar movie in the background, Virgil rested against Roman’s side with his head on Logan's shoulder. 

“Thank you.” It was nothing more than a quiet murmur, and he didn’t bother to wait for the response before shutting his eyes, letting himself drift away. 

He didn’t have any more nightmares that night, waking up the next morning tucked into his bed with his bedroom door closed.

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[clean-bands-dirty-stories]

Weak ~ S.R. (part 1)

A/n: I’ve been catching up on the show so my thoughts have been all over the place- all of them about Reid lol. This is only one of three multipart song fics I have planned for him, but I promise I’ll finish your guys’ requests before full diving into them. I just needed to blow off some steam for him really fast. This is an old idea I’m bringing back because I liked the concept. It makes me laugh.

Warning

Word Count: 7700+

MASTERLIST

"No thank you" is what I should've said, I should be in bed. But temptations of trouble on my tongue, troubles yet to come. One sip, bad for me; one hit, bad for me; one kiss, bad for me... but I give in so easily.

Everyone has that thing they look back on and cringe at. That childhood memory that keeps you awake at night. That one thing you did in high school that ruined your reputation until you moved on to college. Things that come back every once in a while and make you cringe and wonder what on God's good Earth possessed you to do THAT. Even if you didn't have anxiety, it happened to everyone.

Or, at least Y/n convinced herself that was the case.

It had just been one of those things. One of those things that haunted her every time she got down time or saw someone who looked like... like... him. When anything reminded her of him and she remembered that god awful act of idiocy she had committed. Because it had just been her immaturity. Her young age and lack of experience. It had been a lapse in judgment. It had been a moment of stupidity and she would never, NEVER do anything like it ever again because she was older and wiser now. She was a different person now.

What had she done you ask?

Y/n had always been interested in the psychology of twisted people. She watched the news and wondered how one went about solving crimes like that. Especially really terrible ones like serial killers. How did you make a career out of getting into the minds of truly demented people and not be darkened by it? Or was that why the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Aaron Hotchner, never smiled?

It all started with that fascination. She had been nineteen years old and a barista at a coffee shop, dreaming of being a real life super hero who saved lives and made the world a little more safe with every bad person put behind bars or under the ground. It didn't matter which to her at the time- they were bad people. They killed and raped and tortured and destroyed- why would they deserve anything but death anyway?

One day a boy came in. Maybe two or three years older than her, max. He was cute and tired and quiet. He came, he waited in line, he got his coffee, he left. He was completely oblivious to Y/n as she tried to talk to him. Flirt with him. Like a normal person talking to another normal person. But god she was really anxious and awkward and he seemed to look right through her and it made her voice die every time she tried. She couldn't even call his name when she was finished making his coffee. Her infatuation was obvious to everyone else. Another employee had written her number on the cup to help her out but he'd either never seen it or had ignored it because he had never used it. Even when he stopped coming, she still remembered him. She remembered his face and his name and his coffee order. She started to get it herself, holding onto the one part of him she had. It was a little weird, but she had nothing else other than that damn coffee order and she was taken by him. What else was she going to do? It was innocent.

Then she'd seen his face on the news. Spencer Reid of the FBI, part of the BAU. The boy she had been thinking about for months was suddenly part of the team she'd dreamed of being apart of for years? Her two obsessions aligned in one perfect moment and something... clicked. She was watching the news for a whole different reason now.

She didn't know when it had escalated past that. When she had taken that next step that would be something so unforgivable she would hate herself for years afterward.

Every morning on her way to work, she passed by The Place. Where he was, with his team, catching bad guys and making the world safer just like she wanted to. She wondered what he was like. How he had gotten on the team so young. She wondered how someone so quiet and seemingly oblivious could make it in a job like that. She wondered what his relationships were like. Were they friends or just coworkers? Did he still like his coffee the same way? What did his voice sound like? His laugh?

Suddenly she was across the street on her day off, looking at the building that held all the things she wanted most, imaging walking in and out of those doors. Imagining so long that she watched the team walk right out. They seemed familiar with each other, but each person held a rather grim expression. Her mind wiped of any other thought when she saw him. He was wearing a long sleeve button up, sleeves rolled above his elbows. A vest and a tie accompanied it. His hair was gelled back, glasses in his hands. He seemed to be lost in thought, his lips pressed together tightly.

When the thought to follow him crossed her mind, she went home. It was a dark thought that lead to dangerous places. She didn't recognize where this path was taking her, she just knew that whatever was happening to her, following someone home and learning where they lived without them knowing about it was crossing a line she couldn't be okay with.

Apparently, the same understanding didn't carry to taking pictures.

She had two whole shoe boxes of Polaroid pictures before she did anything else. She never looked at them after she shoved them in the boxes and pushed them under her bed; she just smiled at the boxes and remembered the times she'd watched him walk in and out of those doors and had taken one picture each time to commemorate the moment.

A year. She watched him for a year, following behind him on local cases, other work events, or even family and friends stuff. She did cross that line, but never once did she follow him home. Later in life when she burned those pictures, she tried to hold onto that. She never followed him home. She did however, send him a gift. She thought maybe if she could reach out to him somehow and start a sort of exchange, then maybe she could transition into actually being apart of his life. And that's all she really wanted. She wanted to shake his hand and have them make eye contact. He wanted him to see her.

There was a note, with just a simple "hello" on a single piece of paper, attached to a small bag of sour skittles. They were his favorite candy- but she only knew that because every time he came into work with some, he smiled a little wider. She knew it because she'd seen his friends give him them as a gift for Christmas. They made him happy.

When he saw the candy, he looked confused. When he read the note, he looked terrified.

Y/n didn't try to contact him again.

Something about the look on his face shook her to her core. Hadn't it been innocent enough? He couldn't know she had been getting to know him from her far away place. It was just candy and a note. It should have just been a shy person reaching out a call for friendship.

Then it hit her.

She knew which car was his. She knew his favorite candy. Those were things you didn't just know randomly. If she had been a casual admirer or had just had a crush on him, perhaps sending a flower to him at work would have been more low key. But she had wanted to give him something personal and she had. But she shouldn't have been able to.

The only reason she could was because she had stalked him.

She was a stalker.

It was never a word that had even crossed her mind until that exact moment, but once it came it wouldn't leave. That's what she was after all. She watched the news that day. Spencer wasn't there, but there was a story about a stalker in another state. She'd skimmed her usual spots on the internet to catch up on busted cases all over the country, like she usually did. A stalker who had killed five women in the expanse of a year. A year.

She had been stalking Spencer for just over a year. She had given him the gift on the anniversary of the day she had first seen him on the news. When things had clicked for her and she'd had that weird feeling like they were fated to be together. She had seen his fear and she had read that article and then all she could think about were her hands covered in blood. His blood. She imagined a future where she was in prison for life because she had crossed too many lines and had ended up on the wrong side of the future she'd always dreamed of. She wasn't protecting people and making the world better. She was making it worse, just by existing. Just like all of those people she had so easily dismissed and loathed, she deserved to die.

But that hadn't happened yet. She could still save herself from that future, because she had never followed him home. She let work distract her and her pictures and little tidbits of knowledge would be enough for her. Because her imagination, for whatever reason, could fuel her better than reality and she knew it because in the back of her mind somewhere, she'd known from thew beginning what his reaction would be if she ever exposed herself to him for real. She had knows what he would do when he saw that candy before she'd seen him do it, because she had been studying the minds of criminals for years now and she knew the mindset of the victims just as well. She might not be stupid, but she might be crazy.

Y/n full stopped it. She burned a photo every time she thought about him. She'd been wondering how to wean herself off of not ever seeing Spencer Reid again, from seeing him nearly every other day. This was her compromise. Every time she missed him, she pulled out those shoe boxes and she pulled out a picture and she looked at it a few minutes as the fire warmed before she threw it in and put the shoe boxes back under her bead. The only reason she didn't burn the photos all in one go was because she was afraid that if she didn't have something else, she might snap and go back to the real person. And she couldn't do that. What she had done was wrong and she was never, EVER going down that path again. She wouldn't be a villain.

It was a hard turn of events. It was like... withdraw. When she finished off the first shoe box, she cried. She felt insane and unstable and dangerously depressed. So, she got into therapy. The first session she told the therapist everything, stressing that she hadn't technically done anything too wrong and that she wanted to never do it again and that she needed help not getting there again. She was beyond relieved when the therapist - Michael Lyran - took pity on her and agreed to help her rather than turn her into the police. He said that she was seeking help and had realized what she'd done was wrong, so there was hope for her. He wouldn't give up on her.

Within a few months, she was a lot better. Y/n and Michael met up on the year anniversary of when she'd stopped stalking him. The second year anniversary of when she'd started in the first place. They burned the second box of photos together. She hadn't touched it since finishing off the first box. Until now. At the very least, Michael never looked at any of the pictures and neither did Y/n. He knew who they would contain, and he didn't feel comfortable peering into someone's personal lives at possibly very personal or vulnerable moments. He didn't want to tempt Y/n to do so either.

At the end of it all, what mattered was that it was over. Y/n was a lot more confident and understood her emotions a lot better. She said goodbye to Michael and she moved states, far enough that when she got a job as the police force secretary, she was sure she'd be able to follow her childhood dream without ever having to cross paths with the man who's life she'd almost ruined. She hadn't gained the confidence yet to actually join the force - she still felt unworthy after her escapade - but she was also making some sort of difference. Her skills of focus and determination and precision came in handy when she needed to keep names, dates, and appointments all in order in a limited space. She became a valued member of society, and she was proud of who she was.

Then something terrible happened. There was a string of murders that was very clearly panning out to some kind of serial killer. Y/n didn't think anything of it past that. In situation like this when crime boosted, she had to be on her game and keep testimonies and such in order so that if anyone needed a file, it would be easy to navigate and immediately on hand for use. She mostly dealt with people panicking, which kept her busy with the serial killer. Something that had never really been a concern now had her so busy, she had no room for any other thoughts. She had to keep herself calm and level headed and in control so she could reassure people in the most convincing way possible. Once again, she was succeeding in her work field.

It could have been anyone. Any other team could have come in. The FBI did not just have one team, surely. Someone else could have ended up there other than...

Y/n almost choked when she saw the doors open. Because there was none other than Spencer Reid, years after she'd finally gotten over him and fully moved on with her life. Right when she'd come to terms with her mistakes and had made a better name for herself. Right when she was getting good at her job and beginning to inch toward that childhood yearning, Spencer fucking Reid was in her town. In her police department.

And he was headed right for her.

And no thank you is how it should've gone- I should stay strong. But I'm weak, and what's wrong with that? Boy, oh boy I love it when I fall for that. I'm weak, and what's wrong with that? Boy, oh boy I love ya when I fall for that. I'm weak.

It was Aaron Hotchner who actually spoke to her, asking to see the police chief. Y/n had directed the team in the right direction, refusing to look at the man who she was dying to look at most.

His hair had grown longer. He wasn't wearing glasses anymore. It wasn't gelled back anymore either, and he had ditched the vests. When had he made so many changes? She didn't know, but god was she relieved. If he had come in that precinct looking the exact same as five years ago, or even close to it, she would have been sucked right back into the fantasy. Not that he wasn't cute now. But he wasn't the same person, and she could distance herself from him. And from that part of her that yearned to take him in. This wasn't her Spencer. God, he had NEVER been her anything. Anything but her almost-victim in her almost-villainhood.

Five years ago, she repeated several times in her mind. It had been five whole years since she'd first seen him and become obsessed. Three years of being completely Reid free. Of being a strictly good person who did normal, sane, healthy things. She wasn't going to chuck all her hard work now. She was a different person. A BETTER person.

Then he spoke and ruined the whole thing.

"Hey I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the bathrooms." He was looking at her and she felt her throat close. Suddenly she was that nineteen year barista again. She didn't know how to move or talk or even look at him. She cowered under his gaze and he seemed to be taken aback by that.

All she could think about was that she'd heard his voice. After five whole years, she finally knew what his voice sounded like.

She ran away from him without answering his question. She ran outside and tried to remember how to breathe. Her brain was racing and her thoughts were muddy and her hands were shaking. Her head was suddenly crammed with a really ugly image of a person she'd worked very hard not to be. A person she could have become. Someone she avoided thinking about or remembering. She'd made it almost twenty full months not thinking about Spencer even once. About her past mistakes. A blessed twenty months of finally not hating herself, and he had waltzed in with that smile and spoke with a voice even more beautiful than she'd imagined and now she was losing her mind.

A thought hit her.

She wasn't panicking because she wanted to be closer to Spencer. She wasn't panicking because she felt those old cravings coming back. She wasn't panicking because her mind was trying to fill in all the gaps of knowledge she had now that it had been so many years. Not because that hunger from years ago was back, or even because she could feel exactly how far apart their bodies were. Not because she wanted to talk to him, or because she wanted to be near him, or because he had seen her finally after so long of wishing he would. He had looked at her and seen her and TALKED to her, which would have sent her over the moon five years ago.

No, Y/n's panic came from the thought that all of her past mistakes would follow her forever, ruining her life every time, no matter where she went or how much she'd recovered or how hard she had worked. Becoming obsessed with Agent Reid had cost her job. It was her fault- she was distracted and irritable and steadily becoming unbearable to have around as she felt worse and worse about what she was doing. She'd become unstable. Without her therapist, she might have ended up on the streets even after she gave up chasing after a man who deserved better than some creepy ass fly on the wall. If that happened again... she liked it here. She liked her job. She wanted to be a cop and help people. Be someone who could, in some way, make a difference in this really terrible world getting worse by the second because as time passed, everyone was getting even meaner, and that created even more sick and twisted and depraved villains. She wanted to be in that story, and if that one year of idiocy ruined it for her forever... what would she do then?

One conclusion came from this realization: No one could ever know about that year. No one other than her past therapist, who was no threat to her future and wanted her to be free of her mistakes as much as she did.

What came next was a plan.

First: She would not become friends with Spencer Reid or any of his associates. She would limit her contact with them, remaining distant and civil only. If even one of them got close and she slipped in any way, it would be game over and then things might really go south. She had given Spencer a gift that day, and that might be seen as some sort of threat or something. Anything. It could be bad and she couldn't take chances.

Second: She would not let herself take in any new information about Spencer Reid or any of his associates. She could easily get swallowed up in her work, and if there really was a serial killer running around out there, they'd need her to be on her game and make their job as easy as possible. She would refrain from talking to any of them about anything other than work. She didn't need anything that could set off her old habits again and send her back down that path.

Third: She would not think of him as Spencer Reid, someone she used to dream about, but as Agent Reid. She was going to put space between her and him as much as possible. He was high above her in almost every way- in importance; in intellect; in physical height. If she focused on that and treated as him as a teacher or parent or the president of the united states rather than some cute guy her age who was super smart and kind of interesting, or even a coworker who was at all within her reach, it would be much easier not to get involved.

She could do this.

Already feeling better, she smoothed her shirt, shook her head, took a deep breath and went back inside.

She could do this.

-

"How do you guys like your coffee?"

Already Y/n was struggling keeping her rules, but on hard cases she always brought the team working coffee to help boost them in the morning- a treat from her to thank them for what they did. Even if they'd already gotten themselves coffee, they were always eager to take the one she gave them as well so it had become a sort of tradition. A case without coffee brought in by Y/n like mana from Heaven in the hands of angel just didn't go as well. She felt it rude to potentially leave the BAU team without coffee though, so... here she was, asking some personal information like she'd told herself she wouldn't do.

This could slip though. It was just coffee, and it would only be a few times, and it was the least she could do after all they were doing to make her town safe. After all she'd done. This was a thank you gift, not for personal gain.

She'd asked Agent Morgan, so now she stood before him as he tilted his head curiously. "Why?"

"I..." She fiddled nervously with her fingers behind her back. "It's a surprise." He rose an eyebrow. "I'm going to use it to break into your mind and learn all your secrets." It had been meant to be a little snarky. Why else would she want his coffee order? But instead he laughed and she felt herself smile along. It was contagious.

The fact that he could find the strength enough to smile even after all he'd been through was admirable. But Y/n wasn't going to think about that.

Agent Morgan seemed to be just the person to ask. He told her all his teammate's orders as she listed off their names so they didn't forget anyone. There were quite a few of them, and Y/n would hate herself if she missed one. She thanked him and went to turn away. "Wait what about Reid?"

Y/n could have strangled herself right then and there. Why had she assumed she'd still know the order in the first place? It had been half a decade. It could have changed. Not to mention it looked suspicious as hell if she had walked in here already knowing it without having to ask anyone. Thank god she had never done anything bad- she was terrible at keeping secrets. "Of course!" She turned back, rolling her eyes at herself. "I'm such a dork." She handed the small piece of paper she'd been writing the orders on to him.

Which, again, was a mistake. She had written all of the other orders herself without hesitation. But she also knew that if she wrote down his order, she'd have it memorized AGAIN, and she couldn't let herself get even that close to him. He needed to stay as much a mystery to her as possible. One she didn't care about and didn't want to solve and would not even a little bit understand. Morgan seemed confused but then wrote it down. Y/n took it with a smile and then left, folding it in half and refusing to look at it.

In the local coffee shop, she rung the bell on the counter. The lady who ran the place - Mrs. Miyre - grinned upon seeing her. "Y/n!" The girl waved. "I've been expecting you with all these murders going around? They say it's a serial killer."

"I can't say too much, but it's a big case." Mrs. Miyre nodded.

"Who are you ordering for this morning?" Y/n told her the names of the cops on shift for the beginning of the day. More might come in later, but Agent Hotchner had made it clear he didn't want too many crowding the place, so only a part of the force was actually in the office. The others were watching the streets and searching for any more clues, or had the day off. When she began to list off the BAU members, Mrs. Miyre rose her eyebrows. "New recruits?"

"The FBI actually," Y/n sighed. The older woman looked surprise and she nodded. "Like I said- big case." She sighed. "I figured I'd throw them in too."

"You're such a sweetheart." Y/n blushed. "We'll have them in a few, darling. Wait here." Y/n nodded and took a seat at the bar. The door was propped open to let the cool morning air drift through the place and keep it from getting stuffy. This place had been amazingly refreshing after the congested city life Y/n was used to growing up in DC. It was easier to breathe up here. Lots of open space and a nearby wood to go camping at the drop of a hate anytime you wanted. Y/n gets lost in that for a moment. The feeling of the cool air and the moving air sliding against her skin and the soft sunlight and the clean air. She snaps out of it when Mrs. Miyre comes back with the coffee. She's got a few drink holders and it makes Y/n laugh. Together they take it all back to the car and Y/n drives back very carefully so none of it spills. Once there, she grabs one of the officers to help get all the drinks inside. Mrs. Miyre named all of the cups as usual and as Officer Leo - the one who helped her - and Y/n hand out the drinks, somehow she ends up with a certain Agent's coffee.

In her good mood, still relaxed from the nice drive and the nice morning and the nice coffee waiting for her when she was done, Reid approaches with her a small smile. "Having a good morning?"

Y/n tried to reel herself in. "I guess I shouldn't be, considering the murders and stuff."

He shrugs. "We're working hard. If we let it get to us, it'll mess us up one day." He speaks as if from experience and it makes Y/n frown. "Thank you. For the coffee," he adds when Y/n shoots him a confused look. She holds it out to him and he grabs it and their hands touch and a spark of electricity runs up her arm. The cup almost drops on the floor with how fast she rips her hand away.

Reid's smile dropping away is the last thing she sees before she gathers the cup holders and books it outside to throw them away.

But I'm weak, and what's wrong with that? Boy, oh boy I love ya when I fall for that. No thank you?

"Hey Y/n?"

She looked up from her work and tried not to groan when she saw S... Agent Reid in front of her. He'd been popping up quite a bit, and with them coming close to catching the killer, Y/n found herself eager for the end of this thing for all the wrong reasons. Of course she wanted the women of this town safe and the killer in jail, but she wanted the BAU unit to go home just as much. She was antsy for it. They hadn't yet though so she smiled at him politely and asked, "Yes, Agent?"

"It's Doctor, actually," he corrected softly. She almost laughed, her smile becoming more genuine. That seemed to encourage him. "I just wanted to... apologize."

"For what?"

"Making you uncomfortable." Y/n tried to hide her panic. "Don't stress about it." Ah, so she had failed to hide it. And had probably failed to hide her emotions every time she'd even thought about trying. "I'm a profiler, so I have a certain level of perception that... that's not my point." He shook his head, seeming a little flustered. Her eyebrows came together in confusion. "Every time I'm around you, you seem to get really anxious and-" He shrugged. "It happens a lot, but usually with babies and dogs and stuff. We call it the Spencer effect." He rolled his eyes, but Y/n could tell that at this point he was just rambling. "I wanted to apologize for whatever it was."

Y/n smiled softly. What a sweet man. "It's not your fault." Her voice was soft, with guilt rather than embarrassment. He'd probably felt bad about this for a while. Maybe since the first day of this whole thing if his perception skills were as great as reputation pronounced. And it was all her fault. Even years later she was still hurting him. "Please don't worry abut it."

He relaxed and she felt relief flood her. "Okay." His hands slipped into his pockets and they both grew silent. Suddenly they were just standing there, looking at each other. She remembered years ago when she'd drunk in every detail she could get. Close up, he was even more handsome and her stomach was filled with butterflies. Which... was a new feeling. She'd seen him work hard for days, stressing and pushing himself. His whole team did, but it was Spencer's care and effort that meant the most to her- probably for obvious reasons. He was as great as she'd imagined him to be, and there was something fulfilling about that. She hadn't wasted her time on someone who was secretly terrible. The person she'd looked up to wasn't an asshole in reality like some famous people, or even people of the past that buried all their mistakes and smiled in public, or even like some people in power now.

Despite all he'd gone through, he put himself entirely into each case. He never hesitated to. Never thought about how much it was going to hurt him in the end, because if he could save just one person this time then he would have won. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

And then she realized she was staring and she ripped her eyes away, looking at her hands instead. "I bet you're busy this morning."

"Yeah," he responded, but his voice sounded sort of strained and dry, like there was no moisture in his mouth. She turned and left and, to her surprise, she felt his eyes on her as she did so. What was going on?

-

Things like that kept happening. Agent Reid kept trying to approach her and talk to her. He waved to her as she passed, or smiled at her. Called her name to get her attention. She was so busy avoiding him and doing her work that she wasn't paying attention to much else.

One day they got a message that changed everything.

As she opened the office doors to prepare for everyone coming in soon, she couldn't help but notice the weird red stain on the carpet inside the place. Confused, she opened the doors and went inside. She dropped her coffee when she realized what it was.

THIS IS YOUR FAULT

In big, bright red colors that could only be spray paint inked into the carpet. She'd panicked, thinking the message was somehow for her before the obvious incorrectness of that settled in. What spooked her again was the fact that there had been no break in alerts, otherwise this place would be flooded with people, and everyone would be celebrating having caught the criminal of the day. But it was empty and dark and that sicko was still out there. He had somehow gotten in here, sprayed that, and gotten out again without anyone noticing him. Without setting off any alarms or even leaving the front door unlocked. Or... perhaps they had been and she hadn't noticed?

Y/n had opened this place up hundreds of time. It had taken them some time to trust her with the keys, but once they did, she came in early every morning and get things up and running and turned on so they'd be ready and everyone else could get a little more sleep, since she went home long before all of them did. It left her alone for nearly an hour usually - half an hour in this time of stress - but that seemed to be long enough.

A hand wrapped around her mouth and something cold and circular pressed to the back of her head. "Scream and I shoot you."

Her eyes went wide. "What-?"

"Speak and I shoot you," the person added, just as calmly. "Do you see that message over there?" She hesitated before nodding. "Don't worry sweetheart, it's not for you. It's for your little lapdogs that run this place. The ones that take you for advantage and ignore you while you bust your ass to be seen as good as them." Y/n's eyebrows came together. She was confused. "You're going to come with me. They'll see how much they need you once you're gone." And then Y/n felt the coldness pull away, just for something to hit her rather hard and everything to go instantly dark

-

Getting pistol whipped absolutely sucked, she decided as she blinked her eyes and tried to figure out where she was and what had happened.

It wasn't clear when she'd realized that's why her head hurt so badly, but perhaps it was a realization she'd made before she was completely unconscious, or one she'd made while the world had been lost to her. Whatever it had been, it was her first thought when she woke up again.

She was tied to a chair, that was her second thought. The room she was in didn't yield much else with how dark it was, but she could feel herself strapped to something, and she could also feel herself sitting, so you know. Easy conclusion.

"Aw, she's awake!" Y/n flinched at the sudden sound, but the recognized it as the voice of the person who'd taken her. The unsub, if basic logic could be trusted. "Hello, Sleeping Beauty."

"Hi," she mumbled, shaking her head softly in an attempt to clear it.

