#but boy can she be a smartass and correct the shit out of them

[miracles-and-butterflies]

Isabela: Don’t correct me!

Mirabel: Don’t be wrong!

[straighttohellbuddy]

what you love you devour {c!Wilbur Soot}

Summary: As someone who is chronically honest and the self-appointed court jester of this world, your place in any conflict or situation had always been whichever place to be amused you the most; being on the side of the grown-ass man who put time and effort into waging war against smartass kids over discs? Of course. Immediately switching sides to join the child as he and someone you've never met before start a drug empire? Of course. Except said newcomer seems to know exactly how to keep you entertained; your place becomes by his side, and you quickly come to realise that no-one else will ever compare.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: She/They Reader. Villain!Reader. Past, toxic c!Quackity/Reader, established platonic c!Dream & Reader. Set during the DSMP timeline. 

A/N: 25,323 words. this has been about 2 years in the making, which is why i haven't tagged the few people on the taglist but anyways, i finally came back and reread what i had and was like.... this actually holds up pretty well as is. so yeah, i've added and subtracted a few things here and there in the last few hours to make it all make sense overall, but holy shit im so happy to have it out there. is it possibly the wankiest/dramatic thing ive posted in a while? yes. but its also 25k so eat up. and if you wanna talk to me about it! PLEASE DO!!

Warnings: VILLAIN!READER, discussions/implied suicidal ideation, violence & blood, implied and joked about smut, heavy psychological/emotional manipulation, romantic obsession, betrayal, murder, implied torture. it gets pretty dark at times, just take care.

Citrus Scale: 💚 LIME 💚

{ full playlist }

"You've created capitalism, good job," sarcasm dripped from your words as you leaned against the side of the Camarvan while Sapnap attempted to arrest Tommy and the most recent newcomer, a brunette with a way with words that you found yourself admiring.

"I didn't create capitalism," Wilbur automatically defends himself, turning on you like he had the words on the tip of his tongue, simply waiting for someone to bring it up. Though he was playing at being innocent, you could see he was holding back a smile.

"What do you mean?" Tommy, behind him, frowned, before spluttering, "you know what, who cares- Wilbur, buddy don't listen to her, she'll say anything to get a rise out of people," he grumbled, but you just talked over him, addressing the newcomer.

"I'm not implying that you, new boy -"

"Wilbur," he corrected you automatically.

"- you, Wilbur, were the theological creator of capitalism," you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help your own smile at the situation, "I'm saying that you're trying to have a monopoly on potions and the ability to brew them, so you can inflate the price to whatever you want with no competition that people would be able to buy from, all that artificial supply and demand bullshit."

"Don't know what you're on about," but Wilbur's back was to the others as he said it, lips twisting into a grin, "this is but a humble hotdog van."

"A humble hotdog van!" Tommy added resolutely for emphasis, which you yourself repeated, much quieter, turning the words over in your mind as you narrowed your eyes and looked over all of them, "oh get lost, go run back to Dream," Tommy huffed, before turning on Wilbur, "why are you even giving her the time of day? She's in his guard, she's probably here helping Sapnap."

And that's when your gaze finally flicked to the man himself in full diamond armour, who was glowering at you, bow half raised. He stays quiet.

"He doesn't seem too keen on her," Wilbur points out, looking over his shoulder, giving the faintest smile to the kitted-out guard.

"It could be a ruse!" Tommy insisted.

"I'm simply a court jester -" you tried, hands raised defensively, but Tommy cuts you off.

"You shot me!"

"What's a humble court jester doing at our humble hotdog van?" Wilbur asks, turning back to you. At this prompt, however, your whole face lit up and you stood up straight, frantically digging around your pockets, searching, until you offer a small stack of blaze rods, like it's an offering.

"Playing along," you tell him, eyes alight with mirth and mischief.

"Why?" But he takes the blaze rods and you give a shrug, shoving your hands into your pockets.

"It's the funniest option."

---

"It's not capitalism, it's a drug empire," Tommy grumbled under his breath the moment they bring you into the Camarvan and shut the door behind you, before he added, "and I still don't like that you're here."

"It's not my fault that the concept of a grown-ass man going to war with literal children over two discs is deeply funny," you raised your hands in mock surrender as you sat on the counter in the hotdog van.

"Then why were you on his side?" He demanded, and you schooled your grin into something seriously.

"Thomas, Thomas listen to me -"

"Do not call me Thomas," Tommy told you flatly, and for a moment you couldn't help your sharp smile.

"Listen, Tommy, my boy, I was on the side of the grown-ass man who was waging war over discs; you're a kid, dude, being on your side would make too much sense and would be far less funny."

"One, you're a terrible person," Tommy says flatly, and you can't help but laugh not exactly inclined to disagree with him, "two, I'm not your boy, and three, if it suddenly becomes fucking funny for you to turn on us, I will kill you a lot, okay?"

"Okay," you nod, conceding, and though he's still frowning at you, mistrustful, you can't help but follow it with, "but I think you underestimate how much I appreciate our new friend, whose first thought, after finding his way to us, was 'I'm going to build a drug empire and recruit Tommy-goddamn-Innit as my first ally'; very few things can top that, honestly."

Wilbur, who was kneeling by a chest a few feet away and had been quiet this whole time, snorts a laugh. Good.

"Does Dream trust you?" However, when he spoke, your bright mood evaporated. Then he stands, turns, and leans his hip against the chest he was just rifling through, cocking his head to one side as he regards you, "it's not bait, I'm not asking you if you're a double agent, I trust you -" though there was something behind his eyes that contradicted his words, "- just, does Dream trust you?"

"Dream and I have... an understanding," you said carefully, "I understand that he is incredibly powerful -" Tommy made a derisive noise in the back of his throat at that, "- and he understands that I am simply a court jester."

"I don't remember many jesters with enchanted netherite axes," Tommy mutters under his breath. For the barest moment, when he looks at you he sees you looking right back, something dangerous, something like a warning in your eyes that vanishes so fast he’s half concerned he imagined it. No-one else seemed to have seen it, judging by how Wilbur’s continuing on. You’ve already looked away.

"So he may expect you to turn on him?"

"Eventually," you agree, "but he also knows I'd turn back to his side with the right incentive," you knew no good could come of trying to hide your nature, especially since it could lead to others actively attempting to win your loyalty, which you couldn't deny was pretty nice. Tommy was actively glaring at you after this particular admission, however Wilbur hums thoughtfully, regarding you with an expression you can't quite read, one that makes you feel like he's evaluating you; you sit a little straighter.

"Would you steal his potion supplies for us if he had any?" And suddenly, Wilbur's tone was light, as if he were asking for you to run an errand rather than commit treason. While Tommy was flabbergasted at his bluntness, you nodded emphatically.

"Oh, absolutely."

----

"Could you be more subtle while robbing me?" Dream frowned the moment he saw you up to your elbows in a chest in what he considered to be his base of operations.

"Not my fault you're bad at hiding your stuff and good at finding me," you huffed in return, not even bothering to look up, even as Dream peered over your shoulder to see what he'd left behind that you were currently looting. Tortoise shells and empty bottles, not much, but it's something.

"I don't appreciate you stealing my shit for Tommy," Dream pointed out, and you snorted a laugh, beginning to pocket your findings. He sat beside the chest, watching you, "I'm going to stop him."

"You're going to try."

"I thought you were on my side," but even as he said it, he wore a grin that was all teeth; you both knew he was joking, "you'd tell me where the discs were if you knew, wouldn't you?"

"In a heartbeat," you agree without hesitation, sitting back on your heels and finally looking at your sort-of ally, "but we both know Tommy doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me."

"He's a smart kid," Dream's smile gets tight at the edges for just a moment, and when you look to him, he’s looking back at you with a shallow gaze - you ever take something from me like that again and I’ll fucking kill you; you hear your own voice in your head, and wonder if Dream’s thinking of that same moment, of your violent, possessiveness rearing it’s head, your axe pressed to his chest in the dead of night. Back in the present, his gaze clears and he looks at the chest you’re currently elbow deep in, pointedly, "you are robbing me." The memory passes from your mind.

"You weren't here and I'm not using actual force; this is looting at best," at your indignance, he rolls his eyes, looking away, and you open the chest again, taking the remaining items, despite their meagre value. "I'm not doing this for Tommy; Wilbur's the one who suggested it."

"The new guy?"

"The new guy," you confirmed with a nod, "the first thing he does after getting here is commit crimes; I think I'm in love," you tell Dream flatly, mostly joking.

"Sounds like a man after your own heart," Dream points out, not even trying to hide the teasing edge to his words; how deeply bizarre this interaction would be if anyone else were to walk in.

With all of the chest's contents safely in your pockets and satchel, you sit back, eyes narrowing as you give Dream and his mischievous smile a look as you finally try and figure out what this whole interaction means. However the teasing does well to hide the faint notes of apprehension in his voice.

"'s the reason I sided with you in the first place;" you said slowly, "you know how chaos gets me going," your tone was flat, clearly conveying that you hadn't deciphered the nature of this interaction, but your actual words were enough to have Dream himself laughing despite this, the air clearing. "You here to stop me?"

"Does anyone else know where my base is, and are you going to steal anything else from me?"

"No and yes," you answer bluntly; if you were anyone else that answer would be two death sentences, one right after the other, "blaze rods," you quickly elaborate, wilfully digging yourself deeper as Dream opens his mouth.

"You can't have my blaze rods," he says, though he's smiling faintly at your well-worn antics.

"Agree to disagree," you stood swiftly, trying to step over his legs to get to the next chest. Dream grabs your shin with one hand, stopping you in your track as he's sighing deeply.

"Go away, Y/N," he says firmly, letting go of you to get to his feet, beginning to push you to the entrance of the bunker, even as you whined; the fact that he let you take as much as you already had was not lost on you however, and you let yourself be nudged to the door, only putting on a show of protesting.

The timer that had started ticking the moment he'd found you in his bunker had finally run out.

"Get better security," you told him, and he gave you a wide, toothy smile.

"Love you too," he responded, "and keep me updated if you ever find those discs." At that, you give him a quick salute and head back in the general direction of the Camarvan.

----

"L'Manberg?" You said, not even trying to hide your scepticism.

"L'Manberg," both Tommy and Wilbur reiterated, sounding completely sincere in their dedication to the ridiculous name.

"L'-Man-Berg?" You said, slower, squinting at them, waiting for their sincerity to crack.

"But don't worry, Tommy himself said that 'even women can work here'," Wilbur said, corners of his mouth twitching at Tommy's various irritated exclamations, "like... in the hotdog van... with us; we're not implying that women have to work to be here, this isn't- this isn't communism -"

"You've made that abundantly clear," your scepticism broke in the face of his floundering, "I remember you brought capitalism to the Greater Dream SMP, Mr Soot," you were desperately trying not to laugh, though Tommy was fairing much worse than you at that.

"I mean- I mean- I mean-" Tommy spluttered through his laughter as it died down, trying to get himself back to being something resembling serious, "you also- you can't be on Dream's side if you're with us."

"I'm not," you answer honestly and easily.

"So you're on our side?" He clarified, though you had to hum at that.

"No..." you said carefully, before finally looking him in his eyes, "I'm on my side, I just happen to like," without breaking eye contact with Tommy or your serious facade, you pointed directly at Wilbur, to his left, "him." Tommy's outrage at your answer was predictably hilarious, hence the main reason as to why you gave it, and Wilbur's delighted 'that's good enough for me' and accompanying smile was enough to solidify your loyalty with them, at least for the time being.

----

"I knew it would be you," they've taken no chances with you when they started taking people prisoner; Tommy was the first to go, and you happened to show up right as Fundy was being lead away. Wilbur and Tommy had both sent you messages, letting you know people were being arrested, and while they probably meant for you to stay away, you had other ideas.

So now, here you were, with Sapnap's crossbow bolt between your shoulder blades as you were being unceremoniously shoved to the courthouse.

"Stop talking," he muttered, poking you probably harder than necessary, but it did little to dim your smile.

"I've barely said anything," you shrugged, the nonchalant movement only serving to remind you, as if you could forget, about the weapon at your back, "but I'm flattered, really; I knew it would be you."

"Stop. Talking."

"They've got several people escorting Tommy, and even Fundy has Eret and Tubbo," you kept chattering away, despite your guard's grumbling, "but we've fought together, you know what I'm like, and so does he," you gave a faint laugh, "they knew I'd listen to you; you're the only one besides Dream himself who could get me to go peacefully."

"Why then? If you're going to keep talking, can you explain why? Why are you going peacefully, why with me? Are you actually saying you would have put up a fight if I were anyone else?"

"Would you trust anyone else to bring me to jail on their own?" You asked simply.

"I think you overestimate how challenging you are -"

"So that's a yes, you'd trust... Tubbo to lead me to the courthouse alone?" Your tone was sly and heavy with implications, "or Ponk? Or what about Eret? I don't know him but he seems nice. I'd like to get to know him, if you're saying you'd like to swap -"

"I don't trust you," he cuts you off, words forced out through gritted teeth.

"But you trust you," you hum thoughtfully, "because you know you're the only one up for it. They're sweet kids, but they're still kids, aren't they? If the right person talked for long enough they'd believe anything. This is why I knew it'd be you taking me to court; you're better than that," you're better than them hangs in the air, unspoken but still so loud, and you're glad he can't see the way you're grinning.

Then, you give a self deprecating chuckle, shrugging again.

"Honestly I'm probably giving myself too much credit here, I'm unarmed and unarmoured, you're easily overkill as my escort, but again, I'm flattered," the pressure between your shoulder blades lessens until the sharp bolt is gone, and you hear Sapnap's footsteps fall silent. Intrigued, you turn, and you see him scowling.

"Don't do that, don't be cute, don't be coy;" he frowned at you, at how your expression had been schooled into something tamer than the delight you were feeling, "you won't trick me; I remember Dream in that warroom, you remember, we were all planning and he assured us that you were your most dangerous unarmed and unarmoured -"

"I can't believe you remember that," you huff a disbelieving laugh, hoping the delight in your eyes didn't give you away.

"Yeah, well I do; don't coy, don't be shitty, okay? I was sent here for you for a reason, me, alright Y/N? I'm the one with the crossbow," already your words were working their way into his psyche, the bestowing of compliments, building him up, only to undermine it all. Whether he realised it or not, the praise you hid amongst your teasing and self-aggrandizing felt good to hear; you're just glad he believed it.

And so you walked with a crossbow bolt nestled between your shoulders, in silence for the rest of the way, being shoved into a cell beside Tommy, who'd been sitting on the bed provided, chattering away loudly to the other guards.

"What took you so long?"

----

The jacket you're given doesn't fit quite right; it's close, but maybe the arms are a little too long, and it sits strangely when you button the front with more than one button, but you wear it with pride, grip tight on the lapels as you spin on your heel, waiting for an approval from the others.

"Looks good on you," Wilbur's voice is carefully neutral, though he nods, his slight smile betraying him.

"Now will you finally admit you're on our side?" Tommy asked, brow pinched as he looked you over.

"What do you mean? She's with us, of course she is," Tubbo voices his confusion, and you finally, finally relinquish.

"Yes, Tommy, I'm fighting for L'manburg," you inclined your head towards him, smiling faintly.

"Say it, say you're on my side," Tommy demanded, "because I wanna remember this moment when you inevitably double cross us."

"Tommy," you said carefully, trying not to show how amused you actually were.

"Don't patronise me," he warned.

"Tommy," you shifted your tone to something a touch more respectful, but the boy's mouth remained set in a firm line, "I'm on your side as long as you're on Wilbur's side."

"Of course," Tubbo pipes up brightly, "we're all on the same side, for L'manburg," and he so cheerfully misses the subtle nuance in your words that it seems to convince Tommy. Wilbur's smiling to himself, genuine, whole face scrunched up and pleased.

"Seems like an overreaction," Eret, who you were yet to get a proper read on, looked over the four of you with interest; he hadn't been here long either, "they robbed Dream for us, they got arrested too -"

"Y/N is a trickster spirit at the best of times," Tommy tells him, "you can never be too careful, trust me."

"I'm just a jester," you raised your hands in a placating gesture, gaze dipping if only to hide the spark of mischief that found its way to your eye every time you found yourself underplaying your abilities.

"A revolutionary jester," Wilbur corrects, and your gaze snaps to him, your smile growing a touch wider, a shade sharper.

"A revolutionary jester," you agreed.

----

"You should have a home here," you hear Wilbur musing as he's chopping wood with a distracted energy, "do you have a home?" He quickly follows it with, and you snort loudly.

"Christ dude, of course I have a house," though you take a moment to reconsider, "well I have a bed in the savannah," you paused, "near... near Dream's Mountain." You admitted. There's a hum, and when you look to Wilbur he's regarding you curiously.

"Still?"

"Dream doesn't operate out of there anymore," you told him candidly, "but I like it; lots of sand," you added, and Wilbur actually paused.

"Can I ask you something very frank?" He asked, leaning against the handle of his axe where it was pressing into the dirt. You nodded, "what incentive would it take for you to turn on us, and on L'manburg? If Dream offered any number of weapons or diamonds or armour, would you take it?"

"I have everything I need," you told him honestly, "and I don't think Dream could offer me enough incentive to turn against L'manburg the way it stands right now," you shrugged, but he tipped his head to the side, frowning.

"So what would it take you to turn on us individually?"

Your mouth fell open, unused to being properly listened to, properly understood.

"You listen too much," you muttered, unused to being caught out in the way you would twist words. Wilbur, seemingly surprised at your reaction, grins from ear to ear.

"You know, while you were all being arrested, I heard something; I heard someone say that you're at your most dangerous when you're unarmed and unassuming, and I think I'm starting to get it-"

"If I find Tommy's discs, I have an obligation to give them to Dream," you let the words fall from your lips in an effort to derail that train of thought, gaze on your hands as you pluck blades of grass from the ground, twisting them in your fingers. Wilbur carefully lowers himself to the ground, to your level.

"From what I understand, that seems perfectly reasonable, in your mind at least," he says with a half smile, looking to you, expression somewhat unreadable, his pause harbouring something quietly hungry; "and what about me?"

Mouth opening and closing at a sudden loss for words, you find yourself unable to look him in the eyes.

"I have no pre-existing reason to turn against you," your voice is quiet, is flat, but your forgetting fingers betray how antsy this particular shred of honesty made you.

"So, Tommy's the only one you'd throw under the bus?"

"Its up to you," you shrugged, "and I'd only steal Tommy's disc and hand them over, I wouldn't hurt him."

"Are you lying?"

"I don't lie;" your tone was harsh, looking to him with a fire in your eyes, "I will not betray them, or Tommy in any other way, so long as they are all... aligning... with... you." There's no pretty way to twist your words around it, and you can't help your faint, flustered embarrasent, "my word is my bond." Then, softer, heart in your throat, "stop looking at me, Wilbur."

"That's a lot of power you've given me there," he said with a faint laugh, "so if it's no longer in my best interest to align with them-"

"It depends on if you mean that they're no longer allies, or if they're actively hostile," you point out, "because the ways in which I would betray them if they are not my allies are... varied. If they're my active enemy, then that's more of a straightforward fight, you know?"

"And if I decided it's no longer beneficial to be allies with you?"

"You'd be smart," you tell him, knee-jerk reaction, which startles a laugh from him; you give a faint, self-conscious apology, "honestly I'd respect it, it'd be an incredibly funny move after the things I've said, you know?"

"But, no, if I betrayed you, what would you do?"

"Are you planning on betraying me?"

"Not currently," he shrugged easily, and you blinked slowly at him.

"I don't know what I'd do, not yet, but I can get planning," you said with an almost teasing air, while he splutters in protest, "yeah I know you just said you weren't planning on it, but I'm pretty sure you've lied to every single question I've asked since getting here," you paused, smile growing wider, and strangely fond, "actually I think you've lied more than you've told the truth in general since you arrived."

A second passes, then another, then finally he breaks out into laughter.

"And you accuse me of listening too much!" His expression was frankly delighted.

----

You follow them into the dark, down the stairs, listening to the way they were joking about Eret managing to come up with a nuke. The night is unassuming. Spirits are high. 

But they bring you all to a small room full of  chests. Something is wrong. You stay with Eret by the door, and he's got a hand on your shoulder - you can't run. 

"The chests are empty-" you hear Wilbur's confusion, right before Tommy asks what the button in the middle of the room does, and before he can even press it, his fingertips barely contacting the wood, you step forward -

"Easy now," Eret's voice is a gentle murmur, only for you, grip tight on your pauldron. When you look at her, a moment of silence amongst the others' confusion, his expression is… unreadable. Ice cold now, there's a sword through your chest, you can feel it where you shouldn't, followed by the searing heat of blood filling your lungs and windpipe -

"Y/N?!" Wilbur's eyes land on you as Tommy presses the button, you fall to your knees, choking on a mouthful of blood, and when your gaze locks with his, the reality of the betrayal sets in. There's horror in his eyes, and you see Tommy and Tubbo turning before you're suddenly gasping awake in your bed in L'manburg, shaking, eyes wide and goosebumps rising along your skin as you hear your comrades screaming and shouting for help, horrified at Eret's betrayal, all coming in tinny through the communicator still on your hip. You don't properly know what happened after the button was pushed, and you think that was a conscious decision.

Your first life is taken quietly, not with a bang but with a whimper.

There's something inevitable about it for you, at least in your mind, but the others didn't deserve this, didn't deserve that betrayal. You can still feel the sticky heat of the blood in your lungs, your throat, ice cold sword where it had pierced through your back, slipped between your ribs, and come out the other side. 

"It was never meant to be," Eret sounds like they’re smiling as they say it, as the others are yelling, and you realise that they're probably reviving in their own homes. You want to ask, want to demand answers, but your hands shake, and when you find your voice, all that comes out is a furious growl, low and full of venomous malice the likes of which the others had never heard from you, judging by how your voice cut through the chaotic mess of shouting.

"What the fuck did you do?" 

Eret leaves the communication channel. The silence rings in your ears.

"He betrayed us," Wilbur said, tone flat, thinly veiling his own fury at the situation, "she had us killed by Dream and his men," and then, "he killed you." Like it means something, like he's worried your apathy, or even your connection to Dream, could sway you from your anger. Like he knows betrayal of your nation means little; like he knows you well. Something about this catches in your mind; you knew it was only a matter of time before you were betrayed, but the rest of them cared - Wilbur cared enough about you to know you, and Eret had him killed too. 

Your communicator vibrates for a moment, and you look down to see a message from Wilbur himself; Where are you?

Your life was of little consequence, the same could not be said for your comrades.

"They killed me," you said softly, before you swallowed hard; home. Dig the ground by the corner of the walls near the river, you send back. "You died too; you all died. Who was there?"

"Who do you think?" Tommy cut in, loud and brimming with rage.

"It was all so fast, but I saw George, and Sap, and Dream," Tubbo cut in, voice a little shaky, bring Tommy's fury down somewhat.

"Punz was there too," Wilbur said carefully, "they have our things." And you stay quiet as they rage, as you sit in your bed, unable to get up, mind moving a thousand miles a minute as you try and figure out how to process all of this, what it all means. It doesn't take too long before there's sunlight streaming into your little, cosy hovel, followed by Wilbur climbing down the ladder provided, packing dirt into the hole he'd made to keep your location secret. 

When he gets to the bottom of the ladder, he takes a deep breath - Tommy and Tubbo are chattering away, audible over both your communicators. Making eye contact, finally, he doesn't quiet seem to know what to do, or where to go. You turn off your communicator. Everything tastes like iron. You don't move. He leans against the wall by the ladder, closing his eyes tightly for few moments, and slowly sliding down, sinking to the ground. 

"Wilb- mate are you alright? Where are you?" Tommy's voice rings out from the communicator still on Wilbur's hip, and he sighs deeply.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just need a few moments, I'll be with you soon," and he turns off the communicator before getting a response. 

Silence. Deafening silence.

"I'm sorry," your voice is a whisper, but it's clearly audible in this little room. 

"What?" Tone immediately defensive and sharp, Wilbur's eyes snap open and he looks to you with a glare.

"No, I- I've had betrayal coming for a long time, but you- you all didn't deserve that," you clarified, hand on your chest, feeling the raised, tender scar tissue where the sword had come out - it had slid through your sternum like fucking butter, it had been so cold, even as the points where it had touched your clothes caught fire, even as it melted through the metal of your armour - your hand starts to shake. Everything tastes like iron. 

"What happened?"

"What did Eret say to you?" His question surprised you, and when you look to him, his gaze is hard and cold.

"Easy now," you remember, "held me back when I went to step forwards, and ran their sword through me before the button had even properly been pressed -"

"I saw," Wilbur's voice was softer.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you -" your lip was trembling, shake in your words as you drew your knees up to your chest. 

"You didn't know, you couldn't have-"

"I could have done more, I could have done something -" the tears start to fall.

"Dream's guard were laying in wait, and the button was their cue to ambush us," Wilbur explained carefully, "but you…" he swallowed hard, "I watched you die." He sounded furious and disgusted, looking at his own hands, twisted into claw-like shapes, ruminating on his own helplessness at the situation.

"You're the only one who noticed," you said, barely audible, "I don't think you were meant to notice."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I wasn't meant to see what happened, and it was meant to be assumed that I died in the skirmish," you said, tone flat and bitter, before your tone grows malicious, "because Dream is a coward."

"I wasn't meant to notice?" He asks, voice weak.

"No-one was; dying in the skirmish is less targeted, but if I had glimpsed any of their team killing -" You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze, "any," you push the word to hide that it's not exactly the truth, "of you… Dream knows I am more than capable of exacting revenge." There was a dark truth to your words that Wilbur couldn’t even begin to fathom, a history he was unaware of.

"I do notice you," Wilbur says, and you're brought from your bitterness momentarily, surprised by the earnestness of his words. He stands, "and I've never heard you speak like this before." 

"There are rules," you tell him, watching him cross the room to your bed, to sit by your side, "and I don't expect the same level of honesty that I give, but I expect- I expect- I-" but you can't find the words for what you're trying to say, sitting forward scowling at your hands.

"You would have let him betray us all still if you'd know, wouldn't you? You would have even let her kill you," Wilbur's tone is alight with realisation, and your mouth drops open with surprise; yes, yes of course you would, how did he put it into words like that? He doesn't even sound particularly hurt by that realisation, more fascinated.

"I absolutely would have," you answer.

"But you had no idea," its not accusatory in the slightest, his tone matching yours, alright with bright interest, "which is why- why- why you're so- why you're reacting like this," its like he's trying to piece together how he sees you out loud, "you need to know where all the chess pieces are, what moves are being made, you're not playing as much as you are a spectator delighting in the chaos of it all, with a front row seat." But he's grinning from ear to ear. Your whole body is alight with the instinct to reach out and touch him, to prove he's real and not something you're imagining, because no one else has even cared to figure you out like this, and no one would even come close to reacting so brightly about it. 

"I'm sorry I'm like this," you say with a momentary huff of disbelieving laughter, but he reaches out and puts a hand on your knee. The contact burns. You look down at his hand like you can't quite believe it, head swimming, trying to process this all. 

"Don't be; knowledge is power and you never lie," he pointed out, "you're a good ally to have." Your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest. Wilbur Soot I'd die for you; the words press against your teeth until it's almost painful, and his hand is still on your knee. You grab it - he's real, he's here, the things he's said are real too!

"I won't betray you," is what you say instead, and Wilbur's expression turns to surprise in the face of your earnestness, your seriousness. You never lie; the thing he's said is playing on both of your minds at this moment, of this you're sure.

"You shouldn't say things like that," he says very carefully.

"Then you understand the full extent of what I'm saying, don't you?" You take his hand now in a handshake, palm to palm, "Wilbur Soot, I will never betray you."

"You have never lied to me," he said, voice low and serious, demanding an answer. You meet his gaze.

"I have never lied to you," you affirm, before adding, "you know me." And you're fairly certain he doesn't quite understand the importance of that, that his understanding of you is the reason for your loyalty. "You don't have to extend the same sentiment, don't worry, like I said I don't expect the same lev of honesty -"

"I will not willingly betray you, Y/N," Wilbur says, matching your earnest seriousness, "and I will attempt to only be honest with you." 

----

“What is it about you?” There was a strange quality to Dream’s voice as he voices a question that had seemingly been weighing on him for a long while. Wilbur, where he was trying to fit all of his friends’ equipment on his person to carry back to them, snaps his attention to Dream, brow furrowed. 

"What?" 

"Loyalty is the one thing Y/N covets above all else, and yet for some reason they’ve given it freely to you -” Dream’s voice was smooth and thoughtful, like he’s not quite aware he’s speaking out loud. 

“Maybe it’s because I respect them -”

“I respected them, but still...” he trailed off; again the idea of a darker shared history between you and Dream makes itself known. Wilbur's scowl deepened, "I don’t think they genuinely respected me... or anyone, before you. They get possessive, like dangerously possessive, but you’re different." 

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know the thing they do, the way they can talk around people and topics without even lying, and make it look, you know, like it’s easy?” And the minute the words leave Dream's mouth, Wilbur's gaze drops; of course he'd noticed.

"They’ve got a way with words," Wilbur's agrees, slowly, eyes narrowed. At the defensive notes in Wilbur’s voice, the smile dropped from Dream’s face. He’s seen this loyalty before, but never before in someone you yourself were loyal to in turn. This is uncharted territory. This suddenly feels like a dangerous conversation to be having. 

“Everything they’ve done is to amuse themselves, so you make no sense to me; what about you is so compelling that they find entertainment in playing revolution?”

“Maybe,” Wilbur says, tone light but clearly well thought out, “someone who is used to listening to everyone else finds a certain novel charm in being heard.” His gaze is icy, but he’s not looking at Dream; he’s standing at the end of the room, gaze hard as he looks at the door, as if focusing intently on something in his mind as he spoke; “I think you assume everyone believes in the ideals that their side stands for, and I also think,” he narrows his eyes, still staring into space. Despite not being the target of his glare, Dream, for the first time in the conversation, feels a strangely familiar powerlessness, “that you underestimate an individual’s loyalty to another individual, rather than to a cause,” he paused, “or a nation.” 

“I’ll fight for you, of course, but I can’t kill any of those kids -” in Dream’s mind, he’s taken back to the moment he’d recruited you to his side after he’d stolen Tommy’s discs. You’re looking up at him from where you’re leaning over a grindstone, sharpening your axe. When he’d asked why, you blinked slowly at him, “I’ve barely spoken to them; I can’t discern if they deserve it.” There’s something cold in your eyes as you look at him, and he hears it clear as day without you needing to say it out loud; I don’t kill people I don’t know.

Something about Wilbur in this moment reminds Dream of you. He feels the faded scar on his collar bone ache faintly; the part of him that had wanted to somehow warn Wilbur of your true nature was quickly growing quiet in the back of his mind.

Then, Wilbur looks at his own hands for a moment, before digging through his bag, through the various belongings he was now carrying. He pulls out your axe, and looks back up at the space by the door. Then, to the button, before finally looking at Dream, your axe still in hand, but it rested by his side, nonthreatening. Dream can’t look away from the weapon.

