#as you look around the dark open expanse of the room and the lifeless but vivid animals that would’ve once been a threat to you

[theswampghost]

if you go to a museum alone you can listen to the night at the museum soundtrack. .but watch out

[steviewashere]

Pumpkin Pie

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Recreational Drug Use (Marijuana), Alcohol, Inebriated Steve Harrington Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Sad Steve Harrington, Insecure Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Kisses, Cuddling, Sharing Food, The Intimacy in Sharing Pie From the Same Tin on The Same Fork, Sappy Ending For @steddie-spooktober Day 24 Prompt: Pumpkin (My probably only fic for spooktober because it got away from me)

🎃—————🥧 Eddie wakes up to a cold bed next to him and a bladder that’s screaming.

It’s not unusual for Steve to get out of bed in the middle of the night. Sometimes from a nightmare. Maybe because he needs a glass of water. Occasionally for the bathroom. But for his side to stay cold? That’s what’s unusual.

He pulls up his pajama pants, washes his hands, and makes it out of their ensuite bathroom. Well, it used to be just Steve’s ensuite and bedroom, but it’s theirs now that his parents have completely moved out of Hawkins. Leaving their too big house in a trust fund—the only thing that’s in the trust fund, it seems. Steve agreed that he’d pay the bills, so long as his parents didn’t fully sell it; surprisingly, they gave in.

The downstairs is completely dark. No life in the living room. No flushing toilet from the downstairs bathroom. Nothing. It’s almost as if Steve isn’t even home. Though, the back porch light is on. And in the light layer of autumn fog, glowing from the pool lights, is Steve laid back in one of the pool loungers.

Heaving open the heavy sliding glass door, Eddie chances stepping outside. The cold bites him—teeth marks, flesh missing. His t-shirt and fleece pants aren’t going to fend off the chill. And Steve’s outfit won’t do any better either. Considering the fact that he’s in nothing but some ratty sweatpants. How can he sit out here, Eddie briefly wonders. A waft of something skunky and earthy flares his nostrils alive. He shuffles over so that he’s in the adjacent pool lounger, sitting on the edge, arms wrapped tight around himself. Looking on at Steve’s profile, who is completely zoned out, bringing the joint to his lips mechanically. There are goosebumps on Steve’s shoulders, his cheeks bright red, the area under his nostrils a little shiny. He’ll get sick out here.

“Steve?” Eddie softly calls. Though, it startles Steve anyway. Hazel eyes meet his: bloodshot, glistening, his pupils expanded to their full extent from how dark it is. There’s dark circles under his eyes, heavy eye bags. His skin is pasty underneath the flush. Already looks sick. “What’re you doin’ out here, sweetheart? It’s warmer inside.”

A sniff. Shrugged shoulders. Steve looks back out towards the pool, but his eyes aren’t bouncing over the water—from where Eddie follows them, they appear to be mapping out the horizon line, a blue expanse coated with fog. “My parents called”—he takes a deep pull from the joint and the cigarette paper crackles into use, breathing it into his lungs, puffing it lightly from his nostrils—“they aren’t coming,” Steve croaks, the rest of that smoke billowing from between his chapped lips.

“They called at midnight?”

Steve gives a heavy nod. Another drag. Billowing smoke. “Motherfuckers are in London right now, livin’ it large with all their stupid business friends. Mom’s tryin’ to keep Dad from chasing tail.” He blinks slowly and lets out a longwinded sigh. “It’s whatever. Tried to keep in touch with my family, made them a bunch of nice food, and this is what I get. Fuckin’ whatever.” Steve’s smiling by the end of that sentence, this humorless, lifeless thing. He goes back to the joint again on autopilot, lips wrapping around the end, taking in another big hit, letting it settle, and blowing it out with his next sigh.

Eddie looks around Steve, the crumbles of burnt joint on the lounger, what looks like a near empty glass bottle resting near one of the legs, another smoked roll but it’s just the filter at this point. He purses his lips and furrows his eyebrows. Looks at that bottle again—Smirnoff. He takes a deep breath, oh boy. “Don’t you want to go inside, sweetheart? We can talk about all this in bed, y’know. It’s warmer,” he tries again.

“Nah,” Steve drawls. “I’m warm already”—another fucking hit—“’t’s fine.”

“How much have you had to smoke, Steve?”

He shrugs again. Nonchalant like none of this is worrisome. Whatever that phone call was must’ve shaken him up pretty bad. Especially for him to come out here and party like it’s 1983? Yeah, must’ve been pretty fucked.

A cloud of smoke. “Dunno,” Steve says, “put some money in your…your lunchbox. Gutted some of my cigs. Bada-bing, bada-boom, right?” He puts the roach out on the arm of his chair, leaving a shallow crater in its wake. Steve points loosely towards the leg of his chair. “Hand me the…the uh…the drink?”

“No, Steve,” Eddie responds firmly, “I’m not gonna give that to you. We should go back to bed. Talk about that phone call in the morning.”

Steve scoffs and hefts himself up enough to come off the back of the chair, just barely reaching over into Eddie’s space. His eyes are glossier than they were before, heavy lids, Eddie can smell the alcohol on his breath when he speaks. “What’s there to talk about? They don’ fuckin’ love me. ‘M not enough for them to stay and now they’re startin’ over without me.” He collapses back. A wet breath from between his lips. “It’s whatever,” Steve spits. Swallows and sniffles and—

The first tear rolls down his right cheek.

“Steve,” Eddie breathes.

“Nothin’ to talk ‘bout.” He wipes aggressively at his cheeks with the hilt of his palms. Mutters, so quiet Eddie almost doesn’t hear him, “Don’ fuckin’ love me.”

Eddie’s silent for a few minutes. Sour in his stomach from Steve’s soft sniffles, the tears he won’t admit are there. He looks out at the forest, the dark expanse of sky. Lets out a calm, solid breath. “Are you hungry?” Eddie asks quietly.

“Sorta.”

“You want some of that pumpkin pie I made?” Steve nods to that. “Okay,” Eddie whispers. “M’gonna get you some water, too, alright? Enough of the weed and alcohol for tonight.”

“But”—

“No, Stevie, baby,” he shoots down as gently as he can. “It’s not gonna help.”

Before Steve can protest again, Eddie swipes up the bottle of vodka and retreats back into the kitchen. He pulls the tin of pumpkin pie from the fridge, grabs a fork, a bottle of water, and heads back outside. Along the way, though, he snatches a hoodie of Steve’s and some socks for the both of them.

The water and pie are set in Steve’s lap, fork laying gently across its top. He scrunches up the hoodie and pulls it over Steve’s head for him, guiding his arms through, letting it fall loosely over his stomach. And he treats the socks with the same reverence, a pair for each of them. Finally, he digs a bite from the center of the pie tin—a hideous scrape of fork prongs in the center of what he made—and brings it to Steve’s lips, who takes the scoop gingerly.

Steve hums with his eyes closed. “You’re a good baker,” he mumbles with a full mouth, “best…best boyfriend in the world.”

He snorts. “Mmm…that’s funny, I was gonna say that you’re the best boyfriend in the world. My favorite person, too.”

“Really?” Steve looks to him with his eyes as wide as they’ll possibly go, pupils still dilated, still glossy, but surprised. “Am I really?”

Eddie combs his fingers through the front of Steve’s hair, swooping it back off his forehead. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “sweetheart, you are more than best to me. You’re everything, Steve.” He offers another bite to Steve, watches as it disappears behind his lips.

There’s a small, pleased smile on Steve’s face. The corner of his eyes crinkled lightly, sparkling. He looks down at the pie tin, a crease worming between his eyebrows. Gently concerned, “Are you eatin’, too? ’T’s your food.”

“Two for you, one for me. I’m not that hungry.”

Steve hums. Still watching Eddie, as he finally takes a bite for himself. And then watching with more intent as he gets another bit of pie. There’s a smudge of pie on the corner of his mouth. Eddie wipes it away reverently with the tip of his thumb. He receives a kiss to it for his efforts, which he chuckles at.

“I love you,” Eddie breathes—easy as pie. “Love you so much, it’s almost ridiculous.”

There are tears in Steve’s eyes again. When he’s inebriated, his emotions are practically free flowing. They always are. It’s a shame he only allows himself to be this vulnerable when he’s like this, but it’s all the same real. Wetly, “Love you, too. You know that? Don’…don’t forget that. That I…I love you, Eds. So much. Love you so much.” His next breath comes out as a little, weak sob. A hiccup, this gentle burble.

He pets his hand through Steve’s hair again, gently swiping it down the side of his head, and cupping his cheek. His face is warm and his eyes are shiny and he’s still so beautiful—so wonderfully Steve—even when he’s like this. “Shh,” Eddie whispers, “I know, baby. I know. And I’ll remember, promise. Because I’m gonna love you for forever, Stevie. Just you and me.”

Another soft cry—delicate. “Kiss?” Steve asks quietly, “can we kiss?”

Instead of answering verbally, Eddie deposits the fork into the well of missing pumpkin pie. He cups Steve’s face with both his hands and gently invites himself in. Steve isn’t very coordinated, his lips too pursed, and his whole face scrunching in Eddie’s palms, but he makes do. It’s a saccharine kiss all the same—no tongue, just their lips, more smear than anything. But when Eddie pulls back a few inches, Steve is still positively dazed. As if it’s the first time they ever kissed, in which Steve looked the exact same: in love, entirely surprised his tactic worked, and still completely pleased with the results.

“I love you,” Eddie murmurs against Steve’s lips, mingling in the same breath, “no matter what, I’m gonna keep loving you.”

Steve rests in Eddie’s palms, going lax into his left hand. His face is squished, he’s flushed and warm. There’s a goofy, lopsided, syrupy smile on his face. “You…you taste like pumpkin, Eds.”

“Yeah?” he laughs out through a breath. “You do, too. You’re my slice of pumpkin pie, Stevie”—he pets his thumbs over Steve’s temples, down at the corners of his eyes—“slice of heaven right here in my hands.”

“Mm,” Steve hums. He moves forward in his chair, coming up off the backing again. This time, though, he wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist and squeezes. Snuggling in as close as he possibly can with Eddie still holding onto his face. There aren’t anymore tears, on his cheeks or waiting in his eyes—the best thing Eddie could’ve hoped for. With the way he moved, Steve’s cheeks are pushed flush to his eyes. His lips are pouty. Eddie can't help it, he plops a kiss to Steve's forehead, right between his eyebrows. Steve's voice is distorted and mumbling when he speaks, “You make me happy, Eds. Make me so, so happy. Love you. Don’ forget, m’kay? Always…always love you.”

For a few minutes more, they’ll be sappy like this. Slow and soft in each other’s space, sharing bites of pie off the same fork, exchanging the same words. They’ll hold close, forgetting about that stupid phone call. And eventually, they’ll head back to bed. Fluttering against each other under the blanket, Steve nestled against Eddie’s chest, drooling onto the same pillow.

In the morning, Steve will wake up, hungover. But Eddie will be right there, a glass of water and some painkillers in his hands. The same words again, “I love you.”

🎃—————🥧

[apartmentlaw]

Adam comforting a gn reader after a nightmare

Safe

Adam Stanheight x gn!reader

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, momentary description of a dead body

a/n: this is pretty short but i really enjoyed writing it and getting to play around with my descriptions a bit. this was written in one sitting and not edited, so i apologize for any errors. hope you enjoy!

You wake up with a start, chest heaving as your eyes frantically try to adjust to the darkness that’s engulfing you.

Just moments ago you had been walking down a cold, dark hallway, following the distant echoes of water dripping. You cautiously made your way towards the door at the end of the tunnel, heart hammering in your chest as you reached out, pulling the heavy sliding door open. The room was unlit, a vast expanse of darkness that felt like it could have sucked you in like a black hole. You reached around the corner, running your hand along the wall until your fingers found the light switch, flicking it up. A mechanical buzz filled the room only moments before light flooded in, blinding you momentarily before your eyes adjusted, allowing you to see the scene in front of you.

It was him — Adam, his lifeless, pale body leaned up against the wall. No matter how many times this waking nightmare occurs, every time you see him there, dead and decaying, your stomach drops, and you try to scream, to cry, anything; but nothing comes out.

The sound of movement from beside you brings you back to reality, your head snapping in the direction of the sound. For a second, you don’t even know where you are, the adrenaline hindering your thoughts.

“Babe?” Adam’s voice calls out groggily from beside you, tearing your mind out of its state of disarray. After a few seconds, the bedside lamp is turned on, the soft glow illuminating your room. The sight of your tear stained face is enough for Adam to realize what was going on. “Woah, hey, I’m here,” he coos, wrapping his arms around you in a warm embrace.

“Adam…” You lean into his touch, clinging to him as if he could disappear at any moment. “I- I was too late, I-“

“Shh, I know,” his voice is barely above a whisper as he cradles you against his chest, holding you tightly. “I know. It’s okay. I’m right here, I’m okay.”

A part of you feels guilty; it was him who had almost died in that bathroom, not you. And yet here he is, comforting you as he whispers into your ear, telling you he isn’t going anywhere. You stay like that for a couple minutes, your heart rate slowly going back down as you listen to his soothing voice, his fingers running through your hair.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle, pulling back just enough to look up at your boyfriend. “I- you shouldn’t have to comfort me about this.”

He shakes his head in disapproval, gently cupping your cheeks in each of his hands as he searches your eyes. “You don’t have to apologize for having a nightmare, okay? I’m safe, and I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

You nod sheepishly, a tear falling down your cheek which his thumb is quick to wipe away. “It just feels so real, every time…”

“I know,” he sighs, looking over you with an empathetic gaze. He understands, he himself has been dealing with nightmares ever since he escaped that god forsaken trap. He was meant to die in there, and he had been close. Doctors said one more night in there and he would have been gone. “It’s just a dream. I made it.” He holds you like that for what feels like hours, forehead pressed against yours as you take in his warmth.

Eventually he lays the two of you back down, your head on his chest as the sound of his steady heartbeat lulls you back to sleep. His fingers find your hair once again, running through it in a calming motion.

“We’re safe.”

[daffodildelight]

Longing (Prologue) | Daryl Dixon x Reader

Title: Longing (Prologue)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader

Summary: You've been with Daryl for years and have a close friendship with the archer, but you have stronger feelings for him. Does he have the same for you?

Themes/Warnings: fluff, insecurities

Word count: 1400sh

A/N: This is just a taste test to see if anyone likes it, if one person does then ill continue writing it :)

Months had passed since the fateful day you last laid eyes on anyone from the prison. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but the memories remained etched vividly in your mind. The events unfolded with such swiftness and chaos when the governor's forces stormed the facility, forever altering the course of your existence.

In the blink of an eye, the once-sturdy walls that had confined you became a battleground. Panic rippled through the air like an electric current, leaving little room for coherent thought or decisive action. Your senses overwhelmed, your heart pounding in your chest, it took the firm grip from Daryl, a close friend in this ordeal, to jolt you into action.

With an urgency fueled by survival instinct, Daryl's strong fingers clamped around your trembling arm, propelling you forward into the abyss of uncertainty. The cacophony of screams and gunshots provided the dissonant soundtrack to your escape, each reverberation punctuating the perilousness of the situation.

As you stumbled and weaved through the dimly lit corridors, the once-familiar environment now transformed into an otherworldly nightmare. The pervasive stench of decay hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fear. Shadows danced menacingly along the walls, their distorted forms mirroring the chaos that had taken hold of your surroundings.

Through a narrow window, a glimpse of the outside world materialized, a tantalizing beacon of hope. Sunlight pierced through the thick cloud of despair, casting long rays that painted a fragile semblance of warmth on your face. The dichotomy between the darkness within and the promise of light outside intensified the urgency of your escape.

The path to freedom was treacherous, every step fraught with peril. You navigated through a labyrinth of debris and fallen comrades, their lifeless bodies a solemn reminder of the dire stakes. The moans and guttural growls of the undead echoed ominously, their hunger-driven fervour heightening the tension in the air.

Finally, as you burst through the final barrier separating you from the outside world, a wave of bittersweet relief washed over you. The open expanse, once a source of confinement, is now extended before you like an endless ocean of possibilities. The cool breeze brushed against your sweat-soaked skin, whispering tales of freedom and survival.

Looking back at the once impregnable prison, now overrun by the abominations that once were your fellow inmates, a profound sense of loss settled in your chest. But amidst the wreckage and devastation, a glimmer of hope emerged. The journey ahead would be fraught with challenges, but in the depths of despair, resilience and determination bloomed.

And so, you embarked upon a new chapter, forever changed by the harrowing escape from the prison's clutches. The scars, both physical and emotional, served as a constant reminder of the strength that resided within you. With each step, you embraced the unknown, propelled by the unyielding will to survive and the unwavering bond forged amidst the chaos of the zombie-filled prison.

Regret gnawed at your heart, a heavy burden you carried in the depths of your being. The absence of closure weighed upon you like an anchor, tugging you into the depths of melancholy. You were denied the chance to bid farewell to those you had grown to cherish, their fates now shrouded in a veil of uncertainty. The image of baby Judith, the innocent face that once radiated joy and hope, now haunted your thoughts, filling them with a deep, sorrowful ache.

These people, the ones you had journeyed alongside since the early days at the quarry, had become an integral part of your existence. They were your family in this bleak and unforgiving world, the only tether to humanity that remained. In their eyes, you found solace, camaraderie, and the strength to carry on. The bonds forged amidst the chaos and despair were unbreakable, a lifeline that had sustained you through the darkest of times.

The mere thought of their absence, their potential demise, threatened to engulf you in a wave of grief. Each memory, each shared experience, carried a profound weight that made their loss all the more devastating. They had fought alongside you, laughed with you, and cried with you. They had become your confidants, your pillars of support, and losing them left a void that seemed impossible to fill.

Yet, amidst the sea of despair, one figure remained steadfast by your side — Daryl, a beacon of unwavering loyalty and resilience. His unwavering presence provided a glimmer of hope, a reminder that you were not entirely alone in this desolate world. His rough exterior belied a gentle soul, a soul that had chosen to stand by you through thick and thin.

Daryl had seen your struggles, witnessed your vulnerabilities, and offered a silent understanding that few others could comprehend. In his companionship, you found solace, a silent refuge where words were unnecessary and actions spoke louder than any declarations of affection. With him, you had forged a connection rooted in shared hardship, a bond that you thought transcended mere survival.

In his silent strength, you discovered the resilience to continue, to face the unknown with newfound determination. Together, you would weather the storm that lay ahead, drawing strength from the memories of those left behind and cherishing the bond you had forged amidst the chaos. For in this barren wasteland, where hope was scarce and darkness loomed, having someone like Daryl by your side was a flicker of light, a reminder that even in the face of despair, love and connection could still thrive. From your side anyway.

Even in the early days at the quarry, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, there was always something about Daryl that captivated you. His gruff demeanour and rugged exterior had a certain allure, a mysterious charm that drew you in. It was a magnetic pull, a connection that went beyond words, and you found yourself falling for him even as survival remained the utmost priority.

Now, in this treacherous reality overrun by the undead, you were given the unexpected gift of spending each day in Daryl's company. Together, you traversed the perils of the zombie-filled forest, honing your skills, and learning to navigate this unforgiving world. Every moment by his side was a precious opportunity to witness his resourcefulness, his unwavering determination, and the depths of his character.

Yet, amidst the burgeoning feelings that blossomed within you, there was a nagging sense of conflict. The desperate search for your old group, the ones who were like family to you, consumed your thoughts. The weight of responsibility bore down on your shoulders, a constant reminder that survival should take precedence over personal desires.

It was a bittersweet predicament, a delicate balance between the yearning for connection and the harsh reality of the present. The very emotions that stirred within you, the ones tied to Daryl, threatened to distract you from the dire task at hand. Surviving in this unforgiving world required focus, resilience, and a single-minded dedication to finding your group if they were even still alive.

But even as you grappled with these conflicting emotions, you couldn't deny the importance of Daryl's presence. His strength, both physical and emotional, bolstered your resolve and offered a glimmer of hope amid the darkness. The lessons he taught you, the skills he imparted, were crucial for your survival. And perhaps, in the midst of this turmoil, there was solace in the fact that you were not alone in your struggle.

