#dead teens are a boring tuesday for us.

[thepurplewombat]

Oooooohhhhhhh I liked your answer about where your username originated and I was a Bab5 fan back in the day... You willing to expand further upon the story?

Sure!

Be warned that this is extremely dumb and probably not nearly as cool as I made it sound originally. Also my memory is shit and I haven't watched B5 properly since high school (when I used to get up at 1am on Tuesdays to watch the week's episode on rerun since it clashed with Friends, which my mom loved - at least until our satellite got cut off around the time Sheridan's dead wife came back, at which point I'd just read the episode summaries) so I wouldn't be at all surprised to find out that the scene in question didn't happen at all like I remember it.

There's an episode, I don't remember which season or which episode (but it wad before Sheridan's wife came back because I haven't seen anything after that except for the series finale, which happened to be playing while we were visiting people who were, frankly, Very boring, but did have dstv) , where Garibaldi gets really fucking drunk, or possibly high, and says something about seeing a bunch of (possibly a conga line of) dancing purple wombats in the bathroom.

Anyway, as mentioned previously I was watching these at ass o'clock with my wee earphones plugged into the front of the television (but only one, so I could hear if someone was coming. Although what I was going to do if someone did come I didn't know, considering the living room was a dead end unless I wanted to go outside and climb back in through my bedroom window, which was not really an option because my very Large dog would get Very Loudly Excited if she saw me outside at night, the snitch) , and more than a little buzzed on shots of cold coffee dregs from the pot on the stove that had been brewing for something like 12 hours by that point, so teen me thought that was HILARIOUS.

So several years later, when I got tired of Notalama (which comes from The Emperor's New Groove) and wanted something less dramatic than Jaggedrain, I remembered that bit and tried variations on the dancing purple wombat theme until I came up with just 'thepurplewombat' because most online spaces cruelly refuse to give me enough letters for 'dancingpurplewombat'

[we-love-the-murder-bois]

Meeting Michael at Smiths Grove

(A small first meeting scenario with a crazy s/o. Tw: murder of people and animals, and mentions of pervyness and possible assault.)

You knew there were things wrong with your head, all jumbled up and loose and wrong. You knew you needed help, but you didn’t like this place. The walls were too white, the people too quiet and dead, and the staff too lingering in their touches and looks. It felt like standing in the lions den, all the while being groomed to think you were Daniel when you knew you were a simple their waiting to be ripped apart.

You hadn’t meant to lose it, but people rarely did. You were young at the time, just a teenager, and your ex backed you into a corner, so you reacted. You bashed their head in with a frying pan until it was basically red mush. When you finally came back to yourself, you had killed every living thing in the house, even your pet. You missed them more than your ex, if you were being honest.

You never said it, but you wondered if that weird doctor- Loomis?- saw what you didn’t say. You remembered killing your ex, and it had felt amazing. Nothing was more pleasing, thrilling, arousing than killing them and hearing them scream, until they weren’t.

You had never been a social creature, but your only company whispering about demons or being catatonic was annoying.

You and taken to wandering, learning every square inch of the place you would call home for some time. You looked in every room, learning which paranoid schizophrenic would attack you for poking around and which ones just cried in the corner when you poked them. The one room that really interested you though, belonged to one of the more infamous inmates.

Michael Myers, a catatonic mountain of a man who killed his sister, her boyfriend, and his father when he was a runt. He was interesting, but his eyes were dark and stormy. You probably weren’t leaving any time soon, so why not learn more?

Slowly you spent more time in and around Michael’s cell, eventually claiming a corner of his cot as yours to sit on and talk to Mike.

You had pretty quickly figured out that the majority of inmates were basically corpses following the basics of surviving, with prompt, and Mike wasn’t too different. He didn’t talk, barely moved aside from making a mask, and you never saw him leave his room without being forced to. Still, you liked to think a part of him heard you.

Maybe it was coping, finding solace in someone else who had killed, someone stronger, or whatever psychology. You just liked the company, it didn’t feel like they wanted you to say something, you could just say what you wanted.

“I killed my ex and his roommates. Also his cat. I feel bad about ganking Freddy, poor kitty was an asshole, but he didn’t need to die like that. I did him dirty.” You sighed, leaning forward on your elbows. You had told this story before, but it still felt good to talk to someone who wasn’t taking notes.

“Anyways, I’m gonna warn ya, I’m planning to attack one of the wardens tomorrow, so I won’t be by until I’m out of solitary. Just rough him up a little, I won’t risk killing him, not yet. He’s a pervert always forcing those pretty young things to do whatever he wants. Imma dig my thumbs into his eyes until he can’t see pretty no more.” You saw a bit of a tick in Mike’s shoulder, and while it could have been him fiddling with his mask, you liked to think it was a sign he was listening.

And you had done just that, eventually tackled and tased to the ground as you cackled, that pervs blood on your hands. You knew he probably didn’t, but you hoped Michael saw. Maybe he’d be proud, who knew.

After you served your stint you fell back into schedule, making up for lost time. You wondered if Michael missed you, but you got no confirmation or denial.

“Halloween is coming up. I’m excited, but kinda sad? If I ever get out, I’ll be too old to enjoy it anymore. I miss runnin around, bein a kid, gettin candy and goin wild. I understand why you love masks, they make you braver, don’t they? I always feel safe when I’m wearing a mask.” You confessed one October night, looking around at the steadily growing collection of masks on Michael’s walls. You knew not the touch them, but you quietly admired.

A few days later you had found a mask outside your door.

It was beautiful, yet terrifying. You ran your fingers along it gently, admiring it. You loved it more than you had ever loved anything else. With hands stiller than they had been for years, you carefully slipped the mask onto your face, securing it behind your head. It fit like it belonged there, so you decided it did.

You never took it off, and it became your new face. Sure, they tried to force you to take it off, saying it was a safety blanket or some crap, but they soon learned that you played nice up until they touched your mask.

Your time with Mike got longer and he knew more about you than your family or doctors did. He had heard all your stories and musings, from the sober, calm words to the near drunk medicated rambling. Even though you were probably a stranger to him, he felt so important to you.

After you started wearing the mask and spending every moment you could in Michael’s cell, Dr. Loomis had taken a liking to you. You didn’t like him, he was too obsessive and crazy. You thought he belonged in there with them, not prancing around like a child at the zoo.

“You’re smart, being silent. These people wait until you start to talk and then they use that to break you down. These therapists and their medications, all because we talk.” You were pretty strung out after they changed your medication dose, laying sprawled out on Michael’s cot. Had you been in your right mind you wouldn’t have pushed that, but you were hazy and hurting.

You had fallen asleep until an orderly was hauling you out. You thought you saw Mikey twitch when you grunted in pain, but it was probably the drugs. Thankfully it was a nicer orderly, not one of the creepy ones, so you didn’t have a reason to fight him.

Through the years, Michael became your everything. He was fixed, unchanging and uncompromised in a world that constantly screwed you over. Through the drugs and the fights, the bad moments and the good ones, there was always Mike to go to. He had given you a face, a safe space, he was your everything. You had stopped talking to anyone else, became a ghost around everyone but Mike.

You were sitting in your cell, tapping rhythms on the too clean tiles when you heard the screaming start, along with gunfire. You couldn’t help a small giggle at the smell of copper but forced yourself to stand and go to your door. It was locked but you knew your cell was older, you simply threw yourself into it until it opened. Pain didn’t matter much with the drug cocktail you were on.

You followed the noises, turning a corner and walking past some dead bodies. Maybe you would’ve felt something once upon a time, but this place had broke your remorse. You felt jealous, if anything. Whoever had done this was braver, they did what you were too coward and weak to do.

You found Michael standing over a body, hands covered in blood. He had smashed the persons head in with a tv, so points for creativity. He looked up and you stood in the doorway, staring at each other behind your masks. You wondered if he planned to kill you, and if you minded. Life would be meaningless once he was gone, so you didn’t mind dying if he was the one to do it.

You smiled behind your mask, tilting your head up as he slowly approached. Your eyes fluttered closed and you felt clearer than you had in years.

You hadn’t expected to feel his iron grip on your arm, feel him start to drag you with him, but you’d didn’t question him. He had a plan, and you were all too willing to follow him to the ends of the earth, do whatever he wanted.

You would live as long as he wanted you to, and if or when he decided you would die, you wouldn’t fight it.

Michael Myers was your everything.

[callme-secret]

Spider-Dad

Part 1 : The Origin

NO WAY HOME SPOILERS

A (TASM) DAD!Peter Parker x Daughter!Reader

Plot : (Y/N) May Parker has been Spiderman for a total of two years. She learned to expect the unexpected, but seeing her dead dad in another dimension? That's too much even for her.

Warnings : swearing, angst, teen angst like reader is litterly kind if a brat but I love her, character death

A/N : did I promise a uncle Regulus fic? Yes. Did I also say I was writing a soulmate au for Peter parker as well? Yeah. But this was finished first and its cute, so this is what you get. Also this a three parter, this is just the readers origin story, Peter doesn't even make an actual appearance until the way end.

: edited :

(Y/n) May Parker had a good childhood for the most part. Honestly she had everything she could've ever needed, and more. Her parents and her lived in a tiny town house just on the outskirts of Brooklyn, and even though it was small every square inch was filled with happy memories. Even the street they lived on were filled with memories. Their neighbors luckily had a young boy around (Y/n)'s age, that quickly became her best friend. The two had created stories and worlds entirely from the steps of their homes. She couldn't walk two feet outside of her house without being reminded of something stupid and funny she had done at that same spot. How could she ask for anything more?

Her parents where top scientists at Oscorp. A job that kept them busy alot, but they still made time for (Y/N), making sure to take every Tuesday off to have a day with her. Both of them worked on biochemistry that could possibly change the medical field. If they succeeded people could regrow limbs, and expand the life expectancy. Her mom, Gwen Parker, worked with lizards, while her dad, Peter Parker, worked with spiders.

Apparently her grandad also worked with spiders before he went missing. Peter had picked off where he left off, continuing the experiments and research. Although he hadn't made nearly as much progress as he hoped. He still told his daughter about every improvemnt or revelation, and (Y/N) absorbed every word. She was utterly fascinated with her father's work.

She used to listen to him talk about it for hours. Dinners, mornings, during bed time stories, the two would always talk about his latest breakthrough. The young girl never even bored by the big words and long math problems, always listening with her full attention. She'd ask questions that would send Peter off into a tangent, before they where both shushed and sent of too bed.

It got to the point where her mother had given the two nicknames for their bug obsession. Originally it was meant to make fun of of the two, but of course they quickly grew attached to the names. Peter had been dubbed spiderman by the two Parker girls. Pretty quickly dad was forgotten form (y/n)'s vocabulary, spiderman quickly taking its place. Many a teachers where very confused when one of their students kepts drawing a man in a red mask and a lab cost instead of their dad. Peter, in turn, did the same thing, never once calling her by the name him and Gwen had spent hours picking out, but instead Spiderling. Pretty quickly everyone began calling her Spiderling, from her mom to Aunt May.

Even her best friend, Miles Morales, called her Spiderling. Though the nickname was strictly reserved for family, he was the only exception. (despite Peter's arguments) Soon, (Y/N)'s true name was hardly ever spoken, and she couldn't be happier.

All in all her childhood was great, she didn't have one thing she would change.

Until Peter Parker was found shot in an alley.

The cops didn't have any awnsers. Nothing was stolen. He still had his wallet when he was found, so it wasn't a mugging. Any suspect they had, had an alibi, and there was no witness. No one knew what happened that night, and the police had no leads. There wasn't even a person who would speak bad about Peter B. Parker, let alone kill him. So they closed the case. Left it to rot in a folder, on a shelf, with the rest of the dead ends.

(Y/N) had never seen her mother cry until that day. Rarely if ever, had Gwen Parker cried in front of her daughter. It was a pride thing, she wanted her to think that she was strong, that she was unbeatable, but this? This was too much, she couldn't pretend with this. (Y/N) had never even see her mother flinch, and yet, there she was. Sobbing like her chest was about to cave in. It broke her heart to see her mom like that.

For a while the world felt a little grey, and the name spiderman was never spoken again in the Parker house.

Science fairs, spelling bees, decathlons, anything that would distance herself from the depressing idea of her dad. During this time, Miles and her had never been more close. Luckily the two had been given scholarships to the same school, and had spent nearly every day together. Where one was, the other wasn't far behind. Homework, school dances, first dates, they did everything together. His family became hers, and vice versa.

It took a while for things to get back to normal, but pretty soon (Y/N) started middle school. All wallowing and self pity left behind, so she could foucs on classes and school drama. She didn't want to be known as the girl with the dead dad, so she did everything she could to distract herself from it. Pretended like nothing had ever happened.

If her mom had to spend a late night at work, or go somewhere for business, (Y/N) was always entrusted to the care of the Morales Family. The families spent holidays together, and even had a designated night once a month to have dinner together. The two even had spare clothes at each others houses incase of an impromptu sleep over. Truly, if the dictionary had pictures, (Y/N) was sure Miles smiling face would be right beside the definition of Best friend.

She told him everything, and he did the same.

After her dad died, (Y/N) and her mom had unintentionally been avoiding May. She was just too much of a reminder. The way she laughed, the way she spoke, even how she would saw her name, it was all the exact way he used to. Even May's house was a reminder. All of her dads things had been hidden in the attic at her house, but May kept everything out. His highschool diploma, his wedding photo, even his briefcase sat by the door as if waiting for him to come back and take it to work.

On one of the rare times Miles family had plans out of town, and Gwen had a business trip to somewhere in Washington dc, (Y/N) was left with her great aunt May. Aunt May had always been a constant in her life, something she was sure her dad was glad for. May did everything her parents couldn't, she baked all of (Y/N)s birthday cakes, taught her to ride a bike, and spent hours teaching her how to sew. Truly she was the best grandmother anyone could ask for, even if she wasn't actually her grandma.

Which is why it hurt so much to see her.

Worst of all, (Y/N) had been given his old bed room to sleep in. A time capsule of Peter Parker from his highschool days, everything left untouched. It all hurt to look at, but she couldn't tell her aunt that. It would break the woman's heart to know she was hurting (Y/N), and that was the last thing she'd ever want to do.

So (Y/N) sucked it up. It was only three days anyways, she could handle three days. She could ignore it for that long. Atleast that's what she told herself.

Besides it was kind of interesting to see was her dad was into back then. Though it seemed all that he had left behind where Coldplay CDs, and forgotten science projects, she still found joy in the little things he's left behind. It was when she decided to go through his brief case that everything went to shit.

It was the basic stuff really, chemical equations, a calculator, his glasses. Glasses that she quickly slipped onto her face, they where slightly to big and kept slipping down the brige of her nose but she didnt mind. When she looked in the mirror, for a secound she could convince herself it wasn't her reflection, but her dad staring back at her.

The only other thing in the brief case was a live spider. It was stuck in a sealed vial, and it looked as if to be glaring at her. (Not that she minded, she would also be pissed to be left in a vial and forgotten.) Putting it to the side, (Y/N) decided to release it later.

She tried to read his notes, though it was hard. She was top of her class at one of the best school in New York, but even then she was still just a sixth grader. Words that where hard to understand where overshadowed by poorly drawn spiders scribbled in the margins of his notes, a fact that made her smile.

She was tracing her finger over one of her dads doodles when she felt a sharp pang on the back of her neck. Slapping the spot with out hesitation, (Y/N) was surprised to see the remains of the spider squished onto her palm. Somehow it had to of escaped when she had set it down, though how It manged to climb up to her neck so fast was beyond her.

"Dinner time!" May shouted, effectively distracting (Y/N) from her thoughts.

"Coming!" She yelled back, jumping from her spot and rushing out of her Dads old room, all question about the now dead spider quickly forgotten.

The next morning was a utter chaos. (Y/N) had woken up to her dads 50 year old alarm clock blaring unholy loud screams. When she went to shut it off, it smashed to pieces beneath her fingertips. Something she was quick to pass as old things break easy.

Only it countied to happen. She broke the closet door off its hinges when she went to steal one of Peter's old hoodies. The nob to the bathroom facet popped off it her hands, effectively spraying water everywhere until she manged to force it back on. It happened to often for her to act as if it was all a coincidence.

When May drove her to school, (Y/N) made it a point to sit as still as possible and touch everything with the lightest pressure. She wouldn't even breathe to heavy in fear of breaking something. As soon as May came to a stop, she hopped out, nothing but a "see you soon" slipping from her lips before she accidentally slammed the door. Apparently she was still using to much strength.

She made it nearly three steps before someone fell into place by her side. Miles grinned at her, rapping his arm around her shoulder with out even a thought. "Hey Parker, how's your morning going?" He asked, never once looking away from her.

She stared back at him, her eyes wide. "I'm pretty sure I'm on drugs."

"Wait what?"

"Either that or I became superman over night."

Not an ideal situation, (y/n) realized. Even without the fear of accidently lodging a dodge ball into the sun, (Y/N) hated gym class. The uniforms where old and itchy, the teacher slightly greasy, and worst of all Flash Thompson Jr. was in this class. His dad had tortured hers in highschool, and it seemed he wanted to keep up the tradition.

"What are you talking about?" Miles questioned, but before she could awnser the bell rang. Glaring at the disruption, he pointed a finger in her direction and said; "this conversation is not over with. You need to explain why you're being so weird. Werider than normal." And that was it. The two rushed off to their first class of the day, there conversation reserved for a later time.

Unfortunately, their first class of the day happened to be Gym.

"Hey Parker." He sneered at her, a foam ball bouncing between his two hands. "The game today is dodgeball, you know what that means."

Before she could even respond, Miles was right beside her. "Screw off Flash, why don't you go play soccor with your head again."

"Mind your business Miles, I wasn't talking to you." Flash shot back, stepping closer to get in Miles face.

Huffing out a sigh, (Y/N) shoved him, with what she thought was going to be a gentle shove, but ended up with Flash on the floor. Deciding not to acknowledge this, she barked out; "now is not the day to mess with me, so screw off."

"Morales! Thompson! Parker! Break it up and get to your teams!" The teacher shouted, blowing his whistle to enforce his statement.

If looks could kill, (Y/N) was sure she'd already have a plot next to her dad's, but they couldn't. Flash could do nothing but glare daggers at her, and throw as many high-speed foam balls at her as he could.

This time was no different. Making a point to send her a wink and a smile, Flash reared back and threw the red foam ball with a power that was scary to be found in a twelve year old boy. (Y/N) closed her eyes, and waited for the impact.

At the first sound of the whistle, her teammates started to drop like flies. Miles was out almost instantly, Flash having chucked a ball so hard into his stomache he kneeled over in pain. Another classmate had his glasses snap in half when a stray ball had smacked him right in the face. Someone else was already nursing what (Y/N) was sure to be a mild concussion.

Eventually she was the only one on her team left, a fact she was expecting. This was one of Flash's favorite ways to humiliate her, having the whole class watch as he threw ball after ball at the poor girl.

One that never came. When she finally opened her eyes the gym was quiet. She had caught the ball. She had moved without knowing, had snatched the ball with one hand without looking. This was new.

Flash didn't waste much time, staring to launch ball after ball.

(Y/N) dodged every one, ducking and swerving out of the way. When he sent one towards her legs she even manged to jump over it, tucking her legs to her chest and hopping over it like nothing. Finally, he only had one ball left.