“You were laying in wait for us in the name of your nation,” Wilbur says, tone strangely neutral; he looks back at the door; “you complain about a lack of respect but won’t warn them when they’re about to die.” This is where he’d watched you die; that, atop the various other insights Wilbur has shared here have Dream’s blood running cold. Dream wants to argue that you would have tipped them off, but his words die on his tongue; he at least knew you better than to interfere in a good plan, an entertaining plan, where you would be able to watch the effects of a major plot twist play out in real time, even if it meant you too had to be sacrified... And Wilbur knew this about you too.

“I see,” Dream muses, trying to hide how shaken he was by the moment that had just passed, “you’re starting to make more sense now.”

“And you know what,” Wilbur said, unsettling tension breaking as he grinned, “I think you’re making more sense too; Y/N’s willingness to still bring up their loyalty to you does at least.”

“Their loyalty to me?”

“They still look out for Tommy’s discs on your behalf,” he said candidly, “we all know, but they’re yet to find them so Tommy’s yet to have a proper go at them.”

“It’s always sunny in L’Manberg then,” Dream says, dryly. 

“It’s... amusing, to try and see the world the way you see it,” Wilbur’s chipper, but there’s something almost malicious in his bright tone, and Dream’s hair stands on end. His own words haunt him, your loyalty called into question; did you simply help him because you found him trivial and amusing? While it doesn’t exactly surprise him, it stings in a way he didn’t expect. Looking back at Wilbur, it’s clear that at least some of Dream’s feelings about this particular revelation showed on his face, despite his best efforts. Wilbur’s grin was cheshire-esque. Even his smugness somehow had an echo of yours. 

He leaves. Dream feels sick, alone in the final control room.

----

"Can I ask you something?" Wilbur asks tentatively, and you look away from the furnace you'd patiently been waiting to smelt your iron ore.

"Of course."

Another long pause; you approached him where he was sitting at the table, watching you with reservation. 

"What happened between you and Dream?"

Surprisingly, your expression dropped to something blank in an instant, gaze going glassy. 

“He’s my friend,” you say flatly, turning back to the furnace, but not before Wilbur caught a glimpse of your grimace.

“I think he was trying to warn me against you,” Wilbur huffs a faint laugh, but it’s more to test your reaction; when you turn back, your expression is wide and innocent, almost pleading.

“What did he say?”

“That I’m the first person you’ve shown actual respect to,” Wilbur says, tone light but words blunt; it surprises you, which he can read on your face, and you hesitate for a moment, not wanting to confirm or deny as much. His smile grows wider, grows endeared, “and he did say you tend to get possessive.” Your gentle, flustered nature turns into something colder at that, and you look to your hands.

“He says a lot of things,” you mutter, with an air of bitterness. It’s interesting interacting with you; half the time you still seem to try and put on an act around him, though the other half you seem to let yourself be as honest as you’re able, “he says a lot of things to the people I like, then they like me less.” Then, suddenly, you look to him, defiance in your eyes, “I don’t care what he said, I’m not using you, Wilb-”

“Hold on, he never said anything like that,” he holds up his hands, defensive, placating. Your eyes go wide and your mouth snaps shut; you can’t look at him, sitting down, hunching in on yourself. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, sighing deeply enough that your shoulders sag, “Dream is my friend, I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I thought... he’s taken things from me like this before, things I, well...” you can’t quite put it into words, but Wilbur sits back, watching you, when something in his mind clicks.

“Covet.” His voice was soft with understanding, gentle as he asks “who was it?”

You blink slowly; there was something visceral and feral burning through your veins. You’d spent so long intricately designing the way the world would see you, this single moment feels like you’re on the knife’s edge trying to figure out if having him understanding you is endearing and heartwarming, or cloying and dangerous. He promised he wouldn’t betray you, but he’s not as honest as you’ve trained yourself to be. 

But you promised not to betray him, and you’ve become someone defined by your word. All you can do is leave, if that’s what you want. You can’t lash out, you must let him live with the way he knows you, with no promise to keep it to himself. Self preservation is the way your fingers flex, aching for your axe.

“I’ve given you too much power over me,” you swallow hard, hands in fists. 

“You won’t hurt me, though.”

“We both know I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“And you do want to,” he says it like it’s a fact, all light and neutral. You keep your mouth shut; you can’t lie if you don’t speak, no matter how sweet you know it would taste to lie. “I have never felt fear or anger like I felt when I watched you die,” he breaks the silence. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter through clenched teeth, staring intently at the floor.

“You’re not to blame,” he says easily, “none of us deserved that; you didn’t deserve that.” 

“You didn’t deserve to see that,” you corrected automatically. 

“I thought you wanted to hurt me.”

“Well I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he says, tone still light. You glance a look at him, only to see him resting his chin in his hand, regarding you with a gentle smile. The distinction stings in your mind, the way he clearly understands your internal conflict, it sets your teeth on edge, “you knew what you were getting into when you offered your loyalty; Dream was confused, you know, about why you’d given it so freely when you covet it -” that word again, your expression twists into something frustrated as you drop your gaze back to your hands, “- but he doesn’t really get you, does he?”

“He likes to think he’s like me,” you mutter, “but then he acts like he’s better, like he’s building a family from this war, but he’s going to be left with people filled with resentments. I was aquiring resources, but he didn’t like my methods...”

“Who?” Softer this time, Wilbur asks.

After a very, very long time, you look to him, gaze shallow.

“I thought Quackity was like you, I thought he’d understand.”

“Understand you?”

“Understand the world, the truth,” you wet your lips for a moment, “but he clung to pretty words without question; I could see he had potential, so I kept him around, and it was easy - it was so fuckin’ easy -” You recount how you’d set your sights on loud-mouthed, brash, desperate for recognition Quackity, and how you’d made him your whole world, bombing him with affection and attention, making him feel understood, like the place he belonged was by your side. Quackity had always looked for somewhere to belong, that hadn’t changed, though you muse that you may have made it harder for him to trust it when he finally found a place where he felt like he belonged. 

“Everything I fed him was a lie I’d laced with something that sounded close enough to love and sincerity that he’d believed it,” you looked down at where you were tracing shapes on the back of Wilbur’s hand as he listened intently, “I gave him nothing, but made him believe he had everything, until... until I wanted to see how far I could go. I wanted to see if he’d die for me... and he would have, until Dream decided to grow some morals.” You stood, sudden fury burning through your veins at the memory, “he had to sew the fuckin’ seeds of doubt in Q’s mind, had to pick holes in my lies -”

“You lied that much?” This seemed to genuinely shock Wilbur, and you stopped your pacing to look to him.

“It’s why I don’t lie; it’s harder to pick holes in the truth, harder to undermine me,” your lip curled, “Q lost faith in me, stopped trusting me, and there was fucking nothing I could do about it; it was my fault, honestly, so I don’t lie anymore. I’m upfront about who I am. I only keep people around if they’re useful, or they’re entertaining, because that’s the other fucking thing I learned; nothing fucking matters more than keeping me happy, because everyone gets too serious for their own good in the end. Dream was fun before he- he- he-”

“So am I useful or entertaining?” Wilbur asks, and you freeze. Then, slowly, you take a deep breath.

“It was novel to feel understood.”

“And now it’s bloody terrifying you,” he says gently, “because as much as you want to, you can’t trust anyone as much as you trust yourself.”

“I understand people, Wilbur, and no-one I’ve ever met has understood the inherent benefit to honesty the way I have.”

“But you still promised me your loyalty.” He says. You swallowed hard, nodding once. You meet his gaze, refusing to break it, refusing to back down, waiting for him to elaborate. “And I promised you mine, as best I could,” he pauses gives you an evaluative look over, “I can’t trust people, obviously, but I know I can trust you.”

“People don’t like me when they realise I can pick them apart, that I can rewire and reprogram them like I’m an engineer,” and Wilbur regards you curiously as you say this, like he’s going to try and counter it, but you square your shoulders, “even you, Wilbur; do you think, when we met, you’d still trust me if I was upfront about this?” And he closes his mouth, thoughtful, “I wanted so desperately to keep around the first person to halfway understand me, you’re impressed rather than fucking terrified like you should be. Because you know it’s true.”

“Are you trying to push me away?”

“We both know you won’t go,” you say with the faintest, self-deprecating smile, “a stalemate of respect, of our own design.” Then, your expression turned serious, “I have never felt fear or anger like I did when I realised you watched me die.”

Then, very slowly, his gaze meets yours, hard-edged and dark.

“Do you trust me as much as I trust you?” It’s a loaded question; he’s never been given any reason to doubt you, mostly thanks to your honesty and loyalty, but you’d never been afforded that same assurance. But in this instance, it didn’t matter, you knew your answer without a shred of doubt.

“Yes, absolutely.”

----

Its said a shark can smell blood in the water from a mile away, and you, you know there's a traitor living a peaceful life up in the castle. It irritates you, sets your teeth on edge; it's not that they killed you that bothers you, it's that they were careless about it, they let the one person you never wanted to hurt watch you die. The event had shaken Wilbur; the taking of your life was not the matter you cared about. 

"You okay?" Others had noticed how distracted you were; in your mind, all you could see was the shocked horror in Wilbur's eyes, and the feeling of the blade in your back. Blinking quickly, back to the present, you smiled brightly at Tubbo, or as brightly as you could manage.

"Of course." 

You watch the others sparring and training together and your hands ball into fists, as if aching for a fight. But you've got an image to keep up; you're not the brawn here, you're a jester, you're meant to keep those who you care about smiling. 

"You ever wanna hold a sword to my neck like that..." you tone is suggestive as you trail off, grinning at Wilbur, who's got his sword poised beneath a training dummy's chin, glaring at it with ferocity. The moment you call out, however, his focus break, and you see him fighting back a smile as a flush works its way up his cheeks.

"Come test your luck then," he calls back, and you blinked quickly.

"I don't want to fight you, Wilbur," you tell him, quieter, hoping it comes off as soft, as something endeared.

"You should know how to fight," he points out, lowering his sword, digging the tip into the dirt as he leans on the pommel a little.

"I know how to fight," you counter, and a long moment of silence follows as he considers that.

"How have I never seen you with a weapon then?"

"You have, you just haven’t seen me use it as a weapon." You tell him rather pointedly, voice low, and though you’re still smiling, there’s something sharp at the edge of your voice that’s unfamiliar to him. It takes him aback, and for a long moment he’s silent as he regards you with a newfound seriousness, “I’m just a jester; what’s a jester want with a sword anyways?” You half laugh, a little louder now, gaze flicking to the others milling around nearby. Nobody outwardly acknowledges you, nobody apart from Wilbur, who just frowns. His gaze is trained on a spot just past your head, where you know the hilt of your axe sits. 

You know you need to act soon, the idea of Eret living in the lap of luxury after everything that happened has your blood boiling. It's getting out of hand. It's getting distracting. 

"You're very observant," you note, tone fond as you come back to the moment. Wilbur surfaces from his memories too, his own smile turning all kinds of fond.

"Out of necessity," he points out, making his way over to you. There's something about his tone that is fond, is knowing, and it melts your heart a little, those hints of understanding that no-one else had bothered to afford you. The person who'd betrayed the only person to understand you had been crowned king; soon, your retribution would come soon. 

"What's bothering you?" Quiet enough that no-one else could hear, Wilbur reaches out, fingertips gentle on your cheek as he tips your face, has you look him in the eyes. You wonder what he sees when he looks in them, because for a brief second, for a flash, again you see the memory of silent horror as he'd watched you lose your first life. You swallow hard, and close your eyes, leaning into his touch for the briefest moment. 

"I keep thinking about what Eret did," your voice is barely more than a whisper, giving only the truth, no attempt made to obfuscate it, like you usually would. Wilbur was quiet. You didn't want to open your eyes, didn't want to witness his reaction, but he's quiet. 

You don’t tell him what you’re going to do, what you’re planning; there’s no need for him to worry unnecessarily. If you survive, you survive, and if you don’t, well you have another life to fall back on. If you wake up in bed with a new scar and one less life, that was your decision to make. No-one should worry on your behalf, but Eret needed to know that their actions would have consequences. 

So you choose a night where the moon is overshadowed by clouds, and take your axe with you. 

You’ve always been one to make an entrance, and even now you don’t disappoint, laying in wait for as long as it takes, hours spent dead silent and idle, simply waiting.

"You should be very careful if things don't go exactly to plan," finally your voice rings out through the throne room, and Eret, all dark hair and pale eyes, stops dead where they'd been passing through. Slowly, so slow its almost painful, they turn to look at you. You, draped in the throne like you own the place, axe leaning carefully against the arm of the seat. Your name escapes her mouth like a curse.

"It did go to plan," she hisses, tone guarded. 

"If it had gone to plan, I wouldn't be here," you say, shifting a little, sitting a little lower, "if your timing had been better," you paused with a shark-like smile, "I may have been the only person in L'manburg to have no issue with your betrayal," and finally you look at him, watching his face as he tries to piece together what you mean, why you're here, "on paper I admire you." You tell them callously. Their lip curls in derision.

"Dream said you'd see my side," they say carefully.

"Dream says a lot of things to a lot of people," for a moment, your expression darkens, "I'm sure he told you to kill me first."

"To avoid…" she trails off, frown deepening. Your smile returns, wide and dangerous.

"You broke something of mine, Eret," you tell him seriously, a mad glint in your eyes, "and part of your plan worked like a charm; I won't go after anyone else because I've got plausible deniability, I didn't see who killed who in that skirmish." 

"Then why the fuck are you here?"

"Because you killed me, and Wilbur watched; it's all he could do. It was a cruel thing that you did, making someone feel helpless like that."

"You're not here because I killed you?"

"Why would I be? I'm a court jester," you huffed a little laugh, smile turning cruel, "but you used me to make Wilbur sad, and someone's got to take the blame for upsetting the thing I like."

"If that's true, why spend all this time talking? Why not just kill me?"

"Because I like to make sure you get my message; Dream's heard my message, he tried to tell you," this is where you stand, finally, rising, gaze shallow, picking up your axe as you go. Slowly, you descend the steps of the throne, and Eret draws his sword. There's uncertainty in his eyes; he's close to where you want him.

"You're stalling."

"The more I talk, the more you try and remember what people have said about me, don't you? But they don't talk about how I fight, it's never been the most impressive thing about me," you give a low, guttural laugh, axe low in your tight grip, "I'm most dangerous when I'm unarmed and unarmoured, right? That's what they say, right? What do you think that means, really think about it?" 

Eret swallows hard.

"It means that you're all talk," he's trying to put up a confident front, but you watch him tighten his grip on his sword. You raise your axe.

"Not quite." 

There's nothing elegant about the way you attack, movement uncharacteristically blunt with speed that surprised the King before you. Teeth bared, you slash and duck and weave, playing dirty, tripping them up. You take hits and lash out, snarling and spitting with anger until there's no mirth, only malice, and you bring your boot down on their hand, knee pressed to their throat. There's fear behind their glasses. There's a cut above your brow, blood trickling down your face, slashes along your arms, certainly a few on your chest, but Eret's on her back on the cold floor of the throne room.

"You have no fucking idea of what I'm fully capable of," you snarl, leaning in close to their face, applying pressure until they drop their sword, hissing in pain, "this is your only warning; if you hurt- if you fucking touch my things again, I'll make it stick-" and leaning back, you use your axe to separate their head from their shoulders, taking their first life. 

And you're alone, breath coming out shakily, gasping as the adrenaline courses through you. Somewhere in the castle, Eret is waking up with your words echoing in their head. You should leave. Standing slowly, you cast a derisive look to the blood stain on the floor, the only proof of the altercation. Someone else's problem. 

You leave through the front doors, still carrying your bloodstained axe. Really, he should have better security. 

At the doors to the castle, you pause, casting a derisive look over your shoulder; this all could have been avoided. You pull out your communicator, flicking through your contacts.

[keep your things on a shorter leash] you send to Dream. He should have chosen more carefully, or been more insistent. But that was his problem; if he kept up like this, you may have to start questioning your friendship with him. 

But there's something cathartic that comes as the adrenaline is depleting. It's said that revenge doesn't provide the cathartic relief that one hopes for, but you weren't looking for revenge as much as you were looking to send a message. And you're fairly certain that message was thoroughly received. Eret had been afraid, deeply and truly afraid; you'd seen it in her eyes. It made up for the fear you had seen in Wilbur's. 

You breathe a deep sigh, letting your shoulders relax for a moment; you head home.

There's static in your ears as you travel back to L'manburg, and you don't quite register that you're back on your nation's soil until you hear shouts. Tommy, Tubbo; the children, they spot you covered in blood that's both yours and not, and they're full of concern. You smile. The wound on your head starts to ache a little, the adrenaline wearing off fully.

"Don't worry about me -" you try, unable to keep the fondness from your voice.

"Wilbur!" Tommy hollers, because he knows. Everyone knows. You've staked your claim enough that even your allies know where to turn when you're acting out of character. It has you laughing, quietly at first - Dream had tried to warn Eret, how stupid must they be to ignore that, to not follow his instructions to the letter? - but your laughter only gets louder as Tubbo takes off, also calling for Wilbur ad Tommy, genuinely concerned, asks what the fuck happened to you.

"I'm a jester," you laugh, eyes a little wild as you look to the child, "I'm just a fucking jester! A messenger! Can't kill the messenger," there's something wild, something feral about you, covered in blood with a grin that's all teeth, bloody and bruised and covering a bloodstained axe. Tommy takes a step back, wary and quiet. His eyes are wide as he looks to your axe. 

"I thought you used a bow," he says quietly. Your smile grows wider.

"I'm a bad shot with a bow," you tell him seriously. He blinks slowly, processes your words.

"You shot me," there's apprehension in his voice. He's getting it. Perhaps you should take more caution here; you don't want to break the illusion of you he sees.

"I didn't know you then," is what you say, and see the confusion and vague horror as he tries to figure out what you mean by that. But he's interrupted.

"What did you do?" Wilbur doesn't see the humour in your appearance, he seems like he's barely containing rage. When all you do is grin, giving a slight shrug, he turns to Tommy, tells him he'll take care of you, that the boy should join Tubbo. Tommy looks between the two of you; he tells Wilbur to be careful. You laugh again, bright and loud, and Tommy and Wilbur both frown at you, but at least Tommy follows Wilbur's directions.

With the kid gone, Wilbur turns on his heel, making a beeline for where he knows you've hidden your living area, and you follow him without question.

In your house, his voice turns softly malevolent;

"Who did this to you?" Oh. Your heart catches in your throat, and the surprise must read on your face; despite his furious expression he's gentle when he takes hold of your wrist, leading you to your basin.

"You don't need to worry about me," you tell him softly, though you obligingly sit on the edge of the basin. You lean your axe up behind you.

"You're covered in blood," he points out, gaze flicking for a moment to meet yours as the water runs, filling the basin up. 

"Only some of its mine," you try, endeared by the care he was showing, "I just had to deliver a message, that's all."

"You look like you had to go through hell for it," he muses.

"You don't need to worry about me, Wilbur," and you reach out to take his hand where he's dousing a washcloth in the water. He goes still. 

"What message?" He asks, finally conceding, tone finally soft. He flips your hand, carefully wiping the blood from it. 

"People need to be more careful who they use me against," you say idly, and Wilbur is quiet as he works diligently away, cleaning the blood from your hands, from your arms when you offer them. 

"I kept seeing the moment you saw me die," you tell him softly, voice barely more than a whisper as he's rinsing the blood from the cloth. He gives pause; you continue, "I expect betrayal, but I can't imagine how it must feel to have to watch that and be unable to do anything; I suppose that's why Dream told them to kill me first. If their timing wasn't perfect, I'd see one of you slaughtered - I could have seen you slaughtered," you muse, looking down at your hands, at the blood beneath your nails. Carefully, Wilbur finally lifts your chin so he can gently dab at the wound on your forehead, looking as though he was holding back a fond smile. "But I think what happened was worse; I never want to be the source of your unhappiness, on purpose or not," then finally, you look to his eyes, to how he's focusing, and your heart beats hard against your ribs, "I don't want you to worry about me." It's barely more than a whisper, far more honest than the candid way you'd said as much earlier. 

"What did you do?" It's fond now, much lighter than the situation at hand called for, and for a moment he meets your gaze, smiling ever so slightly, your face still in his hands.

His eyes are so dark, you never want him to stop looking at you like this; these feelings are already becoming dangerous, on the verge of swallowing you whole. You need him closer. It had been a blood sacrifice to atone for that look in his eyes.

You will never have the words to tell him all you’re willing to do for him. 

"The king is dead," you tell him, "long live the king." 

----

"Surprised you weren't optioned as their VP," Quackity's smile was all teeth as he slid into the booth, across from you. 

"Surprised you were," you fired back, glad for his company; the two of you don't talk like you once did, but you'd always held a fondness for him.

"POG2020 here to drown their sorrows at losing?" He asked, tone edging on something almost mean, but stopping just short.

"Those of them that can drink," you'd grinned, gaze turning to the bar where Wilbur was glaring into a half drunk pint, "he promised me a drink half an hour ago," but you're tone was fond. Quackity makes a noise of sudden understanding.

"That's why you weren't his VP," he says, sitting a little lower in his seat, expression smug, but eyes alight like a tiger with his interest piqued. You make a noise like you have no idea what he's talking about, "poor form, really, looks bad if he's sleeping with his VP."

"You dirty fuckin pervert," but your grin gets wider as your tone gets flustered, "we're not fucking!"

"But you want to," his grin gets wider, "late nights at the office, just the two of you, all alone, its stressful, it's a tough job you know-" his tone is low, teasing in a way that means you can't meet his eyes, but his tone shifts as he seems to hear what he's saying, "hey do you wanna come work with me?" It's mostly a joke, smile turning to something genuine with the way it crinkles by his eyes, and the tension from mere moments ago disappears, and you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand with a sly smile.

"Depends on the benefits," you match his earlier tone, teasing and low, and he mirrors your positioning, face now close to yours, close to the middle of the table.

"I'm sure I could talk Schlatt into something reasonable for the other benefits," he's still smiling, still mostly joking, as were you, though you couldn't deny the thought of being Quackity's assistant and part of the Jschlatt Administration was deeply amusing given your recent history.

"You really in the market for an assistant?" Your tone was brighter, far less joking, and for an instant, Quackity flushed an amusing shade of pink.

"I could be- this was meant to be a bit-" 

"You here to rub my nose in it, Quackity?" Wilbur's voice, when it joined the pair of you, was accusatory, and though you don't move from your surprisingly intimate moment, Quackity's eyes slide to the side, to watch Wilbur side effortlessly into the seat beside you. 

"Former President Soot," Quackity grinned, but instead of watching Wilbur's reaction, he looked back at you, raising a single, almost challenging eyebrow. Wilbur, at the very least, ignores the comment.

"You conspiring against me?" He asks, mostly directed at you, and while Quackity tries to snort and play it off, you can feel Wilbur's hand slide down the length of your back coming to rest at your hip, arm now around you, and you lean out of your moment with Quackity and into his touch.

Something in Quackity’s gaze turns cold, like he’s awash with memories long past, like he’s quietly mad at himself for losing himself in the moment with you, for forgetting any part of what you’d put him through. 

"Not in a technical sense, but I also hadn't agreed to anything," you tell him, finally looking at him. As you settle into the space beside him, his arm moves to wrap around your shoulders, fingers resting gently on your upper arm; it's a clearly possessive gesture. Something in your heart bursts with warmth.

Looking to him, you see he's looking back at you, expression burning, question in his eyes; was I interrupting? Your grin turns sharper. If he had been interrupting, you're more than capable of telling him to fuck off, but just having him around reminds you that this is better than any alternative. 

"Oh," Quackity's voice was alight with realisation, breaking the moment, and you turn to him as Wilbur leans into you a little more, "you would have made the worst VP," he practically crows, tone more mocking than it was light, "you wouldn't have made it a week."

"Don't be a prick," Wilbur scowled, "if they'd wanted the job they of course would have been more than welcome to it -"

"Good old fashioned nepotism," Quackity, sounding especially smug, did little to brighten Wilbur's mood, who was set to mumble something else snide before Quackity's eyes fixed on you, "wait, you didn't want to be VP? I was actually right, wasn't I? You knew exactly what would happen, yet somehow he doesn't?! Have you even seen yourselves? How does he not - Ow!" You kick him in the shins under the table. Hard. 

"What the fuck are you on about?" Wilbur asks, as Quackity brings his leg up to rub at his sore shin. He's still fucking grinning. Asshole.

"Keep your dirty little mouth closed, Q," you warned. 

"Don't worry, I know its not my dirty little mouth you're interested in- fucking ow, Y/N!"

"Good," Wilbur's voice in your ear is warm and pleased and he's leaning on you now, solid and tipsy with his forehead against the side of your head, "he's being a dick, you have terrible friends you know."

"You'd be the worst," you murmur back, voice syrupy and full of affection as Wilbur actually giggles, not even bothering to try and contradict you. Quackity, across from you and still rubbing his shins, mimes gagging. 

"Go be Vice President, Quackity," Wilbur sneers.

"Don't be a salty bitch, Mister Former President," Quackity's lip curls. 

"Kick him in the shins again, my love," the nickname alone, Wilbur in your ear, it has your heart in a vice-like grip, and Quackity must see it in your eyes how eager you are to follow through because he draws his knees up to his chest with gusto, flipping you both off. You laugh.

"Love you, Q," you tell him with sincerity, out of habit. When he tells you to shut up, there’s nothing joking in his tone in that moment, gaze avoiding yours as he’s shimmying from the booth.

"You're so generous with your words," Wilbur's voice is a gentle sigh, something wanting, something almost forlorn. For a moment your breath catches in your throat, but before you can respond, before you can even think of a response, he's already talking again, "what was he on about anyways? Talking shit about you like he has any right to, you would have made a great VP, I asked, you know I asked -" he sits up, as if worried that you think he thinks less of you, but his arm is still around you.

"Will your the only one who wanted me to be VP," which isn't a lie, but in your trademark fashion, it also wasn't the whole truth. 

"They don't trust you with a nation," he sounded so bitter, and for a moment your heart stutters in your chest. 

"They shouldn't," you tell him softly. 

"Do you like Quackity more than me?"

"I think I probably like him more than you like him, yes."

"That wasn't what I was asking and you knew that," then his voice drops, something in his eyes as serious as you've ever seen, "do you like Dream more than me?"

"Wilbur…"

"I know- I know you're close, I know, I just… I need to know, you know?"

"Will…" and as you say his name, voice a hesitant murmur, he cups your face.

"You don't have to- to be worried if you do, I just need to know, for me, it's selfish but I need to know for me; I'd understand, of course of course I'd understand, you two have history-" and his gaze is boring into you, eyes wide and dark and you can't find the words for how much you want him to hold you close, hold you tight and never let go. 

You hesitate. You drop his gaze.

"You do," he sounds heartbroken, his grip on you grows slack.

"I have never lied to you, Wilbur," your tone is nervous and hesitant, "but I'm afraid of answering, I'm afraid of what it means."

"You'd… you'd betray me for him?" Drunk and emotional, he sits back, but your hands are shaking. 

"Wilbur, I'm afraid of answering because… you're wrong. It's you. Over Big Q, over Dream, over everyone… Wilbur I-" your voice caught in your throat, words too honest by half, so you swallow them, choose safer ones, "will choose you," you let out a shaky sigh, "you have my loyalty." 

His eyes were wide as saucers, shiny and overwhelmed and emotional and then he's holding you so tight it's like a vice, face pressed into the crook of your neck.

"You've always had my vote," you tell him faintly, and he holds you tighter still. 

"You," he whispers incredulously, not even your name, just, "its you." And your mind hears them said like a mirror, like he himself can't quite believe your honestly. 

----

“They’re exiling you,” you hear Quackity before you see him; they’ve got you locked away, and probably for good reason, but also probably at his insistence.

“It’s better than the death penalty,” you say, huffing a laugh.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” his tone is gentle but reserved, and when you finally look up from your hands, elbows braced on your knees, you see him leaning on the bars of your cage. It’s too dark to read his expression, but you can tell from his voice, “just play nice with Schlatt and you can stay a citizen.”

“Play nice?” You asked with the faintest of smirks, “what does that entail exactly?”

This is where he grows quiet, crouching down and looking at the floor, mouth in a thin line.

“You’re good at playing nice, it shouldn’t be hard,” you can’t mistake the bitterness in his voice, and you give pause, “just say it was an act, your loyalty to that dictator, Wilbur.”

“Lie, so I can swap out one perceived dictator for another?” You asked softly.

“Helping run a campaign for the former president only to admit that you don’t actually give a shit, and stay loyal to the man who won by forming a coalition with the two losing parties, that sounds exactly like something you’d do,” he pointed out, and there’s something in his voice you can’t identify, something akin to faint desperation, though you can’t quite understand why. But still, something catches in your throat. 

“Isn’t it funnier to stay loyal to the former president who lost after the two losing parties formed a secret coalition? To the point of exile?”

“Can’t you just play nice? Can’t you just lie?”

“You wanna keep me around that bad?” You asked, faintly teasing edge to your words, but as soon as he stands, as soon as he speaks, you can hear him growing defensive.

“I’m the Vice President trying to offer an olive branch to a potentially skilled ally,” he sniped, “don’t get it twisted.”

“I’m not going to lie to try and play nice with the dictator who stole the nation from the person I’m loyal to,” you tell him, blunt. Quackity is quiet for a very long moment. 

“Dream ‘ll be heartbroken,” his voice is suddenly strangely rough, “someone’s knocked him out as top fuckin’ dog in your little, black heart -”

“Q,” it’s finally clicked, and you don’t know what else to say. 

----

“I want you to know what I’m capable of,” you say softly, looking up at the stars. Then, slowly, you look at Wilbur, who’s regarding you with interest, “everyone ends up afraid of me,” you tell him, “and it might be self sabotage, but I want you to fear me too. I’m not used to love, I’m not used to understanding.” 

“More honest than usual tonight,” he muses with a gentle smile.

“If I’m not feared I feel like I’m being underestimated.”

“It sounds like self sabotage.”

“I feel violent today,” then, looking up at the stars you take a deep breath, “I love you. I don’t think I’ve said that before; I love you, Wilbur.”

“You love me and you want me to fear you,” he says slowly. His gaze follows the tense set of your shoulders, “not used to loving someone?” You shake your head. 

“I want to cut off your head, just so you know I could,” you tell him, hands behind your back, gaze skyward, “I think I want to fuck you, but I’m not sure, I’m really not used to loving someone, not genuinely. I don’t think I know how to love you in a way that makes sense.” 

Finally, you turn to him, expression neutral, while inside you were alight with nerves. He’s watching you, dark eyes thoughtful. You swallow hard.

“I’m trying to push you away,” you tell him without hesitation, “because I’ve given you too much power over me, and I-” you voice catches, your façade cracking, and finally you drop your gaze, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m like this.”