With each passing day, you found yourself walking the tightrope between survival and the yearning for something more. The delicate dance of emotions intertwined with the urgency of the search creates a constant battle within your heart. Yet, in this tumultuous world, you clung to the belief that love and connection were not luxuries to be discarded but vital threads that wove the fabric of humanity.

So you pressed forward, grappling with the complex tapestry of emotions that both propelled you and threatened to hinder your journey. As you braved the dangers of the wilderness, your feelings for Daryl remained a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit. And in the midst of this relentless pursuit for survival, you held onto the hope that, somehow, love and survival could find a way to coexist in this world of the walking dead. But even then, Daryl has never shown that he likes you in the same way, and you really don't want to ruin what you have.

[justicefanged]

I'm Lost & I Wanna Go Home

Trigger Warning: Animal death. Not horribly graphic, but there.

Everything is gray.

It's a dull, slow sort of observation. Like waking up, groggy, in a room you don't entirely recognize but aren't completely new to either. Details eased into his field of view -- he had not realized his eyes were closed, or open, or if he'd blinked -- like a drop of ink spilled onto parchment, a splotch that spreads.

It was all gray. Why was it…gray? There…There should be color…right? He could make out the difference in shadows; light from outside, gentle beams of off-gray that streamed in through the open window. But it…it was almost lifeless. Like something dead that didn't know the warmth you could see with the naked eye as the sun smiled down at you.

And he…he knew that feeling. The blinding sun in the west. The warmth on his back as it thawed the winter chill that clung so painstakingly to the land of Bern. The soft, duckling fluff yellow of morning rays dipping into the foggy valleys. He knew it. He…He knew he knew it, so why…why couldn't he see it? Feel it?

He raised his arm up, palm out to the sun like he could catch it in his hand. He wiggled his fingers slightly, like he could wind the beams of light around them, but they were stiff and hard to move.

He felt nothing. No warmth. There wasn't any color, but he could hear things. Sort of far away things. Like he was in another room with thin walls, and everything else was on the other side. A little muffled, but he clung to the sensory input. Followed it…outside. Outside of wherever he woke up? Did he…fall asleep? He didn't remember. He was looking for something. Some…one? Brother…Sent him away. Didn't want to go, didn't want to go, don't want to leave you, brother--

He heard sharp, shrill bird calls and slowly brought his gaze skyward. Clear skies -- blue??? should be blue. what did blue look like again…? graygraygray -- stretched out wisps of clouds, lazily rolling across the wide expanse. He didn't remember walking out into the field, or approaching the large, lone tree. Its limbs were wide-reaching, long and spindly. Bottle brush bristles, and little bumpy seed pods that clustered together in the crooks of the branches. Air is displaced close to his ear, and a delayed jerk of his head catches sight of fluttering wings and coat tail feathers.

The bird shrieks at him again, swinging around to dive at him in another swooping rush. It cries out in defensive anger, its nest hidden somewhere up high in the branches.

"…Wh……"

He pushes the air from his lungs, mouth dry and words like dust on his tongue. Teeth clack together in confusion, frustration, jaw clenching as his face screws up at the wrongness of it. It was like everything was stuck, bottled up in his throat and choking him. He should…be angry. He was angry. Angry meant noise, shouting -- he was loud, wasn't he? Shouting, barking, noise.

The bird swooped by again, sharp beak connecting just shy of his left eye.

He feels like he should flinch back at the strike, but he doesn't. Something trickles from the wound, gets in his eye, but he doesn't feel the urge to blink it away. He did bring a hand up to his face, felt the cold stickiness above his eye. Still no color, when he pulled his hand back and saw…something clinging viscous and dark to his fingers. It had a foul smell to it. It didn't stink of blood, but it stank all the same.

Something wrong… Something was wrong with him….

The bird shrieked once more, swooped--

Sudden, deafening silence in the field. Swift death brought with the faint sound of delicate bones crunching beneath his hand as he caught the bird mid-dive.

He stood there, the breeze tousling the tree's branches and his hair, holding the dead bird in a crushing grip as his foggy mind tried to catch up to his body.

He finally blinked, slow and confused. Stared down at the bird in his hand, mouth slightly agape. Its feathers were soft in a muted way to him, but that was juxtaposed by the brittle feeling of its broken bones poking into his fingers and against his palm. Its little body was still warm against his cold skin. Something wet dripped from its beak. Its eyes no longer glistened with pulsing life, but stared off into the distance.

What…did it see?

He followed its dead gaze. There was nothing but open field. And the tree.

Nest. Nest, it had…a nest. It was protecting, guarding. Fam…Family. Where was it, where was it, brother, father, si--

His gaze dropped back down to the bird in his hand, and he slowly loosened his grip on it.

Dead. He hadn't meant to. It was angry, attacking. He didn't mean to hurt it, kill it. He wasn't…danger. Danger, he killed it.

Where was he?

Bark broke off under his hand, leaving rough little bits to tumble down to the ground below. Off the ground. He had climbed up…? To the nest. The bird had a nest. He had…had the bird. It was…protecting its nest. He scared it. He killed it, he didn't mean to, he was sorr--

The nest was small, but built well. A fine weave of twigs and grasses. Soft feathers tucked into small spaces, littering the bottom. Round, speckled eggs huddled inside. Four-- Five. Five. There were…five of them. One was…tucked down far, almost hidden beneath the rest. No color, couldn't see the color. But they were…so small, so tiny. His fingers felt too big, too clumsy, out of place. Don't touch. Don't touch, might hurt, don't want to hurt--

But he already had, hadn't he? The bird was dead. The eggs were alone. They would get cold. They would die before they'd even had a chance.

His throat felt clogged again, tight and full and like he had something lodged at the back that he couldn't get rid of.

He put the bird back on the nest, nudged it as carefully as his stiff fingers could manage off of his open palm. Its head hung limply over the edge, and one of its wings was bent at an odd angle and wouldn't lay flat. Broken. Dead It still stared off into the distance. What did it see, where did it go? Did it see the colors, feel the warmth of the sun? Was it cold and stiff and lost like him? Maybe...it could come back? Move again, in the gray space.

He dropped back down to the ground after waiting, watching, hoping the bird would move again. It didn't. The sun drifted across the sky, shadows elongating, and the bird simply lay where he had left it. Eyes staring, wing bent, feathers ruffled softly by the breeze.

Where…was he? Where was he supposed to go? To do?

He remembers…family. Father. Brother. Mother…? No. Sister. Little. Tiny. Fragile, like the…like the bird, like its…eggs. Protect them. Guard his…family. His. Don't hurt them. Safe. Safe, make them…safe.

Find them. He didn't know where they were. Where was he? Don't leave him…alone. Didn't want to be alone. Brother made him leave, separate, they didn't…don't do that. Can't…protect if you send him away. Why, why, why-- "…'m….lost……Where are…you guys…? Lloyd…Father..N…Nino?" he called out, hoarse, still too quiet. He was alone. No one else was in sight. He didn't…he didn't like this, didn't like to be alone. Why was he…alone? He wasn't supposed to be alone. Always a team. Him….Lloyd. Never apart. Do not…leave each other. So why…alone now? Too quiet. Didn't like it.

He started walking. No real direction, no idea where he was going or which way he'd come from. He just…didn't want to be alone any longer. He was so…confused. Felt wrong. Everything was wrong. No color, too quiet, body felt…wrong, alonealonealone.

Had he gotten lost? Or…did…had they left him behind? Couldn't remember. Didn't like it.

Linus made a low, almost whining noise in his throat. Boots scuffing against the ground as he wandered forward, unsure and distraught and unable to keep his mind focused. He was….scared. Scared, and alone, and he just…wanted….

Where…was he?

[xenopoem]

Parameter “3:3871” (3) — Thomas Huntington

He’s hulkier - larger framed than I had pictured. He looks like a Bikie. I imagine Johnny Knocks’ dogshit smile as he pulls a corpse out from the back of some bar. You get what you paid for I suppose, and Nostril is as cheap as it gets. The orderly traces the hosts open veins, empty, like plastic straws, cheap stents ready for insertion. The orderly hooks me up connecting my veins to the host. He moves quickly. Another bang. He stops. The process has already begun, now machinery is churning, and the noise is so loud that I can’t hear a thing. Then it becomes soundless. I feel something. A red wall. Pulsing. The faint recesses of stillness. The feeling of cold clammy skin. The host’s body is cold. Alien. I think only of the organs. That’s all I’m here for. I feel my tendrils boring through the frontiers of my new body. A pulsing mesh sheet of red. I’m passing. The otherside is a rising static charge. I’m pushing through. I’m spinning. The sky is blue. The water is pulsing. Back and forward. And then back again. When I reach his eardrums, I hear the foggy sound of the orderly begging. The banging is coming from the door. The orderly is inserting keys into the door. His voice is desperate. I open my new eyes. Holding onto my host. It’s like grasping smoke. I’m almost there. Then I see it. Light. Artificial light. A door has opened. Hard. Black military boots. A radio. A shotgun clicks. The orderly takes a sharp breath, then shards explode through his chest. He crumples. The blood and debris splatter against my new skin. Like pins and needles. Everything crashes to the ground and smoke fills the room. I feel none of it. I can only feel cold, lifeless flesh. The shotgun swings back and inside a cop appears, face flushed and red. He pulls off a ski-mask and waives more toward him. Some of them enter, holding plastic bags. In it I see my cellphone light up. I have twenty missed calls. The cop lowers his shotgun and drags the orderly’s corpse through the door. “Get these all of the fuckin’ bleeders out of here. Make it look like an execution. Melt the rest.” Even more cops in the doorway. I can move. Only look. Grey blurry vision. Fading. The cop snaps his fingers, pointing to the dark behind me. “Leave them. The others. No funerals this time. I’d say these bastards are in hell already.” Beside me, I detect something in the dark. A pair of glassy eyes. It’s the host. The Bikie. Lying still on the floor. His empty veins leaking my blood out onto the floor. I notice light. Red light, below my eyeline. My monitor. I’m still in my former body. I’m still here. I’m trapped in a corpse. My thoughts scream. Voices. Like a wave of angry static. Swimming to a desperate surface. Then I fade. I feel my monitor humming. I want to hide inside it, like a cave. I see numbers. A stream of words, and more numbers. Endless. I feel the machinery inside me measuring my empty flesh. Like a confused child. It detects something. It tries to understand. I fade further. No sound, no breath. Just flesh. Above me I see the light swirling with silhouettes. Passing bodies. I watch. I look on. I see light passing across the cement floor. Days creeping. Rot. Dirt. Spiderwebs. I see the walls chipping. I see dust. I see hell. The face of my mother is a black spot. The taste of my saliva is a splinter of memory. The difference between the air and the floor, the dried blood, the light, it all melts together. Time becomes flat. No one is coming. No one will find me, or this place. I no longer think of myself as a person. Concepts pass through the film of my being. Processed. My being wrapping them and slipping them through tendril teeth, evaporating context and memory. I feed every detail, all the data, the entire body of the information I have accrued through a slit. I feel the blank space around it. A psycho-optic shroud. Outside a perimeter is glowing. Silver film. Humming. Craving expansion. The entirety of experience is weighed. Moving in minute stretches. A slug sliding up the inside of a bell jar. Through a periscope I start to look beyond.

[illateriteral]

Prologue 🁣

WC: 952

My eyes slowly blink open, my vision blurred and my comprehension dumbfounded by the foreign orientation of the room surrounding me. I feel to the side of me, the neighboring sheets empty and unprovoked. I sigh with unsurprise, yet an underlying disappointment swiftly follows, as it always does. The room surrounding me is dark and cold, the blanket atop of me acting as a reassurance to not wake–to not push out of my solace. I quickly cover my head with the soft expanse, embracing its pursuit to linger motionless. The fabric is soothing and the heat relieving, both assuaging as my demons lurk. What’s one more day, after all? What’s an additional moment of nothing going to hurt? I roll over, ready to fall into the expanse once more, when a sudden weight drops onto the foot of the mattress. The old, wooden, bed frame groans as my heart begins to expedite, my body remaining lifeless. At first the weight remains silent, though soon a pause turns into a shuffle, and a small meow enters the room. I feel a slight smile invade my face as the shuffling makes its way towards the head of the bed; pulling the cover off my face I see the stark contrast of the cat’s fluffy, white fur against the pitch black shadows of our surroundings. My smile grows and I reach out my hand, slowly brushing my hand past his beautiful coat. 

“And what might your name be, Mr. Snuggles?” 

My heartbeat slowens and I return to my prior state, Mr. Snuggles rubbing himself against my arm. I yawn and drop my head back onto the pillow and stare at the ceiling, my hand still twirling around the fur ball as he attempts to nibble my fingers. 

“Your life is so simple.”

A cat can just wake up and eat and drink and cuddle. If they want, they can go outside, explore the wildlife. Make friends with the neighborhood fuzzies, harass the local wildlife, make the hell out of somebody’s day. I feel my eyes grow heavy though I push myself to stay awake and aware. For him. For Mr. Snuggles. I raise my head and take a glance at him–he’s transitioned to laying belly up, and my hand has transitioned to rubbing him to his heart’s content, purring filling the room. Through all the shit I’ve been put through, realities like these are what keep me sane. Animals like cats are what keep me alive. Now much more awake I sit up and wipe the rheum away from my eyes, at last taking the time to analyze the room: determined by my poor judgment alone, I’d guess maybe the late 20th Century, though I’m not known for being a zeitgeist. The chamber is small and barren, no more than the bed itself and a nightstand nearby to accompany it, alongside all the common shit and products you’d typically see on one. 

“Alright, Altoids. Let’s see whatcha got going on.”

The nightstand has a watch and some additional jewelry scattered about haphazardly.

“The passion and finance are there, just not the presentation quite yet.” 

Without the lights I can only analyze the rings and necklaces so much, and my bedriddenness prevents me from doing a damn thing about it, and thus they escape my thoughts. Next I grab her wallet, we’ve always been too cool for purses anyway. First are gift cards, a few fast food places and some clothing store by the look of it. I squint trying to read in the darkness, yet my efforts are proved futile and I move on to the other cards. Alas, her–my, or our– license shows itself. Well would you look at that, I chuckle to myself. Today we were born in 1977. I place the cards back into the wallet and toss it onto the nightstand as my eyes draw back to Mr. Snuggles, whom I stopped petting a few minutes prior. In retaliation he lay motionless on my legs, and in turn I embrace it. He’s having a lovely time, it seems, but now I’m definitely not moving. My shoulders drop and I sink back into the bed, and though it fails to be as comfortable as when I woke, the warmth of the sheets draw me in. I stare at the popcorn ceiling and ponder, allowing my eyes to close and let sleep take me once more. 

I awake once again, the loop of 1977 continuing strong. Mr. Snuggles is gone, and the room remains dark besides a streak of light originating from a creak in the door. I sit for a moment and slowly pull myself out of bed, my legs dangling over the side of the mattress. My bare legs are hit immediately by the piercing cold of the room, and while the warmth of the bed calls, I glance around the room and step up, the woven floor carpet padding my step. The remaining hours until my countdown is finished are unknown, but after my slumber I’m sure it’s far too late to make a difference. I drag myself through the bedroom, to the crack in the door, and push myself into a small kitchen. The room is cramped and quite depressing, though a soft meow disrupts the silence. Well well well. 

“We meet again, my nemesis.” Glancing around, a small bag of cat food lay dormant on a nearby table, with Mr. Snuggles waiting patiently beneath. I smirk as I lift the bag–it’s the cheap shit, but something’s gotta do, I guess. I begin to pour the food into his bowl, the meows growing in persistence, and just like that, in a blink of an eye..

[writtenbykat]

The Erised Paradox (Jilytober day 20)

Prompt: comforting after nightmares @jilytoberfest

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” ––Albus Dumbledore

He was sitting in the living room of their home in Godric’s Hollow, playing with his toddler son. A sense of dread washed over him and the smile fell from his face. 

A man burst through the door, and James just knew it was him. The man who wanted to kill his only son. Voldemort. He shouldn’t know where they were. How did he find them? Something must have happened to Sirius. His soul ached at the loss of his brother, but he needed to protect his family. 

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!” he shouted to his wife. She picked their son up off the ground and rushed up the back stairs. With one last look he tried to convey everything to his wife: the love he had for her and their son, how much he wished they’d had longer, and his hope for them to survive. 

He turned to face the evil man intent on murdering his innocent child. This evil dark lord. But where was his wand? Desperately he patted his pockets and looked all around him, but could not find it anywhere. The man burst through their door, but before James could even call out a warning, he was met with a flash of blinding green light. 

He was dead. 

He knew he was dead. 

He’d heard the spell, and felt it’s blow, but he remained. How? 

James watched as the man started up the stairs to where Lily had escaped with Harry. No. This man would not hurt his family. 

With great effort, James wrenched himself off the floor and put himself directly in the dark wizard’s path again. But Voldemort stepped through him as if he were no more than a ghost and continued up the stairs. James forced himself out of his shock and sprinted up the stairs after him. He ran to Harry’s room and felt his heart stop dead as he heard Harry’s muffled cry. He was still here. Why was he still here. Why hadn’t he and Lily left yet? 

He desperately tried to move through the door as Voldemort had walked through him, but couldn’t. The door felt as solid as ever, and James could do nothing about it. He could not speak. He could not warn them. He said the words, but no sound came out. He banged helplessly against the door, silent sobs ripped from his throat at the fate that awaited his wife and son.

Voldemort reached the door and blasted it open, James rushed in as soon as he did so. Lily let out an anguished sob, knowing what his arrival had meant for James. “Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” she begged the dark wizard, and James’ heart broke all over again for his beloved wife. 

“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside now!” Voldemort hissed in an inhuman voice. 

Lily didn’t listen. Never faltered. She put herself between the dark wizard and their son in his crib. She spread her arms wide, as if hoping the expanse of her body could spare their son from a madman’s ruthless agenda. 

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead–” 

James sobbed silently, hoping his presence– however intangible– might be felt by his family in their last moments. 

“This is my last warning–”

“Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I’ll do anything–” 

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!” 

The green flash of the killing curse filled the room and his wife dropped to the ground, her eyes lifeless. James threw his head back and wailed. He felt her loss like a part of his soul. 

Voldemort aimed his wand a final time. Pointing his wand in Harry’s face. Harry began to cry, his little eyes– Lily’s eyes– searching the room for his parents. 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

The blinding green light flared once more. 

Then it was gone. James sat up, gasping for air and ripping the sheets off his body. Blindly, he fumbled for his wand, snatching it up off of the bedside table. With a wave, he lit every lamp in the room. 

“James? What is it? What’s wrong?” came Lily’s sleepy voice. 

He almost didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to know if it had been real. It had felt so real. 

“James?” she asked again, concern coloring her voice. 

He gave in, and turned to face his wife where she now sat up in their bed. She looked confused, and a little concerned. Her belly still swollen with their unborn son. 

He let out a sob of relief, pulling her close to him and peppering her face with kisses.

“James, what–” 

Relieved tears flowed down his face as he sat back and told her his dream. Her face grew horrified, and she pulled him against her, cradling his head against her neck. She ran a soothing hand through his hair, the other resting on her belly. 

“Don’t worry, my love,” Lily soothed, “It was just a dream. Harry and I are safe and sound. You’re not going to lose us. I promise.” 

“It was just a dream. It was just a dream,” she whispered again. He wrapped his arms tighter around her– placing a protective hand over her stomach where their unborn son grew, safe, in his parents’ love. 

Read on AO3 or FFN

[dracosaurusrex]

Kintsugi: Imperfectly Perfect (Draco x Reader)

“Kintsugi is the Japanese art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold — built on the idea that in embracing flaws and imperfections, you can create an even stronger, more beautiful piece of art.”

- Tiffany Ayuda

Summary:In which Y/N teaches a broken Draco Malfoy how to mend himself and embrace the scars that haunt him.

Wordcount: 10.3k

Genre: Angst/Fluff; Postwar AU

Warnings: Descriptions of depression; self-degredation; sexual themes but no smut

A/N: Hi! This is my first time writing a postwar AU. I was always afraid of doing so out of fear that I would mistakenly portray Draco, but I guess this can be a rite of passage in a way aha. With that being said, here’s my attempt! I hope you like it :D Feedback is very much appreciated!!

