#cheer up the oj tag a bit

[doroach]

Welcome to Hotel Oj !

[excellentexecution]

Anonymous asked: ⭐️ + Owen

Send me ⭐️ + a name, and I’ll write a drabble between that person and my muse!

Koko had been the one to alert the house. Panting, the urgency of his voice clear as day, his visit to the Hart family home turned into something far more troublesome than it was before. Hardly was anyone expecting the dire tone to come out of him at all. That afternoon a seemingly pleasant one, High Energy spending the day together as not just tag team partners but friends, the Birdman and the Rocket, the Hitman playing a tough battle of Go Fish against the British Bulldog. Davey nearly lost, too, the coffee table in the living room had become an amazing spectacle for those who wished to watch. Neidhart taking place as one such person, curious, loudly cheering for both sides of the cards to win, Bret and his eyes had tried with effort to only look out the windows a handful of times. From the sofa, scanning the scene of Owen and Koko playing like children in the backyard, not ready to put down his guard entirely in front of Davey Boy. He had a match to win. Was just about to, had picked the perfect card and was ready to land that final blow to the brother-in-law, that was when Koko came bursting through the back doors. Heaving like he ran a mile - Bret, you gotta come out here, man. Owen’s hurt - wheezing as he eyed the Hitman standing, rushing out the doors himself, forgetting his Go Fish fray. Dave crowned the apparent champion. 

Laid out on the grass like he had been thoroughly run over, Owen was a pitiful sight as he groaned, cried out in pain. His face streaked in ache, arms shaking supports as they attempted to lift his body upward, off of his back. Blue eyes just a touch red in color, Bret took no time in kneeling beside him, somewhat foxed but certainly concerned. Searching for possible wounds - what happened, Oje? Scouring every inch of exposed skin, the length of Owen’s arms from underneath his tank top, the span of his legs that shorts couldn’t protect, even his combed golden hair and head, it was confessed that the ankle had taken a turn for the worse. A casualty to physically explaining a well-conceived prank to Koko, a story retold, a trip over his own two feet by Owen. Funny enough reason to have such an injury, true to character for the Rocket, still did Bret tend to him like he always did. Scooted closer to the damaged part, inspected the ankle with great care, held little brother’s foot in his own hands, gently cradled it. Pressed fingertips to the bones, observed the reactions, smiled a bit at how comfortable the Rocket was around him still, age just a number. Nothing had changed between them since they were kids. 

Big brother always there to look after Owen, make him feel better, protect him from any and all harm, a twisted ankle would put the blonde out of action for the next few hours. Ground the Rocket for just awhile, a package of ice and good relaxation the treatment as prescribed by the Hitman, no more monkeying around with Koko. It was a hard pill to swallow. Really seemed to have depressed Owen, a frown overtaken his usually happy features, his grin, but was soon smoothed over by an affection so sweet, so kindly asked for by him. A small token that would steal away all the torment. A simple favor between friends and brothers, a kiss to the boo-boo. Aw, please, Hitman. It really, really hurts - pleaded for with teary expression. True emotion that looked both too real, too raw, too goofy and overly dramatic, Bret humored Owen. Gave into the silliness and bent himself downward, raised the ankle to his lips, pressed a couple of kisses to the skin for good measure. Massaged the foot and held onto it for a few seconds after, it was like they were children again. Elder coming to the aid of the littlest. Ready to scoop him up and take away all the dangers of the world, Owen embraced Bret with such conviction that it almost made the Hitman start to cry too. The Rocket sat up completely, arms looped around his older brother’s neck, nose buried into the flesh and breathed deeply. It was nice. It was real, despite how silly everything else around them was, brothers bonded. 

An ‘I love you too, Owen’ spoken over the calls of birds, sounds of nature that played throughout the backyard, Owen would have one more performance that afternoon. A final ride into hazardous waters. One last hurrah for himself and others to enjoy, least all but Bret. His fingers running through dark curls, the shorter strands that nestled at the base of the Hitman’s neck, played with, he whispered into big brother’s ear. Dreamily, like a song from a fairytale: Davey owes me for this one. Bret couldn’t keep from laughing. The losses be damned.