Even your honesty was it’s own kind of dishonest mask, and there was nothing more fear inducing than genuinely letting it slip. Your image is a house of cards and you keep handing Wilbur fucking fans. 

“You know at some point I am just going to leave; I don’t want to, but if you keep pushing -” he pauses, as if expecting a rebuttal, but your mouth remains firmly closed, which causes him to frown, “- I’m going to end up leaving. Do you want me to go? I’m just going to ask, because you keep pushing, you keep doing this, I’d rather you were just honest with me.”

“I’m always honest with you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t want you to stay around me out of some sort of moral obligation,” you tell him.

“That’s not an answer.” 

“And I can’t answer because you can’t guarantee you won’t end up fucking fearing me like everyone else! I can’t answer because I am not going to be responsible for someone else’s feelings; if you stop caring about me I don’t want you to feel like you should still be around me, and just go on to resent me!”

Squeezing your eyes closed, face scrunched up, you force the words through your lips, “I would give you the fucking world, Wilbur, but I don’t expect- I don’t want to expect anything in return,” your jaw clenches for a moment, but you relax your face, eyes still closed, “obsession,” you sigh gently, “is safer if I am sure it is not reciprocated. Especially obsession like this...”

“Like this?”

“The things I obsess over... they’re just that; things. And I want to keep them safe, but I don’t... I don’t actually love them like I love you,” your lip curls, and you look at the ground, slowly sinking into a squat as you contemplate, “it’s fucking obscene,” you spit, as if disgusted at yourself. “Love makes me feel fucking filthy; it’s always funnier when I’m the object of desire.”

“You’re still trying to push me away!”

“And yet you’re still here, so who’s the real idiot!?” You snapped, lip curled in a sneer as you shot him a venomous look; the shock of it all was plain as day on his face, but you don’t let the faint guilt you feel show on your face as you look at your hands.

“I love you,” he says faintly, still sounding surprised, like he can’t quite realise what he’s saying, “and I’m just tired to trying to fight you on that, I don’t know how to prove that what I say to you is the truth; you don’t have a patent on honesty, and I just don’t know what to do to get you to believe me.” And then, coming back to himself, anger returning, “it’s not filthy to be in love!”

“It is when it’s obsession,” your answer comes out more like a growl.

“Y/N, my drug empire turned into a nation, I think more people should be obsessed with me,” he says with surprising levity. Something protective, something jealous flares up at that suggestion, but you keep your reaction to yourself, looking up at him as something close to hope flares bright in your chest. “You act like you’re the only one here, like you’re the only one allowed to worry about me, like you’re the only one willing to- to die. You killed the King for me, you have Dream’s respect, if I was going to be afraid of you it would have settled in by now,” then, “the only reason I haven’t killed Eret for what he did to you is because you got there first yourself. Do you believe me when I tell you that I love you?”

The question hangs in the air between you both; you think you can almost see it there, catching starlight. You look at your hands instead.

“I believe there’s something wrong with the type of people who fall in love with me,” you admit, barely louder than a whisper, “and part of me believes you’re better than that.” 

“Listen to yourself,” he gives an exasperated chuckle, “there’s something wrong with you.”

“I know that,” you say almost immediately. Silence lapses out between you, and finally Wilbur sighs, stepping in close and wrapping his arms around you.

“I think it might be why I love you.” 

There’s never been a more dangerous feeling in your chest than in this moment, in his arms. You want to tell him you’d kill for him, you’d die for him, but it’s more than that, more than you could explain or do justice with words alone, so you hug him back, and never want this moment to end.

“There’s something wrong with you, too.”

----

He is silent; cold and unmoving and your hands start to shake. 

"You did what you had to," your tone is flat, no distress, nothing, just flat. Phil is quiet. Neither of you move. You can hear your heart beat in your ears. "We should move his body."

"Yeah…" and then, softer, "actually, no, it won't be around for long… but we can set up a gravestone."

"What do you mean?"

"Bodies here don't stay, they move on-" and as Phil speaks, as you step towards the body on the ground, hand outstretched, it begins to fade to ash, to dust. Only his things were left behind. Your fingers curl into a fist and you lower your hand, "are you okay?" His voice has the barest shake, like he still can't believe what just happened.

"It was never meant to be," you tell him instead of answering truthfully, forcing yourself to smile as you finally look up to the father of your best friend, your- "are you okay, Phil? I'm sorry you had to do that, I'm sorry-"

"You're okay." He sounded deeply concerned by what he'd perceived to be your response. Looking out from the room to the crater, you see Withers flying overhead, and hear shouting and confusion.

"I should go," you say softly, "I'm the only one left who could take the fall for that," you muse, jaw tightening for a moment, though noone can see your expression. When you move past Phil, you pause, and tell him quietly, reassuringly, that he did what had to be done, and that you were sorry. 

"Was he just a means to an end for you, just another joke? You'd gotten better, you'd gotten kinder-" his voice finally betrayed his distress; his son was dead by his own hand and you'd just watched, "what happened?"

It takes you a long time to formulate your response, terrified of letting yourself be vulnerable; you'd been the villain too many times to not expect an opportunist to use your vulnerability against you. Phil may not be that opportunist, but you know better than anyone what dangers may lurk behind a kind face and sincere veneer.

"Whatever I may have felt is no longer relevant, to you, me, or anyone; he's gone, as is L'manburg."

"Did you even care about him?" Phil asks gently, "don't talk your way around me, please, Y/N." Your breath catches for a moment; he's giving you an imploring look, holding your wrist carefully; outside, someone, possibly Tommy, is hollering both yours and Wilbur's names with fury. 

"Care is a very weak word for how I may have felt," you tell him softly, holding his gaze. Your tone is flat, but you see it in his eyes when he catches your meaning, how you can't bring yourself to admit out loud that you loved Wilbur, "not that it matters now… not that anyone would believe you if you told them." You said, tone dismissive. Phil lets you go.

----

"Oh hello, Quackity!" You hear Ghostbur cheerfully greeting someone as he peers out the window, leaning far enough out on the sill, pushed up on his toes, that you're half worried he'll fall. You hear violently loud shushing outside your house and your blood runs cold. Why was he trying to sneak up on your house?

You’re intrigued by it all, and don’t try and put up a fight.

"I suppose the kangaroo court is now in session," you mused, peering up at the precarious contraption above you, "can you at least tell me why you're dropping an anvil on my head?"

"Because you're a threat to society," Quackity grumbles, though he can't bring himself to look at you.

"Because you drove my father to madness, helped him blow up half the land, then you killed him once he'd outlived his purpose," Fundy was unflinching as he levelled a glare at you.

“They didn’t kill me,” it’s Ghostbur’s voice that joins the foray, amid the shouting, while you’re hopping from one foot to the other, looking up at the anvil, the gentle reverb that accompanies his soft speech cuts through the din.

And suddenly the madness stops; all eyes on the Ghost.

“Don’t kill her over me, if that’s your reasoning;” he paused, nervous, “or just don’t kill them…” he trailed off.

“Don’t you get that they’ve already made up their mind?” Quackity’s rolling his eyes, standing by the lever that decides your fate, “if they wanted someone to release them, they could have convinced one of us by now-” and he looks to you, eyes dark and cold, and the moment you’d shared back at Wilbur’s grave surfaces in your mind ‘you’re getting better at hearing the truth’.

"Quackity-" you breathed, alight with intrigue at this development, unable to help yourself. There's an old, familiar flicker of misguided desire, for lack of a better word.

"Keep my fucking name out of your mouth," he muttered, only loud enough for you to hear, "and quit it with that tone." He can't look at you; you delicately wrap press your hands to the glass of your cage.

"Q, what tone, I don't-" but even you could hear the giddy notes that bleed through in your words.

"You're about to die; I'm about to kill you, but you're hear acting- talking like you did when you pretended to care about me-"

"I have cared about you from the moment I met you," you fired back defensively, "I have always cared about you, Quackity."

“God I really fuckin’ preferred it when you lied, then I didn’t have to try and figure out what the fuck you mean when you talk like that,” he snapped, before making his way from the podium, “I’m sick of them, someone else pull the lever.” He called out; he’s taking a stand, trying to block you out, keep your words out of his head. This was the Quackity you’d been so captivated by when you’d met him, the man who intrigued you, who you thought could challenge you, whose very nature excited you. Heart beating in your ears, you press your hands to the glass of the cage, looking out past him, to the others.

“I was not responsible for what happened to Wilbur,” you called, looking to Fundy, who you’re pleased to see looked conflicted, “what happened to L’Manberg wasn’t my fault- I fought with you. I fought with you all,” there’s the faintest notes of desperation in your voice. You had already made peace with your fate, now you were simply intrigued as to whose hands your blood would be on.

“Fine, Fundy if you’re conflicted because they didn’t kill your dad, you can stay out of it,” Quackity’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, but you can see the hard, tense line of his shoulders.

“It feels like our actual execution reasons... aren’t there anymore,” Tubbo points out, “and as a leader, I feel bad killing someone for being a nuisance, and not even a nuisance to me or anyone else.”

“This feels kinda personal,” Ranboo adds, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “which is fine, but they don’t seem like a threat to the country.”

“Did you fucking forget she became Wilbur Soot’s right hand?!” Quackity demanded from them, stepping forward again, “ she may not have been responsible for pressing the button, but she had ample opportunity to stop him; hell, she had ample opportunity to not be a dick. How can we even believe what she says?!”

“People do some fucked up things for love,” Ranboo gives a simple shrug.

“And Y/N doesn’t lie,” Tubbo pointed out, looking to you. In this moment, time freezes; his words buzz in the back of your mind as you look to Quackity, trying to decipher how he’s reacting when you can’t see his face. Because he can’t give it away, can’t bring himself to admit the power you once had over him, the sliver of power you still have, can’t make himself look weak, and it’s killing him.

They’ve only known you to be honest, and for that you’re glad... but Quackity knew you before.

Perhaps your begging, your desperation, had worked too well.

----

“You gonna give the people a show?” Your heart is beating in your throat as you find yourself waiting in your cell, hands restrained behind your back as Dream himself paces in irate silence outside your cell.

“I gave you the option to come back, to join me to not go down this road,” he’s seething, hands balling into white-knuckled fists and unballing again and again, “I don’t understand you, I don’t fucking understand you, Y/N,” and he stops, pulls off his mask to run his hand through his hair in irritation. Then he looks to you, and you’re looking back, expression thoughtful, or at least, you hopes it comes across as thoughtful, rather than betraying the way you’re heart is hammering against your ribs.

“It’s not your fault it’s more amusing to be on the side of revolution,” you told him, lips quirking into the faintest smile, “they called it L’manberg,” your smile widens, unable to help your own laugh, and his distress becomes more evident. Then, smile slowly fading, you meet Dream’s gaze, giving a slight frown.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you tell him seriously, “you could have picked anyone else to do this, you didn’t have to volunteer.”

“If I had picked anyone else,” he swallows hard, looking at the ground and taking a deep breath, “you would have talked your way out, and it would have made them look weak, but there would be a target still on your head and you’d be hunted.”

“And you?”

“You’ve never done that thing you do with me, talk circles, trying to get me on your side -”

“You’re already on my side,” you say gently, but his expression turns pained.

“They know - everyone knows I’m the only person on the side of Pogtopia you haven’t attempted to talk your way around, but I’m also the only person who could convince you to go into exile, to not fucking let yourself be killed, and have the others not hunt you furiously when they find out.”

“Dream the Great and Powerful,” you smile, tone fond and frankly adoring, he winces again.

“You’re a pain,” he mutters, mostly to himself, before he lowers himself into a squat, as if to centre himself, gaze lifting to you finally, “you can go; join Tommy in exile, you don’t have to… to… you don’t have to die, dude.”

“If I die, in their eyes I’ve atoned for my crimes,” you try to sit back, settling in a little against the wall, “you and Tommy will never see eye to eye, but like you said, that thing I do, the way I talk my way around people, that has affected more than just you,” you took a deep breath, “the only person I really respected apart from you died, Dream, the only person who truly vouched for me apart from you is dead, Dream.” Your smile grows tight, and suddenly you can’t look him in the eyes; respect, it was so much more than that. Your heart grows warm at his memory, the mere thought of his smile, before growing cold and sad as he demanded that Phil kill him. It must show on your face.

“Wilbur protected you,” Dream said, tone knowing, but you couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that.

“Wilbur was my limiter,” you corrected, and Dream’s eyebrows rose, momentarily broken from his distress, “I respected him, I… anyways, so if he asked me not to fuck with one of our allies, I wouldn’t - except to give you Tommy’s discs,” you clarified, and for the barest moment, Dream’s lips twitched into something almost resembling a smile.

“You’re kind of awful,” he says gently, “you’d fuck with your allies? Just change sides, don’t mess with the people who trust you and expect them to keep trusting you as such.”

“My ally was Wilbur, the rest of them were on his side,” you explained, “I’m on my own side before anyone else's,” you reminded, and he nodded seriously, looking to the floor, bouncing on his toes.

----

"I- I mean I'm not sorry," Quackity muses. You don't look up, but you hear him sit on the other side of Wilbur's Tombstone. 

"I don't know why you would be; you're not responsible for what happened to me."

“Oh,” Quackity frowns, giving pause, “no, I meant about him,” and he slaps the side of the tombstone with one hand.

“Not your fault either,” you shrugged.

"He did it to himself," which is right, but not in the way Quackity means it. He thinks Wilbur blew up. He doesn't know what was asked of Phil. You're quiet, and finally Quackity speaks; "did you actually love him or was it another one of your stunts?"

"Love is a strong word," you respond, tone devoid of inflection. He can't hear how badly you want to confirm, you want to holler how fucking wide the sky has gotten in Wilbur's absence. 

"Can you just teach me how to not fucking care? Because how is it so easy for you? How do you wake up and decide you're going to ruin lives and stand by while the world goes up in flames?" 

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“It’s just a side effect of who you are as a person,” he says derisively. 

"You find what you love and let it kill you," you tell him, voice quiet. 

"You find who you love and let them kill you," he says, knowingly, "you followed Eret into the control room because of Wilbur," he said knowingly, "and we all saw who gave you that mark on your neck," he laughs humourlessly. "But you can't even entertain the idea that I could hurt you, can you?" He asks.

"Find who you love and let them kill you."

"What then?" 

"Hope your love for them dies too; severing attachments takes great personal sacrifice." 

"You sound like Dream."

"I've known him the longest, you know?"

"He's your best friend, I remember," he tells you derisively, "so did your love die?"

"My attachment to him is situational at best." 

“But does it die?” He asked quietly, “you severed the attachment, but does the love die?” His tone is hollow, and you swallowed hard. 

“You’re getting better at hearing the truth.” You give a humourless laugh, and he responds with a non-committal hum

“I liked you better when you lied," he says quietly.

"I almost got you killed," you tell him flatly, and he huffs a faint laugh.

"Correction, I almost died for you."

"What's the difference?"

"Intention," you can hear his faint smile, "find what you love and let it kill you, after all." Then, quieter, "you should finish the job."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Give me that kind of power over you," you tell him flatly. 

"You should finish what you started," he scoffs, the mood shifting more and more with each word, "you're the one who wanted me to die for you; if you're learning to be all honourable and noble and shit, you should learn to take accountability -" he huffed in frustration, "can I be perfectly fucking honest with you for a moment?"

"I'd appreciate it," you tell him. There's a few moments of silence that follow, and finally you shift, peering at him over your shoulder to where he's leaning against the headstone, legs kicked out in front of him. He looks at you, eyes dark and tired.

"I'm so tired of giving a shit about you."

You know there's something selfish in how you miss seeing his smile in this moment. But then again, did you miss his smile, or did you miss what it represented; his love and loyalty. 

----

"You're getting rained on," Ghostbur said quietly, looking at you with his wide, cloudy eyes as you held an umbrella open and aloft above him.

"I'll live," you said pointedly, and at Ghostbur's smile became faintly strained, but he accept the umbrella. You, however, didn't move, sitting beside him on the log that you'd found him on.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked, shuffling a little closer, if only to try and shield you too with the little umbrella. Instead of looking to him, you look at the grey, drizzling clouds looming overhead.

"I saw it was clouding over," you told him, "and no-one I spoke to had seen you for a while..." you trailed off, shrugging, as if that was enough.

"You've always been a lovely friend, I remember that, I remember..." but his own voice trails off, dies in his throat; you look at him with interest, and after a beat he looks back at you, "I remember the good times, the happy times, and you, in the beginning you were a wonderful friend, but I don't... they say I blew up a nation, you know, and I don't remember that, but I don't remember a lot leading up to that either. It -" he hesitates before backtracking, choosing his words carefully, "did something bad happen between us?"

Your understanding of the word, of the time you spent with Wilbur, it was all shattering in your mind at once. His eyes were wide and full of concern when you look back at him, and he reaches out gently, wiping away a tear you hadn't realised had fallen; you hear the hiss of the water against his thumb and move out of his touch.

"Sorry," he says softly, genuine apology in his voice, "was it because of what I did to L'Manberg?" He asks gently. Around you, the rain was getting heavier.

"I thought we were happy," it came out barely louder than a whisper, and you quickly wiped your eyes, despite the rain now coming down hard enough to hide your tears, "I should have... I know I should have said something, but I thought we both just knew, you know? I should have..." and you turn, bottom lip trembling, "I'm sorry, Ghostbur, I know you're not him, you keep saying that, but I never got to tell Alive-You that I... you know," you swallowed hard, "that I love him. You? Him? I never actually got to tell him properly, in a way that makes sense. But I did. I do. And I thought... Fuck," the word comes out in a harsh breath, and you find yourself scowling and looking away, "probably for the best that I didn't say anything if he - you, I guess - weren't - wasn't? - happy."

"I know he cared about you, as much as I can remember, he never stopped caring," Ghostbur's voice is quiet, and finally, you look at him. His face is scrunched up with concentration, but there's small trails of steam -

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry," you're genuinely apologetic, and he looks shocked when you look up, as if he hadn't even noticed.

"Just because I don't remember doesn't mean... well a lot of things were not good memories towards the end, but that's because of everything going on up here," he was wiping at his eyes quickly to dispel the tears before he taps his temple with two fingers, "and if what you're saying is true, he wasn't unhappy because of you, he was just unhappy, and it... there are months missing for me, and that's no-one's fault."

Oh... well you supposed you could understand that, still, it was difficult to process this whole conversation and all it's implications.

"How is this the most amusing option, if you don't mind me asking?" He suddenly speaks up, and you look up with confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"You're upset, I don't think I've ever seen you upset -"

"Well it probably wouldn't be a good memory if you had," you reminded, to which he conceded.

"But I remember clear as day when we met, and you told me and Tommy that you simply did whatever amused you the most, this... this doesn't seem particularly amusing."

"I don't operate like that anymore," you told him frankly, staring at your hands.

"Oh," he muttered softly, before asking, voice tentatively, "why did you think to come find me?"

You take a moment to deliberate, to consider your own reasoning and motivations, still looking at your hands, fingers twisting and curling and locking into inconsistent shapes.

"You used to do this near the end," you said softly, "used to run off and sit near the button and think and think and think but never do anything," you paused, "and I never cared about the land like I cared about you, so I was all for blowing it all up, but it... I could see it was doing something to you. The election, everything that was happening, it did something to you; you were spiralling, and I knew if I didn't know where you were, you were by the button. Awful and fucking beautiful, and dude, I'm- I'm so sorry I didn't tell you but, Christ, I was so in love with you, Wilb-" looking sharply at him, your voice died in your throat, and you corrected yourself, "him. Not... you're different. Right. Ghostbur." He blinked at you, a little taken aback by the sudden passion of your outburst, of your explanation. You cleared your throat. "No-one else had the balls to acknowledge that the land no longer functioned by the ideals it was built for, and I loved your passion; I could listen to you talk down there for hours. Sometimes I did. It was like a prison and a safe space all at once, and I don't know if it made things better or worse, but when he couldn't stand to see what the world had become, we'd sit in that room with the button and talk."

Finally, you looked at him, seeing him and not the man he used to be.

"And today I couldn't find you, and I knew it was going to rain, and... I know rain hurts you. There's no button, but you don't spend time in town anymore, so I looked for Friend." You looked at the little, blue sheep who'd been happily munching on some grass during your conversation. Then a faint, cold pressure in your hands, and you look down to see Ghostbur pressing a vial of a thick, blue liquid into your hands.

"Have some blue," he said softly, "it'll make you feel better." And then, much softer, he thanks you for finding him, he takes your free hand and laces your fingers with his, "thank you for talking to me."

"Thank you for talking to me." You mumble, giving his hand a squeeze, feeling a touch guilty for unloading all of this on him. No-one else would listen, or if they would, they didn't care; people had gone from not trusting you because you refused to be completely loyal to any thing but yourself, now they hated you for staying loyal to what they deemed to be the wrong thing. Allies were few and far between, and Ghostbur may see himself as separate to Wilbur, but you weren't going to stop yourself from caring about him too.

----

"You're in here," Tommy's voice is quiet where he's thumbing through a notebook you half recognise. Making a noise of interest, you look a little closer at the notebook - What I Remember. Ghostbur's notes, you feel yourself growing tongue tied.

"I don't- you shouldn't be reading that."

"You suddenly decided to grow a conscience?"

"Shut up," your lip curled, "and I'm not in it."

"Who else would be the Favourite Jester?" He asked, turning the book around, but you covered your eyes. 

"Don't be a sook," he sneered.

"Does Ghostbur know you have it?" You asked, and he grew a little antsy at that, to which you simply growled at him to give it back. But still, you catch a glimpse of it;

“Its you.” - in the notebook, in Ghostbur's neat scrawl - you chose me when no-one else did.

----

"I think Tommy trusts me," you told Dream, frowning at your brewing stand. Dream, for his part, finds the humour in your statement where he's sitting at your table, leaning back, his feet on the table.

"Tommy, I've changed!" Your tone shifts to a mocking imitation of your earlier conversation with the boy, "death has changed me!" And you dropped the act with a snort, "getting a scar doesn't make me a different person," you rolled your eyes. Dream clears his throat.

"Sorry about that, again," he muttered.

"No hard feelings, dude, obviously," you grinned over your shoulder.

"So you- you're okay with my plan; the two of you fought side by side for your nation -"

"I'll be by your side until -"

"Until something better comes along," Dream nods in resignation.

----

“I’m sorr- Ghostbur I’m so sorry,” you sniffled, angrily rubbing at your eyes, frustrated that he had even seen you get so emotional, “I’m not- you shouldn’t have seen that, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, crying’s normal,” he said, voice a gentle echo of the one you loved, “do you want to talk about it?”

“Not with you, Ghostbur,” though you’re shooting for light, it doesn’t land, and instead, he looks to the floor, apologising. You wipe the tears that refuse to stop spilling from your eyes.

“You still miss him so much it moves you to tears?”

“You caught me in a moment of weakness.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of those,” he says with a faint laugh, and you look at him, see his quietly fond smile, and for a moment you see the memory of Wilbur himself, and your expression crumples. Immediately as you bury your face in your hands, you feel him by your side, apologising, trying to lay a comforting hand on your arm. The touch is cold but familiar, and you reach out instinctively and grab his hand.

“Ghostbur, my life is a fucking joke and I’m not laughing anym-” he kisses you quick when he gets the chance, his mouth on yours so close to being familiar, but not quite. It knocks the wind from you, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, grabbing his sweater and pulling him closer. 

“Does that help?” He asks a little breathless when you part, and you can’t look him in the eyes, only at your shaking hands balled up in his perfect, yellow sweater. 

“You’re not him,” your voice is a shaky whisper.

“I...” his words get caught in his throat, “I think right now I’m close enough. Does this,” and he holds your face with one hand like it’s porcelain, like he’s afraid you’re about to shatter, “does this help?”

“Why?” You can feel how weak you are in this moment, unable to let him go, knowing the truth of the whole situation. 

“I don’t like seeing you sad.”

“It’s not your job to make me happy, give me time and I’ll be alright,” but you don’t let him go, then, “tell me you don’t love me, please.”

“It seems dangerous to even entertain the idea; I’m not Wilbur,” he says gently, and finally you look at him, meeting his gaze, leaning into his touch. 

“Do you even want any of this?” Your voice is barely a whisper, “me, or anything like this moment?” Ghostbur visibly hesitated.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” he said with a surprising firmness, “I want to do whatever makes you happy,” then, his voice goes quiet, “even now, I forget sad things, people tell me sad things and the conversation ends, and I just... lose whatever they said,” he gives a faint smile, “but even in time that aren’t... aren’t the happiest, I haven’t forgotten you; something about being around you makes me happy, happy enough to remember you. All I want is for you to be happy too.”

“Did you lie to me?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, and you can’t look him in the eyes, so you watch his lips twist into something thin and unhappy, before stumbling over his words, trying to deny, “did you lie about not remembering me? About not remembering... not remembering how close we were?”

“I thought...” his expression reads apology, his hands coming to cover yours where you can’t bring yourself to let him go, still holding him close by his sweater, “it would be easier for you to let go, to move on, if you didn’t know.” 

“But you don’t care about me like he did.”

“I care about you,” his eyes go wide and concerned, “but I’m not him. You understood him better than anyone and- and- and- he needed you- uh, your company,” he correct, faint blush rising on his cheeks at his own implicit wording, “more than anything else. You’re the one who stayed.” 

You swallowed hard, huffing a humourless laugh.

“And he’s the one who got away.”

“Y/N...”

“This feels...” you look to your hands still holding him close, then to his mouth, then his eyes, taking a shakey breath, “self destructive, for us both,” and his expression reads shock, reads apology, but in that instance you cave to your need for contact, leaning into him, to find what comfort you could in him. A shiver runs down your spine as you make a snap decision, “I know you’re not him, but I still love you,” you lie; he’s not the one you promised to always be honest with, but for now he’s as close as you’ve got, and you can’t let him go, “please don’t go.” 

----

It’s been a long time, relatively since you’d seen Q when you run into him. You’re not looking for him, you’re merely roaming on an overcast day, but he looks like he’s on a mission. He seems surprised to see you, right before his expression turns dark.

“Figures I’d run into you out here sooner or later,” his words genuinely confuse you, which he seems to pick up on, because at least for a moment, he seems confused himself, before clarifying, “Dream’s in prison.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me.” His audible irritation makes your own smile grow just a touch wider, “you know you should be there too.”

“Cruel, Q, they’ve already killed me for my crimes once,” you practically sing, amused smile stretched from ear to ear, “haven’t I suffered enough?” His smile was thin and mean.

“Not even close.”

“You make me miss being a bad person,” you say with a hint of self deprecation.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Quackity snorted, “you’re still terrible.”

“I like you standing up for yourself; self confidence is a good look on you.”

“You like anyone who actually challenges you,” he rolled his eyes, “which makes me feel fucking stupid for ever caring about you like I did. You don’t give a shit about simps, I get it now.”

“You’re better than that,” you tell him, which is a metaphorical slippery-slope, a half truth, since you only half-believe it, but your tone is low, is sincere, and he blinks quickly, surprised. 

“I- yeah, I know,” he scowls, but turns away. 

“Good, it’s good you know your worth,” you tell him seriously, “you have...” and you huff a faint laugh, tone awed and gentle, “so much potential, Q.” And for the barest moment, his expression softens. Carefully, he steps up to you.

“This is how it started last time,” his tone is low as you feel the feather-light way his fingertips ghost up your arm. He’s in your space, gaze locked with yours, searching for something in you that you can’t begin to guess at, right before he grabs your chin hard enough that it hurts, “you try and  build me up so you can tear me down - I’m not doing this again.” 

God damn it, you can feel your heart beat against your ribs at the sight of the fury in his eyes. 

“Q-” you try, soft and a little helpless. For a moment, both his grip and his gaze softens, and you know that look, that faint gentleness, from a time long passed, “I never spoke poorly of you, you just lost faith in me.” 

The look in his eyes before he storms off gives him away; he hates that in a twisted way, it’s still the truth.

----

“I’ve always appreciated your honesty,” Ghostbur muses; night is falling over the snowy biome you’d decided to call home, the house Dream had built for himself that sat abandoned since he was taken prisoner. Ghostbur is sitting on a bench, looking around, ankles crossed wearing a sunny smile.

“It’s the only thing I’m consistent about,” gave a wry smile, not looking up from where you were crouched in front of you brewing stand; everything started because of these brewing stands, just look how far you’ve come. You try not to dwell on that.

“Consistently inconsistent,” his tone was bright and fond, but then he hums, “you’re consistent in a lot of ways; you’re loyal -” he points out, but you’re so quick to respond it doesn’t even register at first. 

“Only because I love you,” then, silence, and you scrunch up your whole face with regret, “him, Wilbur,” you sigh deeply, “don’t get me wrong, Ghostbur, I care about you, probably too much by my standards, but...” and you trail off, a touch apologetic.

“Everyone keeps telling me that I did, or well, he did, all these terrible things; I just... I just want to know why.”

“Why what? Why he did what he did?”

“Why you still loved him when he did all those things,” Ghostbur clarified. You freeze.

“You want me to be honest?” Your voice is soft, and when you look over, you see he’s drawn his legs up to sit cross-legged on the counter, tearing apart a loaf of bread for something to do with his hands. 

“You’re always honest,” his tone is earnest, but he can’t look at you, before you can speak, however, he goes on, tone softer, “I remember bits and pieces, more and more as time goes on. More of you is always coming back; more of us, and I thought not remembering would be the most painful part about being around you, making you sad because I can’t remember what happened to make you feel so close to me before... before I died, but I think remembering’s worse,” he looked up, “because I’m not him. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s memories even though they’re mine, because I don’t think like he did; I don’t think I understood you the way he does. I don’t...”

“Everyone’s so quick to tell me what terrible things I’ve done - my son, Fundy, I spoke to him, he’s- he’s- he’s not happy with me, you know? Nor is Tommy, I mean most people just need me to know how awful I was, but you... you speak his name with love and honey on your lips and I don’t know how or why, you make all the terrible things sound like miracles and I don’t know why.” 

Slowly, you get to your feet, stretching a little, as your words begin to fall from you and you make your way over to Ghostbur, his pale form golden in the candlelight.

“I don’t know how to put it, but I don’t... I never feel quite real, not - for lack of a better word, given the nature of everyone here - human enough, and I look around and I see Tommy and Tubbo and George and Puffy and -” you rest your hands on his knees, gently, as you watch his hands tearing apart the loaf of bread, “and they’re all effortlessly people, they’re good, they’ve got dirt beneath their nails and a sparkle in their eyes, and I tried being good and noble and honest, and the only part I liked was being honest but being too honest somehow made me the villain; no-one understood. Dream came the closest, he felt like another amalgamation of interactions pretending to be human, but he knew his power and his place and his role, and he didn’t understand that I had no interest in playing the same part over and over again; consistently inconsistent, apart from my honesty and my loyalty. He liked my honesty and loyalty, so he did his best to accept the rest of me that came with it.”