The sound of an alarm clock breaks the peace that had manifested within the darkness of the room. One eye creaks open, followed by the other, and a body raises itself to greet the day. 

The boy lifts his sheets gently, allowing the cold air to engulf his skin, to wake him, to pull him into the reality of yet another morning. 

The pads of his feet are the next to awaken as he hoists himself out of bed, meeting the frigid floor beneath him. He plods across the expanse of space, only to take notice of his reflection in the mirror.

Draco Malfoy, once boisterous, prideful, loud, and arrogant, had been reduced to a shell. One that lived by drifting through the motions of each passing day. It showed through the dark circles apparent under his eyes, the frown that resided on his lips, and his overall gaunt appearance. The thrill that was once characteristic of his youth had spilled through his cracks, leaving him empty and seemingly unrepairable; and no other perspective of his experience could convince him otherwise. 

The second wizarding war took too much from him so early on. It started with his father, the man he had ardently looked up to, who he desired so much to please. Lucius’s arrest put the young boy on the forefront of the Death Eaters’ activities, placing an unbearable weight on his shoulders. From that point on, it wasn’t long until the mischievous smile left him, only to be replaced with panicked eyes, increased stress levels, and absolutely no peace of mind. The boy had his entire life on a tightrope, constantly pulling strings to survive.

The result of such was the immense realization of guilt pooling from the sights of Hogwarts in shambles, the lifeless bodies of those he was once acquainted with, and the shame of literally walking away from it all. 

Nightmares were also frequent visitors. Besides those that embodied remnants of the war, Draco was almost always confronted by the tauntings of his wrongs: the way he poorly treated others, his stuck-up sense of superiority, the foul slur that he once used so freely--they all haunted him with no end, and all he wanted to do was take everything back. The boy has so often degraded his character since then, describing himself with words such as ‘worthless’, ‘loathsome’, ‘putrid’--the list goes on. He carried his beating heart as though it was dead weight, wanting so desperately to discard the regret that compounded on itself through the years. He was broken, and had no hope of being fixed. 

It was also needless to say that the family dynamic had changed for the Malfoy’s; especially since they often stayed within the confines of the property. Narcissa had been diligent in eradicating the place of all things that harbored any signs of Voldemort’s occupation--opening curtains, tending to her garden, changing up the plans for the interior design. Lucius, on the other hand, often occupied himself in his study, simply abiding by the plans for change that his wife had made. He still invested in his social connections, actively making donations to charities and hospitals that had been established as a result of the war. The act helped shed some light on their image, however any interaction that was to be made with the world outside was done through Draco as representative of the family name.

Fortunately, he managed to keep his mind silent in the mornings. As he walked through the vast hallways he would take note of the way light had poured into the manor, admiring the charm that it brought to its nooks and crannies. The quaint atmosphere that was characteristic of these corridors were peaceful, and managed to calm his thoughts albeit temporarily. 

As soon as he entered the dining room, Narcissa beckoned him to sit with her and his father. 

“Draco, darling, come have some breakfast.” Without much response, he obeys, taking the spot across from her. She placed his favorites on a platter, and observed him as he nibbled on the food in front of him. After several minutes of silence, she pulled an ivory-colored envelope from the pocket of her robe and slid it to him. With food still mounted on his utensils, the boy glanced at the gold details that embellished its corners.

“We’ve been invited to an art gala hosted by the Ministry. The details are inside.” She said.

“I’ll be sure to be in attendance, mother.” He confirmed before resuming his breakfast. The woman casted a worried look at him before turning to Lucius. Things could never go back to the way they once were.

--

The art gala was held on a Saturday evening, and Draco found himself standing in front of a finely decorated building. An air of aristocracy and luxury loomed within the environment--it was an energy that he had been surrounded by all his life. Large columns aligned its front. A red carpet stemming from the entrance had been rolled out, sweeping along a flight of stairs. Familiar faces of esteemed socialites were seen making their way up the steps. Banners had been hung, indicating the gala and a live auction as highlights of the day’s events. 

His only job was to engage in civilized conversation, connect with other high-standing figures, and expand the family network. Simply put, he was there to look pretty.

The feeling of dread overcame him at the thought of immersing himself in socialization. With a begrudging sigh, he straightened his back, briefly smoothened out his suit, and adjusted his cufflinks before trudging up the stairs. Eyes tracked his every step. Despite his emotional wellbeing, the boy still managed to clean up well, creating a facade to those around him. He didn’t bask in the glory, though. He knew he was handsome, he knew he was wealthy, but looks and money were no longer sufficient enough to help him tend to the emptiness he felt on the inside.

The gala itself didn’t begin until 6:00 PM, which was in an hour. Therefore, in hopes to kill time, Draco aimlessly walked through the art displayed for the auction to be held later that night. He carefully observed the numerous crafts with great scrutiny. Paintings were created with much detail--many of them embodying styles from the varying art periods. Sculptures paying great detail to the human body littered the main floor. Hand-crafted furniture were set on display as well, showcasing elaborate ornaments and designs. Mother would like these. He thought. He continued plodding across the exhibit, typically stopping for a mere minute for every submission before walking away. 

It was when he took sight of a humble set of ceramics that he actually stopped to stare. The collection consisted of bowls and pots ranging from small to medium sizes. However, what caught his attention were the traces of gold that coursed through their shapes. They took the form of cracks, which looked too beautiful, too flawless to be such--he couldn’t comprehend them ever being broken at all.

“Do you like them?” A light voice startles him from his thoughts. Standing next to him is a bright-eyed girl whose face he vaguely remembers.

“Y/N Y/L/N? What are you doing here?” He dismisses her question and looks at her with disbelief laced through his voice. The girl was in Ravenclaw when they were still in Hogwarts. Due to the difference in houses and friend groups, there was rarely any interaction between them. Nevertheless, he’s heard countless praises for her artistic talent even as a student, therefore reserved a tinge of respect for her reputation.

“Draco Malfoy! It’s been such a long time!” She beams at him. A breathy laugh escapes him as a polite smile settles on his lips.

“Definitely has been. Were you eyeing this set as well?” He glanced back at the ceramics, contemplating on bidding for them in the auction. The sight of them evoked a warm, admirable energy within him, as though they called for his presence.

“Heavens, no. I actually made them.” Y/N took notice of the way he glanced at them, and shyly rubbed the back of her neck. The boy turned to her with eyes widened in awe of her brilliance—the smile of politeness immediately transitioning to one of sincerity.

“You made these? They’re beautiful!” The comment brought heat to her cheeks. 

“Draco, please. You flatter me so.” 

“I’ll be taking these home without a doubt.” He reassures her. In the moment that he says so, he immediately takes notice of her appearance. Her hair was slicked into a low bun. Her makeup gave her a pleasant dewy look. Gold accessories accentuates her deep emerald evening gown, which only emphasizes her curves as it flows down her body. He couldn’t recall her ever being attractive when they were students—she had always been clad in blue. But, tonight proved that green was definitely her color.

“You look lovely, by the way.” He complimented as his eyes glossed over her. She bit her lip in response to the butterflies that formed in her stomach.

“You always had a way with words didn’t you, Malfoy?” The melodic laugh that she produced, in turn, caused his heart to skip a beat.

“I admit I was a prat, but I’m not joking around this time.” The girl let out another giggle before placing her hand on his shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze. 

“I think you look rather dashing yourself. Unfortunately, though, I have to get going. I’ll see you around?” 

“It would be my pleasure.” Draco watches Y/N’s figure as she walks away. Before she goes any further, she looks over her shoulder and says, “Good luck with the auction!” 

With a small wave and smile, the boy is left in a lighter state.

The gala came and went with Draco thoroughly exhausted from the copious amounts of socialization. Questions regarding connections to his father were asked, business cards were exchanged, and flattery and compliment was a common occurrence amongst these interactions. Nevertheless, the boy’s energy especially drained from the intensity of the auction that occurred towards the end of the night. All the art pieces were valuable and beautiful, however it was only then that he realized that he wasn’t the only one drawn to Y/N’s work. Competition for the highest bid was at an all-time high as number paddles were desperately raised for every price announced. His heart clambered in his chest as the thought of keeping the ceramics seemingly slipped from his grasp. 

“Highest bid for 80,000 galleons! Do we have any takers?” The auctioneer announces. Draco waits for a second to see that no one has raised their paddles. Within the next, he lifts his own confidently. 

“We have a bidder for 80,000 galleons! Do we have any more bidders? No?” At this point, adrenaline coursed through his veins, beads of sweat had formed and fell, and the grip on his paddle tightened, leaving marks on his hand.

The auctioneer proceeds to announce the final countdown, “Final bid for 80,000 galleons! 1, 2, 3, sold to Draco Malfoy!” Relief overcame him while congratulatory praises were given by those nearby. He catches Y/N’s gaze from afar, and throws her a wink, signifying the resolution for the chaotic night.

--

As attendees began to file out of the building, the boy waited in the hall to collect his reward, filling out the form that confirmed the amount he had to pay. With his attention drawn to the slip, he fails to notice Y/N’s presence beside him. She looks over his shoulder, eyes widening at the amount before looking away to suppress the smile that threatens to form on her lips. She never really gave much monetary value to her art before; each one was produced as a product of passion and love. However, the expression that it first brought to Draco’s face, in addition to the amount of effort he put in to attain them, reassures that her work will be well taken care of. She momentarily stares at his broad shoulders before gaining the courage to speak.

“Congratulations!” She says, startling him once again. He takes a second to collect his breath before looking up at her.

“Do you plan on giving me a heart attack, Y/L/N, or is it in your nature to be overly enthusiastic?” The shameless smirk she has on her face, prompts him to release a chuckle. He stands up straight as soon as he signs the piece of paper, engaging his line of vision with hers.

“The way you respond is not my fault, Malfoy.” She answers, playfully shoving her index finger towards his shoulder. He grabs her wrist, and the warmth from his hands, accompanied by the flirtatious gleam in his eyes, prompts her to cast the same expression. She shoots him a coy smile before he releases her from his grasp.

“Would you like to accompany me to the front?” He asks.

“That’d be lovely.” The pair approaches the stage where the volunteers greet them both. They present his items upon confirmation, and proceed to wrap each bowl individually. He lifts one of the unwrapped pieces to his eyes, examining the gold details.

“How’d you manage to pull this off?” He asks, impressed by her craftsmanship.

“It’s a technique called ‘kintsugi’. I learned it while living in Japan for a while after the war,” She says, reaching her hand out for it. He gives it to her.

“You know, these pieces were never supposed to be auctioned off in this gala,” She explains as she delicately traces the lines, “They were so damaged. You can even consider them to be broken beyond repair,” Draco observes as she lifts it to her eye level.

“But obviously, when pieced back together—with all their cracks emphasized by the gold—they have much more value and beauty,” Y/N gives it back to Draco, and he takes it gingerly.

“However, It took a long time for it to come out that way. When you examine the piece before its repair, the first thought in mind would be to discard it. After all, why would anyone bother mending a broken bowl?” She meets his eyes once again.

“These cracks would typically be considered flaws, but at the end of the process the piece is still whole—I’m still whole. They mean a lot to me, and helped me heal from the war and all.” Her line of sight drifts towards the end of her statement, yet the boy catches himself appalled by the passion in her voice. He didn’t expect her to speak so openly, yet the words that flowed from her mouth touch him in a way he can’t comprehend. For once he feels a glimmer of hope budding within. For once, inspiration meets him, and he doesn’t want to lose that feeling she effortlessly provided. 

“I’ll make sure to take great care of them.” He says with much sincerity.

He places the piece back onto the table, and turns back to Y/N to see a sweet smile on her lips.

“I have faith you will.” A knowing look is shared between them--one that makes both hearts flutter in longing to see each other again.

“Do you think we can keep in contact? If it’s alright with you that is. I’d like to become more familiar with this art technique.”

“The Slytherin prince wants to keep in contact with me? Consider me wooed.” Draco rolls his eyes and chuckles at the old title. Before he could respond, she speaks again with more seriousness, “I don’t usually accept visitors in my studio, but I’ll make an exception for you. You can come by sometime, if you’d like.” 

A genuine smile appears on his lips for the second time that night. Out of all the individuals he exchanged contacts with, she by far had been his favorite. He ensured to send her an owl to confirm their meeting, hoping to do so some time next week. 

As they part, she turns back one more time, and calls out to him, “Draco,” The sound of his name perks his head upward

“You should smile more. It’s a lovely sight.” Before he could see her face erupt in a blush, she apparates away. With his new belongings in hand and an obvious grin, he too returns to the manor, feeling elated for the first time in a long while.

--

It was nine o’clock by the time Draco apparated home. Narcissa immediately took notice of his change in aura much to her relief.

“How was the gala, dear?” She asks.

“Quite pleasant this time around, if I’m being honest. I won these at an auction.” Draco stated as he props the box on top of a table. His mother approaches him, attention drawn to the objects when he reveals the contents inside.

She gasps, “Oh my stars, they’re beautiful.”

She picks one up delicately. The expression she had on her face was very much identical to the one he sported when he came across them the first time.

“I knew you’d like them. The artist was a fellow classmate of mine at Hogwarts.”

“Oh? Who is it? I would like to see more from this artist.”

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N. Quite brilliant she is.” Mother’s instinct told Narcissa that this girl had her son taken aback. She saw it through the pleasant expression that graced his facial features, which contrasted greatly to the gloomy air that usually accompanied him. Furthermore, there was a decadent tone in his voice, a sparkle in his eyes, and a slight smile present when her name rolled off his tongue. She decided to probe a little bit more.

“House?”

“Ravenclaw.” He responds.

“Very fitting. The craftsmanship in her work is amazing,” The woman’s eyes marveled at the gold.

“How is she?” She asks. The question catches the boy off guard.

“Pardon?”

“How is she doing? Has she been okay since the war?”

“We didn’t touch upon it too much. Although, she mentioned that creating these has helped her heal.” 

“You mean to say that these were broken at one point?” 

“Precisely. She mended them.” At this point, Narcissa was quite taken by the girl as well. 

“You should invite her over one of these days. I’d love to have a cup of tea with her.” Draco quirked a brow at her.

“You’re not going to ask about her blood status?” 

“I would’ve known she was a pureblood from her last name, but times are changing aren’t they not?” Narcissa flashes a tightlipped smile towards her son, to which he responds with a nod of understanding.

“I’ll be going up then. You can keep that one mother. You seem to take a liking to it.” Draco turns on his heel at the end of his statement, carrying the box of ceramic goods under his arm. He wouldn’t acknowledge that times are changing. However, tonight has been the only instance he had felt his life shifting  —from the way he reunited with Y/N, to the way his mother spoke. It was a step forward to redemption, and he felt a little more willing to see where it would go.

The boy sat on his bed, deep in thought. With moonlight shining upon him, he delicately traced the golden lines that streaked the small bowl in his hands. Then with much hesitation, he rolled up his left sleeve and began tracing the blaring curves of the mark that stained his porcelain skin. Its presence resembled shackles that have been chained to his ankles, and the weight of the memories caused him to grimace. However the budding warmth that had seeped within him soothed the negative sensations. Heart palpitations of regret transformed into those of hope. Furthermore, recollection of the girl’s words rang through his mind. It led him to wonder if piecing himself into something better would ever be a viable reality—a dream so tempting to pursue that he brought himself to his desk to start a letter addressed to her.

--

Y/N awoke to a tapping noise on her window. With heavy-lidded eyes, she peeks through her curtains only to be met by an eagle owl. Its wide orbs stared directly at her, and attached to its beak was an envelope. She recalled the conversation she had with a certain platinum-haired boy from the night before, and immediately jolted upward, pushing the window open to let the animal in.

“Do you belong to Draco, love?” It perches itself on her shoulder, and drops the envelope into her hands. A wax seal presents itself with an ‘M’, confirming her inquiry. She opens it with much carefulness, and pulls out the letter inside.

Y/L/N,

How does this Thursday sound? 5:00?

DM

The girl chuckled at how straight-to-the-point he was, while her mind flitted back to their school days. She had always felt neutral about him. In contrast to popular belief, she didn’t think he was quite bad. Despite the harshness behind his actions, his eyes always maintained an undertone of fear. Upon the revelation that the boy was indeed a death eater, the title itself wasn’t what stirred her. Rather, it was the incomprehensible experience that she could merely picture him going through. She was there when he crossed sides. She was no stranger to the distraught look on his face--fear had overtaken him even in that moment. He might’ve been flawed, but it wasn’t without reason.

A cry from the owl broke her out of thought. “Impatient are we?” It blinked in response. Not wanting to keep the bird waiting any longer, she pulls out a piece of parchment and begins to write a response to the letter. 

Y/N inserted the parchment into an envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the owl only after she gave it a treat. As she watched it take flight from her window sill, she contemplated more on the boy. ‘Kintsugi’ the art of broken pieces and precious scars. As thoughts of him lingered, she began to wonder if how he fared ever since the war had drawn to its close. Before she knew it, she carried along with her work, totally occupied with the image of him in mind.

--

Draco’s heart beat like a drum when he skimmed through the contents of Y/N’s response. The feeling of nervous excitement erupted within his stomach up until the moment he stood on her doorstep. Besides the instances in which he’d gone out for his parents, it had been a long while since he stepped foot outside for himself. He took sight of the sheet of clouds that blanketed the sky, the small plants that were scattered on her porch, and the movement of the curtain as wind blew through her open window. 

Mere seconds of waiting were filled with more self-doubt as he tugged on his left sleeve, clenching his forearm soon after. Not much could be guaranteed from this meeting. For all he knew, this might’ve been a one a time thing. However, such thoughts were casted aside once he was greeted with Y/N’s glowing smile.

“Draco! It’s so nice to see you!” She stepped aside to let him in, “Please come in.”

The boy greets her, and looks around her small space. He indulges in the glimpse of her expressive decor--somehow they represented the life that she had built and created for herself over time. 

“Darling, your jaw is going to fall off,” she chuckled, “Come, the studio is in the back.” The girl gestures at him to follow her, and is met with a small building stationed behind the main house. The image of shelves fills his view upon entering. On them were stacks of cracked ceramic—some in large pieces, others in small. Towards the far corner of the room was a pottery wheel, and opposite from it was a small gas kiln. In the middle was a table space with various tools, brushes, lacquer, and gold. The room was as neat as it could be, much to Draco’s surprise.

“This is me.” Y/N turns around with her arms spread out. She then proceeds to pull a stool out for the boy and urges him to sit. He does so, and she stands in close proximity to him, leaning on the table for support.

“I was actually working on a piece before you came.” The girl points to her current project—a vase whose cracks have already been bound.

“What’s the process like?” He asks

“It’s much longer than you think. I learned how to do it the traditional way in Japan, and I haven’t deviated from it ever since.” The boy quirks a brow.

“You mean to say that there are faster methods?”

“There are, however it’s the process I appreciate the most I suppose. Mending takes time after all.” Y/N, who had been looking down at her feet, glances up at him to see his brows furrowed inwardly. 

“Don’t you get impatient?” She nods in reminiscence.

“I used to in the past, but all things worth anything take time, right?” They stare at each other for a moment. Draco, who has longed for the feeling of redemption, looked into the pure intent within her eyes. The silence prompts her to slip a small smile at him. 

“How about you, Draco Malfoy? How have you been?” There it was: The question that he could never answer (not truthfully anyway). Despite being in the center of all his thoughts, he hadn’t developed the courage to face them properly. He was stuck in a routine of living that provided a false sense of security. However, the present brought him to the realization that he had never been secure--not with himself.

“Not as good as what people see at face value.” He said simply.

“I never would’ve thought. Although, I suppose it just shows that we can never truly judge others, huh?”

“Yes, definitely.” He allowed his view on her to linger before speaking again.

“I actually wanted to see the way you worked.” It was her turn to quirk a brow at him.

“And why’s that?”

“To see the mending process.” Y/N remained silent as she analyzed the longing look in his eyes. His silvery orbs conveyed volumes of a history that was left unspoken. 

He continued, “I want to believe that broken things can be mended.” The determination in his eyes reminded her of why she began learning kintsugi in the first place. Behind the determination was hope that longed to be born to fruition. 

“I have one condition,” she said. His eyebrows arched in response.