"I don't know what's up with you Parker, but it won't last."

(Y/n) held her arms wide open. With a new sense of confidence, she smirked. "Come at me flash, I'm an open target."

He let out a frustrated groan, and with all his strength chucked his last ball.

The class fell silent. A hit from a ball like that would usually send a kid to the nurses office. It had before, but (y/n) was still standing. She was still standing with a yellow ball gripped harshly in her hands. She had caught it again, this time though she wasnt going to wait for him to attack again. Not an ounce of hesitation in her movement, (y/n) aimed the ball right back at Flash.

The room was so quiet that everyone heard the smack of the ball making contact with Flash Thompson Jr's face. A sickening sound that made (Y/N)s stomache turn. Everyone was frozen. The room eerily silent.

It wasn't tell Flash's nose started to bleed that people finally began to react. Two girls rushed to take him to the nurse, everyone else simply laughing at the way the boy stumbled. Eventually they all started to gather the balls for another round, quiet giggles still ringing out every once in awhile.

It didn't take long for Miles to find his right full spot by her side. "How did you do that."

Looking up at him she let out a short laugh. "I don't know, but it felt good."

The rest of the day passed in a blur, and before she knew it, her and Miles where walking home. It was a normal part of her daily routine, but normally their conversations where filled with video games and the latest oscorp inventions, not her sudden appearance of superpowers.

"So, so far we've noticed you have super strength, better agility, and have heighten senses anything else?" Miles asked, a mild disbelief in his voice.

Laughing at his face, (y/n) shook her head. "Not that I know of."

"Oh my god." Miles stared in awe. "this is by far the coolest thing you've ever done. Do you know what this means?"

"I'm a freak of nature?"

"No! You're a superhero!"

Shaking her head, (Y/N) was quick to deny this. "I'm not a superhero Miles, I'm a middle schooler."

"You could be! Do you know how many people you can help with these powers?" He explained. They had made their way to his house by now, and where quick to find their regular spots in his Kitchen, rummaging for food. "You could change New York! Who would want to commit crime when there was an ass kicking badass out there!"

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow. "Did you really have to say ass twice."

"You're not listening!"

Stacking Tupperware container after another, (y/n) stepping away from Miles fridge with her hands full of leftovers. An unholy amount of food being placed on the contour. "I am listening, but be realistic, superheros aren't real. Plus how would I keep up with school, and be a vigilante?"

Miles watched as his friend kept pulling more food from the pantry. "Are you really that hungry?" When she nodded a little to enthusiastically he moved on. "I could help! Be your guy in the chair!"

"Miles the awnser is no. Now, are we going to play Dance Monster Dance, or are we going to talk about the logistics of my already failed hero career?"

"I'll set up my Xstation."

"That's what I thought."

Before either of them noticed four hours had already passed and it was 8 o'clock. Rio, Miles mom, offered for (Y/N) to stay for dinner, but her mom should have already been home by now so she politely declined. Miles made sure to follow her out.

"Make sure you call me if you figure anything else out." He said in a hushed wishper.

Letting out an amused giggle, (Y/N) agreed. "Alright Miles, you'll be the first and only person I call, as always." Her words seemed to appease him, as he finally let her leave.

Something was wrong. Majorly wrong.

(Y/N) knew something was worng before she even made it home. A tingle like sensation breaking out across the base of her skull warning her of upcoming danger. She tried to ignore it of course, until she notice every light in her house was on.

Her mom had always been a stickler for turning off the lights when you left the room, had engraved the rule into (y/n)s head since she was a kid. There was no way her mom would forget this. Even stranger, when she went to enter her home, she found the front door slightly ajar, her mother's keys still in the lock.

She would have went to call the police, wouldn't even had taught about entering a dangerous situation, until she head her mother whimper. Gwen Parker did not whimper, not even when Peter died. The sound made white hot rage fill (Y/N)s veins, and suddenly she was barging through the door.

Two men where standing in her living room, surrounding her mother who was blind foled and tied to a chair, a sock shoved into her mouth and headphones covering her ears. The men seemed to be shoving some of their valuables into duffel bags, and working fast.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The men turned at the sound of her voice, allowing her to get a better look. Of course they looked like cartoonish bak robbers, ski masks and all. Of course they had a gun aswell, to complete the look. "Are you that stupid? You need to rob homes to get by? You can't get a normal job?"

"Watch your mouth kid, or mommy gets it." One of them said, holding the gun to Gwen's head. "Now, just let us finish up here, and we'll be on our way."

(Y/N) laughed. "Yeah sure, I'll just let you rob my house, brilliant idea dumbass." Apparently her insults got to one of them, as he rushed at her without much thought. Just what she wanted. As soon as his arm was in distance of her, she latched onto it. Forcing his body forward, she twisted his arm up until he started to shout in pain. "Drop the gun or your buddy loses an arm."

The man didn't listen, instead also charging her. Pushing the one in her hands forward, the two crashed into each other, causing them to lose his grip on the pistol. When it hit the floor, (Y/N) kicked it across the room, far away from her and the two men.

One of the men managed to get behind her, trapping her in between his arms. Swinging her body upwards, she managed to flip around the man, causing him to fall to the floor. His buddy was right beside him, already throwing punches at the girl without much thoughts. (Y/N) dogdged almost all of them, only two making contact with her cheek and stomache.

Having enough with his games, she socked him right in the nose like her dad had taught her too. Both men had crumpled to the floor, bloody and out of it. (Y/N) made sure to zip tie their hands together, before she released her mom.

"Mom? Are you okay? Are you hurt?" She asked, quickly checking for any damage.

Her mom just shook, eyes wide. "Did you- did you do this?"

Watching the fear in Gwen's face caused (y/N)'s heart to break. Her mom couldn't know, she would die if she knew her daughter could do this. So she shook her head. "No, they where like this when I got here. I'll call the police."

The police showed up not twenty minutes later. They took the two men and asked both her and her mom questions. "Who captured them?" and "is anything missing?" Being the most common two. When they got everything they needed they left.

Gwen had gone to bed. The adrenaline had finally drained from her body, and she needed to crash so (Y/N) was left to her own devices. Miles number was dialed before she even properly thought it through.

"Miles? You where right. Let's do the hero thing."

And spiderling was born.

Well not over night. It took them nearly three months to perfect the web fluid formula, and a total of seven costumes before they found one that both allowed (Y/N) as much movement that she needed and was durable. Eventually she had sewed together a red and white suit that quickly became New Yorks greatest hero.

She started with small crimes initially. Muggers, car theifs, petty fights, but as time went on she had to up the ante. Bank robbers, home invasions, even gang related crimes. As the years went on the crime just got worse. To the point where she was now fighting super powered bad guys on the daily.

She was an eighth grader now, and had taken on a lizard man, a shapshifing bank robber, and best of all an alien from outer space that was eating people. Not what she had expected from her middle school career.

Miles had kept his promise, and was in fact her guy in the chair. He listened to the police radio and told her of any place she needed to be. He even made regular updates to her suit, adding in a ear piece, extra webbing space, and best of all he had wired her mask to adjust to her vision.

Truthfully, (Y/N) didn't know if she could do it without him.

It helped knowing atleast someone knew her secret. If things ever went bad, she could trust Miles to explain everything to her mom and May, and that's all she needed.

(Y/N) was almost bored with everything. It had all become so predictable, and then she was sucked into another dimension. Another world where Spiderling didn't exist and Spiderman did.

Admittingly she should have been more worried. One moment she's fighting Black Cat, the next she's in an alley, somewhere in Queens. Why the hell was she in Queens? But none of that really bothered her.

Gathering her bearings, (Y/N) was glad she atleast had her backpack. She had food, a change of clothes, even a few cartridges of extra web fluid, but no way home.

She was the daughter of two brilliant scientists, string theory and multi dimensional ideals weren't beyond her. What was odd, was the question of why she was transported. Dimensional jumps wouldn't even be a thought for atleast another three decades, yet here she was. It couldn't be possible she was the only one taken, there had to be others, right?

Any attempts to call Miles where met with static. For a secound, she worried about how scared he would he when she didn't awnser his calls, or how he would explain it to her mom when she didn't show up for dinner thay night. Shaking the thoughts from her head, (Y/N) made her way onto the street. She couldn't think about that right now, she needed to focus on getting home.

Thankfully it was night, it would have been heard to explain why a spandex clad teenager was walking around New York to a pedestrian. She was somewhere near Aunt May's place. Did this world have an Aunt May? Or even a (Y/N)?

That didn't matter, she had to remind herself. It wasn't like she was planning on staying here, she just needed a way out. Making sure her mask was on, and her backpack was secure to her shoulders, (Y/N) shot a web at the first building she saw, and she was off.

It didn't take long for her body to fall into its normal rhythm, taking her to her favorite place purely on muscle memory. The Queens Plaza Park loomed over the city like a Titan. It was one of those buildings that (Y/N) had made her own. She would often find herself there when she was in Queens visitng May, or if she had needed a place to hide. It was a relief to find something that she was used to, and pretty soon she found herself at the top.

"Is this your world, or are you lost to?" She finally asked, never once taking her eyes off of him. She trusted her senses, but one could never be to careful.

She wasn't alone. Of course she wasnt alone, that would he too easy.

Someone else was up there, in a suit similar to hers. His however was blue and red, and the symbol on his chest slightly alerted form hers. He had his mask off and his back turned to her when she landed, so the only real distinguishable feature she could see was brown hair that's stuck out of his head like a pineapple.

He had to have sensed her, she knew it. Her spider senses went off every time she looked at him, tingling in the base of her head warning her. Not warning her in the way they would when she was in danger, but in a way that told her he was important in some way. That he was just like her.

He laughed at the question. "I guess you could say I'm lost, but this has to be the-" the world went silent when he turned around, despite the fact that (Y/N) could still see his lips moving.

He looked exactly as she remembered, brown unruly hair that she used to braid and style with cheap butterfly clips, brown eyes that used to grin at her when she told a chessy joke, and a smile that used to make her burnt scrambled eggs when her mom couldn't cook.

Tears had started to fall down her cheeks, emotions she had buried years ago suddenly emerging from deep in her subconscious. She hadn't even processed she was rushing to him until she had caught him in a hug.

: end :

Of course she would see her dad here. After all Peter Parker was known for making the worst entrances.

[criminalmindzjunkie]

I Carry Your Heart With Me (Prologue)

Summary: When your college roommate asks you to be a bridesmaid at her wedding, you pack your bags and jump on a flight to Montana. What was supposed to be a relaxing week on the husband-to-be’s ranch is turned upside down when an old flame decides to make an appearance. Mix in lingering feelings, a meddling bride, and the mother of all misunderstandings, and your week out west turns out to be a whole lot more than you bargained for.

series masterlist

playlist

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex

Word Count: 2.5k

           Spencer gets the email on a Tuesday.

           He’s fresh off of a quick trip to a nearby café that sells the most delectable scones, and he’s eagerly unwrapping one and lifting it to his mouth when he gets the notification. The quiet ping is enough to make him pause with the scone midway to its destination.

Because the thing is, Spencer Reid doesn’t get a lot of emails. In fact, there are approximately ten people that even know his email address, and seven of them are currently in the same room as him. Spencer peers over the top of his monitor and scans the room. No one is doing anything indicative of having sent Spencer yet another prank email (thanks a lot, Luke), so he deems it safe and clicks on the email icon.

           As it boots up, Spencer takes a bite of his scone. The warm, sugary dough tastes like heaven in his mouth, once again proving to Spencer that the fifteen-minute walk there is more than worth his time. He’s mid-swallow when his inbox pops up on the screen, and when he sees the all too familiar name on the sender’s address, he inhales a sharp breath that leaves him choking on his pastry.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Melville

Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Sewell

Joyfully request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their children

Cassidy and Mason

Saturday, the twenty-seventh of May

Two thousand nine-teen

           His choking fit garners the attention of every one of his colleagues, but Spencer can’t bring himself to care. All he can focus on is sucking in as much air as possible in between coughs. It doesn’t help that his oxygen deprived brain is currently reeling. Long suppressed memories are fighting their way to the surface, and now it’s not only his lungs that are engulfed in a searing heat, but his heart, too.

           Cassidy Sewell. A fiery, opinionated redhead that Spencer hasn’t thought of in nearly fifteen years. But Cassidy isn’t the reason that he feels like a knife has been thrust into his ribcage, nor is she the reason he is currently aspirating his scone. The basis of his distress is another woman entirely.

           Spencer eventually regains control of his windpipe and when he does, he rereads the email several times. It’s wonderful news - really, it is. And he’s happy for Cassidy. His memories of her are plentiful and he thinks back on them fondly. The only problem is that he knows wherever Cassidy is, you’ll be there, too.

           He really should just delete the email and go on about his business - that would be the smart thing to do. But Spencer’s never really been smart when it comes to you, so he does the worst thing possible and clicks on the ‘view recipients’ button.

           And sure enough, your name falls just above his on the list.

           Which brings up another issue entirely; why is he receiving this email? And, more importantly, do you know that he’s been invited? Spencer can only come up with two possible answers to that question, and both are equally heartbreaking. Either you know he’s been invited and you’re indifferent to the fact, or you haven’t a clue and his showing up would be entirely inappropriate.

           He briefly entertains the possibility of a third option; one in which you knew he’d received an invitation and were hopeful that he might show up. Spencer allows this possibility to live in his mind for approximately two seconds before he’s stomping it out and killing it. That’s just… unlikely.

           “Ooh! Who’s getting married?”

           Spencer quickly exits out of his email and spins around in his chair to find Penelope pouting her lip out at him.

           “No one. Just a spam email,” Spencer lies. His efforts are in vain, however, because Penelope fixes him with an unimpressed glare.

           “I’m going to save you and I both the trouble of me hacking into your computer and offer you the opportunity to try that again.”

           Spencer visibly deflates and mentally curses the creators of the interconnected computer networks. He weighs his options. He could be completely honest and be subjected Penelope’s endearing, yet suffocating enthusiasm, or he could skim a little bit off the top and hope she doesn’t pump him for information.

           Spencer decides on the latter.

           “An old friend.”

           Penelope narrows her eyes at him and he shrinks under her gaze. She might not be a profiler, but she damn sure could be.

           “Then why do you look like you’re about to hurl?”

           “No reason.”

           They’ve reached a stalemate, and Spencer isn’t quite sure what to do with that. Usually, if this were a chest match, Spencer would already have the upper hand. He’s not used to being backed into a corner. At first, Spencer’s sure that he can outlast Penelope’s inquisition, but the longer those seemingly omniscient eyes of hers bore into his own, he can feel his resolve crumbling into nothing. All it takes is her lifting one perfectly plucked eyebrow in challenge for him to break.

           “An ex-girlfriend of mine will be in attendance.”

           Spencer knows he’s fucked from the way Penelope’s entire face lights up upon hearing that little tidbit of information. In a flash Penelope’s dragging over an empty chair and seating herself directly in front of Spencer, eyes shining excitedly.

           “Tell me everything.”

           So, he does.

           And an hour later, Penelope is booking him a flight to Montana.

--

           “I cannot believe you did this to me,” you murmur into the receiver as you stare at your computer screen. Your eyes are zeroed in on the email, but all the words are blurring together into an intelligible mess. All except two.

           Spencer Reid

           “Correction; I did this for you,” Cassidy replies, sounding awfully pleased with herself. If you could see her, you were certain she’d be grinning ear to ear. “You can’t tell me that you’re not the least bit excited at the possibility of seeing him again.”

           “That is exactly what I’m telling you!” you groan as you throw your head against the back of your chair. “Fifteen years is a long time, Cass. I’ve moved on, and I’m sure he has, too. That door is closed.”

           Cassidy snorts, “Well open that sucker back up, because I just got an RSVP from one Doctor Spencer Reid who, and I quote, ‘cannot wait to see everyone.’ This RSVP came without a plus one, might I add.”

           You jolt up in your seat and instantly regret it when your stomach churns painfully as a result. Suddenly, your decision to place your waste basket on the opposite side of the room seems awfully ill advised. The only thing keeping you from lunging for it and expelling the contents of your stomach is the fact that he isn’t bringing anyone with him, which is… something.

           “He’s coming?” you squeak out. “Why would he do that?”

           Another laugh from Cassidy floats out through the speaker.

           “Well, I’d like to think he might be going to see one of his oldest and dearest friends get married, but I think we both know that this has nothing to do with me, and a whole lot to do with you.”

           You’re just about to open your mouth to protest when a head of long, blonde hair peeks through the crack of your door. You only know one man with a head of hair like that, and that man just so happens to be the only other person in your life that lives for taking the piss at your expense. You can’t help but think that you must’ve done something terrible in a past life to be subjected to all of this before noon on a Tuesday morning.

           You wave Damien in, because why the hell not? He’d be hearing about it over one or several bottles of wine this evening, anyways. What was one more spectator to the worst moment of your entire adult life?

           As he takes his seat in a chair in front of your desk, you flash him a tight smile and turn your attention back to Cassidy.

           “You’re reading way too much into this. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

           “You know that boy does not forget anything,” Cassidy points out.

           Yeah, you think, and that’s what makes not hearing from him for fifteen years even worse. That means the radio silence was a choice.

           “Doesn’t matter. You need to uninvite him. I’m being so serious right now.”

           “I absolutely will not. That’d be terribly rude of me,” Cassidy sniffs. “And you obviously have no choice but to attend, Miss Maid of Honor, so consider this your warning. I was going to keep this a secret, but Mason said that would be cruel. So.”

           You want to argue that the entire thing is cruel, but Cassidy’s indifference to your plight leads you to believe that your protest would fall on deaf ears. To make matters worse, Damien looks positively delighted at the prospect of something exciting happening. He’s literally sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning forward in an attempt to hear Cassidy’s end of the conversation.

           You really needed to pick more sympathetic friends.

           “I’m going to hang up now, because I physically cannot handle being a part of this conversation any longer.”

           “That’s the spirit!” Cassidy trills. “Trust me, you’re going to thank me for this later. Oh, and do yourself a favor and Google search him. You will not be disappointed!”

           At that, the line goes dead. You don’t even have the chance to say something embarrassing like too late, I already do that like twice a year, which is probably a good thing.

           You slam down the phone and let your head fall into your hands, adding in a dramatic groan for good measure. Usually, you like to think you’re a little more level headed, but the Spencer Reid sized hole in your heart that you’d been trying to mend for the last decade and a half was just ripped wide open, so you figure you deserve a moment to panic.

           Damien, however, doesn’t share that same belief.

           “I get that you’re trying to have a moment, and I respect that, but you know how impatient I get and I haven’t seen you this upset since One Direction split up. Color me intrigued. What did dear Cassidy do to get your knickers in such a twist?”

           You lift your head and fix him with a withering look.

           “She invited Spencer.”

           That wipes the smile right off of Damien’s face.

           “Oh, fuck,” Damien swears. Finally, someone understands how extremely not okay this situation is. You let out another despairing groan. “What are the chances he’s actually going to show up?”

           You chuckle bitterly, “Pretty fucking high, if you consider the fact that he already RSVP’d any indication.” You push away from your desk and begin to pace around the room, all while fanning your shirt out because holy hell did it get hot in here, or is it just you? “I mean, I could always back out. It’s Cassidy’s fault anyways. It’s not like she could hold that against me. She’s the one who did this, after all.”