Looking him in the eyes, finally, you could see it dawning on Ghostbur. Your fingers tapped a gentle, inconsistent rhythm on his knees. 

“But Wilbur... you - he - he... he...”

“He loved you,” Ghostbur’s voice was gentle, but after all this time, the confirmation from his returning memories, it was enough for your voice to catch in your throat. Then, he nodded again like it was a confirmation, “he loved you.”

“He loved me,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper, “not despite who I was, but because of it, loved all of me, at least, that’s what it felt like... I’d never felt that before, and I... I never wanted to let it go,” he’s putting the bread to the side, slowly sliding off of the counter and into your space, “he was staying true to himself, and they hated him for it, but I never could, and I never will.” You murmur, as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly in the dimly lit room. 

“It’s you,” you whispered against the fabric of his sweater, echoing your words from what feels like a lifetime ago, “above everyone else, I choose you. You have my loyalty.”

A moment of silence; he swallows hard, presses his face into the crook of your neck.

“It’s you,” he whispers back, just as Wilbur had those months ago; at the time you though they were an incredulous echo of your own thoughts, but now you know it’s an admission, a return of affection, a declaration; you have my loyalty, he’d been trying to tell you. 

You can’t tell Ghostbur you love him, you can’t tell him you love him, you cannot tell him you love him, no matter how much you want to. He’s not Wilbur. He’s not the Wilbur you fell in love with. 

You tell him anyways. Whisper it like it’s a secret. 

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

His answer comes whispered with a kiss at your temple, a small token of comfort.

“I know.”

----

The world had fallen still in a way you had only felt before natural disasters. There was quiet. There was peace. Something was wrong. Your conversation with Dream played on repeat in your mind, over and over and over.

"You will owe me a life." You can't forget the gravitas with which he'd said it, eyes dark and eerie as he sat cross-legged on the floor of his prison; you will owe me a life.

The phrasing had caught you off guard, because what in the hell did that even mean? It could mean anything, hell he could claim your first child if he wanted to, but you'd been desperate enough to not question, to just accept.

"You really do love him, don't you?" He'd said softly as you'd sat opposite him, when he'd jokingly asked if you'd take his place in the prison in exchange for Wilbur back.

"Of course," had been your serious answer to both questions. Dream had laughed, equal parts fond and weary, his gaze drifting up to the impossibly high ceiling.

"Its a nice thought, though I doubt Sam would simply let you switch with me," he mused, adding, "you know Ghostbur won't be around anymore."

"But Wilbur will be alive," you insisted, and finally he looks at you.

"You trust me," its not a question.

"I've always trusted you," its not a lie. Dream blinks at you, surprised by your honesty. He should be, somehow everyone overlooks your defining trait being brutal honestly. Moments like this remind you why you need Wilbur back so desperately; he understood you in a way no-one else did, not even Dream.

"I killed you," he says, almost to himself, like he's just remembered that fact.

"I know," you nodded, "and I trusted you then, and I trust you now. Everything happens-"

"Don't say for a reason," Dream gritted his teeth with irritation at the phrase, but you gave a faint smile.

"No, I was just going to say that everything happens. We live, we die," you shrugged.

"Then why are you asking me to bring him back?"

"I didn't realise your book of necromancy was purely for decoration," there's a slight edge to your words, lip curling in knee-jerk defensiveness. Dream looked back at you suddenly, eyebrows rising at your tone.

"Is that why you trust me?" There's something betrayed in his voice, and he sits back, away from you, something dangerous in his eyes.

"That's..." you tried to find a way to talk your way out of the situation, but your inability to lie was more of a hindrance now than anything else, "so reductive," you settle on. But you're fidgeting.

"Then complicate it for me," he's practically ordering, and if he weren't the only way to bring back Wilbur, you wouldn't be complying so easily. Then, like a bolt of lighting it hits you; you look up, gaze unwaivering as you meet his.

"Kill me."

"What?"

"Kill me. Don't bring me back," you yourself are almost ordering, tone leaving little room for argument.

"What the fuck; why?" He hissed in confusion, and you knew, in that instance, that your point would be clear.

"Why not?" Something amused and sinister curled at the edge of your lips as you regained the upper hand in the conversation, "if you'd prefer, I could kill myself; walk straight into the lava until my lives run out," and with that, you carefully get to your feet as he frowns at you. Sauntering over to the flowing, molten walls, you stick your hands in your pockets, looking pensively at the liquid rock.

"Wouldn't it kill two birds with one stone? If I'm dead, maybe I'll find my way back to Will, and you won't have to revive him. That's what the kids call a win-win, right? I won't ask you for anything, but, you know, I won't owe you anything either."

When you look to him, you get to watch in real time as it dawns on him. The way his face contorts with bitter anger makes your own, imposing, gloating stance soften, even as he looks away, refusing to look at you.

"I don't..." you sighed deeply, "I don't trust you because I know you can revive me, I trust you because you're a pragmatist, Dream, and as long as I'm useful to you, well..." you trail off, coming back to him.

"I don't understand you," he said, finally, voice terse, "you've fucking commodified your existence and sold your allegiance to the highest bidder; how do you stand it? I get it, you think I'm controlling, fucking news flash, so was Wilbur, so was fucking Techno, so is everyone. We're a bunch of cruel, self-canalising, power-hungry assholes masquerading as heroes and villains trying to make ourselves feel better for the atrocities we commit."

"And what currency am I selling myself for?" You snort, despite his serious tone; when he looks at you, as if he can't believe you're laughing at his rant, you tip your head and regard him thoughtfully, "while I appreciate that that seemed to have been weighing on you for a while, I'd advise you to not project your shit onto me; have I ever cared about having power for myself?"

That's actually a good point, he seems to realise, and finally, his expression softens, and he gets to his feet.

"Do you care about anyone other than yourself?" Surprisingly, it's not judgemental, it's intrigued, like he has a sudden understand of you that makes everything else make sense. Your smile is so soft and unguarded as you gently cup his cheek with one hand, fondly rubbing your thumb across his cheek.

"You know, you might be my best friend," you told him instead of answering, "and I trust you." He takes a deep breath, expression going serious as you can almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

"Despite... fucking everything, and who you are as a person," he said with the faintest smile, "I actually trust you too," but he hesitates, the slightest crease forming above his brow, "but I don't think I can still say that if Wilbur comes back -"

"Dude -" you're surprised by Dream's honesty in turn, but you do respect it as he clarifies himself.

"He's the one you care about, the only one besides yourself, I know, I've seen it," he gives a faint smirk, "we're still friends, of course, there's no doubt about that, but if I asked you to kill someone that Wilbur would rather have alive, or if I asked you to, say, join me on an adventure with a low survival rate, if Wilbur asked, you'd choose him, wouldn't you? You'd do whatever it takes to make him happy."

"Dream... I -"

"Your loyalty is absolute, but selective; you put yourself first, then Wilbur, and maybe I'm overestimating my place in your life, but I think I may be below him, but above most others..."

"What are you saying? What do you want?" You asked carefully.

"I'll bring back Wilbur, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'll bring him back, but you'll owe me a life," and you can't even begin to properly process what he's saying, "not his," Dream clarifies, "I wouldn't do that to you, but in one way or another, you will owe me a life, and when I ask for it, however that may be, you need to uphold your end of the bargain, or I'll send him right back to where he is now."

I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. That's the four words he'd said that you're fixating on, that're playing through your mind on repeat, and you practically crush Dream in a hug as you agree, breathlessly thanking him. He hugs you back, and you can feel his smile against your shoulder, laughing somewhat fondly at the notes of relief in your voice as you mutter that he's your favourite.

"For now," he snorts when you step back, and you give a sheepish smile, ducking your gaze.

"For now," you agree.

----

"Who let you- does Sam know you're in here?" Quackity's voice is dangerously quiet, a strange smile on his face, like having you here is a boon rather than a terrible mistake.

"Q, what the fuck?" You rubbed at your eyes, forcing the sleep from them. Dream is already scrambling as far as he can from the newcomer, anger and fear in his eyes. He tells Quackity to fuck off.

"What are you doing here? You planning an escape for my favourite little war criminal?" He paused, "have you moved on now that your favourite little war criminal is dead?" Everything about him seems sharp, seems cruel and threatening; something about it is thrilling, like a challenge, and you find yourself standing to your full height, refusing to drop his gaze.

“Big Q,” you take some small pride in the fact that your voice doesn’t shake, “you’re looking markedly more malicious today.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been coming here for a while, looking for one simple thing, and your buddy there really hasn’t exactly been helpful,” there’s a faintly manic gleam in his eye, but your blood is hissing and spitting in your veins, conflicted and delighted in equal measure -

“He was your friend you fucking asshole!” The words burst from you, disgusted as you wear a manic grin. 

“I was your friend, you fucking piece of shit!” He hollers back, “I was more than your fr-” but his mouth snaps shut, expression one of seething rage, “don’t fucking talk like you still trust him, like you care about him;” the curl of Quackity’s lip is cruel, the look in his eyes cold as he shifts his grip on his sword; a humourless laugh escapes him, “except, of course it’s you who still cares; first Dream, then Wilbur, the only people you actually care about are just like you,” and there’s so much derision in his voice that it almost stings, almost, if he wasn’t right. How can he not see the way his cruel tone delight you? How can he not see the irony in his words in this very moment; “now fuck off, you’re in my way.” He sneers.

“I’m not letting you hurt him,” you refused to move, and his eyes widened, disbelieving laugh escaping him.

“Look at that! Did the wizard finally give you a fucking heart?” 

“Look at that!” You mirror his tone, though your own is acidic, pushing, you’re pushing him now, the way you know best, “did you finally get over your pathetic feelings? You finally getting smart enough to see me as a real threat?” And you’re in his space, in his face, refusing to back down, waiting for the moment he snaps.

“I never cared about you, I cared about the fact that you paid me attention; note the difference,” he snarled; it’s a lie, you know it’s a lie, can remember the way he’d looked at you, how he’d almost died for you, and it’s fucking intoxicating.

“You’re so good at hearing the truth, but you’re fucking shit at obfuscating it,” you tell him with a cool confidence, “I hung the stars in your sky, Quackity,” his jaw clenched tightly at your change in tone, the look in your eye, “but tell me again about how it was all an act for you, say it in a way I’ll believe this time.” It’s designed to cut him, and you can see it in his eyes when it does. Fight back, damn it! 

“Maybe I’ll give Dream the day off, kill you instead,” he tries, but you can tell his heart’s not in it. 

“This isn’t fun for him like it is for you,” Dream pipes up, and Quackity shoots him a surprisingly confused look, while your look over your shoulder, faint disappointment in your eyes. Dream, however, exhausted and paranoid with Quackity in his cell, still has enough wherewithal to understand you better than almost anyone else.  

“I wish you would,” you don’t look away from Quackity. Your voice is cold in the wake of Dream’s revelation, and when he looks back at you, Quackity looks... uncertain. A dangerous state to be in considering his opposition.

“You’re down to your last life, don’t fucking test me,” Quackity warned, but his heart’s not in it like before. As you approach him, he raises his weapon, but your confidence strides never falter, “Sam wouldn’t give a shit if I killed you, no-one would.” 

“You would,” you tell him snidely, finding yourself growing sick of the sound of his half-baked cruelty. 

“Are you just here to let what you love kill you?” He gives a mean, humourless smile. 

“Bold to assume I love you, Q.”

“Well, seeing as the only bastard you ever knew how to love was so eager to off himself, I figured I might be all you have left to get back to him,” there’s faint triumph in his eyes when he can see his malicious words touched a nerve, but he wasn’t playing your game right, and you were tired of not having fun.

“It’s not my fucking fault you look for a home in everyone who’s halfway nice to you,” something in you snaps, and your tone is cold and unwaivering, “don’t blame me for your fragile sense of self; you were so ready to believe anything I told you, but when I did what people fucking do - when I let you down - you had to go and let it shatter you,” you sneered.

“You being a shitty person is my fault?” He scoffed, and you stepped up to him, emboldened. You barely even feel his sword at your throat.

“Before breaking your cheap, little heart, I hadn’t been honest a day in my life; everyone had told you as much, you chose to ignore them; did you think you could fix me?” You gave a harsh laugh, stepping forward, crowding him into taking a step back, expression irate, trying to keep up his strong front, “Actually, I guess, wow, you did; since you, I haven’t told a lie,” and you gave him a derisive look, “because fucking you up wasn’t a challenge, making you fall in love with me wasn’t a challenge, getting you to the point where you’d die for me? Not a fucking challenge, Quackity. You offered me your life and it fucking bored me.

Talking to me makes you want to be a worse person? Good luck with that; you will always be better than you fear, better than you fucking hope or wish you were, because you couldn’t fucking stomach killing me once, you couldn’t fucking stomach being a truly terrible person.

You want my blood on your hands? Your hands were mine, and I couldn’t have given less of a shit, so no, if I have any say, you’re not gonna hurt Dream, because you’re hurting him to get the thing that’s going to bring back the person I actually fucking fell in love with. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time on you when he was out there.

I’m tired of trying to be amicable with you when you’re still - fucking still - picking up the pieces and trying to figure out who the fuck you are; God, I fucking hope you kill me, I hope it brings you peace, I hope it brings you clarity, but you better make sure it counts, you better make sure it fucking sticks!” 

----

"You do things that hurt you because you don't know what else to do, even if you don't enjoy them," Ranboo's voice is flat, and your expression twists to something derisive, though you attempt to regain your composure.

"Incredibly presumptuous of you," you respond, still alive, if burned.

----

"How many more?" Ghostbur's touch was light on your forearm, tracing the shiny, healed scar of where you'd thrown your hands up to protect your face as Quackity had shoved you into the lava waterfall that surrounded Dream's cell. It hadn’t killed you; he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and the lava curtain parted as the bridge approached the cell at Sam’s command. But it had still left it’s mark.

"What?" You surfaced from your thoughts as his cool hand stilled against the memory of the burn.

"How many more until you see him again?" He asks, and he doesn't look sad often, but he can't look you in the eyes. Then, gently, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing against the scar that stands out on your neck, a perfect circle, a perfect reminder of what you’d lost the second time you’d died.  

And you meet his gaze, can see the nerves hidden just behind his eyes - is this why you do this? Am I… not enough? What a dangerous thought, dangerous territories; how cruel you were to let him fall for you, even a little, even when both of you knew it was a terrible idea. 

Dream's voice was in your head - Ghostbur won't be around anymore - and you'd answered without flinching - but Wilbur will be alive. 

"One," your voice came out hoarse, "one life and I'll see him again." You can't look him in the eyes, even as he holds your face; he has no idea what to say to that. It's the truth, but not the one he realises. 

"You don't love me, right?" You asked, clearing your throat, moving carefully out of his reach.

"You shouldn't kill yourself for him," Ghostbur tells you with uncompromising sincerity instead of answering, "you're worth more than that."

"I need you to tell me that you don't have feelings for me, Ghostbur -"

"Seems like a very worrying thing to be asking given the circumstances," again he tries to deflect, but there's something close to guilt eating you up inside, and you stand, moving out of his space, Dream's voice in your head.

"Do you love me or not, Ghost of Wilbur Soot?" You demanded, and his expression turned hard, so unlike his usual self.

"I'm not him," he said carefully, but his gaze dropped; he couldn't look you in the eyes, "and I don't think it should matter either way, because you've made it abundantly clear that he's the one you want; I'm not going to say I don't and let you kill yourself."

"I promise I'm not going to fucking kill myself!"

Ghostbur went very quiet. 

“Any answer is dangerous, really, so it doesn’t matter either way,” he’s pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands, to fiddle with, trying to distract himself, “I love Friend,” his tone was aiming for something light-hearted, an attempt to change the topic, and it did it’s job well enough; your lips twisted into a grin.

“First a Salmon, then a Sheep, your tastes are -” but he looks at you, giving a strangely amused little smile.

“Questionable?” He finishes your sentence, and you find yourself less amused with the situation; he brings up a good point, including you all the same, though you’d been meaning to say bestial, but fuck, what does that make you? For a moment, you find yourself in crisis, wondering if you were technically in a polyamorous relationship with a ghost and an actual sheep. But you push it to the side -

“It’s selfish,” you hear his voice in your head, see him looking at you with wide, shiny eyes in the dim light of a pub, but you can’t help but repeat the words that had been said to you, “but I need to know for me -”

Ghostbur could say anything, and you see the realisation dawning on his face; he knows what you’re asking. He could be silent, he could brush you off, he could say anything else -

“It’s you,” just the way you’d said it to Wilbur, confirming what you feared; Ghostbur drops his gaze when he says those words to you, when he means to say I love you, how can you not see that?

Those two words hang in the air between you, like they always have. You should leave. You should go before you develop a conscience. But you can’t... there’s something familiar, something intoxicating about this moment, his loyalty; you’ve seen this before, you’ve craved this before. 

You step up to him, and as if on instinct, he rests his hands on your hips, leaning into your touch when you hold his cheek gently. 

“I love you,” your murmur, and his eyes fall closed, breathing deeply, “I love you.” It’s easy, it’s too easy, to fall back into this, to let him rest his forehead against yours, your arms around his neck, knowing in your heart that his loyalty, his love, was a means to an end; “I love you.”

He trusts your words, even now. 

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, pulling you close now, moving to press his lips to the crook of your neck. So you stay. Your time with him is limited, though only you know that, so you will enjoy it while you can.

----

"This was your plan," Tommy muttered, horrified, as the realisation dawned on him, "you're the one who pointed out that killing Dream in the prison didn't break any of the prison's rules," he whispered, before turning on you, eyes wide, Friend's leash still looped around his wrist, "you're the one who suggested using Ghostbur as a decoy, because no-one would suspect him."

"You set him up," Ranboo was horrified. One by one they were turning on you.

"You knew Ghostbur didn't- he didn't want to be revived!" Tubbo exclaimed, hurt and betrayed, "I thought - Y/N I thought you loved him, how could you -?!"

"Wilbur and Ghostbur are not the same person! How do you all keep forgetting that?!" You snarled in response, expression contorting to one of rage; that was enough to shock them into silence, taking a step back as they regarded you with a new kind of fear.

"We were happier with Wilbur gone, we liked Ghostbur and he liked us!" Tommy exclaimed, before his voice dropped to something soft and betrayed, hurt in his eyes, "Ghostbur didn't fucking deserve that; you're a terrible person," and your expression dropped to a smirk that didn't reach your eyes.

"I'm sorry about Ghostbur, I am, but the ends justifies the means; do you remember what I told you when L'Manburg was first forming? I told you I'm not on Dream's side, but I'm also not on yours," and you paused for a moment, before looking to the heavy remains of the button room, through which you knew Wilbur himself would finally be returning any moments now, "I'm on Wilbur's."

----

Then you see him, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck this is real and you owe Dream a life and Wilbur is alive. You're frozen in place. He's talking to Tommy, who sounds frankly horrified that Wilbur is back, but you're frozen. Heart beating in your throat, the sunrise that’s coming brings with it a warmth, though to you it feels closer to vindication. 

And there’s yelling and horror from the others who’ve accompanied you, but you can’t hear them, approaching slowly, with measured, even steps.

Then, his eyes meet yours and something in his expression softens. When he smiles at you, every terrible thing you did was worth it for this moment. Having the others there is too much. You don't want an audience, you don't want anyone there to judge you and your choices, the things you've done to get to this moment.

"This," Tommy turns on you, "this is what you bloody well wanted; now you're acting all shy? " His lip curled, and your expression turned flat and unamused.

“Don’t mistake respect for shyness,” you tell him bluntly, with a cool confidence that was unrecognisable to the blonde, who hadn’t known you well enough before he’d begun starting conflict to know the depths to which you could sink. But he was beginning to learn. 

“She’s part of the reason I’m here at all,” Wilbur reprehends him, while Tommy physically recoils at his tone, "Dream himself said as much." And then he's offering you his hand; nothing else matters.

"I can't be here," there's disgust in Tommy's voice, but its enough that the others leave, giving you and Wilbur peace. Finally.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," you tell him, taking his hand with a sharp smile, which he mirrors.

"Thirteen years I was stuck in that train station, and you're just as stunning as when I last saw you," he muses, and you reaches out to run your fingers gently through the unfamiliar white strands of his hair. His eyes study your face, your expression, drinking you in; you'd missed how dark his eyes could be, and when you look back at him, meet his gaze, you see a hunger there.

"Don't leave me," escapes you, but it comes out as a demand, insistent, “don’t ever fucking leave me again,” and you see him swallow hard, then slowly, he smiles.

"Never again," and he's kissing you desperately, mouth on yours with an intensity you relish. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you - you can taste it on his tongue, sticky sweet and somehow sharp and you dig your nails into him, maybe trying to keep him here, keep you both in this moment. When the kiss breaks and you're breathing hard, you don't let him go, though he doesn't either.

"You lied for me," he muttered, something akin to delight on his face, which shocked you enough that you stepped back, or at least tried to, though he held you tight, "no, not-" he tried to clarify, "I won't leave, I don't plan on it, but- I love you." Your heart is beating in your throat, still not quite sure what he means, "I've loved you for a long time," he added, and reaching out, he cupped your face in his hand, "I remember this," he murmured, "Ghostbur - you're scared I didn't love you because he couldn't remember, but I loved you so much, for so long, I just knew... knew what I was going to do. I knew I was going to leave you, I loved you but I was so doomed, so he couldn't remember."

When had your vision gone cloudy, when had tears started to sting your eyes.

"Don't cry, my love," Wilbur murmured, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours as your breath stuttered from your chest as he soothed the biggest fear that had been plaguing you for months.

"Were you worried that I didn't love you because of him?" He asked, like he enjoyed hearing you bare your soul. Of course he did. You remember kissing Ghostbur, his cold lips and soft apologies when you'd pulled away, and you wonder if Wilbur had those memories too.

"He's not you, no point trying to fret about your feelings based on his actions," you huff a watery laugh, finally letting go of him with one hand to wipe at your tears, “he didn’t understand me like you did, but he...” you swallowed hard, “I’m glad to have had him around in the interim.” Wilbur’s lips twist into an amused smile, and his gaze clouds over for the barest moment; you wonder if he can see your resolve cracking in Ghostbur’s memories, taking comfort in his when he’s the closest thing to Wilbur himself that you can find, the lies you’d told to keep him by your side in your moments of selfish desperation.

“I think he loved you, in his own way,” Wilbur said gently. However, as you made a vaguely guilty noise in the back of your throat, he continues thoughtfully, "though, you know, when Dream came to pick me up on that train, when Ghostbur took my place, Dream made sure we both knew, you know; she's the reason you're here, Ghostbur, he'd said, and said that makes you part of the reason that I'm coming back at all," he muses, strange quality to his voice that you couldn't quite place, though when your eyes were dry, you looked at him definitely, challengingly.

"He's not you," you reiterated, firmer this time, "I cared for him for what he was, but he's not the one I want; I love you." You said without hesitation, before you realise what you've said, and you go still, before taking his face in your hands, making sure he's looking you in the eyes, "I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, Wilbur; I love you, I fucking love you -" and he's endeared by your declaration as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face against the crook of his neck, whispering the words like you're hoping they'll find a place on his skin forever.

"I didn't tell you before and I'm never making that mistake again,” you admitted faintly; “it’s you.”

“Above all others, I choose you,” his smile is warm, and something bright lights up in your chest. Grinning, elated in this moment that you’d worked so hard to finally get to.

“You have my loyalty, my love.”

[nejiverse]

JUST ANOTHER DAY

[Hayakawa family series]

Just your average day in the Hayakawa household. Pregnant fem! Reader

cw: none i can think of, aki denji and power literally hurling insults at each other 😆

700ish words

It was way too damn quiet for Aki.

Usually when he got back, Power and Denji were doing some crazy shit like jumping from the couch onto the ceiling or chasing each other with knives....but not today.

It was such a weird feeling that he couldn't help but think of the worst case scenario.

He took in a deep breath, preparing himself to lose the little sanity he had left.

But what he saw was the complete opposite.

Y/n sat on the floor crossed legged while Power and Denji painted little drawings onto her baby bump.

"You're taking up all the space idiot!", Power complained to Denji who left barely any space on Y/n's stomach for her to paint.

"Yeah well first come first serve", he spat his tongue out at her, causing her to grit her teeth.

Y/n noticed Aki's presence and smiled up at him.

"Welcome back love", she greeted while Aki returned her gleeful smile, placing a chaste kiss on her lips. He gets so happy when he sees her that it made Denji chuckle. Y/n was his weakness.

"Why are you laughing", Aki grimaced.

"Nothing at all", Denji shrugged his shoulders with a smirk.

Aki rolled his eyes, picking up the paint to make sure it was the right type of body paint that wasn’t harmful to the skin or anything. Y/n could be careless at times. "It better be nothing. I feed you".

The two boys had a glaring contest amongst themselves before Y/n finally interrupted them.

"Can I see now?", she asked as Power and Denji scooched back.

Power crossed her arms over her chest with a proud look on her face, albeit her painting being indecipherable.

"It's Meowy!", she exclaimed.

Y/n clapped her hands with a smile.

"It's lovely!".

Aki and Denji could only sweatdrop at the two women fawning over a white patch of paint.

"Hey sorry to break it to ya two but that's just a white blob", Denji revealed.

"Oh yeah? Then what did you paint smartass?", Power huffed.

Denji jumped up as if he'd been waiting for this moment his whole life.

"It's Aki with Pochita's body", he snickered.

When Y/n was around, the boy could get away with literally anything, she was like his shield from Aki.

"You ungrateful brat—", before Aki could get his hands on Denji, Y/n furrowed her brows at him followed by a warning look.

"Hey be nice, I for one think it's cute", Y/n voiced.

The man merely slumped his shoulders with a loud sigh, poor guy was getting bullied in his own home.

“I’ll be nice once they both start paying the bills..”, he muttered to himself.

Both Power and Denji stood up from the floor, the latter stretching his arms out.

"I'm hungry, make food", Power demanded. She then remembered what Y/n told her about when asking for something. "...please", she spoke in a low voice.

"Can I actually try cooking dinner for once", Denji asked. It seemed fun even though he may not be good at it.

Correction, not good at it at all.

"Not a chance", they all responded back in unison.

Damn 😓

Denji went to sulk in the corner while Aki went off to do what he did best.

"....I can't believe you'd leave the woman carrying your child to get up herself", Y/n placed a hand on her heart as if she'd just been shot.

Aki internally scolded himself for forgetting that it was hard for her to get up by herself these days, he quickly made it to her side and helped her up.

"Im sorry", he enveloped her in a hug and plastered kisses all over her face, earning a giggle from her and and bunch of 'ews' from Denji and Power.

“You’re gross!”, Power spoke.

An irk mark formed on Aki’s forehead. “You’re one to be talking about what’s gross or not when you don’t flush the damn toilet—”.

Aki 1 - Power 0

Masterlist :)

A/N: please don’t leave spoilers cause I’m an anime only for now, when I actually have time i’ll read the manga😭😭

And thank ya’ll for 600 followers i fucking love you guys 🫶

[ruzek-halstead]

misery loves company

pairing: luke patterson x julie molina

everyone knows luke and julie are in love with each other, except them. when luke gets sick with the flu, it becomes the little push they need.

slightly au (boys are alive)

"you're not about to tell me something like that and walk out, julie. that's not how this works."

masterlist || ao3

requested by: @5sosmukefan​ 

They were an hour into their band practice, and one thing was becoming increasingly obvious.

Luke was losing his voice.

At first, they thought he was trying something new; he always liked to experiment with what he could do and he was always practicing the levels of raspiness he could use, like he did in Bright. But by the end of the last hour, it was clear that wasn't the case.

"Luke, I love you bro," Alex started hesitantly, twirling his drumstick in his fingers. "But what the hell is happening with your voice?"

Luke frowned. "I hear it too."

"You seem to be sweating a lot," Julie noted and Luke raised an eyebrow. "Much more than usual. Are you feeling alright?"

"Of course I am. I don't get sick," he scoffed. He took off his guitar and placed it back in its stand, grabbing his hydro flask to rehydrate. In truth, Luke was looking a little pale, but denial was a powerful concept.

Reggie snickered, blanking his face when Luke turned to him with a stormy glare. "Either way, I think we should call it. You're sounding rough, my man."

Luke rolled his eyes in defiance, but Julie truly didn't like his colour. She walked over to him, setting her palms against his cheeks. He went slightly cross-eyed trying to look at her and question what she was doing. She placed the back of her hand against his forehead.

"Not sick my ass," Julie mumbled, "Luke, sit down, you're definitely catching something."

Luke's eyebrows furrowed together; the coolness of Julie's palms did wonders for his skin. "But I don't get sick!" He repeated in a whiny voice. Julie solely rolled her eyes and pushed at his shoulder so he'd fall back on the couch.

"You two should probably go," Julie redirected her words to Alex and Reggie, who looked confused and slightly offended (Alex). "Don't give me that look. You three were the ones who refused to get the flu shot like I did, and now you're going to pay for it."

Reggie's eyes widened. "Luke has the flu?" They'd never seen him put his bass down so quickly. "Peace out buddy! I'm steering clear of you like the plague!"

"So, you're going to stay with him?" Alex asked Julie with a raised eyebrow; she nodded. "You hear that, Reg? Julie is going to stay and take care of Luke! Isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever heard?"

Julie's gaze flickered between Alex and Reggie, who were both wearing devious grins. "I don't know what your tone is implying, but your presence is annoying me. Make yourselves useful and go get some medicine or something."

"She's touchy today," Alex whispered in Reggie's direction. He narrowly missed getting hit by the pillow Julie lodged in his direction. "Fine, I'm going! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Reggie snorted, "that's not much then." Alex smacked him upside the head. "We'll be back! Feel better Luke!"

Julie wasn't an idiot. She clearly knew something had changed between her and Luke recently. Since the very beginning, it was hardly platonic. There was always that chemistry between them; they just didn't know where it would lead. And to be honest, she still has no idea. Things between them hadn't progressed in the way she wanted in the slightest. The only difference was that everyone seemed to suspect something was going on between them (re: Alex, Reggie, Flynn, Carlos and her dad), which explained Alex's smartass comments. But the most that had happened were small touches here and there as they wrote new songs. And their songs hadn't changed much either; she had been writing more romantically charged songs on her own, but every time she came together with Luke, he steered them in the complete opposite direction.

She honestly didn't know where she stood with him.

Luke was currently laying face down in a pillow, shivering. Julie rolled her eyes, almost certain it was because he refused to wear shirts with sleeves. She grabbed a blanket from the back closet and draped it across his shivering form. He turned his head to the side and peeked open an eye, mumbling a soft, "thank you." She took this opportunity to feel his forehead again, and he was still burning up; he groaned at the coolness of her touch.

"I'll be right back," she told him. He mumbled something unintelligible in response. Julie pulled up Netflix on the television and chose the first show that appeared (Modern Family because Alex was obsessed with Mitchell and Cameron, naturally). She escaped back into the kitchen where she grabbed a bowl filled with ice water and some small hand towels.