“You can watch me, but you have to do some mending yourself.” She stepped away at the end of her statement and reached for something on her shelves. When she came back, she grabbed the boy’s hand, and placed a small bowl in his palm. It was a simple piece--still intact--taking on a warm, grey sheen. He looked at her with confusion, only to be met with seriousness. 

“Kintsugi begins when something breaks, and it focuses more on the beauty of the process rather than the outcome. That being said, it requires a lot of patience and acceptance.”

“I’m not an artist, Y/N. It won’t be perfect.” The girl takes hold of his other hand, and cups it within hers firmly. 

“It doesn’t have to be, Draco. The process belongs to you. You just have to trust yourself.” She said earnestly with her grip on him tightening. The warmth from her hands emanated through his skin and into his chest. She stood so close now, her head tilted upward to meet the uncertainty on his face. It made him feel vulnerable, but he stared back into her eyes with much resolve. It was an answer as it is.

Y/N gave him a reassuring smile and stepped away from him.

“I want you to drop that bowl. You don’t have to smash it, just let it fall.” Draco shifted his glance and looked at the bowl hesitantly. After a couple of seconds, he releases his hold, and allows the piece to slip from his fingers. His eyes were trained on it as it fell through the air, meeting its fate with a shattering sound. The bowl that was once intact was now in pieces on the floor, eliciting a familiar ache within him. It had split into five--a large one, one medium, and three more that were much smaller that comprised the object's rim.

As he bent down to pick up the pieces, a new wave of ambition overcame him. Each chip was picked up with much mindfulness, with responsibility, with purpose. When he stood up again, he began to perceive them as a reflection of himself, and gently placed them on the workbench.

Y/N, who witnessed the entire scene, smiled when Draco turned to face her. Her lips were pulled up gently, sweetly, and it evoked rosy feelings inside him. The boy eyed her as she went back to the shelf.

“How do you feel?” She asked. Her back was turned to him as she reached for another bowl. 

“Light.” She smiled at the sound of his response. She returned with a teal-colored bowl in hand. Following his previous actions, she dropped it, allowing the sounds of shatters to fill their ears once more.

“What are you doing?” He asks. 

“You think I’m going to make you do this alone?” The girl bends down as she gingerly picks up the chips of ceramic from the floor. She proceeds to clear out the table, leaving only the utensils to be used to start the process. 

“The materials I use are already here, but we’ll be working only with the lacquer for today.” The two set off to organize their pieces, hearts becoming more aware of one another as time passes on. After everything got sorted out, she demonstrated layering a coat of lacquer to the edges. Draco examined the way the smile instantly left her face, only to be replaced with a focused expression. Her eyebrows lowered, lips in a firm line, sights fixed on the ceramic. He also noticed how languid her fingers were in handling each piece with care. 

The solemnity of the sight is broken as she parts her lips to speak again, “Did you know that the lacquer is toxic?” He shakes his head when she spares him a glance momentarily before setting her gaze back onto the chips. “It’s toxic when wet, therefore much care needs to be taken when you lay it on the edges.” She then takes the smaller pieces and proceeds to add lacquer on them as well.

“However,” She continues, “as it dries, it hardens and mends the bowl perfectly.” She attaches the pieces together, and lifts the bowl carefully to show him. The boy stares at her flawless handiwork--the cracks reveal themselves as mere lines, seemingly invisible to the naked eye. 

“Strange, right? A substance that was once toxic is used to mend. When it dries it restores the product to perfection, and loses its toxicity.” Draco simply nods. It was a hard concept for the boy to grasp, but her words tickled a corner of his heart. How could something so bad be used to restore something that was once whole into perfection? He gazes at his own project while Y/N sets hers down carefully.

She passes the materials to him, observing as he gingerly takes the brush in hand. He dips it into the pool of lacquer, raising a glob of it up from the bottle.

“You don’t need too much, just enough so that the brush is covered completely.” She reached out to grab his hand, to demonstrate what she had meant. After realizing their closeness, however, she turned a shade of pink and stepped back. Draco tried his best to hold back his smile, but failed miserably.

“I’m s-sorry.” She stammered. He chuckled at her. 

“Nonsense, I’m all for this form of instruction.” He said teasingly, eliciting a laugh from her.

“Don’t mind me, just concentrate.” She ordered. Silence loomed, but smiles remained on their faces. Draco continued his work, emulating the way she coated her edges. He gripped each chip firmly while his eyes trailed the movement of the brush. Each second spent felt like darkness was being extracted from within, leaving him light and solemn. With much caution, he then pressed them together, and watched as the product adopted its once flawless form. With an approving look, Y/N explained the proceeding steps, immediately noticing the relaxed expression that had settled on his features. Deciding to take a break, the two embark to the main house to relax.

“Since we have to wait a while, is there anything you want to do? To eat?” She asked as they entered the room. The question, however, was left unanswered due to the sighting of a familiar looking uniform. Hung on her wall was a Ravenclaw robe.  

“You still have it?” He asked, pointing to the article of clothing with his chin. She chuckled and pulled it off it’s hanger.

“Yeah. I found it a couple days ago, and thought I’d try it for old times sake.” She slipped it over her shoulders, pulling the boy through a series of flashbacks from his time in Hogwarts. He recalled passing her by the hallways, getting small glimpses of her sketches, even seeing her vibrant personality shine with her friends.

“You know, I always thought you looked better in green.” He said approaching her.

“You think so?” He nodded.

“It’s a shame that we never really talked much. I think we would’ve been good friends.” She said in response.

“You think so?” 

“Well besides the bullying, yes. I don’t think you’re as bad as people portray you to be.” 

“You give me too much credit, Y/L/N.”

“Maybe you deserve a little more credit than you were granted.” This sparked more warmth within the boy. As she ordered food for delivery, Draco took a seat at her table, his gaze locked on her with the robe still propped on her body. His thoughts drifted as he imagined what might’ve happened if he did befriend the girl. How different would he be if he had her for company? How close would he have allowed their friendship to become? His mind began to wander and he ruminated on the what-could-have-beens, most especially the effect that his receiving of the dark mark would have had on her. His fingers flitted to his arm and rubbed the portion of fabric that covered his mark.

Y/N sat across from the boy, immediately noticing his dazed look.

“What’s on your mind?” She inquires. The boy broke off from his thoughts and refocused his attention to her.

“Just thinking about the past.”

“What of it?” She asked. He looked at her with slight reservation in his eyes.

“How different things would be if we were friends.” Her thoughts lingered on the possibilities for a while before she abandoned them completely. Only one realization came into mind:

“Well, we’re friends now. Perhaps everything that happened in the past was needed for us to meet like this.” She slid off her robe and propped it back on the hanger. 

She continued, “Whatever it is, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now belongs to us.” 

In that moment, a switch flipped in Draco’s mind, and he knew those words would stick to him for a long time. Maybe it wasn’t a chance at redemption that he yearned for--the conversation he had with her made him realize that the chance had always been presented to him--rather it was company. Genuine company. The one that opened their arms for comfort, the one that offered understanding when he couldn’t offer some to himself, the one that provided reassurance that everything was going to be okay. 

She didn’t need to elaborate. Her words conveyed her intent clearly, her eyes blazed with firmness, confidence, and faith in him. The boy closed himself off for way too long out of the fear that he’d be rejected once again. The anxieties that had resulted from the foul glances, derogatory statements, and prematurely formed accusations towards his family locked him away to the only source of comfort that was available to him--himself. How was it possible that he made it through on his own all this time? He barely held on to a thread, and as he crumbled further, so did his grip. And when the grip was no more, he fell into the hollowed body that he was. He allowed his darkness to swallow him, to control him as he mindlessly drifted with each passing day. 

Until now.

Right now, in the stillness of the room, in the comfort of her dining table, in the presence of her worn out Ravenclaw robe, the thread had reconstructed itself. It presented itself as the small smile that softly graced her lips, the scent of clay that lingered on her hands, and his bowl that sat solemnly streaked with cracks in the workshop behind the main house. 

“I suppose you’re right.” The boy showed a smile of relief, which prompted the girl to reach out for his hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Here’s to our friendship!”

--

There were very few things that Draco cherished in his life: his family and his solitude. As weeks flew by with Y/N’s company, however, he found that his heart was beginning to create space for her as well. It began subtly with the way he silently observed her actions. She catered to each of her pieces with the same amount of dedication--every detail incorporated with mindfulness, with care, and intention. She exerted a similar effort when it came to guiding him. Every step in the process was taught with much patience. Her soft hands would graze his own in attempts to correct his form, to stabilize his shakiness, and to relieve him of the tension that came with his perfectionistic tendencies.

-flashback-

The sound of Draco’s uneven breaths made themselves aware in Y/N’s presence. She had left him alone to tend to his project and herself to her own. Muscle memory led her to scrape off the excess traces of lacquer from the cracks, while the boy fixed his concentration on sanding the surface of his bowl smooth. Scratching noises filled the air, and only became more amplified as minutes ticked onward. It was unfamiliar to the girl--the action itself shouldn’t have required much energy. With a brow arched upward, and her gaze directed towards him, the sight of furrowed brows and tense lines fill her view, eliciting a chuckle from her.

“You’re going to break the bowl at that rate, Draco.” The boy unclenched his jaw and gave Y/N an exasperated look, increasing the volume of her laughter.

“I told you I won’t be perfect.” 

“What is it that you’re having trouble with?” Y/N asked, as she made her way to his side of the table.

“Some of the excess just won’t budge from its place.” Draco huffed in frustration. She removed the bowl from his grasp, and examined the object. On the other hand, he takes the liberty to step closer to her, his face peering over her shoulder. The heat emanating from his body distracted her, which she responded to by immediately returning her attention to the remnants that resided on its cracks.

“It helps to focus on one spot at a time,” She grabs the crumpled piece of sandpaper laying on the side, and connects its surface to the porcelain. He watches as she uses minimal yet focused motions to scrub at the excess. Slowly but surely the residue clears out, revealing a clean, crisp line. “See?” She turns her head to the side only to be met with his in such close proximity. His breath softly brushes against her skin. His silvery orbs dive deep into her y/e/c ones. The pulses of their heartbeats ring through their ears, and the concentration shifts from the demonstration to one another. 

It’s the apparent flush staining his skin that has her pulling away. 

“Why don’t you try?” She nervously asks. Y/N hands the bowl to the boy, and observes as he attempts to emulate her actions. With motions still stiff and choppy, she finally takes his hand into hers.

“Relax, Draco. You need to be patient with it.” With slender fingers wrapped around the back of his palm, she guides his grip with focused and particular motions. The repetition engrains itself into his muscle memory, and he quickly gets the hang of it. He exhibits relief with every remnant removed. In return, she releases her grip and looks at him with a satisfied expression.

“Thank you.” He says, and he means it. With perfection constantly being expected of him, the feeling of humility that comes with being a beginner is foreign. He had always been pushed into the limelight--the weight of his family name designates the image of flawlessness, elegance, and poise in all that he did. No room for mistakes. He was required of only the best. So, when he looks at her and gazes at his hands, a genuine smile spreads on his lips. 

The expectation for perfection may have taunted his past, but the realization of his commitment in giving his best brought out a clear sense of victory despite the imperfect process that had been associated with it.

--

Some days are tougher than others. The nightmares make it difficult to get through the night regardless of how infrequent they became. It always resulted in him waking up, broken into a cold sweat. Goosebumps peppered his skin, the hair behind his neck stood straight, and he would gasp for air. With regret once again overcoming him, a weight forms in his throat--it’s impossible to go to sleep now. Moreover, the fear for the lack of a peaceful slumber keeps him wide awake until sunrise, and there is only one word that shouts at him in the back of his mind.

“Mudblood.”

“Mudblood.”

“You filthy mudblood!”

The sayings are coupled with the memory of his back pressed onto the cold, wet, bathroom floor. He could recall the stinging sensations that pricked his body, the sight of blood seeping through the white fabric of his uniform, and the energy that was draining from his spirit. It was the lowest he has ever been--mere moments away from what could’ve been his end. Maybe that’s what should’ve happened. There was no one for him to turn to--the warmth of his mother’s arms was so far away, the act of shedding tears was sacrificed to protect his family, and the fact that he was already repulsive in the eyes of others caused his hope to plummet. There wasn’t anyone who he could call his true friend--one he could confide in to relieve the burdens he had faced.

But there was Y/N. The erratic heartbeats that rang against his chest subside when he remembered the firmness within her voice as she cheered for their friendship. The sparkle and reassurance that was displayed within her eyes tickled his heart in a way that he hadn’t experienced before. The soft touch of her hands reminded him that he wasn’t alone. The patience in her voice reminded him that despite all of his shortcomings, there was always hope for change. 

It was then that he’d pluck himself out of bed, and take hold of the ceramic piece that laid prettily on his desk. With deep breaths, he ran his fingers through its golden streaks, allowing the chilled sensation to calm him down. His eyelids would flutter close, and he’d envision her soft smiles, her chipper personality, and the passion that was expressed through her eyes whenever she worked. He’d recall the worn-out Ravenclaw robe hanging on the wall of her dining room, and remember that she was there. She believed in him. She had given him a chance. With his mind set to ease and the morning sun illuminating through the fabric of his curtains, Draco picked up his own broken pieces, and binded himself with the faith she had as the lacquer to keep him together. 

Narcissa and Lucius had noticed subtle changes in the boy. A peaceful light had returned to his silvery eyes, the frown that graced his lips began to fade with time, and the tension that he held in his joints loosened. He treaded the halls with his back upright, his vision trained straight ahead--each step filled with more purpose than the last. They didn’t make it known to him, but the sight brought them much joy.

--

It was a cloudy day when Draco returned to Y/N’s workshop. This time around, however, there’s much more uncertainty and nervousness within him as he stands in the midst of her working. 

Earlier that morning, Narcissa mentioned hosting a ball within the manor (something that hasn’t been done in forever). Invitations were sent out already, the RSVP list continues to grow, and the property itself has been decorated to exhibit its new grandeur. Of course, he agreed to it--slightly concerned about how they’d be perceived--but he was more thrown off by his mother’s only request:

“Please bring Y/N with you, Draco. I’d like to commission her for a piece.” In his mind that translated into, “I want to meet the girl you’ve been constantly visiting.” He knew his mother wasn’t against her. He was more worried about how Y/N, herself, would respond.

The familiarity of her focused expression surfaces, and it attracts him much more than it has before. Her hands are nimble, and she moves fluently. Her hair was tied into a low and messy bun with loose strands framing her face. Her appearance now was much different than their first meeting at the gala, yet his mind went back to that night--picturing her beauty in her deep emerald green dress. With his feelings for her more clarified, he feels his heart beat at the thought of her touch, moreover the thought of his touch on her. Would she even return his feelings? 

“Draco, are you alright? You’ve been staring this way for a while now.” He takes the opportunity to test the waters.

“I needed to ask you something actually.” He goes around and pulls a stool to sit on, meeting the level of her gaze.

“And that is?”

“My mother asked for you,” He said, fumbling with his fingers, “My family is hosting a ball, and she wants you to come--she wants to meet you.” He notices the way her eyes widen at the sound of his announcement. 

“I’m sorry. Come again?” Draco released a soft chuckle before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a decorated envelope with her name printed on the front.

“This is yours.” She takes it from his grasp gingerly and brushes her fingers on the fine embellishments. Realization hits her when she skims across the familiar letters of her name.

“I’ve imagined many things in my life, but they certainly don’t come close to this. Wow, imagine being invited to a Malfoy ball.” Her words flowed out with awe, softening his heart. He reaches out, and tucks one of the loose strands behind her ear. The action forces her to look into his eyes.

“She’s taken quite a liking to your work.” His smile brings out one of her own.

“I’m honored.” She starts to beam, “I should go dress shopping soon.” Her eyes remain transfixed on the information given on the actual invite itself.

“I think you’d look beautiful in anything you decide to wear.” It was meant to be a thought--meant to stay in his head--but it came out, and now the girl felt her face get hot. She covered it with her hands, while the boy just looked up at the ceiling to avoid her gaze.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” He says.

“It’s fine.” 

“If it’s fine then why are your hands still covering your face?”

“Why are you still looking up?” Draco, lowers his chin and pulls her wrists away.

“I’m not anymore.” When the words leave his lips, and his eyes meet hers, he becomes aware of the amount of peace that he attained since meeting her again. In some way, the silence that fills them is overtaken by the messages that their gazes send to one another, both containing gratitude and affection. 

“So will you come with me?” He asks.

“Definitely.”

--

 Y/N paced back and forth while many aristocrats stepped into the manor with much poise in their step. She didn’t mind formal events when it came to art, however, this case felt entirely foreign to her realm of comfort. She wasn’t from a wealthy family nor was she pureblooded either. Surely the end of the war had initiated a shift in change, but the significance of blood status still persisted in some even after. Nevertheless, she made herself present. With much resolve and a false sense of confidence, she stepped into the entrance of the building.

The foyer was bustling with chatter--many attendees stood with glasses of champagne in hand. Still in an awkward stature, the girl takes a look around. The ceilings were decorated with crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains were pulled to the side, exposing massive windows. Arches, columns, even the walls were covered with ornamental carvings. Every single aspect portrayed luxury. Whenever Draco visited the girl, she discarded his association to wealth and solely focused on him as a person. Because of this, the realization that the boy actually had some coin in his pockets hit her like bricks. 

Draco, who had kept his eyes locked on the girl, chuckled to himself. She stuck out from the crowd with her eyes widened in awe. Not to mention her attire. Her hair was kept straight down with golden clips holding it tucked behind her ear. Furthermore, she was dressed in a champagne mermaid gown speckled with beads and embroidery, which flourished outwards and into a sheer fabric decorated with similar details. Her neckline plunged into the middle of her abdomen, yet her shoulders remained covered with long sleeves that wrapped themselves fittingly around her wrists. She truly had the tastes of an artist.

He quietly made his way to her as she continued to gawk at the room. “Your jaw is going to drop, darling.” He whispered in her ear. The feeling of large hands planting themselves on her waist caused her to let out a small yelp, pulling her out of her daze. She let out a breath of relief when she turned to see Draco’s face. 

“You scared me.”

“You were gawking at the walls.” Y/N rolled her eyes, and briefly skimmed him from head to toe. Heart skipping at the way his suit had admiringly framed his shape well. She giggled at the sight of the snake brooch that embellished the collar of his jacket.

“Always a Slytherin, aren’t you Malfoy?” As she brushed her fingers along the details of its design, Draco reached for her hand, and held it by her fingers. She could only stare as he lifted it higher to press his lips on it. Butterflies were felt everywhere.

“And a charmer.” She added. They shared a quick laugh before being interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Standing before them was Narcissa, who beamed at the sight of her son with the girl beside him.

“You must be Y/N Y/L/N. I admire your work, dear.” The older woman stuck her hand out, which the girl shook firmly.

“Thank you so much. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Please, call me Narcissa.” The delight in her voice emitted a welcoming energy, loosening the nerves that Y/N felt early on.

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Narcissa.” 

“It was no problem at all, dear. I’d actually like to speak to you regarding a commission later on tonight. Would that be alright with you?”

“Of course! I’m honored you’d even considered me.”

“Very well, I’ll leave you two alone now. I hope you enjoy yourselves.” Sweet smiles and gazes were exchanged between the two women. After casting a knowing look to her son, she departs from the pair, disappearing into the crowd. 

“Draco, I’ll have you know that I can’t dance to save my life.” He snickered at her confession, already letting the comfort between them settle in.

“It’s alright. Let’s walk instead.” With arms hooked, Draco begins leading her away from the bustling room and into a secluded hall. Mounted on the walls were paintings of his predecessors. He introduced each patriarchal figure to her, starting with Septimus. Her vision plastered itself to their features, mentally discerning the traits that Draco inherited. After a while of walking and conversation, they finally got to a family portrait. Depicted on it was a younger-looking Lucius and Narcissa, and seated on his mother’s lap was a young Draco himself. Y/N unhooked her arm from his, and approached the painting. She concentrated on the little boy. He had bright eyes, a toothy grin, and flowing platinum locks. His hand gripped firmly on Narcissa’s, and his small legs dangled over her dress. He was the only one smiling in the painting, and it warmed your heart knowing that the artist decided to keep that detail in.