A laugh. "Oh I like you. You don't cower and scream like the others."

Y/n sighed. "I'm not afraid of you." She found she wasn't either. She'd dipped he toe in quite a few sick minds. She'd even tiptoed along the edges of being one herself. She'd seen what these people were capable of. She'd seen the pictures of those girls even. She knew what THIS sicko was capable of. But she also knew that they hadn't been tortured or raped, which left this person far from as bad as it got. She knew that the victims were treated quite nicely, with lots of remorse. All up until they died, where there were deep cuts all over the body. The thought had been that the stabbing replaced the rape, which Y/n was kind of okay with actually. Her capture would be less than pleasant and her death would be quick. If she was lucky then she'd be saved with as little trauma as possible.

Or maybe it was just shock.

"Oh you're not, are you?" The person stepped closer and it was that moment that Y/n realized a huge mistake of the profile they'd been going off until this moment.

The profile stated that it was a man, but the person standing in front of Y/n now was definitely a woman.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Yes," the woman responded calmly.

"Are you going to torture or rape me before that?"

The woman hesitated. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Interesting. "What's your name?"

"Maya," she responded. Y/n nodded and continued asking her questions. She learned that Maya was a lesbian and hated men. Y/n couldn't help but think it was rather fair of her to do so, especially when Maya went on to explain just how terrible to her they had been. As many men were to lesbians. She talked about how badly they treated women and how she was tired of watching it. That caught Y/n's attention.

"Why kill women then?"

"To take them away from here." Maya glared at the opposite wall as she leaned against the one behind her. She'd obviously grown comfortable in the exchange. "If I kill men, all that happens is one will replace them. They will grow to hate women more when they realize who I am. I knew they were close, that's why I took you. You were always my goal." Y/n's eyes widen and Maya smiles wider. "You're so kind, and that leaves so much room for them to hurt you. You know, the way I cut up your body- it's only after you're dead, and it's only so they can't do anything to you when they get you back. Did you know that there are men out there that prefer their women dead? Who work in morgues just so they can have sex with them?" Y/n cringed, thinking about her cold, pale body rotting while some man-

"Oh god," she whispered.

"Precisely," Maya agreed.

Y/n shook her head. "You can't be mad at an entire group for what some of them do. Don't get me wrong, men generally suck. But it isn't just men- it's people in general. We as a species are selfish and close minded. In ever group, there's always those extremists who make a bad name for everyone else. I mean- think if cops started to judge lesbians based on what you do. Not all women who like women kill women to punish men. Which honestly is ridiculous if you ask me but-"

Maya grabbed Y/n's face so hard that Y/n's jaw began to hurt. "You defend those assholes? Really?"

Y/n glared. "Years ago I made mistakes. I hurt someone I cared about. You can't villainise men and then ignore the fact that EVERYONE does shit too. I mean, women rape and murder and stalk and abuse. Definitely not as much, but still." She scoffed. "I'm not even saying this to support men. Men DO suck. They're too pretty for their own good and often far too oblivious for everyone else's. But everyone has flaws. What do you gain by killing people? Like you said, more will take their place. What are you going to do, kill all nice women?"

"Yes," Maya growled. That moment, fear consumed Y/n as Maya leaned closer and all Y/n could see in the other woman's eyes was hate. "Fuck up evolution. Because what's happening if the tough people are getting wiped out because men won't pay attention to them. All these pushover women are having babies and raising their sons to be like their fathers and their daughters to be like them."

Y/n's expression hardened. "What about kids who don't end up like their parents?"

Maya slapped her. "We're done playing nice." Y/n looked back just in time to see Maya grab a knife and she felt her heart clench. As much fear as she definitely showed on her face, she refused to whimper or scream. "I promise," Maya cooed. "No one will hurt you ever again. I promise you." She stroked Y/n's face and the girl tied to the chair flinched away. The knife danced along Y/n's throat as Maya began to move behind her where she would have a better grip.

The door busted open just as Maya gripped Y/n's face. "Drop the knife!" Maya tilted Y/n's face back and all the bound girl could see was the face of her assailant and the roof above both of them. "DROP THE KNIFE!"

Y/n closed her eyes and Maya grinned.

Guns went off. Y/n screamed. When Maya's hand left her face, Y/n's head dropped and she kept her eyes close, flinching as the ringing in her ears stopped. Not from the gunshots, but from the sound of Maya's body hitting the floor. She knew that the only way she was getting out of here was if Maya was dead, but it had sounded so different than she'd imagined. She opened her eyes slowly to catch something at the edge of her vision. She looked over and locked eyes with Maya, who was dead but still smiling. Y/n finally screamed.

Hands on her shoulders. She tried to move away from them and looked over to see Spencer. "Hey," he cooed softly. His hands moved up to cup her face. His eyes were wide and warm and his smile was soft and comforting. "Hey Y/n." His thumb brushed her cheek and she felt herself melt into the soft touch. Maya was wrong. Maybe men did suck, but Spencer Reid was different. He would never do anything wrong to Y/n. Even if she did deserve it. Those thoughts were pushed away as Spencer moved his head to keep her looking at him as she almost looked back to Maya. "Hey, I'm right here. I'm here, okay?" She finally nodded and he seemed to relax. "I'm going to untie you now alright?" She nodded again and he moved his hands to do as he'd said he would. When she was free, he moved to her ankles. As he did so she leaned forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder. He froze a second and then moved more carefully as not to disturb her. When her ankles were free he paused. "I'm going to move now. Do you need help standing?" She shook her head and slowly stood to her feet. He stood quickly to help her. He was tall enough for her to step into him, covering her face and hiding in his shoulder. He paused before slowly looping his arms around her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice soft and broken. "I just- I just really-" She caught her breath and seized up as she almost began crying. She wanted to apologize. She wanted him to hate her. She wanted to be alone... but she also didn't. She was terrified of all of the things she'd just been so sure a second ago she wanted. What she deserved. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Spencer soothed. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

She pulled away, shaking slightly. "Yes I do." She ducked around him and started walking out. They were in some kind of small cabin in the woods, but she just looked away from it and began walking.

"Wait, Y/n!" She looked over to see Emily Prentiss. Y/n began to walk faster. She really needed to be away from-

"Y/n stop." Hands on her shoulders and there was Derek Morgan, suddenly in front of her. "I know you probably want to be alone, but you have no idea where you are and you're in shock. Let one of us give you a ride back okay? You can talk about it or not talk, that's fine. But we can't let you wander out here alone hoping you find your way back, especially because we're miles away from town."

Relenting, Y/n nodded. "I just- don't put me with Spencer." She cringed as she used his name. "A- Agent Reid." She closed her eyes. Agent Derek went to say something. Maybe to ask her one of the probably many questions she had. She reached up though and covered his mouth. He leaned away, surprise, and she dropped her hand. "I- I'm sorry, I just-" Her eyes watered and she growled in rage, turning  to pick up a rock and chuck it as hard as she could.

She had almost died.

She was still obsessed with Spencer, even though he deserved someone so much better. Even now, the feeling of his shoulder and the smell of him was filing into her head and she wanted to smile and scream and cry and curl in a ball and never move and she didn't know if it was from him or what Maya had said... or from what Maya almost done.

She crouched down, her chest beginning to constrict. "Y/n," Morgan said softly. She recognized his tone. The same one Reid had used before. Pity and concern. Trying to keep her calm. "I understand you're upset right now. I would be too. What you went through was really scary."

"I'm not a child," Y/n snapped.

"I know," Morgan assured. "But I need you to breathe for me okay? It'll help if you stand up and put your hands over your head... but if you want to sty like this, or even lie down that's okay too." Y/n hesitated before pushing to her feet, forcing her hands above her head. Morgan moved to his feet again as well, keeping to her level so she could always see him. After a second she felt something in her chest loosen and instead of panicking, she was crying. Morgan paused before opening his arms. She leaned into them and he hugged her as she cried. When she calmed and leaned away, he offered her a smile. "You want to get back now?" She nodded. "Come with me. Reid's in the other car." She nodded and followed him. He put his arm around her and she relaxed, rubbing her stuffy nose as he began to run. He slipped into the back with her, Hotchner was in the driver's seat. Neither man spoke until they got to the station. "Is there anyone you want us to call?"

"I don't..." She shrugged. "Have anyone."

Morgan's face grew sad. "Is there anything we can do for you? Take you home?"

Y/n thought about being alone in her empty apartment and shook her head. He nodded, understanding. "Can we just... sit here for a while?" He nodded again and they did. One by one the car filled with the others. Hotchner in the driver's seat, Rossi in the passenger. Prentiss took the seat next to Y/n, and Jureau stood at the door next to Prentiss, leaning rather than sitting. Y/n chuckled as Spencer joined the group, wiping her watery eyes. "Sorry to drag all of you guys into this car. Jesus."

A few chuckles. "It's okay," Jureau sighed.

"You know, you made this case a lot easier," Prentiss told Y/n quietly, reaching a hand to rub her back. "Getting us coffee and being so kind and encouraging. Sometimes when it gets too... when things get really dark, it's hard to concentrate because you're so stressed and worried and you feel so terrible that it clouds your head." Nods in agreement and Y/n smiled despite herself.

"You know." Jureau reached inside her jacket before extending a card. Y/n took it and looked at it. It had a number on it. "If you ever want to talk, that's my number. I'd like it if we stayed in touch."

Y/n smiled wider, even though her heart sunk a little. She finally had a friend...

"Thanks, Agent Jureau."

The woman laughed. "My friends call me JJ. You can too if you want." Y/n nodded.

Well. There went her plan to not to get close to Spencer Reid or any of his associates.

Shit.

[forthegothicheroine]

Opinions on Into the Dark Movies

I’ve seen a lot, though not all, of the Blumhouse series of Into the Dark, direct to Hulu horror movies themed around various holidays.  Some of them suck.  Some of them are surprisingly good!  Most are mediocre.  Still, I keep watching.  Rather than try to rank these movies, I’m just going to give a few of them awards.

Favorite Movie: Pooka Lives

If you were there for the height of Slenderman blogging, this will hit you hard!  The first Pooka movie was a psychological thriller and definitely interesting, but the horror-comedy sequel was the thing that touched my heart.  It’s all about how the internet creates memes that completely change from where they start by the whims of each new viral art piece.  While watching it, I said “according to Twin Peaks, this would be a a tulpa” at one point, and then Felicia Day said “I’ve got it, it’s a tulpa!”  She heard me!  Rachel Bloom kills Whil Weaton in the opening!  All you really need to know going in is that Pooka is a stuffed animal bear-rabbit-monster who repeats words in a “naughty” or “nice” voice.

Most Effective Horror Movie: I’m Just Fucking With You

Somebody on the Bloody Disgusting website said the stuff in this movie is worse torture than Saw or Hostel- but the kicker is, the torment is mostly mental and emotional.  An unlikeable internet troll checks into a sleazy motel, only to discover that the guy in charge of the place is a nastier troll than he’ll ever be.  This bespectacled, southern-accented slacker just keeps pulling pranks, each one more mean-spirited than the last, until they escalate to murder and the total destruction of our hero’s remaining humanity.  The constant neon-lit look of the motel is super intense, but the most important thing about this is that it shows you how really fucking annoying the Joker would be if you actually met him.

Sexiest Villain: Pilgrim

Look, I dunno.  Brother Ethan is just the sexiest evil Puritan you’ll ever find, as small as that pool may be.  He’s totally invested in what he’s doing, he fully believes in the lessons he’s teaching, he’s maybe a ghost or a trickster spirit or something, he has a great accent, he has a great laugh, and he has great piercing eyes.  Also he has this ongoing dynamic with the final girl that’s maybe sexually charged or maybe isn’t, but the whole thing is definitely a battle of wills and beliefs between them and that is hot.  Honorable mention goes to the hitman in The Body, but he only looked hot, he didn’t actually act hot, and there’s a difference.

Most Believeable Villain: New Year New You

Maybe the murders aren’t all believeable, but “Get Well” Danielle is!  Once a loathesome high school bully, she has now found fame and fortune as a loathesome social media influencer, and a culture that supports vapid self-promotion is one she thrives in.  Are the others in the movie any better, though?  They hate her, but isn’t it partly because they want to be her?  Don’t we all kind of want what she has, even while disdaining every part of her that got her where she is?

Movie I Could Have Written Better: Uncanny Annie

This movie about an evil board game sucked, but it didn’t have to!  There’s so much a horror comedy could parody about the modern board game scene.  It could have been an incredibly complex game with mutliple expansions where you’re two hours in and still haven’t gotten to using all the mechanics.  It could have been a super artsy Euro game with stunning evil art but instructions that are very poorly translated into English.  I work for a book and game store!  Give me a chance, I could script a greatdark parody of the the Arkham Horror franchise!

Movie That Might Have Been Scarier Without the Supernatural: Pure

I actually really respect the whole setup of this movie.  The notion of a “purity camp” father-daughter celebration is stunning and sickening, the fathers are holding their daughters to impossible standards and threatening to remove their love if they ever fair, the girls can’t trust that anyone they meet won’t reveal their secrets to the Reverend, and the camp itself looks like if that Midsommar farm was just No Fun Allowed.  Anyway, I don’t think they needed a weird rewriting of Lilith.  It’s a psychological cult horror, so let it stay that.  The girls can kill their dads at the end without any supernatural power.

Best Cheese: School Spirit

As soon as I saw the trailer and realized this was a Breakfast Club pastiche, I was in, baby.  You’ve got the prep, the class clown, the stoner, the nerd, and the delinquent all in for detention.  They resist the mean disciplinary teacher, they bond, they share secrets, they get high, they see beyond their cliques, and a masked slasher murders them one by one.  The villain reveal is ridiculous but kind of charming, a fun riff on the Norman Bates archetype, and the final girl’s speech to the killer at the end should be on all those “Good for her!” female character gif compilations.

Best Villain Outfit: Midnight Kiss

I love that giallo-killer-meets-gimp-suit look!  So creepy, yet so believeable for a club scene!  (Or at least, it would fit in with my memories of Folsom Street Fair.)  The movie itself isn’t super interesting as murder mysteries go, but it’s not bad, the whole thing is super stylish, and it is neat that almost the whole cast of characters, from heroes to villains, are gay.  But yeah, great costume, great party scenes, great beach house, shame about all the murders.

Movie I Wish I Hadn’t Sought Out Spoilers For: Culture Shock

I was trying to decide if I should see these movies and looked at lists of which ones were the best and then I looked into this one and...I spoiled the entire reveal.  It’s a great reveal!  I’ll try to avoid spoilering it here, but in this Spanish and English language movie, our heroine goes from dodging cartel men while trying to cross the border to existing in a beautiful, multicultural suburban town...where they dress like it’s the Tranquility Lane part of Fallout 3, and nobody will let her hold her infant son.  One of the more serious attempts at making a good movie, and I think it succeeds.

Movie That Does a Plotline Better Than Hannibal Did: Flesh & Blood

This movie, while following a pretty typical “Lifetime Movie” style plot (she says, never having seen a Lifetime movie), it understands one important thing: a story about a girl struggling to escape the influence of a pseudo-incestuous serial killer father figure is her goddamn story.  This will have to be my Abigail Hobbes fix fic.

Worst Movie: Tree House

Man, of all the horror movie characters not to get killed...

[sugas-sweetheart]

The Last Goodbye || Grell Sutcliffe

(I usually only write fluff but here’s some sadness for y’all, I’m sorry in advance. This may not be my best piece of writing as I haven’t written anything sad or in one shot form in a lOng time and the tenses are kind of all over the place, but I rlly enjoyed writing this. I have also tried to avoid pronouns for the reader and Grell as I’ve seen all used for Grell before but Grell’s wiki uses they so I’m sticking to that for now. this ones for you daddykawa)

Warnings: blood (mentions of guts/organs) and death and it’s just kinda sad (I’ve never had to add warnings before I’m a fluff writer idkhow to do this, I’m sorry if I missed something)

Goodbyes were a hard thing. Being involved with a reaper any point beyond aquaintances or friendship was also a hard thing. It meant that many goodbyes would be uttered with the hope of being together soon.

Being tasked with reaping many days and nights at a time, it could often be weeks, maybe a couple of months, before you got to see Grell again. Humans and reapers weren’t meant to mix, it just happened.

A visit to the Undertaker started it all, a brief hello and introduction followed by a goodbye. That was your first ever goodbye to them. The simple acknowledgement of each other’s existence on that fateful day changed many things.

It started off friendly, easy even. Befriending a grim reaper wasn’t exactly on the priority list for a young noble of Victorian England but it happened nonetheless. Conversation was easy and flowed. That was when many easier goodbyes were exchanged as both of you needed to get back to your respective workloads, whether it be your mundane paperwork or the reaping work of your supernatural friend. It all flowed for awhile, short and long visits filled with a dramatic, talkative, redheaded reaper and yourself. It was a simpler time.

It wasn’t until these feelings of friendship and admiration started escalating that you often wondered how long it would be until you were able to see the chainsaw bearing reaper again. The colour red plagued your mind. Their colour.

A few months after these feelings grew you got to see Grell again. And the mix of crimson that plagued your mind, well it was now right in front of you, arms wide open for a dramatic reunion moment. Even if it was still only friendship, the light affections from them caused a tint across your face. Both of you were living in the moment causing the embrace to last longer than a typical friendly one. There was an unspoken comfort between the two of you.

This visit greatly effected the growth of these feelings. Romantic affections grew, on what you assumed was only your part. The red head had expressed their own affections for a certain demon butler (that you knew fairly well) many times before, and it only dragged your hope of something happening down.

The phosphorescent eyes watched you, they saw how the light in them sometimes left. It made them feel uneasy, Grell just wanted you to be happy as they knew they harboured some feelings, but what noble would want to be with a grim reaper? They had appearances to uphold.

All the time spent dancing around each other and feelings led to multiple awkward situations, and the boisterous redhead had almost forgotten about the feelings they’d previously held for a demon butler living not too far away.

But alas, work teared you away from one another. The closer you two grew and the more your feelings for one another developed, the harder the goodbyes were. They became longing and loving, not wanting to part again.

This went on for awhile, visits became longer, and romantic, goodbyes were now promises to be together again soon. Everything was going well and it did for more or less a year. The couple were trusting and comfortable, fun and adoring, they simply enjoyed the feeling of seeing each other as romantic partners and not hiding feelings anymore.

But nothing would have prepared them for the last goodbye.

It was only a short trip. Staying close to the centre of London to assist the Queen’s guard dog and butler in getting some information from a company somehow associated with your family’s own. It was simple, it shouldn’t have lasted longer than a week. Grell would sneak into your room on the evenings after your meetings for a quick visit and kiss before going to reap any names left on the register for that night.

It was nearing the end of your visit and the company had ended up being more corrupted than you or the guard dog could have guessed. Finding out there was also a demon on their side did not help matters at all, in fact, It led to that one sorrowful event.

Being a young noble yourself meant you probably shouldn’t have been wondering the streets to get the hidden documents to Ciel, but it couldn’t wait as they would have found you before morning. You knew this was risky yet you did it anyway to help clear your company of the sickening things this business had been keeping under the radar.

As mentioned previously, dark streets and alleys of central London were no place for a young unarmed noble, especially, when one of the higher ups who you were antagonising had a demon contract. You could only assume they used the power of this demon contract to find and hurt you, as the next thing you saw was a shadow loom over you whilst giving a blow to your abdomen. This caused a screech of pain from you which you then realised was becuase the demon had lodged a sharp blade into you.

A few roads over there was a certain reaper finishing up the last name on their registry for the night. Upon hearing the scream their head perked up in wonder. The voice sounded familiar to them. Checking over all the paperwork for their last soul, they then heard a second cry of pain a minute later. That’s when Grell realised why the voice sounded so familiar.

The demon had pushed the blade slightly further and twisted it, hitting more organs than you cared to think about in that moment. Your second cry of pain and you were knelt on the ground slightly cradling the wounded area. The demon in question had obviously done his job, flashing his red eyes your way briefly before picking up the abandoned documents from the alley floor and leaving as silently as he had arrived.

Accepting that this was now your fate as no one was around, you slowly made it to a lying position on the floor, blade still stuck in you and you then began to hear a pounding on the floor. Whether that pounding was just a throbbing sensation that had taken over your whole body you really weren’t sure anymore. But your answer was questioned when a concerned and frightened redhead came running into your view.

Immediately kneeling at your side, emotions overbearing them, Grell attempted to keep you awake. Being a reaper meant that they had seen death fold out in front of them many times and was not ready to see the one they care about the most succumb to it. Quickly moving back to grasp the red jacket hanging loosely off of them, they teared it off getting ready to help in anyway they could think of.

“This is going to hurt, darling. But I need to get it out, okay?” With only a slight nod from you in response they began taking out the dagger and applying pressure to the area with their jacket, all whilst trying to ignore your pained expressions and whining apart from whispering short phrases of “you’re doing great” and “we’re almost there”. A very deep blood stain started spreading across the already red jacket.

Planting a kiss on your lips and moving away before you could fully register it and respond, Grell continued applying pressure hoping to ease the damage already done to your abdomen previously. Tears gathered in their eyes, which in turn made them well up in your own.

“I think we both know how this will go, Grell” there was a sad tone to your statement, but it was truthful, you knew there wasn’t much you could do this time.

“Come on, dear. You’ll make it if we just apply enough pressure- don’t give me that look” with tears silently streaming from their chartreuse coloured eyes, Grell wasn’t sure if they were reassuring you or themselves at this moment in time. A sorrowful smile adorned your face, taking in your lovers face again. The memories you two had created would last forever, in your next life and Grell’s current one.

“You always did look fantastic in red, just wish it wasn’t my red this time” a light chuckle passed your lips as you spoke, the spiking pains causing you to wince and cough. Someone needed to lighten the mood right? All you got in response was a sad smile and sniffle as they pushed slightly harder on the fabric and wound.

“I love you, so much. I never thought I’d feel for a human like I do for you. I will find who did this, I can promise you that” Grell stated this with confidence, gently moving some stray hairs from your face. It was a confidence you had grown to love. You had no doubt that Grell would find the demon and make him pay. He had teared away the happiness in Grell’s punishment of a reaper life.

“I love you too, goodbye, my crimson love” a soft smile graced your face letting your eyes finally rest as darkness consumed your mind. Pulling your once warm body as close as possible Grell didn’t care if there was blood staining their suit. Their lover was gone.

And that, was their last goodbye.

[courageouslyfearless]

Dream World (Part 2) ☾ Baekhyun

Dream World (Part 2) ☾ Baekhyun

Genre: Fantasy AU

Pairing: Baekhyun X Reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Requested Tags: @itsbaekhyunsbutt​ @strawbaeri-s​ @bbyunz​

| Part 1 |

The Kingdom of Akron had changed drastically in a few months time. When news from the royal court spread through the lands asking the elves to come back home, most of them hesitated. It must be a trick, they thought, the queen must be up to something. Baekhyun knew better. The queen's sudden change of heart was Y/N's doing. She had written the happy ending she had promised. "Happy" was relative. He was content that he could ask his people to come back to Akron, begging them to trust this to be real and not some sort of plot. But deep down, Baekhyun was devastated, as this was only possible because of a woman he was never going to see again. He did his best to push these thoughts to the back of his mind so he could get through his days. But he couldn't chase away the memories that plagued his brain at night. He questioned his own sanity often; he missed her so. More often than not, he dreamed of her as well. It was his own personal prison, inside his head.

It was getting burdensome for him to pretend he wasn't completely and utterly heartbroken. His people looked up to him for guidance, he couldn't afford to show his weaknesses. But truthfully, he was finding it difficult to care as well. So eventually he made one of the toughest choices he's ever had to make; he resigned from his position as ruler of the elves, to someone far more capable, his best friend and mightiest warrior in their army, Chanyeol.

After the crowning ceremony, as his people  celebrated, he had tried to make a quiet exit from the festivities. Elves enjoyed drinking ale and playing dangerous games once inebriated. He wasn't in the mood to play them. Unfortunately, as he worked his way through the people, he kept being stopped by folks who wanted to thank him for bringing them home and ruling them after his father's death. He waved their words away, simply responding with "I didn't do much." Which was the truth, he hadn't actually done much, but he couldn't tell them that. So he kept pushing his way through to leave but once he was almost out, Chanyeol appeared in front of him. Baekhun sighed.

"I just need to get out," he said, looking up at his tall friend, hoping he'd understand.

Chanyeol's eyes studied the prince with careful thought.

"You're leaving, aren't you? It wasn't just about ruling, you don't want to be in Akron."

Baekhyun was surprised that his friend had read him so well. He gave him a small smile.