When she entered the garage again, Luke was sitting up on the couch, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair was matted against his forehead from the sweat and the angry pout on his lips nearly made her drop the bowl of ice water. "Julie," he groaned, beckoning her to come closer. "Is this what dying feels like?"

"You are such a baby," Julie snapped, sitting down across from him on the coffee table. Luke shot her an affronted look. "If I can go on with my day while Satan's ripping apart my uterus, you can handle the flu."

Luke looked as if he was going to retort, but a small smile appeared on his lips instead. "Yeah, you're right," he replied, "you're a badass, Jules."

"Don't I know it," she sighed, taking one of the hand towels and placing it against his forehead. He instantly leaned forward with a satisfied groan, resting his palms against her knees. They didn't have much room between the coffee table and the couch, and their knees knocked together. "How does that feel?"

"Like heaven," his eyes literally rolled into the back of his head. "Thanks for staying and taking care of me, Jules."

Julie dipped the cloth in the bowl to avoid meeting his gaze. "Yeah, of course," she muttered in response. "I'd do anything for you, you know that." She wasn't sure what prompted that confession, but now it was out there.

Luke’s gaze narrowed on Julie’s face, even though she was looking everywhere but into his eyes. “Yeah. I mean, me too. I just — you’re my best friend. Couldn’t do this whole life thing without you.”

She wasn’t expecting to feel anything when she heard the word friend. It should have been fine, because they are, in fact, best friends. But her chest constricted and she squeezed the cloth absentmindedly, dripping water onto Luke’s lap.

“Shit, sorry,” Julie apologized, avoiding eye contact as she bit her lip. She wasn’t generally a crier, but she was unable to stop her emotions from displaying all over her face and she didn’t need him seeing that. She placed everything back onto the coffee table and hastily stood up. She knocked her knees against Luke’s and his hands fell from her knees as if his touch burned her.

Luke was confused. Julie flipped off like a switch, and he’s only seen that happen a few times before.

“Uh — what just happened? Did I say something?”

“No,” Julie forced out a laugh, “no. Everything’s fine.”

Luke frowned. He wouldn’t fall into the trap of basic girl talk. Again. “This seems like one of those situations where girls say everything’s fine, but it’s really not fine, and next thing you know, they’re cutting up all your clothes."

"You already do that," she shot back, pointedly looking at his absent sleeves.

"I know you're not complaining because you get to look at my amazing biceps every day. And don't think I didn't notice you're changing the subject."

Julie rolled her eyes, busying herself with grabbing the bowl and dumping it out in the bathroom sink. Luke followed her, groaning in pain. He looked like absolute hell; pale, sweaty and determined to get an answer out of her.

"Julie, talk to me, please."

She avoided his gaze, skirting past him. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit," he snapped. His eyebrows furrowed together and his signature pout adorned his lips; he was starting to get annoyed. "Are you forgetting I know you nearly as well as you know yourself?"

That small statement lit a fire inside of Julie.

"Clearly you don't," she fired in response and Luke took a step back in surprise. "Because if you did, then you would know what's wrong. You would know that being your friend absolutely sucks because that isn't what I want! I want more and shit, I thought you did too!"

Everything came spilling out of her at once.

In any other situation, she would rather choke on pure air than confess her feelings for Luke, much less like that. But it happened. And now he was staring at her with wide, bewildered eyes, and Julie didn't know how she should go about it now.

So, bolting seemed like the correct option.

She was halfway to the door, when Luke grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. He was still pale and looking ghostly, but his eyes were shining bright as they focused solely on Julie.

"You're not about to tell me something like that and walk out, Julie. That's not how this works," he told her in a serious tone. All traces of his usual goofy nature were gone and Julie cursed herself for ever saying anything in the first place. Everything was too serious and too real, and she just didn't want to deal with it. "Don't you want to hear what I have to say?"

Julie pursed her lips, staring at his collarbone, rather than up at his face. "Not really. Can we just forget I ever said anything?"

"What if I don't want to?"

At this, Julie looked up. She was surprised to see his eyes focused solely on her; they softened when they met her gaze. "Julie, you mean the world to me. I just didn't want to do anything that would make things weird in the band. Plus, it's hard to know what you're thinking."

He still wasn't being exceptionally clear, and Julie wasn't entirely sure what to make of his statement.

"Well, I wasn't intending to say anything now either," she admitted quietly.

"I'm glad you did," he replied quickly. His grip on her wrist travelled down to hold onto her hand. "One of us should have the guts to admit how we feel about each other."

She hesitantly bit her lip. "You know, I haven't heard much of anything coming from you."

Luke's smirk widened. "You're right," he conceded. "I should probably let you know that I think you're the most beautiful girl I have ever seen and I've been into you since I first saw you in school. And I'd really like to kiss you right now, but I'm not entirely sure your flu shot will protect you from whatever the hell I have."

Heat instantly rushed into Julie's cheeks and she resisted the urge to shy away, because this was real and this was happening. "So, what does this mean?"

"Well, I guess I should start with asking you on a date."

For someone who avoided talking about their feelings for so long, he sure was doing a fantastic job.

"Julie, would you like to go out on a date with me?"

"Yeah, I'd love that."

Luke broke out into an excited smile, wrapping his arms around her and crushing her into his chest. He couldn't kiss her right now, but he sure as hell could show his affection in other ways. He pressed his lips against her temple, enjoying the quiet. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he could hear Julie's breathing start to slow. It's been a long time coming, and he still wasn't where he wanted to be, but they were getting there.

Their quiet moment was interrupted when the garage door slid open forcefully.

"Reggie! It's happening! It's freaking happening!"

Luke groaned at the sound of Alex's voice.

"Reggie! Get your ass in here now!"

Julie turned to the door, staying tucked into Luke's chest.

Alex was shooting them an excited grin, slapping Reggie's bicep repeatedly when he finally joined them.

"Oh, finally! Carlos, get in here!"

Julie let out a squeak of indignation at the sight of her little brother staring down Luke.

"Well, it's about time," he said coolly, surprising both Luke and Julie. "Boys, I want my money by sundown, or else."

Reggie stared after him as he walked away, scratching the back of his neck when Julie sent him a withering glare.

"So, we may or may not have placed a bet on you two," Alex explained. He didn't seem sheepish in the slightest.

Luke chuckled. "Who's 'we'?"

"Literally everyone," Reggie replied.

"Carlos, Flynn, your dad — literally everyone," Alex smirked. "Honestly, you two are pretty clueless."

Julie hung on tighter to Luke, enjoying his warm embrace. She thought it might feel weird in front of their bandmates, but surprisingly, it didn't. The proud and giddy expressions on both Alex and Reggie's face was enough to relax her and help her realize that this was what she was missing all along.

"Yeah, we are," she mumbled with an upwards glance to Luke and his bright smile.

"Oh my god! I need to call Willie! We're going on a double date!"

x

i hope i did this request justice!! i had a bit of trouble with the ending so sorry if it sucks tehe, but i’m a sucker for luke and julie confessing their feelings for each other!!! hope you all enjoyed!!!

stay safe everyone x

[yoonjinkooked]

CHEMISTRY | Run (2)

PART 2 - RUN

SERIES MASTERLIST

DRABBLE SERIES, TONS OF SHORT LITTLE CHAPTERS. WILL BE UPDATED OFTEN CAUSE HOSEOK IS THE #1 SOURCE OF MY PAIN

Pairing: Hoseok / Reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: FWB, university AU

Warnings: cursing, avoiding emotions and responsibility, future smut, Hoseok just makes a cameo in this one

Word count for this part: 2K

Summary: After a few years of being immune to Jung Hoseok’s charms, you suddenly fall into them, head first. All it takes is one night, too much alcohol and a lot of balls.

“Rise and shine, you drunk idiot,” are the words with which Seokjin greets you. The massive headache that you are suffering makes his voice sound 20 times louder than it really is, which is not your favorite way of starting hangover Sundays. Despite knowing that he won’t be deterred from waking you up, you still keep your eyes closed, hoping that today is a day of miracles and Seokjin decides to give you a break. He doesn’t - instead he grabs a hold of the ankle of your left foot and starts shaking it left to right, trying to shake you awake. “Come on, you’ve been out the whole day, I was scared you were dead. Get your ass up, take an aspirin and be an adult.”

“That sounds like a plan,” your voice is worn out, a tell-tale sign that you had spent last night yelling into someone’s ear. “God, why did you let me drink this much? You should have forced water down my throat,” you grunt as you struggle to get yourself into a seated position - you don’t fall back and the room is not spinning. So far, so good. 

“Oh, I was planning on doing that,” Seokjin grins down at you, not looking the least bit hungover - genes, he’d tell you with a proud look on his face. “But by the time I returned from the kitchen, you already had Hoseok’s tongue down your throat.”

And then, you remember. Boy oh boy, do you remember. Seokjin laughs at you, amused by your expression as realization sets in. You’ve hooked up with Hoseok. You’ve made out with Hoseok. And you did, in fact, sit on his dick, just like you’ve wanted to. Luckily for you, you were both fully clothed. Seriously, lucky you - if you remember anything in detail, it’s that you weren’t alone. 

“Everyone saw us last night, didn’t they?” you ask, sighing when Seokjin nods immediately. 

“Everyone. I mean, you were hardly being shy about it, jumping his bones in the middle of the living room,” Seokjin reminds you how straightforward, perhaps even pushy, you were with Hoseok. Both before and after the kissing had started. “For what it’s worth, he wasn’t complaining.”

“I have no idea what had gotten into me,” you admit, trying to recall when, if ever, you’ve thought of Hoseok as more than a friend. And you did not - he was always a friend, that good looking friend that you wouldn’t even consider as a possible hook up option. Your brain had short-circuited last night, and although surprising, it isn’t completely unfounded. 

“Well, Hoseok did not, I can assure you,” Seokjin is laughing his ass, his expression softening a bit when he notices just how uncomfortable you are with his teasing. “Come on Y/N, don’t overthink this. You’re both single and hot. You were horny and he was stoned and happy to help. Making out with him once won’t change your friendship, if that’s what you’re thinking.” 

“Yeah, in theory,” you mumble, knowing already that the next time you see Hoseok, you will feel very awkward. Maybe he won’t and that saves the day? It’s a possibility, but you’re not almighty and situations like these tend to turn you into an awkward mess of a person. 

“You’ve made out with Jimin before and you’re still close,” Seokjin shrugs. 

“Yeah, but that’s different. That’s Jimin. We did it jokingly, more than anything else,” you shake your head, knowing, remembering  that whatever last night was, it was different. “I have no clue what happened. One second he was there, dancing, minding his own business and the next I just… had this strong urge to kiss him.”

“Well, at least you’re a go-getter,” Seokjin laughs at your glare, still refusing to accept this as a possible issue in the making. “Come on, I didn’t walk all the way to your place for therapy hour. You’re nursing a hangover and we need coffee. When you have enough caffeine in your system, you’ll remember that Hobi is the chillest guy on the planet and that your worries are completely baseless. It can be awkward for a week or two but you’re both grown adults, right?”

“Right,” you agree, choosing to hold onto that thought. You’re not kids or horny teens - it’ll be okay. A few inside jokes, a couple of days of awkwardness and a lifetime of teasing from your mutual friends - nothing you can’t handle. No harm, no foul. It’ll all be hilarious in a week or two. 

“You’re acting weird,” Jungkook’s statement makes you freeze, the breakfast burrito in your hands inches away from your mouth. After years of being friends with him, it shouldn’t be a surprise when Jungkook says the most random things at the most random times, but somehow, it still is. 

“No, I’m not,” you deny. 

“You are,” Jungkook nods, as if he is confirming it with himself. “You’re all jumpy. If I didn’t know you any better, I’d think you’re on the run from the law,” he laughs at his own joke, before suddenly stopping to fix you with a suspicious look. “You’re not on the run, right?” 

“No Jungkook, I’m not hiding from the cops. I’m not even halfway through my first coffee.”

“She’s just hiding from Hobi.”

You glare at Namjoon from across the table. First of all, his assumption is rude. Second of all, it is absolutely correct. Well, you weren’t exactly actively avoiding Hoseok, but you also weren’t volunteering to spend time at places where you knew he’d be. Instead, you have spent the past few days occupying yourself with random and not so random tasks and obligations, all while trying not to think about how he’s a good kisser. Or how good he smells. Or how firmly his hands gripped your waist that night. Nope. Not going to think about it. 

“Why would she hide from Hobi?” Jungkook is confused. 

“I’m not hiding from Hobi,” you tell him, before turning to give Namjoon a pointed look. “I’m not hiding from Hobi,” you repeat in a warning tone - it’s clear that you don’t want to talk about it. 

“Perfect,” Namjoon offers you an angelic smile. “Then you won’t have a problem with him joining us? I mean, he’s already walking our way,” he adds, looking over your shoulder. 

Your knee jerk reaction is very literal - a sudden movement leads to a loud bang, a whine and you clutching onto your right knee that you’ve just hit against the table in a lame attempt of making a run for it. Panicked, you turn around to check if Hoseok had seen this, only to realize that he is nowhere to be seen. The shit eating grin on Namjoon’s face when you look back at him is confirmation enough. “I hate you,” you deadpan as he keeps on laughing at you. 

“Why are you like this,” Jungkook asks you as you rub your knee, still very much in pain. “Is it because you made out last weekend?” he interrogates you before chugging on his yogurt. 

“Maybe,” you reluctantly admit, since you were so obvious there was no use in denying it. “I know it doesn’t make much sense but it’s just… weird.” 

“You’re being overdramatic, as usual,” Namjoon chuckles. In moments like these, you wonder why you’re still friends with the guy. Sure, he can be charming, nice and helpful, but he can also be a smartass and act all high and mighty, just like he is doing now. “Not that you would know, since you’re hiding from the guy, but Hoseok is not avoiding you. The situation isn’t weird - you are.” 

“If I wanted therapy, I’d pay for a professional,” you snap. 

“I’m on Y/N’s side here,” Jungkook pauses to swallow his food before continuing. “We can tease and joke, we always do that but we shouldn’t invalidate her feelings. If she is feeling awkward, she has every right to feel that way. Don’t invalidate her feelings, Joon,” he ends his speech with a little worried pout, making himself look at least 5 years younger. 

“Have you been watching Dr. Phil again?” Namjoon asks him. 

“Hey!” you jump in Jungkook’s defense immediately. “Don’t be an ass - he has a point and he is being nice. I didn’t ask for your opinion, which you generously offered anyways. Hoseok’s feelings about this have no affect on me - I’m feeling awkward and I’d rather push said awkwardness under the rug for the time being.” 

“Unlike Mr. Smarty Pants Architect who actually does watch Dr. Phil, I’m the only psych major sitting at this table,” Jungkook starts and you laugh at the not so subtle drag directed at Joon. “It’s my duty as your friend and a future therapist to say that the tactic you’re turning to is not healthy and will likely cause more trouble. But,” he emphasizes, noticing that you have already opened your mouth to complain. “It’s your choice. You know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.”

“Oh, so you’re saying that her acting like the two of them have divorced after 20 years of marriage instead of… exchanging saliva is valid?”

“Stop!” you glare at Namjoon. “You’ve heard Jungkook – my feelings are valid.”

“You’re a coward and you know it,” Namjoon laughs at you. He’s not completely wrong – you are a coward, but you also have your reasons. “You were making out – it’s not the end of the world.” 

“Yes, but it’s not a random dude we’re talking about here!  It’s... Hoseok!” you whisper his name, as if someone other than the two of them could actually hear you say his name in the crowded and incredibly noisy university cafeteria. 

“All the more,” Joon widens his arms in exasperation. “Hobi is not an ass. He’s not going to make it worse, he’ll probably laugh about it, but seeing as you’ve been playing hide and seek, you won’t have a chance to. The longer you wait, the harder it will be once you can no longer avoid him. And honestly, the time is around the corner because I have no idea how you plan on skipping Yoongi’s birthday party.”

As if you needed a reminder of that. There is no way in hell that you can make up an excuse big enough to avoid going to Yoongi’s party - a family emergency wouldn’t work, not when this is your closest group of friends. You’ll have to be there, Hoseok will absolutely be there and you have three whole days to get your shit together. 

“I’ll do my shit at my own time,” you conclude proudly, knowing that you will figure it out and it won’t be because of Namjoon’s impromptu intervention. 

“Um… Y/N,” Jungkook lets out a nervous laughter. “I’m not so sure about that. Hobi’s walking towards us, right now.”

“I’m not falling for that again,” you wave your hand in dismissal, the pain that you are still feeling in your right knee reminding you of Joon’s failed attempts to trick you. 

“He’s really not lying,” Namjoon sips on his coffee sassily, the slurping sound coming from his straw making you want to throw something at him. But there’s something about the cocky look on his face that makes you realize that he’s not joking this time. Not to mention that Jungkook, unlike Joon, is an actual sweetheart of a person who would not lie to you just to spite you. Gulping, you decide to risk and check. 

And sure enough, as you turn around you can see Hoseok just a few tables away, smiling at the three of you – ripped jeans, white shirt, green snapback and that stupid, blinding smile. For a second, only for a second, your eyes meet and before either one of you can make a face or react in any way, you are standing up and this time around, your knees are safe. 

“I have to go,” you grab your bag and phone and speed walk before anyone can tell you anything. You can hear Jungkook yell after you, but you’re already a few tables away from them, walking towards safety as fast as you can. 

Was it stupid? Yeah, probably. Was it obvious? Painfully. But fight or flight kicked in and up up and away you went. 

[sometimes-i-write-4-you]

je t'aime too: Eric Forman X reader

Requested by @thatsabummer02 : Could you do an Eric Forman x Female!Reader? When Eric geeks out and the reader finds it cute but the gang makes fun of him. So for Eric’s birthday the reader climbs through his window and gives him something Star Wars related and Eric gets excited and kisses the reader then gets nervous and they confess their feelings and make out or something. Sorry if that doesn’t make sense

a\n: hope you like it!

trigger warning: cursing.

We all sat at the Forman Basement, expect from Eric, who was standing in front of the freezer, talking about star wars. Most of the people around him find it stupid and keep poking fun at his love for a Movie series, but i find it Adorable. The way he gets so excited over the movie, and the way his lips moved along to the lines in perfect sync. Whenever his mission of convincing the gang to see it again… for some reason, it made me happy, and maybe I was hoping that one day he’ll talk about me all excited, and his lips would move against mine in perfect sync.

“- and that’s why Leia and Luke are perfect for each other. I mean, both are Brave, Smart, and-” Eric explains, but Hyde had enough. “Man, shut up, you’re boring my ass off” He says, punching Kelso lightly, since our tall, self-centered friend fell asleep. “Aw, man, i was having the best dream” Kelso sighed, “i was a Jedi and i went to save Leia, and then when she kissed me for luck i got to touch her boo-” “Kelso! This is so disrespectful!” Eric cuts him off before Kelso gets to finish the sentence, although we all understood what he was about to sat. “you two are fucking nerds” Steven sighed. “I’m not a nerd, I'm horny and Eric’s star wars talk makes me sleepy” Kelso corrects, and I let out a small laugh. “Yeah, Eric is a nerd. I bet you guys he is wearing star wars underwears” Donna’s turn to contribute to the conversation. “No i don’t, i don’t even own a pair” Eric says, but Donna looks at him, her eyes screaming “we both know you do so just admit it or i will pull your pants down and show everybody”. “Fine, I own a pair, but it’s in the laundry, so, you were wrong!” Eric admits, his voice high-pitched like it gets whenever the gang makes fun of him. Steven, Kelso and Donna burst out laughing, but I just gave Eric a comforting smile.

“You guys are fucking mean” i say, attempting to calm them down. “Says the girl who told Jackie she worships the Devil only to get her off of our back” Donna says. “Hey, That was for all of us” Eric jumps in, “and I worship (y\n) for that”. “Really? Will you sacrifice your star wars boxers for me?” i say, making everyone laugh. “(y\n)!” Eric’s high pitched voice is making a comeback. “I’m sorry, it’s just.. You make it so easy” i smile at him, “if it makes it any better, i think it’s cute how much you obsess over that movie”. “Burn!” Kelso screams, and I look at him confused. “Oh, (y\n), you don’t tell a guy he’s cute” Hyde’s laughing, and Eric seems to agree. “Yeah, i think i’m gonna quit the star wars talk for now” he declares and finally sits down. “Thanks, (y\n), i can always count on your non-existing boy skills” Donna smiles at me, and then Jackie walks in. she notices me and leaves so quick i’m pretty sure i was the only one who niticed.”Jackie then re-enter the room. “Hey babe” Hyde says and gets up to kiss his girlfriend.

“Hyde, Do you know she worships the Devil? How can you hang out with her? I’m so sick of this! Stop having her around, cause i refuse to let her sin rub all over me, i am not going to hell because you have a bad taste in friends!” Jackie says, and everyone’s looking at me, urging me to confess the truth. “Jackie-” “do not speak my name, demon!” Jackie cuts me off. “It was just a fucking prank” i reply, and she calms down. “Oh. sorry i called you a demon, you were really convincing when you painted a pentagon on the floor with blood, i’m assuming it was just paint, right?” she says as she’s taking a seat in Hyde’s lap. “oh , no, I dissected a frog that day in science and got some blood- I'm kidding! It was ketchup `` I say, quitting the gory lie once I noticed her eyes widened in shock.

Eric’s birthday is tomorrow, and I suddenly have the perfect idea. “Well, I have to go now, see you guys tomorrow” I say, getting up. Eric hugged me goodbye, and I knew i’m going to feel the exact place he touched for the whole day. A round of hugs and goodbyes (Jackie was still questioning me, so she just shook my finger, scared to touch hands that summon a demon ). 

It was finally the big day - Eric’s birthday, and of course I was so smart and forgot the gift. “I’ll drop it by later” I promised to Eric, since Kitty refused to let me leave the Party.  “Cool, thanks,” he replied, reaching for my shoulder’s to move me to the right so he could go talk to Donna. She’s about to leave for college tomorrow, and this party I forced Kelso to organize along with me was half a goodbye party for her, half a happy birthday Eric. Kitty had enough of her mind with Red’s heart condition, so I took over the organisation and even came by early to make him pancakes, and not toot my own horn, but at this point I don't know what he sees in Donna he doesn't see in me. Every goddamn time she breaks his heart, and every goddamn time they end up together. When she rejected his proposal, claiming that she doesn't know if they can have the future she want for herself, their relationship got awkward and they ended up breaking up for college, since she was leaving and he was staying, and when i say they decides, i mean Donna Offered so that they can date while they are far from each other. Hyde thinks they’re done for real now, but Kelso bet him a bag of “goodies” that they’ll end up sleeping together the first weekend Donna spends home. “It sucks, ha?” Kelso says, sipping on his beer. “What are you talking about?” i asked him, hoping he dosen’t mean what i think he eans, because if his idiotic ass saw right througt it, Then Eric knows for sure. “Well, you’re into Eric, who’s into Donna, much like me, who’s into Jackie who’s into stupid Hyde” kelso explains. “Shit, Does Eric know?” I sigh, and now it’s Kelso’s turn to be confused. “Knows what?” he asks me. “That i like him” i answer, “you just said it-”. “Wait, are you really into him? I was just messing with you, god” he laughs, “but you know what we should do? We should hook up to make Erick and Jackie jealous!” he says, resting his hand around my waist and pulling me closer. He closes his eyes and leans in, but I push him away before he gets to kiss me. “No, kelso, I'm not that desperate”.

Finally I get back home, take the gift and head out to the Forman’s. Eric’s window is open, as usual, however it’s less usual that he sits next to it and looks down. “I hoped you’d come” he smiled down at me. His gift was in my bag, and so I climbed up. He cleared the way and I entered his room. “Hey, sorry I ditched you at the party, it was not very cool of me” he says as I sit down on his bed. “It’s cool man, it’s your last night with Donna, you love her and all that” i reply, keeping my eyes on the wrapped gift. The paper had a space print on, and it had a card shaped like a spaceship. “No, no. I was being shitty… shity friend” Eric insisted as he joined me on his bed. No, not like that, pervs, but i kinda wish it was. I handed him the gift. “God, (nickname), this is amazing” Eric said. “You didn’t even open it” i laughed. Looking over his shoulder, excited to see his reaction to the lightsaber toy and Luke and Han solo poster, on which I glued a picture of him and me over the faces. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough for him to jump up and pull me into a hug. “God, you’re the best. I’m so happy I could kiss you!” He says. “I’m so happy you’re happy, i might just let you!” i replied without thinking too much,and I was surprised when his lips met mine. He pulled away before i got the chance to sink in the feeling. “I’m sorry, that wa-” he starts, but I pull his collar to match his height and bring my lips back to his. He quickly kissed back, his fingers tightened around my waist and one of his hands brush against my stomach as he reached for my cheek to pull me closer from both my places. He spins me around without breaking the kiss, slowly bending to sit on his bed. I find a comfortable enough spot on his lap, slightly opening my mouth to hint it’s okay if he wants to turn this into a french kiss. Never really understood why they call it french kiss, aren’t they supposed to be like, polite and classy? What’s so polite and classy about having your tongue down someone’s throat? I quickly dismiss the thought since it made making out with the guy I've loved gor forever much less romantic. “je t'aime” he whispered. Looks like he was thinking about what we’re doing too.

“je t'aime too” I reply in between kisses. “Actually, you’re supposed to say je t'aime aussi” Eric says while my lips move from his to his neck, “shut up, smartass, you are ruining the moment” i say. “Make me, please, make me” he says, and since he asked so nicely, my lips move back to his.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Pure Blood 2 (Sirius Black x Fem!Oc)

Book II

Words: 2, 349

A/N: Now, meet Perseus John Black-Singh. I couldn’t resist casting Logan Lerman, he’s so beautiful. -Val

Masterlist:

Chapter 1: / Chapter 3

1980

“Hey, Sirius.”

“Hi, Jenna,” He greets with a frown. "Uh, Persephone isn't-"

She raises a hand, stopping him.

"Can I come in?"

Sirius nods, stepping aside. They both sit in the living room of the apartment.

"I don't mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?"

She sighs.

“I waited for Persephone to not be here. This is not easy, but I didn't want you to hear it from someone else.”

"What happened?"

"It's Regulus,” She looks him straight in the eye. "What was the last you heard from him?"

Hearing the name of his younger brother Sirius feels a strong pressure on his chest. He understands why Jenna doesn't want Persephone here. Whatever the news are, he knows it won't be good for her and the baby.

"He joined the Death Eaters, as was his plan," He answers uneasily. She nods. "Just tell me, Jenna."

“Well, he achieved his and your parents' goal. He became a great member of the Dark Lord's followers. Some say that it’s close to him, but,” She fidgets on the couch. "I'm so sorry, Sirius. He died.”

A huge lump forms in Sirius's throat. The news these days are rarely good but he wasn’t expecting this.

“Shit," He says with difficulty. His breath hitches and feels his head spin. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to control himself. “How— how did you find out?"

Although she and Sirius have never been close, no one deserves to go through all of this.

“He’d been missing since last year. The Death Eaters knew he was dead, but did nothing about it. Moody got that information.”

"Missing? Don't you know where the body is?"

"Sirius, please don't get hopeful. No, they haven't found the body, but it's been over a year now. You know that now that doesn’t guarantee anything.”

"How do you not want me to if—”

"What would you do? Go get him? Nobody has an idea where he might be and if he hasn't shown any signs this year, what makes you think he’ll come back? " She knows that she’s being very hard on him, but for that very reason is why she offered to break the news. If any of her friends did it, they would end up with some crazy plan, or if it was some authority, Jenna knew that the first thing Sirius would do would be to disobey. "You have other things to worry about, Black."

"It's my brother, Jenna,” He answers through clenched teeth.

“Yes and I’m very sorry, but there’s nothing you can do. Persephone needs you now more than ever. Your baby’s coming soon and I don't think she’ll allow you to go out on a risky mission right now."

"I can't stand idly by.”

"You must do it. For the sake of your family. Think of your son.”

The place remains in a tense silence. Jenna hopes Sirius doesn't do something stupid, while he struggles on what he should do.

"You're right,” He whispers.

Jenna takes his hand and squeezes it.

Feeling helpless, Sirius's eyes fill with tears. He holds Jenna's hand like his life depends on it. She lets him cry, she doesn't know what to say or do. After a few minutes, he wipes his face and breathes calmly.

"Will you tell Persephone?"

He shakes his head.

“I don't want this to affect her now. I'll talk to Remus, maybe after we have the baby, I don't know. I don't know what to do— I, uh…”

“Don't worry, it's okay. No one from the order will interfere in these matters. I took care of this.”

"Thanks, Jenna,” He smiles sadly at her.

All of this reminds him of the time he was told the news of his uncle Alphard. Him without being able to do anything, not even make a dignified funeral. With another person notifying him of the tragedy. Both in the wrong places, he can't help but feel chills at the thought that the most important people in his life were alone at that moment. And no one could say goodbye.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure"

“I want Reg to have a headstone in the same cemetery as my Uncle Alphard. I don't want him to stay with my parents."

"I can do that.”

"Thanks. I know it's a lot to ask, but now I have to ask permission for everything…”

"I understand, Sirius. You don’t have to worry. That's what your girlfriend's best friend is for.”

That makes them laugh a bit, until the apartment door opens.

"Sirius, you won't believe what we bought!" Persephone walks in, Remus at her back. They both have several shopping bags on both arms.

Sirius wipes his face completely, gets up from the couch and walks over to his girlfriend with the best smile he can do.

"Tell me everything, love,” He kisses her lips and brings a hand to her belly.

***

1991

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" He frowns.

I was scared.

"I wanted you to know what it is to have a normal life.”

His gray eyes look directly at me. Damn, he's just like his father.

“But it was never normal, I have never been normal. Everyone at school says so.”

"They don’t know what they say. They tease you because you're different, but it doesn't mean that's bad, my star. Besides, you're always going to face those taunts, both Muggles and wizards,” I grimace. "They'll always find something different in you to use against you, but—”

"I must not let them affect me, I know,” He rolls his eyes.

Smartass.

“Exactly,” I laugh.

"So, I have magic?" He says.

“Yeah, but it's not like in the movies, darling. It's not that you can manipulate everything with your hands. You need a wand, books, the teachers will teach you to control it…”

“A school for wizards. Cool.”

"Aren't you upset anymore?"

"I don't know,” He shrugs. He thinks for a few minutes and then smirks. "Does this mean that I’ll never see my classmates again? Nor Harry?”

Oh, no.

“You’ll no longer go back to that school, but you’ll still see Harry. He’s a wizard too.”

"What!?" He screeches. "Why? It's not fair, why does he always have to be everywhere? Who else is?” He crosses his arms.

"Uh, Harry, your uncle James, Remus, Andromeda, Dora, Jenna, Apollo, Jane, your cousins,” I look at him as his brow continues to frown. “Me."

"No, that's not true. I've never seen you do magic.”