           “Oh, she most certainly would. And you’re not going to going to skip out on the wedding - quit being so dramatic.”

            You snap your head to where he sits and narrow your eyes at him.

           “Oh, I’m not? Who’s gonna stop me?” you challenge.

           You can practically see the light bulb go on inside that blonde head of his. Damien gives you a saccharine smile and claps his hands together.

           “I am. Because I’m going to go with you,” he announces excitedly. You’d think he just came up with a way to end world hunger from the pride that’s practically radiating off of him in waves. 

           You raise an eyebrow at him, “You’re going to come with me? To Montana? Have you ever even been outside of New York?”

            Damien shrugs his shoulders.

           “No, but that’s about to change. Plus, weddings are fun,” Damien pauses, before tacking on, “-bridesmaids are fun.”

           If he weren’t such a damn good friend, you’d throw him out of your office.

           His proposition was tempting. Being in close proximity with Spencer for almost an entire week was going to be harrowing as it was, but add to that the inevitable sight of Spencer in a suit and harrowing graduates to fucking excruciating. Having Damien in your corner to keep you sane was more of a necessity than a want.

           But still, you hesitate, because the idea of both Cassidy and Damien conspiring against you for an entire week sounds like the undiscovered tenth circle of hell.

           Damien apparently senses your apprehension. He lets out an exasperated sigh and pushes up from his seat, walking over to where you stand and placing his hands on your shoulders.

           “I solemnly swear to be on my best behavior. You have my permission to fire me if I act up, Boss Lady.”

           Your shoulders slump under the weight of his hands.

           “You know I can’t fire you,” you grumble, pouting out your lip for dramatic effect. “If I fire you, then I’m stuck with fucking Brenda. And I doubt she’d be as agreeable a drinking partner as you.”

           Damien lets out a loud laugh and pulls you into his arms. You melt into his embrace, sighing in resignation. Might as well bring him along for the ride. It’s not like the situation could get any worse than it already is, right?

           “Brenda is the worst,” Damien agrees as he places a kiss to the top of your head. After basking in his warm embrace for several moments, you pull away and run a hand through your hair.

           “Okay. Okay,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Damien. “I can do this. Worst comes to worst; I can just avoid him. Five days isn’t that long. I can do five days.”

           Damien leans up against your desk and nods in agreeance.

           “Exactly. Five days, in and out – no big deal,” he breezes. Like the absolute bastard he is, he waits until you’re taking a sip from your travel mug before continuing. “And who knows? Maybe the two of you will pick up where you left off and have some slutty wedding sex.”

           Now, there’s coffee all over your white blouse and Damien’s laughing obnoxiously at your expense.

           “You did not just quote One Tree Hill at me,” you choke out between ragged breaths.

           Damien doesn’t waver under the weight of your death glare.

           “I so did. Best show of our time, truly. Chase hit the nail on the head with that one. Weddings are always an absolute bone fest - trust me. Something about all the proclamations of love and eternal commitment gets everyone all hot and bothered.”

           “There will be no slutty wedding sex,” you mutter as you dab at the coffee stain.

           “There will be if I’m going,” Damien trills as he pushes off of your desk and saunters to the door. “Don’t rule it out, babe. No need to miss out on all the fun!”

           You roll your eyes and toss the wadded-up paper towel at him. Damien is quick to shut the door, resulting in the paper towel hitting it with a wet plop.

           Damien’s absence leaves the room uncomfortably silent, save for the sound of your heart nearly beating out of your chest. You hesitantly lift your eyes back to your computer screen, and as irrational as it is, you pray that you’ll see that something has changed in the past ten minutes. Unsurprisingly, his name is still there, just below your own.

           You silently curse the tiny twinge of excitement you feel from seeing his name and exit out of the email.

           Five days, in and out. No big deal.

-

-

-

taglist: @is-this-even-important @evelyncade @usuck​ @m0rce1ddd​ @bauhousewife​ @whxt-to-write​ @spencerwaltergubler​ @lovesicksofi​ @idgafayiowf​ @shadyladyperfection​ @mercy-burning​ @sapphic-prentiss​

[writers-craft]

The Pit of Love

story i wrote for my creative writing class, not gonna re-read it, just gonna post it here because why not

Judith French looked at herself in the rear-view mirror. She looked a mess. Her eyes were red and puffy, for she had been crying just moments prior, and her mascara was smeared down to her cheeks, but her hair still looked nice. A few strands were poking out here and there, and it was damp from the water, but her bun stayed intact, despite all that occurred. And crying only emphasized the blueness in her eyes. It was like looking into the ocean, Len always told her. Blood was leaking from her leg—the one that met with the glass—and the inside of her once blue dress was now stained with blood while the outside had darkened with mud. Her bare feet, one on top of the other, had specks of the lake’s bottoms stuck to them. Heavens, she looked a mess. Evelyn Johnson would surely have a mouthful to say if she saw Judith’s appearance, or maybe this would be the one thing to make her go silent. Keith once said the woman would die talking.

“Where are we going?” she asked the driver, but it was not the driver who looked at her. It was his passenger, the man with the gun, but he spoke no words.

It was a Tuesday, Judith French knew, when she realized she utterly despised her husband. Leonard French worked as a travelling salesman. And he enjoyed buying and selling so much, he did it during his free time too. He often came home to Stony Point with a completely different vehicle from the one he left with. Upon her crash, Judith French briefly wondered what his reaction might be when he learned his precious Volkswagen Sedan was currently sinking to the bottom of the lake. He wanted to sell it to Thomas Richfield, a neighbor two houses over.

Neither the driver nor his friend seemed eager to speak to her, so she opted to look out the window instead. They were going so fast it was difficult to see anything but the blur of the grass. It had gotten so long and green this past month, due to all the rain. She could see cows, too, which meant they were nearing Maxwell’s farm. Evelyn Johnson tried to convince everyone last Christmas that Rey Maxwell killed his wife, who coincidentally was also named Judith, but the people of Stony Point knew Judith Maxwell had been sick for years. It was her time.

Judith French looked to the man who sat between her and Keith and glanced down at his watch. Out of the three of them, the driver, the man with the gun, and the one beside her, the one beside her was the biggest and the nicest of them all. He had been the one who helped her out of the lake. He noticed she was looking at his watch and twisted his arm to give her a better view. His watch told her it was a quarter till six. Len would be expecting his dinner on the kitchen table, but his dinner was at the bottom of the lake with his precious Volkswagen.

She nodded her thanks to the man and went back to looking out the window. They were about to drive past the covered bridge. That awful covered bridge. It was red, or at least it had been before the paint had chipped off. It was mostly brown now, and really quite broken. Most of the wood had been broken apart, leaving gaps all around the bridge. The gaps had mostly been boarded up, though, except for the ones too high to fall from. The roof had gaps in it too, but Stony Point did not bother repairing the holes on the roof. Evelyn Johnson claimed her father was mugged as a boy, but it was during a time when Indians and bandits ran wild. She told Judith French the story the night they met, then several other times after, but assured her that the bridge was safe now.

The children at Stony Point High School called the pit beneath the bridge the Pit of Love. Teens would spend most weekends hanging out underneath it. Len said he and Patty Lesley kissed several times under the bridge senior year. Patty Lesley was now Patty Brown and she worked as a middle school teacher. He assured his wife they only kissed in the pit, and nothing more.

Three men had recently died in the Pit of Love. The first was a stranger. Like Len, he was a traveling salesman. It happened while it was raining, no one saw him.  They found his car a few miles from the bridge with its gas tank on empty and his keys still in the ignition with a few empty liquor bottles in the passenger’s seat. Keith said he must have lost his footing stumbling drunk and fell through one of the gaps. A young couple visiting the pit found him early the next morning.

It certainly was the topic of discussion for a while in Stony Point. Evelyn Johnson enjoyed talking about it, at least. She said the man committed suicide. She claimed his wife wanted to divorce him and he was so distraught he flung himself off the bridge. But people soon got bored of talking about the dead man. They moved on to the next craze, which was the high school’s undefeated football team.

And then Patrick Walter Mathews Jr., high school senior and football champ, was found dead at the bottom of the pit shortly after. She remembered the day exactly, because she and Keith were at a motel the afternoon the boy’s body was found. It was the day when she accidentally smeared lipstick on Keith’s jacket, and Harriett soon after insisted Keith eat lunch at home.

Keith again labeled the death as an unfortunate accident. The whole town followed the Mathews’ to town hall and demanded they repair the gaps in the bridge. And the next day Rey Maxwell and his boys hammred in thick pieces of wood over all the gaps, the ones they could reach. Evelyn Johnson, of course, praised Rey Maxwell’s actions, claiming she always knew he was a good man, and who would ever think such a man could murder his own wife?

Len had been away when all the chaos occurred, even with the salesman. He said he met the travelling salesman at a conference once. At parties he spoke of him as if it were his brother. Judith French knew his real brother died in Normandy in ’44. He raised his glass to the dead man, and everyone followed suit. For the young football star, he offered his condolences for the boy— “Kid had a damn good arm,” he said to Patrick Walter Mathews Sr.—and then Evelyn Johnson pulled out her bible and said a prayer for both man and boy. Everyone bowed their heads and listened to her prayer, except for Judith French. She looked out the window and watched a little blue car speed pass her home.

“Where are we going?” Judith French repeated her words when they drove over the bridge. They rumbled a bit as the tires hit the wooden bridge surface.

The driver, the boy, glanced briefly at her through the mirror. She saw all of them fully after she escaped the sinking Volkswagen and had made it onto dry land. They were all dressed in nice suits. The driver, the boy, was leaning against his vehicle, shiny, black and long—Len would be able to recognize the type, but Judith French did not bother memorizing vehicle like her husband. He was a boy of about seventeen and small for his age. The man who sat beside him now stood in front of him then like he was his guard. The boy whispered something to him and the man with the gun handed him a cigarette from his inside pocket and lit it for him. The man who was currently seated beside Judith French was beside her; he had helped her reach dry land after the crash.

No one said anything again. Keith attempted to, but the dirty handkerchief around his mouth prevented him from saying anything audible. She took a good look at him. He still had not buttoned his shirt since they last parted, half an hour ago. His white undershirt was now stained with his blood. He was sweaty too. He seemed to have a desperation in his eyes, and she wondered if she would die with him, but more importantly she wondered if she wanted to die with him.

She cleared her throat and turned back to the boy: “You’re quite popular here at Stony Point, you know,” she began. The boy did not look up, but she noticed his ears twitch. She heard Keith mumble something again. “You had us all believing those two men were to blame for their own deaths. I’m astonished, really. None of us ever thought anyone here at Stony Point could murdered.” Keith mumbled something again; she suspected he wanted her stop. “But, then there’s the third man in question. You got sloppy with him, didn’t you?”

The man in the passenger’s seat pulled out his gun and pointed it at her. Keith, at that point, was frantic. The man in between Judith French and Keith had to forcibly hold him down to prevent him from tackling the man with the gun. But the bullet in his stomach soon wore him out and he rested his head on the window and shut his eyes.

The boy chuckled and urged the man to lower his gun. “It’s refreshing to be around someone like you again,” said the boy. It was the first time she had heard him speak. His voice was deeper than she expected it to be, and a lot warmer.

“Someone like me?”

“You know, someone who tries to get to the bottom of things. Someone who cares. Someone good.”

She shook her head. “I’m… I’m not good.”

And he glanced up at her again, lingering a bit longer than last time. His eyes were blue, like hers, but his were lighter.

The third man was found dead in the Pit of Love three weeks ago with a bloodied bullet in his head. Like the salesman, a group of teens found him. She was with Keith when he got the call. Harriett and the boys were at her mothers and Len would not be back until that Tuesday, so they had the weekend to be together. He was not planning on working that night, but Judith urged him to take the call, in case it was Harriett.

She had a strange feeling that Harriett, or Len, would burst through the bedroom door at see them. Keith assured her they were safe, but the presence of Harriett or Len did not scare her; it thrilled her. She wanted them to see. She wanted to get caught.

Keith left quickly, and Judith French did not see him again until the following week. Harriett and the boys delayed their return a week, at Keith’s insistence, and Len arrived home the next day. Evelyn Johnson said there was a serial killer on the loose, and everyone believed her. The police blocked the Pit of Love with yellow tape and had a few officers on guard night and day.

No one knew who the third man was, like the salesman at the beginning. He had no identification on him, nor did his killer leave enough of his face to identify it with, but a woman one town over reported her husband missing shortly after the body was found. She identified the clothing on the corpse to be what she last saw her husband wearing.

The whole town was hysterical, including Len. He cancelled his next two business trips to stay and protect his helpless housewife. Harriett and the boys arrived again soon too. Keith said Harriett was growing suspicious. Judith French had mistakenly left her lipstick in one of her drawers. Keith tried to convince Harriett French it was her lipstick, but Harriet and Judith French did not wear the same colored lipstick.

She met Keith each time it was his shift at the Pit of Love. The officers with him would often give them space, turn their heads and pretend their superior was not with the local travel salesman’s wife. Most of the men on the force knew, but during dinner parties and other town functions, they would act oblivious. Judith French wondered if Keith kept their love affairs quiet, too; an unspoken rule between men and the women they betray their wives with. Judith always wondered if Evelyn Johnson was faithful to Rodger. Rodger Johnson went on business trips into Hughes every few months. Keith later told her that he went there to be with prostitutes. He got in trouble with the Hughes police once and Keith had to go bail him out.

She parked the Volkswagen out of sight, hidden behind bushes and a large ad for Chesterfield cigarettes and met Keith under the bridge. The pit was full of old cigarette butts and broken beer bottles, among other things. There was a sitting area made of old tires and boards of wood painted a faded red, most likely the wood from the bridge. Keith laid his jacket down on it to prevent splinters. And they were quiet, like always. The only sound was the occasional car driving over them. When Keith finished, Judith French fixed up her dress and smoothed out her hair, which was hardly disheveled. Then Keith kissed her goodbye and then she drove to the market.

She saw Mrs. Mathews there. Her hair was down, and she had no lipstick, but she seemed in pleasant spirits, despite everything. Judith French talked to her about her youngest, Carol, who would be singing at some recital later in the month, and her middle, Peter, her last boy, who was thinking about trying out for the high school baseball team. They talked as if her eldest had not been murdered a few months ago. And then Mrs. Mathews asked when she and Len were planning on starting their family, and she laughed and told her hopefully soon, like she always did.

It was on her way home when a sudden burst of emotion filled her, and she had to stop and pull over to collect herself. She sat, her forehead against the steering wheel, bawling her eyes out for no other reason than to get the emotion out. She let the tears fall freely, before drying her eyes and continuing her route home. She imagined Len probably listening to the radio or on the phone talking his way into a new sale, whether it be for business or for pleasure. She took a few deep breaths before continuing her drive home.

The boy’s vehicle appeared so quickly; she hardly saw it at first. She kept taking quick peaks at her rearview mirror, attempting to wipe away the smeared mascara. It was on the fourth or fifth wipe when she looked up and noticed the vehicle about to crash into her. She honked, then swerved quickly and drove into the lake. Her car door would not open, so she had to break the window glass with her heel and crawl out. She cut her leg on shuttered glass on her way out. The boy’s vehicle had stopped and reversed as she was climbing out, and the man in the back hurried to her before the vehicle had gone into a complete stop. She wondered if he was the one who persuaded the boy to stop, or if the boy had stopped on his own account.

She remembered yelling at the boy for his reckless driving. The man beside him grabbed his gun, but the boy stopped him from using it. She fell silent at the sight of it and dropped to her knees, her leg stinging as it collided with rocks and dirt, but she did not stay in that position for long. The man who helped her out of the lake, gently guided her back on her feet.

She caught sight of Keith, gagged and bloodied, as he walked her to the vehicle. Keith was leaning on the window, a bloodied handprint beside him, clutching the open wound on his stomach. For a moment she thought him dead until he turned his head to look at her. His eyes popped open and he tried to mutter something. The man with the gun, who had taken his seat in the passenger’s side by then, reached in the back to hit him. The force of the blow made Keith’s head it against the window hard.

The boy did not stop the car again until the sun, now an assortment of reds and yellows, was merging in with the mountains in the distance. They were in a field far away from Stony Point. No cars were in sight. Judith French watched as boy and his guard exited the vehicle and rummaged around the back trunk. They removed a few items, then the man with the gun opened the door on Keith’s side. Keith, too weak to sit up on his own, fell onto the man. The man kicked him away. The boy opened Judith’s side. He held a larger gun than the other man, but instead of pointing it at her, he held it to his side and offered her his hand. She took it.

There was chill in the air. She stepped onto grass that prickled the bottoms of her bare feet. The other man managed to lift Keith up off the ground. He stood as tall as he could, but the wound on his stomach forced him in a hunching position.

The boy let go of Judith French’s hand and lifted up his gun—Len showed her a similar gun in a photograph before they were married. He had called it a Tom gun, she thought. She felt strong hands on her shoulder and she turned to see the larger man holding her steady. The boy aimed the gun at Keith, and he shuffled a few inches backwards, then started mumbling something underneath his mask but he was quickly silence by the bullets passing through his head. He was now on the ground, no longer murmuring. She felt her heart sink as the boy shifted his focus onto her. The man holding her gently guided her next to Keith’s corpse. The boy again lifted his Tom gun.

“How did you kill the first two?” she asked.

The boy did not answer.

“Poison, wasn’t it? I’d use poison,” she said, “or something else to make it seem like an accident. But I think you’re like me.”

He lowered the Tom gun slightly and smiled. “How so?”

“You want to get caught,” she said.

[twiistedgalaxies]

Genesis: Chapter 6: Pill Capsules and Scrambled Eggs

How two brothers can take two opposite paths. How a man can be made into a monster and how the other must pay the ultimate price to save everything he knows and loves.

Or, alternatively:

The origins of All for One and One for All.

Previous Chapter

First Chapter

           Tomura held the smooth, plastic pill organizer, running his finger along the compartment’s hinges. He opened the small, light purple lids with a satisfying click. The morning after he’d forgotten to take his medications on his first night at the orphanage, he had woken up to his brother launching the pill organizer at his head at top speed and with deadly precision. He’d decided not to ask where or how his brother was able to find one. Hisashi seemed to have decided not to tell him. It was a staple of their relationship, him not asking and his not telling. Something left over from their parents, Tomura guessed, all too used to Hisashi pulling cash from seemingly thin air whenever household funds ran thin. At the thought of his parents, Tomura felt the ever present, heavy weight of grief grow more unbearable. He swallowed, over a week later and he still couldn’t believe they were gone.

         He laid out his pill bottles methodically, and set about the task of loading each compartment with his afternoon doses.

         Sunday. He and his brother had spent last weekend sleeping in the damp holding cells of the police station until the department could figure out what to do with them. The thin sheet they’d each been given did little to fight off the biting cold, most of those nights were spent crying, or staring numbly at the ceiling’s spiderweb cracks. The officers were kind, but it was clear they wanted to be rid of him and his brother. Hisashi had been angry. It was a strange relief, seeing another so upset at his parents’ meeting their ends. The way the people around them reacted, it seemed like the ones who mattered most to them had never even existed. The world just carried on, uncaring.

         Monday. They’d arrived at the orphanage. That day was a blur, he just remembered not liking the Matron and feeling apprehensive about the place that was clearly falling apart. He’s still sad he missed out on Monopoly.