"That was a pretty good guess," he started, then his smile faded, "Everything about this place reminds me of her. I can't do it anymore. I'm going back to the mountains. I heard there's still a group of elves staying there because they don't trust the Queen. I will try to convince them that it is safe to come back." An excuse he knew, but it felt better to think of his journey as a mission and not as him giving up and running away from the memory of her.

Chanyeol read the truth in his face as clear as if he were telling him. "If that's what you need to do to feel better then do it. But you've never been a man that loses hope. Not once have I seen you surrender. Why start now?"

"What are you trying to tell me, Chanyeol? I told you there's nothing I can do. She's gone... forever." That last part hurt to say, he almost felt like he couldn't breathe every time the truth hit him.

"You were set on keeping her here once, remember? You searched high and low for a spell to do it. Then finding the ingredients," Chanyeol shuddered at the memory, "getting the troll's heart was some nasty business," he shook his head, "anyways, what I'm trying to say is, you found a way once. If you really can't live without her, then do it again. Just find another way."

Baekhyun stared at his friend. Could he do it? Could he defy the laws of nature.

"I used up all the magic," he said, defeated.

Chanyeol groaned, exasperated, "Magic doesn't just vanish from existence. It's all around us, in the trees, in the river, in every fiber and molecule of life, there is magic. It is sown into the very essence of the world. You just have to learn how to harness it. I'd start with the nymphs, if I were you."

Baekhyun thought about it. He had nothing to lose by trying. He was set on leaving Akron anyways, why not leave with some hope as company?

Finally, he smiled. At this, Chanyeol was relieved, because it was the most genuine smile he'd seen from him since he lost her. He took this as a good sign.

"Now go get your princess."

~

Meanwhile, you were wrestling with the tape that had sealed and kept safe your possessions inside the cardboard boxes. Unpacking had become quite the chore as you couldn't find the box cutter or literally anything with an edge to cut through the tape. Your new apartment looked like a war zone and you expected to come out as the victor. If only you could find something to...

"Keys, of course!"

You grabbed your set of keys dangling from the hook by the door and searched through the label on the boxes to find the ones that you wanted to open first. The one with "bedroom" written on it with a black sharpie caught your eye first. After cutting through the tape, you opened it to go through your belongings. It was mostly books and novels. You smiled, that is, until you spotted a familiar blue cover with stars on it. Your dream journal. You hadn't opened it since... well, since that time. Writing after losing him was unthinkable. There was no way you could ever write another character to life, let alone love them as you had loved him.

You reached for it now with trembling hands and a racing heart. The journal was in pretty bad shape. You had tried getting rid of it once, throwing it in a lake during your spring break vacation, hoping the tightness in your chest would subside. Watching it sink under did the opposite. You had rushed into the water to save it. To save him. Or the memory of him. That afternoon you hurried back home, to find a way to dry and save it from being completely ruined. As painful as it was, you didn't want to forget him. He wasn't part of the real world, but he was real to you.

You opened it now, for the first time, flicking through the wrinkled pages. It was still readable but only to you, the one who had written every word and sentence on it. The tightness in your chest had become a permanent resident and you no longer let it have that much control over you. You ignored it this time as well.

With tears burning in your eyes you started reading. Akron. The Queen. Baekhyun. You smiled at the part where you guys met.

The dress was too revealing, you worried, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You kept pulling up at the fabric over your bust , hoping it would show less cleavage. Your maidens hovered about with jewelry and powders and anything that could make you look more regal. The shortest one, with the dazzling smile and gentle fingers, placed a gold crown on your head. You weren't used to the weight of it. It felt awkward. You thought it made you feel off balance.

Three knocks at the door announced a new visitor.

"Come in," with the words, you also breathe in deeply, maybe a little too quickly as you become dizzy from the action. Your're still in a daze when he walks in.

Plain brown pants. Plain brown tunic. And that's all that is plain about him.

As you finally fix your eyes on his face, your heartbeat picks up its pace. His smile was the first thing that drew you in. It was playful and kind at the same time. You were confused as to how he managed that. His eyes were an ordinary brown at first glance, but the way they held your gaze was anything short of extraordinary. It felt like he could see right through you all the way down to your soul, where you kept the most private things about yourself hidden. You found yourself at a loss for words and at the widening of his smile you knew he could tell he had an effect on you.

"Your majesty," he finally spoke, "my name is Baekhyun, I was told I will have the pleasure of working as your servant from this day onward."

You will never forget the way he spoke then. As if he knew you, your heart and he was ready to take it for himself. You should've known then that he'd succeed. How could he not? He was confident, funny, kind and sometimes a little naughty as well. There was nothing predictable about him. He challenged you almost every occasion he could.

There was only one time you could recall when he was none of these things. Just one time, when his confidence left his shoulders, and his  eyes couldn't seem to find yours. You remember how quiet his voice was as he reached with trembling fingers to hold your hand for the first time. You'd been crying, reminiscing the scene at home. Your parents had been arguing. But the situation had escalated quickly. Words turned into shoving, shoving turned into objects being thrown. The next thing you saw was your mom slide across the dining room floor and into the kitchen, her body hitting the refrigerator. She'd dislocated her arm from the force. You were compelled to go to the hospital with her and lie about how she got hurt. They always made you lie for them. Once back home you'd had to clean up the broken glass and the blood stains on the floor from someone's bare feet who had walked over it.

He'd cried with you as you told him, holding you in his arms like you were his to hold. And you let him, because when everything in your world felt wrong, the warmth of his embrace was the only thing that felt right. His strength was the only thing keeping you together. Just that once did he hesitate. Only that time did he hold back. The next time you dreamed of him, he stole his first kiss from your lips. He never hesitated after that.

So how could you have stopped the beautiful force of nature that was Baekhyun from taking your heart? Just as the sun comes out every day and the moon reflects its light at night, just as everything that happens without fail, it was inevitable to fall in love with him.

But now all that was left of him was this dreadful looking journal and the memories in your head, which will wither away with time until you question if it even happened at all. His eyes will fade like the ink of your favorite purple pen on these wrinkled pages. His smile will become jaded by reality, distorted by the smudged words on a piece of paper. But the worst part was that if he felt for you as he had confessed the last time that you were together, then he was feeling as hopeless and heartbroken as you were. That thought made you sadder than anything else.

You closed the journal gently, as to not cause more damage to it. Then you walked to your room and stored it in the top drawer of the night stand by your bed. You needed to stay focused on the task at hand, which was to unpack everything still stored away in boxes. Pushing thoughts of him out of mind, you went back to work.

Once you are more or less done putting away the stuff in the kitchen, you lay down on the carpeted floor of the small living room. You had no furniture for this space yet, so it was empty. You closed your eyes slowly as they had become heavy with exhaustion. You knew if you kept it up for too long, you'd fall asleep right there. That's how tired you were. So instead, you force yourself to stand up. You decided to take a warm bath and then head out to bed.

You rarely did nice things for yourself, but candles had always been a frivolous need of yours. You lit one in the bathroom as you watched the tub fill up. Once the water was high enough, you undressed and got in the tub. You laid down, resting your head back on the wall as the candle spread the sweet aroma of coconut sunrise in the air.

At this level of relaxation, it doesn't take long for you to drift off into a soft dream.

You were surrounded by tall trees that towered over you like some kind of mythical giants. You glanced up at them, wondering if they would suddenly come to life. They didn't, but the thought that in a dream it was possible, kept you alert to your surroundings. Looking away from them, your gaze comes down to what's in front of you, a vast lake. There were tiny lights shimmering over the water, flying into the air and swirling in perfect unison like small tornadoes. It took you a few seconds to realize they weren't lights.

"Fairies," you whispered. But as if they had heard you speak, they stopped moving, and this made it easier to see their tiny little wings flapping to keep them in the air. You kept quiet and eventually they continued their flight ritual.

"Pixies, actually."

Your heart stopped. Literally, skipped a beat, painfully reminding you that it was still in your chest.

You recognized the voice. You'd know it anywhere. But you were afraid of looking back. You were afraid of hoping it was him and not see his face. You hadn't dreamed of him since the pen incident. So you stayed like that, frozen in place, fear rooting you to that spot.

After a few seconds passed by, you felt it. A hand, resting on your arm, the touch light as a feather, bringing goosebumps across your skin.

"You said writing was the only thing getting you through tough times, how have you survived this long without it?"

You took a deep breath, still unable to move but ready to respond anyways.

"I can't write another you."

That was all you could say. You knew he'd understand the implication of your words. You couldn't risk loving anyone else. You couldn't risk forgetting him. Or replacing him. You wanted your heart to be his and no one else's.

"Then write me again. Write about all the moments we should've lived together. Write me into life."

What was he saying? Why did he want you to torture yourself by writing about him?

"But it hurts," you find yourself saying, tears welling up under your eyes.

"I know, princess, I know. But I need you to write me as if I was never gone."

You turned around then, half expecting to find him standing there, but you were met by a rush of wind that carried his last words as a whisper.

"Write me."

You woke up from the dream in a start, looking around your bathroom like he might appear there from thin air. But as reality set in, your heart sank. Of course he would never be there. Even in the dream you couldn't see him. You brushed away a stray tear from your cheek. He wanted you to write him. About him. You didn't know if it was really him or just your brain playing games with you again, but it was the only sign you'd received from him in months. You wanted to believe it was really him. Your broken heart needed to hope it was him.

So that night you wrote him. Every detail. Every habit. Every look. The way that his lips taste. The hint of gold in his eyes when sunlight washed over his face. The feel of his hand on your cheek. Anything that you could remember about him.

You also wrote about moments that never happened. You wrote him as someone who walked in the real world, facing your kind of problems. Working a 9 to 5 to pay the bills. Running to the corner store to get you that chocolate ice cream you'd been craving since the week started. Eating ramen several times a week when money was tight. Sitting on the couch, the T.V. on in the background as he watched your face  instead of the screen. You wrote about anything you could think of. Anything that you wished you could do with him. You painted his image with vivid and ordinary description, because you wished to live the simplest and most common every day moments with him.

You lost track of time again, as you often did when you were writing. Your hand ached by the time you stopped. You could feel the beginnings of a blister on your middle finger from where you'd been holding the pen with fierce purpose. The shot of adrenaline that hearing his voice gave you had fueled you for hours. But now exhaustion was pulling at your eyelids, making it hard to keep them open. With a sigh, you laid down in bed and hid your body under the covers. You fell asleep then, staring at the ceiling, hugging your journal close to your chest and with a wish in your mind to meet him in your dreams again.

But no such thing happen. You had a dreamless and uneventful night. When you woke up, it was from the sunlight hitting your face because in your tiredness you had forgotten to close the blinds to your windows.

"Stupid sun," you mumbled at your pillow. Covering you face with a blanket to give your eyes time to adjust to the brightness.

"What did the sun ever do to you, princess?"

You froze. Literally, stopped moving in your bed at the sound of his voice.

I've finally lost it, you thought, I've finally lost my mind.

That must be the only explanation. His voice, had been so clear it almost sounded like he was next to you. Writing about him last night must have driven you over the edge. You laughed at yourself and where your imagination had taken you. It wasn't funny, but still you laughed, because there was nothing left for you but to do so, or you'd end up in tears.

"I missed your laugh," you heard the voice again.

This time you didn't laugh. You couldn't. The voice was closer and with the tone you were able to visualize what his face would look like as he spoke. He'd be cupping your face in his hands, his eyes holding yours as if to project his honesty through that one look. It was such a beautiful image the one in your brain, that you could couldn't move to confront it. If you indeed had lost your mind, at least you'd have his words to keep you company.

"Y/N." This was the second time you had ever hear him call you by your name and upon hearing it, your heart did somersaults. You pulled the blanket down, ever so slowly, afraid of meeting an empty space besides you.

But it wasn't empty. Baekhyun laid there, on the side of the bed that was always unoccupied. Until now.

You felt your eyes widening, but you couldn't open your mouth to speak. You didn't know what to say. You were speechless.

Baekhyun smiled as you stared at him. Reaching a hand to touch your face. His touch was warm against your skin. You almost closed your eyes to enjoy the sensation, but you were afraid that he'd be gone when you opened your eyes again. So you kept staring at him, but finally found the will to speak.

"Is this a dream?"

He smiled wider, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he moved closer to you. He only stopped when his face was an inch away from yours. Your breath caught in your throat with the proximity. He was so close you caught a whiff of a woodsy scent that you remembered as exclusively his from your time in Akron.

"Baek-"

Before you could finish saying his name, he trapped your lips with his in a kiss. You didn't want to close your eyes. You didn't want to end the fantasy. But he kissed you fervently and you found yourself losing the will quickly as you kissed him back as desperately. His hand moved under the blanket that covered you and found your waist, pulling your body closer from there until it was completely against his.

As quickly as he started the fire, as swift he was about putting it out when he stopped kissing you. You almost whined in protest and he chuckled in response.

"Does that feel real enough to you?" he asked.

You opened your eyes to meet his beautiful brown ones. The sun was hitting them just the right amount and you could see your reflection in them. You pressed a hand to his face, touching him for the first time.

"How is this possible?" You wanted to ask other questions too, but this was the most important one. "You told me... you told me you used all the magic in Akron. That I would never return once I left."

He smiled, that smile of his that you loved. The one that made him look years younger than he is. His playful smile. "There is always more magic to be found and to be created. A friend reminded me of that. You couldn't come back to me, so I came to you instead."

Your heart was beating so fast that you wondered how it didn't just stop working. There was no way it was healthy for it do that every time you were with Baekhyun. You were still confused and he was being very vague.

"But how did you do it?" you pressed.

He reached for your hand, the one still touching his face and intertwined your fingers with a look of awe in his eyes.

"I didn't. You did," he paused, his gaze meeting yours, "you actually wrote me to life".

You thought he must be kidding, so you waited for the punchline. But his one never came. He was serious.

"I did what?!"

He smiled at you with so much fondness, seeing you as confused as you were.

"You wrote me to life, Y/N. First in your dreams and now here."

"You're real? Like real real?" you knew you sounded idiotic, but it was something hard to wrap your head around.

Baekhyun was a character to a story that you poured a lot of love and time into. Some writers like to say that their characters have a life of their own. But it's just an expression, it's supposed to mean they basically write themselves. They come without effort. But what he is saying is very different. What he is saying sounds so incredibly crazy yet wonderful and though you don't want to let yourself feel hopeful, a seed had taken root in your heart. A seed that you hoped would bloom into reality, a reality where you could live a life of happiness with the one you love.

You knew he could see it on your face, what you were thinking and what you were feeling. So he finally stopped being cryptic.

"I am real. While you wrote me and created a connection between me and the real world, I had one created from Akron to here. The field with the lake where I spoke to you last night, well, the water pixies conjured a portal from our side and you fabricated one from this side, through your journal. Now I can come and go as long as you don't destroy the journal."

He was being truthful, not a note of humor in his expression. You couldn't believe it. It was something out of a fantasy novel. Before you knew it, tears were clouding your vision. Baekhyun reacted as quickly as usual, out of pure instinct, arm draped protectively around your body. You hid your face in the crook of his neck to hide your crying face from him.

"I can't believe I get to live with you." You words are strained with emotion, but you say them anyways.

"I can't believe I get to love you," he says in return. "I thought... I thought I'd lost you forever." His voice cracked at the end. This made you pull back to look at his face. You were surprised to see him crying as well. You knew his pain and that sense of loss because you had felt it yourself.

"Baekhyun." You didn't know what else to say.

"I love you, princess. In Akron and here, in a world I know nothing about."

You smiled at this. The most genuine smile you had ever smiled before. You finally let yourself think about a future with him, because for the first time, it was possible.

"I love you too. I can't wait to teach you all about it. There's a lot you'll love and... well, like you told me once, it's not all rainbows and butterflies."

He smiled at that and you did as well.

Overcome with emotion you kiss him again. Because you can. Because you thought you would never get to do it again. You kiss him and he kisses you back. You both try to project how much love and devotion you have for each other. Your love is literally one from stories. Made up. But more real than anything you had ever experienced in your life. And now you will get to live it and test it and maybe even get that happy ending people like to dream about.

____________________________________

* Masterlist *

____________________________________

A/N: So that came out very meh. But also I always think that about the stuff I write so it’s probably me being a perfectionist. Anyways, hope you still enjoyed it! Thank you so much for the support and love you showed for this random idea I had that turned into this story. Love you guys!

[shimmeringclouds]

♔ | 𝐈𝐕

»»-----　♔　-----««

Chorosuke had long since given up on trying to kick the two out, seeing as they had absolutely no intention of moving. Instead, he hesitantly sat himself down amongst you all, eating with a sour frown on his face directed towards Ozo, who either didn't notice or didn't care.

"So, why Akashika?" Ozo asked suddenly after a few moments. You stifled a laugh at the crumbs scattering his cheeks, taking a sip of water to stall for time, noticing how all eyes were now on you.

"Well," you started, pushing your food around lightly with your chopstick, "I just wanted to go on a holiday for a little while. Akashika seemed like the best place." You shrugged nonchalantly, going back to eating your food.

"Akashika? Really?" Ozo drawled, raising a brow.

"Is.. Is there something wrong with that?" you asked nervously.

"Not really," Chorosuke replied, a thoughtful look on his face. "It's just that, since Akashika District is a small village in the countryside, not many people know that this place even exists. We rarely ever get visitors, other than those who already have a direct connection to this place."

You hummed. That did make sense, in a way.

"How did you find out about this place, anyway?" Ozo pushed, resting his chin on his palm.

"I came across an article online about Akatsuka Village," You paused, thinking about the contents of the article with a slight smile. "It was talking about a bunch of mysteries this place has, and after a bit of digging around, I found that this area of Japan was quiet and unknown, which was convenient for me."

"'Mysteries,' you say..." Chorosuke groaned.

"'Convenient?'" Ozo asked.

"Karamatsu-niisan must've wrote that article!" Jyushimatsu chimed in.

"Karatsugu." Chorosuke iterated.

Your mind raced to come up with an answer to Ozo, leaning away from him as he came closer, waiting for you to say something.

"Uh, 'convenient' as in..." you cleared your throat, "..I-I've never been to the countryside before. I've always lived in the city, so I wanted to start somewhere that wasn't overwhelmed by tourists and such." You ended with a nervous chuckle, which quickly died down under Ozo's unreadable stare. Should.. Should you say something? Did he even listen to what you said? Why was he looking at you like that? Your cheeks turned pink the longer he held your gaze.

"Ozo," Chorosuke kicked him from under the table, a 'huff' leaving said man's lips. "Stop being creepy. Ignore him, [Y/N]."

"Yeah, yeah..." Ozo muttered something under his breath, which you couldn't quite hear, but it didn't seem to matter as his grin came back onto his face.

"How long are you staying for, [Y/N]-chan?" Jyushimatsu suddenly spoke from beside you, making you squeak. You did your best to ignore the chuckles from Ozo and Dayoko, although the flush on your cheeks only darkened in embarrassment.

"T-Two months."

"Aw, that's it?" Ozo whined. "Well hopefully by the end of it, you'll want to stay for longer!" He winked your way. You glanced away, taking larger sips of water to distract yourself. With that, everyone focused back on their food, finishing the last bits from their bowls. It was mostly silent, save for the clinking of utensils and the gentle song of birds from outside, adding a sort of serenity to the air. It was comforting, an atmosphere you very much appreciated. It was a far cry from what you were used to.

Eventually, you all let out a hum of satisfaction, praising Dayoko for the fulfilling meal. Ozo and Jyushimatsu lay comfortably on the floor, spreading out their limbs as they shut their eyes, large sleepy grins on their faces. You smiled softly at their antics. With the way they acted, you would have thought they were brothers. You didn't want to jump straight to conclusion, though. You'd probably make things awkward if you said something like that.

Dayoko stood up and began gathering everyone's dishes. You attempted to get up and help, feeling bad about her doing all the work, but she waved you off with a smile. Chorosuke placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, gaining your attention.

"[Y/N], why you don't you head on upstairs, instead?" He offered with a smile. "I've had a bath drawn for you. I'm sure it will help you relax before heading off to bed. You've had a long day, after all."

"Can we have one too?" Ozo perked his head up, eyes hopefully.

"No." Chorosuke shot sternly, glaring at the man as he let his head fall back to the floor with a grumble.

"Choromatsu-niisan's no fun..." Jyushimatsu's voice was muffled, his face pushed against the floor.

"Stop calling me that.." Chorosuke was exasperated by now, but he opted to ignore the both of them, turning back to you expectantly. You mulled over the offer. A soothing bath after a warm meal sounded very appealing to you, especially since your back did feel a little sore still after sitting on a rocky train for most of the day.

"That sounds lovely, actually. Thank you, Chorosuke," you smiled appreciatively, slowly picking yourself up from the floor.

"It's nothing. Our guests always receive the best of treatment here in the Midorito Estate," he stated proudly with a bow of his head. Ozo glared up at him from the floor.

"Careful. You're rising again, Chorofappysk-"

A pillow was thrown harshly onto his face, startling him as his head smacked onto the ground with a hollow 'thud.' You gasped, covering your mouth to hide the giddy smile from the others in the room. You felt bad that he got hurt, but you couldn't deny that their childish ways of bickering was starting to become comedic for you.

Dayoko re-entered the room before things could escalate, hooking her arm with yours.

"Ah, Dayoko!" Chorosuke's smile was thin and forced, his brow twitching dangerously as the pillow he threw hit against his side. "Could you please escort our guest to the washroom while I deal with those?"

Dayoko looked unimpressed, not even replying to her brother as she tugged you out of the room, closing the door behind her without so much as a second glance. As soon as it slid shut, loud voices erupted as an argument broke out. You managed to pick out a few insults that were so ridiculous, you couldn't help but splutter a laugh. You tried to cover your mouth to stop them leaving your mouth, but eventually, you couldn't hold it in any longer.

"S-Sorry..!" You apologised to Dayoko through your bouts of laughter, clutching at your stomach as you followed her on shaky legs down the hallways. She looked at you for a moment in surprise before joining in with a playful roll of her eyes. You both giggled and chuckled endlessly, almost completely breathless by the time you had made it to the washroom.

Slowly, you both regained your composure, wiping a couple of stray tears from the corners of your eyes. Dayoko sighed happily.

"Dayon! Dayon!"

'That's the most I've laughed in a while!'

You smiled brightly along with her. "Same here!"

Dayoko took your hand, opening the door to the washroom to reveal, yet another, large washroom. It was slightly steamy in the room, a low mist of wafting over the tiled flooring, which was emitting from a wide bathtub on the other side of the room. You glanced around with wide eyes. The mirrors were somehow clear of any fog, the small plants scattered around the room were perked up and lively, the towels looked so soft and fluffy, hell -- even the toilet seemed to sparkle in its environment.

The girl tugged on your hand, snapping you out of your daze. She wore an amused smile on her face, but didn't comment on your surprised look.

"Dayon, dayon..."

She began telling you where everything you needed would be, and that she would leave fresh set nightwear for you to put on once you were done. You thanked her profusely once more as she left you to your own devices, closing the door to give you privacy.

You looked around, somehow feeling unsure of where to even start.

'..That's stupid,' you thought to yourself with a shake of your head. You began stripping down, neatly placing your clothes in a basket nearby so they could be washed later. Then, you moved over to the bathtub, gingerly placing the tip of your toe into the water, delighted to find it just the right temperature.

You slid in, settling down comfortably with a long sigh of relief, feeling the tension in your muscles fading away. There was a faint aroma of lavender and peppermint in the air, and you took deep and steady breaths to help clear your mind for a moment. It was truly heavenly, sitting in the warm water with your eyes closed and body relaxed. You wished you could do something like this all the time, but of course your situation back home wouldn't allow any kind of relaxation for you...

Another sigh left you, heavy and full of built up emotions. You brought a damp hand up to your face, resting it against your forehead as you frowned sadly. Your chest felt tight for a moment as a memory flashed through your mind. Your ears rang with loud voices, yelling and screaming, a complete one-eighty from what you had just heard downstairs a few minutes ago. It made your head throb uncomfortably, and your eyes suddenly prickled with un-shed tears.

'No,' you thought immediately. You sat up and reached over to a shelf beside you, grabbing a bottle of shampoo that Dayoko had pointed out to you earlier. You squirted a handful of the liquid into your hand, the scent of cherries hitting your nose as you began lathering it into your hair, using the time to give yourself a brief massage over your scalp.

'I have two months to not think about that,' you reminded yourself, finally pushing away any other intruding thoughts from your mind as you busied yourself with washing up.

After a nice long while relaxing and cleansing yourself, you stumbled out of the bath, rubbing at your wet skin with a towel (which was just as fluffy as it looked). You looked over to the door, finding your nightwear and undergarments folded neatly on a small tabletop beside a pot of blooming Dahlias. You admired their vibrant layered petals for a moment before taking your clothes

You slipped on your oversized short sleeved shirt and shorts, perfect for the warm summer night, briefly ruffling your hair with the towel before exiting the washroom. Upon not seeing Dayoko nearby, you decided to make your own way to your bedroom, somewhat confident in being able to find it yourself.