___

[etherealnik-archive]

When I’m Gone

Pairing: None Rating: T Tags: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, This Is Exactly What You Think, Bees, AU Where Ronan Isn't The Greywaren, Oops, I'd Say I'm Not Sorry But I Really Am, Ronsey If You Squint, Gansey Dies AU, Canon Divergence

Event: @ravencyclenetwork​ search: AUs  → Gansey Dies AU

Ronan moved certainly and slowly, bringing the glass down against Gansey's neck, trapping the offending insect — Wasp? Bee? Gansey couldn't tell, but Ronan's actions told him enough — inside. Ronan carefully worked his fingers under the cup, probably waiting for the thing to crawl onto the side. Gansey was almost unaware of how close they were until he felt Ronan's hip against his, holding him close even if he didn't mean to.

Then, all hell broke loose.

[Read Now on AO3]

Seven years ago, he heard a voice. It was a whisper.

“You will live because of Glendower. Someone else on the ley line is dying when they should not, and so you will live when you should not.’”

He wouldn't forget what it said.

Every now and then, Gansey would remember those haunting words, feel them run like a chill down his spine and towards his toes. He was beyond knowing how to stop the involuntary shudder, having lived with it for what felt like his whole life, but he still felt the same wave of unease that passed over him at the memory. Gansey was almost surprised at how the memory hadn't waned.

He clenched his fists gently, remembering finally why he was standing in the middle of Monmouth Manufacturing with a pair of pliers as his fingers dug into the sharp metal of his glasses frames. The bridge had snapped after a particularly hard hit to the face while he was exploring the Virginian forests earlier in the day, and he had been muddling in a pool of exhaustion for what felt like months. He supposed his less than substantial sleep schedule was probably to blame, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to lay down and go to sleep when there were so many better uses for his time.

The clock on the microwave was blurry without his prescription. He was about to finally make the final six steps toward the kitchen counter when the sound of the fridge slamming closed behind him caught his attention. Thankfully, he was long past the surprised jumps he had learned whilst sneaking about his parents’ house at hours far too late for normal people to be awake, and he was able to turn around to face the noise the same way he would at three in the afternoon.

Unsurprisingly, it was Ronan with Chainsaw perched delicately on his shoulder, a half-finished glass of orange juice in one hand and the empty carton in the other. He managed a weary smile, prepared to make a light joke about sleepwalking or Ronan's insistence on pulpless OJ.

Ronan held up a hand before he could speak. “You look like ass,” he said simply, gesturing loosely at Gansey's form and then finishing off his drink. He let his eyes drift down to the broken glasses in Gansey's hand and sighed, reaching into his pocket to produce a similar pair as simply as if he was handing over a piece of gum or a pencil.

Gansey blinked, furrowing his brow at the sight. “Oh,” he said softly, taking the smooth metal frames from Ronan and sliding them onto his face. They were the spare glasses he normally kept on his nightstand, but he had lost them months ago. The prescription in them was newer, but Gansey preferred the aesthetic of the older pair and refused to wear them. “Where did you find them?”

“You left them in the Beamer,” he shrugged, pressing his hands back into his jacket pockets. “I figured you'd need them back after you got your ass handed to you by a tree.” Ronan explained, setting his empty glass down so he could run his fingers over Chainsaw's head protectively. “They're all yours if you promise to go to sleep. It's 2 am, man. Get some rest.”

Gansey had always had a hard time telling Ronan no, and his throat tightened a little bit even at the prospect. Something about him commanded authority even when he was joking around, and Gansey couldn't help but listen. “Okay,” he said, twirling the glasses in his fingers. “Fine. Only if you go to bed too, though.”

A shark-like smile split Ronan's face and he winked playfully. “No rest for the wicked, Dick,” he teased again, his entire form seeming to slowly come unwound.

This didn't happen around anyone, not even Adam. Gansey was surprised it ever happened around him either. The smallest things led to it, the furrowing in Ronan's brow easing, the usual tension in his shoulders replaced with a lazy arrogance as he leaned lightly on the counter. Ronan Lynch was a man who always seemed to be at attention, and even when he was at ease he was still wound up tight, ready to bite or punch or hurl insults. Even when he relaxed, the taller boy seemed to have a method to it—first the lazy smile, then relaxed shoulders, all the way down to his feet.