         Tuesday. His first day of class. He was given a nightmarishly thick classwork packet so he could catch up on classwork, nearly a week had passed and he was still whittling it down slowly between assigned chores. In class he had spitballs launched at him whenever the teacher had his back turned. At recess, no one seemed to want to play with him, giving him a sneer or a disgusted grimace whenever he approached. Instead of playing, he settled for sitting under a large oak tree, working on the drills and exercises in his homework packet. Tomura wasn’t surprised that his peers didn’t like him, no one wants a cripple to drag them down. It still stung though.

         Wednesday. Hisashi and Leo must have noticed his dismal mood (despite his constant dodging of their questions) and pulled him aside after dinner to start their still ongoing game of Monopoly. The game was lasting for a ridiculously long time, and was getting stowed with all it’s pieces on a shelf in between sessions, strategically hidden under old textbooks to hide them from the other kids. Despite being glued to some clunky old phone the entire game, Hisashi was still winning by a landslide. This frustrated Tomura to no end, something that his brother’s friends found amusing.

         Thursday. Tomura took up a small delivery job for the Matron in exchange for a little bit of spending money. Christmas was coming soon, and he was determined to buy his brother a gift, even if it was just something small.The task landed him in a shadier part of town, which was a particularly impressive feat in the eastern side of LA. He found himself in an old impound lot, filled to the brim with ancient rusting cars and dead shrubs. A squat shack sat in the center of the lot, looking abandoned and haunted, especially next to an imposing storage shed. When he knocked on the door, in the back of his mind he worried the peeling paint and chipping wood would imbed itself in his hand. Luckily, that didn’t happen. The door opened to reveal a scowling, gaunt looking man with sallow skin that looked crumpled like tissue paper. 

         The man spoke and Tomura couldn’t help but reel back at his terrible breath and rotting teeth, “You one ‘a Abra’s?” he asked.

         Tomura nodded and quickly handed over the package he’d been given for this job. The man looked at it for a second, then at Tomura with a dissecting gaze. He shifted uncomfortably under his stare before he heard a grunt and had the door slammed in his face. Tomura blinked with surprise before promptly booking it out of there.

         When he returned to the orphanage, the Matron gave him a few crumpled bills and a lecture for his trouble. Apparently she expected him to make nigh instantaneous deliveries. On foot. Going across town. He had to bite his tongue to keep from protesting and instead chose to vent to his older brother, who’s been looking increasingly exhausted, later that night.

         Friday. Apparently he wasn’t the only person disliked by his peers, because as he was attacking the homework packet with vigour during recess he noticed three other kids, visibly metahumans, playing with marbles on the sidewalk. One kid looked like a lizard, another had hands that looked like they were coated in a metal alloy, and the last one’s skin seemed to shift colors with his mood. They were in the middle of their game when the kids who’d been launching spitballs and jeers at him throughout the week kicked over their marbles and a fight began to break out. Tomura was on his feet racing towards the group before he had time to think. Desperately, he tried to defend them, only to wind up in the matron’s office, given trash and gum duty for the next several weeks, as well as a particularly nasty black eye. 

         Later that night, he was woken up by the sounds of the matron arguing loudly on the phone in the common room. Something about payments, shipments, and inspections. It seemed like boring adult stuff, but he didn’t miss the fear in her eyes or the glistening sheen of sweat on her makeup covered face. He was barely able to duck back into his room and return to bed in time before she walked in to make sure the kids were all asleep.

         Saturday. He and Hisashi started the day in the back of a filthy taxi, and then in the waiting room of a hospital as the staff got their mom’s room ready. Her withering, pale body hooked up to countless machines is an image that will be burned into his eyes forever, he thinks. The nurse told them that it was a miracle that she survived, but the damage sustained to her brain by the gunshot has rendered her effectively a vegetable. The visit was spent with Tomura desperately clutching her bony hand, talking between sobs, and his brother rubbing circles into his back. For being in a hospital the room was so, so loud. The sounds of the respirator and beeping of the heart monitor created an all-penetrating blanket of noise that had Tomura waking up from a dead-sleep later that night, breathless and in a cold sweat. 

         Tomura closed the pill organizer, once again enjoying that satisfying click. All of his pain medications were at their maximum dose. He’d been feeling sicker lately, and knew that he wouldn’t have long until his body grew used to the dosing and he’d be rendered incapacitated again. At this thought, he felt a burr of anxiety in his chest. He shoved it down, worrying wouldn’t help anything. 

         Double-checking his pill organizer one last time, Tomura made sure that all of his things were in order (and well hidden) before he made his way to the mess hall. For all he disliked about the orphanage, he could still appreciate the colorful slats of light the stained glass windows cast on their eating area. The mess hall was as rowdy and packed as usual today, and Tomura found himself wincing at the noise. He made his way to the seat his brother had carved out for himself among his peers.

         The teen looked dead on his feet, dark bags under his eyes and surrounded by mysteriously obtained cups of coffee. It was an odd sight to see his normally well-manicured brother so dishevelled, Tomura was instantly worried.

          “Hey ‘mura,” his brother greeted, though it came out as a half mumble.

         “Are you okay?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from him.

         “Peachy,” Hisashi replied, brightening when he saw his friends enter the room.

         Tomura frowned at the obvious lie, “You’re clearly not fine, what’s wrong?”

         Hisashi shifted in his seat visibly uncomfortable, “We all process grief in different ways, I’d really prefer if you didn’t keep pushing, it’s been a long week.”

         Tomura nodded in understanding, feeling guilt twist at his stomach, “Sorry,” he grasped his brother’s hand across the table and looked him in the eyes, determined to reinforce his next words, “If you ever want to talk, I’m here, it doesn’t just have to be you who supports me, ya know?”

         His brother let out a low hum, and jerked his head towards a table across the room, “It looks like the mutant brats you foolishly put yourself in harm’s way for are over there, if you want to go hang out with them.”

         Tomura felt his eyes light up, despite his mild wince at the memory of the verbal reaming his brother gave him after that incident, and a smile stretched across his face. “Alright! I’ll catch you later, okay?” he finished that statement with a look that carried silent promise. We’ll continue this discussion later.

         Hisashi smiled sardonically, “Of course.”

                                                   -@~*^*~@-

         It had, in fact, been a long week. Hisashi smiled and bullshitted with the acquaintances he’d collected since landing in this barnacle of scum attached to an ever-sinking ship. He had spent the week, while confined to the orphanage, feeling for their mannerisms, expectations, and wants. It never hurt to cultivate future connections after all, even if they were rather irritating, and if their nightly Monopoly game served as a device to further these connections and goals as well as make his baby brother happy? All the better.

         He yawned, the caffeine he’d been given as a cashed-in favor could only do so much. There was an increasingly familiar buzz in his pocket. He carefully kept his facial expression from changing. As he spoke about baseball or something equally trivial, his thoughts turned to the thorn in his side.

         After making contact with Matt his first night at the orphanage, he was reached out to by an anonymous messenger. They asked him to perform a steep task. One that he wasn’t particularly willing to fulfill.

                                              Unknown Number

                                              Tuesday, 3:25am

[I need a favor.]

                                                                              [How did you get this number?]

[We have a..]

[Mutual associate.]

                                                                                                                     [I see.]

                                               Tuesday, 1:03pm

[So about the favor]

                                                                                                                      [Yes?]

[There's a pest that we need you to eliminate.]

              ��                             [I assume that’s not all you intend for me to go off of.]

[Of course not.]

                                                [I’d like to meet with you face to face before doing                                                                                                       anything drastic.]

                                                          [Security concerns you see, I’m not going to

                                                               such efforts for someone I’ve never met.]

                                             Wednesday, 11:00am

[Fine.]

[We’ve decided to meet with you.]

[Come to the old warehouse off West Beverly]

[You better be as good as we’ve been told you are.]

                                     [Of course, only the best quality of service for my clients.]

[Be there at 1am sharp, Sunday morning.]

                                                                                                        [See you then.]

                                               Saturday, 9:00am

[Just confirming that you aren’t pussying out

on us.]

                                                                                                       [Of course not.]

                                                                     [How am I to know this is not a trap?]

[Don’t be an idiot, why would we ambush you if we 

want something from you?]

         Based on the use of “we” in their correspondences, it seems like he was dealing with an organization of some sort. That, or some petulant brats whose daddy hit them too much. Either way, he’d always met with his clients face to face to sort out the specifics of his deals. Just because he’d grown rusty doesn’t mean he’d grown stupid. Despite their placations, he knew that he could very easily be walking into a trap. Especially, since the mafia was involved. It’s because of this that he (unfortunately) had to exchange texts with Matt.

                                                         Pest

                                              Thursday, 2:00pm

                                                                   [I’m meeting with a client on Saturday.]

[Oh? So you’re finally taking on deals again?]

[A gif of Mushu from Mulan, clutching a sword

and talking to a cricket saying, “My little baby,

off to destroy people.”]

                                                                                                            [Very funny.]

                                                [I don’t know how trustworthy they are, so if I don’t

                                          send you a text confirming my safety by Sunday night,

                                      assume the worst. If anything bad happens I need you to

                                                                                         take care of my brother.]

[And I’m doing this because…?]

                                        [If they do prove to be trustworthy, I can give you an in.]

                              [I know you’re always looking for new sources of information.]

[Alright, alright. I’m a man of my word. I’ll lend

you a hand.]

                                                                                               [I’ll hold you to that.]                                                                                                                          Seen

         Dealing with Matt more than necessary was an.. undesirable outcome. However, Hisashi wasn’t so foolish as to enter a meeting, completely blind, with no back-up plan. At least this way he could ensure Tomura would be safe, even if something happened to himself. He was just about to dig into his eggs when the matron stepped up to the front of the room. As he continued to engage in pointless chatter, he watched her from the corner of his eye. This couldn’t be good.

         “Ahem-hem,” the insufferable woman began. Her pointless throat clearing was drowned out in the noise that flooded the mess hall. He watched her pull her angular features into an often adorned scowl. She looked at those under her care as if they’d just taken a leak in her cereal. 

         “Excuse me,” she tried, once again ignored. Looking frustrated, she grabbed a nearby glass and spoon from a table and clinked them together loudly, finally forcing the room into silence, “First of all, I will not tolerate such insolence from those I house, feed and clothe. If it takes me this long to get everyone’s attention again, the consequences will be severe, understood?”

         “Yes Matron Abra,” the children droned, sounding as if they were trying out for a funeral march ensemble.

         “Good. Secondly, it has come to my attention that some of you have been making late night excursions,” she continued. Hisashi worked to keep his face schooled into a calm facade. He’d been going out each night to perform small jobs for Matt. Each time he went out, he was always careful. There had to be someone else slipping out as well, but who? The mess hall erupted into murmurs as his peers asked similar (and several more) questions. Matron Abra waited a few beats for the chatter to die down, then said, “As a result, the staff and I will be patrolling the hallways and making increased checks to the sleeping quarters. Within the week, we will be hiring on a security detail to ensure that everyone is ah,” her face split into a viscous grin, “safe and sound in their beds.”

         Hisashi felt his brows knit together, how the hell could they afford a security detail when this place was falling apart? Then, it dawned on him as to how much of a hindrance these new measures would be, sneaking out was already a pain on it’s own, but with guards and frequent visits to the sleeping quarters? He’d have to start pulling out tricks he hasn’t used since he was in middle school. Well, fuck.

A/N: This is a bit of a filler chapter, since I didn't want Tomura to drop off the face of the Earth narrative-wise while Hisashi wakes up each day and chooses violence. As per usual, feel free to leave a comment, feedback helps me improve my writing! I don't have much else to say in this week's A/N, school has made me really tired and I want to take a forty-year long nap.

Edit: I think the formatting gods are smacking me with a stick today. First I was having issues with AO3 then tumblr decided my last paragraph needed to be at the top of the post.

AO3

[jenoptimist]

and even though your paths have diverged, you are never without him because you keep him safe in your heart

ミ✭ WARNING: major character death (i’m sorry!)

☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“here is the deepest secret that nobody knows/i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)”

- i carry your heart with me, e.e cummings

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆

“So, Red-bean,” Your oldest and dearest friend smirks, and you suppose that to the other members on your team and the civilians who stuck around to witness the situation pan out, that he wants to appear menacing. Perhaps he does to them but you know that were you to remove the mask that covers the top half of his face, dark lens shielding his eyes, that you would find his eyes riddled with mirth–it is his voice that gives him away, just like it always does, the way it differs from its usual bored tone. Not that anyone else would notice since it is nothing but a miniscule change in his pitch. “We meet again.”

Half of you wants to break your façade right then and there because only he would try to recreate a stereotypical villain entry. You want to double over in laughter and shove him like you used to in the past; when the two of you would spend time together in the scorching heat of summer doing stupid stuff without an inch of care. The other half of you knows better, knows that you have to keep up your charade of disliking him because you are a superhero–and what superhero gets along with a villain unless they are on the verge of going rogue?

The logical side wins, of course, and so you feed into the little scene he created a few moments ago, when he dropped from somewhere in the sky, landing gracefully on his feet and jutting his chin out as he looked up, locking his eyes on you without an room for hesitation. It was an unspoken thing, that it would always be you that he was after. You know it, your team knows it, hell, even the entire media outlet knows it. What makes it better is that he knows you all know. And while everyone else interprets it like a game of cat and mouse between the two of you, you secretly enjoy it–even as your team continuously frets into your earpiece. They mean well but you know this man, know him like the back of your hand and he will not hurt you. At least not purposely with ill intentions.

Instead of the usual gut wrenching feeling of dread you feel against other villains when you are in combat, he makes you feel nimble, a little sensual, because the two of you fight as if you are dancing with one another. There are no dangerous jabs or explosive swings, only feather light movements and encouragement deeply hidden within your gazes.

The smirk is mirrored on you as you twist your long daggers expertly for show, knowing how the public love when it glints in the sunlight, its smooth blade and inscription visible from lengthy distances. The heavy weight is comforting in your hands as you hold them out in front of you, preparing yourself for the oncoming set of motions from your long time opponent.

“Hit me with your best shot, Arial.”

-

Although sweat lightly trickled down your back, you barely noticed as you urged your mom to move faster, small hand encased in hers as the two of you walked passed the pond of ducks. The playground that was hidden in the middle of the local park was finally in sight, in fact you could just about make out the silhouette of the monkey bars and the slide that stood beside it in between the people who were strolling peacefully in both directions.

The trip to the playground was on a whim because despite your mom’s frequent requests, you refused to take a nap, too much restless energy built up in your system from the sweet treats you were given. 

The hand that you were clutching onto released yours, allowing you to run free. Without a backwards glance you raced over to the jungle gym, knowing that your mom would be seated at one of the benches with the other parents and that she wouldn’t be bored because the adults always multi-tasked eyeing their children and gossiping with ease. 

When the jungle gym got boring, you slowly made your way down so that you could inspect the next thing you would go to; there was a short line by the swing set, the tubes were filled with dozens of kids and although the seesaw were free, you had nobody to accompany you. The spring riders, however, were not in use except for one boy who sat on the shark shaped one. From where you stood you noticed that he seemed glum, his head dipped as he barely swung back and forth on his chosen playground equipment. Frowning, you made your way over to him, avoiding the kids who chased one another as they screamed.

“Hey,” you greeted cheerfully as you took a seat on the duck shaped spring rider that was near him. The boy said nothing, just looked up and eyed you curiously with his dark eyes. Something in you wilted but you chose not to give up, instead you began to babble incessantly, taking big gulps of air whenever you could. The wariness that he emitted seemed to melt away as you continued to chatter, slowly swinging back and forth on the spring rider. 

“My name’s y/n! Do you want to go on the seesaw?” You asked, finally ending your endless chatter, beaming at him as you batted your lashes.

The boy responded with a nod of his head, a slow smile forming on his face. “Yeah, sure.”

It was on that sunny Tuesday afternoon that you first met and laid eyes on Huang Renjun, the short boy who at first was quiet and wary but eventually broke his resolve. Renjun didn’t talk much that day, just nodded at you as you kept rambling about various thing. As you continued to grow together he grew out of his shell more and more. It was amazing to think that although the two of you were stark contrasts of each other, he would eventually become your favorite person.

*

At the young age of fifteen, every teen is forced to decide whether or not they want to enter the academy for superheros. And it was no different for you and Renjun. The two of you talked nonstop about the choice you had to make whenever you could; as you walked home together from school, during lunch time, during sleepovers and even when you worked to complete your homework.

Renjun was a stellar student, the best in your year, and you knew that it was because of all the hard work he put in. You, on the other hand, were an average student with your head in the clouds–which he nagged you about for days on end, reasoning that if you put more effort you would excel as much as he did. Renjun has always believed in you the most.

“But I want to be a superhero.” You stated as he finished yet another speech about why you should put more effort in school. Between the two of you, it was easy to tell that you were the one who wanted to become a superhero, you had always had a fascination with them after all.

With confidence and finality, you added, “I think I’m going to go for it.”

Your best friend remained quiet, mulling over your statement. It was the first time you told him, or anybody really, that you wanted to pursue being a superhero. Not everybody could become one. There were horrendous rumors that circulated the media and local citizens about the trials that each person faced before they were accepted in the one and only superhero academy in your province. But you knew you had to try. If you failed you promised yourself that you would continue your academic studies seriously, content that you tried to become a superhero in the first place.

“Is that what you want?” Renjun asked, after minutes of dead silence that seemed to stretch for days on end, as he slowly met your gaze. “What you really, really want?” You couldn’t confirm his question fast enough, nodding your head so fast that it was dizzying while you continuously repeated affirmatives. “Alright,” he said, nodding his head decisively, “I’ll do it with you.”

“What?! But you’re so good at school!” You continued your exclamation with various reasons why he shouldn’t apply for the academy with you. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to. It was actually quite the opposite–you would have loved if he joined you so that you two could fight crime and keep people safe together as a team. But you knew that he was passionate about his studies, knew that one day he wanted to win a Noble Prize for something groundbreaking. He wouldn’t be able to obtain that dream if he chose to become a superhero. It just wouldn’t be possible because there wouldn’t be any time for him to spare.

When your short words of protest ended, he shrugged simply at you. “But I want to,” he side-eyed you as he kicked at the ground, “besides, it’s you and me against the world.” He claimed, as easy as breathing. A lump formed in your throat at that, feeling warmth blossom inside your heart. He said it as if there were no question about it because it was a fact: you weren’t you without Renjun and vice versa.

“Yeah,” you replied, feeling breathless, like you were floating in the air and he was the one who was grounding you, “always.” You promised just as freely, smiling at him so wide your cheeks hurt when he smiled fondly at your response.

Three weeks later you found out that the trials were as difficult as the rumors. In fact, they were probably even more difficult. They stretched on for a week but those seven days were torture. Each day you returned home extremely exhausted, both physically and mentally, but you persevered. Renjun remained by your side all the way through, the two of you passing each other words of encouragement each time you reached the steps of the academy during the mornings of the trials.

Your relentless determination paid off, however, resulting in the acceptance of your application. What had your heart smiling, however, was that your best friend had been accepted too, so you wouldn’t be apart for the remainder of your teenage years. Not that anything would keep you separated from him, you’d fight tooth and nail to ensure your best friend kept in contact with you if that ever happened.