It was clear to you, though, that after only a few turns, you found yourself lost.

"How can I get lost in a house?" you muttered with slight panic. You glanced behind you, turning around. "I'll just... head back to the washroom. She's probably there right now, waiting for me..."

You turned back down the corridor you were sure you had just come from, but... you couldn't' find it. You couldn't' find the washroom you had just been in two seconds ago. Worrying your lip between your teeth, you wondered if it would be childish to start calling out for her, or Chorosuke, to come and help you. Just as you were about to make a decision, a set of footsteps sounded behind you.

You breathed a sigh if relief, turning with a sheepish smile.

"Finished with your bath already? And here I was thinking I could jump in with you!"

You froze, cheeks ablaze for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. It was Ozo, not Chorosuke or Dayoko, wandering causally down the corridor towards you, a hand tucked into his trouser pocket. He kept walking until he stopped right in front of you, leaning against the wall.

" 'Sup?"

»»-----　♔　-----««

[artificialqueens]

i’m putting out my hand, you don’t wanna hold it (gigi x nicky) - ella

a/n - The aftermath of an almost relationship between the Nicky and Gigi post-show. Kind of a ‘what if they also had a branjie moment in s12’. Anyway, first angst AND first fic that’s over 2k words, yay!! Thank u to my amazing perfect beautiful beta @pink-grapefruit-cafe for correcting my tenses (as always) :> this is also posted on ao3, and feel free to hit me up here @dawningofdrag. Hope this was a decent comeback 💗

-

‘it’s weird seeing us flirt on national television’

Gigi’s heart skipped a beat when she heard her phone ding from the coffee table in front of her, already knowing who sent her the sudden text.

It was cold. It was the middle of March and the nonexistent heating of her apartment caused her fingers to shiver as she reached for her phone. The blankets that wrapped around her shoulders fell off as she reached out, feet kicking out of the bundle of fabric and placing themselves on her carpeted floor.

The latest episode of drag race had just finished airing, the commercials that came after it playing on Gigi’s flatscreen and it’s overproduced audio filled the small confinement of her living room. Their blatant flirting in untucked had just played on-screen mere moments ago, and the 22-year-old could already hear the intense screaming of the fans in her head. She turned off her notifications for Twitter and Instagram before the episode even aired, aware that the second the moment Nicky grabbed Gigi’s hand was televised everyone would go batshit crazy.

She opened her phone, tapping away until she got to her most recent text, the blue, red, and white heart next to the sender’s name all too familiar. Probably a little too familiar for Gigi’s liking.

It was the first time Nicky texted her since they spent summer together in LA last year, and the text preceding Nicky’s most recent one stung in a way the younger queen didn’t necessarily find appealing. The romantic nicknames and pink heart emojis brought back memories the American would rather forget.

-

“You’re beautiful,” Gigi whispered into the French queen’s ear, arms tightly wrapped around Nicky’s neck. The feeling of her bare, sweaty skin on hers elicited a loud moan from her swollen lips. “Fuck- right there-”

The empty hotel room Gigi called home for the past two weeks was now dim, the lamp by her bedside table the only source of light they had bothered to keep on. The plain white sheets were barely hanging onto the corners of the thick mattress they laid on, tank tops, vintage tees, and colored pants discarded by the foot of the bed. Hungry grasps and a desperate need for touch caused Gigi’s hotel room to look like a tornado passed through, but she didn’t mind. She was willing to clean up the mess they had created if it meant feeling the way she currently did, pressed tight to Nicky’s chest.

Their non-stop flirting on set the past two weeks had finally turned into more than just dirty jokes and accidental hand touches. Gigi had teetered on the edge of the limit she had set for herself for a while now, Nicky standing on the imaginary line with her.

But the second Nicky locked lips with her after the first elimination, the self-control she prided herself in turned nonexistent. The older queen had cupped her cheeks and leaned in and before she could stop herself, Gigi kissed back. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around the french queen’s waist, holding tight and wishing the feeling she experienced once their lips met would last longer than the few seconds it lasted.

It all happened so suddenly. The hand holding, the kiss, the three hickeys on her collarbone Nicky created in the empty set bathroom before they rode the van back to the hotel. Gigi felt like she was dreaming with how quickly their relationship had escalated the past six hours. Before she knew it, their naked bodies had collided and fuck, it felt good.

Nicky moved quicker as she placed her hands on Gigi’s shoulders, her thrusts, powerful and quick. A loud whine escaped Gigi’s lips as she threw her head back into the pillow. The queen on top of her leaned down and claimed her with dark bruises on her prominent shoulder blades to accompany the ones left on her skin hours ago. Gigi writhed and moved underneath her, the collision of Nicky’s skin with her own enough to almost drive her over the edge. Her long nails dug into the older queen’s back as she savored in every movement Nicky’s hips made.

“So fucking good-” She heard Nicky exhale, her tan hands clutching her waist. Gigi looked up to meet her dark eyes, a shiver running down her spine. “So fucking beautiful.”

-

‘I know its kinda weird lmao’

Gigi set her phone down to take a deep breath, pulling back the fleece blanket around her, trying to find some sort of solace in the heat it provided. The thoughts of Nicky overwhelmed her like a tidal wave, crashing and breaking and ruining the sandcastle wall she’d built to protect herself. God, Nicky was going to be the death of her.

The thousands of memories she had shared with Nicky came in so quickly, and Gigi was pretty sure they didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. Every waking moment she spent with the French queen replayed in her head, rolling like they were the videos in her camera roll she would find herself watching at three in the morning when she’s had too much to drink.

She heard her phone buzz, pulling her out of the trance she found herself in. She slowly moved to grab the phone that laid screen-side down, toying with its clear case before she found the courage to pick it up and read Nicky’s response. She took a deep breath and opened it.

‘do you miss it?’

“Fuck.” Gigi let the curse slip through her lips, mind going a million miles a minute.

-

“Why do you have to go back to New York?” Gigi whined, still not bothering to let go of her tight grasp on the older queen. Her words slurred a little, her droopy eyes meeting the French queen’s dark brown ones. “I wanna spend more time with you-”

It was chilly, the late-night breeze probably a bit too strong for Gigi who’d only worn a denim jacket and a vintage tee. The stars shone brightly above them, sky clear from the clouds that would soon arrive in the fall. She looked down at her hand that was wrapped firmly around Nicky’s, and just like that, she was warm. The interlocking of their fingers was enough for the low temperature of night to no longer bother her.

She looked at Nicky, and she thought about how she shone just as much as the clear, bright stars of the California summer.

The alcohol had hit her over an hour ago, the normal filter she’d put her words (and sometimes if needed, even her thoughts) was currently non-existent.

They had just spent a full night out in Los Angeles getting drunk at Showgirls and eating their body weight in greasy bar food. There was not a single regret in their minds. Well, none for the time being.  Those would probably come in the late morning.

All of a sudden, Nicky stopped in her tracks, turning to face the younger queen who stood next to her. She lifted her hands, trailing them up the pale queen’s body before cupping Gigi’s cheeks. She had drunk a little more than she planned on and it prohibited her ability to think before she did anything.

She pressed a kiss on the taller queen’s forehead, then her nose, and finally a longer, lasting one on her lover’s glossed lips. “You’re cute when you’re drunk. Do you know that?”

Gigi couldn’t hide the giggles that erupted from her mouth, looking away as her cheeks flushed. “You’re cute too.”

-

She stared at the blue cloud on her phone screen for longer than she’d be willing to admit, sitting back down as she thought of a way to reply without sounding… weird? bitter? desperate? The heavy feeling in her chest intensified the longer she thought of a reply.

Her emotions went haywire and she could already feel her fingers tremble. Her breath deepened with every inhale, bottom lip between her pearly white teeth. The loud commercials that played from her TV turned to background noise, the sentence displayed on her phone screen causing her focus to shift.

Maybe she was angry. Maybe she was furious.

But she missed Nicky. She missed Nicky more than she wanted to, and Gigi didn’t think she could deny that no matter how hard she tried.

They had ended whatever they had almost a year ago, but Gigi still found herself missing the way Nicky’s arms felt around her when they slept. Gigi missed the way her tan skin would shine under the bright California sun when they would sneak off to the beach after a long day of lounging around in the American’s shoebox of an apartment. She missed the way her dark hair would smell, the scent of her musky perfume that reminded her of the mornings where they held each other until the heat of the season pushed them away.

After what felt like hours of contemplation, Gigi finally responded to the text with simple words. She couldn’t bring herself to add more to it, afraid that saying too much could lead the conversation to places she didn’t want to go.

‘i do’

Gigi waited by her phone for a reply, her eyes constantly checking to see if her home screen had lit up to display her lock screen and the time. She got up to leave her finished glass of wine on the kitchen sink, attempting to distract herself from the reply she so anxiously waited for.

She jumped when she heard her phone go off, her hands reaching to grab the device like her life depended on the words written in Nicky’s response.

‘i miss it too, sometimes.’

-

Gigi thought of making Nicky lunch before she had to leave for New York.

She wasn’t a cook by any means, she never really enjoyed it simply because it was more work than purchasing food from the restaurants down the street from her apartment. But it was a special occasion, and the American thought there was no harm in a simple romantic gesture. She was head over heels anyway, and according to her judgement, there was no point in hiding it anymore.

She whipped up a pretty little sandwich for the older queen who was smoking a couple of cigarettes on the pathetic excuse of a balcony Gigi possessed in her apartment. Nicky sat on the one chair she could squeeze into the tight space, tan legs resting on the metal railing that was slowly getting colder the closer they got to fall. The younger queen took a couple of photos of the cross-cut she had carefully plated on one of the many three plates she possessed, posting the dish on her story before walking to her bedroom where the balcony jutted out across her unmade bed.

“- no it’s not! You know I’m not ready for that shit.” She heard Nicky exclaim from the balcony.

Gigi slowly walked up to her, watching her flick the ashes from her second cigarette into the vintage marble ashtray the younger queen had bought for Nicky when she heard she was coming. Gigi let a soft smile paint her glossed lips, more than excited for the reaction she could possibly acquire from the New York native.

“Of course we aren’t serious, Kandy.” Nicky scoffed, dragging a long inhale of the smoke as it filled her lungs and left it just as quick. “I don’t do the whole relationship thing, takes too much effort.”

“I just came here to have some fun! Let me hook up and have fun in peace, you bitch.” Nicky snickered, waving around her hands as she talked as if the person on the other side of the phone was right in front of her.

Gigi felt numb.

-

‘but i’m not ready for what you want and you know that.’

She had moved to her bedroom by the time the next message came to flash itself on Gigi’s phone screen. It was dark now, dim yellow fairy lights the only thing illuminating the cozy space in the dark winter night. She tried to distract herself even more from the blue cloud that littered her brain as she busied herself before bed. She didn’t bother replying the first time, fully aware where the conversation was leading to. She didn’t want to go there. Not yet. Gigi didn’t believe she was ready for it.

Her fingers still shook like they always did when she was too emotional, the quiver of her hands evident when she went to brush her teeth. She laughed it off the second she noticed, instead, focusing on the rest of her nightly routine that she deemed more important than the second text which was waiting on the bed she used to share. More important than the sinking feeling in her chest she tried to convince herself wasn’t there.

She had settled into bed before reading the latest text but her desperate attempts to keep her feelings at bay were failing her.

The grip on her black phone tightened, her manicured fingers hovering over her phone’s keyboard unable to conjure up a proper response. She felt a lump in her throat form as she held back the tears that sat by the edge of her light brown eyes, and she remembered the time she cried the same tears only months before. “Fuck you, Nicky.”

Gigi’s voice cracked as she whispered, gritting her teeth in order to suppress the great anger that was dying to leave her chest and into the phone in front of her. She couldn’t breathe, her vision blurred from the tears that were collecting in her eyes. She found herself choking on the sobs she held back, so she dropped the phone on her green comforter.

Fuck, she wanted to call her.

She wanted to call her and beg for another chance. Her fingers itched, wanting to pick up the phone once more and tap the call button. It was a risk that Gigi herself didn’t think she should take, but her brain lingered on the thought for a while. She knew she was getting desperate for the queen on the other side of the phone, and denying it didn’t help her at all. Fuck, maybe if they met again, if they spent another summer together in California, if her lips lingered a second longer on hers, it could change Nicky’s mind.

But instead of saying so, she replied.

‘i know.’

-

“What are we, Nicky?” The question left Gigi’s lips before she had realized it.

Nicky had ignored her since she heard the loud clatter of a plate dropping itself on the dresser by the balcony door.

The atmosphere inside the small apartment had changed drastically in the matter of milliseconds. Gigi scrubbed on the dishes harder than she usually did, closed the bathroom door much louder than normal, and you could hear her dismayed grunts when her hair didn’t sit on top of her head the way she wanted it to. Nicky had finished packing, rolling her large purple luggage by the front door when Gigi spat out the words she dreaded to hear.

“I have to go-” She avoided Gigi’s gaze like it would hurt her if they met eyes. The American walked closer to the smaller queen in front of her, picking at the skin around her thumbs to ease the myriad of thoughts that ran through her head a mile a minute.

“Nicky, please.” She spoke softly, but it was as if she was alone in the room. Nicky still refused to look at the younger queen and reply no matter how long she seemed to wait.

“Answer me,” Gigi spoke much louder now, her pain still somehow passing through the tough wall she tried to put up with her second request at a reply. She felt like screaming.

The room fell silent, Nicky not even daring to move. It was so quiet Gigi could hear the faint rumble of a motorcycle from the roads close by.

“Please.” Her voice cracked, eyes bloodshot from holding back in the tears that were itching to flow. She allowed only a single tear to stream down her face, fingers shaking as she subconsciously wrapped her hands around her lean frame. Gigi closed her eyes.

“You said you don’t want anything serious but you held me when I told you I was cold.” She called out, finally harboring the strength to keep talking.

“You held my hand when we walked around Sunset and you told me about your dreams when we ate breakfast.”  She continued, the tears from her light brown eyes now everflowing as she couldn’t find the willpower to hold them back any longer. Gigi wanted to stop talking in case it got her into waters so deep she wouldn’t be able to resurface, but she kept going.

“Gigi-“

“You wouldn’t come to California for me if you didn’t want me the way I want you.”

Gigi could start to feel the thick humid air that accompanied the coming autumn season, a heavy feeling on her shoulders starting to build up and cause her shoulders to slump.

She scoffed, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, already feeling the quiver of her hands as she brought them up. “For the past two weeks, we’ve spent every second together and only now do I realize-”  

Gigi took in a shaky breath. “- you’re fucking playing with me.”

“I am not-”

“But you are!” The brunette let out a laugh, bloodshot eyes meeting Nicky’s for the first time since the phone call. “I’m just some toy, huh? You think you can come and go whenever you please and you expect me to not get hurt?”

“I didn’t want you to get so attached-“

“Bullshit, Nicky.”

They stared at each other for what felt like hours, neither showing signs of backing down now that Nicky finally had the courage to face the younger queen. She grasped the handle of her luggage tightly, knuckles turning white at how hard she was holding onto it.

“I’m young, but I’m not fucking stupid,” Gigi whispered through her tears after an eternity of silence. She met the older queen’s eyes one last time before she watched her tan hands reach for the front door.

Nicky opened the front door and left.

-

‘you’ll find someone out there who will want the same thing you want, i promise.’

Gigi hated Nicky.

She hated Nicky with every fibre of her being, the pain and anger consuming her every thought when her brain would bring back their warm summer memories. She wanted nothing but for the pain to leave her exhausted soul and transfer itself to Nicky, make her experience the heavy emotions she’d carried on her back ever since Nicky had left to go back to New York. She felt her blood boiling at the thought of the way Nicky knew where to hold her when she needed to be held-

The way Nicky knew exactly what to say at any given moment, no matter the circumstance.

The way Nicky would press a kiss on her forehead and suddenly everything she worried about disappeared.

She hated Nicky, but fuck, she loved her too.

Gigi loved Nicky. She missed her, wanted her, loved her. And that was all she needed to stop hating her.

It was four in the morning when Gigi finally replied.

‘what if i want that someone to be you.’

[thegreenfairy13]

No Country For Heroes (8)

Originally a Gobblepot one-shot written for the prompt ‘beg’ by the wonderful @justsimplymeagain this escalated into a pretty dark fic. You can read the full story here on Ao3.

Warnings: Whump, Torture, Dub-Con. 

Plot: The GCPD decides to turn Jim Gordon in for the Penguin’s protection. 

Jim wakes in Oswald’s quarter. He knows the very moment he opens his eyes it must be his bedroom, his bed . It’s the decor that tells him everything he needs to know. Every piece is impersonal while grand, speaking of its owner’s megalomania, replaceable, and unaffordable at the same time.

The detective wonders if the Penguin ever stayed at a place that was truly his, not merely occupied, conquered. Maybe the room he used to live in as a child, he muses.

He pulls the blanket over his head, tries to block out the world just a little bit longer, smells the food standing next to the bed. His stomach revolts. This could be the last day he’s truly himself and he wants to drag out the moment a bit longer.

Jim imagined dying, imagined sleeping forever. He never would have thought his end would result in letting go of everything he believes in. Yes, he had been a hypocrite, had acted contrary to his principles, but he had believed . Had always fooled himself into thinking that all his lapses would be temporary, hasty mistakes made in the spur of the moment. And one fine day, he would have succeeded, would have made the changes he hoped for, would have achieved the happy ending he dreamed of - for himself and for Gotham - and there would be no need for weakness, not anymore.

Oswald, the Penguin, is about to rip that piece from his soul, that naive conviction that the light is waiting at the end of the tunnel. But there’s no light once you’re driving through an endless night during a thunderstorm.  

But maybe it’s fair. He has betrayed the boy who came to Gotham all those years ago, willing to make all the difference, pure at heart, and now he’s paying the price.

Jim turns, stares up at the ceiling, and wonders. How will it be? Losing his soul while still being alive?

“Awake?” Oswald asks softly from across the room. He’s seated at a desk, filling out paperwork.

The worst crimes always happen at a desk, Jim thinks.

He grumbles an affirmative and sits up, scoots a hand through his hair. It’s surreal, the tenderness in the Penguin’s voice. He glances at the other man as he rubs his face, trying to steel himself for the next round.

“Did you really want to be a good man?” Jim muses once he’s somewhat awake, catching the other off guard. He still can’t marry the concept of the Penguin torturing him and wanting him all the same in his head, despite understanding his lust for revenge. Because after everything he’s been through, he does get it. Yet not at all.

Oswald draws his brows together in confusion. “After Arkham,” he elaborates.

“Ah.” The gangster puts his papers down and tilts his head.

“Because all I ever wanted to be was a cop,” Jim continues. “I wasn’t a very good cop,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Or man,” he adds as an afterthought. “I tried though,” he mutters. But he also believes his statemen, firmly. He can’t, won’t let Oswald have this part of his.

“And I always respected that,” Oswald acknowledges with a small nod. “But it’s time you let go of that,” he says, leaning back in his chair, seemingly relaxed. Jim knows he’s anything but. Once more the detective wants to scream at him, tell him he’s ripping the part out of him he’s drawn to. For Jim can’t fathom what else it would be.

Absentmindedly, he places the pen against his lips, starts chewing at the tip of the silver thing, lost in his own memories.

“I achieved more progress for this city than all your foolish efforts,” he sighs when Jim remains silent, merely observes him on his throne. But what else is he supposed to do? Any attempt to escape would be futile anyway.  

“And still,” the detective can’t help but remark as he leans back against the pillows after a tense moment of silence, stretching his aching limbs. “You never told your mother who you truly were.”

Oswald fixes the detective with a pointed stare. “You are not allowed to talk about her.”

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” he presses instead, going once again for his last sore spot. It’s not like he’s got anything left to lose at this point. “You played this role for her as long as she lived, pretended to be a respectable member of the society. Then you got into Arkham, they changed you. You said it worked because of me,” Jim carries on. Toying with the hem of the blanket he stares at the fluffy hills of white covering his legs.

“It wasn’t all a role!” he snaps back, voice just a little too high.

Turning his head, Jim studies the mobster. “Are you that delusional that you fooled yourself into thinking you’re the hero of your own story?” he asks bemusedly.

Pushing the chair back, Oswald stalks over, vibrating with barely contained rage. He’s quivering, fingers flexing around the cane. Jim thinks he’ll slap him again, prepares himself for the onslaught.

It never comes.

“Why do you have to do this?” Oswald demands to know. “Why do you always have to taint everything I do? Drag my achievements into the dirt? Soil them? Haven’t I kept all my promises? Fed this city? Reconnected it with the mainland?”

He crawls atop Jim, straddles his lap. Pulling the detective forward, he effectively silences every answer he wants to give him.

“Remember, you agreed to this, begged for it,” he breathes into his mouth before descending again upon him.

The kiss is messy, sloppy, like everything the Penguin does. Jim briefly wonders if he knows how often he left behind evidence tying him to the crimes he committed. Evidence he could have used if he had really wanted to bring him down.

He wants to say something but there’s too much saliva, too much teeth, too much of everything .

Oswald bites down on his lips a little too hard, and Jim gasps. He embraces the gangster, closes his eyes, and pulling him down onto his chest, he coaxes him into something softer, kinder.

Hands running up and down Oswald’s spine, he offers up his neck, moans shamelessly when a hot tongue swipes over the sensitive spot. It’s not difficult to just give in, to let allow for the mobster to undress him, isn’t ashamed of his body once it’s completely bare.

Oswald sucks in a shuddering breath, stares down at him as if he was a revelation, counts each and every rib reverently with gentle fingers. It’s so different from their first encounter now that Jim is entirely pliant beneath his hands. He stops at the bruises, caressing them with utmost care.

When Jim reaches for him in return, he pins his hands above his head. At the flicker of fear in the blonde’s eyes, he releases them.

“What have I done?” he whispers, almost desperately, and Jim almost hopes...

Despair never stopped the Penguin though, only spurred him on.

Pushing Jim’s legs apart, he devours his mouth again, and from there on, they stay completely silent.

It’s left unsaid that Jim allows for him to take anything he needs in change for a tiny flicker of hope, feeling guilty about enjoying the warmth, the touch, the care in the process.

It’s a fantasy they harbored for a long time, now finally fulfilled. It’s wrong, though, will leave a bitter taste in both their mouths once they are done. For now, though, they writhe in unison, moan and gasp in pleasure. Jim turns willingly for the other man, spreads his legs wider to accommodate him.

It hurts, if only fleetingly when Oswald ultimately pushes in, too roughly and too quickly. The other man stills above him, rubs his back soothingly, pulls him against his own chest. “I still love you,” he whispers into his ear as he starts thrusting, trying to be gentle and failing, even as he’s almost losing his mind. Maybe they both lost their minds a long time ago, Jim thinks when Oswald finally tips them over the edge.

He doesn’t bother dressing once they are done, not when Oswald gets up to make himself respectable again, not when he returns to his work, not when he hears a knock at the door. Just keeps lying there, above the covers, eyes plastered firmly to the ceiling.

One of the mobster’s underlings enters the room, delivers a message to his master. Jim doesn’t listen, too caught up in his own thoughts. He glances over, notes the lecherous smile on the other man’s face as he takes stock of his body. Jim feels nothing.

“When you’re done playing with him, boss,” the man starts, and Jim recognizes whatever he says now, won’t end well for him. “Can we pass him around a bit?”

The detective knows what is about to happen before the Penguin strikes. He could have stopped it, had he said anything. Instead, he merely observes the blow, watches the switchblade appear so swiftly it seems like Oswald procured it out of thin air, hears the man crying out in pain only once before hitting the floor, instantly dead.

There’s blood splattered across Oswald’s pale face now and a disgusting sea of red tainting the marble floor.

The Penguin orders another one of his disposable goons to clean up the mess. The body is gone so quickly it might as well have never even existed. Jim knows nobody else will ever dare to even think of touching him. It’s a strangely comforting thought.

Jim crosses his arms behind his head, studies the Penguin wearily. “You wonder why I always question your actions,” he commences as the man wipes the blood from his face. “Acts like this,” he sighs. “Needless acts of violence.”

Oswald narrows his eyes at him, shrugs. “And you claim to be any better?”

The detective thinks about that statement for a while, chews his lips. It’s true, he knows. The violence is beating as happily in his veins as in Oswald’s. But still...

“No,” the detective admits, at last, earning himself a triumphant grin. “But if I stopped trying, I’d be just like you.” He sighs. “We share the same goals so often,” he reasons, his words stopping the mobster from becoming enraged again. “The faults we share will bring this city to the brink of destruction again, though,” he concludes. Jim doesn’t dare to tell him they’ll likely be his downfall again - even without his intervention.