“What’s going on in that mind of yours?” He asks, stepping close. He hesitantly snaked his arm around her waist, hoping that she didn’t mind. She looked up to him and smiled, stepping even closer to him. 

“You were so small.” Draco scowled slightly. However, his heart skipped a beat when he saw the way she looked at the portrait with adoration, allowing his foul expression to fade.

“Well that was painted when I was seven, so it’s no wonder I was small.” His sarcastic remark caused her to roll her eyes again, softly slapping the hand that was planted on her. He glanced at her and squeezed her side tighter, pulling Y/N even closer to his body--his warmth increasing the amount of butterflies that rose in her stomach.

“When I walked in earlier, it completely slipped my mind that this was your house. That you grew up here.”

“Why’s that?” He asks, genuinely interested in her response.

“Everytime you came over, I only saw you as Draco. Not as Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and heir to the Malfoy family name.” 

“Please elaborate.” He commands, his heart now racing.

“You’re more than the expectations held for you. You came with commitment to learn about a process that you were genuinely interested in. You grew with your mistakes and your frustrations. That experience was you, and you alone.” She couldn’t help but reveal that admiration she had for him through her voice. 

“I thought it was amazing.” She whispered, hoping that he wouldn’t hear her. He did, however. In turn, he grabbed her hand and led her further down the hallway and into his room. Y/N stood there confused at his sudden action. Her eyes then begin to widen at the sight of him removing his suit jacket with her mind drifting to rather dirty thoughts. 

“Draco, what are you-” 

“I didn’t think it was possible.” Y/N furrowed her brows.

“What do you mean?” Draco looked into her eyes, before shifting his gaze to his left sleeve. Her line of sight follows him as he unbuttons his cuff, and rolls the fabric up, revealing his dark mark. She gasps.

“I didn’t think it was possible to mend myself.” It didn’t take him to say much for her to finally understand that he didn’t intend to do anything dirty. It was the opposite of that. He was making himself vulnerable to her.

“But you showed me how.” He said, completing his statement. Tears brimmed her eyes upon the realization of the reality he had to live. The blaring mark that took away his innocence screamed against his pale skin. It screamed of the pain, of loneliness, and the many many long sleeved shirts he must’ve worn to keep it hidden away. 

“If there’s anyone amazing, it’s you, Y/N.” The tears that had built up fell as she furiously shook her head.

“No, Draco. It’s you. It’s all you.” She took his arm delicately into her hands and pressed her lips on his dark mark. Draco felt his eyes well up in tears, while her own spilled onto his skin. Every kiss that she peppered seemed to paint over his scars, his cracks with gold. The feeling of emptiness dissipated in her presence, only surrounding him with warmth that he had yearned to keep.

“I’m thankful for you.” He whispers. Y/N couldn’t hold herself back at that point anymore. She released his arm from her grip, and held his cheeks within her fingertips, wiping the moisture that managed to fall from his silvery orbs. She, then, slowly lifts herself using her tiptoes, and scans his face for a moment before pressing a sweet, short kiss on his lips. It was gentle, much like her. It was patient, much like her. It was filled with faith, hope, and concern--things that she hadn’t been able to express to him in words, yet was felt through her kiss. Draco closed his eyes at the sensation. When she parted from him, he cupped her face with his hands, and drew her close once more. A sigh escaped her as she felt all the emotions he managed to keep in. Each press conveyed a level of appreciation that the boy had never thought he was capable of showing. 

In that moment a memory of a shrill shout fills her mind, and she stops so suddenly.

“Weren’t you struck with sectumsempra?” She asks with her brows furrowed towards him. His lack of response confirms her curiosity. 

“May I?” Her fingers trail to the top of his shirt as she makes her request. Knowing what it is she wants to see, he nods, prompting her to carefully undo the buttons. Her hands tremble as she makes her way down, revealing the scars that resided on his body. She pushes the fabric over his shoulders, and begins tracing each one--much similar to the way he has done with the golden cracks on her bowl. She slowly lowers herself and starts placing kisses where he has been struck. With her hands gently fastened to his sides, her lips linger in one area before transferring to another. He finds comfort in them--it was as if each sensation reassured that he was loved. As she travels upward, she plants a kiss on his jaw, and a final one on his own. With it she expresses a message dedicated only to him: I believe in you.

They separate and bask in the moment by holding each other’s gaze. After a while, Draco wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her into a tight embrace. He nuzzles his nose on the crook of her neck and kisses it, while she runs her hands up and down his bare sides. His left hand then finds its way to her jaw, tilting her face upwards. He proceeds to nip the expanse of her neck, making her head fall back to grant him more access. The hand that was wrapped around her waist travels downwards to her hip, grips it, and presses her body against his. 

“Draco,” she moans.

“Hm?” She doesn’t respond. She finds herself completely intoxicated by his lips as he moves from her neck, her sternum, and to her exposed abdomen. Instead, she laced her fingers into his hair and pushed him closer to her skin. 

The pair was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door. 

“Young master! Are you in there?” It was a houself. Draco presses a finger to his lips, signalling to remain quiet.

“I don’t think he’s there, we should check elsewhere.” Light footsteps were heard fading into the distance, eliciting a light laugh between the two. Y/N looks into his eyes once more, and kisses him one last time.

“Should we go?” He responds with a small ‘yes’ and kisses her forehead. As he buttons his shirt, the girl plods across his room, fascinated with its luxuriousness as she takes in the details. One of them causes her to gasp, however. She walks with her throat choking up at sight of the familiar bowl that was placed on his desk. It was hers. She lifts it gently, recalling their first conversation at the gala. The golden scars remind her heavily of the boy behind her. As she traces them, warm hands rub against her sides before snaking around her waist once more. 

“Does this mean you’re my girlfriend now?” Y/N laughs at his question.

“I suppose it does.” She says as she weaves her fingers into his. The boy takes a moment to stare at the bowl ahead.

“When you said that Kintsugi helped you heal, I wasn’t quite sure to believe you or not. But, going through the process was more than enough to make me understand why.”

“You truly are amazing Draco Malfoy. I won’t let anyone tell me you aren’t.”

“Even if my past is completely flawed?”

“Your past made you into who you are right now. What we have is ‘now’, and ‘now’,” she sets the bowl down and faces him, while her hand caresses his cheek. “...‘now’ belongs to us. Now you are amazingly, wonderfully, imperfectly perfect.”

Epilogue:

The sound of Y/N’s words rung in his mind as Draco found himself standing in the middle of her workspace. With a firm grasp on the brush handle, he dips the bristles into the gold liquid, allowing the excess to drip back.

He takes a deep breath, and allows the solemnity of the room to fill him. Many thoughts overtake him in the moment, but only one makes itself prominent to him, resilience. After going through the binding process himself, he pridefully lays down the gold over the cracks on his bowl--each one portraying the imperfections of his past.

A/N: Hi! If you made it this far, I want to thank you so much for reading! There’s a bit of inaccuracy in the last bit, but besides that I hope I brought much light to the technique in general. I hope you enjoyed!! Feedback is very much appreciated :D

Tagging:

@beiahadid @hahee154hq @mushi98 @stretchyice @dracosathenaeum @dreaming-about-fanfictions @saby06143 @rottenhexrt @littlethie @amithatemo

Link to the taglist is on my masterlist :D

[mondixu]

always forever | monika [ ddlc ]

always forever - cults

fandom // doki doki literature club

gender // female

pairing // monika x reader

[ you and me, always forever ]

        Traumatizing is an understatement, I thought with a sadistic smile.          [Name] smiled with her.          [Name] cried with her.          [Name] laughed with her.          [Name] was best friends with her.          [Name] was the one who found her hanging in her room by a thin rope, her hands bloody.          Sayori.          It was incredibly shocking and disturbing, she obviously couldn't handle it. It was terrifying, to say the least. The fact that her childhood best friend was willing to commit suicide just because [Name] turned down her confession was too much to handle.          Collapsing in the floor of her room, she stared at the girl she had come to know and love, her lifeless eyes staring at the floor.          Skin pale.          White and papery.          Bright blue eyes that used to be so full of life and cheer were dull and no more.          She's gone.          I basked in the glory of defeating my worst enemy, my worst fear, the cause of my anxiety.          Sayori was no more.          Which means [Name] is mine. 

[ we could stay alone together ]

        Getting her up the stairs was a hassle.          Now you might be thinking, oh Monika! Aren't you the world-famous, brilliant hacker who could just reprogram her, or better yet, float her up the stairs?!         Well, yes.          Yes I could.          Did I?         No.          I managed to drag her limp body up the stairs and into the club room, making sure Natsuki and/or Yuri weren't in there before depositing her unconscious form onto two desks pushed together.          I cautiously caressed her cheek, looking at her with nothing but love present in my eyes.          My soulmate.          My darling.          My love.          She couldn't be best friends with Sayori anymore. The bow-wearing girl would only get in the way.          Did I make her kill herself?          In a way, yes.          Did I want to?          Yes.          No, but it had to be done.          I know she loves me.          Deep down inside, buried underneath all of the growing guilt and hatred and fear and betrayal and overall negative emotions . . .          She loves me.          There's no denying it of course!          How could you ever contradict the fact that we're meant to be?          She'll realize it, of course.          [Name] will be mine. 

[ you and me, always forever ]

        I made sure she woke up to the gentle sound of a piano playing, a hard surface making its presence painfully known in her back as she managed to sit up.          Blinking rapidly, she looked around the familiar club room, finding a piano in a corner with my figure sitting neatly atop the bench, my swift fingers delicately dancing across the keys.          "M-Monika?" she inquired, confusion staining her pretty face. "W-what's going on, why did I wake up on a desk?" I only smiled at her and continued playing, yet this time, I started to sing.          My voice was soft and smooth, like the pleasant surface of a freshly opened book, and yet, it had a sharp edge to it.          As if I were a paper cut.          Carefully standing up, she made her way over to where I was perched, smiling contentedly at her.          "Monika?"                   Oh god, it sounded so good.          My name rolling off her tongue.          It was beautiful.          I wanted to confess my undying love for her right then and there, right in that goddamn club room and destroy the world around us so she wouldn't have anything left to run to except for me.          I wanted to tell her everything, like when the first time I laid eyes on her, I knew she was the one.          The one for me.          The first time I laid eyes on her, Sayori was clinging to her arm as if it was her life support, the only thing keeping her tethered to the world and preventing her from floating away.          I wanted to be the one on her arm.          I wanted to be the one she smiled and laughed with, I wanted to be the one she couldn't live without, I wanted to be the one who would wash her worries away at my mere presence, I wanted to be the one she looked at with adoring eyes.          But I wasn't.          I knew [Name] had turned down Sayori's confession, as I should, considering the fact that I had watched the whole thing play out.          Yet I prevented the wave of hope threatening to wash over me, and instead, pushed the salty water into a hole I had dug long before I began this stupid book club.          Yes, I had been in love with [Name] for over a year.          My obsessive tendencies began four months after I had first spotted [Name]. It was only little things, like making sure she and Sayori got home safely after a long day at school, when the two were both exhausted, or watching [Name]'s house all night to make sure she was okay before heading to my house to quickly get changed then rush back to her home to make sure she got to school safely.          Then I unintentionally took it a little farther.          Gradually progressing, I gathered the courage to discreetly follow her at school and on the weekends, just to make sure she was safe.          A month later, I managed to slip a walkie talkie into her room - where she would never find it - to listen to her sleep.          Two weeks later was graduation.          After that, I never worked on clubs or camps or anything normal unless it involved her.          I didn't bother answering my parents' questions about where I had been or what I had been doing all day and night when I rushed home to get changed in the morning.          I was only concerned about her.          I began to take pictures of her secretly since she never knew me that well, and it would be too suspicious if I randomly asked her for one.          One wouldn't be enough anyway.          My jade green walls were now completely covered in pictures of her, the only thing occasionally breaking them up being her schedules and records of the time and places I had found her alone.          It wasn't enough.          Once I began a new school year, I knew I would have to find a more manageable way to keep an eye on her, so I convinced Sayori we needed more members for our club, considering she was the only person who really had any friends.          My intentions were much more vicious than a simple craving for club expansion.          Of course, I was one of the most popular girls in school, but I wanted no friends.          I only wanted a lover.          And I wanted her.          [Name].          Her and only her would suffice.          I brought myself back to the present and widened my grin at my future lover, proud to see my months of practice had paid off. The few minutes I wasn't watching [Name] was when I practiced piano, determined to create a song that would satisfy her and make her recognize her unending love for me.          And there I was, before the love of my life, playing the song I had dedicated purely for her, her and only her.          Your Reality.          I figured it was a fitting title, since I would be the only one she would know, the only one she would see, the only one who actually deserved her love and affection.          And instead of smiling, happy tears filling her eyes, or laughing and settling down beside me, she ruined it.          "Where's Sayori?"          Clang.         Gravity pulled a pen down to the floor.          My smile faltered.          "W-what do you mean, 'where's Sayori'?" I inquired, anxiety painting my features.          "I mean, where's Sayori? Is she at school . . . "          Her sentence trailed off as she walked towards the door, finding dark rooms and vacant halls.          "What . . . ? Monika, what's going on, where's Sayori?"          I broke.          "CAN YOU NOT THINK ABOUT HER FOR ONCE?!"          It was only red.          "WHAT ABOUT ME?"          Only red staining my vision.          "WHAT ABOUT ME, HUH?"          It was the only thing I could see.          "Monika-"          "WHAT. ABOUT. ME?!"          Nothing stood in my way as I shot up from the stool, storming over to [Name]'s terrified face.          I loved that face.          That scared look.          I wanted her to be scared of me.          They all would be once they saw what I could do.          What power I could wield.          "JUST SHUT UP AND TALK ABOUT ME FOR ONCE!"          Red.          Paper.          Cuts.          Blood.          Sayori.          Rope.          Yuri.          Knives.          Natsuki.          Neck.          Snap.          Death.          Fear.          Fear.          Fear.          Fear.          Fear.          Insanity.          "It's just you and me, [Name]," I said as blood gradually stained the walls, my pink-tipped shoes advancing towards my frightened soulmate.          "You and me. Always forever."          "W-what?! Monika what's h-happening?!"          She stepped back.          She stepped back.          She was supposed to walk towards me with love in her eyes, wanting me and only me.          That was the plan.          It was then that I looked around and saw the tears littering [Name]'s face.          The blood on the walls.          The static.          I was breaking everything.          And yet my twisted mind still decided to say,          "You and me, always forever."

[guqin-and-flute]

AU: When Lan Xichen returns to Cloud Recesses from the Guanyin Temple incident he doesn't go into seclusion voluntarily.

[How ominous that ‘voluntarily’ is 👀 I’m not sure this is exactly what you had in mind at all, but it’s what popped into my head!]

It is the dead of night, far past curfew when Lan Qiren hears something clank in the next room. He is upright in bed, sword in hand before his eyes and ears, his mind can focus on what he is perceiving, still fuzzy with sleep. Someone is moving around his house with confidence; not loud, but not quiet. Searching?

An insolent Junior? A burglar? That horrible Wei Wuxian? The indignation at each new option has his fury mounting higher until he is drawn up to his full height, bristling. Whoever it is is going to get the heavy end of a bastinado, no matter which it is. He slams open the door of his room to confront the hooligan.

It is a shock, however, when he sees Lan Xichen serenely pouring tea into 2 cups from where he kneels at the table. When he looks up at the bang of Lan Qiren’s arrival, his nephew smiles. And that more than anything stops him from letting loose the angry demand that hovers on his lips. He sheathes his sword, slowly.

He’s...smiling.

“Hello, shufu. I hope you don’t mind, I made us some tea.”

He has been here a while, then, setting the table, boiling the water. That’s more than a little unnerving, combined with his ease. 

It is distressing to realize that the sight of Xichen smiling was now something that is uncommon--he had always been a pleasant child. Dutiful, yet kind, easy to smile, quick to laugh. Ever since all that terrible nonsense enacted on everyone by Jin Guangyao weeks ago, his nephew had been something of a shade of his former self; gray, flat, and lifeless. Familiar in a horrible way. 

Like his father. 

He has performed his duties and attended meetings. He speaks quietly and without embellishment or affect. He even lacks the taciturn solemnity Wangji cultivates. He’s just...not there. He has not socialized or traveled, he does not make appearances at non-essential Clan gatherings. And he has not smiled. This is...a very odd time for that to change. In the middle of the night. In Lan Qiren’s sitting room. Without his permission.

“It’s past curfew.”

Xichen blinks and looks out the window into the blackness beyond. “Oh. So it is! My apologies, I’ll add it to the list,” he adds with a self deprecating air, making an invisible tick mark beside his head. His movements are easy and expansive.

“What list--?” Lan Qiren draws closer, and is swamped in the nose-singeing vapors of alcohol rolling off him. He recoils in horror and snaps, “Xichen!”

Xichen laughs and it rings like a feverishly bright bell, raising the hairs of wrongness down the back of Lan Qiren’s neck. “Hm? Oh. Don’t worry, shufu. I’ll punish myself for everything in the morning, you needn’t trouble yourself.” Brightly, he offers him his teacup, which Lan Qiren takes automatically, it’s heat searing his fingertips

Xichen is watching him, face expectant and almost eager as he extends a hand to the other side of the table. “Please, sit!”

It’s becoming a little clearer, now. Xichen’s hair is simply pulled back in a low, messy horsetail at the nape of his neck, his robes are those that he sleeps in, his headband missing from his forehead. He is as gaunt as he has been, dark circles and all, but now his eyes burn brightly. His smile seems genuine, and that’s what sets Lan Qiren the most ill at ease. He has found alcohol, somewhere. A lot of it. This brightness is a short wick in a nearly empty lantern and it’s masking something Lan Qiren can’t parse. It makes him angry. “What on earth are you doing, Xichen? What’s the matter with you?” he demands. “It’s the middle of the night! You should be in your quarters! It’s against the--This is not proper behavior for--”

“I know, I know, but,” he interrupts--he interrupts--and holds up a finger as if making a very important point. His hands are shaking. “I thought of something. And I just...I just need to know.” The tips of the smile grow stiff and his eyes glaze, slightly. Still wide and guileless. Still burning. “Please. Sit.”

Slowly, suspiciously, Lan Qiren sinks down onto his cushion and Xichen’s smile widens in satisfaction and he busies himself fussing with the table’s set up. There is a strange fervor behind his words. And a fragility. The tea is oversteeped, Lan Qiren can tell just from the bitter smell wafting up on the steam. Xichen always brews it perfectly. The only reason he hasn’t already sent his nephew out of here with ringing ears is the fact that he is being so strangely...erratic. Wangji, he has grown to expect disappointment from in this way, but never Xichen. 

Xichen begins conversationally, but his fingers are wrapped around the edge of the table tightly enough that his knuckles are white. “I was thinking earlier, shufu, about everything. So far. About what I can do. What I could have done...better.  And I’ve decided...that I don’t want any more half truths or...or pretty lies in my life. Being content without the whole story, assuming that things worked out for the best--I won’t. I can’t. Not anymore.”  When he takes a breath, it is deep and shuddering and stays in his chest, so that when his smile widens and turns completely brittle, his shoulders are steel against it. “You are going to tell me everything about what happened with my mother. And my father. All of it.”

[janaeekook]

Incapable iii. || {myg}

pairing: assassin!yoongi x reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: - mafia - depressive thoughts - alcohol

a/n: so sorry this chapter took so long I rewrote it so many times, I hope you enjoy

series masterlist

iii.

The week after Win's death was a blur, it didn't feel real no matter how many times you tried to convince yourself. Convince yourself it wasn't your fault, but it was hard there had been nothing from your new supposed enemy, NCT. It was now 7 o'clock Friday night and you hadn't left your bed, Jungkook had tried his best to cheer you up. You were great full for it, for his kind words of reassurance but even then; Nothing seemed to help, to fill the hole, so you lay there, as your room darkened with the day. You felt gross, dirty, his blood still staining your hands you rolled from your bed forcing yourself to change your clothes— to pretend, at least, that you're alright.

Pretend; You'd guessed you'd done that a lot recently, it became second nature. You didn't want the others to see how truly weak and wounded you were— the emotionally scaring toll that last weeks events had put on you.