The two of you had endless conversations of excitement during your celebratory sleepover. It was during that sleepover that you whispered sweet promises to each other in the dark, underneath the duvet that you shared as you remained safely hidden from the world. They were promises that you swore to keep forever, hooking your pinkies with one another as you stifled your giggles. Promises that entailed sticking together forever and never giving up on each other.

*

Anxiousness thrummed inside of you with each step you took, Renjun closely at your side as always. The other new students seemed just as nervous but of course your best friend remained calm about the whole situation. Renjun had always been good at that, was always the person who grounded you whenever you were feeling the way that you were. He soothed your nervousness with pretty words of optimism as he gently took your hand in his, lead you up the stairs and past the tall, iron gates.

The academy building towered over you somewhat menacingly. It was made of brick that you sure was protected by some sort of technology, with large windows that were randomly positioned. This building that seemed to reach the sky would be your home for the next six years, and you were already aching with the feeling of homesickness. Of course you were permitted to go home to visit your parents, however that was only during the weekend. You would miss your mom’s hugs and your dad’s cooking but you had no time to muse about what you would miss, not when Renjun squeezed your hand and pointedly stared at the front of the crowd.

When the two of you were separated due to receiving timetables he remained close to you whenever he could, staying silent as you raved about your new friends; Minhyung’s versatility, Jisung and Donghyuck’s energy, Jeno and Chenle’s smartness, and Jaemin’s openmindedness. You felt extremely lucky that you were invited into their group during orientation, and felt inclined to tell your best friend as much. Whenever you would tell him anectdotes involving your new friends, he always soured instantly. Which was unlike him but you figured that maybe he was finding it difficult to make new friends so when you noticed a shift in his demeanor, you switched topics.

Instead what you did was introduce him to your friends. You paid him no mind when he remained silent in their presence, boring holes into their heads, because you knew that your best friend wasn’t exactly the best when meeting new people. However he was taking it to the next level and it was starting to tear you up inside. Renjun’s temper was growing shorter and shorter as the weeks passed and he would lash out at random times. You never asked because you knew what he was like and waited until he was comfortable with telling you but his behavior was spiraling for the worse. Finally, when he said something incredibly hurtful towards Donghyuck, you snapped.

“Give us a minute.” You said as you stood up, pointedly staring at Renjun before you left the cafeteria. You didn’t have to look behind you to see if he followed, his footsteps echoing yours. When you reached a private section in the gardens, you spun around. “Renjun, what is going on?”

Although he said nothing, you noticed the way he became rigid. You wouldn’t have caught it you weren’t staring at him as intensely as you were. It was definitely because you had called him by his actual name instead of the nickname you had given him eleven years ago, back when you were both four.

“Nothing. It’s stupid, I’m being stupid.” Renjun grumbled in reply, still refusing to meet your burning stare.

“No, you want to know what’s stupid?” You retorted, pent up frustration finally seeping into your bones. “What’s stupid is how you’ve been acting towards my friends! I’m so embarrassed Renjun, I kept singing your praises to them and they were so excited to meet you, but you’ve been treating them so horribly!” You watched his mouth curl into a deep frown and sighed when he continued to remain mute, “all I wanted was for you guys to get along, why are you being difficult? What aren’t you telling me? We can sort it out together if you want.” When he still said nothing you added, “whatever it is, I promise I won’t think it’s stupid.”

Renjun was thinking it out, you could see it in his face with how he kept his expression firm. It was the same expression his face held back then whenever the two of you were working out math problems together, or whenever you questioned him on what he thought about different topics–like aliens and time travel.

“Okay but remember, you promised.” When he stuck out his pinky, you didn’t hesitate to hook it with your own and lifted your thumb for him to connect his with. “It’s just”–he jammed his hands inside his pockets and avoided your patient expression–“it’s been you and me. Always. There’s never been anybody else.” He paused to chance a glance at you before averting his eyes back to the grass again. “But now you have all these friends and I”–his expression twisted–“don’t want to lose you. It’s not that I don’t want you to make friends but I just feel left out and unwanted. You’re with them all the time for class and- And,” he groaned loudly, swiping a hand down his face. “I don’t know. This is stupid, forget I said anything.”

“Your feelings aren’t stupid.” You assured him confidently. How could you have been so insensitive? Of course he was bound to think that. Nobody else was in the picture before, it was always you and Renjun. Renjun and you. Your parents teased you all the time saying, ‘Renjun this, Renjun that. It’s always about Renjun with you!’. Hell, you promised to stick together for eternity not that long ago. And you supposed that if you were in his shoes, you would be the same. Maybe you wouldn’t act like he would, but you would definitely feel the same.

You frowned. “I never meant to make you feel left out and unwanted and I’m sorry that I did. I’ll make it up to you,” he peered at you curiously, interest written in his eyes, “this weekend is just for you and me. We can watch movies, go to the arcade, whatever you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course!”

“Okay,” it looked like there was a weight lifted from him, a darkness disappearing from his eyes. “I’m sorry for being mean to them. I shouldn’t have been. I’ll try harder.”

You beamed at him so wide you cheeks hurt, grabbing his arm and leading the two of you back to the cafeteria. When the door was within seeing distance, you stopped in your tracks. Your best friend made a noise of curiosity beside you when you let go of his hand and stood in front of him, looking directly in the eye so that he wouldn’t be mistaken.

“Arial,” it was the nickname you had given to him, the one you always called him because he loved Moomin and his species was an arial hippo–four year old Renjun talked nonstop about his love for the show back then. There was a ghost of a smile etched onto his face when you said it, an eyebrow arched curiously as he waited for you to continue.

“No matter how many friends I make or however many of them I get close to just remember,” you stuck out your chin, heart drumming wildly, “you’re my number one. And you’ll always be my number one.”

The effect of your words were instantaneous. Renjun stood straighter, preening, and beamed at you. “You and me against the world, Red-bean.” That was the nickname he had appointed you with because you were obsessed with red-bean buns and could devour an unhealthy amount in one sitting.

“Always.” You pledged sincerely, copying his smile, “now lets go back inside.”

*

In hindsight, you should have seen it coming. There were signs to these things, you supposed, but you were still completely blindsided. It wasn’t that Renjun strayed from you. No, it was the way his eyes burned, the way his smile hardened, and the way he clenched his fists and grit his teeth. The two of you were three years into the academy, only had one year left and everything seemed just fine.

If you were asked to pinpoint when his change started to begin, you would probably answer that it was just after one of the exercises the professors put you through, involving combat with villains who were trying to prove their reform by aiding the students in your school at training. They were under the watchful eye of your professors, of course, but were encouraged to engage as if you were in an actual situation.

Frankly, you weren’t sure what triggered the slow change. Renjun never spoke about it, in fact, he seemed normal to you. Despite what circulated among the students, you never listened to them because you thought that they were rumors. Whatever your best friend was experiencing, surely he would have told you, right? 

Right?

Wrong.

Instead you found yourself running around the building and its surrounding area with the students in your year, forced to track him as he hastily fled the building. It was thirty versus one and the professors had explicitly informed the lot of you via intercom that whoever caught him would gain a prize. They didn’t disclose what it was and truthfully, you thought that they were lying. It felt like a test to you, to see who would come up on top. Either that or they wanted to turn the students against each other by using an unknown prize as the motivation.

The last thought had you staggering, slowing down the pace that you were running. If you were going to be honest, on the somewhat slim chance you were the one who happened to find your best friend, he was super smart and tricky after all and if he wanted someone to find him, he would go to them. You didn’t know what you were going to do if he ultimately decided that he wanted to make his whereabouts known. On one hand, you didn’t want to turn him in because you feared the potential consequences that he would face but on the other, you didn’t want to let him go venture the world without you. Selfish as it was, you didn’t care. You wanted to stay by his side as long as possible.

It was easy for someone to grab your hand and tug you to whatever direction they pleased because you were lost in thought. The minute you were pulled into a nearby hedge, your reflexes took over and within seconds your other hand was aiming for a punch.

“Red-bean,” Renjun greeted in a whisper, his hand stopping your fist before it reached him cheek. The spin that you did to face him was so quick you were surprised that you didn’t get dizzy. “Look, I can’t stay for long but I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you.”

Before you could even begin to stop yourself, you responded with, “so don’t. Take me with you.” When he didn’t respond, you stared at him imploringly as you followed up with a desperate, “please.”

Renjun sighed as he brushed the hair away from your eyes. “I can’t take your dream away from you. You’ve been talking about superheroes since we were so young, it wasn’t even a surprise when you told me that you wanted to be one.”

The way he said it was like he was stating a fact, like how the sun was a star and how the moon affected the tides. He was right, of course. You used to talk all day about how cool and amazing you thought superheroes were, chatting the ear off of your best friend. The little arguments that followed about which superhero was the best never phased you because you knew that Renjun was only trying to get a rise out of you. But, now, faced with the thought of him leaving you, you didn’t care about how long you have raved about superheroes and how often you had secretly dreamed of becoming one.

“But,” your voice cracked awfully, the lock holding in your emotions breaking. “My dream is nothing without you in it by my side.” There was a sound of voices somewhere behind you in the distance and you knew that the moment you two were sharing was limited. “Arial, please.”

The voices were beginning to close in and your heart dropped into you stomach when the reply that you received was, “I’m so sorry, y/n.” Renjun’s voice was barely a whisper at that point. His sad eyes were tracing your face as if he were trying to commit it to memory. “But I can’t drag you down with me, you deserve better.” Before you could even blink, he kissed you on the forehead, lightly shoved you and then broke out into a sprint towards a wall that he managed to scale in record time.

“We’ll see each other again.” Your best friend promised as he held out his pinky towards him. When you mimicked his motion, vision blurring with tears, the two of you completed the necessary action. With one last look at you, he fled off into the darkness just as two frantic students approached you, their words going over your head as you continued to stare at where Renjun stood only moments ago. They barely took notice of you, ignoring you in favor of searching for the boy that you already knew was gone.

When you cried on the way back to your room, arms wound tightly yourself in attempt to self-soothe, nobody noticed. And if you cried yourself to sleep that night, the next night and the nights to come, that was nobody else’s goddamn business but your own.

-

The years that followed, you received letters that were never signed but you recognized the neat penmanship instantly. The first time you tore one open, your hands trembled and it brought on a fresh set of tears as you read it under your duvet, using your phone for light so that you wouldn’t get into trouble. It slowly became easier after that, when the letters entailed Renjun’s wellbeing and long encouragements. The letters were what motivated you to work harder so that you would, indeed, meet again as he promised. The weekly letters never stopped; not when you graduated, not when you moved from headquarter to headquarter. You kept them in a box in your parents house, underneath one of the floorboards in your room.

You are positive that if you didn’t obtain any letters, you would have given up. Without them, you would not be where you are now: one of the most favored superheroes by the citizens.

“You’re losing your touch,” you tease as you swiftly jerk to dodge his hit. “Are you getting old?”

“Am I getting old?” Renjun parrots, false offense coloring his tone while he jumps back gracefully to avoid one of your daggers. “The only thing old here is your outfit,” he kicks your forearm unexpectedly, causing you to startle and accidentally throw it somewhere on your right. “When will you be assigned a new one?”

A mock gasp of horror escapes you and it does nothing but make him laugh, the sound like music to your ears as you continue to scuffle with him. It had been nearing two week before he decided to show up unannounced at one of the missions you were involved in. It was something he did regularly, so that nobody would grow suspicious every time you two engaged in combat that would ultimately result in him still being alive and free by the end of it.

You allow him to advance towards you, your slow fight coming to an end, knowing that it will end as it always does: the two of you will throw some narrowly missed hits here and there, endure a cut or two, and then, he will gain an advantage that you will somehow overcome and then he’ll escape.

It’s at that stage in your fight already, where he is securing the upperhand. Renjun is advancing towards you, mouth curled in a smirk that you know is supposed to look menacing. At this point, both of your daggers are no longer within your reach as they were both forced out of your grip. How was he going to attack you this time? Last time, he had you pinned, winking in a way that had you smiling goofily before you gathered the strength to roll the two of you over so that you would be above him. The reason he got away that time was because everyone was distracted by their own opponents, no crowd in sight because of the weapons they brought with them.

There’s a vague noise from somewhere around you and you’re sure that it’s from someone on your team hitting their target with one of their fancy gadgets, too focused on how your best friend takes long strides towards you confidently. Except.

Except–

Suddenly Renjun sways forward slightly, something you would not have noticed if you weren’t watching him like you are. Then he’s staggering. Staggering, swaying, staggering, swaying, staggering until his legs don’t, no, can’t support him anymore. There’s a troubled look on his face as he falls, eyes trained on you. The gut wrenching scream that echoes around the area doesn’t sound like you one bit. But it is. You know it is because you felt the way it clawed up your throat. The evidence is how your throat feels raw.

In an instant you run to him and turn him around so that he’s facing you. With the way you are holding him in your arms, you can feel how his back is soaked and you don’t have to pull back to know that your hand would be coated in a dark red. His breath comes out in short puffs, struggling to breathe, with a wince displayed on his face and you feel like your whole world is collapsing. The tears that are leaving you are landing on his shoulder in waves.

“Hey,” Renjun says lowly, his hand coming up to rest on your wet cheek. You mimic his action and place your trembling hand on top of his, eyes searching his. “Where’s your pretty smile?” He closes his eyes for a moment and you are so, so afraid he won’t open them again. “Y’know I love it when you smile.”

“Can’t smile,” is your response. “Not when y-you’re-”

He is dying and you know both know it. Some childish part of you is telling you that if you do not say it out loud, it will not come true. A loud sob escapes you at the thought. Your best friend is dying in your arms and you can’t even do anything about it.

“Please? For me?” He begs as he opens his eyes. They map your face in a constant, sweeping motion. Like he is trying to commit it to memory. “Hurts,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut, “hurts so bad.”

“No, no, no! Please don’t close your eyes, Arial! I’m smiling, see?” The smile that you etch onto your face is a pathetic one but you keep it there anyway because it is what he wants. “See? Look? I’m smiling.”

“That’s my y/n.” Renjun smiles weakly, the expression sits horribly on him and it only makes you cry harder even though you are still forcing your smile. Something heavy drops in your stomach when you realize that his breathing is slowing down. “You ‘n’ me against the world, right Red-bean?

“Always, Arial. Always.” You confirm without hesititation.

“Good,” he winces again, looking worse than a few moments ago. “‘m sorry I can’t be by your side forever.” His head his lolling slightly now, his blinks longer than they were previously. “I’ll watch over you.”

“You always have.” You manage to choke out.

“Yeah,” he smiles at you again but this time it’s brighter, like he doesn’t want you to remember his last expression at you as pained. “Aways will.” He’s barely blinking now, breathing shallowly. “Love you.”

“I love you too.” You bawl and he manages to sweep his gaze over your feeble smile one more time before his eyes shut. You know they won’t open again, his hold on your cheek going limp and this.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

“No!” You yell, sobbing hysterically, “please! Renjun please!” There is the sound of footsteps somewhere near you but all you can do is shake at your best friend as you frantically say, “I can’t do this without you! Who am I supposed to fight against now? Renjun please! Please, please, please.” You beg over and over again. “Renjun!” You cry.

A hand is placed on your shoulder and you snarl, white hot anger instantly replacing your melancholy, letting go of your best friend’s hand in favor of blindly attacking the intruder. Whoever did this needs to pay. Not now, you know, not while you still need to arrange a funeral. Not while you send condolences to his parents and grieve. With this in mind you halt your movements and seize your best friend in your arms again, cradling him gently as you stand and run. The others watch you, frozen in their places, making it easy for you to escape.

You chance a glance at Renjun’s peaceful face as you allow your legs to guide you away from the city as quick as possible. Someone will pay, alright, and they will regret what they have done to you. Regret who they have taken away from you. Nothing will stop you until they do.

You swear it.

[maikatc]

Black Sun Tale | First Meal

i kNOW IT’S MIDNIGHT AND IT’S VERY LATE BUT I SAID I’D POST IT ‘TOMORROW’ AND RIGHT NOW ITS TONIGHT I’M GETTING THIS–

that being said, remember that this is a first draft with only minor edits, but regardless enjoy! comments and reception is always appreciated. 

-

A gathering placed itself in the living room on a midwinter’s day. Cups stacked up around each other at the table whilst the group of three conversed together. 

“Now then,” Ayu sat beside Oliver, a cup of apple juice in his hand after becoming a fanatic over it. They both eyed Vittorino in their seats for the new conversation topic. “What are people in your society like,” Ayu asked. 

Oliver never bothered with the question, considering already meeting two of the second eras and never wanting to meet another again. “I think you should know what they’re like, Ayu.” 

“I still wanna know,” Ayu retorted. 

The question still had Oliver rolling his eyes. But he allowed Vittorino to speak for once. 

The teen rolled back on his chair, facing upwards and reaching for what to say. “That isn’t that great of a question,” he said, “they all kinda suck.” 

“Of course, they would,” Oliver commented. 

Ayu sipped on his cup, but continued asking questions. “But, weren’t you basically raised with them?”

He shrugged in his seat. “Sure, yeah. We talk like a normal family almost, but I think we can all agree that we’re all dysfunctional for one another.” 

The interest finally peaked for Oliver, his ears raising, and he asked another question. “How come?”

“It’s just how we were raised,” he answered. “We didn’t have to like people and get along with our situation. Mei-ling never bothered with us; Adeen’s a baby; Orelia’s too mental to deal with; and Hans and Margaret, well, they’re nice to each other, but they’ll nitpick and gossip every little thing about you.”

“… And that isn’t even half of it?”

“No,” he sighed. “There were too many kids that were ditched in forests or being ignored by parents or something back then. There’s still some getting picked up today, but most refuse getting contracts for murder nowadays so that’s good. No more that I have to deal with.” 

Ayu tilted his head, changing to an expression of confusion, but reverted back to drinking. 

“And how do people complain about you?” 

“Easy, I’m apparently a personality-switching kinda guy, and rude both ways. So, people get irritable around me most of the time.” 

Ayu then told him, “You aren’t that annoying.” 

“I wouldn’t deny what they say,” he said, “I’m supposed to be the voices in people’s heads. I’m sure that’d make me a bit of a pest when they want to die.”

“… You know, you’re all mental,” Oliver said. 

And Vittorino only replied, “It’s our specialty.” Then after another one of Ayu’s sips, he reminded him, “It’s about time we get to Alice, Oliver.” 

“Oh right.” He sat up, brushing off whatever imaginary guts he left on his cardigan. Ayu in particular checked for any earlier, but precaution always arrived first for everything. “Guess I’ve been procrastinating for once.” 

“My, what a feat,” Vittorino sarcastically claimed. He jumped up himself from a seat to summon a door. 

Though, before the rush to attend training, Oliver noted to ask Ayu, “Do you need anything for when I get back?”

He set down the cup and answered, “I think I’m fine. I’ll try and make food myself before you get back.”

“That’s good to hear,” he opened the door, “’means you’re listening to my lessons?” 

“Obviously. I don’t want you to cook for me all the time.”

Oliver joked, “What? Makes you feel like a baby?”

His shoulders drooped while he eyed away in a reply, “No… well, maybe– but I just feel bad about you having to be responsible for me.”

A smile crept while Oliver sided his own eyes. “You’re definitely more selfless than most kids our age.”