“I can only remember your meddlings bringing the city to this point,” Oswald snaps back, and Jim thinks he’ll be back at his throat any second. “Despite,” he scoffs, “why didn’t you stop me?”

“Why didn’t you stop yourself?” the detective asks back. “For me, this once, hm?” His voice is soft as he speaks. This time, he isn’t inquiring in order to provoke the Penguin, is genuinely interested in the answer.

It doesn’t work. This time, Oswald’s hand indeed presses down on his throat, trying to silence him. “I bet you regret not shooting me when you had the chance,” he crows triumphantly and Jim shakes his head. The thought never even crossed his mind.

It’s so sad, he thinks, how he doesn’t comprehend. And it breaks his heart a little. He could have gotten him killed so many times, could have sent him to jail on so many occasions.

Instead, he always chose to strip him from his power or to remain passive.  Like now.

“Don’t you realize,” he wheezes out, fighting against the weight on his windpipe, “I have never been solely responsible for your failures? It was you who admitted to killing Galavan. Who stayed in Arkham. I could have arrested you before, after….”

The pressure increases and Jim places his hand above Oswald’s, pleading with him to let go.

“Then why didn’t you?” he growls and the man in his possession can already feel the bliss of unconsciousness pulling at him.

And maybe it’s the lack of oxygen, but suddenly everything clicks into place, like the last piece of a puzzle.

“Because I love you too,” Jim manages to confess with his last ounce of strength.

The Penguin reels back as if Jim had burnt him, as shocked by the declaration as the detective he’s holding captive.

It’s true, Jim realizes once the words are out. He has always been a bit more negligent with the mobster, a bit more willing to look the other way, a bit more inclined to play him. Pushed him as often away as he sought out his help.

It wasn’t fair, to manipulate him the way he did, probably. But he did it anyway, sought his presence as much as he sought his.

“Liar!” Oswald blurts out, shaking from head to toe. “If that is a trick,” he screeches.

Jim merely shakes his head. This insane thing, this bond, it’s real. And maybe he should just leave it here, but James Gordon wouldn’t be James Gordon if he didn’t push his luck.

“But that won’t stop me from bringing you down again,” he vows gravely.  

[lady-divine-writes]

In Trade - Part 2: The Night They Don't Talk About (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley comes up with a plan to break Aziraphale free of the demon bordello.

But it may just break the two of them as well. (4495 words)

Notes: I was content originally to leave this at one chapter, but this part kept eating at me, and I had to write it. Mind the new tags. Also bear in mind that I know this isn't a healthy way necessarily for these guys to handle this situation, but I see this as a rock-and-a-hard place. You don't know how you would actually react unless you were in their shoes. 

Warning for angst, implied non-con/rape, and memory erasing.

Read on AO3.

“I … I can’t see anything.” Aziraphale’s eyes shift in their sockets, blindly searching the confines of the dark room. “They did something to my eyes, but I … I don’t know what.”

Crowley puts a hand over them, unearthing the particulars of the magic, and sighing with relief when he identifies it. “Don’t worry, angel. It’s temporary.” There’s nothing new in this one. It’s common – a parlor trick used to frighten humans. Crowley didn’t know it would work on angels. Then again, he never thought to try. “It should wear off once you leave here.”

“I was in my shop …” Aziraphale explains, the act of making casual conversation with a friend reassuring to him. Crowley hears the chains above him jingle as Aziraphale tries to fold his wings, hears him hiss when the damnation on the chains singes him.

“Don’t move,” Crowley says. “Those chains … they’ll tear your wings apart if you move too much.”

Aziraphale nods stiffly, his shoulders and back becoming rigid with that knowledge. “It was after hours, a-and I heard a knock at the door. I felt demon energy, but I was preoccupied. I was unboxing a shipment of Hawthorne first editions I purchased from an estate in Norfolk. I’d been waiting weeks for them to arrive. I thought the demon at the door was you so I opened it.” He chuckles nervously. “Why wouldn’t it be you? You’re the only demon who’s ever been by my shop. I didn’t think Hell even knew where I was.”

Crowley curls his hands into fists, digs claw nails into the palms of his hands to keep from cursing out loud and frightening Aziraphale. No, Hell shouldn’t have. And even if they did know an angel owned a bookshop in Soho, that information shouldn’t have concerned them, not to this degree.

The only reason it does is because of Crowley.

Crowley is why Aziraphale is down here.

Aziraphale turns his head left and right, sniffs the damp air. “Where … where are we anyway? I thought they were taking me to Hell, but this doesn’t feel like Hell.”

“It’s not,” Crowley says. “But I don’t want to tell you where you are.”

“Why not?” From somewhere above their heads, a whimper and a cry ring out. Aziraphale gasps, clenching his teeth tight around his tongue, trying his best not to move.

“Because you shouldn’t be here!” Crowley growls. “If there’s one place on earth you shouldn’t be …” He stops, grinds his teeth, fights his anger at himself to regain his focus. “Look, I don’t have the time to explain. I need to get you out of here now. Right now.”

“Great!” Aziraphale flashes a soft smile and Crowley knows he’s trying to make him feel better. He wishes Aziraphale wouldn’t considering what has to happen next. “Capital idea! Let’s do that! These chains are beginning to chafe unmentionably.”

“It’s not … it’s not that easy.”

“Why n0t?”

“Measures have been taken. Precautions specifically to keep you here. And in order to break them, we need to … I have to …” Crowley’s hands find his own hair and pull hard as he tries to explain.

Tries to come to terms with the next step, and how he’s going to accomplish it without hurting Aziraphale emotionally or physically.

Those chains.

Those Godforsaken chains!

Those were a bitch move if ever there was one.

“Have to … what?” Aziraphale sounds scared. Calm but scared, and he should be. He put his trust in the wrong person. They have that in common. It’s what got Crowley into the position he’s in - hanging out with the wrong crowd. The difference is, in Aziraphale’s life, there is no right crowd. Everyone around him sucks.

The blue light surrounding Aziraphale fades a hair. It’s subtle, but Crowley doesn’t just see it. He feels it, as if the sands of Aziraphale’s existence are slipping through his fingers – a tangible object he’s doing a shit job holding on to.

“I’m going to try something …” Crowley goes as slowly as he can for Aziraphale even with an eight ball staring him straight in the face “… and if it works, I’m going to have to keep going. You may not like it …”

“It’s … it’s all right,” Aziraphale says, resolve making his voice thick. “Go ahead. I trust you.”

‘Urgh! Please don’t say that!’ Crowley thinks, moving closer. Hearing Aziraphale say that doesn’t make this any easier.

In many ways, it makes this harder.

Crowley sees a spattering of marks on the angel’s cheek – grotesque symbols made up of dagger-sharp edges that look punched-on. He chooses one that looks particularly harsh, embedded so deeply it has started to bleed. Carefully, he kisses Aziraphale on the cheek over that mark. Not a peck, but nothing too suggestive. He hears Aziraphale make a small noise of surprise. When he pulls away, the mark is gone. Crowley tries again – another kiss, the same way, over a different mark. ‘It can’t be this easy,’ he thinks, heart racing. ‘Please tell me it’s this easy!’

But it’s not.

The second kiss has no effect.

‘Shit!’

That’s what he was afraid of.

It only escalates from here.

‘Dammit! God fucking dammit!’

“Oh my goodness!” Aziraphale mutters, a giddy blush rising to his cheeks. “That was … wh-hy did you do that?”

“In order to get you out of here, I have to get rid of these marks you have on your body. They’re demonic marks. They lock you down here.”

“And they go away when you kiss them?” Aziraphale’s smile after that breaks Crowley’s heart. “That’s oddly … sweet.”

“It only worked the once, I’m afraid.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Like I said, I have to keep going.”

“But I thought you said it didn’t …”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale on the lips. He doesn’t warn him. He’s running out of time. He can’t put this off any longer.

But, selfishly, he needs to shut him up.

Every word out of Aziraphale’s mouth, every expression on his face, is slowly and painfully discorporating him.

Crowley feels Aziraphale’s body thrum as he deepens the kiss, but when the angel’s mouth begins to move against his, he shakes his head.

“Don’t … don’t kiss me back.”

“Why not?”

“I have a theory. A way to break these locks and keep you from falling in the process.”

“And that is …?”

“You … you can’t be a willing participant in this.” Crowley can’t bring himself to tell him what this is, so he alludes to it – puts a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, slides it down his neck, drags it down his chest towards his stomach, creeping lower …

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles as he struggles to understand. But when Crowley’s hand reaches the junction of his hip where it touches his upper thigh, his eyes widen with fear. “Crowley, you’re not suggesting …”

“Yes,” Crowley says with a hard swallow. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

Aziraphale’s body begins to shake, the chains above him shuddering with this movement he can’t control. The smell of burning flesh fills the room and a few white feathers rain down around them, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

His wings burning off their bones is the least devastating thing going on at this moment.

“Don’t,” Aziraphale begs. “Please? I … I …”

“You what, angel?” Crowley asks, so beyond defeated he doesn’t feel real anymore. Nothing about him is real, therefore nothing about this is real. That should help, shouldn’t it?

Whether it should or it shouldn’t, it doesn’t.

“I … I love you.”

Crowley’s head drops to his hands, his body sinking so low onto his heels he might as well be one with the ground beneath him. “I love you, too, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes brighten, sparking with hope. “You do?”

“Yes, I do. I have for the longest time. Which is why I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t! You don’t have to! There has to be another way!”

“There isn’t any other way, angel! If we don’t get you out of here soon, there won’t be any saving you.”

As if to prove a point, his aura dials down a bit more. Crowley zeros in on it, pushing his disgust at himself aside and uses that dying light to force his hand. He grabs the frayed edge of Aziraphale’s neckline and pulls, ripping it straight down the middle. Aziraphale jerks back, shivering when the moist air hits his skin. He scoots a foot away and Crowley warns, “Don’t!” but those chains above him tighten, having no intention of letting him go. The only way he could remove himself from their hold would be to tear his wings off at the shoulder joints.

In the heat of this moment, it’s something he considers.

“One lassst thing …” Crowley says, his hands returning to Aziraphale’s shoulder, his demon warmth cruelly comforting against goose-prickled flesh.

“Wh-what’s that?” Aziraphale’s voice trembles – those wobbly edges cutting Crowley like razor blades.

“It might help …” Crowley’s head hangs from his shoulders, the weight of the next three words too heavy to bear. He closes his eyes against them, tries to swallow them down … but they just won’t go “… if you scream.”

***

“Here ya go. Chamomile. Your favorite. I even remembered the honey this time,” Crowley says, setting the tea service on the table in front of Aziraphale. He does his best to make his voice soothing, his volume low and pleasing, his movements smooth and predictable. But regardless, Aziraphale - eyes glued to a book he’s not even pretending to read - slides away from him, huddling so close to the wall on his left he’s about to become a pattern in the wallpaper.

Crowley looks at him, hunched over one of those Hawthorne books he’d been so excited to receive, still as a stone statue. He debates letting Aziraphale prepare his own cup but decides in the end to do it for him, to prove that he knows him, that they’re still friends.

That he’s still the same old Crowley, despite what he’s done.

He pours the steaming water from the teapot into Aziraphale’s favorite cup, then drops a tea bag in. During the course of adding the honey, Crowley’s hand brushes Aziraphale’s. The angel yelps, leaping so violently out of his skin he nearly upends his cup.

“Oh … oh God. I … I didn’t mean to touch you,” Crowley says, putting his hands up and backing away. “I’m sorry, I … I’ll let you finish … by yourself.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale answers voicelessly but he doesn’t acknowledge the tea. He leaves the cup to cool, content to let it waste away and become unpalatable.

It took over two hours for Crowley to unlock all the locks, make the marks disappear. Two hours of kisses and touches that should have been romantic, should have been sensual, should have been a consensual act of love and affection.

That’s how they started.

It’s not where they finished.

In order to pick the harder locks, Crowley had to delve into areas he and Aziraphale had discussed a long time ago - acts Aziraphale said he could never see himself doing.

But the more Crowley explored the taboo, the faster the locks unraveled.

When all was said and done, the chains evaporated, their spell extinguished, and Crowley didn’t hesitate. With a snap of his fingers he was able to transport the angel back to his bookshop, locking the door and every window with his sigil so that no one – demon or angel – could come inside. They materialized on the floor of Aziraphale’s back room, a shivering Aziraphale cradled in Crowley’s arms. When Aziraphale opened his eyes, they were no longer red and he could see. He gasped with joy and surprise at being free, but when he saw Crowley …

… Crowley will never forget the look of horror on Aziraphale’s face, not for as long as he exists. Aziraphale pushed away from him, hard enough to send Crowley flying backward. He scrambled to his feet and ran to his bathroom. Crowley didn’t move, rooted to the spot on the floor where Aziraphale had shoved him, but he could hear the angel’s muffled wailing through the locked door. Aziraphale didn’t emerge till close to sunrise and when he did, he was clean and healed, dressed from head to toe, clutching the book he’s been staring at to his chest like a talisman against Evil.

A talisman against Crowley.

Aziraphale’s bookshop is no longer the place of safety it once was. It won’t matter how many protections Aziraphale sets up, how many blessings. Crowley knows he won’t ever feel safe here again. Not the way he used to. Crowley chose to stay with his angel even though his body begged for sleep in the hopes of helping Aziraphale feel safe, be there for him if he needed him, but he can’t dodge the feeling he’s making things worse.

Worst of all, he doesn’t think their relationship will ever be what it was again.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Crowley asks, backing away till his legs hit the arm of the sofa across the room. “Anything else I can get you? Just name it and I’ll do it.”

Aziraphale closes his book, not bothering with a bookmark since there’s nothing to save. “I … I think … maybe you should leave.”

Crowley drops his hands to his sides. He was afraid Aziraphale would say that. “Is that really what you want?”

“Yes.”

Crowley nods but he doesn’t move. He can’t make his feet go. He’s not ready to leave yet. Aziraphale may need space, may need time, but Crowley needs Aziraphale.

“There was no other way, angel. I couldn’t think of another way. We had no time …”

“I know that.” Aziraphale tries to smile. “But I can’t … I can’t look at you right now without remembering …” He wraps his arms around his torso and squeezes, the rest of his sentence a messy jumble in his throat. He doesn’t want to say it, because if he doesn’t say it, maybe it didn’t happen. It’s foolish and childish and irrational, but it’s all he’s got to keep him from disintegrating into a ball of white light. “And I don’t know how to forget.” Aziraphale hugs himself tight, makes himself small, his voice no more than a hiccup of sound. “That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, Crowley. That wasn’t how we were … supposed to be together.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I wish I could fix it for you.”

“I know you do.”

“Would it make you feel better if I …” Crowley scrambles for an idea, any idea, anyway to make this better, even a tiny bit “… let you hurt me?”

“Hurt you?” Aziraphale’s brows pull together. “How?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want … short of Holy Water, that is.”

Aziraphale pauses like he’s considering it, but shakes his head. “I can’t … I can’t do that to you. I can’t hurt you. You did nothing wrong.”

“That’s not true. Not if you’re asking me to leave.”

“It is true! And I swear that I understand that! I just … I need some time. I need to find a way to wash this from my brain if I can, and I think that might be easier if you’re not around.”

Crowley sighs. “Okay. I’ll go. But can I ask for one favor?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Sleep,” Crowley commands and snaps his fingers.

Aziraphale’s eyes close obediently, and Crowley immediately hates himself.

It’s a dirty trick. A dirty, rotten, filthy trick.

He’s not using Hastur’s ploy against him. He’s using his own unique brand of demonic power.

He doesn’t know whether or not that’s worse.

Crowley raises a hand and rests it gingerly on Aziraphale’s head.

“Forget,” he whispers. “Please. Forget all about it. Erase it from your mind. Keep it under lock and key and then toss that key away. For Heaven’s sake just forget. And please … please … don’t push me away …”

During the time he and Aziraphale spent underground, Crowley figured out how Hastur managed to trap Aziraphale. They incapacitated Aziraphale with a poison Crowley had never seen before. One he couldn’t identify.

But he could taste its bitter tang on Aziraphale’s skin.

The substance they used, Crowley feels it beneath his fingers now. And as he touches his angel, he purges it from Aziraphale’s system and replaces it, regretfully, with a bit of his own power, in the hopes that it will make Aziraphale immune. It should. Demons can’t enslave other demons this same way, not that he’s aware of. Of course, he doesn’t spend much time in Hell. Things could be going south down there and he might not know about it until it’s too late.

Like tonight, for instance.

But as soon as he can, he intends on popping back down there and going on the hunt for it, eliminate every vial of the stuff he can find, or at least taint it so it won’t be effective. He has to keep Hastur and any other demon from doing this again, especially to his angel.

With the poison gone, Crowley siphons through Aziraphale’s most recent memories, looking for any remnant of the time they spent underground, all the way back to the arrival of the demon (fucking Ligur! Crowley will have to remember that …) at his bookshop door. When he finds no trace of it, he removes his hand and snaps his fingers. “Wake.”

Aziraphale’s eyes open. He looks up into the face of the solemn demon standing before him and startles.

Then he smiles.

“Oh! My dear boy! Have you been here the whole time?”

“Yes,” Crowley says, all semblance of emotion gone from his voice. He just doesn’t have the strength for it. “Yes, I have.”

“When did you get here?”

“I’ve been here all night.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows bounce up. “Have you? That’s funny.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“Well I … I can’t seem to remember what we were doing a moment ago.” He taps a finger to his chin and thinks on it hard, but from his scrunched nose and pensive expression, Crowley knows he’s drawing a blank.

Thank God.

“I’ve just been hanging out in a corner. You’ve been doing paperwork or something,” Crowley lies. “I never know. But you don’t seem anywhere near done so I should leave you to it. Don’t want to be a distraction.”

Aziraphale laughs. That should make Crowley glad, but it pierces his heart something fierce. “Since when do you not want to be a distraction?”

“Since now.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale finally catches on to the demon’s seriousness and looks at him with concern. “Are you sure? I was hoping that we could talk a little more about this antichrist bother over a drink or two … or seven? But I’ll understand if you want to go.”

Crowley didn’t want to leave before, but now it’s all he wants - go back to his flat, climb beneath the covers of his bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels, and pass out for a year. Maybe two. But what if Aziraphale relapses? What if his magic doesn’t do its job?

Wouldn’t be the first time one of his plans went pear shaped … obviously.

He has a responsibility to Aziraphale – one that didn’t end when he erased his memory.

After last night, it may never end.

“Sure, angel.” Crowley runs a hand through his hair, taming down the red locks he’s been tugging in frustration. His hand comes close to Aziraphale’s face when he raises it but he doesn’t flinch. It worked. Crowley’s magic worked. But that doesn’t absolve any of his sins. Not a single one. Because as clever as he thinks he is, he wasn’t clever enough to come up with an alternative solution. “Why not? I could use a drink.”

“Great!” Aziraphale says, happily patting the tabletop, then gesturing to the seat across from him. “I have a brand spanking new bottle of cognac with your name on it, my dear!”

That my dear nearly does him in. As it is, it sprouts barbs, wraps around his heart, and pulls taut. “Brilliant.”

***

The thunderous rapping of a fist on wood wakes Aziraphale from a restless sleep, and he jars upright in his seat on the sofa.

“Is it open then?” a muffled voice asks as curious green eyes peek in through the window.

“I don’t think so,” a different muffled voice responds. “It’s impossible to see anything through these grimy windows. Has A. Z. Fell never heard of Windex?”

“Dang it! I was really hoping to see if they had that new Donner novel. It’s sold out everywhere!”

“Yeah, that’s a drag,” the second voice says, followed by, “They never seem to be open, though, do they? He doesn’t even post his hours up.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s not a proper bookshop at all.”

“You’re right. It’s probably just a front for drugs and prostitution.”

“Molly!”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing, Jillian!”

Aziraphale smiles as the two women laugh, their voices fading as they pass the shop by on their way to the bus stop, another potential sale thwarted.

‘Yes, ladies. Spread the word,’ he thinks as he raises his arms over his head for a stretch. ‘A. Z. Fell is a façade for organized crime. No need to be back.’

Regardless of how he woke up, this might actually turn out to be a good day.

He arches his back and stretches some more, glancing across the sofa at the sleeping demon, arms folded over his chest, stoic in sleep, his closed eyes aimed at the front door as if he’d fallen asleep standing guard. He’s amazed Crowley didn’t wake up when those two women tried to break down his front door. That’s what it sounded like inside his hungover brain anyway. Poor dear must be exhausted.

It was quite a long night.

Aziraphale grabs an afghan from the back of the sofa and pulls it over Crowley’s body. He relaxes the moment its warmth sweeps over him, sliding down on the cushion and resting his head against the arm.

“Sleep,” Aziraphale whispers, tucking the blanket in around him, “for as long as you’d like. And dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley doesn’t smile after Aziraphale says this but he looks more at peace, falling deeply under and snoring softly. Aziraphale pats his arm, then rises from his seat. His back through his hips and straight down to his rear feels stiff as a board, a sure sign that he’s sat plenty.

Time to get on his feet.

Aziraphale pads, lock-kneed, across the floor, sneaking away to his bathroom to splash water on his face. He has paperwork to finish – a whole day of logging in the new Hawthorne books he got in, as well as a few other odds and ends. He stands in front of the sink and takes a long look at himself in the mirror - from his wine-flushed cheeks to his hair sticking out in all directions, the fine lines across his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. Worry lines he’s heard them called, and even though he’s not human, he thoroughly agrees with that assessment.

He’s been worrying a lot these past couple of weeks, and even though he controls his human visage, he wouldn’t be surprised if a whole new crop of lines sprouted overnight.

He washes his hands, then scrubs his face, paying close attention to his skin and his eyes, examining the pale blue irises with particular care.

No red eyes.

No demon locks.

No ligature marks.

Only a trace of pale pink burns from Crowley’s kisses left on his skin.

He runs light fingertips over them, trying a second time to heal them, but they refuse to magic away.

They’re stubborn, like their bullheaded maker.

His memories came back sometime before he woke, and they came back with a vengeance – the demon at his doorstep, grinning at him with dark, chapped lips, a bizarre lizard creature resting atop their head; having a burlap sack thrown over his head; being dragged kicking and screaming underground, then injected with a substance that burned through his body like acid.

He remembered Crowley finding him, trying to comfort him, his voice leading him out of the dark haze he’d been locked in.

He remembered Crowley’s plan.

Crowley had been right about one thing – the way they went about it, Aziraphale didn’t fall.

He made it out in one piece, and he was still an angel.

When Crowley transported them back, between the time he snapped his fingers and they arrived on his bookshop floor, Aziraphale had wondered if God had seen. Had She seen what they’d done, what they’d had to do to make it out?

To save him?

Had She been there?

Aziraphale usually feels God’s presence all around him no matter where he is, watching over him, embracing him with Her love. Even when it’s difficult to sense Her, he knows She’s there. But he can’t recall whether he did in that place or not. She wouldn’t abandon him, would She? Ineffable plan or no, he’s still Her servant. She wouldn’t leave him to the wolves, let him purposelessly be devoured.

Of course, and he’s pondered this several times before, perhaps that’s why Crowley was there, why he’s always able to find him whenever Aziraphale is in trouble. Maybe there’s something more divine behind those grand rescues of his, something more than simply being in the area.

But those are questions he’ll have to save for another time, when his brain isn’t screaming inside his skull.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to overcome this. For the few hours he didn’t have to think about it, he was fine. Effervescent really. He didn’t have a care in the world. He would ask Crowley to give him that again, help him forget, but he doesn’t want Crowley to know his magic wore off.

He doesn’t want to burden Crowley with more guilt than he already feels.

Aziraphale doesn’t like lying to Crowley, but like he said, this isn’t Crowley’s fault. It may not have sounded like he meant it at the time, but he did. Aziraphale didn’t want this, but there was nothing else they could do. And as much as he hates remembering, he can’t leave Crowley to bear the burden alone. It’s a punishment Crowley doesn’t deserve.

And Aziraphale, standing alone in his bathroom, clutching the sides of the sink to keep from crumbling to the floor and crying his eyes out, has discovered over the past 6000 years that he loves Crowley too much to hurt him that way.

[mamabearcat]

Into the Woods - Part Five

Hey! I’m having trouble blocking out my big ass fight scene - I want it to be awesome sauce, so I’m spending extra time on it. But, because the first half of the chapter is an entirely different pace, I thought I’d let you have that now. So, short chapter, but sooner! Thankyou so much for all the love this fic is getting - seriously, I’m so flattered and amazed. 