“I had to hide it from you. Wait. I told you all those names and you just distrust me?"

"Sometimes you tell lies, mum.”

"It's not true,” I say offended.

"I know you forgot Uncle Moony's birthday, and you went to buy his gift when you said you were going for more soap," He says raising an eyebrow.

"That was different.”

"Who ate the last slice of the Phoenix cake?"

“Apollo."

"You had chocolate on your cheek.”

"Okay! Those were little lies, but I also have magic.”

“Show me.”

Now I raise an eyebrow.

"Why don't you look in the mirror, kid?"

His eyes widen and he runs to the bathroom.

"My hair is blue!" I laugh. “We're wizards!" He squeals excitedly, but his smile doesn't last long "Dad is too?"

"Yes, he is " I smile tensely at him.

“He studied at holwarts too?"

“Hogwarts," I correct him. "Yes, we were both there.”

"Wait, do you think he's in the wizarding world? I can look it up!”

The knot in my stomach tightens.

“Percy, we've already talked about this. He doesn't want to be found.”

“But—”

“Please."

He sighs.

“Okay," He says, looking down.

It hurts to see him like this. Telling him that his father is far away was not a good idea, but at that moment, I didn’t know what to say to him, despite having a plan. I couldn't just tell him that his father had died. I just can’t.

“Hey," I clear my throat and take his hands. "You should know more about the magical world.”

"What?"

"Well, in the school there are four houses and depending on your aptitudes, they’ll choose you in one of them, it’s like being in a team with the whole school,” He watches me attentively. "They are Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Gryffindor.”

"Which one were you on?"

“Slytherin, and your father in Gryffindor.”

"What do I have to do to get elected to one of them?"

“You'll know when you arrive.”

“Mum,” He complains.

“No, I won't screw it up. I— uh, there is something else,” I try to sort my ideas. "All houses have their history and Slytherin is not the best of all, but don’t get carried away by that. It doesn't matter where you stay,” I smile at him. “What matters is who you are, okay? I want you to continue being the same clever boy as always.”

"I can do it.”

I nod.

"Do you remember the story your Uncle Apollo told you about our family?"

“Yes."

“Well, it's all true, only with magic. The Singh have been very important wizards and witches in the wizarding world, almost all of them were in Slytherin… Listen, maybe someone they will recognize your last name and they know very… uh, scary stories about them. I just want to warn you of what could happen.”

"Don't worry, Mum. I'll be fine.”

"Okay, but if you need help, you know your cousins are there too,” He nods. "Okay, I think that tomorrow we can buy your books and everything you need,” I tell him, handing him his letter.

“Great," He’s about to leave, but he returns scared. "Can you return my hair to normal? I like blue, but not in my hair.”

I roll my eyes. I’ll never understand why Sirius and Perseus care so much about their hair.

“Done."

He sees his reflection in a pot and sighs in relief.

***

"And now everything’s ruined by Perseus,” says Harry when we reach his side at the station.

“I’m not excited to see your horrible face, four-eyes.”

"A beautiful day to take the train, isn't it?" James says to then hug me. I laugh corresponding.

"Do you have everything you need, love?" I ask Harry. "Your father can be very messy.” I raise an eyebrow at the man.

After witnessing the two Potters wanting to buy everything, distracted by pretty things in Diagon Alley, I had to help them.

"Everything on the list, Aunt P.”

"And a little more,” adds James sharing a giggle with his son. I roll my eyes. "Harry, why don't you introduce Ron and Perseus?"

"No, I saw him first. Perseus can get his own friends.”

"Harry," James says in a more severe tone.

“Fine."

"I don’t need his friends, surely he’ll be just as stupid as him.”

“Percy!"

"Fine!" He growls.

They both walk towards a red-haired boy along with a lady and a little girl.

"You know they don't have to share everything, right?" I tell James as the two of us watch our sons interact.

“Yes, but I've already given up on their friendship. So, I decided to have fun watching them fight,” He answers making me laugh.

"So, Ron?"

"The Weasleys. I think I heard that last name at school, but we never met them, their parents Molly and Arthur, they have seven children, counting Ron."

"What?"

"I know,” He laughs. "They seem like good people, and the boy was nice.”

“Okay…"

The whistle is heard throughout the station, all students must board the train.

"Ready?" I tell James and he nods.

When the two boys return, I ask Harry to come over and James does the same with Percy.

I crouch down to his level.

"Okay. I just want to tell you that I’m very excited that you are finally learning the truth about magic and that you’re starting your classes at Hogwarts,” He smiles at me. "We both know that things won't be easy with your whole story," He nods. “But, I want you to know that if at some point something happens, you can write to me. Hedwig will know where to go. If you have a problem, or just want to talk to me, don’t hesitate to do so, I’ll always answer you.”

"Thank you.”

"Come here,” I hug the boy tightly. "Oh, and something else,” I say as we part. “I know you don't like the idea, but I would like you to take care of Perseus too,” He’s about to complain, but I interrupt him. “I'm not saying that you’re his babysitter, I just want to know that if something happens, you’ll be there for him when I can’t,” He sighs. “Please? I won't be able to sleep if you don't promise, love,” I pout.

"I promise," He says through clenched teeth.

I laugh and kiss his cheek. I get up and we meet the others, now it is my son's turn. I hug him tighter.

"You won't give me another lecture, will you?" He says when we part.

"You've already gotten a lot,” He nods, I kiss his hair. “But there’s something I forgot to tell you. An advice.”

"What?"

"Have fun.”

One last goodbye and they both get on the train.

"Ha! I told you we would make it,” I turn to my right and laugh as I see Jenna and Marlene say goodbye to Josephine, who then runs and gets on the train.

"Who fell asleep?" I ask them.

"It was the silly muggle traffic, my wife didn't want to use any other faster means," says Jenna.

"I don’t regret it.”

The train begins to move, in the distance I see the small head of Perseus, as soon as he sees me he smiles and says goodbye. I wave at him back.

Little by little he goes away. Only until this moment does nostalgia come to me.

"Aw, you’re both crying," says Marlene.

I turn to James, who’s doing his best to hide his tears from us.

Taglist

@dielgonacoffee @avipshamitra @auroraawrites @findzelda @lizlil @siriusmuch @chloe-geoghean1 @reverse-hxlland  @may-rapp @the-specific-oceans @eveft @secret-obsessions @theeicedamericano @xkonpinkx @littledeadgirlwalking @bloodorangemoonlight  @siriuslysirius1107  @madmaiden2890 @ren-ela @inkandpen22 @just-here-to-escape-from-reality

@treestarrrrrrrr​ @thagreenmoon​

[vvanini]

It's possible that Bowers could have stabbed Eddie in your AU, still breaking out that place to get the losers in the name of "Pennywise"

Eddie's probably bopping to ABBA, doing Car Things™ and is suddenly stabbed by Bowers, instead of a Perrier bottle he hits him with a tool of some kind, and then makes a smartass comment about the mullet when Bowers is knocked out

He also probably calls Richie first because he's an idiot who doesn't have his priorities straight. And T H E N he calls the emergency services and has a panic attack

(sorry for the length of this 🙃 can I ask also what you think about Sonia/Myra in this AU? Do they get served a steaming pile of 🖕)

oh yeah Bowers definitely did stab Eddie AND carved his initial on Ben’s stomach AND killed Mike’s dog and just overall was the bully he was in the book/movies. And yes Eddie would totally call Richie before emergency services lol 

as for Sonia and Myra... Honestly I don’t think Myra should even be in this au because you know... What’s the purpose of marrying a woman who’s just like your mother... when you’re still living with your mother? I haven’t thought much  about Eddie’s relationship with his mom in this au tbh I think as he grows up like especially during high school he would start rebelling a bit coming home later than he usually does and spending more of his time outside or at his friend’s places, confiding in Maggie and Wentworth? When he starts his business he would want to move out but Sonia wouldn’t let him for a while she wouldn’t even want him to be a mechanic but eventually Richie would ask Eddie to move in with him and tell him that he’s an adult he should be able to do whatever the hell he wants and not let his mother manipulate him

he would also encourage him to go to therapy to treat his hypochondria

they would live together and and be happy and it’s not like an old woman like Sonia can prevent a grown ass man from doing whatever he wants you know

okay wait actually i just had a big brain moment

Bev’s abusive shit father dies like in the movie 

What if the Toziers adopt her?????? Beverly Marsh Beverly Tozier???? IMagine her and Rich being absolute siblings??  Also Eddie spending more time with them than Sonia? Im crying they would make Bev and Eddie feel so safe and loved it’s what they deserve they deserve to grow up with the correct paternal love

Maggie and Went raised Bev and partly Eds. Absolute king and queen

They would parent all losers,, imagine Ben & Eddie in the track team, Stan in baseball and Mike in football (let's assume he left Derry for uni after high school. We can't have the losers spend their hs years without Mike can we)

When one of the boys have a game Bev and Rich and Bill would make shirts saying "RUN HANSCOM RUN" or "TEAM HANLON" or something jskdkd Maggie Went Rich and Bev would all wear their shirts, get in the car, pick up Bill from his house, go see the match and be supportive lol

[xfandomwritingsx]

A Diamond Tint - Lee Christmas - Part One

-gif source-

Description: Learning Christmas is engaged was not part of your evening plans.

Warnings/Labels: None really

Approx. Word Count: 1,800

A/N:  So this is something I've kept hidden away for quite a while. I'm throwing this first part out here to see if there's any interest.

-

You hear his motorcycle from a few streets away, the familiar rev bringing a smile to your face. You finish tying your hair back and shimmy into your jeans, leaving your t-shirt untucked. You’d only arrived a few hours earlier, this being your first chance it change into some relaxing clothes for the evening. You’re looking forward to the night, always happy to be back with the guys, just drinking and shooting the shit. There’s not much else that feels straight-up like home.

You wait until you can hear the garage door opening and his motorcycle pulling in before you make your way back to everyone. You pause at the top of the stairs, looking over the railing for him. He’s already pulled his helmet off and swung his leg over his bike, walking to approach the guys.

“I thought I heard Christmas was coming early this year,” you called to him. He looks around for a moment, surprised by the sound of your voice. When his eyes land on you at the top of your stairs, there’s a smile on his face. You start to descend, letting your hand slide along the rail as you keep your eyes on him.

“Darling, every woman knows I never come early.” The innuendo in his voice is clear and brings a wide smile on your face while the rest of the guys holler or whistle in response. They’re no stranger to your flirting. Hell, you’ve been doing it for years. Barney, however, still cringes.

“Hey now,” he scolds. “Still my daughter, yeah?” You roll your eyes at him, but Lee doesn’t even turn to acknowledge he said anything. Barney just takes another drink from his beer with an annoyed look on his face.

“It’s good to see you, Christmas,” you tell him in a more conversational tone. You come up to him and throw your arms around his neck.

“You too, slugger.” He returns your hug and the woodsy smell of his aftershave fills you senses. Another familiar sensation of home. The leather of his jacket is chilled from the ride over, but you can feel the heat of him seep through when the hug lasts a little longer than it should. “What are you doing here?” he asks when you finally break apart. You motion over to Barney as you step away.

“Pops needs my help,” you explain.

“Hold on a minute,” he chimes in, holding up his hand. “Who came to who?” You cock your hip out and smile playfully at your father.

“I brought you a target and told you that you’d need my help if you went after him. And you are. So you need me.” This time it’s his turn to roll your eyes, knowing better than to try to argue with you. He raised one hell of a smart and stubborn ass woman. It has both its benefits and downsides. You turn your attention back to Lee with a tilt of your head. “Ready for a drink?” He gives a nod.

“Always.”

The first part of the night passes easily just like it has every time you remember. You’ve been around these men since you were a teenager and officially got into the business, popping in and out on jobs in your twenties. These nights are a lot of alcohol and a lot of casual bullshitting. Knives get thrown. Trash talk gets spewed. And occasionally there’s some light to heavy flirting between you and Christmas.

You grew up with a crush on him. Everyone knew it because as a typical young girl, you didn’t exactly hide it well. He was always polite about it, never harshly shooting you down, but also never leading you on. And then you weren’t around for a couple of years. You’d gone out on your own, training and doing some solo jobs to prove yourself to your father, who still tried to push you away from this life. When you came back, you came back a different person; matured with some blood on your hands. And suddenly he wasn’t looking at you the same as he did before.

You bonded easily, quickly. Instead of refusing your requests to teach you to throw knives, now he’d offer without prompting. You stayed up late a lot of nights just talking. You gelled together during jobs. You were friends as much as you were family. The flirting just followed naturally with your personalities.

Everyone believes it’s a harmless habit and doesn’t bat an eye at it, except Barney once in a while, but that’s mostly out of obligation. For the most part, they’re right. Nothing’s ever happened between you and you never suspect it will, but for you, at least, there’s still that deep rooted desire for it to come to fruition. There are some nights where you think that just maybe, he does too. Like when you’re alone and he drops the too-kid-like nickname of Slugger in favor of the slightly-inappropriate Babygirl.

Tonight though, the subtle winks across the room and blatant smiles back and forth are interrupted by the mention of Lacy, whom he’s apparently still seeing. You choke down the beer you’d been swallowing and wave a hand to stop the conversation from moving on as you take your propped up foot off the table you’re perched on.

“Hold on! You’re still with that woman?” you ask in disbelief.

“Yeah.” You can hear the slight defensiveness coming out. “So what?”

“God, Christmas! Why?” It’s hard to keep your disgust from your voice and the little smiles at the ground from the rest of the team don’t escape you. “She’s one of those girls that just thinks it’s cool to have a bad boy boyfriend.” You cringe at just the thought of her and take another swig of your beer.

“Fiancé,” he corrects just a hair quieter than before.

“Shit!” Is he kidding? “You’re really going to marry her?” There’s a pit in your stomach now and your disbelieved smile starts to fade, the humor bleeding away.

“That’s the plan,” he confirms. You chew your bottom lip and look away, unsure what else to say. You’re still trying to process the very idea of him marrying that woman if you’re honest. “What’s with the look?” he asks pointedly. “The hell’s your problem?” You take a second and simply shrug.

“Look, you’re family just like the rest of these upstanding gentlemen.” You wave your hand holding your beer out to room. A couple of them chuckle and raise their own drinks to you. “I don’t like when family’s being stupid and you? You’re acting pretty fucking stupid right now.” You hop off the table and chug the rest of your beer, ignoring the way his face scrunches up. “Anyone else need a refill?” The question works to break the tense silence and move the conversation elsewhere.

His eyes still watch you and there’s an uncomfortable tension that replaces the light, friendly feel you normally have. You try to ignore it, but at the end of the night when the music’s died down and you’re gathering glasses and bottles into the kitchen sink, he comes up behind you.

“What’s wrong with Lacy?” You sigh heavily, but don’t turn around to face him. You think about it for a few moments, trying to find the words you want. Once you’ve gathered your thoughts, you spin on your heels and place your hands on the counter now behind you.

“Does she even know you?” you ask softly. You’re trying really hard not to sound aggressive or accusatory, which is hard to do after consuming alcohol.

“Of course she does!” he scoffs and throws his head back. His defensive reaction irritates you.

“Yeah? Does she know your kill rate?” That seems to stop him and the answer is clear on his face. You continue before he can refute you. “She ever see you after a mission gone wrong? Patch you up?” You suspect the answer to that is also no because he’s been known to show up at the door of your apartment regularly to have you help patch him. “She ever see your face after you got the shit beat out of you in Slovakia or did you hide that from her?” His face is stiffening, his jaw starting to grind, but you’re not done. “She know that your left ankle pops all the damn time because you broke it being a show off and jumping off a waterfall in the jungle in your twenties?” You point down to the offending appendage and he tries to resist the urge to roll it. You pause as he soaks in your words and when he doesn’t come back at you, you try again a little softer. “You want a partner in life but she can’t be that when she doesn’t know you. She seriously believes her badass boyfriend-”

“Fiancé,” he corrects and you roll your eyes.

“Whatever. She thinks you just go on exotic trips and punch bad guys.”

“Sometimes I do that.” It’s hard not to laugh at him being a smartass, but you manage.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you tell him, the words half a plea as much as a demand. You don’t want him to make a mistake and you can feel it in your gut that she would be. “Do you know what she does when you’re gone for months at a time?” His face snaps back to the angry, defensive and points a finger at you.

“She’s not cheating on me.” It sounds harsh, demanding, like he’s telling himself, reminding him as much as he is trying to convince you.

“Bullshit,” you spit. “Pops has said it, now I’m gonna say it. It’s in her blood.” Why can’t he see this? All the signs are there in his face and instead he buries his head in the sand and buys a damn diamond ring. “You ever come home early and she ain’t there?” He looks away from you and the look in his eyes answers the question, just like it always does. “Never wondered where she was?” you press gently.

“Ya know,” he breathes heavily before turning his head back to you. “You shouldn’t be such a bitch just because you got a little crush on me.” There’s not nearly as much bite and malice in his tone as there are his words. You throw your head back and scoff at him anyways.

“Do you really want to stop and examine who checks who out when I’m in town?” He tries to hide a smile, but it cracks through and he tilts his head with a shrug, not really having a defense for that. It allows both of you to slip back into a less prickly atmosphere. “Look,” you start again. “I’m not trying to be a bitch.” You reach forward and grab his arm, curling your fingers around his bicep and squeezing gently. “I just care about you and this girl is nothing but trouble.” He rolls his eyes away from you, but doesn’t move away from your grip. “Everyone knows it, I’m just the one saying it.” You can tell the conversation is over when he doesn’t offer a response and doesn’t turn his eyes back to you. So you give his arm a pat and go to leave.

[evolsinner]

⊱┊7

with the moment past {definitely not mentally}, i make my way to the lounge.

“hey, rosé?”

i see him seated on a 3 seat sofa.

a, i hope he didn’t see the way i shaved my hair down there into a love heart... b, he def saw my boobies!!

“y~yes, mr killian?”

“you hungry or something? i can order you some pizza.”

hell, i’m famished, can’t remember the last time i ate.

“no, aha…”

“you sure?”

“actually, yeah, i am, a little... sorry if that’s an inconvenience.”

“no, not at all! don’t be silly. i’m starving.”

i restrict a smile.

“here,” he shifts to the side, patting the middle seat, “make yourself comfortable. i’ll order some now.”

i place his hoody on the armrest and sit on the other end instead; don’t have it in me to sit right next to him. we would be like idk touching and whatnot. amongst the remote and his wallet, he grabs his phone from the middle seat, dialling a number.

“pineapple on pizza?” he faces me, holding the phone to his ear.

i fucking love pineapple on pizza.

“100%,” i reply confidently.

he grins.

i have just found my soulmate.

i admire how laid back he looks: his white untucked dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick veins and a dark tan, tie tossed on the table. is this how every male teacher looks after work?

‘cause, yummy!

“takeaway. one large vegetarian and one large hawaiian...with extra pineapple, please,” sir glances at me adorably. “cheers, sweetheart,” he hangs up after giving his number and address for the order. “should be here in 40 mins,” he informs me, “catch,” and tosses the remote at me. “pick a movie. make it a good one. i’m gonna go freshen up quickly.”

can i come?

-ˋˏ ༻🍷༺ ˎˊ-

i struggle to find a goddamn movie!

sir’s phone vibrates and i look across at it. why does that thing be buzzing and ringing all the time? i mean... hmm… i lean all the way back, peeping down the hallway. i listen to see if the shower is still on.

🚿pshhshhshhshhshhshh

oh good, it’s still on. i sneakily pick up his orange google pixel 4 xl mobile phone. okay, let’s see, what’s his passcode? says his pin contains at least four digits. hmm...

1 2 3 4

incorrect pin entered

4 3 2 1

incorrect pin entered

6 9 6 9

incorrect pin entered

his birth year, maybe?

1 9 8 1

incorrect pin entered

it’s definitely mine, then.

2 0 0 0

try again in 30 seconds

fuck, what is it?!

now i’m adamant.

a while later, i listen for the shower again. no sound. fuck me! i also haven’t even picked a movie yet! i grasp the remote and quickly flip through the movies. in ‘newly added’ a film that goes by the name ‘barefoot’ {2014} appears. this’ll do. i haphazardly click on it, put his phone back in the middle seat and swiftly bring my knees up on the sofa.

bathroom door opens and mr killian returns, setting himself down.

and ohhhh boy, oh jesus h. christ, he is wearing grey sweatpants. grey. sweatpants. oh my goddddddd!!!!

🎵dun da daaaaa! dunda dunda da dun dadada oo oo oooooo dun da da

i cringe, really should have skipped the first 10 mins or something.

sir looks at me with an amused expression, “just started?”

i nod, embarrassed.

then he cracks up a little, “how long did it take for you to pick a film?”

“i paused it, was waiting for you.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“alrighty then,” he slumps down, letting me get away with the white lie. “this better be good or else you’re held accountable.”

the professional teacher’s vibe is disappearing and transforming into a perky one.

he’s wearing a loose t~shirt with long sleeves and it’s even rolled up. his hair is damp and floppy, making him so much more attractive. he runs his hands through it, flipping it back as the stray droplets of water roll down his neck. i would gladly lick them off for him if he doesn’t mind...

“why’s my phone locked for 60 minutes?”

“huh?” i snap out of my daydream.

“my phone, why’s it locked?”

*ding dong.*

“maybe...you put the wrong password in?”

“pretty sure i didn’t, and you’re the only other person in this house, no?”

*ding dong!*

“aha..ha,” i giggle nervously.

“does it look like i’m laughing?” he asks me condescendingly.

my smile disappears.

*ding dong! ding dong! ding dong! ding dong!*

“ight, i’m coming!!” sir shouts, grabbing his wallet. “..jesus christ, break my damn doorbell, will you..” he mutters under his breath angrily.

bit hot...

-ˋˏ ༻🍷༺ ˎˊ-

i only ate 2 slices of pizza so i wouldn’t look like a fat bitch in front of sir. he, however, didn’t even eat any. so much for being ‘starving’. he was just casually watching me eat. i could feel his eyes on me each time i took a bite and the odd olive or pineapple went rolling down into my lap. it was so awkward!

we’re halfway through the movie and i felt the need to say something because jay, the character, was such a jerk.

“i mean, it’s actually rather heartbreaking. daisy was locked away for most of, if not, her whole life. and now she is finally free, finally able to experience the pleasures of the real world. she put all of her trust in him and he abandoned her. that’s so not cool.”

as i’m analysing the film, i feel his eyes analysing me.

“well, you can’t blame him,” sir counterattacks. “jay had his own life, his own problems to deal with. she was just another added problem to that.”

“then he should’ve led her back to the hospital again instead of taking her on this joyride purely for his own greed.”

“remember, she chose to take part.”

“he was being selfish.”

“he was lending her a hand.”

“which is what ultimately made her fall in love with him in the first place,” i state like a full stop.

sir’s whole face just speaks wow. “so why didn’t you do my analysis homework then, huh?”

“because it’s boring,” i look him boldly in the eyes, his slicked back hair has me feelin’ oozy and woozy.

“oh, it’s boring?” he emphasises, raising his eyebrows. “is that so?”

“yup,” i purse my lips.

“what was it again?” he grabs my arm, pulling me into his lap. “‘boring’, did you say?”

i’m trying to escape and he’s trying to hold me still. gradually, our laughter dies out and we become aware, so much more aware.

“got some on your mouth,” he says in the heat of the moment, running his thumb over my bottom lip.

there was definitely no pizza sauce or whatever on my mouth, but i play my part. somehow, his thumb finds its way inside my mouth and i instinctively wrap my tongue around it. his green eyes glimmer like shiny marbles as he watches me

suck

on his

thumb.

i feel pressure underneath me, something building up in stiffness. i shift his hand away, glancing down and then back up again. his marble eyes, they just look at me. look through me.

no way in hell did i imagine this moment to actually happen. i mean, most of us girls had these insane crushes on teachers, but never did i think it’d unravel like this.

he firmly places his hand on my lower backside and pushes me closer to himself. “what, you scared now?” he whispers, dominance combined with confidence, topped off with lust.

i gulp, trying to sound brave, “and why would i be scared?”

“you should be,” he replies.

i am lost for words. this kind of intimidation is seductive. all i wanna do is kiss him! though i won’t make the same mistake of glancing at his lips twice.

he speaks in a soft tone, “has anyone ever told you how captivating your~”

“my eyes are?” i finish his cliché line off for him.

“...your lips,” he corrects, casting his gaze down at them.

i bite my bottom lip, flustered for acting like a smartass.

“you know, on some occasions, i’ve noticed that you bite your lip when you’re nervous. it’s cute,” he grins, “i like it more than i should,” and waits patiently for me to fall into his devilish trap.

believe me when i say i’m trying goddamn hard to not sink my teeth into my flesh! which is why i replace it with a mere innocent gulp.

“but on most occasions, you gulp,” he says as i’m gulping.

he removes the hair from my neck.

i get hella anxious, hella aroused so i..

“nuh~uh,” he shakes his head and pulls my bottom lip down with the pad of his thumb. “‘nough biting from you, sweetheart. those are mine to bite now.”

am i dreaming right now?

i try to reposition myself by moving a little back so that i’m not directly on him. as i do this, his erection rubs further into me and i slightly moan kinda too evidently. my eyes open super wide and i instantly shut my mouth. it surprises me that it doesn’t faze him one bit.

“your t~t~thing is p~poking me..” i gesture with my eyes to his manhood.

his orbs shine like someone has stabbed an apocalyptic emerald sunset multiple times. it’s glorifying. magical. the stuff dreams are made from. and instead, he pushes me further down onto his sculpture. he leans his head in, his mouth millimetres away from mine.

“and do you like it?” he questions seriously.

our noses touch, our lips brush...

“answer the question.”

“yes,” i squeak. “i like it.”

i try to remain as calm as possible, but it’s impossible due to the nerves causing havoc inside me, particularly the nerves between my thighs. i don’t know what to focus on. that mouth? his eyes? or down below...

“may i let something be known, luv?” sir requests politely.

i nod.

“i can see your tits...through that shirt...” he whispers sexily.

my breath hitches up.

kiss me! why won’t he kiss me? just fucking kiss me! shit, it’s impossible not to look. i give in and look at his lips. the corners curve slightly into a wayward grin. i see... he wants me to initiate it.

welp, sorry, no can do, mister.

he literally places my bottom lip between his teeth and lightly tugs at it, his breaths hitting my mouth like rose petals. this act is enormously enticing, but i know he’s teasing me.

my turn.

i purposely grind in his lap and he suppresses a hoarse groan. then he scoffs. very conceited. he’s so gonna lose. i keep my lips impossibly close to his for when he forfeits which should be right about...now.

he shakes his head smugly.

i frown, pouting.

he half~smiles adorably.

fine, i have a better idea. one he doesn’t see cumming coming.

i lift away the waistband of my borrowed sweatpants and grip his hand. his body automatically tenses up. i can feel him getting harder from just the thoughts i’m giving him. i bring his hand closer to me. he’s losing and it’s hella entertaining to watch.

unexpectedly, a phone goes off and i jump in fright. i rapidly get off him and he returns to his usual, rigid ways. he aggressively clears his throat before answering that stupid device.

whilst pacing up and down and holding his forehead, he stares at me intently like i’m that fucking maths problem again!

[justa-starrynite]

Choices: One

A/N: It is finally here! We have been excitedly talking about and anxiously waiting on posting our first Collaboration story together. We have been working on these for a month or so. Finally we get to share it with you all. We hope you enjoy this little adventure we’ll be taking you all on!

This is new territory for us so bear with us! For now, this page is solely for this story, but you never know what can happen down the road!

If you would like to be added to the tag list, feel free to leave a comment or shoot us a message!

Co-authors: @justahopelessssromantic & @starrynite7114

word count: 4175

tagged list: @chibsytelford @phoenixhalliwell @lady-pswrld @carlaangel86 @cocotheclown @mrsjaxtellerfan @loveandglamour26 @nakusaych9 @courtrae89 @briannab1234 @vicmackeybullshxt @gemini0410

Felipe had his gun drawn, cautiously making his way up the driveway of an old friend he knew so well. ell. Looking behind him he saw a few of his colleagues surveying the area. Seeing the footsteps and the front door that was wide open, he knew that they were too late. 

“I think we’re too late.” Felipe told his colleague. 

Quickly, they made their way up to the front door and found the place in disarray. The smell of gunpowder was still fresh in the air. 

Felipe heard the cries then. Making his way to the back of the home, he saw his former colleague and his wife, face down, their blood pooling under them. Their daughters surrounded them, crying as their parents became colder and colder.

“Mommy,” Amelia shook her mother, begging for her to wake up. “Arper, she no wakey.” 

Harper frowned, shaking her mother as well with the same result. She turned when she heard the footsteps, immediately wrapping her arms around Amelia. When she realized it was Felipe, her face scrunched up, the tears now flowing down her eyes. Felipe picked her up, his colleague, Jorge picking up Amelia. 

“It’s okay bebita, Tio Felipe is here now.” Felipe kissed her head. 

This was the reason he started anew in California, why he had to keep Angel and his newborn, Ezekiel along with his wife Marisol away from this. The cartel was hardly forgiving, and this was evidence of that. Looking at the two young toddlers in his arm and Jorge’s, he knew he had to do the same for them. 

Harper sat down by the computer in her room, letting out a sigh. Packing was a bitch. Moving from Seattle all the way down close to the border was a feat. It’s not like she couldn’t find a place in Seattle to work. Plenty of hospitals needed nurses, but she wanted to work at an underserved community and well, her recruiter found her a job in Santo Padre. Which was fate bringing the puzzle pieces together.

She’s been wanting to see Felipe, to thank him for everything he’s done for her all these years.

More importantly, she wanted to meet Angel, Felipe’s eldest son and the man who’s had her heart since she was eight years old. It was surreal how this all began over the phone and after all these years, they’ve never met face to face. 

Her adoptive father, Jorge, always spoke highly of Felipe, they used to be comrades of war. He never spoke about it often. But every once in a while, when he had enough to drink to let his inhibitions go, she could get a few things out of him.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but your parents love you dearly.” He would always tell her that, yet, he would never elaborate what happened to them. She knew they were no longer in this world and she had a sister, but from what her father told her, when he found her at an orphanage, it was only her left.

Harper remembered bits of pieces of her childhood, but at times, she felt that she blocked it out. 

Too traumatic or some shit.

Regardless, here she was, spending her last night at her parents home. Her older brothers Oliver and Dominic were having a hard time letting her go, even though they themselves no longer live in Seattle. Oliver was currently stationed in San Diego with the Navy and Dominic was in Arizona. Right now, they were in Seattle since they were going to drive down to Santo Padre with Harper. No matter her age, Harper would always be their baby sister, no amount of degrees or make up could change that.

Her parents taught her the value of hard work. 

They provided a roof over her head, gave her things that she wanted as long as they could afford it. They were never rich in the sense of materialistic things but their family was always rich with love and laughter. Jorge seemed to be a very strict man due to his military background, but he was the biggest jokester of them all. Harper’s friends growing up love coming to her home and just talking to her father, hearing his stories. Her mother, Elia, was an amazing cook and much like her father, a jokester. 