“I wouldn’t say that…”

“I would.” Oliver let Vittorino pass before he closed the door himself. “See ya later, Ayu.”

The transition from a homey living room to the vast, dead-inside forests of Fowls never flinched Oliver anymore. He stepped out of the entrance, following the routine of his early stretches and a heavy breather for what he could only dream as fresh air. 

Vittorino already wandered off as per usual, and Oliver left himself to his own devices of finding the nearest human in a nature walk. 

The barks on the trees had begun to peek interest to him after the many times of walking past them. Questions spurred his curiosity in tendrils around the wood as he eyed them in a pace for someone else. For, what would those trees be made out of, that had no substance of plastic yet no life of true bark. The feeling of reality, melded with the missing authenticity, brought Oliver to a puzzle and kept his mind off of his lonesome. 

“Oliver!” Alice appeared from behind a tree to even Oliver’s surprised.

He swore, and stumbled back from the flinch of his senses. Retaining his balance once again, Oliver asked with a confusing exhale, “Why meet here of all places?”

She answered, “I knew you’d be here. Vittorino left you to yourself in this forest, hasn’t he?”

The question forced him to nod. 

“Can’t leave you alone like that, now can we?” 

The comment wavered in Oliver’s ears as Alice began walking onwards. He followed, but begged to ask, “Did he tell you?”

“Of what?” 

“Of–” Oliver stopped. The admittance of past desperation from months ago fluttered out of the system, had it not? “Never mind, it was a while ago, I guess.” 

A judging glare from Alice turned to a worriless smile in an instant. “I suppose I should be of concern for it, but it’s likely I already have my sources for it.” 

“And… what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, simply my usual way of learning.”

The grass crinkled whilst Oliver theorized the many ways the statement alluded itself to. “… Alright.” 

“How has your latest batch been doing for you,” she asked. 

The question Oliver expected still led him rummaging his hands behind him. His gluttony managed to indulge itself in eating the entire bag of meat in one day. However, the heart of a liar never quit. “It’s a pretty good one this week,” he smiled, “Margaret’s got nice catches this week.” And oh, did he hate those words from his mouth. 

While the fib seemed average on his account, Alice still leered at him with her own grin and continued on. “I see… why, I still have a surprise for you after today’s training.”

“A surprise?”

Nodding her head, her hands guided to the exit and entrance to the field. “I hope you’ll like it, but you have to finish your work first, remember.”

A groan almost hefted from Oliver’s voice. “What are we even doing today?”

She pointed towards a stool in the distance with giddy reach and answered, “This.” 

The stool barred a cup, from what Oliver’s perspective held, an average metallic cup without even a shine. Bemused, he asked, “What am I doing with it?” 

“It’s a small subject, but you’ll be making the item invisible today.” 

“Oh,” the difficulty of the subject before irked him at the new idea, “doesn’t seem that hard, but how do I do it?”

They surrounded the stool together as Alice answered, “In all honesty, this is the subject I know least about. Christopher never used it all that much, but it might be of convenience to you some day. All you need to do, from what I can assume, is practice what you have done, just on another object that isn’t yourself.”

Oliver glared at the cup. “It took me three months to figure out invisibility and now I’m off to calculus.” 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s fine. You don’t know useless classes,” he threw off. 

God-fucking-damn it. Oliver groaned at his grass-bed seat. The cup tucked itself within the grasps of his hands; however, his hands were the ones to disappear instead of the cup. Alice already went off to whatever affairs he imagined, perhaps a killing or who knows, abandoning another child into their own devices. How tiring. 

Another tiring factor appeared the more his magic efforts put into his energy, as it all dwindled in his noticeable and reminding stomach. 

The cup still mocked him, rustic and dull in its place, much to Oliver’s annoyance. “Why couldn’t we have done this on Tuesday?” An hour or so had already passed, he assumed. His patience in being left isolated had improved and the forest brought him more comfort in space, but that never fixed anything.  “Can you just work with me here?” 

He glared at the cup, hoping its disappearance would be apparent this time, unlike the multiple other times he used to same strategy. But to no avail, he fell over to the ground. 

The sky irritated him that day, as he stared at it in his frustrations. No beauty was present just like his skills. Though, eventually he sighed, “Hey Vittorino, I think I’m bored this time.”

The sound of a door opening appeared in front of him, only to answer, “Not right now, Alice told me to talk to Ayu.” 

“Again?”

“Yeah, and Ayu’s being a peeve.”

“Alright then,” he sighed. 

In which Vittorino then asked, “Are you dying right now?” 

“Just a little bit mentally.” 

“Nothing serious?”

“Not really.” 

“’Kay, I’ll check in later.” And the door silently closed. 

Back in silence, Oliver wiggled himself in the grass for some time, bringing himself back to his senses. Although a figure interrupted his personal forest ritual. 

“Tired, are you,” Alice asked. 

In seconds, Oliver brought himself up again. “Yeah.” 

“Figured. You seemed paler today if you didn’t think I’d notice.”

He rolled his eyes, “Course, I didn’t.”

With a giggle, she forwarded herself to the cottage. “Here, follow me.”

Drifting off with her, a familiar friend exited from inside and into the porch. She huffed in her plain dress with her coat hanged by the side, and placed her arms tucked together by the door. “You ask me to help you cook when we haven’t done culinary since the 17th century.”

“Is it a bother?”

“Of course, it is,” Eilwen exclaimed. “You’ve seen the amount of times we almost cut a finger.” 

In a retort, Alice continued talking. “Well, we aren’t ones to use blades normally, but is it ready?”

With a nod, Eilwen gestured towards a plate on the outdoor table. 

Alice brought Oliver to said plate and telling the other, “Thank you, it looks lovely.”

Oliver begged the question, with the attractive scent of the dish in front of him. “Uh, Alice? What is this?” 

The small meal contained a slab of meat, with black speckles of char and a shine on the opposite end, and alongside it contained a collage of vegetables and rice. 

They both sat down while Alice explained. “Well, I’ve heard from Margaret that human meat has a similar taste to pork or veal. So, I imagined it would be nice if you were to have a home-cooked meal of deviled pork, with the flesh as a substitute.”

The words brought oddity within Oliver. “Huh…,” he breathed. Poking the food with a fork beside him, he stared at the strange thought of a filling, cooked meal. 

“Don’t forget to eat your vegetables,” Alice added. 

Oh yes, the vegetables. “Alice, that’ll just pass through my system.”

She shrugged, a spoon by her hand and balancing on the table. “Just eat it, it’s average motherly words to tell their child, is it not?” 

Eilwen handed off a bowl to her: a trifle stacked with custard and sweet fruits. She cheered a little at the sight, and made dove into it as it hit the table. 

Oliver lifted his brow at her sugary meal. “Shouldn’t you be a good example by eating some veggies too?”

“I’m an adult, you have no say on this matter,” she retorted while chewing. “My! Eilwen, thank you so much for the help today!”

The woman tossed her apron into the other chair as she gathered her own hair back in place. “Never mind it, this break leads to nothing for ourselves, doesn’t it?”

Alice scoffed. “You’re always such a pessimist, nowadays. You should lighten up again like how we met.”

Oliver caught Eilwen rolling her eyes back at her as she stepped out of the cottage porch. “I’m off now. I hope you two have a fine day,” she sighed.

“You, as well!” A dismissing wave appeared from Alice who continued eating her trifle. Once Eilwen disappeared, Alice turned back to the child. “Now then, go on and eat! You haven’t bitten a thing yet!”

“On it, I’m on it,” Oliver repeated to her. The cut of the meat left it harder for Oliver to cut in its density. Although, after some time of gathering every bite of the meal together with a fork, he bit into it. With a chew, there laid a burnt char on his tongue; with another chew, an array of flavor from the juices melted into his mouth. But the taste brought him not of a crazed or desperate ecstasy and greed, but instead the serene texture of real food. The strange reality of the sense left Oliver blank into space, but he ate quickly out of habit. 

“So,” Alice asked, “How was it?”

In a blink, Oliver glanced back down at his empty plate, with leftover browns and goldens. To imagine that Alice was the one to make the meal for him after all the times she had not, in which it never passed through his mind of depravity. He answered to it all with what he always told: “It was pretty good.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” She laughed. “I was hoping you didn’t hear Eilwen talk more but we had no clue what to do with the meat!”

“Well, uh,” Oliver awkwardly laughed. “It’s always good I guess.”

“I’m only glad you liked it. Now I can say I can still feed other people,” she giggled back with him. 

“Wait, what do you mean from that last part–”

“Here, do you want to try my trifle?” She offered the spoon to him. In which, Oliver obliged. 

And soon enough, he entered a coughing fit of spiting it out. “Holy shit that was sweet enough that I thought it was too much.”

Alice laughed at him, all while taking another bite. “Just remember, Margaret’s sweets and tea has even more than mine!”

***

“Thanks, Vittorino for just the door.” Oliver slammed the exit from Fowls in his living room. And in the slam, Vittorino jumped up from his seat and straightened his coat. 

He excused himself. “Come on, I was finishing up my conversation. I’m about to head out anyways.” The door opened again by him and he jumped through. “See you later.”

“Yeah, bye,” Oliver nodded as he stole the new free seat. The entrance disappeared once Oliver tossed his new bag of food aside on the counter. 

Turning the other direction from the food, and slouching into the couch, he found Ayu staring at him keenly with his journal. 

His legs curled up into his seat with joggers that covered up his healing bone of legs. And his eyes peered with the bright mixture of blue and grey. His hair still flew around as the mess it was, albeit floated like a dark cloud in its disaster. Oliver smiled at him, but Ayu only said, “You can’t surprise me by turning invisible again.” 

“Oh really?” An acceptance to the challenge was immediate by just the flick of his magic. Turning invisible eased in mere seconds despite previous difficulties, though the motivations made the magic strong enough.

Ayu soon blinked around and realized. “Goddamn it,” as he sighed up into the air and sketchbook falling out of the symmetry of his legs. 

In his unseen state, Oliver pranced down to behind Ayu, slowly gaining to behind his shoulder. He allowed himself to be known after saying, “You know it isn’t that hard–”

And that was the moment Ayu literally jumped in his seat, jabbing Oliver chin from the shoulder in the process. 

Oliver stumbled and fell back, the same Ayu-pains stinging in his jaw. 

“Oh fuck.” Ayu crawled and fell out of his chair onto the ground with Oliver. “I’m so sorry again.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” he hissed. “That was a dumbass move from me; I know you’re jumpy sometimes… Plus, it isn’t that bad.” In hesitance, Oliver let go of the pain. “See? No bleeding, and I’ll ice it right now if it bruises.”

“Are you sure,” he stuttered.

“Definitely not your worst accidental hits.” Oliver whisked himself back up, gesturing to his stomach in reference. “I wonder how you would do with a punching bag, to be honest.”

“Really?”

“I’m mainly joking,” Oliver affirmed whilst opening the freezer. “Actually, there was this one time…” 

And yet again, did Oliver tell of another lovely, mundane story of his younger ages. In which Faustus made a fuss with a six-year-old for both not knowing what to do in a sports store. All of it spoken by Oliver in the most vivid details despite the sameness and the bag of frozen veggies on his chin. 

Ayu seemed to have listened, to Oliver’s pleasure. Faustus’ character still laid as an oddity to them both after two months of Oliver telling his stories. However, it was time for Ayu’s sharing. 

“I don’t think I have much about… punching bags?” Oliver nodded to him. “Yeah, I think the closest thing was this kid breaking a chain of one of em in one of my foster homes.” 

Oliver’s eyes widened. “They what?”

“Yeah it was weird. I think we were trying to see who could punch it the furthest and none of us were winning, but some of us thought we were.” 

“Reasonable.”

“And there was this one kid which others were saying didn’t do anything to it, and we left it for the day. And overnight the kid apparently got one of the kitchen knives, climbed up to the top of the stand-thingy, with only a single small cut and no falling, and chainsaw-ed the heck out of it.”

“How old were they?” Oliver asked flabbergasted. 

“I dunno, maybe six? I was five. But they cut up the chain to where it could snap in a single move, and they did just that the next morning to prove himself.”

Oliver laughed. “And how did the forest-parent react?” 

“Oh, she got mad. Like, made a gate to keep us away from the kitchen mad. And eventually give up foster-parenting.” 

“Holy shit,” Oliver gasped in delight. “How come all of your foster-homes were so chaotic?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I bring chaos with me.” 

Oliver giggled at the comment. But then the chin and stomach began to sting the slightest. The distraction caused sighing. “My god, even after Alice gave me food I’m still hungry… I think the chin is making me more drained.”

“Sorry–”

“Holy shit, that’s a lot!” Oliver grabbed the food-bag, opening it to reveal a plethora of more than the regular. He beamed at the amount and the scent and turned to Ayu, then died down at the realization. He was unreadable, to Oliver’s discomfort. He forced a laugh, and got up, telling Ayu, “I’ll just go to my room and eat some–”

“No,” Ayu stopped him. “No, uh… You can eat here.”

Oliver raised a brow.

“It’s fine.”

“… I think you’ll think I’m weird if you see.”

With a smile back, and attempted rolled eyes, Ayu said, “You attacked me as a werewolf and I already know you’re a cannibal from multiple other stuff. What else could be weirder?”

In a moment of thinking, Oliver sighed. “Ayu, I don’t eat it cooked. I eat it raw.”

And with the statement, Ayu’s eyes widened, and blinked multiple times nonstop. “Oh.” He flustered his words for the next few seconds. “Why raw?”

He shrugged. “Well, for me it never mattered whether it was cooked or not. I wouldn’t need to prep anything either since when it’s raw, it kinda tastes juicier.”

Ayu gulped, staring into the abyss, then shook his head. “Yeah, that’s beyond the point. Just eat. I’ll be… not directly watching.”

Oliver continuously stared back to back from his bag to Ayu. “… I still need a plate.”

Ayu rushed his words. “Yeah, go get that.”

And after the awkward venture, they sat together in silence, bag and plate in Oliver’s hands, and Ayu squirming left and right to Oliver’s own notice. He gulped at the event, “You know, I can really just go to my room if you’re uncomfortable–”

“No,” Ayu said. “I think I have to get used to it by now… we’re practically living together and you have to be by yourself when you eat.” With hesitance, he patted Oliver’s hand holding the plate. 

The slightest tint of red floated on his cheek from the touch, no matter how many times they had clasped in the night. “It’s embarrassing.” 

“It both shouldn’t and should be, so there’s not much to get away from it,” Ayu affirmed. 

“That’s just everything in my life.” Oliver grinned at the comment. Yet, the topic still stood up top of him. Glancing back down to the bag, opening it once again for the stronger aroma. Grabbing the first section, he placed it down onto the plate, with some leftover blood dripping by the side and his wanting to lick it all down. He turned his head back to Ayu, who drew his own eyes away, then returned to the meal. His hands already drenched themselves, and he continued the routine. Out of the plate, Oliver picked up the meat, facing it directly in front of him, the taste already itching in the back of his throat, and he made his first bite against his sore jaw. 

The texture and taste melded into his mouth in the usual satisfaction, nothing much else to say. But, he continued taking bites, staring at the blank television screen in front of him, avoiding Ayu’s eyes at all cost. 

“… Are you feeling better?”

“Relatively,” Oliver chewed. 

The next reply sat there delayed. “That’s good at least.”

Another minute passed by while Oliver ate, with him seemingly forgetting of the one next to him or the anxieties with the subject. 

“So… Oliver.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’ve been knowing you enough to tell you something… Something I’ve been hiding, really.”

He continued chewing. “Like what?” 

“How the entire black sun thing happened, and how I got here… and the monsters.”

“Oh.” Finally, the questions he had wondered of ages ago. It seemed to have past his mind for the last few months. “Figured you knew something.” 

“Yeah. I did,” he agreed. “I don’t really know where to start but uhm… so, you know how the entire society thing is led by Akeldama, right?”

“You were tricked by him, weren’t you?”

After a few blinks, Ayu whined, “Is it really that easy to figure out?”

“You’re easy to read,” Oliver explained, “That and that’s what happened to the rest of the society, but what exactly happened between you two?”

He sighed. “Okay… Basically, when I was eight, he gave me three wishes, with the deal that I couldn’t wish to undo wishes, wish for more wishes, or bring back the dead.”

In comprehension and analysis mode, Oliver nodded. “Sounds fair.”

Ayu looked down at his seat. “I already made two wishes. I made the first one when I met him: where I wouldn’t die by natural stuff and have powers to fight monsters instead.” He looked at Oliver. “It ended up with the monsters coming to me since I asked for a fight. And even then, my powers are too shitty to fight them back.”

The outcome seemed rough, Oliver could tell. The chewing stopped as he searched for a reasoning. “Well, at least you were just eight…?” An eight-year-old wouldn’t think about mass-murder unless it was me so. 

“Yeah, but I was still being dumb.” The legs curled up again. “I made the second wish a year after… I got lonely pretty quick while being in the alleyway. So, once I was sick of it, I just wished there were people like me so I wouldn’t be alone anymore.”

An instinct kicked in. Despite his bloody hands, Oliver placed his hand onto Ayu’s in return from earlier. 

“Annette came into my life, on June 6th as a birthday present I guess, and an anniversary for when I met Akeldama, but I didn’t really care. I was happy, really happy. I explained everything to her immediately, and I was excited to fight with her when the monsters finally came.” 

He replied to the hand, squeezing it back and staining his own. “They came a while after, and one of her dads was the first to go…” A head tilt down and he told, “It’s my fault she’s in this mess. And it still might just be my fault that you’re a part of this too.”

For a time, Oliver waited for any tears to be shed; however, he was silent, only shaking and squeezing harder the more time went on. A sigh escaped from the last comment. “Ayu, you know that I’m still impossible to exist because of you. Alice was just an idiot and I’m guessing she committed voodoo or some shit.”

He chuckled. 

“And it wasn’t your fault–”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“Because it’s true.” Oliver finally set his food aside, and clasped both of his hands to Ayu. “You were a kid who was just a naïve little mess. We all were. Look at me, I was done with this bullshit since I was nine.” Perhaps that was a lie, who knows. 

“But that’s the problem. –”

“No, it isn’t. We’re all dumbasses that fuck up. Everything in our lives have been through mistakes.”

Ayu gazed at him, lids lowered and position unmoving. He only replied with a silent, “I guess,” and nothing else. 

Ayu remained silent, to Oliver’s dismay. But in dedication of patience, Oliver let it go, returning to his snack. 

“… What was it like to talk to a dictator like that?”

Ayu shuffled his position into laying down on the couch, letting his cold and bloody hand out of Oliver’s. “Weird. He annoys me sometimes in my head and messes with stuff. But who could tell he’d be an asshat when he looks like an albino angel?”

“Albino?”

“Yeah, he has like, really pale skin and white hair.”

“Uh,” Oliver’s own breath heightened in confusion. “Can you describe him a little more?” 

Ayu shuffled. “Sure? He looks around our age all the time. The hair’s messy but neater than mines, and he has a crown thing that has a piece of coal on it for some reason.” 

“Oh god,” he stated. 

“What?”

“… Remember Faustus…?”

“Yeah?”

“Well,” he ticked, “guess who matches the same albino description, and constantly appears and disappears just to mess with people?”