Also, a quick explanation - in this AU, I’ve decided youkai age the same as humans until they hit their peak physical strength at around thirty, and then their aging process slows down (makes more sense to me anyway - who would wanna be stuck in their awkward teen years for decades!) Inu’s in his mid twenties, a couple of years older than Kagome.

Tagging my two main cheerleaders for this @clearwillow and @keichanz and also @redflamesofpassion​ @xxracheyxx @mcornilliac@inuyashasnook @cstorm86 @xfangheartx @wenchster

Song inspiration for this one is The Last of the Real Ones - Fall Out Boy

I was just an only child of the universe And then I found you And then I found you You are the sun and I am just the planets Spinning around you Spinning around you You were too good to be true Gold plated But what's inside you But what's inside you I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you But not as much as I do As much as I do, yeah'

Cause you're the last of a dying breed Write our names in the wet concrete I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me I'm here in search of your glory There's been a million before me That ultra-kind of love You never walk away from You're just the last of the real ones

Part One  Part Two  Part Three  Part Four

 Kagome couldn’t stop smiling as they walked away from the dojo and back down the darkened hallway. She was still scared, terrified even, of the confrontation still to come, but suddenly her whole existence made sense.

 She’d made sure to never reveal to her family and friends how utterly disconnected she’d felt from her life in Tokyo. No matter how hard she’d worked, how hard she’d studied, how hard she’d laughed to cover the existence of that small soft voice, she’d always felt that she didn’t fit. A weirdly square peg in a teeming city of smooth round holes. The discovery that she made sense here in this place was a little overwhelming, but in a good way.

 She tightened her fist around the grip of the bow; it was comforting feeling the roughness against her palm, the weight of the quiver on her shoulders. She had purpose. And discovering it had rather a lot to do with the gruff but good hearted hanyou walking beside her in the darkness. She gave the large calloused hand that was safely leading her through the gloomy hallway a grateful squeeze.

 A sudden thought occurred to her. “Hey Inuyasha?”

 “Yeah?”

 “You said before that you grew up knowing what you were destined for. How did you know exactly?” The gloom was lessening, she could just about see his silvery hair now, and she was relieved. She had always been a little afraid of the dark, and it helped to have something to focus on. She could see his pointed ears swivelling back towards the sound of her voice, and she pushed down a sudden urge to reach up and touch them, find out if they were as soft as she hoped they might be.

 “My father was a Guardian, so I grew up here in this house. There was no way of escapin’ it. And then when I was ten, I was chosen by the Tessaiga”, he said, reaching back with his free hand and fondly patting the axe handle near his shoulder. Light from the onsen was filtering down the hallway now, making it easier for her to watch her step, but in the shadows behind his back she saw a pulse of yellow light surrounding the axe, as if in response to his touch. “The Tessaiga originally belonged to the first youkai that battled alongside Midoriko, and it’s passed down to each new Guardian to wield after they’re chosen. Each generation pours more youki into it – it’s sentient to some extent; knows who the best match for it would be. And it chose me.”

 “Wow!” breathed Kagome. It was so fascinating to learn that outside her regular boring existence in Tokyo there was a place where something this magical continued. Especially now that she had found out that she had some part in it.

 “Was there some sort of ceremony when you found out?” she asked eagerly, moving up to walk beside him now that she could see better. She could just picture it; a crowd of Youkai children all reaching out to touch the axe with no response. Then Inuyasha laying a small clawed finger on the handle and emerging triumphant, holding the axe up over his head with those cute puppy ears standing up straight on his head, a proud beaming smile on his face. It made her happy to just think about it. She was surprised to hear his cheerless sigh.

 “Not exactly”, he shrugged, guiding her past the onsen and back into the main room. “About fifteen years ago, Ichiro and my father were asked to help at another shrine – the Guardian’s never usually leave the shrine unprotected, but a dragon youkai clan moved down from Tokyo causing trouble. The bastards thought they could run some sorta yakuza style drug smuggling operation outa the port in Fukuoka, and it would have been bad if it had escalated to include our area. My father and Ichiro didn’t want to take the risk of a physical attack on the shrine, in case it released Naraku. There ended up being a massive battle with several shrines involved. My father never came home.”

 “Oh, Inuyasha”, gasped Kagome, squeezing his hand gently, “I’m so sorry!”

 “Can’t change what happened. He was a great dad, and I missed him for a long while; still do, but I’ve learned to live with it”, he said, shrugging again. “Anyway, Ichiro made it home relatively unscathed; he’d managed to bring the Tessaiga with him. Said that a choice would have ta be made between me and my brother, seeing we were the only ones left from the original youkai blood line. Everyone was expectin’ Tessaiga to choose Sesshomaru, me included.”

 “Why?”

 He scratched the back of his head self-consciously. “Well, he’s the eldest – he’s nearly ten years older than me, and he’s full youkai. His mother is an inuyoukai, like my father, and comes from a very influential family in Kyoto with a lot of political clout in youkai society. My mother was human, just a local girl from the village, with no other family of her own. My father fell in love with her and after I was born, they got married. Sesshomaru and his mother had already moved back to Kyoto. They’d been divorced for a while before he met my mother.”

 Inuyasha stooped to tip a ladle of water over the fire pit, dousing the embers. The only light in the room came from several covered lanterns which hung from brackets in the wall at regular intervals, and the round full moon rising over the mountain, shining through the large window behind them. Inuyasha’s hair gleamed like polished silver in the moonlight, and Kagome noticed his amber eyes glowed, cat-like in the semi-darkness. She supposed that made sense, seeing he could see well in the dark.  

 “So Sesshomaru didn’t live here with you?” She put down her bow and quiver and picked up the empty teacups and saucers, placing them back on the black enamel tray with the teapot and tea caddy. She followed Inuyasha as he took the tray from her and carried it and the kettle over to a small sink with a hand pump.

 “Nope. Just me and my Dad”, he said, pumping water into the sink and adding the remainder of the hot water from the kettle and a small squirt of detergent. “Mama died when I was eight, from a fever.” He picked up a teacup almost reverently, stroking around the gold rim and over the hand painted image of dainty plum blossoms before he placed it in the hot water along with the other teacup and saucers, washing each carefully. 

Kagome swallowed a small noise - she realised with a pang of empathy that the tea set must have belonged to his mother. She had wondered earlier why such an obviously rough and ready outdoorsy type of male should possess such a thing, but now it was perfectly clear. Spying a dish towel on a hook, she took it down and dried each cup carefully after he’d washed them, placing them back on the enamel tray next to the ornate tea caddy. Smiling his thanks, he rinsed the teapot, and passed it to her for drying.

 “Sesshomaru only came back from Kyoto because Ichiro called him to let him know about Dad’s death. Both a them thought Tessaiga’s choice would be a formality - they were pretty pissed when it chose me.”

 “But why would my Great Uncle be mad if the sword chose you?” she wondered, placing the dry teapot on the tray. “I mean, you were obviously meant to be the Guardian?”

 “Uh…” Inuyasha paused, looking sideways at Kagome, who smiled in understanding and patted him on the arm.

 “You can say whatever you like about him. I only met him once, when I was much younger, and I didn’t like him, not at all.” Kagome hung the dish towel back on the hook and crossed her arms, glowering at the memory. “He came to my Father’s funeral, tried to get my Grandpa to turn me and my very pregnant mother out of my father’s house so it could be sold, seeing my father had left no will. Grandpa refused, and they yelled at each other. I think it caused some sort of rift between them, because Grandpa stayed in Tokyo to help look after us, even though he didn’t really like living in the city at all. And Mama told me when I was older that Papa had moved away from Takamori village because he didn’t like the way the Higurashi family controlled everything.” She startled at Inuyasha’s rumbling growl.

 “That explains a lot actually. He said he wanted to wait until he’d spoken to your grandfather before choosing a successor, but if they weren’t talkin’ to each other at all… keh! It sounds just like somethin’ he’d do. Whenever my Dad wasn’t around, he spoke to my mother like dirt. Misogynistic bastard.” He growled, pulling the plug to empty the sink. “He never liked me either. Didn’t let a day go by without lettin’ me know how Sesshomaru would a been a better choice. He didn’t like youkai much, but he liked half-breeds even less.”

 His eyes widened suddenly and he swung around abruptly, turning to face Kagome. “Wait, you said that he came to your father’s funeral?” Kagome nodded. “And you said that the first time Midoriko spoke to you was just before your father died?” Kagome nodded again, and Inuyasha’s sudden roar of anger made her jump.

 “Fucking bastard!” he yelled. “He would a known! He would a been able to tell that Midoriko had chosen you, and because he was a narrow-minded bigot, he chose to look the other way! You could have been here Kagome, all those years ago!” He paced the length of the room, snarling, clenching and unclenching his fists spasmodically. His voice deepened, his previous pleasant baritone gravel becoming harsh and rasping. “Always knew there was somethin’ wrong. I couldn’t trust him. We never worked well together; our spiritual energies never blended. And he always said it was cause I was a hanyou, that Tessaiga made a mistake. That I was a mistake.” He roared his anger towards the window where the shrine on the mountain was just visible in the light of the full moon. “YOU’RE LUCKY YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD ALREADY BASTARD, OR I’D TEAR YOU APART!”

 “Inuyasha?” said Kagome uncertainly. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up in response to the pure rage rolling off him as he paced around the room. She understood why he was so angry. She would be upset too if they didn’t have much bigger problems to handle at the moment. She had to try and help him calm down.

 “Inuyasha!” As he strode past her, she reached out her hand, tugging on his sleeve, and squeaked in surprise as he flicked his gaze toward her with a snarl, his teeth shutting with a loud snap. The sclera of his eyes was a deep ruby red, and jagged purple marks snaked across his cheeks. He looked savage and wild in his anger, ready to hurt anyone who opposed him.

 But instead of doing the obviously rational thing and running away, Kagome threw herself toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burrowing her face into his chest. She could feel the frantic pulse of his heartbeat and the vibration through his chest from his increasingly loud growls of anger. The axe on his back seemed to pulse too, a heavy dominating presence against her own, demanding that she submit and cower. His clawed fingers wrapped around her upper arms with bruising pressure, but she refused to pull away.

 “Inuyasha, it’s okay!” she shouted, tilting her face to the side, trying to be heard over his anger. “We found each other, and it’s all going to be okay. Please, I need you to calm down! I don’t know how to do this by myself!” The snarls grew less intense, and the pressure around her arms lessened. She felt Inuyasha’s head drop to hers, his cheek resting on her hair, heard him struggle to calm his breathing. She tried to squeeze her arms around him even tighter, rubbing her face against his chest, the buttons on his shirt hard against her cheek.

 “It’s okay”, she repeated softly. We’re together now. It’s okay.” The growling stopped altogether, and his arms wrapped around her shoulders.

 “Sorry”, he sighed heavily, still trying to calm his breathing. “Sorry you had to see me fly into a battle rage like that Kagome. That should only happen when we’re in mortal danger. I lost control a myself. ” He rubbed his cheek against her hair, and Kagome made a soothing sound. “Kagome”, he sighed wearily, his voice still a low and rasping. “It’s just, for the last fifteen years I was told that I wasn’t enough. I thought there was something wrong with me. And you said before you had felt the same way. And to find out it was because we were meant to connect and had been deliberately kept apart… I’m sorry Kagome.” His hands moved to rub up and down her upper arms gently. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

 Kagome looked up and shook her head, relieved to see the anger fading from his face. “There’s no need to apologise - I’m glad I could help. We’re meant to be a team, remember?”

 She reached up hesitantly to stroke feather light touches over the fading purple marks on his face, smiling a little as a blush flooded his cheeks to cover the jagged lines. “Inuyasha? I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but… before, there was this moment where I felt… like a link… a… a…” Her own cheeks flushed, and her expression twisted in frustration, groaning at her inability to put what she felt into words. She pulled her hand from his face to clutch at his shirt, hiding her face in his chest again.

 “I felt it too”, he said softly, resting his chin on the top of her head. “It was our souls accepting each other as a guardian pair. A bond formed – you accepted me as your protector, and I accepted you as the heir of Midoriko’s spiritual power. It don’t always happen like that Kagome.” A short rumbling growl vibrated against Kagome’s chest. “You only gotta look at how well me an Ichiro worked together to see that.” He swallowed; Kagome could feel the movement of his Adam’s apple near her forehead. “Part of my training was reading the shrine records. They said sometimes, a pair of guardians is reborn, wanting to find each other again. They said it only happens when it was a very strong pairing, a true friendship.”

 “A friendship?” repeated Kagome, unable to hide the slight tone of disappointment in her voice.

 “Sometimes friendship, sometimes… more”, breathed Inuyasha, the blush on his face intensifying.

 Kagome tipped back her head and beamed at him, her eyes lighting up, a blush still pinking her own cheeks. Then she looked at him seriously, standing up straighter and releasing him from her hug. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed herself away from him a little, creating some space between them. “But first, Naraku”, she said in a very serious voice.

 “Of course”, agreed Inuyasha, in the same serious tone. And they both walked over to the genkan, sitting down to put on their boots in a determined way, lacing them tightly, securing weapons, ready for the fight to come. But Kagome couldn’t help the small smiles and glances she continually sent his way. And she couldn’t stop her heart beating faster and the swooping feeling of pure joy she felt when he returned each little gaze with a beaming fanged grin.  

❤ Support me on Ko-Fi ❤

Part Six

[ecto-american]

October Nights C5

Ectober fanfiction || Day One | Day Two | Day Three | Day Four || On AO3

Summary: Danny may have died, but he is certainly not gone. And he refuses to be forgotten.

Day 5: Scarecrow & Grave Robber 

Tucker had missed that day. He had finally texted her back at eight that morning when Sam was already anxiously waiting at the steps of the school. He said that he simply felt too depressed to go that day, and that his mom was letting him take a mental health day. Boy, could she ever relate. Sam had to rely on her grandma to motivate her out of bed that morning, and it was not an easy task to do.

But she had to force herself to go to school that day. It was the last place she wanted to be, but at least she'd be surrounded by people. At least he would be attached to her and here, instead of at home with her vulnerable grandmother and parents. Being in a crowd would also make it much harder for him to catch her alone and do anything. Her dad had driven her there, cheerfully talking about nothing and being oblivious to the cold air that had origins in the ghost that sat invisible in the back seat. Sam almost found it comical how her dad missed that Danny, even as a haunting full ghost specter, had buckled his seat belt. Tucker still agreed to meet her at the cemetery after school, then give her a ride home. Especially after she was able to spit out part of what had happened. She spared him some of the details for now, but she did warn him to wear his specter deflector to their hang out. Just in case.

Because she knew that this figure would absolutely not leave her alone that easily. And once Tucker was fully in the loop, she was afraid that he'd be a target next. Sam merely prolonged the inevitable obsession from continuing to escalate.

The feeling of being watched was mild all that school day, but it served as a reminder of his constant looming threat. He was keeping his distance, cautious and unsure of what she had planned after her freak out against him. Sam wore the specter deflector under Danny's oversized NASA sweatshirt as a precaution and kept a blaster strapped to her thigh underneath her knee length skirt as a warning.

Her eyes watched the rows of houses, desperately assuring herself that she had some kind of comfort and help within their walls. She spied a few people home in the windows, a few scarce people in their driveways as they returned home from work or some errand, several people driving past her. Kids' screams of excitement filled some sections of the neighborhood as they played in their yards. It put her at some sort of ease, that, in theory, somebody would be a witness to that looming presence that was following her. She could feel it, his gaze. He had to be invisible, but he was close.

A scarecrow caught her eye as she began to approach the shopping district. It smiled cutely as it stood propped up in the flower bed, leaning on the shop's sign. The scarecrow was just another part of that shop, Aloe There!, and their regular fall decorations. It was one of Sam's favorite shops, a small family owned business that had been around for as long as she could remember. She found herself stopping in front of it.

The small local greenhouse and store that she always got her supplies at, where she'd drag Danny and Tucker to. Just three days before he died, Danny had taken her there to get some new lighting for a special plant she had bought. Her boyfriend had dorkily brought her a mint plant during his silent fit of boredom while she shopped, expressing how they were mint-to be. At the time, she had rolled her eyes, telling that idiot to put the plant back where he found it.

Now she'd give anything to hear another stupid pun.

She stared at the scarecrow. That stupid smile reminded her so much of Danny. The adorable charm, the bright blue buttons shining. It reminded her of that plant. Her fingers grasped her backpack straps. She absolutely needed that mint plant.

Sam made her way into the shop, hearing the familiar bell ring. The store was a bit too warm, as always, but it was like it melted away her grief and troubles. If only for a short while. The shop owner, a plump grandmotherly figure, brightened the second she saw her. She stopped stocking shelves to brush her dark green apron. As usual, the shopowner's bored fifteen year old granddaughter was behind the counter, watching videos on a smartphone and only mumbled out a half-hearted greeting.

"Hello, Sam!" the owner greeted warmly.

"Hello, Mrs. Addison!" she replied cheerfully.

"Do you need any help, dear?"

"No, ma'am!"

"Alrighty, hon. Just call if you need me."

"I will!"

Sam knew where everything was. She had visited this shop countless times, and she knew exactly where to find the plant. A tiny, unimpressive plant. It wasn't a good idea to plant it now. But she knew it'd survive the cold weather. Mint, like Danny, was very strong and stubborn. It'd just remain dormant for the winter.

Regardless, she picked up the cheap plastic pot that held it, hugging it tightly to her. She also found a cheap hand shovel, and she brought them to the counter. The bored teen put down her phone and began to ring up her items.

"Will that be all for you, Sam?" she questioned.

"Yeah. No bag or receipt, and debit card please," Sam answered before it could even be asked. The teen simply nodded, swiping the card and handing it back. Sam put her wallet and the shovel into her backpack. The receipt printed, and the teen tossed it in a trash can behind the counter.

"Have a good day," she told her, and the teen immediately returned her attention back to her phone. Sam hummed in return, picking up the plant and holding it to her chest.

After a brief goodbye, she continued on her way. The now distinct coldly feel intensified around her, and she scowled. Sam didn't break her pace.

"Go away. Cold air's bad for the plants," she grumbled.

"...You bought the mint." The invisible voice sounded surprised and a bit confused. Sam stared down at the dormant plant.

"...I did." There was no hiding her impulse buy. Not that she had any doubts that he had watched her pick it out and purchase it anyway.

Sam could feel the air shift near her arm, as if he was going to grab her. Only to stop suddenly.

"...You really did miss me."

Sam bit her lip, and she refused to reply. She picked up speed, continuing to walk quickly towards the iron gates of the Amity Park Cemetery. It was still so hard to believe...only weeks prior, she watched Danny be buried in his final spot. The last place she truly saw him, the real him.

Sam shivered as she felt the faintest ice cold air gently hit her back, and the forced breathing became very audible to her. Not this...thing that kept following her.

Tucker's car was already parked in the lot, but he wasn't there. Sam didn't bother breaking her stride, going up to the gate and just pushing it open to slip inside. She made her way through the rows and rows of headstones, absentmindedly taking note of the odder names of those buried anywhere from hundreds of years ago to barely a week ago.

The cemetery was sorrowfully beautiful, always so well landscaped and made for the perfect spooky setting. The woods that sat just behind it held fond memories of her and her friends exploring them as kids. The leaves were becoming bare as autumn had continued, leaving scarce to the imagination of what was hidden there. Danny used to tell them that the woods were haunted and full of ghosts when they were little. Of course, Sam believed him. He was from the ghost hunter family after all, and even though Jazz had always scowled and insisted at the time ghosts didn't exist, the irony of those memories made Sam smile sadly. A painful ache and the cold that followed her made her, despite all the wonderful memories they made for her, silently wish that ghosts were truly just a myth.

As Sam walked deeper into the cemetery, she saw the familiar outline of her best friend sitting next to a headstone. Relief washed over her at knowing that she would not be alone much longer, and she broke into a jog towards him. Tucker paid her no mind, staring at the headstone: DANIEL JAMES FENTON, BELOVED SON AND BROTHER. He was muttering softly to it, and she could tell that he had been crying. He also clutched some tissues in a shaking hand. To her relief, he had heeded the warning she gave him when they were agreeing to meet up. He, too, was wearing a specter deflector.

"Hey Tucker," she greeted him quietly. Sam set the plant next to him before she wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. She squeezed him tightly, resting her cheek on the top of his head as she felt his arm grab her arm to squeeze. Sam stared at the headstone with him as they fell into silence.

The trio was back together again.

Sam gave a deep shaky sigh. She could feel him nearby. A rush of cold air passed her, and she shook a bit. Her arms wrapped tighter around Tucker in light fear before letting go to sit next to him. She dug through her backpack to pull out the shovel.

Tucker said nothing as Sam dug a small hole next to the headstone. With an expert ease, she replanted the mint into the ground. Pushing the dirt around it and patting it down, she spoke quietly to the plant. About how lovely he was, that she knew he was dormant now but that come spring he'd be so handsome. In her mind, she already had named him. His name was Dean. The name Danny always brought up wanting to name any son they'd have in the future. A name she always jokingly teased him for, because she honestly loved the name too.

"So, wanna give me the deets on what's been going on?" Tucker finally spoke up when Sam had shifted to sit back next to her. Sam said nothing for a moment, staring at the plant. He took her hand, and she finally began to talk.

With every word, Tucker got noticeably more and more disturbed at what she had to say. His grip on her hand would tighten as she recounted her night of horror. She tried to focus on Tucker, but she could still...god that watched feeling. Sam knew it was an icy hot glare of anger as she told the story. As she neared the end of her explanation, she could see Tucker violently shiver with her as an unbearably cold and unnatural wind hit them.

"Sammy," his voice finally spoke up, and she saw Tucker freeze upon hearing it. He didn't have to say it. She could see the look plastered on his face to know that the mere voice was terrible to him as well. His hold on her hand was firm.

Again, her free hand went to her hip to make sure the precious specter deflector was on. It was. Cold breath blew against her cheek, but she kept her focus on Tucker. His face paled, and she could see his eyes widen. She knew why. This thing made itself visible to them, and she could see out of the corner of her eye his hand. It moved as if he was going to cup her cheek, but keeping his distance for his own safety.

"The gang's back together," he said, and Sam almost felt bad at how...happy he sounded. She turned to glare at him as she let go of Tucker. She shifted to stand up.

"No, the gang is not," she replied coldly. Those red eyes darkened at her. "The gang involves Tucker Foley, Sam Manson, and Danny Fenton. You are not Danny Fenton."

"Why are you so angry at me?" he frowned. "Sam, I love you. You love me, remember?"

"No I don't!" Sam snapped. Tucker got to his feet as well. "I loved Danny Fenton! You're not him! You're somebody entirely different! Something that won't leave me alone! That's obsessed! You need to go away! I don't love you because you're not Danny Fenton!

A deep, angry chattering noise and it moved a few feet back in an angry jerk. His eyes glared at them both, glowing brighter and brighter as he raised his fists.

"Is this the fucking thanks I get for saving you all these years!?" the voice shrieked with a soul piercing tone that struck immediate fear into her core. The haunting echo was bad, and it only amplified the terror. "I fucking died to protect this ungrateful town! I did everything to be a good boyfriend and friend! I love you, Sammy! I died doing what I could to protect you, to make sure no ghost ever came to harm you, and I'll be damned if I be forced to leave you again!"

"Dude, you need to leave her alone!" Tucker shouted, scrambling to stand closer to Sam. He grabbed her hand again protectively, half-standing in front of her. "You were Danny Fenton once, but not anymore! You gotta go!"

"Tucker, you better fucking move before I end you!" it snarled.

"No!"

A blast hit the ground two feet in front of them, causing them both to fumble back in fear. Sam's free hand grasped the back of Tucker's shirt. This was the first time this...this thing actively used an attack against her. She could tell that it was a warning shot, but it was still so close. She could smell the grass as it smoldered from the blast. He was escalating. Fast. She swallowed hard, and she lightly pushed Tucker to the side so she could properly face her spectral stalker.

"You're not Danny Fenton!" Sam screamed. "Danny Fenton would never hurt his best friends!"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" The figure slapped his hands over his ears, closing his eyes tightly and roared in anger. "I AM Danny Fenton!"

"NO! YOU! AREN'T!" Sam stomped her foot with every scream as her hand ripped out of Tuckers so she could fling her arms wildly to emphasis. His eyes snapped open and gave her the coldest look she had ever received. Her knees nearly buckled.

"I'll prove it," he hissed.

The figure shot into the ground, and Sam's heart continued to race as she stared. It wasn't over. It couldn't be over. It couldn't be the end.

A hand shot out of the ground, akin to the start of a cliche zombie movie. Sam felt all the color drain from her face as she grew so, so cold. Soon, an entire body began to emerge from the ground, along with a horrific smell that instantly hit her. Despite having never truly smelled it before, Sam had a very good guess as to what it was. Death.