Harper felt blessed to have her family. She couldn’t even say she missed her biological parents cause she never knew them.

But she was grateful for being blessed with Jorge and Elia. Along with her two doofus older brothers.

Dominic was the eldest at thirty four years old. He was currently a manager at a bank in Phoenix, Arizona where he resides with his partner, Brandon. They were in the process of adopting a baby boy, four months old. Oliver was thirty-two years old and was currently an active member of the Navy. He currently resides in Coronado, close to base, with his fiancé, Haley. 

The three were all close growing up, the two boys taking in the toddler than their father brought him. They always wanted a sister and they got one in Harper. Blood or not, Harper was their baby and no one would ever harm her, especially not the people that killed her parents.

“Harp! Is everything packed?” She heard Dominic holler at her.

“Yes! We’ve been over this for the seventeenth time!” She yelled back. 

“Okay smartass, if you fucking forget one thing tomorrow I’m throwing your ass in the lake.” Dominic warned.

Harper laughed before she stopped and rechecked her items. She wasn’t taking everything, this would always be her home after all. The most she took were her clothes and this dresser her father had made for her, she could never truly part with it.

There was a knock on her door.

“Come in!” She called out. “Who knew you knew how to knock Dom.” 

Looking up, she found her father, a small smile gracing his lips. This has been difficult for him. He didn’t want her to move. Though the threat may no longer be there, he was still hesitant to part with his baby girl.

“All packed?” Jorge asked as he sat beside Harper on her bed. The bed where she shed tears over the first boy to break her heart. The bed where he read her endless stories about happily ever afters. The bed where he would hold her and lull her to sleep whenever she dreamt about the night her parents were slayed. The bed where he promised her that no matter what, he would always protect her.

“Yes, don’t believe Dominic, he’s just being an asshole.” Jorge gave her a look and she immediately corrected herself. “A jerk, Dom’s being a jerk.”

“You’re twenty-nine years old Harper, you’re allowed to cuss.”

“Yes well, you’ve embedded it in me that if I get that look, that means I’m not supposed to do something.” Harper gave him a sheepish smile. 

“I know.” Jorge chuckled. “I decided to come along with you and your brothers, it would be nice to see Felipe again.”

“Really?” Harper grinned. “That would be great, you two could catch up and you could ease my nerves about moving to a new place.”

“You’ll be fine mija. If there was one kid I wasn’t worried about, it was you.” 

Harper chuckled. “Thanks dad.”

She was ready for this new chapter. However nerve wracking it may be, she had a good feeling about this, that she was on the right path. 

It was the path that led her to Angel and unbeknownst to her father, her sister. 

Miguel fastened the last button of his white shirt as he walked into the dining room greeting his family. “Buenos días my beautiful familia.” He grinned looking as his two favorite women and his precious little girl. He gave his mother a kiss on the cheek then leaned over cupping his beautiful wife Amelia’s face in his hand leaning in for a soft kiss before turning to the other side and placing a sweet kiss to the top of his daughter, Marisela’s head. He then took his place at the head of the table unfolding his cloth napkin and setting it across his lap. “How was everyone’s night?” He questioned as he looked to Marisela. He had been working all night so he had not come to bed. The last thing he did before shutting himself in his office was tuck his daughter into her bed and read her favorite bedtime story. He was hoping last night was finally the night she could sleep by herself, nightmare free. The poor thing had been suffering from terrible nightmares, waking up crying in the middle of the night before finding comfort in her parent’s bed. He loved her dearly but it could only go on for so long before something had to change.

“I had ‘nother nightmare.” Marisela spoke up quietly looking up at her father with her big brown eyes. “A scary monster came and swooped me away from you and I would never see you again.” She recalled, her little eyes filling with tears. 

Miguel and Amelia’s hearts broke at the sight. They felt for their daughter and wished more than anything to be able to rid her of these fears. “You have nothing to fear mi princesa.” Miguel spoke softly to her, “Papa would never let that happen. You’re safe, surrounded by people who love and protect you.” 

“Like tio Nessy?” She asked, perking up a bit. Nestor and Marisela had a very special bond, the little girl holding a special place in his heart as well. 

“Ella,” Amelia spoke up catching her daughter’s attention. “Did you know Mama used to get terrible nightmares too when she was little like you?” Amelia had suffered from nightmares that would plague her after she was adopted. They were always so vivid and felt real but at the end of the day they were just dreams and eventually they faded with time. Hopefully it wouldn’t take Marisela’s quite as long to disappear for her. 

“You did?” Marisela asked, eyes wide. “How’d you make ‘em go away?” 

“Eventually they just did, baby.” Amelia said, giving her a comforting smile and reaching out to brush a curl behind Madisela’s ear. “Yours will too.”

Miguel watched on intently, Marisela was beautiful looking just like her mother and he thought about how lucky he was to have his family. “So,” he spoke up taking a sip of his coffee, “What are our plans for today?” 

“Well, we’ll probably just have a little girl’s day.” Amelia said buttering her toast, “Do some shopping, maybe get our nails done and then dinner at (restaurant name)?” 

“That sounds wonderful. I’ll make sure we have a reservation.” Miguel said. 

Nestor stepped into the room instantly gaining the attention of Marisela. She perked up at the sight exclaiming, "Nessy!" Nestor smiled at the little girl walking over to her as she bounced on her seat. He'd never get tired of the excitement she had every time she saw him. Looking up at him as he got closer Marisela pouted. Where the nightmares were a terrible feat for her she also knew how to use them to gain the sympathy of those already wrapped tightly around her little finger. "Had 'nother scary dream tio Nessy," She informed him, bottom lip jutting out as her eyes watered over. 

"That's no good," he said brushing the stray tear away that trailed down her cheek. 

Amelia looked to Miguel hoping she could have a moment to speak with him. The nightmares had been at the front of her mind for some time now. She hated seeing her daughter suffer through similar things to what she had growing up. She also missed having the bed to herself and husband again, the frequent addition blocking any and all intimacy between the two. 

Miguel picked up on his wife's silent signal. “Why don’t you go wash up," He suggested to his daughter, "You've got a big day planned ahead, mi princesa. You'll need to be heading out soon."

"I'll take her, Mykie." Nestor offered lifting the girl off her seat and taking her hand. "Come on now little Ella." Amelia smiled at her daughter as Nestor and Marisela walked out of the room to clean up leaving Miguel, Amelia, and Dita still sat at the dining table.

Amelia’s smile faltered as she sunk down in her seat exhausted once her daughter was out of sight. She looked to Miguel again. “We can’t keep doing this Miguel. The nightmares have to stop. Marisela is barely sleeping." She rubbed her temples between her fingers in an attempt to massage the stress away. "Maybe it would be good to seek outside help, find someone she can talk to. Someone who could help her more than us." 

Miguel grabbed her hand, stilling her movement and bringing it down to his lips for a kiss to the back of her soft skin. He held it tight giving it a squeeze as she placed her other hand on top of his “I think that’s an excellent idea, amor." He agreed. "We’ll find someone, look into it together. I promise." 

Dita sipped her tea remaining silent throughout the conversations until now. “She’s a child, they have nightmares all the time.” She spoke up waving it off, “She doesn’t need a shrink messing around in her little mind and filling it with nonsense." She set her cup down on the table looking to her daughter in law "What she needs is for you to stop letting her sleep in your bed every time she has a silly little dream. The sooner she learns she doesn't have you to fall back on she'll get over it." She said sternly. "She's a Galindo, strong like her father." Dita smiled at her son. 

Amelia gave her mother in law a tight lipped smile in return. It took everything in her to keep her calm. She and Dita did not often get along, Dita thinking Amelia belonged in the role of loving mother and doting wife nothing more and certainly not getting involved with the cartel business. What Miguel and Amelia had was a partnership though. She refused to be left in the dark. They respected each other, were a true power couple through and through. It was because of that that their marriage remained strong. 

Amelia was adopted by the Mendoza’s, another powerful cartel that was south of Sonora. Together, their marriage would unite the two powerful cartels, sparing bloodshed between the two. The Galindo’s never crossed a certain border, helping the Mendoza’s retain their power in that part of Mexico, while the Mendoza’s helped the cartel keep their territory intact. After the DOJ’s meddling, the Galindo’s were not as powerful as they used to be. The partnership, forced partnership, with the government made them look weak, leaving distaste to other cartel families. But they also understood why everything occurred the way it did. And now, Miguel Galindo was in power and it was different to his father’s reign. They were unsure of his prowess, but he has proved that he could play their game, they just didn’t know how well he could. Regardless, the Mendoza’s allied themselves with Miguel, strengthening their partnership with a marriage. If they had a marriage, a child, it would be hard to betray one another, the fallout would be far too great. 

Amelia and Miguel knew one another from when they were children, and always had polite conversations. When they were informed that they would be arranged, there was no fight from either as they knew their fates. Powerful families rarely wanted to marry outside of their class. Even though it seemed ridiculous at this time period, with all the progressive ideals that has been put forth, old habits were difficult to break. They’ve been married for 

Miguel made her a promise the night their engagement was announced.

‘I know this is not ideal Lia, but I will protect you. I promise you that no matter what happens, it will be you and me against whatever is thrown against us.’ 

And Miguel has kept that promise. He’s even gone against his mother for her.

Miguel squeezed Amelia’s hand in support as he addressed his mother. “This is between Amelia and I, Mama. Marisela is our daughter. It is our decision to decide what is best for her. Even a Galindo could use a helping hand every now and then.”

Amelia gave Miguel a grateful smile, squeezing his hand back. Dita gave them both a tight smile before leaving the two alone. Amelia didn’t hate Dita, but she didn’t particularly like her either. More often than not, Dita always inserted herself in their marriage. 

Amelia smiled as Marisela slowly awoke from her small nap during the ride over to town. She had to drop off a few things at the post office and she figured no better time than the present to see who her Pediatrician would recommend for Marisela to meet up with. Though, they most likely would go to San Diego as the choices were by far vast. 

Hearing the familiar roar of the motorcycle, she looked as two Mayans passed her by, parking across the street at Carniceria Reyes. Coco and Angel dismounted, taking off their helmets and placing it on their handles. Coco looked back, his eyes meeting Amelia’s. She managed to give him a small smile and he returned it, their past memories running through both their minds. 

What could have been.

What should have been.

“Still can’t believe she’s married to Galindo.” Angel shook his head. “Hola Amelia, come estas?” 

Amelia rolled her eyes and flicked off Angel. 

“Very nice to do in front of your kid.” Angel further teased her. 

Coco smacked Angel’s arm, shaking his head. “Leave it, you don’t want Galindo breathing down our neck because you’re fucking with his wife.” 

“You’re right.” Angel nodded his head, stepping on the sidewalk to make his way over to his father’s butcher shop. 

Coco knew that no matter how he felt, this was the best for Amelia. Like what Miguel told him the night Amelia collapsed in his arms, she was better off with him. He could get her the proper treatment for his condition and he, a nobody, could barely reap his benefits from his military service. It was one of the hardest things he had to do. A relationship that lasted less than a year had such an effect on him, still did to this day. He dreamt of her often, how she would laugh at his corny jokes, take in his words of wisdom and always compliment on how intelligent he was. Those were the most cruel dreams, they were equivalent to nightmares, since it was a taste of what he had and could never have again.

“Yo, you alright?” Angel broke him away from his thoughts. 

“Huh? Yeah, I’m good.” Coco turned away from Amelia, moving towards where Angel was. 

Much like everything else in his life, Amelia and his children, were pushed to the side, because they were better without him. He would just ruin his life, much like how he always fucked up in his. 

The club was the only family he had and it would always remain that way.

Harper walked in, the nerves in her stomach were going inside. Her father Jorge followed after her, smiling at Amelia’s excitement. He was glad that she was finally able to meet her Tio Felipe again after all these years. Ever since Marisol’s death, Felipe’s visits were sporadic at best, but Harper understood she always did. 

“Be with you in a moment,” Felipe had his back turned to them, preparing the meat he was going to place in the display case. 

“Take your time.” She responded. 

“Compadre, you’re moving slower, should we be concerned?” Jorge couldn’t help but tease Felipe.

Felipe froze and turned around. “Jorge?” He wiped his hands with his apron, taking it off as he made his way towards them. His eyes then landed on the young woman beside him and his smile even grew larger. “Harper?”

“Hello,” she shyly greeted him.

“Don’t be shy now, go hug him.” Jorge gave his daughter a slight push.

Harper walked over to Felipe, wrapping her arms around him. The warmth she felt was similar to the one she felt when her father would embrace her. The men who saved her and her sister, wherever she may be. 

“Mija, you’re so grown.” Felipe rarely smiled, but seeing Harper in front of him, even though he had seen Amelia numerous times, it was different. Harper was kept away, just to assure that the two would not be put together and hunted down. It was ironic how Amelia was now married to the family who got her parents killed in the first place. Felipe didn’t know who Amelia was going to be adopted too, he trusted a friend of his to find a good family for her, a family who would be able to afford her condition. 

And those were the Mendoza’s. 

“What are you doing here?” He questioned Harper once he pulled away. “What are you both doing here?”

“Came to help her unpacked, make sure everything is in order at her apartment.” Jorge wrapping an arm around her shoulders. 

“I got a job here as an ER nurse, I’ve always wanted to serve underserved communities and my recruiter found me one here.” Harper excitedly told him. “I jumped at the opportunity as I’ve been wanting to see you and Angel as well.”

Felipe chuckled, shaking his head. His eldest son was enamored with Harper. Ever since they were younger, Angel always spoke to Harper. It was odd that they became as close as they’ve been, but Felipe was thankful. He felt that he failed Angel, that he didn’t give him the love that he deserved. He would make it up to Angel eventually, but he was glad Harper was here now, just so the two could finally meet face to face. Every time they would try and meet, it was never the right time. It was upsetting to say the least, but Angel always pushed through. 

“Angel has been looking forward to meeting you for so long, I’m sure it would make him immensely happy to see you.” Felipe chuckled. “Have you two eaten? Let’s go grab some food and bring it back here.”

Felipe went to the back to lock up and change, Jorge following after him. Harper stood by the counter, checking her phone. The bell rang, indicating someone walked in. She looked up and found two men, one taller than the other, wearing leather vests. Giving them a small smile, Harper’s attention went back to her phone.

Angel studied the young woman before him, his eyebrows furrowing. “Amelia, weren’t you just outside?”

Harper looked at the man behind her and gave him a confused look. “Amelia? My name is Harper.”

Angel froze. 

Harper.

He knew that voice. 

It was her voice. 

Angel didn’t know how he could feel so strongly about someone he never met. He’s always felt at ease with Harper. He could even say that he loves her. She’s been his best friend, his confidant for years. And to have her in front of him, he was in disbelief. 

“Is it really you?” Angel studied her face, she looked just like Amelia, but she just looked different, seemed different. The smile on her face was brighter, more genuine. Her hair was burgundy stuck out to him. He remembered when she was nervous about coloring her hair and she looked beautiful. The half sleeve tattoo on her arm caught his eye, a sleeve she had shown him before. 

God, she was gorgeous.

“Want to pick up your mouth bro, it’s kind of embarrassing.” Coco couldn’t help but tease Angel. Though it was eerie how much she looked like Amelia. “Fuck, I owe Gilly money.” Coco took his phone out, preparing to text their third musketeer. 

And the fact she wasn’t a dude really surprised Coco.

His voice registered to Harper then. Her mouth dropped open before she shrieked and ran over to him, jumping in his arms. Angel’s arms immediately wrapped around her. 

“Angel!” Harper buried her face at the crook of his neck. 

“Fuck, you are real.” Angel couldn’t even explain how overjoyed he was to finally have Harper in his arms. He always thought that maybe life was playing a cruel trick on him and he was being fucking catfished, especially since she would never show him pictures of herself. She reasoned that her parents wouldn’t allow it, that people were looking for her and his father explained the same thing to him. Angel never pushed it, which was surprising for him, but he knew it must have been something if even his father and mother advised that it would be best to wait to see Harper

[auriel187]

10 Things I Hate About You (Sam Winchester edition)

A/N: This is just an exert of what I have written so far...there will be more. Also, not specifically set in the 90’s or 2020’s.

Sam (POV)

“Well, Mr. Winchester. I see we’re making our visits a weekly matter.” The Guidance Counselor said with a snide smile. She spoke almost bitterly, causing the young brunette to roll his colour shifting eyes in reply. He honestly couldn’t be bothered by her at this point. “Only so we can have these moments together.” He bit back with a forced smile. He stole a glance at her open computer. It was a widely known fact amongst the seniors that Ms.Perky spent most of her time writing her “romance” novel instead of, well... doing her actual job. “Should we get down to it, or should I turn off the lights?” He asked snarkily, adjusting his hold on his backpack. The shorter woman sent a glare his way as she reached for his discipline sheet from her desk. “Very funny, cowboy. It says here that you exposed yourself in the cafeteria.” He then huffed humorlessly. Did he even need to explain himself, it’s not like he’d get into trouble, he’s been living alone for the past four months. “I was joking with the lunch lady. It was a bratwurst.” He said not really ashamed at his actions but weirded out. It seemed more like something his brother would do.

“Well, a bratwurst. Aren’t we the optimist.” She quipped, with her eyes leveled to his crotch through his baggy blue jeans. ‘Gross’ he thought as his face contorted in disgust. She was still looking, even after a few seconds of awkward and impenetrable silence. “Next time, stick to the saddle, Texas. Scoot!” I left the room with an eye roll, I could have corrected her, told her I was from Kansas but I kinda had a feeling she didn’t give a shit and honestly, neither did I.

I walked down the hallway, towards my English class. Nice class if I was in the mood to listen, sadly that was rarely the case. Too many things distracting me about that class. Mostly that fuck boy model making some off handed comment that would get his ass flattened if people actually had the balls to stand up to him. As I made my way to class one thing I noticed is the fact that everyone is either blatantly staring or flatly avoiding looking at me. I caught the eyes of some of my schoolmates standing outside the Ms. Perky’s office, watching as they all began whispering the rumors that somehow spread at the sound of my name. I turned to glare at one of the guys staring at me. Another trust fund kid who wore their cardigan as a necktie. Those idiots who think they’re brilliant just because their dads donate to the school and they can’t pass a class no matter how simple the shit we’re learning is.

I seriously despise his school.

y/n (POV)

As much as I loved English class, I really would rather shove pins into my eyes rather than sit here with these flaming imbeciles. Being one of the six girls in the class of almost thirty didn’t help. Our teacher walked in with a look on his face that told me he was already done with all our crap. It was honestly quite funny. I take my seat in the middle of the class, Mr. Morgan chose to separate the girls from one another. It mainly had to do with the fact that they were vapid slow witted brats who didn’t read anything without a steamy sex scene and a muscle bound long haired Adonis on the cover. It was stuff like that that made me glad I was nothing like them. All these girls sitting around with their ‘I’m-not-like-other-girls’ crap just to drop their pants at the first guy to give them attention. And then there’s me, avidly avoiding contact with most people or completely annihilating the rest, what does it say about me that I’d rather have everyone hate my guts rather than change everything about myself to have friends who’d just talk shit about me when my back was turned?

“Okay class. What did y’all think of ‘The Sun Also Rises’?” Mr. Morgan began the second the bell rang. I saw one of the girls raise her hand with a fanciful flare and flick of her hair. I promise I’m not gonna internally barf if she ever does that shit again. “Oh, I loved it. He’s so romantic.” She melted at the thought, what an idiot. “Romantic, Hemingway? He was an abusive, alcoholic misogynist who squandered his inheritance following Picasso trying to nail his leftovers.” I mumbled aloud as I knocked lightly on my desk. I really needed to stop doing that. I could almost feel the eyerolls of my classmates. This’ll be good. “As opposed to a bitter, self righteous hag who has no friends?” Joey chastised me from his seat a few desks away from mine. “Pipe down, Chachi!” Mr. Morgan bit back, in my defence. I knew it was just because Joey pissed him off as much as he did myself. I slouched in my seat as I practically growled “I guess in this society being male and an asshole makes you worthy of our time.” I heard so chuckles from my classmates. Mr. Morgan just looked at me. “Can’t we read something different? What about Angie Thomas or Charlotte Bronte? Sylvia Plath?”

“What about them?” A voice echoed through the class, everyone turned their attention to the door, where two guys stood. The first one walked in and took a seat next to Joey, the other stood filling the doorway. “What did I miss?” He asked, taking a seat in the back of the class. He was wearing around four layers right now and all I could think of was how the hell has he not melted? “The whitewashed patriarchal values that dictate our education.” I said quickly, noticing the slight head tilt and small smile before I turned back around.

“Mr. Morgan, do you think it’s possible to get y/n to take her midol before she comes to class.” Joey and her douche brigade all laugh like that was the funniest shit on the planet. Mr. Morgan just deadpanned, looking Joey dead in the eye and saying “One day you’re gonna get bitch slapped, and I’m not gonna do a thing to stop it.” The class erupted in laughter and I just sunk in my seat knowing exactly what was coming. “And y/n, I wanted to thank you for your opinion. I must be tough growing up with the struggles of upper middle class suburban oppression. It must be tough. But before you storm the PTA for better...lunch meat or whatever you well off girls fuss about, ask why they can’t get books written by a black man.” He finished his rant, staring at me. Waiting for a rebuttal possibly, so I gave him one.

“Angie Thomas is a black woman. And I ask for curriculum adjustments for more diversity in the books we read. I’ll be sure to specify my wishes next time. Anything else?” I had a few chuckles at my reply, most likely due to my overabundance of sarcasm and smartass clap backs. I wanted to know who it was but before I could, Mr. Morgan kicked me out. “Yeah, go to the office. You’re pissing me off.” I groaned, grabbing my bag and heading to the door. As I walked, I felt a pinch on my ass. Before I could really think about it, my textbook was connected to the culprit’s face. I lost all sympathy when I saw Joey rubbing the side of his face and glaring at me from the ground. Mr. Morgan was laughing hysterically in the front of the class while some of my classmates were gasping for air in their seats.

@thinkinghardhardlythinking

[woodrokiro]

Hollowed (fic) Part Five

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: They call her a miracle, but he looks at her as if she’s normal. It scares her. Fantasy/Futuristic/Zombie kinda?AU. Read Parts One, Two, Three, and Four. 

It turns out to be a Hollowed… Because of course it is. 

Luckily it’s only one, and small from what the messenger describes. Still, from the way the messenger’s eyes widen while describing it, Ichigo assumes it really has been a while since these people saw one, and must’ve given the soldiers quite a drill.

But he could care less if the soldiers panicked. What he wants to know is if it’s dead.

“Y-yes sir! I saw if for myself, its eyes had clouded over, and its mouth--”

“I don’t need to hear about it.” And he really didn’t, as he could already imagine it: its yellowed fangs bared into a nasty snarl, the eight legs curled pathetically into its jet black body, its eyes peering from behind a horrific mask, milky with death.

He’s seen enough of them. 

“Were there any casualties?”

“No, not that I’m aware of--”

“Aware of? What does that mean?”

“Well, all soldiers are accounted for…”

“But not civilians here?”

“If you’re worried about your friends,” Rukia calls from behind him, and the messenger straightens as if he’s forgotten she’s there-- “there’s not much to worry about. Very rarely are civilians even let outside the compound. When soldiers go out, they are often flanked and covered by the remaining at the walls. It’s all planned far out in advance. We would know about it.”

That clears a bit of Ichigo’s anxiety, but not enough. 

In truth, he’s worried about his sisters. The last time they all encountered those monsters, they were even more horrifying than all the previous times before. Their village was destroyed, people left dead in the streets, their father fighting with all he had left…

Not that he’s not worried for his friends’ mental well being, but his sisters are just twelve years old: too young for any of this bullshit. 

And yeah, it’s always been a part of their lives… But he’s their big brother. He’s supposed to be their protector, or at the very least comforting them. 

Which is why being cooped up here in the name of a job is driving him insane. 

When the bell first started clanging, a soldier ran through to tell him he was to remain here with Lady Rukia at all costs until somebody gave him further instruction. When Ichigo tried to ask when might he be given further instruction--let alone what happened--the soldier sneered. 

“This is your job now,” he spat. “And an important one at that. You are never to leave Lady Rukia during your shift. As for what’s going on, you’ll be told when the information needs to be relayed to you. I recommend you stop asking questions.”

Fucking hell, he’s tired of hearing that. The guy is lucky he ran out so quickly, as Ichigo could’ve throttled him. Instead, all he could do is pace around his partitioned space like a tiger in a cage, ignoring the girl on the other side of the room who probably wouldn’t speak to him anyway.

And now, apparently, she feels inclined to butt in, all uppity and knowledgeable. He spins to face her. 

“Yes, I’m worried about my friends,” he grits out his teeth. “But I’m also worried about my sisters. I’m all they have, and the last time one of those things were within such a vicinity to us it was a real fucking nightmare. Now,” he turns back to the messenger. “If you have the time, I’d really appreciate if you could go to the kitchens and relay a message to Karin and Yuzu Kuro--”

“Go to them.”

Ichigo turns incredulously back toward her, and is starting to think this twisting back and forth is getting really old. “Huh?”

“I was clear enough, fool. Go find your sisters. Take the rest of the day off.”

He nearly sputters. Is there something he’s missing here? “B-but you heard that other guy--”

“That ‘other guy’ is technically correct, in any other situation you won’t be able to leave me.” She’s got her arms crossed, with a superior look in her eye that Ichigo kind of hates but also he’s feeling hopeful about what she’s saying so he’ll just ignore it for now. “But today is your first day. I believe you’ve received basic training enough--”

“Well, I mean I didn’t really do anything--”

“Don’t be so modest, sir. You’ve done plenty.” She looks at him with raised eyebrows pointedly. 

He shuts his mouth. 

“Some soldiers will probably be here shortly to relieve you in any case. They always take me when this sort of occurrence happens...” she drifts softly, before her eyes suddenly shine (yes, shine) toward the messenger. “Sir there! Would you be willing to chaperone me in Sir Kurosaki’s absence, until then? I would be most appreciative of it.”

The messenger shifts, but Ichigo can see a blush rise on his cheeks. “Oh, w-well I’d be most honored, milady. But I’m afraid I’m not of military calibre to watch you. You see, I might as well be a grunt--”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. So long as you’re a soldier, you can protect me. And don’t worry, if any of the higher ranks or even Lord Yamamoto raise questions about it, I’ll be happy to take the blame.” She smiles sweetly before turning back to Ichigo. “Thank you for your services, sir. You are dismissed.”

He blinks. “So, does that cover for me too or…?”

“What, you believe I would cover for one party in a situation and not the other? Yes, Mr. Kurosaki, you as well. Now, goodbye.” She waves him off dismissively. 

While that kind of pisses him off--and it’s bizarre how fast she changed gears--he’s grateful.

---

He finds the girls perfectly safe and sound when he rushes into the kitchens. In fact, they hadn’t even heard the news of the Hollowed… Which Ichigo finds quite eery how news like that isn’t relayed to the service as quickly as the bell clangs for the military--but at the very least, he’s glad to find they’re safe and not scared. 

He tries to express some sort of a game plan to them: that if he’s not able to go to them in times of danger, find Chad, or even Uryu--well, not Uryu, as he might be on the front lines--

“Relax, Ichigo.” Karin cuts him off with a gentle smirk. “We know how to take care of ourselves for this sort of thing… Or at the very least: how to not get killed. Worst case scenario, I’ve got kitchen knives here I can use.”

“Plus, they’ve got me.” Inoue steps forward from the spot she’s been quietly listening and kneading dough. She claps her floury hands together. ���I know that I-I don’t look like much, Ichigo, but you can count on me to protect the girls! All this kneading is giving me some real arm strength! Not to mention when I put in my secret ingredients, that makes it even tougher!!” 

She strikes a pose with her biceps flexed, and while Ichigo’s not quite sure if that’ll be enough to tear apart the creatures responsible for the near extinction of humanity, he still smiles and thanks her. He has to remember that the three in front of him are smart and very much capable of taking care of themselves.

He doesn’t really have a choice, otherwise. 

---

Later that night when everyone else but the boys are asleep, he asks Uryu whether he saw the Hollowed. 

“I did. In fact, one of my arrows got stuck in its putrid ribs.” He pushes his glasses up.

“I saw it as well,” Chad offers. “My boss and I were restocking the weapons on the wall while they burned the body.”

“Chad, you too? So I was the only one to miss out on the action, huh?”

“Not much action, Kurosaki. Truth be told, the military is true to its word. Pretty organized on the killing, once they got past the initial shock. I imagine they’d have a harder time with a horde of them, though.” Uryu opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates.

“What?” Ichigo eyes the look passed between Uryu and Chad. “What was wrong with it?”

“It… Had some… One of its legs was a human arm.” Uryu grinds his teeth. “Recently turned. I think… It might’ve been someone from our village.”

Ichigo prays it wasn’t anybody he knew well, let alone his dad. Trapped in a horrid body like that, slithering miserably up the mountain for fresh blood--it’d be a nightmare he can barely stomach. 

But it wouldn’t matter in any case, he guesses.

A loss is a loss is a loss. 

---

The next morning, he’s informed that he has to report to Yamamoto before his shift. It must be because of what happened yesterday, he realizes. The old man is pissed.

He drags himself into the office, where Yamamoto is (seemingly) calm, reading a book.

The old man smiles. “Ah, Kurosaki! Do sit. Why, you look quite uncomfortable. Are your concerns with the Hollowed yesterday? I hope your sisters were all right.”

Well, shit. 

“Yeah, they were… Thanks.” Ichigo eyes the man across him, waiting for an explosion. “So… Rukia told you…?”

“Lady Rukia told me she dismissed you, yes. Oh dear, you thought I might be upset about that? Well, I suppose on any other occasion I might be quite angry.” 

Ichigo shifts uncomfortably. “So… Why not this time?”

“Well, I suppose I never did properly explain Lady Rukia’s position in this place. Certainly, she is technically ranked above you--ranked above many generals, in fact--and so I cannot blame you for following her orders. How did you like her, by the way?”

“Well… I mean she’s… Quiet. But okay, I guess--”

“She can be quite quiet, you’re right. But I hope you’ll find she’s also very kind. Gentle. Clever, too.” Yamamoto raps his knuckles against his desk. “But she’s also rather frail. The soldiers that took her after you left go to her quarters quite often to escort her to the medical facilities. She runs through quite a number of tests and medicines there for her condition. She’s very smart and capable, yes; but also can suffer some… Sufferings in judgement. Sometimes she doesn’t know what’s the best for her, so a select few including myself make certain decisions for her. Does that make sense?”

Ichigo doesn’t think the girl he saw yesterday looked sick at all, let alone capable of being anything but a smartass brat--but he nods. 

“So next time it happens that my lady gives an order that you’re not quite sure about, request my presence immediately and I’ll sort it out. I trust your judgement. In fact, I’ll be requesting meetings every few days to ask you about updates on her condition and such.”