Downstairs, Yoongi walked out of the gym, a towel drapped around his neck. The black dri-fit shirt hugged his toned chest and biceps nicely. As he reached the stairs he saw everyone gathered getting ready to go out.

"What's going on?" Yoongi asked with mild confusion.

"We're meeting with SKZ for a trade." Namjoon stated.

"And you didn't think to tell me?" He questioned, everyone's eyes finding another's as they glanced around.

"You're staying and watching y/n." Namjoon stated bluntly before turning to lead the others out the door.

"Why me?" Namjoon stopped and glanced back to Yoongi as the others continued out the door, "Tae's here."

"He's on monitors, suck it up Yoongi, you've delt with worse." Yoongi just rolled his eyes, trudging up the steps, he found your door was cracked open.

His hand raised, ready to knock, but through the crack he saw you. Your bare back facing him as you pulled on an oversized top. He couldn't seem to pull his eyes away from your exposed state no matter how much he wanted to. He watched until you brought your hands to the waistband of your pajama shorts, finally forcing his eyes away not wanting to invade your privacy and see anything more he wasn't meant to.

He could feel his heart pounding insanely in his chest, shaking his head he finally knocked lightly on the wood.

"One minute!" Your voice squeaked in surprise, you quickly pulled on a fresh pair of shorts and hurried to the door. You were surprised to see Yoongi standing at your door, "h-hey, what's up?"

"Uh, Your brother pinned me with watching you." He informed you, his eyes quickly and subtly flicking over your form.

You chuckled, "No need to treat me like a burden."

"Whatever," he looked over you again, only this time you noticed, "What are you doing?"

"I was thinking about watching a movie." You informed him, he pushed past you going deeper into your room, "What are you doing?"

"We're watching a movie aren't we?" You gave him a weird look.

"I guess you can join, I'm going to get water, you want anything?" You asked him, he shook his head as he looked around your room.

You sighed, leaving the room, you stalked down the hall and to the kitchen mindlessly. One might say you were lost in a daze, though in reality it was the sleep deprivation creeping up on you, looming behind your eyes. You hadn't slept beyond three hours the last few nights, not wanting to close your eyes, for fear of the lifeless face of your friend haunting you again.

A chill ran through your body at the thought, grabbing a bottled water from the fridge. You twisted the cap off gulping down a sip in an attempt to swallow the rising lump in your throat. It'd been hard for you to eat, the smell of his blood, thick and irony, it was burned in your nose.

You went back up the steps your footfalls on the polished stone, was all that could be heard. The trance that enraptured your mind however, was quickly broken when you stepped into your bedroom again.

Yoongi was facing you, his features of stone remained stoic but his eyes held amusement. In his hand he held a hot pink object, your face mirroring the shade in embarrassment.

"Tch, frustrated are we?" He joked, pressing the button, a quite vibration emitting from it.

You hurried quickly to him grabbing it and throwing it back in the drawer it belonged, "Min Yoongi you should know better than to go through peoples things." You scolded.

"I can't help my curiosity."

"Just go." You said, the flames in your cheeks never wavering as you pushed him to your door.

"You sure you don't want help?" Yoongi asked as he back up while you pushed him.

"What?!" You asked in horror, stopping to look into his eyes, was he seriously-

"I can hold it for you," his eyes glistened playfully, "While we watch a movie."

You swallowed hard, trying your best to keep your cheeks from blazing any hotter. You quickly and hastily pushed him towards the door.

"You are so crude Min Yoongi." Informing him as you pushed him out into the hall, he gave you a shit eating grin, "I'll be just fine on my own."

The second you shut the door in his face you took in a breath, your heart was pounding in your chest. Thoughts racking through your brain, why had you pushed him out? You like him don't you?

But you guessed it wasn't that simple, your thoughts knew how complicated it would become getting involved with Yoongi. No matter how much your body begged to fall into his tempting grasp you had to restrain. Because the theory of him was what attracted you and so many others, not the cold exterior and troubled heart.

Min Yoongi was complicated, to say the least.

But he was human— the flutter he felt in his chest when you became flustered by merely his words. It confused him not knowing why you filled him with such warmth. But he pushed his thoughts away like any time before.

•

The next afternoon was somber, quiet, as if no one wanted to speak. You were clad in a black dress and flats, the boys in their suits. They all watched you descend the steps for the first time in what felt like ages. You were burying Win today, finally putting his body to rest, a step of 'moving forward and mourning' they'd said though it just broke you more. But you had to pretend, you couldnt let the others see you as weak. You weren't weak.

"You ok?" Your brother asked, and you could only nod to reassure him. For you knew if you tried to speak you would break down, You were greatful he didn't push for a more sufficient answer to the question. 

The car ride was rather short, a feeling of dread lingering in your heart. You looked out the window of the car upon the lawn, stones where so many others loved ones names were carved in their remembrance. You tried desperately not to cry, to let out a sob and let the boys around you know you were breaking-- shattering in fact. It shouldn't have been him it should've been you, you wanted it to be you; to know that your bestfriends death wasn't on your hands. Maybe it was selfish, but the aching in your heart was begging for the roles to be reversed.

"-Y/n?" You hadn't even realized Jungkook had opened the door for you, his voice bringing you back to reality. Aware again, that you in fact were the one with breath in your lungs. You didn't say anything just stepped out of the car, and followed the others to the site. It was beautiful, a top a grassy hill that looked out over a large expanse of trees, You knew he would've loved it. 

Everyone stood around the grave where the casket was to be lowered. No one spoke, not a word, just stood and looked at the sleek wood that encased Win, or his body rather. The man that stood next to it a bible on hand began to speak, and your eyes drifted to the grey stone.

Kim Seung-Win

April 23rd 1993-March 13th 2020

'The journey doesn't end here;'

"Today, we're here to put a friend to rest, to send his soul home-" The reverend started, but you zoned out, eyes locked on the grass at your feet. You felt numb, How could this be real? Win was supposed to survive to live and be loved, and have an impact everyone he met. Silent tears fell from your eyes, due to both frustration and sorrow. Namjoon noticed from where he stood next to you and pulled you into a hug, holding your head to his chest as your tears soaked his jacket.

"I invite you all forward to put a handful of dirt over casket, you may take this time to say any final words." You let go of Namjoon wiping your cheeks with your hands.

We all moved in a line grabbing a handful of the dirt and taking turns circling to the grave, doing our part. Some taking longer than others to say things aloud or in their heads, everyone who he worked with were left with a positive imprint in their lives due to him. When it was your turn, You looked down to the dirt in your hand before holding your hand over the grave and letting it trickle from your grasp.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, fresh tears brimming your eyes. You turned back to the others, standing next to Yoongi as you watched everyone else. You felt Yoongi's hand brush yours experimentally, before he finally laced your fingers with his. You looked to your hand in his then to his face his eyes those of sympathy and support. Though affection wasn't his strong suit, he wanted you to know he was there. You gave him a weak smile in return

"I give the words said here today, to Seungwin, in hopes they will help his soul move forward. Friends, Death seems cold and dark but it is not extinguishing the light of life. It is putting out the lamp because the dawn has come, and Seungwin lived fully to his dawn."

The final words resonated with you, stuck to your heart. He lived a full life, it may have seemed to be cut short but he was everything anyone could have wished to be. He was great, It should've been me. Your mind invaded with the negative thoughts again a shaky sigh passing your lips as you willed yourself not to cry again, watching the grave workers put the remaining dirt in the grave. The others had started to walk back to the car.

"Y/n, come on." Your brother beckoned quietly, but you shook your head.

"Not yet."

"I'll stay with her." Yoongi's voice sounded from somewhere behind you, You couldn't see it but Namjoon nodded before pressing a feather light kiss to your temple. He was worried, you could feel it radiating off of him, he already had a lot on his plate, the last thing he needed was an emotionally unstable sister.

"Stop blaming yourself," Jen, you went to speak but she waved her hand, "I know you, Y/n, and I know that look." 

You looked around finding Yoongi sitting on a bench a few feet away. You turned your attention back to Jen, and you felt the urge to cry again.

"I'm sorry, Jen." Your lip quivered, and tears began to stain your cheeks again.

"There's nothing to be sorry for." With that she reached into the bag that was on her shoulder pulling out a bottle of liquor, "You can only have some if you promise not to cry." You wiped your cheeks quickly.

"I solemly swear!"  

•

You hiccupped lightly as you sat on the grass next to Win's freshly made grave, Jen was fully laying down and the empty bottle of alcohol was between the two of you. Chuckling as you thought back to your 20th birthday when Win mixed you all his favorite drinks, you were so hung over the next morning.

"Do you remember my 20th birthday?" 

"When you threw up on Win after he got you shit faced? How could I forget?" Jen slurred her words.

"Or when he flipped the table because he was losing in monopoly." You brought up the game nights you'd all have when you were younger.

"Alright you two lets get back home." Yoongi said going to help you up, the sun was setting and he wanted to at least get to the car before it was dark. He helped Jen up next and then guided the two light weight girls to the car.

The whole car ride home Yoongi listened to you and Jen reminisce over your memories of Win. Though even drunk your voice sounded weak and broken as you talked over the good times and Yoongi took notice, him being the only sober one in the car. The wall you'd been keeping up to hide your emotions was crumbling away now that you were drunk, vulnerable.

When Yoongi pulled up Jeonghan was waiting at the doors, ready to take Jen to her room. Jeonghan chuckled lightly as Yoongi told him what happened, before ultimately thanking him for bringing them both home safe. When Jen and Jeonghan walked away Yoongi turned back around to find you sitting down on the gravel drive way.

"Whatcha' doing?" Yoongi asked with a hint of amusement in his tone, though it made a deep pout form on your lips.

"I can’t walk."

"Why not?"

"I'm sad." Your voice broke.

"Ok, You think you can get on my back?" Yoongi asked quietly, you nodded, and so he carried you. 

"I miss him." You whispered, which happened to be right in his ear,

"I know."

When he reached your room he set you down on the bed, then going to slip your shoes off your feet. When he looked back to your face though, he saw a tear fall from your eye.

"Its all my fault." You spoke suddenly taking him off guard.

"Hm?"

"Win is dead because of me." You chocked out, "I-I should have saved him." Silent sobs now shook your small frame.

"Y/n, None of what happened was your fault, there was no way to know."

"He blames me- It sh-should've been m-me" You managed to get out as more sobs fell past your lips. You couldn't control it anymore nor hold it in, something and Yoongi's chest ached with each strangled sob you tried to keep quiet in your throat. He picked you up lightly to make room for himself on your bed and he pulled you close to his chest.

"Shhh, No one blames you, Y/n. We cant go back, we can't change what happened, its destined to fate. You don't need to blame yourself anymore."

Not another word was spoke that night, Yoongi held you as you cried yourself into a deep sleep. He stroked your head, as your breathing became less labored with your sobs. His heart ached part of him hated to think that you felt all alone, and made him want to hold you tighter. But the other part wondered, since when did he care?

Taglist;

@agustdiv1ne , @hwaddict , @ahgasearmyfan , @gee-nee , @janeelizabeth1216 , @elliegrace1999tvd , @sunnynxy , @boba-king-iroh , @deathkat657

[rikalovesrice]

Together, Dearest

Written for the wonderful @nikibogwater​

Can also be read here on Ao3

Enjoy!

💙💙💙

______________________________________________________________

The sky was red. 

Nari stood at the top of a hill, taking in the vast expanse of utter devastation. Miles upon endless miles of wasteland. Haunting, broken silhouettes of dead trees. Deep cracks splintering the dry, ashened earth. Fires big and small burning like clusters of wicked and ravenous demons.  In the distance, the looming husk of a destroyed city. Smoke was billowing above the ragged skyline.

Nari drew a shaking breath when her feet touched the ground, ice-cold despite the heat. A road littered with wreckage. Glass from shattered windows. Crumbling buildings empty, hollow, the exposed blackness within like gaping wounds or screaming faces. Cars smashed and overturned. A lone baby stroller on its side, the inside hidden by torn, draping fabric.

Nari sensed nothing. Only the suffocating heat of fire. The excruciating stab of the cold. She started to run and slammed into the door to their apartment.

“Oh, what…” Nari backed away, then rushed the door, knocking with utmost urgency. “Douxie? Douxie!” Nari sensed nothing. Except the painful pounding in her chest and the sharp stinging in her eyes. “Douxie!”

The moment she stopped knocking, the door creaked open. Nari hesitated before pushing it all the way open only to reveal more darkness. Every drop of light left in the world seemed to illuminate the apartment. It was faint, barely as bright as a single candle. 

Everything was as they’d left it. Nari’s blankets in a pile on the ground. Archie’s half-eaten can of salmon on the sofa. Douxie’s guitar propped against the back cushions. 

There was a dripping sound. Not a ping like water, but with the splattering of something thick and sticky. Nari looked up. Just as she made out the shape of a wing grotesquely pinned to the ceiling, before she could scream, there was a familiar voice.

“Nari…”

“Douxie?!” Nari snapped her gaze back down, frantically looking around, squinting into the shadows. 

“Nari…”

She whirled around and there he was. That tall figure clad in a black hoodie was all Nari needed, and she surged forward, throwing her arms around him. Nari burrowed into his chest, squeezing him tight.

“Nari…”

“Douxie, I— !!!!” Nari lifted her head and sucked in a breath, horrified. His golden eyes were lifeless, dull. What should have been blue strands of hair were black and sticky with the streams of blood trickling down his face. His face. A face Nari had come to love….The entire right side now a mask of burnt flesh. And then she noticed the hole in Douxie’s chest, seared right through his heart, the wound pulsating ominously with streaks of fiery red magic.

As Douxie sank to his knees and collapsed into her arms, Nari saw two devils. One red, one blue. Their grins wide. Their gross, spindly hands reaching, spinning fire and ice.

The devils’ faces contorted into bulging eyes and gaping maws crowded with rows of jagged teeth. They screeched into her face, Bellroc fisting her hair and Skrael gripping her throat.

“NARI!!!!!!”

*

*

*

It was as if an unseen hand had been pushing Nari down against the floor, so hard that her back was flat against the ground despite her cocoon of blankets. She was ripped from sleep, gasping for enormous gulps of air. Her body was seized with violent shivers, her blankets trembling with her. Her teeth were chattering. Her face was wet with tears. Nari slowly unfurled from her cocoon, sitting up to look around. The light of midday shone softly through the windows. The clock was ticking. The faucet dripped. Nari’s collection of plants bathed in the sunlight. 

Nari, still quivering, scanned over the living room. Archie’s can of tuna on the sofa. Douxie’s guitar on the cushions. The remains of junk food piled neatly on the ground, empty chip bags and microwave dinner plates atop of an old pizza box. And yet, if Nari blinked, suddenly all of it vaporized. Suddenly there was fire and cold and darkness. Suddenly her home was gone. Her friends. Her family —

Nari’s attention flew to the door at the sound of two muffled, familiar voices and the jingling of keys. Bits of conversation filtered in as the door was pushed open.

“...and I, for one, am opposed to sticking objects of any sort into my eyes!,” Archie said, hopping down from Douxie’s shoulders once he stepped inside.

Douxie rolled his eyes. “You think glasses look cooler, Arch, just admit — Oh…” Douxie trailed off as he set a handful of plastic grocery bags down on the sofa. He smiled warmly at Nari, pushing the apartment door shut. “Sorry if we woke you, Nari. Did you have a good nap — OOF!!”

Douxie was nearly thrown back against the wall at the force with which Nari barreled into him, her arms tightly secured around his waist. She was wailing into his shirt before he could comprehend what was happening.

“Nari!” Archie said, alarmed. “Are you alright?”

The initial shock being ebbed away by Nari’s sobs, Douxie’s arms relaxed around her, one arm wrapping around her small, trembling shoulders while the other cradled the back of her head. 

“Nari…,” Douxie whispered, expression filled with worry. “Nari, darling, what is it? What’s the matter….Whoa, whoa, easy…” Douxie dropped down to one knee as Nari, still clinging to him, began to collapse, dead featherweight in his arms. He fell back to sit against the wall as Nari’s legs completely gave out beneath her, sliding out to the side of her. Her arms moved from around his waist to lean against his chest, her small hands gripping his hoodie like a lifeline.

“Douxie…,” Nari whimpered, another wave of fresh tears cascading down her face. “Douxie…!”

“Shhh, darling, I’m right here...I…” Douxie paused, the sound of Nari’s crying making his heart ache. He made his voice small and soft. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“T-they...They d-d-destroyed everything…,” Nari choked out, squeezing Douxie closer, leaning her head up into his neck. She let out a pained, agonized wheeze. “They k-killed...killed A-Archie….Killed y-you…Killed you b-b-both….” Nari was seized with more violent sobs, curling into Douxie further as if she were trying to disappear.

Douxie stared down at the small forest goddess, taking in her words. Hugging her close, Douxie and Archie shared looks of somber understanding. Archie padded forward, climbing onto Douxie’s leg and headbutting Nari’s back, rubbing against her and purring. Archie settled down into a loafing position, remaining pressed against Nari.

“It was only a dream, Nari,” Archie said softly. “As you can see, we are both alive and well.”

Nari shook her head rapidly against Douxie’s collarbone. “No...No, no, no...I have put you in danger...Y-you will be k-killed because of me...I-I am not worth it...I am n-not…”

“Nari, please,” Douxie pleaded, hugging her firm. He shut his eyes, tears of his own threatening to spill. “Please don’t say that. I said I would protect you and I will. Even if the world wasn’t at stake, I’ll protect you, Nari.” Another squeeze, Douxie pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “If it’s the last thing I do.” Archie purred louder.

Douxie’s words were seeds piercing deep into Nari’s heart, taking root. Blooming and flourishing, beautiful. Yet painful as they broke her apart. She sighed heavily into Douxie’s chest, her tears everflowing. Because Nari knew. Nari knew whatever she chose, there would be anguish. Stay with the Order and the world she adored would perish. Run from the Order…

And those dearest to her would suffer.

Dearest to me… Even so, Nari clung to Douxie, to his gentleness and warmth, the kindness that glowed within his spirit, because it was all she had. All she had ever wanted, even if it was only a matter of time before it was torn away from her.

A moment passed, silent aside from Nari hiccuping. Then, Douxie began to rock ever so slightly side to side. First was a gentle hum. Then he began to sing, his voice soft and light as air, no louder than a whisper.

Paper daisies to explain

Sunshine always follows rain

And a heart that’s sweet and true

Will help us weather the weather

That’s what keeps us together…

Nari pulled away enough to gaze up at him, eyes still moist but now soft with wonder as she pondered the words. Douxie smiled that tender smile of his. His arms slipped from around her, one hand coming to rest on her back, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb, while the other rose to caress Nari’s cheek, smoothing away a few of her tears. He then combed his hand through Nari’s hair, placing a soft kiss on her head, just at the base of her antler. Douxie continued to hum, his lovely, soothing tone lulling Nari into a calmer state. Douxie held her close again, swaying slightly, and kept singing.

Candy hearts and paper flowers

Sunshine days and skies of blue

Rhymes and songs we sing for hours

Words to say……

“I love you true…,” Douxie finished, then gasped. The words struck his heart like a clap of thunder, overwhelmed with just how much he meant them. Douxie curled in on himself, snuggling Nari even closer. His little Nari. “I love you.”

It was a promise. It surged and churned deep within Douxie’s spirit, overflowing and spilling into his aura. Nari worried her lower lip, squeezing her eyes shut, more tears trickling down her face. But these tears were different.

“I also...love you, Douxie,” she sniveled, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “So very much.” There was a small weight on her side, and Nari chuckled and opened her arms as Archie stepped into the space between them. She rubbed her nose and wiped her tears against his fur. “And you, Archie. Thank you…”

“Of course, dear,” Archie purred, kneading her arm.

Nari gazed up at Douxie, fully leaning laxed against him, her head resting on his shoulder. 

Her dear, dear Douxie.

“Your song...Will you sing it again?” 

Douxie laughed softly. “Can’t say no to an encore, now can I?”

Hugging Archie to her chest, Nari listened again to those sweet words and Douxie’s lilting voice. 

Nari knew. She knew the hardships they would face, the consequences of what she’d done. She knew. But in the light of Douxie’s love and forgiveness, she also knew….Well, she had hope that all would be better than it once was. And that for now, though she prayed forever, they could stay this way.