"Oh god," Tucker's voice came out in barely a whisper of horror. She felt him wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him as a hand clamped over her eyes before she could truly see anything. Sam was too numb to stop him, and she didn't want to. Sam could feel Tucker shake as he clung to her tightly. "Sam, don't look."

Sam could hear an odd rattling and lots of cracking, with terrible groaning and wheezing. The smell was overwhelming. She fumbled a bit as Tucker took a step back, but she was quickly able to walk back with him. Her best friend's breathing was short and fast. Nearly a panic attack.

"...Is it bad?" she dared herself to ask. Her fingers began to cling to his shirt. Tucker swallowed hard.

"...Just keep your eyes closed," he practically begged. He took another step back, and Sam fumbled to follow. That smell was either getting closer, or it was getting immensely worse. Either could be true. Sam felt Tucker's breath on her ear, as he desperately whispered, "Sam, reach into my pocket and pull out the thermos. Trap this thing."

Sam's hands immediately began to pat Tucker down blindly. She soon was able to locate his pocket, feeling the familiar metal container. Grabbing it, she pulled it out and uncapped it with shaky hands. Straight ahead, she heard angry, breathless groans. Something came towards them. She could feel the grass and leaves being trampled. Tucker forced them both to take another step back.

"Sam!" Tucker's voice was full of panic.

Sam fumbled with the thermos, letting the cap fall to the ground as she held it up. Tucker's hold on her loosened so she could properly aim, but she was still aiming blindly. She pressed the single button of the thermos, and the familiar jerk of the invention working. Her ears strained for the familiar noise of a ghost being sucked in. Their angry screams, the invention powering down. But none of it came. It just kept going, and Sam gestured the invention around. Maybe she wasn't aiming right.

"It's not working!" Tucker seemed more panicked, and it caused Sam's heart to thud hard. "It's not sucking him in!"

But it worked on ghosts...and Danny was a ghost...It never worked on him when he was in his human form but he was a full-Oh god.

Part of her had already guessed, but the subtly confirmed reality petrified her. Her free hand grabbed Tucker's shirt, grasping it tightly in her first.

"What do we do?" she asked. Tucker made them step back once more.

"Stay BACK!" Tucker barked, causing Sam to jump. In her ear, he whispered, "Do you have anything?" Sam perked up.

"Yes!" she replied eagerly. She pulled her skirt up a bit to grab the blaster, and she handed it to Tucker. He accepted it.

"I have the Fenton Fisher in my glove box and some towels and blankets in the trunk," Tucker told her quietly. "Please get them."

Sam felt him turn her around, and he took his hand off her eyes. She blinked as she faced the parking lot, her vision adjusting to being able to see again. Tucker's hand slipped into hers, giving her his set of keys. She glanced down at them, and she clutched them tightly in her hand.

"Don't look back at us," Tucker told her. His voice soon became distressed, but angry. "I told you to stay BACK!"

An angry wheezing and stomps on the leaves, more horrible cracking and snapping. Sam didn't stick around, and she quickly made her way to the parking lot. Her mind raced as she half-jogged down the path to the gate of the cemetery. She quickly opened it and slipped out, hurrying to Tucker's car. She retrieved the Fenton Fisher and opened the truck. She draped a large, worn blanket over her arm before shutting the car and locking it.

She heard the blaster fire. She snapped her attention to the hill in worry. There was no screaming or noises from Tucker or...him, that she could hear. Sam quickly raced her way back up towards her friend.

Tucker glanced behind him as Sam approached, and he motioned for her to come as he shifted to be in the way. So she couldn't see. And she kept it that way, primarily watching the ground as she stepped forward. While she rationally knew what was there, pretending that she didn't made her feel better.

She looked up to watch Tucker as he grabbed the Fenton Fisher from her. He handed her the blaster, and she traded with him. His other hand grabbed the blanket, and he began to walk away from her towards the figure. He tossed the blanket onto the figure, covering his face and upper body.

For the first time, Sam let herself look, and she felt sick. The figure was not in the jumpsuit as she tried to convince herself. Instead he sported the dark gray suit that they had buried her boyfriend in. The skin of the hands was a sickly and bruised color, the fingers distorted as they jerked to try and remove the cover. The corpse moved slowly and with that sickening cracking accompanying every gesture as the figure overshadowing it forced activity despite the rigor mortis. It had stupidly trapped itself, stubbornly refusing to leave to save itself. Thankfully it allowed Tucker to quickly wrap it in the Fenton Fisher before it could do anything.

Once wrapped, Tucker tied it off the best he could. He took a step back, unraveling the line a bit. They both stared silently at the figure as it continued to move and crack. To Sam's relief, when Tucker wrapped the line around him, he unintentionally made it to where the blanket wouldn't slide off. Sam didn't know the extent of Danny's injuries before his death...but based on Tucker's reaction, it wasn't a sight she wanted to see anytime soon.

"We need to get him out," Sam finally spoke up. Tucker stared at her, his eyes occasionally flickering back to the covered form as it jerked violently against him. He kept a firm hold onto the line.

"How?" he questioned.

Sam stared off at the woods, thinking for a moment. She pointed to them.

"I have an idea. Let's go there, more private," she said. Tucker glanced behind him to where she pointed, and he shot her an odd look, but complied.

He made a clicking noise, tugging on the pole. The form reluctantly took a step forward, the cracking making Sam's stomach churn. She reluctantly turned her belt off, and she got behind the figure to give it a push. It would be a slow process to get to the woods.

[darisu-chan]

Through Your Eyes

Here I got y’all a treat for Ichigo’s birthday. A day late but what else is new.

You can also read it here.

Please enjoy!

Summary: “You really don’t see how you two look at each other?”

It was a typical day with his friends. That is to say that it wasn’t typical. Not at all. In fact, it was pandemonium. His human friends weren’t all that normal to begin with ─ and not only because half of them had some type of supernatural power he hadn’t yet grasped how they came to get, but since he, himself, was a weird combination of several beings that weren’t supposed to exist, long ago he had decided to drop the subject ─ but paired up with his Shinigami friends, it was as if an asteroid had collided straight into a house party filled with drunk, drugged and hormonal teenagers shooting fireworks up from their asses. Wow. Studying literature had truly made him more hyperbolic.

In reality, what was happening was that word got out in Soul Society that Ichigo had just turned twenty (he blamed Renji for that one), which meant that he had reached the official legal drinking age, aka he was old enough now to get plastered with the lot of them. Not that Rangiku-san hadn’t tried to get him drunk at some point. He still remembered that roughly a few days after turning eighteen, the older woman had spiked his otherwise non-assuming tea with sake. One sip and his face had become flustered as he stuttered and yelled bloody murder. The others thought it was funny. Ichigo was sure the situation would have escalated hadn’t it been for a very pissed off Toshirou who had crashed their little reunion with the express intent of collecting his lieutenant. The whole place froze over faster than on the coldest of winter days.

But, now, Ichigo wasn’t protected by neither the country’s rules and regulations nor Toshirou’s aid. (“Well it seems you’re finally an adult, Kurosaki. Take care of Matsumoto for me.” The young captain had told him briefly after congratulating him for his birthday. Ichigo didn’t have the heart to point out he had been an adult for two years already, and that he had always looked older than Toshirou himself, even when he was only fifteen.) Rangiku, sanctioned by the Captain Commander, had taken advantage of this and had dragged her drunk buddies plus Rukia to Karakura, where she had basically trespassed into his room. The rambunctious group had asked him for the best bar in town. Ichigo had no idea where that could be and here’s where he made the first mistake of the night.

He called Mizuiro.

His friend was older than him by about two months, and had been hitting the bars ever since. It’s the best way to meet ladies, he had explained. Though Ichigo was pretty sure he had been drinking since before his twentieth birthday. Now, though, Mizuiro, to his credit, did recommend them a nice place. It certainly didn’t look as shady as the places the Shinigami tended to frequent. The problem in itself was that after giving him directions to get to the place, he had added a cryptic “See you in 20.” And truth to his word, twenty minutes later, Mizuiro was at the bar… with the whole gang.

There was Keigo, who frankly already looked tipsy, Chad, as silent and calm as always, Tatsuki, who had just turned twenty as well two days before, Inoue and Ishida. Now, most of his friends were already twenty, except for Inoue and Ishida, who were the youngest ones, and weren’t going to be twenty for a few more months. That didn’t seem to matter to Mizuiro or the owners of the bar. Not that his friends were drinking alcohol or anything. Ishida was sipping what looked like a grey earl and Inoue was happy with her glass of lemonade. Tatsuki and Chad seemed happy with their beer pint. And Keigo and Mizuiro had gone all out, ordering two bottles of sake before they even could arrive. Rangiku-san’s eyes sparkled after noticing this fact and declared Mizuiro was the best human in the world. The other Shinigami cheered in return and from then on things took a wild turn.

First of all, even though Keigo had had his eyes on Rangiku-san ever since he saw her about five years before, the flirty woman seemed enraptured in whatever tale Mizuiro was spinning. His friend was still very much attracted to older women, and who better than a woman that was more than a hundred years old and that didn’t look a day past twenty five. That, of course, made Keigo insanely unhappy and had started to retell his woes to Hisagi-san, who was also not fairing any better at seeing a mere human flirt with the girl he had been after for decades. Needless to say, after a couple of sake shots, the two of them soon burst into tears and drunkenly sang their laments out loud. On the other side of the table, Ikkaku had become hell-bent on getting Chad drunk. He still couldn’t believe the gentle giant hadn’t once been drunk in his entire life, an outstanding feat for someone who got hammered almost daily right after work. He had, then, dared Chad to drink shot after shot of sake in the hopes he’d get more than a little tipsy. Tatsuki immediately jumped at the chance to defend her friend, her competitive streak appearing as she claimed Chad would never lose. This spiked Renji’s interest, who immediately backed Ikkaku up on his dare. As for Yumichika, although he had declared early on that betting on alcohol was ugly, he still seemed pretty interested in the outcome. And so it began the worst competition ever, in which the rest managed to get wasted before the challenger could even complete his shots. Even Inoue and Ishida, who legally weren’t allowed to drink anything, had somehow gotten roped into the whole affair. He had certainly never heard Ishida laugh so loud ever. Inoue was also a sleepy drunk, who had ended up snoring on top of Chad, who, by some miracle, was still very much sober and still doing all of his shots.

Talk about a fucking nightmare.

The only thing that could have made this any worse was if, somehow, Kenpachi and Grimmjow crashed the place, wanting to fight him then and there now that he was a grown ass man. Or Byakuya suddenly appearing, claiming he stepped on his pride one way or another.

Thankfully, none of that happened, but his friends were embarrassing enough for him to dutifully brood in the only hidden corner of the table, nursing his half-full pint of beer. There was no way he would get drunk. The only other sober, and dare he say it, sane person in the table was Rukia. She had taken a couple of sips of sake, but despite her small stature, she had a high tolerance for alcohol. “That’s what happens when you grow up in Inuzuri.” She had once told him, smiling even when the memories must have been painful to her. Currently, the small Shinigami seemed more amused than she should’ve been at watching the mess their friends had created.

“Your friends are so lively.” She suddenly said, in that annoying voice of hers.

Ichigo snorted. “I’d use another word for them.” He answered and waited a few seconds until his mind processed the whole phrase. “Hey! Whaddaya mean my friends?! They’re yours too!”

Rukia just laughed at his accusation. “I suppose they are. Although they definitely didn’t go all out for my birthday.”

Of course they didn’t.

Byakuya would kill them all if they somehow got his precious sister drunk.

Besides, they preferred messing with him for whatever reason. Rukia had once told him it was because he was easy to annoy. Ironically, her comment had annoyed him. Not like he would ever tell her that, anyway. It would only rile her up, and give her more reasons to pester him.

Scooting closer to her, Ichigo took a sip of his drink and then turned to look at her. “Next year, let’s do something fun.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow at that. “For my birthday or yours?”

He made a show of considering it for a moment, before simply answering, “Both.”

Rukia laughed at that, the sound tingling in his ears. Somehow, even with the loud music blasting from the speakers and their friends’ boisterous laughter, he had heard her clearly, as if the only people in the world were Rukia and he.

“Greedy.” She muttered as a reply.

“How’s that greedy? I’d say it’s rather generous.”

“How so? Isn’t that just an excuse to party twice?”

Ichigo shook his head, amused. “It wouldn’t be a party. Just the two of us.”

That got her attention. Rukia looked down, as her fingers fidgeted in her lap, and then right back at him. She bit her lip, as if contemplating something. Then her eyes darkened as she smiled coyly at him. “Oh? So you want me all to yourself, Kurosaki-kun~?” She said playfully, barely containing her own laughter.

“Tch.” He grumbled. What a tease. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“What did you mean, then?” She was unwilling to let all this matter go, not that Ichigo would give her the satisfaction of falling into her obvious trap.

“Well, it’s just you don’t really like parties that much, and to be honest they’re not my scene either.” He replied, gesturing at their table and the shenanigans their mutual friends were currently engaging in. Most were singing, very badly might he add, a birthday song for him.

Rukia giggled. “I suppose you’re right.”

“’sides, we hardly spend time with each other… just the two of us…like old times…”

Ever since the end of the Quincy War, there had been long periods of time in which he had hardly seen Rukia. And, make no mistake, Ichigo got it. He knew they were all busy picking up the pieces of their destroyed world, and trying to put it back together. In many ways, they were putting themselves back together. The horrors they had all gone through were enough to traumatize even the most seasoned warriors. He had tried to help as best as he could, but there were many things he had to take care of himself, back home. With high school ending and his college life starting, and Rukia pretty much becoming the whole leader of her squad, there was not much time left to just hang out together. And he missed that. He missed their adventures or just casually being able to sit next to her. He loved all of his friends, sure, but there was something special about his relationship with Rukia, and nothing else could ever compare to it.

Sensing his distress, Rukia leaned closer. She searched for something deep within him, and when she found it, she breathed intently. “So you really want me all to yourself?” She said the words so lowly he couldn’t have heard her with all the noise around them, but he had.

“Maybe…”

He left his words hanging as he stared right into her eyes. Under the bar’s lighting, they seemed to glow and burn. It might have been his imagination, but Ichigo could have sworn she had gotten closer. From this position, her hair tickled his jaw in a way which made him shiver. Their breaths mingled together and the temperature in the room skyrocketed. He was suddenly very aware of his heart beating ferociously as he noticed Rukia licking her pink lips. He imitated the gesture, and it was then it dawned on him that, if he moved down just a little bit, they would kiss. The thought wasn’t as frightening as he would have thought it to be. Had this been four years before, he would have pulled away immediately, denying what he was feeling in his very core. But Ichigo was no longer a boy. He was now a grown man, and he couldn’t ignore the magnetic pull he felt where Rukia was involved. He saw her close her eyes and he followed suit, the connection between them not breaking even once. He leaned down and he felt her breaths come faster and then slower. He was so close he could already feel her softness and the taste of her─

“Kurosaki-kun!” Inoue shouted from the other side of the table, swaying side by side on her seat, her right armed wrapped around Ishida, her left on Chad. “Sing with us!” She exclaimed.

The spell broken, Ichigo sat up straighter, but didn’t move far from Rukia. “No, absolutely not!” He refused his friend, praying they were far too long to see how red his cheeks looked. Next to him, Rukia also straightened.

“Too afraid to sing, Kurosaki?” Ishida taunted him, even though nobody could have taken him seriously, giving the fact his shirt was stained and his glasses were in disarray.

“Shut up.” Ichigo retorted without much bite.

Renji cackled. “He knows he can’t win against us!”

“Let’s show him!” Ikkaku exclaimed.

Next thing they knew, they were all singing again, except for Chad, who remained impassive, Keigo, who had long since passed out, and Mizuiro, who was recording the whole affair. Ichigo would have liked to feel mad at them, but he knew he couldn’t. At the end of the day, no matter how embarrassing they all were, his friends wanted to see him happy. That’s why they were celebrating his birthday to begin with. Next to him, Rukia chuckled at them and her laughter was contagious. Soon he joined in, followed by the whole table, his friends erupting in laughter all around him, even Chad cracked a smile.

To no one’s surprise, they were soon asked to leave the place when their impromptu singing competition got too out of hand. The chore of extracting their drunk friends and getting them home safely fell to them. Thankfully, Urahara had let the Shinigami crash in his store. The man had probably had a hand in orchestrating the party to begin with, so Ichigo had no qualms in dumping five wasted death gods at his doorstep. They were his problem now.

Now the problem was that they had to get his human friends to their respective homes.

“I’ll get Inoue and Arizawa home.” Rukia told them.

“You sure?” Ichigo asked her, feeling worried.

“It’s no problem. I’ve got this.” Behind her, Inoue and Tatsuki were giggling as they held each other. It seemed like a pain, but perhaps Rukia was already used to dealing with drunk people on a daily basis.

“Alright. Chad and I’ll get the rest home.”

With that said, they separated, Rukia gently pushing the girls in the direction of Inoue’s apartment, Chad carrying Keigo in his arms, while Ichigo put Ishida’s arm around his shoulder and helped him walk. The journey was mostly silent except for Mizuiro typing on his phone and Ishida saying nonsense.

“Oi! How come you’re not that drunk?” He turned to his friend.

“Hmm?” Mizuiro muttered, blinking away from his phone. “I don’t get drunk that easily. I just pretend to be wasted so that the others keep drinking too.”

Ichigo got goosebumps after listening to those words. “Man, you’re scary.”

The young man only smirked at him. “Well, my apartment’s that way. See ya.”

“Hey! You’re not gonna let Keigo crash with you?!”

“Nope. Happy birthday, Ichigo!”

Happy birthday his ass.

Groaning, he nodded to Chad and they decided to continue forward, in the direction of Ishida’s place. Thankfully, nothing remarkable happened on the way, except for his friend tripping once or twice. Using the spare keys Ishida had given him at one point, (“In case you mess up and need my help,” as he had told him) they went in and left the former Quincy sleeping on his bed. Sighing, he turned to look at Keigo, whom Chad was still carrying. Only one more.

The two friends resumed walking, this time towards where Keigo lived. Ichigo thought it wouldn’t be any different to all the other times he had walked beside Chad. There was always an amiable silence engulfing them, one Ichigo rejoiced in as his life was often more chaotic than not. Chad brought him this peace, not only because he was a quiet person himself, but because he understood all the disturbances Ichigo faced day by day. This time, however, Chad was the one to speak first.

“You really don’t see it, huh?” He wondered out loud, his voice resounding in the empty street.

“Don’t see what?” Ichigo asked, thinking that there was danger looming all around them.

“You really don’t see how you two look at each other?” Chad tried again, this time looking at Ichigo.

Bewildered, he blinked once, then twice. “Huh?” He said at last. “Who do you mean?”

“Kuchiki and you.”

“Oh.”

Silence was present once again, as Ichigo mulled over his thoughts.

“I’ve been observing you two for years.” Chad said, not pausing to let his friend speak. “At first, I was intrigued by your relationship with her. You’re not the type to open up to people in such a short amount of time, then again, you act different when it comes to her. You don’t treat her like you treat Arizawa or Inoue, or even your sisters. And then, when we went to Soul Society to save her, I think I finally understood.”

That made the two stop walking. Ichigo did not know what to say. He couldn’t deny what Chad was saying, because all of it was true. Yet, he didn’t know where he was going with this. What was it he wasn’t seeing?

“Through the years, I’ve wondered if you were aware of how you look at her when you think no one’s watching. Your eyes acquire this softness, as if she’s the most precious thing in the world. You’re soft with her. You smile tenderly at her only. Your eyes just light up when she’s next to you. Even when you fight, you end up looking at her in that same way.”

Chad’s words flustered him. He hadn’t thought he had been that obvious. No one had pointed it out before. His other friends could have used this knowledge as an opportunity to pester him, to embarrass him and admit things he didn’t wish to, and yet, they still hadn’t said a thing. Even his father had remained silent on this matter. Only now Chad was confronting him. For whatever purpose, Ichigo didn’t know, but he felt as if he needed to explain himself.

“I…”

“And you don’t even notice she looks at you in the same way.”

Ichigo stopped dead on his tracks and looked at Chad, wide eyed.

“Kuchiki’s more difficult to read, but I can see it. She’s just like you. Hard around the edges, but soft and tender on the inside. You bring out that tenderness. She looks at you as if she’s seeing the sun for the first time after a long winter. You can see how proud she is of you by how her lips curl up in a smile when she’s watching you. Even when she’s annoyed at you, the fire gives way to warmth. It’s like ice melting. And it only happens when she looks at you.”

He felt like he had stopped breathing, his throat drying. Was that how it was? He had never noticed, too preoccupied with looking at her, just taking in her overall presence, that he had forgotten to actually look at all the little details. Ichigo had never been the most observant, as his friends could attest, but now even he felt like an idiot for missing something as momentous as this. For how long had this been going on? Another part of himself, the darkest, most self-deprecating part, wanted to argue that this couldn’t possibly be true. That Rukia would never look at him in a special way. Surely, he would have seen it.

“But Ren─”

“It still amazes me how neither of you has noticed.” Chad interrupted him before continuing down that path. “All of us know.”

“What?!”

“Possibly even most of the Shinigami you’ve met.”

That left him gaping.

“While you two are clueless… Well, maybe not so clueless anymore.” Chad said as he scratched his beard. “You almost kissed tonight after all.”

Ichigo’s cheeks somehow grew redder. “You saw that, huh?”

“It was impossible not to see. I was sitting right in front of you.”

His words made him feel sheepish. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t apologize. I’ve been waiting for some progress all these years.”

He sputtered. “Chad!” He yelped, feeling beyond embarrassed.

“Ichigo.” Chad called him, now growing serious.

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t said anything because I thought you’d sort it out eventually, but this has been going on for far too long and it’s bordering on being absurd.”

Ichigo laughed at that. Way to put it bluntly.

“I just… I’m scared, y’know? That it won’t work out. That it’s not what Rukia wants…”

“Believe me, she wants it. And after everything you’ve gone through together, I think it’ll work.”

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good, now go home.” Chad said, motioning towards the direction of his house.

“Wait, what? Don’t you want me to go with you?”

“No. I can handle this.” The man said. “And Kuchiki is nearing your house, you should probably go to her.”

Ichigo sighed, finally relaxing. “I’ll go then.”

His friend grunted, returning to his silent self, and continued walking with Keigo in his arms, still blissfully unaware of everything that had happened.

“Oh, and Chad?”

The man turned around.

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“No problem.”

Waving Chad goodbye, Ichigo walked on the opposite direction, when he started running. He didn’t know why but feeling Rukia’s reiatsu flowing so close to him, spurred him on to go to her as fast as he could. He found her halfway, eyes widening at seeing his disheveled state.

“Is everything okay?” She asked, standing close to him, possibly to inspect his body for potential injuries. It was in that moment that he saw exactly what Chad had told him before.

He shook his head, laughing a little. “Yeah… I was just in a rush to get home.”

Rukia chuckled, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. They never lost their warmth.

“Then we should go.”

“Yeah. We should.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a full minute, an inexplicable message passing between them. Satisfied, they pulled away and started walking back home, their hands brushing with each step they took.

“Happy birthday, Ichigo.” Rukia suddenly told him, bumping her shoulder with his.

“Thanks, Rukia.” He answered, his hand reaching to grab hers. She didn’t pull away.

With their fingers entwined, they finally went home.

[musicnoots]

Mars - The Bringer of War

Ronald Speirs/Reader

A/N: This is what happens when I listen to Gustav Holst’s The Planets five times a day. Inspired by the first movement of the suite: Mars - The Bringer of War. You can listen to it here.

Synopsis: They say war is no place for love, yet, you and Ron do it anyways.

Tags: @gottapenny @dustyjjumpwings @croatianbagudna @higgles123 @wexhappyxfew

You never listened to them. Never wanted to.

You aren’t fit to be serving this country! Women like you belong in the kitchen. Go home.

Honey, you’ll realize where you belong sooner or later. Women do not belong in a battlefield.

You’re applying to become an officer? Good luck with that. You’re a woman, you’re hardly going to get anywhere.

They wanted to see you break down and cry and realize where you belong. They wanted to see you fall and trip while running and tell you I told you so over and over. They wanted to see you get court-martialed, becoming a living memory of what a woman tried to do but failed. They just wanted you to leave and go home because apparently that’s where you belonged, no longer being intimidated by a woman who knew more than they did.

What they got was you leading Easy Company as a first lieutenant.

You worked hard to gain the respect you deserved. To whatever extent your male peers worked to, you worked twice as hard. There were often stories about you floating around the company, and whether they were good or bad—you didn’t want to know. You knew that they often did the trick because your presence sent the men into silence every time.