“... So you’re asking me to spy on her?”

“Not at all! Just that she gets quite tired sometimes… You’ll see. I just want to know how she’s doing after her treatments, so we can get her the help she deserves.” Suddenly, the old man’s focal point shifts to somewhere past Ichigo. “Ah! Well, speak of some sort of devil. Ichigo, this is Lady Rukia’s older brother, Byakuya. He’s a captain within our military.” 

Ichigo turns around to see a man with long black hair standing in the doorway, eyeing him coolly. He clumsily gets up, walking over while reaching out his hand. The guy looks like a complete douchebag, but an older brother deserves to know his sister’s taken care of. “Ichigo Kurosaki, it’s--”

“I know who you are, thank you.” Byakuya drifts past Ichigo’s outstretched hand, toward the seat where Ichigo was previously sitting. 

All right. So he really is an asshole.

“Give Rukia my regards. Lord Yamamoto, I have some reports with you I’d like to discuss.”

“Of course. Kurosaki, you may go now.” And just like that (again!) it seems the Yamamoto forgets his existence. 

Ichigo is just about to shut the door when the old man’s voice calls out. 

“Oh, and Kurosaki?” 

He holds the door, waiting. 

“I understand some--including Lady Rukia--warned you against being in her quarters with her, past the screen. This is one of the occasions I’d like you to ignore her order.”

Ichigo looks back inside at Yamamoto. “Um… I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that. Not if she isn’t.”

“Of course, completely understandable. But if she ever relays a sense of danger in being there… Worry not. There is none.”

Ichigo shuts the door.

He’s not about to go into some girl’s room without her wanting him there.

[cocktail-party-in-an-abattoir]

In Memoriam Herschel (2005-2021)

           It was the late summer/early autumn of 2005. I was 16 years old. I went to a friend’s house for a get-together with other friends. She lived in a more rural area, so stray cats were not uncommon. One of these strays had recently birthed a litter of kittens. They were corralled into a blocked-off area in my friend’s den. Naturally, we all gravitated towards the kittens. We spent a good while petting them, playing with them, holding them, and watching them with their mother. A particular kitten was a gray and white tabby. This kitten had made its way towards me and tried to crawl up one of my jean legs. I was wearing bootcut jeans, so it actually managed it. I was immediately drawn to this kitten, the idea of asking my parents if we could keep it already forming.

While my friends and I were playing with them, we decided to give them all smartass, noncommittal names. None of us could sex kittens, so that was reflected in the names we chose. I named the gray and white tabby (of which there were two, but I zeroed in on the jean leg kitten) “Herschel.” Why? Well, when I was eight or nine, I used to play House with friends. I had heard the name “Herschel” on some sitcom, and I liked the sound of it. So, I often named my fake son “Herschel.” This became an inside joke between my best friend and me.

            Back at home, I asked my mom if we could adopt the kitten. She had veto power. She was kind of hesitant at first but eventually relented. A few weeks later my friend and her mom brought the kitten over to my house. By that point I was already seriously referring to it as “Herschel.” We all just kind of assumed it was male. The first thing Herschel did after getting out of the carrying case was hide behind one of our bookcases and stayed there.

            We took Herschel to the vet. Upon examination the vet tech proclaimed he was, in fact, she. Her exact words were “You have a little girl!” For better or for worse, I was committed to “Herschel” (much to my mom’s chagrin), so from then on, I had a girl cat with a boy name. This led to years of various people (mostly veterinary staff) getting her sex wrong. I don’t know that I ever bothered correcting them because, well, they were going to find out the truth soon enough.

            Between 2005 and 2010, Herschel grew from a kitten with what my mom described as “Yoda ears” into a gorgeous young lady. She had the most beautiful green eyes. People always had nice things to say about her looks. She had an adorable bow-legged gait from the beginning. She grew into an affectionate little cuddle-bug once she adjusted to us. She was wary of strangers, which was probably for the best. She did not like to go outside as much as our older cat, Simba (RIP)—especially after being treed once—but she was a very skilled huntress. She even managed to get two hummingbirds. Obviously, I’m not a fan of such “presents,” but I couldn’t help but be impressed by her prowess.

            In 2007, we adopted 2 labs named Olive and Penny (RIP x2). 2010, we adopted two fluffy black kittens from our vet’s office. We named them Buttercup and Licorice (RIP x2). Herschel respected Simba because of his seniority, but she absolutely despised the other pets. She would growl and hiss at them on sight. Because of this, the dogs had to stay downstairs while the cats had free rein upstairs. By 2012, Buttercup had gone missing, and we had adopted two more animals: a cat named Kid Twist (“Twist” for short) and a blue heeler named Bleu. Herschel did not care for them either. That same year my parents moved one state over, and I moved to a nearby city to stay with a family friend. The Menagerie went with my parents.

            One day in 2013 or 2014 my mom commented about how Herschel hid under a guest room bed much of the time. She would only come out to do her business or eat. Since the dogs had free rein over the entire house, this meant there was no real “safe space” for Herschel. Thus, her reclusiveness. Mom was worried about her well-being. I offered to take Herschel under my wing. Mom agreed. Now, my housemate already had a few cats, so it wasn’t perfect, but it was an improvement over a house with dogs. Herschel had been under my care since.

            In 2015 Herschel moved with me into the apartment I currently live in. Despite my apartment’s smallness, she was finally the one cat in a one-cat home. I had stopped letting her out because a) my apartment complex is positively labyrinthine b) the complex is next to a busy highway, and c) I wanted her to live longer and not harm any wildlife (although her hunting days were behind her). She didn’t seem to mind. For the next few years, she was my kitty comrade. Aside from some dental issues and a heart murmur, she always had a clean bill of health. I honestly thought she was going to live as long as Simba had (18, almost 19) because he was also a spry geriatric cat.

            In late 2020, Herschel was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. She had been growing thinner and vomiting before I found out. I had to start giving her medication twice per day, but there was otherwise no change. She was still the empress I knew and loved, if a little slower. I thought that was going to be it. Then, earlier this year, the vet ran some more tests. While I had managed to lower her thyroid levels, the vet found another problem: chronic kidney disease. My blood ran cold upon hearing this because one of our pet labs, Olive, had died from kidney failure a few years prior. The vet told me while there was no cure, CKD could be managed with diet changes and medication. He was right, but unfortunately, that wasn’t the case with Herschel. She quickly went from stage 3 to stage 4 (4 being the end stage). I still kick myself about this because I feel like I could’ve found out sooner. Anyway, the vet suggested I should have Herschel hospitalized for a couple of days with IV fluids. The idea was to basically rehydrate her and then start a regimen of a new diet, supplements, and medication.

            So, I waited outside for three hours until a hospital staff member came to collect Herschel. It would’ve been longer, but my very kind vet called ahead. A couple of days later my mom and I returned to the hospital to wait for Herschel. It was March 25th, my birthday. One of the vets called me and stated despite the diuresis, Herschel’s stats remained the same. She stated I had probably 2 weeks left with her. I knew she was right, but I was still determined to try. I gave her daily cocktails of medication. I learned how to give her subcutaneous injections to hydrate her. I got the prescription wet food. At first, she had more okay days than bad, but it eventually became clear she was circling the drain. Treatment transformed into hospice care. I was going to do everything possible to keep her comfortable. By the end she was incontinent and no longer eating or drinking. Then she stopped being able to walk. I knew I had to make the final appointment. After a long crying session, I did.

            My mom came to help yesterday. Herschel was mostly immobile and out of it. Not even her favorite prosciutto roused her. I swaddled her in a changing pad and a blanket and slept with her next to me for one more night. She was still alive this morning if barely. Before we were set to go to her final appointment, I played her Sugarloaf’s “Green-Eyed Lady” (which will always remind me of her) and Audrey Hepburn’s version of “Moon River.” As my mom and I went to prepare her for the appointment, we realized how still she was. She did not appear to be breathing, and she did not react to anything we did. I took a flashlight to her pupils and… she was gone. She had died peacefully on my couch, which was one of her favorite spots to lounge. Honestly, I was relieved because the thought of taking her to a strange place to be euthanized frankly distressed me. I cuddled her ragdoll body from then until we were sitting in the vet office’s parking lot. Mom got a chance to hold her, too. A vet tech came out, used her stethoscope, and confirmed what we already knew. After a few more minutes with her we said our last goodbyes. I filled out paperwork confirming I wanted her ashes returned to me with a clay pawprint.

            I want Herschel’s ashes buried on my parents’ property with the others. Maybe a little farther away since she did not like most of them. I’m also looking into urn jewelry so I can carry her with me. This cat saw me at some of my lowest points, including when I was furloughed from my job last year. This cat was sweet and affectionate but also a pesky little shit. This cat was the first living being I was fully responsible for. She somehow managed to be regal while shoving her butthole into your face. If she liked you, she came and sat with you. If she didn’t, she hid behind the washing machine. I’m convinced she was part slug because even at her largest she was able to fit into confined spaces. I will miss her trilling meows. She was beautiful to the end, and I will always love her and miss her. I don’t know if there is an afterlife or not, but if there is, I hope she has endless king crab and prosciutto to snack on.

[salemsarc]

chase me chase you - prologue - ao3

If anyone knew about most of the work that’s done at IRON, children would probably not want to become an agent when they’re older. Most kids nowadays want to become a future IRON special-ops agent, which is a horrific idea, really.

Hajime was digging marks into his desk with his nails, he just had them done so it was quite a shame to his manicurist.

“God damn it, Shittykawa.” Hajime grunts through his clenched teeth. He was trying to find more information on whatever Oikawa’s next move would be. Hajime had thought he knew Oikawa inside and out, but recent events have been proving him wrong and it’s tearing the poor agent apart on the inside.

“Trying to track down loverboy, am I correct?” It didn’t take Hajime even a moment to recognize that smartass voice in his head.

“Can it, Kuroo.”

“Was I wrong, though?” Kuroo had an awfully snide grin on his face, which worked perfectly with his seemingly permanent bedhead. Hajime was sitting down, so Kuroo looked even taller than he usually did, which was already alot. He was a fellow member of the special-ops serving under the Manager. As much as Hajime can’t stand how much of a smartass he is, he has to admit that Kuroo gets the job done.

“By the way, once you’re done brooding over your computer, K-the Manager wants to talk with you. Did you fuck up or something?” If Kuroo had said her name on the floor, the Manager would have his head, literally.

“No. At least I don’t think I have.” Hajime let out a loud sigh before throwing his head into his hands. As if trying to find his estranged childhood friend wasn’t enough of a damper on his day.

“Bang!” Tooru shouted excitedly. The bullet escaped from his pistol with hardly any noise, and went right into Mr. Gol’s temple, just where he wanted it. The man fell over with an anti-climatic thud, which sent the guards around him in a frenzy.

Tooru was impressed with himself, such a small window to strike and he didn’t even graze the jacket of the one guard. He could revel in his success later, he had to get out of there.

He swung himself up from his position on the floor, landing on top of one of the many metal structures in the large warehouse. One of those bozos had to have spotted him, because Tooru could hear the guns being pulled out from their holsters.

“Tsk tsk, this won’t do at all,” Oikawa scrunched his face after he threw himself behind a crate filled with cocaine. “I guess we’re doing this the hard way then.” One guard dropped down, the others still shooting blindly. Tooru had dropped down to the musty floor of the warehouse, and rolled behind a metal structure with small holes in its beams. Shoving the tip of his gun into the hole, he took a few of the guards down.

From behind him, Tooru felt cold metal press into his hair.

“Who are you,” a gruff voice muttered to him.

“Just running some errands for Ushiwaka,” Tooru rolled his eyes and before the guard could even blink, Tooru had him pinned onto the floor with the gun against his forehead. “My my, Ushiwaka always has me do such boring things for his errands, he could always just do them himself, you know?” Bang.

“But that’s not how the Messiah rolls, I guess.”

“Iwaizumi, you can come in!” Yachi pulled the door behind her shut, the door to the Manager’s office. “Manager’s a little grumpy right now, but I’m sure you’re not in trouble. They like you a lot, you know.”

Sure didn’t feel like it.

“Alright then, thank you, Yachi.”

Yachi gave him a pitiful look before moving to go down the hallway. She was always so sweet, the poor girl. A lot of the other special-ops members were intimidating to her, not on purpose of course. Her blond ponytail swayed to her other shoulder while she pivoted her heel.

“I’m sorry about Oikawa.” Right. All of the special-ops members knew about Hajime’s past with Oikawa. He didn’t appreciate the pity, but if someone else were in the same position he would probably do the same thing.

Hajime blocked that out of his mind while he opened the door to the office. Still had the charm of a small, homely office while being hopelessly gigantic.

“Manager-san.” Hajime bowed from a respectable distance from her desk.

“Iwaizumi, I told you, you don’t have to be so formal with me,” The Manager clicked their tongue and scooted back in their chair. “I wanted to talk to you about Oikawa.” He shouldn’t have expected any less. Trying to locate Oikawa and stop his next move was about as fruitful as a literal vegetable. Hajime kept feeling like he was so close to finding him, but Oikawa was always one step ahead, the little shit.

“Oikawa has assassinated the mayor of New York City, Mr. Gol.” Hajime almost dropped dead to the floor. Oikawa was in the city? He could… no. Not right now. It didn’t matter what his relationship was to his objective. He would complete it.

“I’m sorry I have failed again.” Hajime said solemnly.

“Don’t be too upset, Iwaizumi. It was recently found out that Mr. Gol had been trafficking drugs and kids, all while paying off members of the council to stay quiet about it. One of our own agents too.” The Manager spoke firmly. Hajime didn’t even have to ask what happened to the traitor.

“Despicable.” Hajime felt sick to his stomach. Taking down horrific people like Mr. Gol, the “right” way, was what he joined the special-ops for. Oikawa was a step ahead of him, killing the man probably for his boss. Hajime didn’t want to think about the fact that Oikawa might’ve killed him without a thought to his crimes, and just to his orders.

“However, we do have some more information on Oikawa, gathered by myself. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Ushijima’s office was hopelessly suffocating. The velvet carpet was dusty and it made Tooru’s allergies flare up. But Tendou had an affinity for velvet, so there was nothing that could be done about that. You couldn’t do anything about something in this organization if Tendou was behind it.

“He’s dead.” Tooru sang, leaning his weight on the mahogany desk in the middle of the office. Ushijima took off his glasses and put them on top of some files.

“Get your elbows off my desk.”

“What? No 'thank you'? No ‘well done’?” Tooru did, however, remove his elbows from the desk.

“You weren’t flawless. You still had to take down the guards.” Ushijima’s face was unfazed while he typed mindlessly on his laptop.

“But, I got it done, didn’t I? He was a top-notch target that even Shrimpy-chan struggled with.” Hinata had tried to put the moves on Dr. Gol, but even he couldn’t outdo his relentless guards.

“Kageyama would’ve done it flawlessly.” Ushijima deadpanned.

Tooru wasn’t going to listen to anymore of his bullshit. He went right back to his room silently. Hanamaki looked like he wanted to bother Tooru some more, but one glance at his eyes made him back off. That’s rare for Hanamaki.

“Fuck his natural talent!” Tooru yelled while he shot a hole into his wall. Kageyama had only been with the organization for a few months, but he was already the favorite for being able to do everything flawlessly. Tooru doubted that he had even worked that hard. He spent his entire life training for this, right when he was picked up from the orphanage near the end of high school by Ushijima himself. Vomiting blood, collapsing from exhaustion, and having broken bones constantly. Kageyama had endured none of that to get where he was now.

“I’ll fucking show him alright, what I can do. Nothing that boy genius can do.”

[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part three Word count: ±3000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part three: Sam and Dean check out an abandoned house in search for the shapeshifter, but find something else. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks.  Music: Hey Man, Nice Shot - Filter Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank. @coffee-obsessed-writer​, @soupornatural​ & @mrswhozeewhatsis​, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​ & @winchest09​ who are deciphering the recent version; thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

     "Just remind me, why the fuck are we here again, Sam?”

     A ’67 Chevrolet Impala comes to a complete stop at the end of a long driveway. It’s still dark, but the lingering thunderstorm casts a flash of light on the abandoned house, thunder crackling several seconds later. Hey Man, Nice Shot by Filter is playing in the cassette deck, as the driver in his mid-twenties glances over at the younger guy next to him. Apparently, he is not amused.      “Dean, let it go already. If we have a lead, we follow it. Even if it’s six o'clock in the morning,” the passenger responds, annoyed.      “We don’t have a lead, you have a hunch. That’s my point, Sam. Or should I start callin’ you Jennifer Love Hewitt now?” the driver argues.      “So we don’t have a lead, but that’s exactly why we should--” the passenger wants to continue his sentence, but Dean interrupts.      “You know what I should be doing? Sleeping. In a bed,” he deadpans.      “And you call me a whiny bitch?” Sam sasses back.      “With good reason. Staying up all night is making you cranky,” Dean comments. “We have an appointment with that Cliffer dude tomorrow, during normal daytime hours. We work from there, that’s what we agreed on.”

      Sam bites down on the frustration. He didn’t drag his brother all the way up here and listen to his complaints about working at ‘unethical hours’, as he called it, only to head back to town without giving the place a once over.      “We’re not even certain if he’s the next victim,” he reminds him. “If we find something here, we might actually know what we’re dealing with.”      “I thought you already knew what we’re dealing with?” the older sibling returns, confused.      “I’m ninety-nine percent sure. All we do know for a fact, is because of my research, so back off,” Sam returns harshly, opening his door to get out.      “Someone has to do the driving. If it was up to you we’d end up in fuckin’ Texas!” Dean exclaims, loud enough for his brother to hear as he walks off.

     Sam halts on the driveway and grunts. Why does Dean always have to be such a pain? He turns around and glares at his brother. The headlights of the Chevy are bright; he has to narrow his eyes to see the driver through the glass.      “We’re here already. We might as well check it out,” Sam persists, while raising his long arms to the side, letting them fall slack against his body again a second later.      He waits for Dean to react, but his brother continues to stare back, challenging him without saying a word. His arrogant expression says it all. Left hand on the wheel, the ‘don’t you dare walk any further and get your ass back in the car’ look on his face. Sam is planning to do the opposite, though. After all, he is the stubborn one.      “Whatever, Dean.” Unimpressed, he turns towards the house.      The older Winchester leans out the window of his car, watching his brother like a hawk. “Where are you going?”      “What does it look like?” Without looking back, Sam strolls on with his hands in his pockets.      “Sammy, get back here!” Dean commands with a stern voice.      “It’s Sam!” the young hunter corrects, ignoring the order as he follows the road to the house.      Dean waits for a little while, not wanting his younger sibling to win. But he can’t possibly let him enter the house all by himself; what if there is something inside? Dean won’t let him go in alone, his little brother probably knows that too.      “Stubborn bastard,” Dean curses, kills the engine and gets out of his car.

     Annoyed, he opens the trunk, takes out a duffel and loads an extra gun, which he puts away behind his waistband. He tosses the bag over his shoulder, locks the car and catches up.      “Walking into a possible hideout without a weapon,” he mocks, while handing his brother a gun. “And they call you the responsible one.”      Sam grins. “I knew you’d come around.”       “Wipe that smile off your face, smartass. We’ve got work to do,” Dean mutters, taking the lead up to the front porch.      The younger sibling checks his weapon.“Silver bullets?”      “Yep,” Dean confirms. “One of these to the heart and our Chameleon is dead.”      He grabs the knob and opens the door, which slowly opens with an eerie shriek. Dean pretends to shiver. “Shit just got scary.”       “Cut the crap and be serious for once,” Sam hisses, shaking his head, disapproving.

     The brothers check the living room, holding their flashlights over their guns. They move through the house like trained military, ready to strike if necessary, covering each other as they scan and clear each room. A thick layer of dust covers the tables, couches, and cabinets in the house. A few windows are broken, shattered glass scattered on the windowsills. Plaster has come off the moldy walls, tearing down strips of wallpaper with it. Water damage stains the ceiling, decay creaks the rotten floor; no one has been here for ages.      “Nothing here,” Sam concludes with a lowered voice, still cautious.      “See? Told ya,” Dean rubs in.      “I’ll check upstairs. See if you can find some clues down here,” Sam suggests, ignoring his brother’s comment.      “Fine,” he mutters, as he saunters to the other room, silently mocking his hunting partner.

     Dean rummages through some paperwork, but there’s nothing interesting here. He shakes his head; he can’t believe he let his brother convince him to come with. Hell, he could be fast asleep right now.      “I’m all clear, Sam.” Dean puts away his gun and strolls back to the hallway.      Sam looks down from the staircase, somewhat disappointed.      “Yeah, me too. Let’s get out of here before the--”      The younger Winchester doesn’t finish his sentence, distracted by a noise coming from somewhere inside the house. Dean draws his gun again, his eyes quickly darting to the end of the hall, then back into the room. That wasn’t a mouse or a bird, that much he knows. Seems like they are not alone after all.

     Silently, Sam comes down the stairs. His senses are on high alert, picking up every sound, every smell, even the slightest movement. The feeling they’re being watched settles in his chest, but besides the singular ‘thump’ they heard, the brothers can’t detect anything out of the ordinary.      Dean’s eyes seeks his brother, who looks back and nods. A short connection, eye contact for a fraction of a second. It’s all they need to understand each other perfectly. It crosses Dean’s mind that it’s the first non-verbal interaction between them, since Sam came back from Stanford three weeks ago. The current threat forces him to keep his mind on the job, though.      The hunter approaches the door to the pantry where the sound seemed to originate from, backed up by his sibling. Both have their weapon in hand and are ready to fire. Carefully, the oldest of the two lets his left hand slip from the grip and grabs the doorknob, when he hears the familiar click of the safety switch on a gun.      “What the--”

     A shot echoes through the house, the bullet ripping through his shoulder. Dean hits the wall, the intense white hot pain taking him down. In a light speed reaction, Sam fires his gun twice in the direction where the enemy fire came from, quick to pursue the shooter. When he finds the next room empty, he returns to his brother, who has collapsed against the wall.      “Dean!”      Worried, Sam kneels next to him and keeps him upright. Blood trickles from a hole in his jacket, drenching the navy blue fabric in no time. Dean almost passes out, but he manages to chase the black spots that cloud his vision away. With his jaws clamped shut he grunts in agony.      “That wasn’t rock salt, was it?” Sam assumes, the trace of panic evident in his voice.      “Pretty sure it wasn’t,” Dean groans, fighting the pain.      Suddenly, light illuminates the grim setting. Sam quickly lifts his weapon again, but before the hunter can get a good aim, a distinctive female voice stops him. 

     “Don’t fucking move.” 

     The bright ray blinds the boys, the plating of the weapon catches the light as it caresses the metal; they are looking straight in the barrel. The only thing they hear is their own respiration, Dean’s out of control and labored, Sam’s increased with adrenaline, but relatively calm in the face of danger. Heavy tension hangs in the air, suffocating smog that’s making it difficult to inhale. No one moves, the brothers held at gunpoint both aware a flinch could be the death of them.       “Drop your gun. Now.”      Sam does as told, slowly and calculated. When he straightens himself and leans back on his haunches, he shows his hands, beckoning the woman not to shoot him. What feels like minutes, but are mere seconds in reality, pass by. The beam from the flashlight glides over the men’s faces, as if the beholder tries to see something in their eyes. Then the gun lowers, the safety switch flipped.      “Damn it!”      “You can say that again,” Dean groans.      “What the hell are you doing here, sneaking around in an abandoned house, huh?” their ambusher snaps, irritated, shining the flashlight back on the boys’ faces. 

     When it captures Dean, she keeps the beam of light in place. Wait a minute, he looks familiar. Didn’t his partner just call him Dean?      “We could ask you the same thing.” Sam intends to get up but immediately looks into the barrel.       “Did I tell you you’re allowed to move?” she warns.      Pretending not to be impressed, Sam stays still nonetheless. “Who are you?”      “None of your fucking business,” the young woman counters rapidly and concentrates on Dean again. “I know you.”      Dean swallows, nervously. “I hope not.”       “One of your mad exes?” Sam assumes, the sound of his voice reduced to a whisper.      “Don’t know, but if you’d stop shining that damn light in my face, I could have a better look,” he comments, directing his gaze at their opponent, holding his hand above his eyes to shut out some of the brightness.

     She lowers the flashlight in order for Dean to see her face. Taking the female in, he smirks. Apparently, he likes what he sees.      “No, I have absolutely no idea who you are, unless… Aren’t you that chick from Seattle with the weird piercing?” he wonders.      “Take a better look, Dean Winchester.”      She throws him the flashlight, which he catches with one hand, flips, and aims at her. In front of him stands a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with brown hair and dark eyes, dressed in all leather.       “Nice, but that’s not really my kink,” he comments, nodding at her outfit.      Annoyed, she rolls her eyes, clearly not intimidated by the objectification. Dean cannot place her, however, and again he takes her in from head to toe. He can’t see much, only harsh white light and dark shades, but she’s right; he knows that face. The strong profile of her jaw, her nose small, slightly pointed. Her hair is a little shorter than it was back then, but those dark brown eyes, how could he forget?

     “Zoë?”       She looks back at him, a satisfied smile pulling dimples in her cheeks.      “Zoë Sullivan, I can’t believe it,” he gapes, but then clamps his hand around his bleeding shoulder, the slightest movement reminding him of what just happened. “You shot me!”       “Who?” Sam interrupts their intermezzo.      “Yeah, same question. Who is he?” Zoë nods at the tall guy with the surfer hair as she kneels down next to Dean, observing his injury.      “I’m his brother,” Sam elaborates.      “Ah. Sam, right? College boy,” she responds with a tone.      Sam cocks his head back, stunned, then turns to Dean.      “I can see how you two met,” he mocks.      “We weren’t an item if that’s what you mean,” Zoë immediately corrects.      “But we did look kinda cute, didn’t we?” Dean adds, a shit eating grin adorning his face.      The huntress frowns, amused and almost pitiful. Oh, sweetie, not in a million years.      “You never stood a chance, Dean.” 

     Without warning, she tears up Dean’s sleeve to have a better look at his shoulder.      “Hey!” Dean protests stunned.      “You can buy a new jacket with your scammed credit cards later. There was a hole in it anyway,” she dismisses. “Stop whining.”      “If you’re not one of his dates.” Sam gets up and watches the two. “Then how do you know each other?”      “Dean doesn’t date. Dean fucks everything that moves,” she amends again, dodging the question.      “I’m still in the room, y’know?” Dean interjects, but Zoë ignores him.

    ��Instead she takes off her black scarf, folds it into a bundle and presses it against the entry wound, earning a pained grunt from the injured man. It’s not sterile, but it will have to do for now.       “Keep pressure on that,” she orders, letting him take over with his good hand. “Get up.”      Sam gives his brother a hand and helps him on his feet. A little unsteady and in a bad mood, Dean heads outside.      “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

     Zoë holds the door as they exit the house. The thunderstorms have been coming in from the east all night, still lingering in the distance, trees obstructing the view. A faint moon has found a weak spot in the dense clouds above them, its light struggling to reach the earth. Miles from the big city, the scents of nature rise after the rain came down, the smell of pine and damp soil rising from the forest. It’s quiet outside, almost too quiet. She didn’t miss anything, did she?      The huntress glances over her shoulder and takes one last look at the abandoned place.       “Well, that didn’t get me any further,” she mutters to herself, apparently loud enough for Dean to hear.      “You got me shot,” he sneers.      “Oh, don’t be such a baby. It’s just your shoulder. I can aim,” she snaps, not even feeling sorry for the guy.

     “Don’t you check your target before you fire a bullet at it?” he growls, as they walk down the driveway.      “You were the one who told me to shoot first and ask questions later,” she answers smartly.      “That does sound like you,” Sam agrees, earning a death stare from his brother.      “Shut up. Did you book a motel?” Dean waits by the door on the passenger's side and reluctantly tosses his brother the keys. Driving with a bullet in his shoulder has proven to be difficult before, so he’ll leave it to Sam for once.      “What do I look like? A travel agency?” Sam returns smartly, as he unlocks the Impala.

     Dean turns to Zoë. “Where are you staying?”       “Motel 6,” she informs. “But forget the idea of sharing a room.”      “In that case, I hope your motel has more than one room,” he nags, already done with her attitude.      “You need a ride?” Sam offers, not seeing another car anywhere close.      Dean turns his head slowly and gazes over the top of the car. His face is twisted in shock, disbelief and disgust, expressing something along the line of ‘what the fuck, Sam!’       “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Zoë banishes.      It triggers the hunters to raise their eyebrows at her, and from his peripheral vision, Sam notices the relief on Dean’s face.      “Where did you leave your car then?” he wonders.      “Who said anything about a car?”

     Zoë reappears from under the shading trees, pushing a black motorbike into motion, the chrome Harley Davidson emblem reflecting in the little light the night sky of Rochester offers. It’s clear neither of the boys were expecting this form of transportation, because both their jaws drop.      “You ride a motorcycle?” Sam utters, surprised.      “I don’t ride a motorcycle. I ride a Harley,” she corrects, while putting on her helmet. “You think the leather’s for fun?”      The older one of the brothers nods, approvingly. “Nice ride.”       “Thanks,” she returns, slightly beaming with pride.      “What do you think of mine?” Dean lays his hand on top of his ‘67 Chevy Impala, clearly proud of his baby, but Zoë doesn’t seem overly impressed.      “It’s a car,” she comments dully.

     Zoë starts her Harley, the headlight switching on as she does so. Without further notice, she rides off, leaving Dean, completely flabbergasted. Her tail light disappears as she turns around the corner, the signature Harley V-twin engine roaring when she accelerates.      Astounded, Dean glides into the passenger’s seat, staring blankly down the driveway. “Did she just shoot me and insult my car?”       Sam struggles to hide a smirk as he settles behind the wheel. “I think she did.”      “What a bitch!” Dean scolds, spitting out the final word.      “I don’t know,” his brother questions, shrugging. “I think she’s kind of fun.”       The older Winchester darts his eyes at the driver, his lip twitching, disapprovingly. “Shut up, College boy.” 

     Sam chuckles amused and starts the car. The mix tape in the cassette player automatically continues Hey Man, Nice Shot by Filter. Dean shakes his head, still bothered and frankly, quite insulted.      “Just a car, how could she say that?”      “Let it go, Dean,” Sam consults, as he turns on to 110th Ave NW.

     He follows the single red light in the distance and speeds up before he loses sight of the bright dot. Several thoughts cross his mind while driving to the motel, pondering about the gut feeling that pointed him in this direction in the first place. It bothers Sam that they didn’t make any progress, even though he was sure something was going on around the abandoned property. Oh well, at least they ran into Zoë Sullivan. His brother might not be happy about their encounter, but she clearly knows her stuff; she might have more information on this case. The sooner they finish this job, the sooner they can continue their search for their father. It might not be quite the night he expected, but he can’t deny it was exciting.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter four here!