Gansey gave Ronan a small laugh in return, shaking his head playfully when he suddenly stopped. Ronan's entire body went rigid at the sight of the cut-off smile, the coils in his body wound up again, ready to strike, protect, guard. Gansey would never understand how his walls were rebuilt so fast. Ronan's eyes drifted to his shoulder, and his gaze did not waver. “Don't move.”

Again, Gansey listened, keeping his eyes on Ronan's as the man slowly crept forward, grabbing the glass from the counter again and cupping his hand under it. Gansey had a vague idea where this was going, and the woozy feeling from earlier crept back in, followed by fear at the mere look in Ronan's eyes.

Then he felt it, and he went completely still.

An ordinary person might have simply smacked their neck and moved on, but Gansey knew better. He felt the tickling crawl of tiny legs on the side of his neck, crawling off the collar of his polo and onto his skin. His gasp got stuck in his throat, fear holding him tight as any vice. Ronan was right on him now, the glass pressed gently against his shoulder, ready to seal the insect inside and pull it away. He thought he might faint.

Ronan moved certainly and slowly, bringing the glass down against Gansey's neck, trapping the offending insect — Wasp? Bee? Gansey couldn't tell, but Ronan's actions told him enough — inside. Ronan carefully worked his fingers under the cup, probably waiting for the thing to crawl onto the side. Gansey was almost unaware of how close they were until he felt Ronan's hip against his, holding him close even if he didn't mean to.

Then, all hell broke loose.

A drop of orange juice dripped off of the side of the glass, smacking against the bug's head. Gansey heard the thing buzz angrily before he felt a hot, searing pain in his neck once, twice, three times. Ronan swore loudly, throwing the glass away and crushing the bug in his fist. He winced once in pain, but he didn't reach for his hand. He reached for Gansey's neck, three small pinpricks of blood dotting the tanned skin.

Ronan swore again, this time in language so foul it was unusual even for him. He pressed the insect—a wasp, after all; barely the size of Ronan's thumbnail—into the counter with the heel of his hand, smashing it until it was beyond dead.

The room was swimming, and Gansey could already feel his throat closing up. The skin around the sting swelled slightly. The world tilted under his feet. “Ronan,” he whispered, falling to his knees.

Dazed, Gansey reached up for the taller boy, vaguely aware of being jostled into Ronan's arms and carried somewhere. “Stop,” he mumbled, blinking slowly at the ceiling. Had it been one sting, even two, Gansey knew he might be okay; however, he knew that three was too much. His doctor had warned him that even one would be enough to be deadly.

Ronan stared at his friend, his own heart hammering hard in his chest. “Do you have an Epi-Pen?” He asked, fumbling over his words in a way that said he didn't know how to deal with all the emotions coming over him. It wasn't unusual, but it still hurt Gansey's heart.

He looked away. His Epipen was locked away in the Pig's glovebox, and he felt foolish for not thinking to carry it with him. He didn't know if he would get to make the mistake again.

And so, he let his eyes close, trying to take slow, steady breaths, but it was too much. He could feel his muscles cramping, feel his heart failing, but he could only think of his friends, his family. Ronan. The boy had seen enough death in his life. In fact, when Gansey managed to clear his vision enough to see Ronan's face, he looked more like the boy he had been years ago, a boy thrust into a situation where he had no control. Gansey, having coped long ago with the idea of his death, smiled sadly. “Glovebox,” he said softly, dragging his finger down Ronan's chest as he was laid on the bed. He knew then he wouldn't get back up, but he pressed on anyways. “In the glovebox.” He would spare Ronan this moment. He had seen enough.

Ronan, tears rolling down his cheeks, grabbed Gansey's keys from the hook by the door and practically jumped down the stairs to get to Gansey's car. He almost broke the handle to the Pig's passenger side door, opening the glovebox and rooting through it with disastrous speed. He cheered to himself when his hand closed around the small tube, running back upstairs as fast as his legs could possibly carry him.

Ronan pushed open the door to Gansey's room, and paused in the door. Gansey was looking at him, but he wasn't, not really; just staring into his eyes with a blank, empty look. The look of someone who wasn't able to look anymore.

He let out a choked sob, the Epipen falling from his hands as he moved toward his friend's body. He pressed his forehead to the boy's shoulder, crying into it loudly and messily.

Normally, he would be ashamed of showing these emotions, of letting all of his cards show—but now, there was no one to see him.