No matter what was coming.

No matter what came after.

They would be together.

[willadisastercry]

The part where they pick up the pieces...

tw: discussion of blood, severe breathing difficulties, impalement, loss of conciousness, setting of a bone, needles, near death of a character

Part 2 of everyone gets whumped...

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

The ride back to the castle was less than ten dobashes, but it felt painfully longer.

Before Green’s paws even touched the hanger her ramp was already setting down to reveal Coran and Allura anxious to board.

Lance struggled to stifle the groan that the rumbling of Green’s jaws opening produced deep in his throat, setting alight a new fire in his shoulder when the jolt of it sent him forward, the metal still deep in his thigh shifting and letting a new spurt of blood well up and add to the small puddle forming underneath him.

Hunk clamped his hands over his ears and took several shakey breaths before he was certain he had pushed most of the bile that had risen up back down, shifting uncomfrotably to cover his eyes in the crook of his arm in anticipation of the inetsense lighting of Green’s hangar.

Keith didn’t fare well upon arrival either. He had been fighting the darkness that slowly clouded his vision as the pressure in his chest mounted, but the sudden landing sent him sprawling and all the spots he was sore and aching seemed to beat with a new fury as his vision wavered against his ragged breaths.

“I’ve got Pidge! Someone needs to grab Keith and Lance—no you’ve done enough buddy, let her help you...” Shiro ordered as he rose to his feet with Pidge still cradled against his chest, some soft cries escaping her mouth when he leaned back and hefted Hunk up as well.

He ushered his apologies while he waited for Hunk to orient himself before letting his grip on his arm go.

“Um... so you’re saying missing a shoulder bone is a common human injury?”

“More like misplaced, but yeah, wait—PLEASE do not touch, oh my god! Just because it’s missing, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, it’s still there Allura...”

Coran knelt beside Keith who had waved off the helping hand at first but the effort of even bringing himself up to his knees sent him into another coughing fit. The world before him spun and the pulse behind his eyes raged harder than ever, muffling everything the altean said to him before he found himself slumping into his embrace, the sound of his chest rattling was harsh and unnerving.

“Oh, my boy... alright, brace yourself,” was all Coran uttered before hefting Keith up and over his shoulder, the movement producing a stiff sigh while his arms shook from where they clutched then hung down limply as his chest contracted.

“Just relax, number four. Relief will come soon.”

They were just leaving Black’s hangar behind when Pidge uttered her first coherent words, she was mumbling for Shiro and then for Matt, her voice hitching and breaking when she called out for her parents. Shiro just shushed her and cradled her tighter into his chest as he tried his best not to break himself while he ran as fast as he could.

Hunk made his way slowly, using the wall heavily while he fought to keep his balance, Allura checking in on him every now and again when he would stumble while she fought Lance.

His good arm slung around Allura and his injured shoulder hanging unnaturally low as he limped along, his injured leg barely able to hold any weight now.

“This is silly Lance!”

He refused to be carried even though his legs shook so badly his balance was nearly as skewed as Hunk’s.

“What could possibly be so silly ab—agh!”

Allura had stepped away from Lance who lilted and was forced to catch himself by putting weight onto bad leg, biting down hard on his lip to keep from crying out.

“I’m done entertaining this,” the Princess stated before sweeping a grumbling Lance onto her shoulders in a fireman carry.

“Just be glad your travel size,” Hunk sighed wearily.

Coran and Shiro were the first to arrive and activated the sliding doors of the medical facility.

“This bed here, Shiro!”

“Wait, bed? Why not a pod?” Lance asked worriedly.

“I am most disheartened to say that only one pod is adaquately charged at the moment, I’ve redirected the castle’s power to charge a second but the system sustained substantial damaged during the fight... it might be a while before a second is operational,” Coran noted grimly, setting Keith down to sit on the edge of the bed across from the one Shiro was settling Pidge in.

“For now we must assess who truly cannot afford to wait and should it come to it we will conduct the healing process in stages.”

The (semi) walking wounded were just making it into the room when Keith let out a particulary wet hack and wiped the blood that came away off on his sleeve.

“Oh alaran, okay... Allura where are your mice?! We need these suits off now so I can begin my assessment and we don’t have enough hands!”

Coran tossed Shiro a pair of scissors who took over peeling the shredded suit away from Keith’s front, slowly revealing the giant welt that seemed to be his chest and side, all varying degrees of purple and red. His labored breathing made it difficult to work around and slowed the process, so he ended up leaving the more precise work of his shredded back for Coran.

“We must determine who can do without a healing pod for now...”

The mice were doing a swift job of Pidge’s suit while Coran attached wires to her chest and inserted an IV in her arm after getting both arms through a gown. There were dozens of wires now on her small body, a thingy on her finger, a canula around her ears delivering more oxygen though her nose. There also soon dozens on bandages.

The mice picked the large pieces of metal out of her wounds while coran wrapped gauze down her arm and thigh before moving to fully asses her stomach under a dense pile of white already soaked through.

“Pidge first,” Keith rasped as he look across to his teammate, so lifeless and small on the bed. He knew she was physically smaller than the rest of the team, she always had been, but never before had her tiny form scared him like this.

She remained unresponsive and bleeding from way too many places, another puddle quickly forming under her on the bed. Coran was murmuring nonsense about her vitals while preparing a pressure bandage for the largest of the leaking wounds on her stomach. Once it was covered it seemed to stabilize her and made the blaring machines quiet of which Hunk was very thankful for.

“Shiro, wave this scanner over number four’s chest and tell me the extent of the damage. Allura, cut three out of his suit as well, wrap the metal in place with this, use the scanner after. Then scan Hunk’s head, he’s look a tad green, maybe grab a bucket for the lad.”

Allura settled Lance down in a chair next to Hunk who helped himself to an ice pack and tried to keep from passing out or throwing up as he waited, the mice settling themselves on his shoulder and licking his face when his eyes fluttered shut.

Barely any of Lance’s suit survived Allura’s scissors. She cut the entirety of his right sleeve into bits so as to not disturb his shoulder, then rummaged around in the cabinet for a sling. It went on with some protest, but ultimately the stability of it hurt less. 

“So strange how a cold block revlieves pain for humans... seems a bit barbaric to me.”

“It’s not barbaric, it’s heaven,” Lance hissed as she secured the last pack with the altean equivalent of an ace bandage and he shook under the delightfully painful sting of the cold against his throbbing shoulder.

Hunk leaned back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut, somewhat reliving the exhausting spinning he experienced when they were open as another wave of nausea washed over him, he wouldn’t be able to keep his dinner down much longer.

“You’d better stay awake number two, haven’t had a look at that third eye yet,” Coran almost laughed at himself, but somehow he couldn’t as he worked Pidge. 

She was too pale. Too quiet. And while he had managed to somewhat staunch the bleeding for now, he couldn’t remedy what had already been lost. Not with gauze. And not with the pod.

But Keith’s breathing was taking a turn for the worst.

Shiro peeled the last of the top half of Keith’s suit from his arms and asked Allura to help hold him steady while he scanned the already dark expanse of his chest. 

His eyes were glazed and his breathing was very labored now, not much getting in and not much coming out.

There was blood leaking from the corner of his mouth now, the stream almost steady.

The scanner blared red as it passed across the front of his body. Four broken ribs, several others bruised, and a pulmonary contusion. The cuts on his back were superficial mostly, some deep and wide enough to need stitches. But that was all expected.

What wasn’t expected was the bleeding in his abdomen.

His liver. The damage was extensive.

Coran looked over when Shiro relayed that bit, Keith was pale and shaking now, the effects of blood loss ringing true.

He was at Keith’s bed in a second, holding his head up limply so he could secure an oxygen mask on his face, his skin was warm to the touch and his face glistened with sweat. 

He had no idea how the boy was still coherent, let alone sitting up mostly on his own.

Coran began attaching wires all over to track his vitals, ignoring how he winced under the touch, his head remaining in the crook of Shiro’s arm where it had resided after Allura left with the scanner.

The mix 100% oxygen and an altean herb that relaxed distress seemed to bring his levels up and calm him down. It somewhat and soothed the burning in his throat, but he continued to wheeze, the rattle in his chest as present as ever.

“Can you hear me, lad?”

Keith’s eyes lidded and he looked around, searching for Coran who lifted his chin up and shined a light across his eyes. They were sluggish but followed it accordingly.

“Shiro get him on his side. Begin cleaning the wounds on his back and removing all of the debris. Call out his oxygen saturation every few minutes. All we can do is monitor his internal bleeding for now, but if his breathing takes a turn he’s going into a pod immediately and the shrapenl cannot be there if he does.”

He returned to Pidge and flicked through her chart with all of his diognositics on it shaking his head.

“I need Lance scanned, and pricked,” he said after a moment of deliberation, holding up a finger pincher for blood typing.

“Shiro and Hunk I also need you pricked... actually maybe not Hunk just yet.”

“M’ fine,” he protested, barely able to string coherent words together, the mice squeaking in protest.

“Pidge needs a blood transfusion before she goes into a pod, if I put her in now without having stopped the bleeding... she may bleed out in a matter of minutes, and with the rate that Keith is losing blood into his abdominal cavity, he will too.”

“No need to type everyone, I’m compatible with both. Universal donor, baby! Take my beautiful blood,” Lance beamed holding his good arm out.

“We’ll have Shiro typed as well, you can only give so much since you’re also injured.”

“Pshh, take as much as you need.”

Allura rolled down the remnants of his sleeve until it slipped off.

“Hook up his vitals, Princess. Can you start IV fluids and the donation line like I showed you?”

“Yes, I think so...”

“Think so? You are not—OUCH, hey! Well... that wasn’t so bad.”

The princess stifled her laughs as she attached a bag of fluids to the IV she placed in Lance’s hand, then tied a rubber band around his bicep.

“Shiro, can you finish dressing Pidge’s more minor wounds? Pack the gauze on before you tape, and don’t fret about being gentle. I’d like to take a look at Keith’s chest for myself... Princess after you’ve started the first donation can you type number one?”

Everyone uttered in agreement and Coran sighed as he left Pidge to switch with Shiro.

He sat on the side of Keith’s bed and picked up where Shiro had left off on his back, holding together the wider gashes with surgical tape and packing them all with gauze as well. Only a few needed stitching, but he packed them with gauze for now before bandaging.

“I’ve got to take a look at your front, my boy,” Coran noted as he shifted Keith from laying more on his stomach to completely on his side.

His face scrunched up in discomfort when he did.

There was hardly a spot on his front untouched by darkening bruises, each in different stages of purple and red.

He waved his scanner over the darkest spot on his side just as Lance cried out, the results would take a dobash to calibrate.

“Fuck, AGHhh, owh Allura! I—mmph” Lance kicked his feet out to keep literal tears from escaping his eyes, then clutched at his leg when kicking shifted the rather large metal spire still inside of it, and grimaced again when all of his movement agitated his shoulder once more.

“What is going on over there?!”

“I may or may not have bumped into Lance’s mangled shoulder...” Allura said guiltily as she held Lance firmly in his seat while he squirmed, scared that he was going to continue hurting himself or pull out both of the vital needles in his good arm.

“Erm, Coran you might want to take a look at this,” Allura postured once Lance had calmed down enough to let her move the ice pack, he was exhausted both from the pain and the energy it took to thrash given almost an entire pint of of his blood was now in a bag next to him, not to mention what he’d already lost.

Coran left the scanner as it loaded it’s prognosis.

“Shiro, what did you call this strange phenomenon?” Coran asked as he mused over the lack of shoulder bone at the top of his neck.

“His shoulder is dislocated...?”

“That’s to say, the head of the joint is in another location?”

“Yes...?”

“Where then—oh. Oh, dear. How does one go about correcting this? Altean joints are connected by seemingly much stronger tissues and tendons... this is most unusual,” Coran asked nervously as he looked over Lance’s shoulder to his back where the missing bone was protruding from.

“You put it back into place. I’ve seen it done, it’ll hurt but you kind of just pull depending on which way it went out...”

Coran waved the scanner over it and it blared red, corroborating Shiro’s diagnosis.

“Very well, number one, Lance’s shoulder is indeed dis-lo-cated. You said to just... pull?”

Coran asked quizzically as he removed the sling and took up Lance’s arm straight out in front of him.

“HOLD UP—GAH!”

Lance was thrashing once more and cradling his arm now, sweat dripping from his forehead as he panted.

“How was that, number—“

“HOW WAS THAT?! That was awful! It’s also still not back in place and... jeez, is it warm in here or is that just me?”

Coran waved the scanner over Lance’s shoulder once more.

“Hmm, the injured muscles appear to be spasming. It seems the joint cannot be reduced unless the muscles and the patient are relaxed, the scanner advises a muscle relaxer be injected in the area...”

“Will this do, Coran?” Allura was holding a vial and syringe she had just pulled from the cabinet freshly restocked of human medicines and vaccines.

“Yes, princess! This may sting...” Lance had no energy left to protest. He barely even felt the needle going into his shoulder, though he doubted he’d ‘barely’ feel what came next.

His head hung low as he braced himself, a steady, thumping heart beat the only thing he could really hear at that point. He vaguely wondered if he should tell Coran he was seeing stars or not, thinking it wouldn’t matter in a minute anyway.

“Shiro, can you hold the boy steady... yes, like that. Okay, deep breath number three.”

Lance had just began sucking in a huge breath when Coran pulled on his arm and Shiro pushed on his chest, keeping his body still while the tension on his arm slipped the joint of his shoulder back into place with a satisfactory pop!

He couldn’t even feel the pain or relief that came with the reduction of the injury because his head lolled forward to rest on Shiro’s forearm, his hands on his chest the only thing left keeping the exhausted boy upright as consciousness dripped away and he slumped further.

“Lance!”

“Crap,” Shiro exclaimed, pushing his weight back against the chair and holding him there.

“That’s enough blood from you,” Allura said as she stopped the donation.

“All vitals normal except... blood volume, but that’s expected... heart rate elevated, that should return to normal soon... and blood pressure extremely high, yep. Right, so the boy has passed out,” Coran stated as if that fact wasn’t already blatant enough.

“Think we knew that already,” Shiro laughed blandly, Lance’s head still in the crook of his arm.

“Allura, can you start the line for the transfusion on Pidge?”

She nodded as she unhooked the line from Lance and brought the bag of blood still very warm over to Pidge’s bed.

“Can you set Lance up in a bed for me while I check in on Keith?”

“Yes,” Shiro gruffed as he carefully lifted Lance, trying not to jostle either of his injuries.

Keith hadn’t improved when Coran returned, the IV fluids and oxygen only preventing a further decline in his condition.

“This isn’t good my boy,” he mused, flicking through the report and brushing his hair out of his eyes. He leaned into the touch, his face filled with desperation and slick with sweat from his constant efforting to breathe.

Coran let out a rather aggressive sigh.

“I need a 14 gauge needle.”

“14 gauge? But that’s for... “

“Yes, I am afraid the pressure in his lungs is building and if i don’t decompress now his contusion will progress into a tension pneumothorax and cut off oxygen to his brain and—thank you. Keith...”

He reached for the mask on his face and tried to garble out a few words but none of it was coherent through the wheezes that came with them.

“I know, my boy. Relax, you will feel much better in a moment, I’ve got to roll you onto your back now—I apologize for the discomfort.”

Keith groaned at the new orientation and soon his breathing nearly stopped altogether, his body spasming and his face twisting up as it was deprived almost entirely of air.

It wasn’t just the injuries on fire underneath him, the fluid that had built up in his lungs and chest cavity had moved to block what little air he had been managing to make it in.

“I’m sorry,” Coran offered as he pressed on his chest right next to his sternum and just below his collarbone than found the third rib down and stabbed the large needle into the intercostal space between it and the next.

He had taken the inside of the needle out so it was just the tube that was now letting out a high pitched hiss as the pressure in Keith’s lungs dissipated. He heaved gratefully, choking and sputtering on the renwed ability to in bring air, his throat aching dryly and his head buzzing while blood rushed back up to it.

“Vitals stabilizing... oxygen saturation increasing... blood pressure steady... heart rate lowering... blood volume still dangerously low... How’s number three? Keith also needs a transfusion.”

“Lance can’t give anymore, he’s still out,” Shiro said as he rearranged the wires attached to him and took the needle left from the donation out.

“Allura says I’m B negative. What is Keith?”

“He’s AB positive, you’re compatible but I have reservations about the Galra component of his blood... if he were donating I’d be more hesitant, I just don’t have enough expertise in this area to be confident that he won’t react as if you weren’t even compatible...”

“Just-just do it,” Keith croaked almost inaubidly. “Do it so Pidge can go in the pod. I’ll be fine, j-j-just do it.”

“Alright, number four, but you tell us if anything feels wrong, okay? Allura can you prep Pidge for the pod?”

Shiro dragged a chair over to Keith’s bedside and rolled up his sleeve. Coran tied a rubber band around his bicep and started the donation then went to Keith and got him set up for the transfusion. The line coming from Shiro’s arm connected directly to Keith’s, a small monitor tracking how much was being distributed.

Neither boy said much of anything for a while, both staring helplessly as Coran and Allura situated Pidge in a healing pod. It was dimmer than usual and seemed slower to activate, but Pidge hadn’t moved so much as an inch and didn’t seem to mind the wait.

It was only when Lance woke up again that either were aware their eyes had drifted shut. They didn’t remain that way for long though...

LOL didn’t think there’d be a part 3 but here we are, I apologize.

[jungkookiebus]

Hellblazer 2.5 | jjk

Genre: demon!au Pairing: demon!Jungkook x FemConstantine!reader Word Count: 2.6k Rating: PG Summary: Now that the true identity of the new Prince of Hell has been revealed to you, you are left back on Earth, wandering aimlessly through life hungry for another taste of him while being repulsed by his memory. You find your health failing and in one last attempt for help, you drag yourself to the Vatican only to find yourself falling deeper into the darkness surrounding you. Ever so slowly, you’re slipping towards a death you didn’t think would come so soon.  Author’s Note: I hope you guys still find this interesting. I guess this can be seen as “filler” to progress their relationship, but I find it really starts to expose true feelings here. More to come! 

Sluggish. Languorous. Torpid. Stagnant. Those four words and more were how you would describe your life right now. It had been three months since your last encounter with him. You had woken up in your bed just as before; sore and almost lifeless. Before, he haunted your dreams. Now, he was all you wanted and your worst nightmare. You felt pushed and pulled in two directions.

Lost.

Utterly lost.

You were seeing him more and more, standing under the massive altar in the Basilica, sitting at the same table at the coffee shop, just around the corner in the bookstore, and basking in the sun at Trevi Fountain. The few people you knew, because you didn’t have any friends, were noticing your declining health. You became withdrawn and idle. Just living each day, sometimes eating, getting out of bed when needed, and spending less time outdoors as the months rolled on.

Even the Pope came to see you, worried about your health. At first, you felt good knowing someone cared but then you reminded yourself he only liked you for information. His visit didn’t go quite as he had planned when the thought dawned on you and you cursed at him, demanding he get the fuck out of your house.

You had never planned on staying in Rome this long. Yes, it was the hub of your line of work, but you didn’t want to be here, yet you felt tied. You felt as if you left then you’d never see him again, but then again, you didn’t want to see him. Not really.

You were starving, but not for food. If you had a soul it would probably yearn. This was a different kind of pain; something deeply rooted into your heart. Your body was lacking something, and you weren’t sure what.

When you were ready to throw yourself off the nearest cliff, you trudged reluctantly in the direction of the Vatican. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand. People gave you strange looks as they passed. You knew you hadn’t brushed your hair in a hot second nor had you really been concerned about your personal well-being either. The closer you got, the worse you felt. You found yourself stopping and leaning against a wall more than once trying to catch your breath. It felt as if you had been running when you could barely walk. By the time you got to the Vatican Obelisk, you were stumbling, struggling to stay upright. A Swiss guard recognized you despite your unkempt appearance and rushed over immediately, calling out for assistance.

The bright summer sun, a flash of pink, and what you had thought was him were the last things you saw before you succumbed to that falling feeling. Peace. Finally, you were able to rest.