It took a matter of time for Ayu to stare into the abyss and process. “… You’re trying to say that your ghost friend from when you were six turns out to be the bitch that fucked up the entire city?”

“Indeed,” Oliver nodded. 

“What the fuck?” A jump forced the couch to jumble all over, as Oliver shook his plate from the momentum. “Faustus is actually Akeldama?”

“Yeah, I feel dumb that I didn’t connect the dots…” Oliver sat dumbfounded with his recovering food that had almost fallen. “But yeah no, what the fuck.”

“You have been talking to an actually demon-child since you were six!”

“I know!” 

The hysteria dragged the plate to the counter. They both got up and jumped in the couch. “Akeldama’s a faucet!”

“I know!” 

Their peak discovery led them hopping around and yelling at each other. 

“Why would he do that,” Ayu begged to question.

“The hell if I know about that!” He gasped for air. “Wait! I think he talked to me while he was in the dungeon but… fuck, I forgot what he said!”

“That’s not helping!” 

“That’s obvious! But weirdly enough Faustus was actually nice when he wasn’t annoying?”

“Impossible,” Ayu huffed, “Akeldama is never nice.” 

“Well we have proof of a counter-claim!”

“Then what the fuck does Akeldama want if he isn’t just an ass?”

“Do you think any of us would have a clue?”

“NO!” 

They screamed together, and fell over at the revelation, both thumping on different side of the couch. A moment of silence let the hype die down. Only for them to realize the amount of screaming that had occurred in a minute. 

They laughed at it. 

“Goddamn, we’re a mess,” Oliver said. 

“I think that’s all what we’re supposed to be.” 

Ollie sat up. “See? That’s what I’m saying, we’re all fuck ups!” He laughed again. But after the entire fit, Oliver picked himself back up again, and picked up the food and bag by the counter with a relieved sigh. “I really shouldn’t eat the rest of this.”

“Then don’t.”

“That’s the plan,” he said, “I’m just gonna take one last bit and we’re good for–”

“Oh, the door’s unlocked cool.” And then entered a young voice. In the fastest second, Oliver whipped his head to the door in front of him, facing Annette straight to the eye with guts and blood all over his hand. 

They both stared, eyes widened at each other, but it was Oliver to say, “… fuck.”

***

“I knew you had some kind of problem but holy cow.”

After the obligated explanation, Oliver finally packed up his meals, to Annette’s staring.

Ayu told her, with pinching eyes, “To really be honest, I forgot you were coming after I punched Ollie–”

“You punched him?” Annette forwarded her seat. 

“It was an accident!” 

“And it was me scaring him and him jumping up at me,” Oliver corrected. Off in his room, he placed the bag down and brought of notice his stains across his hands and on his face from the mirror ahead of him. His face strewed in the situation. He asked, “Annette, you want me to wash up, don’t you?” 

The frantic nod and smile seemed as something Oliver could visualize. “I’d appreciate it, and Ayu too.” 

The question held in Oliver but not for longer after remembering the handheld support. “Shit,” he muttered. 

They both washed off the blood to Annette’s comfort, clowning and bumping each other in the meanwhile for the humor of it all. And while they entered back, Oliver found a distinct melody to Annette’s patient humming. 

“The Emerald Maiden,” he questioned the song. 

She peered back at them, scanning yet hiding it with a kind gesture. “Yeah, my parents were big 80s junkies.”

Ayu and Oliver sat down together, Ayu’s composition growing drowsy to the other’s notice. “They seem to have interesting taste,” Oliver added. “Birke was kinda surreal back then.”

She smiled in argument, “I think that was the point of the trend.” 

“Well, it wasn’t that good of a trend in the first place.”

“Oh, so you’re declaring war today, I see.” A sleeve was pulled from her dress with a fake fist. Her laugh forced its way while she joked. 

But Oliver shrugged. “Not much of an argument, just a sad counter.”

“What are you guys even talking about,” Ayu asked. 

He answered, “Just some obnoxious music.”

“Excuse me!” Annette objected, “They had some good slappers.”

“Yes, slaps to the ears,” Oliver muttered, to Annette’s dismay. 

“… You know what? I’m not gonna be a part of this.” Ayu rolled out of the couch, crawling back up and into Oliver’s room. “I’m gonna sleep.” 

Again? Oliver asked. “Alright, we’ll try and be quiet.”

“You don’t have to, Ollie,” he yawned. “It’ll just be a quick nap.” And with the comment, the door closed gently from the distance. 

The two, one discovering that their friend is a cannibal and the other being that friend, were then stuck together in the forgotten topic of prior. Oliver quaked at the situation, however Annette created the simplest icebreaker. 

“… He calls you Ollie?”

He shifted, “Yeah, but I think he just does it when he’s lazy.” 

“Do you think I can call you that?” As weird as it sounded, she questioned. 

“Uh… no, I don’t think that would sound right,” he answered, “coming from you.” 

She nipped, “That’s a shame. I thought I would get ‘I just found out you’re a murderer’ rights.”

“… No. No, you don’t.” He set aside the already annoying topic, and moved on. “Anyways, how’s high school for you? You seem pretty busy.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” A groan fell out of her mouth. “Imagine you being an all-A student in middle school and say, ‘Hey, I’ll be fine doing all advanced classes. I always do that!’ And then proceeding to have a nine-paragraph essay due in two days and three other different projects and reports that take up four hours of your time each and you thought you’d be smart about it but you end up–”

“Hold on, aren’t you a freshman?” 

Her head tilted back at him, a mad expression peering from her face. “Yes. A freshman who has made mistakes,” she said. “Don’t make my mistakes,” she said. 

“… Duly noted.” Curiosity poked itself at him, despite his own wondering of his future in school considering new lifestyles. “Is middle school easy then?”

She ticked at the question. “You don’t even have to turn in half the work and you hit a decent B if anything.” But then her body slouched into the coach. “Honestly now with both church and school hitting me under the bus, I don’t have time for anything. It blows.”

“Seems like it,” he imagined. 

A little sigh wavered the room in Annette’s rare leisure. Soon, she added in her time, “But, aside from that, you and Ayu seem to be getting along well, so I don’t think I have to worry about him as much anymore.”

“As much?”

“Well yeah.” Oliver noted her fidgets all over the place with her words. “Before you, he was a kid without any kind of home or anyone to talk to except me… and a few others that just hurt him.” 

The last comment churned Oliver’s guts somehow with only a little clue as to who she referred. 

“I couldn’t manage to take care of him well enough since I had to help my baba after Dad died. Not to mention myself for a bit,” she huffed a laugh. 

The conversation handed little leeway for Oliver in the conversation. “I guess that makes sense… My mom had to counsel a patient’s parents after the kid died from an attack, and she was stressed too since the girl was getting better.”

Pulling back her hair, she nodded. “Guess you didn’t have to deal with losing someone.” And a blink later, he met her with skeptical eyes on the topic. “Right… That wasn’t what I meant to say. It’s just– Ayu just seems better overall now.”

“… You knew about Akeldama, right?”

“I did,” she answered. 

“He talked about it with you a lot, didn’t he?”

Another nod. “It’s rare but he gets more into it the more you hang out with him. It’s weird with how much he insists on how Akeldama is the worst, but he’s one to put himself at fault. If you know what I mean.”

A previous conversation floated in his mind. “Yeah, I think I do.”

An arm rested by the chair as she said, “He’s a good kid. Screwed up along the way but he didn’t mean for everything to turn out this way.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, though. It’s obvious.”

“Not to him,” she replies. “It’s definitely some kind of… emotional trauma.” Without much else to add, she shifted. “I remember when I met him, he was jumping around like a five-year-old kid. I thought it was creepy at first but it was easy to tell what the issue was… I stuck with him because I knew he needed somebody, and once he told me about the wishes, I knew I was right.”

Oliver listened to her monologue keenly. 

“I used my birthday money for his birthdays, and almost everything else for him. It doesn’t seem like much from how you met him but I tried to help him however I could think of.”

“So, what you’re saying is you were a good person to Ayu,” he summarized. 

“I guess you can say that, but I feel like I babied him too much.”

Oliver tilted his head. “And what do you mean by that?”

Her eyes glanced down. “I tried to act like nothing was really wrong for him. Like, everything was perfect the way it was for the most part.” Smiles peered through her face no matter the tone she made. “I was acting like some manic pixie girl, I guess. But, I think it ended up with Ayu thinking I didn’t care…”

No continuation began, nor did Oliver allow himself to reply. He let the words contemplate in Annette’s mind while the time passed. 

“… Well, I didn’t really get the job done, but you came at a good time.” 

Unsure of the compliment, he replied, “Thanks?”

A soft punch met Oliver’s shoulders to his surprise. Its gentleness seeming foreign. Annette giggled at his face, “Yeah, you’ve probably done a lot better than me.” A whistle blew up quickly, off pitch of whatever went on, but all right he supposed. “How’re his comics doing, actually? I haven’t listened to those in a while.”

“Oh,” he completely forgot about them. “Well, he’s still drawing, but he doesn’t really bring up his stories.”

“Really? He would tell me about it all the time!” 

Ah yes, show off what I forget to ask about. “Actually, I’ve been getting him into writing some more, since he seems to have a knack for it.”

“With his handwriting,” she laughed. 

Oliver shrugged at the question. “He wasn’t that good at drawing either, but his handwriting doesn’t look as bad as some kids in my class to be honest.” 

Her bubbly nature peaked at the seams throughout the new conversation. “It’s a good thing you’re getting him into something new though, he sometimes focused way too much on that comic.”

“Didn’t he not have anything else to do?”

With eyes rolled back, she agreed, “Yeah, you’re right, but that’s why I made game days!”

“Oh, don’t remind me of that Ono game.”

Their conversation continued of that of miscellaneous topics that flowed together with only some effort. However, after some time a mumble caught Oliver’s ears. He turned around to the source and led to his room. 

Standing up, he already figured the occurrence, but Annette, unbeknownst of why, followed. 

Entering into his room, there lied a lump on the bed, a homey one at that. Rummaging around the blanket endlessly and uttering scared words indecipherable to even such sensitive ears, Ayu slept his usual naps, and Oliver went over. 

Oliver whispered to Annette, “Did Ayu talk about this before?”

She nodded, “He mentioned them a couple of times, it’s where he gets half of his story ideas, aside from Lillie dreams–. You know about her, right?”

Shaking his head, he answered, “He’s barely mentioned it; I’ve been curious for a while. He says her name sometimes when he sleeps, and when he thinks he’s alone… I wanted to ask but I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it.”

She sighed, “You’ll have to wait for him, then. It’s not my place to tell.” 

After a moment, Oliver went ahead and poked around at Ayu carefully. “Ayu, wake up…”

The pattern continued with some shivering from the sleeper. Though, once he woke, he jolted with his arm into Oliver’s. 

He winced at the immediate pain, followed by Annette saying, “Yeah this is why you prepare yourself.” 

Ayu blinked at the both of them, and told Oliver, “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, it wasn’t the bad arm.” 

He still shrank down, to Oliver’s own worries. But instead of anything else, Oliver followed with a smile to him as they were together. 

“Hey Ayu,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

-

Ten Dollars | Bread and Water | Red Eye | Crimson Capture | November 1st | A Mother | A Demon | A Child | The Wolf | Bloody Fingers | A Monochrome World | The Pocketwatch | I’ll Have My Day | Two Weeks | Monsters | Sleepover | Next>>>

[wilwywaylan]

In only seven days (or the life and times of a sullen convenience shop employee) (part 1)

Fandom : Les Misérables

Modern AU, Montparnasse x Jehan Prouvaire, various other relationships in the background, 5027 words

Based on I don’t remember which post exactly, that said that coffeeshop AU was passé and the rage was now convenience store employee. Which is of course perfect for Montparnasse.

Dedicated to @kujaku-myoo​, @jesvisfarovche​ and @aux-barricades​. Thanks for your help and support !

Also on AO3 !

-

For the third time in one hour, Montparnasse changes the hand his head is resting on, and sighs, the longest sigh he'd ever uttered (or it's pretty high in his top ten). His palms and elbows are starting to hurt, and he will probably get very inelegant bruises, staying like this. But the only other options are either getting up and doing something like sorting some merchandise or maybe cleaning a little, or lay his head down on the counter and take a nap. Or scream for two hours straight. And as much as he really wants to scream, it won't be very good for his image. Or job. Or throat.

To think that someone like him could be caught in this predicament. It's all so stupid, he feels like hitting his head against the counter. Except that it would probably ruin his face, so he doesn't. But it would very well deserve it. Because only an idiot would get roped into working at a convenience store for a week, and the night shift at that. Granted, he's lucky. Anyone else trying to rob a convenience shop (stupid enough to rob a convenience shop) would have gotten jail, or something worse as a punishment. Luckily - or not - for him, the owner seems to be under the charm of his robber enough to make a deal with him : one week of free work will reimburse the window he broke and the prejudice, and he's free to go, without any charges pressed. Montparnasse doesn't like it, not with the way the man leered at him, but he can't really choose in this situation. Anything is better than jail.

And to make matters worse, that deal has been overseen by none other than Javert. Javert, who seems to have made his mission in life to make Montparnasse's a living hell. Montparnasse is sure he dreams of it at night, most delicious dreams where he locks him in a very dark jail and throws away the key. Not that he wants to think about what Javert dreams of at night. Of course he was the first to arrive when Montparnasse was caught, and of course, he was delighted when he could finally put his dirty hands on him. And of course, he was seething when the owner instead made his offer, to "give a poor boy another chance at life". Javert's face at this declaration will probably be Montparnasse's only comfort during that ordeal. Had the cop had a bit less restraint, he would have grabbed both of them and locked them somewhere. Instead, he glared at Montparnasse all through the negotiations, and left with the promise that he'd always keep an eye on him. Absolutely not creepy.

So here he is, bored out of his mind, sitting behind a counter made of very cheap plastic, with a register that has known better days staring at him, waiting for the crowd of weird people, idiots, drunks, self-proclaimed funny guys, thieves, creepy guys, or any combination of the above to roll by. It sounds very much like the plot of some kind of stupid movie where the hero is stuck in an uncomfortable situation that will change his life forever. For now, it doesn't seem very life-changing, more like life-numbing, and he's not the sullen hero of a teen movie. Just a very, very, very bored guy. Well, he thinks, it's only for a week. You can do it. Be on your best behaviour for a week, play the good guy, and you'll be free. One week. You can do it.

~*~

On Monday, nothing weird happens. Montparnasse stays behind the counter, vaguely nodding at people as they come and go, ringing the purchases. He doesn't make small talk, barely mumbling the prices. Maybe it's better like that. The shop is very cleverly set at the corner between two streets with a very high student population, and they make the main crowd during the night hours. So Montparnasse is the lucky soul blessed with the vision of countless students clad in old clothes or pajamas, wandering through the aisles and watching the displays under the crude light that give them blemish faces. This, and their shuffling gait between the shelves, give him the impression the zombie apocalypse has already happened and no one but him realizes yet. They all look half-dead, and exhausted, too much to talk to him. Good. Not that he wants to, anyway. 

One of them, erroneously thinking that he may be interested in anything else than his money, mutters "Finals week, you know ?" above his change. Montparnasse just nods. No, he doesn't know, he doesn't care, either, can he just go and leave him to count the remaining seconds before he can dash out of here ? Luckily, the man grabs his cigarettes and goes away, to his relief. No one else tries to say anything, not even a small lady buying a bunch of sad-looking vegetables - who makes soup at one in the morning -, probably sensing his murderous mood. 

As soon as he sees the door open to reveal the daytime clerk, Montparnasse rips the ridiculous cap off his hair, shoves it in his pocket, grabs his jacket and bag in the tiny cubicle they call a changing room, and rushes past the other, out in the street. The sun is not even out, barely shining behind the buildings around him, and the wind is cold, almost cutting. There are a few people hurrying down the side-walk a bit farther. For a Tuesday morning, it's really silent. During a few seconds, Montparnasse feels at peace, with the wind stroking his face and the first rays of sun reaching him. But the magic doesn't last. It's just 6AM on Tuesday, people are going to work, and he just spent ten hours locked in a convenience store, surrounded by weirdos. He's exhausted, hungry, and he's sure his hair is awful. And he smells of cheap cleaning soap and desperation now. 

Luckily, he makes it home quickly enough. The others aren't home. Good. He wouldn't want them to see him in his apron. Or talk to him. The only thing he wants right now is food, sleep, and something freeing him from that store. Sadly, all he can find is some chicken leftover that escaped Gueulemer's appetite, and a bed that's not made but is horizontal and more or less comfortable. He'll have to find something to get free, he thinks, munching on his chicken. But for now, two out of three is not that bad of a score. 

~*~

On Tuesday, Montparnasse is almost on time, and takes his place behind the counter, ignoring the disgruntled expression of his coworker while they leave. He pulls the cap out of his pocket, flattens it a little - no way he'd put it properly in front of a mirror at home, he'd have to cross the town with that hideous thing on his head - and put it where it belongs. He then leans on the counter and gets ready as must as he can for what is awaiting him.

The first hour is very quiet. Two people come in, buy a few things Montparnasse doesn't pay attention to, and leave. Good. The only downside is that time seems to get to a screeching halt each time he takes his eyes off the clock, but at least it's mostly silent, if he cuts off the muffled screams from the students, bar patrons and various other individuals making a show of themselves in the street.

The hand is barely past ten when the bell over the door ring loudly when it's all but slammed against the door and someone barges inside. Montparnasse looks up from the nail polish he's carefully applying, just fast enough to get a glimpse of something very colourful dashing between the aisles towards the back. The person is talking, or at least is using their voice. Unless it's the air-conditioning he can hear. Either way, Montparnasse doesn't care and goes back to his art. 

It takes him a few seconds to notice that the buzzing noise is getting closer. It sounds a bit like words, mumbled together. The person, a boy with short hair, is wrapped in a scarf at least a kilometre long, in colours that clash horribly. He's muttering to himself, too fast for anyone not under a hefty dose of crack to understand a word, and drops a load of bandages on the counter. Montparnasse can only look, bewildered. There're at least fifteen boxes there, all the pre-cut ones they had in stock, a bunch of small ones for blisters, and two of the extra-long rolls. He half-tempted to ask what he plans to do with all that, but he doesn't. First, because he doesn't care. He's not there to make friends. And second, because he doesn't really want to know what a guy could do with that many band-aids. He's extremely clumsy, or maybe he's planning something sinister. Either way, none of his business. Montparnasse rings the supplies, and the boy piles them in his arms again. He smiles at him - smiles ! like they're friends and he's happy to see him or something - and leaves. Montparnasse just watches after him, bewildered. And shrugs. Not the first weirdo, not the last. And it's none of his business, what he wants to do with a hospital’s worth of bandages. Not at all. 

No one comes in during the next hour and Montparnasse is ready to chalk the meeting with the Strange Guy With The Bandages to that one weird encounter you have to have one per night and hope that maybe the rest of the night will be as quiet, when the bells above the door tear his wishes to shreds. At least the man who enters is not talking to himself. He looks calm and collected, nerd glasses on his nose and a book stuck under his arm, not-too-bad undercut carefully combed on the side. He's wearing a sleeveless sweater on a shirt, and Montparnasse is half-tempted to roll his eyes loudly - because that's one of his talents -, but he goes back to his nail polish instead. If nothing else,  at least the man isn’t wearing a bowtie to go with the rest of him that screams "already old and stuffy at twenty and probably horribly boring". 