You got what you wanted because you didn’t listen to what they said to you years ago. They told you a woman couldn’t lead a company into war, and yet here you are in the Netherlands, leading the nation’s finest paratroopers.

That was the only thing you didn’t listen to.

You didn’t listen to the groans and shallow breaths of the replacement from I Company who sat limp in a chair, blood covering most of his face and dozing in and out of consciousness. Your eyes weren’t focused on him, though. Or the men surrounding him, faces in anger and disgust. You were fixated on Ron Speirs, the man who was currently giving the private the beating of his life.

You didn’t know why Ron was beating the replacement. You stumbled into the scene looking for Ron, actually. Instead, you were greeted with a bloodied man who was near death, and his blood was on Ron’s knuckles.

It had been five minutes since you stopped and watched the scene unfold, watching Ron’s fists hit the replacement’s cheeks until his knuckles became bruised. You weren’t horrified at the sight, you were feeling something along the lines or disappointment. Not in your men, but in Ron—the man who held your heart and knew better than to take his anger out on a replacement.

When Ron held the pistol in your hands, it was enough for you to leave.

He saw you leave. As he held the pistol to the man’s face, finger on the trigger, he looked up and saw the disappointment in your face before you left. Then he dropped the gun.

Ronald Speirs is a tough man. He tries not to get his feelings involved in war, especially love. Love does not belong in war, they do not mix. Yet, here he is giving you all the love he has to offer. He loves you like there isn’t a war going on, kisses on your forehead and the crook of your head at night before climbing in to cuddle. All he wants is for you to be alive and to be safe and happy. Just you.

He wiped the blood on his knuckles on the replacement’s uniform before following you. He’s scared that you don’t love him anymore after what you just saw, how ruthless and merciless he was towards the man. He fears that you’re angry at him and mentally prepares for you scolding him to no end.

“Y/N?” He finds you in a vacant room of the house looking out through the window. “How long were you there for?

You turn to face him, his face visibly upset and knuckles still stained with the man’s blood. “Long enough to see everything.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, head hanging low. He can already sense how you felt when you saw him, the look in your eyes said it all.

“I’m not mad, Ron. I’m just...disappointed,” you sigh. “You didn’t have to take it all out on him, what did he do to you? Did he disobey a direct order? Try to desert?”

“He said that you didn’t belong here, that you didn’t deserve to be a lieutenant because you’re a woman. He said that you were whore, Y/N. He called you a whore,” he told you, his voice rising from being reminded of what the man called you. “Did you really think I was going to let that slide? He called you a fucking whore.”

You frowned, a spark of anger igniting in your chest as you finally understood what set Ron off. He loved you, you knew that. If a man accidentally hurt you or made you cry, Ron would shoot them in a heartbeat. No questions asked.

“I see,” you said.

“Yeah,” he drew closer to you and you took a couple of steps back. “You see why he deserved what he got? Because no man calls the most respected woman of the entire battalion a whore. Not my girl.”

“So you were going to beat the man to death?”

“Well,” he scoffed, “what would you rather me do?”

“Not kill him? Ron, you do realize that you cannot kill one of our men, right? What would Colonel Sink think of that?”

“He’d have the man hanged.”

You groaned. “Ron.”

He loved you and worshipped you. If someone asked him what his faith was, he’d say your name. He fucking loves you. You just rather him show it to you privately rather than beating up men who didn’t accept women in the service.

It’s not often one sees Ron in the state he’s currently in. It all started when he met you back at Toccoa. You had made quite a name for yourself—hell, even Sobel loathed your existence on this very planet. You were the most respected woman in the entire battalion meeting the most feared man in the entire battalion. It was a match made not in heaven, but in the hands of the war itself.

Everything he does, the reason why he fights is solely for you. He is Mars, the bringer of war, and you were his Venus, the goddess of love, beauty, and prosperity. They say that love does not belong in war, but not for you and Ron. “No one calls my girl a whore,” he said, his body pushing you against the wall and eyes filled with something between the lines of anger and lust. “Don’t tell me that I should have known better because he should have known better than to call you a whore. He should have known.”

His eyes are filled with anger and rage, remembering the words willingly come out of the man’s disgusting mouth. Ron was walking by when he heard it, paused, and marched right towards the man. The expression on his face was scary, and the poor kid did not notice the lieutenant’s march until Ron grabbed him by the collar and gave him the speech of his life, escalating into a circle of men surrounding Speirs as he beat the man. It was in the heat of moment that Ron got lost in, forgetting the cool and composed man he was known to be.

You press a hand on his chest after seeing all the anger slip away from Ron. “Are you okay now?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah, I am now. Thank you.”

“I appreciate that you’re trying to defend me and my honor, but violence isn’t the only option. Just because you’re the superior officer doesn’t mean that you can go and beat up every man who doesn’t like me. I know that there are men who won’t follow a woman into battle, but that’s their loss, hun.” Your voice is soothing, calming Ron’s insides as he finally comes back to his senses.

“It’s not fair. Those men should respect you the same way they respect Winters. You worked hard to get where you’re at now, you deserve so much more than what that man had to say.”

You placed a gentle kiss on his lips and then to his cheek before resting your head on his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do, baby, and I love you. But for the love of God, Ron, please don’t beat anymore of those poor men because of their bad decisions.”

Ron smiled and kissed the top of your head. “Maybe. No promises.”

“No, I want a yes, Ron. I don’t want you getting court-martialed because you decided to beat a man to death.”

“Sweetheart, I won’t get court-martialed. I am Ronald Speirs,” he wiggled his eyebrows, and you shake your head before you send him into wonderland with a kiss.

Ron loves you, whether it’s noticeable or not, he loves you more than he loves looting and the army. He loves you despite him being hot head walking on fire, despite him only showing you his true colors late at night, despite no one ever knowing what dirty secrets kept by both of you. If you want him to get better, he will get better only because you said so. You were the person he never knew he needed until he met you. You balanced him, finding him in the middle regardless of the fact that there was a war going on around you.

They always said that love has no place in war, but not for you and Ron.

[gospelofthechosen]

story: Dean had started it. Or maybe Kat had. In the end, it didn’t matter who had started it. Only who got the final word. Because Sam was right: This prank stuff is stupid, and it always escalates. summary: Someone’s been messing with Sam’s laptop... word count: 2.3k warnings: language, alcohol, references to porn a/n: Happy anniversary to Gospel of the Chosen! This is a short mini series between Act I and Act II. Love and miss my kids, love and miss all of you.

Kat was on top of the world. After a week on lockdown at Bobby’s, two days trapped in the car with the Winchesters, weeks under Ellen’s watchful eye at the Roadhouse, and days crammed in the Impala before that, she was finally, finally alone in her own car. 

After their faux-family dinner, they’d stayed at Bobby’s for a few days. Kat would never admit it, but she’d been a little nervous. She’d been to the house on more than one occasion, and spent enough time talking to Bobby to feel comfortable with him. At least, she was pretty sure that he’d dropped the threat of kicking her into next week for hurting the boys. But spending downtime at Bobby’s felt different. 

 Singer Salvage was clearly home to Sam and Dean. Sam helped himself to any books in the library, and Dean spent most of his time out in the yard working on his car. At night, they all drank beer and watched old cowboy movies on Bobby’s crappy TV. Kat excused herself as politely as she could. She could still hear their laughter and light-hearted arguing from the spare bedroom where she stayed curled up with her laptop. She might’ve learned all the ins and outs of Bobby’s linen cabinets and kitchen drawers, but she didn’t belong here. She desperately wanted to escape out on a case, but that wasn’t exactly the deal she’d made with Castiel. Sam and Dean were her bodyguards now. So she just had to suck it up and deal until their batteries were recharged and they were ready to hit the road. 

Sam had obviously picked up on her discomfort. He tried to bribe her with bagels and burgers, whiskey and wings. Most afternoons she’d sit with him in the library just so he’d stop annoying her. All of Bobby’s manuscripts and notes were very interesting, of course. But it wasn’t exactly her idea of light reading. She wasn’t interested in diving into thousands of accounts of pain and misery without an objective. She just wanted something to do. 

Bobby had been the one who’d come to her rescue. 

“Here,” he’d said on day four, shoving one of his duct-taped phones into her hands. “Answer it, deal with it, make a note of it. Aliases are labeled on the wall, so just make sure you don’t mix ‘em up.” 

“Mike Kaiser?” Kat asked, peering at the note over the FBI receiver. “I’m not a bad actress, Bobby, but I don’t think I’m that good.” 

“Just say you’re my secretary and take a message. Or better yet, tell them DC has jurisdiction and they can shove their complaints right up their own ass.” 

Kat raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Usually works for me,” he offered with a shrug. 

It wasn’t exactly a shocker that it didn’t work for Kat. Men in high government positions didn’t take kindly to being told to go fuck themselves by an uppity secretary. Kat didn’t have a real job she was worried about losing, but the last thing she needed was for some fed to file an HR complaint about a woman who didn’t exist and blow some hunter’s cover. So she used her most polite tone for as long as she could, and practiced drawing devil’s traps from memory while the bureaucrats droned on about stolen cases and career integrity. 

“Of course, Agent Sadusky,” she said sweetly, on one of their final afternoons. “I’ll pass on the message. And if Assistant Director Kaiser thinks it’s worth a response, he’ll give you a call.” 

She hung up before the man could reply. 

“Don’t hold your breath, asshole.” 

“You good?” chuckled Sam as he wandered into the kitchen. “You look uh…” 

“Murderous?” 

“Frustrated.” 

“Yeah, well that’s not a surprise,” Kat groaned, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but sometimes I’m glad we’re not actually working for the federal government.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” He passed her a beer from the fridge, which she took gratefully. “Which one’s worse? Working for the feds or working for Ellen?” 

“Ha. Tough call. Hunters tip, but only if you let them brag. At least the feds can’t see me rolling my eyes over the phone. They also can’t grope me, which means I don’t need to assault someone every couple hours.” 

“That’s a downside?” Sam asked cheekily. “But you love kicking the crap out of guys.” 

Kat frowned thoughtfully, but gave it to him. 

“What about you?” she asked, returning the phone to the hook. “What are you up to?” 

“About to make a supply run. You need anything?” 

“Nah, I’m good. But if you’re going out, can I borrow your laptop? I got a call about some bodies in Florida. Might be a case.” 

“Hey, knock yourself out. Just don’t work too hard.” 

He jogged out the front of the house without a second thought. Kat waited until she was certain he was gone. Then she wrapped up her notes from the phone and moved into the library. 

 She settled herself behind Bobby’s desk, feeling even more out of place than she did in the rest of the house. She tried not to think about how ornate the desk was, or how old the papers and books on top were. All she needed was Sam’s laptop, and her tiny case notebook. 

The call she’d gotten hadn’t been from a hunter. It was something more of a tip line Bobby had set up, where feds and cops he’d worked with in the past could call with their questions. Kat had spoken to a very concerned deputy who had was dealing with a pile of bodies. All women, all heartless, all buried in shallow graves in a park. Kat would have assumed werewolf, if it weren’t for the graves. They didn’t often double back to hide their victims. It very well could be a run of the mill serial killer, but she wanted to do some research before she passed on the case. And possibly take the asshole out anyway. 

It was an hour or two before anyone interrupted her. 

“What’s the word, Tinkerbell?” 

“Beer,” Kat said without looking up. “Gonna need another word.” 

“Please.” 

The fridge clinked, and a few seconds later a bottle dropped into her vision. She accepted it wordlessly, still scanning the crime scene pictures in front of her. There had to be something she missed. 

 “Whatcha working on?” Dean asked, peering over her shoulder. “Yeowch. Eat your heart out.” 

“It’s not a werewolf,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “Wrong part of the lunar cycle, no blind kills. But it’s still just the hearts.” 

“Could be a skinwalker,” he suggested. “Or just about anything else that eats long pig. Just because some monsters can eat anything don’t mean they don’t have preferences.” 

“A monster with standards and taste. Just what I need.” 

She took a couple more notes, but closed out the pictures. She didn’t want to look at their faces without any solutions. 

Dean was still hovering behind her. His ring made a clinking noise against the glass as he tapped his fingers on the bottle. “So uh…you wrapping up soon?” 

“I guess. Why?” 

“Nothing, nothing. Just wanted to hop on the computer.” 

“Alright. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” 

“Uh huh…Could I just borrow it for a hot sec? Give it back in ten minutes?” 

Kat cut her eyes to him suspiciously. “Why?” 

“None of your business,” he said stoutly. When she continued to glare at him, his frown turned into a familiar, leering smirk. “Look, a guy’s got needs. I need to do some stuff I’m not proud of…well, actually I’m really proud of, but you’re not invited.” 

“God, you’re disgusting,” she sighed, pushing back from the desk. “Take it.” 

“Thank you!” he said in a singsong voice, snatching it up and hightailing out of the room. 

“Just sanitize it for the love of God! And if Sam asks, I didn’t see this!” 

He didn’t answer her. Just slammed the door to the bathroom. She slipped on some headphones and did her best not to think about the conversation she’d just had. 

The next day, they were packing their bags. Sam had agreed that her find was interesting enough to merit a visit to Florida. Bobby passed off a few of his more helpful books, and then they hit the road. Kat hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until they hit the interstate. She could sit back in her Prius and enjoy the silence. She didn’t have to tune out the shitty cassettes or put up with the smell of stale beer and fast food wrappers. There were no annoying side glances or pervy jokes. Just her and the open road and the wind in her hair. 

They drove until nightfall and stopped at a motel in Tennessee. Sam and Dean took care of the rooms, and Kat volunteered to pick up dinner. By the time she was strolling up to the Winchesters’ room with their takeout, the screaming had already started. 

“Dean, how many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff? It’s my one thing! You have your own laptop! So use your own damn laptop!” 

“How many times do I gotta say I didn’t do it? Cool your jets, man, it wasn’t me.” 

“Oh, right! And I guess my computer searched Busty Asian Beauties on its own?” 

“Maybe it did. Your laptop’s got better taste than you.” 

Kat let herself in, trying very hard to keep her face impassive. “Grub’s up. What’s going on?” 

Dean made a beeline for the food, while Sam rested his hands on his hips like a suburban mother. 

“Someone messed with my laptop,” he said snidely, “and now I can’t get it to work.” 

“It’s frozen?” 

 “No, it’s—I have no idea what’s wrong with it. I’m typing and none of the right letters are coming up. I can’t write emails, can’t search online. All I can do is click.” 

“You think it’s a virus?” she asked, passing him his food. 

“Ha, probably. Considering my browser history is full of porn sites.” 

“Oh, gross.” 

“Hey,” Dean interrupted defensively, a few noodles hanging loose from his lips. “Watch your step, man. Last time you accused me of fucking with your stuff, it was the Trickster.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sam laughed. “When the bodies start dropping I’ll be sure to issue a full apology.” 

“I’m just saying, man. Might not be me. Kat, you like bustyasianbeauties.com?” 

“Uh, no,” he chuckled, plopping down on a free bed with her rice. “Not exactly bookmarked on my homepage.” 

“Well then, we’ve got our answer. It was Bobby.” 

He smiled proudly. Kat smothered her laughter with more rice. And Sam looked positively on edge of breaking something in half. He closed his laptop with an incredible amount of self-control. Then he grabbed the closest thing—a half-empty water bottle—and hurled it across the room at Dean’s face. It hit the mark with a thunk, and Dean yelped while Kat burst into laughter. Sam stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. 

“Fuck,” Dean groaned, rubbing at his head. “Not funny, Kat.” 

“Of course it is,” she giggled. “You sound like a startled pigeon.” 

“Alright, yeah. Laugh it up. Guess this was you, right?” 

“Uh, no? You were the one defiling Sam’s computer, remember?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t download any viruses,” he defended. “I’ve been surfing porn sites long enough to know how to avoid the dodgy stuff. And if I didn’t do it, then it must’ve been you.” 

“I wish. But I don’t know anything about computers, just like I don’t know anything about cars. I figured it was you.” 

Dean frowned at her for a few seconds, but ultimately shrugged and went back to his food. “Huh. Maybe it was.” 

Kat gaped at him. “You…don’t even remember?” 

“Nah. It was heat of the moment, you know. And I’m uh—usually less discerning when I’m on someone else’s laptop. So you uh, might wanna throw a password on yours.” 

She wrinkled her nose, and Dean smirked. Kat threw a napkin at him. 

“Laugh now, Dean. But if you infected Sam’s computer, it means he’s out of service. Which means you and I are gonna be on research duty.” 

That made him groan, and he slunk down in his chair. “Damn it. The price I pay for getting off.” 

He grumbled into his food, grabbing the paper so he could start reviewing the details of the case they were heading toward. Kat speared one of her dumplings and kept her smile to herself. This prank war was going to get messy.

[tiaragqueen]

Pot Luck

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Lee Jihoon x Reader (feat. Baekhyun)

✂ Word Count: 1,6k

✂ Trigger Warning: Possessive behavior, yandere theme.

✂ This story is fictional and for amusement only. I don't believe any of the members would do this in real life. As always, thank you for reading and I hope you have a good day! [Edited]

Song: Whitney Houston - I Believe In You And Me

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“Always on the run, I've been looking for someone. Now you're here like you've been before, and you know just what I need. It took some time for me to see.” – You Give Good Love [Whitney Houston]

               For those who were acquainted with Lee Jihoon would describe him as ‘serious’ and ‘easily irritated’. And while they were true, for the most part, he was a sweetheart to you. He always tried to assist you in some way, smiled a lot, and supported you in every endeavor. He was your go-to person whenever you needed a piece of advice, or just wanted to vent. He never pressured you to talk, rather, he would sit down beside you and waited until you finish sorting out your emotions.

            And that was why you liked him so much. He was the type of person where you could sit in silence for hours without having to talk. Not to mention, he was a wonderful secret keeper and a great listener. Whenever you decided to say anything, be it a simple story about your day or some silly troubles you’ve encountered, he always scooted closer to you and listened wholeheartedly. You were grateful that someone like him existed, and sometimes wondered what did you do to deserve him in your life. If this was a blessing from God.

            You liked him, as a friend.

            But not him.

            For the longest time, Jihoon had fallen in love with you. He was shy and blunt; these traits had scared a lot of people from developing a deeper relationship with him. While you were a cheerful and energetic girl, a complete opposite from him. These people then met in a fortunate incident, where you accidentally found a slip of paper containing lyrics on the school bench. Luckily, you had spotted the name of the lyricist before you could throw it away. And thanks to your wide acquaintances and sharp memory, you managed to pinpoint his location.

            The art room, where acquaintances became friends before eventually blossomed into crushes. At least, that was what happened to Jihoon. So far, you only thought of him as a close friend, and Jihoon intended to change it with his song.

            A piece of creation that he had created from the bottom of his heart.

            A piece of himself that he had bravely displayed just for you.

            A fragment of the deep feelings that he had long harbored for you, and you only.

            “Noona,” he greeted once you entered a cubicle which was his ‘private studio’ within his equally small room.

            You had always been concerned with his living arrangement and had repeatedly offered another place to stay. With your family’s wealth and your high salary, you could afford to pay his expenses until he could search a better job with better payment. However, Jihoon always declined and said that ‘he was content living here and didn’t want to bother you more than he already had’. You didn’t understand why he thought that way when you were more than happy to help him. He had helped you so much in the past, after all, and it was only fair if you could return the favor.

            But sometimes receiving is harder than giving.

            “I told you to stop calling me that.” You huffed playfully as you plopped down on a chair beside him. You also noted that the chair was strangely more cushioned than his, even though he was the one who did the work. “It makes me feel old, you know?”

            Jihoon chuckled quietly; a cute sound that never failed to warm your heart. “We’re all getting old, anyway.”

            “Well, that’s true.” You crossed your arms like a spoiled girl who didn’t get her wishes granted by her parents. “But you don’t need to remind me. You know how much I hate it.”

            Rolling the chair closer to his, you leaned forward. Jihoon’s body tensed up a little when he felt your warm breath hit his cheek, yet the reaction went unnoticed by you. “So, what are you going to show me?”

            Jihoon hummed, teasing you for the sake of poor suspense whilst trying to calm his thumping heart at the proximity.

            “Oh, come on! I’m dying here!” you whined, shaking his left arm playfully.

            “Alright, alright, you can stop shaking my arm now.” Though, he didn’t mind if you continued. It reminded him of a child wanting to know every secret that he harbored from them. And besides, it has been a long time since you last held him like this. Jihoon had almost forgotten how euphoric the feeling of your skin wrapped around his.

            “Then, hurry up! I’m curious.”

            Jihoon giggled before reaching out to grab his guitar from beside the table. Slinging the strap around his neck, he looked up to you with a shy yet eager glint that you hadn’t seen for years. You remembered him giving you that glance when you first checked out his lyric; the one that he intentionally wrote for you to see and not when you accidentally found.

            “I made a song,” he coughed into his palm when he noticed his voice went a bit high-pitched due to nervousness. “And I want to know if you like it or not.”

            There was a brief period of silence as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Once he finally prepped himself up, he began to croon.

                I believe in you and me

                 I believe that we will be

                 In love eternally

                 Well as far as I can see

                 You will always be the one

                 For me (Oh yes, you will)

                 And I believe in dreams again

                 I believe that love will never end

                 And like the river finds the sea

                 I was lost, now I’m free

                 Cuz I believe in you and me

                 I will never leave your side

                 I will never hurt your pride

                 Then I will always be around

                 Just to be right where you are

                 My love, you know I love you

                 When all the chips are down, baby

            Jihoon peeked from his lashes, trying to gauge your reaction. He hoped you would notice the underlying sentiment in that song; about how much he believed that you two would end up together and about how much he loved you. That he would always be loyal to you regardless of the situations. Jihoon also hoped you would notice how that fateful encounter had brought freedom on to his wandering figure. How he had been lost in his mind, searching and wondering if he could ever taste what love felt like – what dating felt like – until he finally met you.

            However, you weren’t a keen judge.

            “That was awesome!” you exclaimed as you applauded his short performance. “Wow, this was the first time I’ve heard you singing. Usually, you just stick with the lyrics. Your voice is wonderful, Jihoon.”

            “Ah,” he blushed, rubbing his nape bashfully. “Thank you. It was nothing, really.”

            “My, Jihoon. You really need to stop undermining yourself. If honed right, you could be a great singer and songwriter in no time!” you gushed, oblivious to his admiring stare that delighted in your gusto. “Then, you could finally afford a nice place!”

            “You’re right, but...” Jihoon inclined his head slightly as he braced himself for your response. “What do you think about that song? Did you... get the feeling I was trying to convey?”

            “Oh, you know I got it. You sang with such love and adoration and affection I was starting wonder if you created this song for someone...” you trailed off before your face lit up. “Or maybe you actually have a special someone, that’s why you asked for my opinion?!”

            “W-what? I–”

            “Aw, don’t be shy!” you cooed, unintentionally cutting him off mid-sentence with your overflowing excitement. “I’m so happy that you finally get someone to love! Hopefully, you can introduce me to them soon. I can’t wait to see the person who has stolen my best friend’s heart!”

            Best friend...

            “So, I’m just a best friend to you...?”

            “What?” you laughed heartily, unaware of his darkening expression nor his softening voice. “Of course, you are. You’re the greatest best friend I’ve ever had! Anyone would be lucky to have you in their lives!”

            “Oh...”

            Right before the conversation could escalate to awkward silence, your phone suddenly rang.

            “Sorry, I gotta leave now. Baekhyun is calling me. Bye, Jihoon! Love ya.” you said in one breath, abruptly standing up from the rolling chair.

            Jihoon's curiosity perked up as he slowly raised his head, discerning you rushing out of the room through his black bangs.

            “Baek... Hyun.” Oh, he knew that guy alright. He was your long-time crush. Jihoon remembered when you came to him and gushed about how handsome and adorable Baekhyun was the second day after you established your friendship with Jihoon.

            He supposed it was understandable that you would like Baekhyun in the first place. He had a cute ‘puppy’ face, charming, and energetic. A social butterfly, unlike Jihoon. The type of guy who’s girls with no important businesses flocked towards like bees to honey.

            Jihoon knew you weren’t definite with your ideal type and had wished that you might have forgotten about your silly – cringe-worthy – crush towards the taller boy. It’s been like... What? Seven years since they graduated from high school.

            Unless you had been secretly contacting him...

            The short man fished out his phone from the back pocket and went to your Instagram account. You were a well-known designer, so in order to attract more customers, you often uploaded your creations. Fortunately, you liked to upload your selfies in there as well. Your account was set in public, therefore Jihoon could easily find the recent photo.

            And the newest one was a picture of you sitting in a cozy café not too far from his apartment, with a caption: “I'm waiting~ XD”

            Satisfied with the discovery, Jihoon leaned back and smirked to the ceiling.

            He knew what he had to do now.