When you awoke again, your limbs were just as heavy if not heavier. You heard the faint beep of a machine and the whir of air conditioning, but beyond that was silent. Your eyelids felt as if they had weights on them as you struggled to open them. Finally, you were able to peer into the semi-darkness. Blinking a few times, you slowly scanned the room. It was very nicely decorated, with a fireplace, and your guess was confirmed when you saw the framed picture of the Virgin Mary. An IV stand was next to you and you followed the tube of fluids to your arm. Wiggling your fingers a little, you made sure you weren’t paralyzed for some reason. As if by divine intervention, a nurse came scooting in backwards with a cart. You watched as she blissfully hummed and then turned towards you, jumping back in surprise as you looked at her.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, holding her hand over her heart. She moved closer to the bed, first looking at the machines, and then back at you. “Hey, are you okay?”

You nodded. Your throat was so dry you didn’t think you’d be able to say anything.

“Let me get you some water!”

She turned away again and to a pitcher that was sitting on a table, filled a glass of water, and made her way back to you. She held the glass to your lips as she held a cloth under your chin. You drank gratefully and sighed as the cool water soothed your throat.

“What happened?” you finally asked once you were able to speak properly.

“The guards saw you stumbling around outside. You collapsed right in a crowd of people!” She threw her hands up excitedly as she recounted the story to you. The Pope had insisted you stay in the ”house of the Lord” in case what was happening to you was “demonic” in nature.

He knew better.

“How long?”

“Oh, let’s see,” she paused. “About a week and a few days now.”

No wonder you felt as if your muscles hadn’t been used in a million years. You still felt just as bad, if not worse than before. Before you knew it, you were slipping slowly. You wanted to stay awake, you feared falling asleep again, but your body was giving up. Slowly, darkness overtook you.

When you awoke again, you felt as if you couldn’t breathe. You half expected a paralysis demon to be perched atop you when you were finally able to open your eyes.

The room you were in was the same, but this time there were more machines. You looked down to see that your hair had grown a considerable amount. Panic washed through your body and you heard the rapid beat of the machine as your heart sped. A small alarm sounded as your blood pressure rose. You were being thrown headlong into a full blown panic attack. The same nurse as before came rushing into the room and was at your side, checking the readout on the machine, and then reached into a small refrigerator for a glass bottle. She pulled the cap off a syringe, pulled the liquid into it, and then pushed it into your IV line. Your body immediately relaxed. She held her hand on your forehead as she grabbed her stethoscope. After she determined that you were okay, she laid a hand over yours.

“He wants to talk to you. I’ll be right back.”

What? You had just woken up after god knows how long and she’s worried about someone wanting to talk to you? You were so thirsty.

The Pope came rushing through the door, dressed casually, and looking both distressed and surprised.

“____!” he exclaimed as he rushed to your bedside. “It’s been months.”

Months? Surely…not?

He turned his head to where you couldn’t see his face, but you saw the look of surprise on the nurse’s face as she nodded and then left the room. He turned back to you; concern written in his features.

“____,” he began again, as he pulled a chair to your bedside. “When did you meet him?”

Your brows knitted. You had already told him when you met the new Prince of Hell.

“The Archangel. God’s general.”

Your blood ran cold. How did he know?

“You have the sigil,” he said reaching out just a little, “behind your ear.”

For fuck’s sake. You were getting peed on by everybody in Hell. You wet your lips a little. Or tried to. Realizing that your mouth was probably dryer dirt, he grabbed the pitcher. Funny, one of your last memories was almost this exact same situation months ago. Once again, you were fumbling with your voice, having not used it for some time. He sat patiently as your mouth moved robotically. You were frustrated that you couldn’t just spit it out and you felt helpless as you lay there with your overly heavy limbs.

“He fell,” you finally croaked.

“What?” He didn’t believe you.

“The demons. In Rome.”

You saw him piecing things together with your minimal words. He had warned you that things were happening in Rome.

“You mean…,” he trailed off in disbelief.

“War.”

It wasn’t a secret that there was a war in Heaven before when Lucifer fell. You had met a few demons that fell with him, recounting the day in vivid detail to you. Now there was going to be another one. God’s greatest ally had betrayed him.

“But then…” He glanced towards the spot behind your ear. “Those are meant for protection.”

You half shrugged. You weren’t about to admit to him what had happened…twice.

“Get your rest, _____.” He patted the back of your hand, stood, and left from the room without so much as a backwards glance.

The Pope stood before the statue of the Archangel taking down Lucifer with his golden spear. His heart was tight in his chest as he prayed.

“Dear God,” he was at a loss for words as he gazed above him. His voice echoed in the cavernous expanse.

A low, menacing laugh filled the space as soon as his voice died out. The darkness suppressed around him and fear filled his heart. He clutched to the rosary in his hand as he turned around. The laugh seemed to be coming from every direction, bouncing off the walls, and doubling back in on itself. This type of darkness was one that he felt deep inside of him.

“There’s no point in that,” he heard whispered amongst the laughs that were slowly dying out.

Out of the darkness and through the pews of one of the service areas walked a man, dressed darkly, and even darker than the murkiness around him. The candles that had been lit on the altar went out one by one. A heat filled the basilica that had him sweating under his night robes. A smell so pungent that he recoiled filled his nose and it was soon replaced by the sickly sweet smell of roses.

He emerged into the dimly lit expanse of the area before the main altar and he was able to see his glowing eyes and pale skin contrasting against his black suit. His hands were clasped behind him as he walked slowly. His footsteps didn’t make a sound. His smile was malevolent. As he approached closer and closer, he began to faintly smell burnt wood. By the time he was within feet of him, it was as if someone had snuffed out the fire in a fireplace. The smoky smell filled the area and assaulted his senses. A usually comforting scent was now going to be reminiscent of this new fear he felt.

“Where is she?” he asked, leaning in close.

He saw the sigil on his lapel as it caught the light.

“A-are you…?” he stammered.

“You know exactly who I am. Now, answer my question, Your Holiness.”

He stared into his dark eyes and saw nothing there. Only emptiness.

“I’m not giving her to you.” He held onto his rosary tighter as he willed himself to be brave in the face of evil.

His smile spread, but then suddenly turned down at the corners. He could see where he was once beautiful, but now he was beautiful in a terrible way.

“If you want her to live, you will.”

He was shaking as he held out the hand that clutched the rosary. The Prince looked down at it in disgust before speaking again.

“Your trinkets won’t do anything to me.”

“Why do you want her?”

“She belongs to me.”

“Your sigil is meant to protect. What are you doing to her?”

He sighed as he brought his hands in front of him, intertwining his fingers and holding them to his lips. The Pope saw the tattoos that you had mentioned, and it further confirmed his fears.

“The real question is, what are you doing to her?”

He suddenly became defensive in the face of the Prince.

“I have been protecting her and keeping her alive for these last few months.”

“Have you, though?”

“Quit talking in circles, demon!” He was red faced now, utterly angry. He was angry that a Prince of Hell was here on hallowed ground and he was angry that he seemed to think he had some claim over you.

“This space you feel like you’ve created for her to heal is killing her,” he said simply.

You had no soul. Heaven couldn’t protect you and now that it was weaker, they would be no closer to doing so.

“The sigil…”

“She’s dying on holy ground. If I take her, she won’t.”

The Pope was torn. What he said made sense, but what if he were lying? He had no reason to tell the truth. But why would he want you?

He slowly removed the brooch from his lapel and suspended it in the air between them, but the Pope refused to reach out and take it.

“I promise you protection. On my word.”

“I don’t make deals with devils,” he said snidely.

“It’s in your best interest to do that now. There’s going to be a war soon and Earth will suffer just as many consequences. You’ll want to find yourself on the right side.”

The Pope walked briskly down the carpeted hallway with the Prince walking closely behind. None of the guards were around as they turned corners and he knew it was his doing. When they reached the door to your room, he looked back at him tentatively. He seemed eager for him to open the door. He pushed it open, stepping inside, and to the side. He watched closely as he crossed the room and to your bedside. You were asleep, laid back amongst the pillows, and looking as frail and drawn as ever.

“How could you let this go on for this long?” he asked as he undid the IV at your arm.

The Pope was frozen to the spot as he watched him quickly detach you from any and all machines, alarms going off left and right. The nurse came running down the hall in her robe. He held out his arm in front of her as she crossed the threshold and froze to watch the scene in front of her.

He was lifting you from the bed gingerly. You had lost so much weight that you were very easy to carry. He turned with you in his arms, curled against his chest, and the Pope saw a shadow of who he once was. His expression was soft, yet worried, giving him a glance at the Archangel he used to pray to.

“You have my protection,” he said before seeming to disappear into thin air. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving the Pope and nurse dumbfounded.

The next time you awoke, you felt lighter. Your breathing came easier and your mouth didn’t feel as if it were on fire. The pain in your head was starting to subside and overall, you felt as if you might survive whatever was wrong with you. You moved your fingers over the sheets beneath you and felt an all too familiar silkiness. Your heart raced with both fear and some unfound excitement. Slowly, you opened your eyes and you were met with the same grey stillness of the bedroom that haunted your dreams. You were afraid to move but you desperately needed to see if you imagined the presence behind you. You quietly and gently as possible turned your head.

He looked so peaceful.

Fast asleep, mouth slightly agape, he laid beside you, hand rested on the pillow. He had saved your life, but that was only because he had marked you. You hadn’t asked for this, but you were starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, it was what you wanted all along.

[one-boring-person]

Just A Babysitter.(Part Seven.)

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: major character death, blood imagery, alcohol use

Context: (Y/n) is left alone at the cave whilst the boys go to avenge Marko's death, but she has a horrible surprise coming her way.

A/N: I changed my mind about this being the last part as it is just too long to be left as it is, so there is another part which will most likely come out later today.

Part One , Part Two , Part Three , Part Four , Part Five , Part Six , Part Eight

Masterlist.

My joints have finally gone numb by the time the sun has set, the ache of sitting on the cold hard floor for hours on end eventually fading away as I continue to ignore it, my mind still preoccupied with more serious matters, like the dead vampire lying with his lifeless head in my lap. Dried blood crusts my clothes and skin, the sensation uncomfortable but also unnoticed as I smooth my fingers over the mess of blonde curls atop Marko's limp head, my eyes never leaving his glassy, blank ones, my tears having dried some time ago, one hand holding onto the patched jacket he's always worn, the fabric stained and grimy now from the crimson liquid gathering around the hole in his chest. At some point, I'd taken the stake out of his chest, the crude piece of wood sliding out of the cold flesh with ease, another rush of blood accompanying it as I threw the makeshift weapon across the room, barely registering as it clatters to the ground a little way away. Since then, I've barely moved, my back muscles cramping from the crooked position I've settled into, the pain seeping away as time goes on, the chill of the cave stiffening my joints considerably.

It takes a hand placed on my shoulder to finally shake me from my trance, the appendage belonging to a concerned and grief stricken Dwayne, the tall vampire giving me a reassuring look as he crouches to my level, moving to pull my body into his, wrapping his arms around my rigid form briefly before he joins David and Paul, flying from the dark cave with incredible speed, all three of them riled up and ready to do anything to avenge their fallen friend. If I could, I'd join them.

After they've left, I stay where I am, my energy dwindling as I fight to stay awake, having done so all day, my body finally forcing itself to rest. Grudgingly, I decide to give in to the urge, knowing there's nothing I can do but wait for them to return, laying myself down beside the body of my friend,  ignoring the icy chill that seeps into me from the hard ground beneath me, the rock not making a particularly comfortable surface to sleep on. Resting my head on my hands, I tuck my knees into my chest and curl up into myself as best as I can, closing my eyes with the intention of falling asleep.

Nightmares plague my fitful sleep, visions of the rest of the boys, as well as Marko, all bloodied and wounded harassing my subconscious as it tries to rest, my eyes unable to open and tear themselves away from the horrifying scenes in my head as I writhe about. In each dream, I try to help them, to save them from the same fate that Marko has received, but each time I am unsuccessful, my mind conjuring up vivid images of David, Dwayne and Paul as they gasp for life, blood spilling from their lips, eyes flashing as they slowly fade into a deathly blankness, skin paling from the lack of life coursing underneath it. Fear soaks into my conscience, rooting itself into my very being as it tries to grasp the idea of living without the family who has cared for me for so long, protecting me when my biological family could (would) not, providing me with the best life I could ever have hoped for. Somehow, tears manage to force themselves out of my eyes, wetting my cheeks once more, though I don't realise this until I come to again a long while later.

My eyes crack open, eyelashes sticking together from the salty tears that have dampened my skin, a deep chill settling into my muscles from the air around me, reawakening the pain in my joints from before. I move to get up, stretching out my limbs and back as I go, wincing as I hear several audible cracks as my bones realign themselves, my movements stiff and slightly uncoordinated from the lack of change in my position, a pounding headache starting to set in from how dehydrated I've become. In my head, I know I should get up and get something to drink, or to eat, or I'll really suffer later, my body already protesting against my abstinence. Groaning, I force myself to my feet, giving Marko one last look as I go, still trying to come to terms with the fact that he's gone and won't wake up in a minute to take me for a ride on his motorcycle, or have a race to the Chinese takeaway shop, where we'd undoubtedly steal the food we've been given.

Another wave of grief washes over me, but I choke it down before I fall back to my knees, instead going to the entrance of the room, aiming to get to my room where I know there is food and drink, something I've made sure to keep in the cave just in case. It takes me longer than normal to emerge back into the darkened expanse of the sunken hotel, no light coming in from the outside, proving to me that it is still night, even if it is early in the morning, the icy air surrounding me feeling unwelcoming for the first time in four years, making me shiver uncomfortably as I duck into my own room, my clothes too thin to be a suitable covering. As I enter, I make the decision to change my clothes completely, needing to part with the bloodied shirt and jeans I was wearing the night before.

Changing into another band shirt and dark grey jeans, I pull on my leather jacket before grabbing the bottle of water and tin of cookies from under my bed, taking the remaining whiskey from five nights ago as well after a second, craving the strong burning alcohol to reawaken my numbed mind. Sitting on the bed, I open the water and take a deep drink from it, relishing the sensation of the liquid flowing down my dry, raw throat, my body relieved to finally receive hydration. I follow this with a good few cookies, not really enjoying them too much but needing the food desperately, as well as a swig of whiskey to wash it down, wincing as the fiery drink burns the insides of my throat, feeling warmer a minute or so after it's settled into my stomach. I repeat these motions a few times before I become aware of something: voices floating in from the front of the cave, and not friendly ones, either.

A low growl leaves my lips as I make out Michael's voice amongst them, anger and fury igniting inside me alongside the confusion; what the hell is he doing back here, alive? Putting aside the alcohol, water and cookies, I edge closer to the doorway, staying out of sight as much as possible, straining to hear what is being said, yet more confusion rising in me as I hear sounds that I'd associate with dragging heavy objects across the floor.

"...should we leave them here? In the middle? Or should we move them back into one of the inside rooms?" Michael asks his companion, or companions, voice breaking off every few seconds from the strain of carrying a heavy weight.

"Let's just leave them here. They won't mind." A gruff voice I recognise from the day before answers, an agreement rising from another who sounds very similar. The two kids with stakes.

"What about (Y/n)? What should we do about her?" This time it's Star's voice, the sound cutting deeper than the others, a stronger sense of betrayal flaring up in me as I try to keep myself quiet, not quite believing what I'm hearing.

"I hadn't thought about that. Should we find her?" Michael muses, the sound of something dropping echoing around the room, three others joining the first.

The others are silent, the two kids obviously having no idea who I am, Star seemingly considering what to say.

"No, I don't think that'll be entirely safe. She has a tendency to react rashly to things like this. I'm surprised she didn't do anything earlier." The girl responds, voice decisive, "I really do feel bad for her, though."

"You do? Why?" One of the kids asks sounding disgusted by the idea.

"Because they were her only family, and she was close with all of them. She'll really suffer."

What does she mean, they were my only family? They are my only family. A small voice in my head starts to tell me something, but I refuse to listen to it, unwilling to even consider what she is implying.

"I know, I feel bad, too. Maybe we can come again tomorrow night and speak to her? She could come live with us." Michael suggests, drawing a silent scoff from me at his stupidity. What makes him think I'd live with someone like him?

"I really don't think she'd accept the offer, but we can only try." Star responds, sounding unsure of herself, her voice getting quieter as they seem to leave the room, eventually cutting out completely when they get far away enough. I wait another five minutes before venturing out again, finding the braziers lit, the flickering flames throwing shadows and light everywhere. What I see in the centre of the room, beside the fountain, makes me stop, my heart nearly seizing as I catch sight of them. I can barely move, my eyes remaining fixed on the object of my horror, disbelief initially filling me until grief replaces it, my mind drowning in it once more as I finally find the ability to move, my legs taking me over to them. Lying on the floor are four bodies.

One is horribly familiar, two barely recognisable, the fourth unfamiliar to me.

A strangled sob leaves my lips as I collapse to the floor beside David's corpse, the blonde vampire's features pale and drawn in their deathly state, his muscles limp and lifeless under my hands as I grasp at his chest, unwilling to believe that what I'm seeing is real.

"No, no, no! This can't be happening, please tell me this isn't real! No, please, wake up, David, please, wake up! You can't be dead! You can't all be dead! No, no, no!" I all but scream out, tears exploding out onto my cheeks as I frantically look for signs of life, taking in the two other bodies to his right. One is nothing but a skeleton, and the other is a mangled mess of blood and torn flesh, but they are still known to me: the skeleton is still wearing the bracelet I gave him the night before, and the leather jacket under all the gore is unmistakable. Paul and Dwayne, both dead.

"Please wake up, David! Tell me this is fake, that this isn't happening! I can't be alone, not again! Please, don't leave me alone!" I cry out to them, eyesight blurry from the tears pouring out of them, my body heaving as sobs rip themselves from me, my head falling to David's chest, ignoring the dried blood coating his shirt, as well as the rigidity that his death has brought to him. Grief and despair once again assault my mind, tearing me from the numbed state I was in before, my throat quickly becoming raw as I continue to plead with no one in particular, wishing the vampires would just sit up as they were before and reassure me. As it is, I'm left with the dead members of my family with no one to comfort me, my body nearly wrung dry from all the tears I've cried in the past twelve hours, my only companions the corpses lying around me.

I remain there for what feels like hours, but what is in fact only one, until I notice something: the first rays of sunlight coming in from the entrance. Slowly but surely, they edge closer to the corpese on the floor, the unfamiliar one remaining in shadow as it is protected by the water fountain. As the first ray reaches the skeletal remains of Paul, the discouloured bones immediately catch fire, orange flames engulfing the body of my friend in seconds, my eyes fixed on them with horror, until I jump into action, wrapping my arms around David's torso as I start to drag him towards the shadows, my body weak from the lack of movement it has done, guilt and anguish racing through me as I watch the rays catch Dwayne's mangled remains, too, greedy flames instantly bursting into life as they do so, the sunlight only continuing on in its destructive path, creeping ever closer to David's feet. My muscles scream at me as I fight to pull the heavy body out of harms way, my strength nearly failing me multiple times, my feet slipping on the floor slightly.

Thankfully, I manage to drag David into the darkness of my room in time, the corpse remaining untouched by the sun even as the other two are consumed by the fires it has produced. I can only watch as they burn, tears streaming down my face at the sight, the overwhelming grief pushing me to my knees as I finally give up, a strangled, agonized scream ripping from my throat as I curl up into a ball, consumed by sorrow and despair, the loneliness I haven't felt in years crashing over me once again, reminding me of the night they found me, my body beaten and broken by the side of the road, my parents having finally kicked me out, a thirteen year old with no where to go. They'd taken me in, caring for me as much as they can, giving me a better life than I could ever have hoped for, replacing the hole in my heart where a family should've been. Old wounds have been reopened, bleeding grief back into my system as they once had when they were new, the pain just as crippling as before, if not, more so.

Eventually, I feel black spots start to appear at the edges of my vision, slowly advancing until I can't see any more, my body relaxing into unconsciousness, the emotions finally becoming too much for my mind to handle. Almost in relief, I allow myself to give in to the urge, falling deeply into a state of unconsciousness as I collapse beside the corpse of David, the truly dead leader of a murdered coven of vampires.