The guy is back two minutes later, and Montparnasse looks at his face because if he does, he doesn't have to look at the ugly thing he calls a sweater. And the guy probably proud of it. Luckily, he's not too bad looking, if one is into tall nerds. Which Montparnasse is decidedly not. The guy holds his gaze for a few agonizing seconds. Then he puts a whole case of energy drinks on the counter. Montparnasse can't help but look down, then back at his face. The man's expression doesn't change, save for a raised eyebrow, challenging him to say something. 

Montparnasse slips back into his expressionless mask, and rings the cans, one by one, without breaking eye contact. The monotonous ringing is the only noise in the shop, and the man doesn't move or blink, to the point that Montparnasse starts wondering if he's really human or an alien trying to find something on Earth to fuel his spaceship. 

He almost doesn't want to avert his eyes  and see how long they can play this game, but he doesn't want the guy to think he's flirting with him or something. He glances at the price on the register, looks back up. The guy is grinning - grinning - at him. He holds up the money, still without looking, and Montparnasse doesn't even need to look at the coins to know it's the exact sum. He probably counted while Montparnasse was distracted, but he's not even sure of it, he looked away for maybe one second. He all but shoves the receipt in the other's face. The guy grabs it with his case, addresses Montparnasse – who can only glare in return - a very polite "good night", and strolls out. Montparnasse can only stare after him in disbelief, not really sure of what just happened. 

He regrets it immediately, because the next guy who comes in is an eyesore. It's a shame, because he's tall, buff, and quite handsome in a lumberjack kind of way, and not the fake-lumberjack-true-hipster way. The true and tried man-from-the-mountains-who-carries-chopped-trees-for-fun lumberjack. This would be a sight to behold, especially with the tattoos on his arms. Except that all this muscular glory is clad in the most godawful shirt Montparnasse has ever met. To say that the man got dressed without the lights on would be a good guess ; that shirt is such a shade of neon that it probably glows in the dark. Montparnasse can't even look at it for more than five seconds, and he lowers his eyes. Big mistake : the socks he's wearing are exactly the same shade. He fixates on the counter, where a shirt-shaped blob keeps swaying back and forth on the white plastic, so stark that he's sure they're burnt on his retinae forever. Or they will be once the guy walks to the register and he's faced with a very large expanse of neon fabric.

Montparnasse dives under the counter, grabs his bag, and riffles through it with the fury of a man lost in the desert looking for his last ration of water. For a minute, he thinks he has left them at home, and he's going to have to endure the neon nuisance without any protection. But just before he abandons all hope and runs out of here, his fingers find the protective case, hidden behind his emergency waistcoat. Quickly, he pushes the shades on his nose, and gets up as the man walks up to the counter. Said man looks him up and down in a way that doesn't make Montparnasse very comfortable, stops on the dark lenses.

- Nice glasses, he simply says. 

Of course, nice. They are Prada, Montparnasse thinks. But to be fair, he expected something way more aggressive from someone who seems to exude fratboy out of every pore. And wears neon. He nods, because nice or not, he's not going to start small-talking with anyone. The man doesn't seem to formalize. He grabs his bottle of gin, pays, addresses a salute to Montparnasse and leaves. He's followed later by a bunch of customers, no one dressed as badly as him. Still, Montparnasse keeps the shades. At least it weirds people out, and they don't try to talk to him. Perfect. Now, if only they could not come in, things would be as perfect as they can in that situation. 

And of course with that line of thinking, it doesn't last. He's well in his last hour of work before sweet, sweet release, and already counting the minutes that still prevents him from enjoying his freedom, when in comes none other than the man responsible for his predicament. Javert strolls to the counter, stops two feet from it, and stands there, hands in his back, feet martially apart, eyeing Montparnasse up and down. The silence stretches, very uncomfortable, and Montparnasse lets it, because he'll be damned if he talks to a policeman without being prompted. Not that it would be funny to see Javert's face when he uses his corporate voice on him, but no. He just crosses his arms and glares him down. Well, tries to.

- Are you behaving ? Javert finally asks

Montparnasse doesn't move, doesn't blink.

- Are you behaving ? Javert repeats, louder.

Montparnasse makes a show of rolling his eyes, remembering too late that Javert can't see it behind his shades. He adds a flick of his head and a heavy sigh to get the message across.

- Yes, Mr Officer. I'm behaving. Like a good clerk.

Javert doesn't smile. Then again, Montparnasse is sure that he doesn't know how. 

- You know what you have to expect if you step out of line.

- Yes, Batman. You'll throw me in the deepest, darkest cell you have and leave me to rot. Or you'll drink my blood, I'm not really sure which one. Sacrifice me to The Law. 

Javert frowns, and for a second, Montparnasse is sure he's going to explode and arrest him on the spot. Which kind of annoys him, he doesn't really want another mark on his file. Especially since that one will be way heavier than the last. But Javert seems to discover a hint of humour hidden under all his layers of sternness and righteousness, and he just scoffs.

- Be careful, boy. I'll keep my eye on you.

- Oh, I don't doubt it. 

It's maybe better that Javert seems to be impervious to the sarcasm dripping from his words. He glares him down for ten very uncomfortable seconds, then turns around and stomps out of the shop, his coat floating behind him like weirdly-shaped bat wings. Montparnasse just lets his head fall on the counter and stays like this until his coworker comes in. This time, he doesn't even take to take his cap off, just grabs his bag blindly and runs out of the shop, bumping into the other. He doesn't stop, doesn't hold at red lights, just dashes right home, buries himself in his bed, and tries to forget this day even existed and that he still has almost a week to go. Without any luck.

~*~

On Wednesday, Montparnasse almost falls back asleep after his alarm rings, and he has to run to be on time, which he hates, because he has to cut his skin care regimen short and spend less time on his hair, and he can already feel greasy and pimply twenty feet outside his home. But there's no time to run back and fix it, so he just pulls his cap over his hair as much as he does and prays that no one he knows will see him like this.

The universe must hate him, because he's not behind his counter for half an hour, when who comes in but Eponine. She doesn't spot him right away, and he's tempted to dive under the counter and hide there until she leaves. He doesn't, because not only will he ruin what's left of his brushing, but she'll probably drag him out of here. So he just stands and wait. He doesn't even try to pray that she doesn't say anything. That would be a waste of a prayer, and he needs all the good will he can gather to go through the rest of the week. 

Finally, Eponine walks to the counter with a handful of snacks she dumps on the counter. She's playing with her phone, and Montparnasse has a sliver of hope that she'll keep doing it and not even looking at him. But  when he announces her total, she does. And stares. A large smile appears on her face, the kind that makes Montparnasse want to run away very far and very fast. 

- Well, well, she drawls. What do we have here ? 

Montparnasse doesn't answer, just glares. With no effect, of course.

- Look at you, she adds, way too delighted with the situation. All... prim and proper. Respectable, even. 

- Watch your mouth.

- Or what ? You'll refer to your manager ? 

Montparnasse refrains from anything drastic that he may regret. Not while he's here, at least. Revenge will have to wait. Eponine leans on the counter, and asks with a very large, very scary smile : 

- Do you know what I want ? 

- No, enlighten me. To run away and never come back ? Dye your hair blond ? Pontmercy paying attention to you  ?

Eponine's smile disappears so fast he can almost hear it break. He's aware that he crossed a line with the Pontmercy part ; this is still a very sensitive point for her, and he fucked up a little. He doesn't apologize because he never does, but he shrugs, does that vague gesture with his hands that the others in Patron-Minette and Eponine know mean he realizes he did something wrong but didn't really mean to. 

- Ring that shit, Eponine growls. 

She doesn't hit him, at least. Montparnasse starts scanning her purchase. A flash startles him, and his head snaps up. Eponine's phone is pointed towards him, and she's grinning again.

- What the fuck ? he hisses.

- Payback, bitch. That may teach you to shut up, next time. 

- And what are you going to do with that ? Montparnasse asks cautiously.

- Dunno. Maybe I'll blow it to poster size and put it on every wall in town, if you keep yapping like that.

- I'm mute.

He finishes running her purchases at light speed, hoping to get rid of her. Sadly, she just hops on the counter to sit on it, and keeps playing on her stupid phone. He wonders if he can either grab the phone and erase the pic, or push her down the counter and take advantage of the confusion. But he doesn't really want to hurt her. And she can hurt him back anyway. So he just leans against the wall of cigarettes, arms crossed, and keeps silent.

The doorbells chime again. Montparnasse doens't look up from his nails right away, because he's not interested in anything here. He only reacts when he hears Eponine gasp slightly. And almost does the same. The person who just entered is a disaster. Not in the way of Neon Dude last night ; that one at least managed to get some fitting, assorted clothes. This one.... does not. The plaid shirts are too big on their slight frame, the shoulders falling halfway down their arms. On the other side (ha !), the pants are way too short, more-so when they are rolled up and held by several colorful pins. And it doesn't even take in consideration the mess of patterns that's their outfit. One shirt is red and black, the other blue and white, and the top they are wearing looks solid, but Montparnasse is almost sure he's seen a hint of tie-dye. And are they wearing.... overalls ? He rubs his eyes, looks again. Yes, they are overalls. Denim overalls. With a front pocket ornamented with words stitched in bright green. Montparnasse didn't even think that people outside of kindergarten still wore overalls. That nightmare of an outfit is completed by army boots an ugly shade of green, with neon blue laces dragging on the floor. A small crystal hangs from their neck, catching the bleak light. There are several pins scattered on their outer shirt, as on the battered messenger bag hanging on their shoulder. Oh gods, even the bag is colourful, but drops of paint and ink rather than tie-dye. Thanks heaven for small miracles, Montparnasse thinks dryly.

He's so focused on the clothes that it takes him a few seconds to notice the person wearing them. They are tall, taller than him even, with those pant legs way above their ankles. Lanky, too, but he's not too sure ; it's a bit hard to see with those shirts hanging off them like on a coat-hanger. They have long, copper hair, gathered in a messy braid coiling on their shoulder. Flowers are caught in them, and colourful hairpins do their best to hold back a few strands away from their face.

They finally turn around to riffle around in their bag, and Montparnasse gets a clear view of their face. And they are... beautiful. Of course they are. They are in a teen movie, where the sullen hero gets forced into an uncomfortable situation, and suddenly someone comes in, the world stops pining, and everything becomes worth it because they just fell in love at first sight. Except that Montparnasse doesn't fall in love at first sight. Love is for pining idiots and Pontmercys. Not for him, not at all. He just doesn't care. But the person has high cheekbones, and a pointy nose, and more freckles on their cheeks, nose and forehead, like a galaxy. Their face is framed by a few strands of hair that draw pretty little curls on their skin and blow around as soon as they move.

They walk to the register, carrying a bunch of merchandise. And as does every person who sports extra long laces and doesn't tie them : they stumble, and all their stuff scatter on the counter. Montparnasse has to jump back to avoid a heavy box of sugar. Luckily for his shoes, the cardboard doesn't rip. He picks it up, puts it back on the counter, stops an apple from running away. 

- Thank you, you saved my grocery.

Montparnasse looks up, ready to tell them to go fuck themselves and stick that sarcasm where the sun doesn't shine. However,  all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled "ngk". The person is looking at them, smiling. But it's not the - very nice, very gentle - smile that hits him. It's the eye-colour. Or rather, colours. Both are clear and soft, but the left one is green as leaves, while the right one is a rich golden brown. Montparnasse doesn't want to think they shine like gemstones because he's still not a sullen and smitten goth boy. But they do shine under the neon lights, or maybe just from their personality... He almost punches himself in the face. Eponine is snickering lightly, not missing anything, and he's sure he'll hear about it later. He'll hear about it a lot. Play it cool, he thinks, *focus. You can do it. You're a pro.* Well no, he's not, but he can act the part. At least until the weird, pretty person leaves, and then he can scream all he wants. 

He scans all the things, one by one, all the while trying to remember what he's supposed to say. He can feel the person's gaze on him, nailing him in place, invading his personal space. The world reduces to this, that presence, the rhythm of the beeping. Finally, everything is scanned without him making a fool of himself. The person opens their wallet, pulls out a note.

- Sorry, they apologize, I don't have change.

- Don't problem.

What ?. Eponine snickers, and he really wants to push her down the counter, but he can't. Even if he really, really wants. The person just tilts their head, a hint of confusion on their face. 

- Don't worry. No problem, Montparnasse quickly amends.

He starts counting the change, starting over when he loses trace. His hands are shaking, the person can see it, Eponine can see it, the whole world can see it, and he doesn't know why. He needs to focus. Focus until the world reduces itself to his register, and he presses the right buttons at last. It's just a goddamn twig dressed like a hippie fresh out of the garden, he repeats himself, don't pay attention, they'll leave once they're done. Good riddance. But his hands still shake a little when he hands them a handful of coins. They put it in their front pocket, gather their purchase, smile at him once more, and leave, their braid falling from their shoulder to dance on their back, like a pendulum. Montparnasse watches it swing until they're out of the door, their gaudy shirts getting lost in the crowd. 

- Careful, you idiot, your eyeballs are gonna fall out. 

Eponine's voice snaps him back to Earth. He glares at her, but she's not openly laughing at him. No, she's staring at him, almost... seriously ? He can see the gears grinding in her mind, and he doesn't like it. At all.

- Why are you still there ? he groans. Don't you have better things to do ?

- Than see you act like a complete idiot ? I'd pay actual money for that.

- Then pay. 

- Nope. 

- Then leave.

- And miss your stupid face next time Flowerchild comes in ? 

- I do not....

- Oh yes, she cuts him. You totally do. Googly eyes and all that. Admit it. You like them.

- I do not. Shut up.

Miraculously, she obeys him. He walks to the cigarette wall, starts sorting them again, even if he knows they are perfectly sorted. But it has the merit of cutting him from the rest of the shop and let him collect his thoughts. There's a strange noise in his ears, a low rumbling one that sounds a little like the sea coming and going. At least he doesn't need to focus on the cigarettes until he gets tunnel vision. But on the other hand, his mind seems to run idle, and he feels strangely.... light. Probably getting down with something. And it has nothing to do with that strange person, whatever Eponine might think.

When he finishes, his mind is back to its usual, sharpen self, and the noise in his ears has receded. He still feels a bit faint, probably a hint of fever, nothing that a bit of rest will cure. Eponine keeps looking at him, but she doesn't harp on anymore about what just happened, and he's grateful for this. They keep chatting about this and that, until she realizes that it's late, Gavroche is waiting for her and she needs to go home. She gathers her snacks, punches him in the arm and leaves. Montparnasse just leans on the counter and gets ready to be bored out of his mind. 

As soon as he's free, he runs all the way home, barely takes time to gobble something that can pass as food, and dives in his bed, horrid hair and all. He squeezes his eyes shut really hard, hopes against all hopes that this sudden fever won't ruin his beauty sleep. He doesn't even have time to finish that thought, that he's already fast asleep. 

[callunavulgari]

Year-In-Fic | 2019

How many fics did you write this year? What was your total wordcount?

This year I wrote 41 fics (technically 40 as the last was published today, but I wrote it in December so I’m counting it), for a total of 96,689 words. For even more interesting numbers, of that 96k, a little over 70k of them were written in the month of October alone, so I’m pretty proud of that.

Fic Roundup!

children of dust and ash | Bartimaeus |  Bartimaeus/Kitty(/Nathaniel) | 1,801 words |  Kitty summons Bartimaeus on a chilly fall day in her thirty-eighth year.

sweet music playing in the dark | DBH | 1,102 words | “I noticed some time ago that you seem to have an appreciation for jazz.”

Radio Ga Ga | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 1,143 words | There’s always another party in Hawkins, Indiana. It would be almost boring if it weren’t for Steve Harrington.

Sunlight | Marvel | Loki/Thor | 765 words | They aren’t quite out of the solar system when Loki appears at the arm of Thor’s chair, hair shorn short and a furious snarl on his face.

like the bough of a willow tree | Detroit Become Human | Hank/Connor | 1,214 words | There’s a human lost in his woods.

knocking on heaven’s door | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 1,748 words | “Just, get in the fucking car. I’ll drive you home.” Billy looked at him, very seriously, and said, “What if I don’t want to go home?”

no more dreaming like a ghost | KH | Axel/Roxas | 813 words | He is in the kitchen, the stove top still warm under his thighs, and everything smells of cherries. The pie is cooling on the windowsill, the sun slanting in warm and buttery, and it is like a dream. A memory. A wish.

Cheers | DBH | Hankcon | 6,368 words | “Are you coming in or not?”Connor blinks, jerks his eyes up and away from those hands and-The bartender has blue eyes. They match the spinning LED at his temple perfectly.

bury a friend (try to wake up) | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 1,587 words | Steve digs up Billy’s body on a Tuesday.

won’t be too soon ‘til I say… goodnight moon | KH | Riku/Sora | 4,549 words |  The house was built in the fall of 1882.

you’ll never know what hit you | Buzzfeed Unsolved | Ryan/Shane | 5,379 words | “C’mon, ghost,” Shane urges. “Make all my dreams come true. Fuck me up, fam.”

make this chaos count | EOS 10 | Ryan/Akmazian | 724 words | “You really should stop looking for me,” Akmazian tells him, fingers creeping across Ryan’s ribcage, mapping the architecture of his ribs.

eat you up whole | The Witcher | Geralt/Regis | 2,527 words | “How many mouthfuls do you think I could take from you before it had some effect?” Regis whispers, lips against his throat. Geralt can feel the pinprick of fangs. “Four? Six? Ten? More, even?”

forget the horror here | DBH | Hankcon | 4,390 words | “Hello,” the android says, it’s chest heaving, the gleam of its heart brighter, bluer than before.

summoning demons (and other bad first date ideas) | Buzzfeed Unsolved | Ryan/Shane | 3,868 words | “If I let you out of that circle,” Ryan says, slowly. “Are you going to eat me?”

Itch | The Magnus Archives | Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims | 1,440 words | The boneturner takes from him two ribs - one for him and one for Jon.

the salt water sting | Dishonored | Corvo/Outsider | 2,163 words |  The ship wrecks several hundred miles off of the coast of Karnaca.

a skeleton of something more | SGA | Rodney/John | 3,072 words | “John?” he murmurs, still coasting on the pain. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, if cotton were also made of glass.

in the woods somewhere | Teen Wolf | Derek/Stiles | 4,570 words | Stiles buys a house in Virginia.

Wake Up | The Magnus Archives | Martin/Jon | 550 words | “If you wake up,” Martin tells him, experimentally. “I won’t go through with it. You can tell me what a stupid idea it was, and we can laugh about it, and everything will be normal.”

Pas de Deux | KH | Axel/Roxas | 506 words | Roxas doesn’t remember what the sky looks like anymore.

try to wake up | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 1,226 words | They do not, in fact, bone down and praise Satan.

too late to come on home | LoZ | Gen | 1,391 words | “You look familiar,” the boy says in his strange, haunting voice. “Are you lost?”

patron saint of the lost causes | Harry Potter | Draco/Harry | 4,203 words | “Can’t you just, y’know,” he waves a hand and makes an obscene gesture, his cheeks flaring red. “Shag it out?”

wouldn’t you like to see something strange? | Teen Wolf | Sterek | 1,571 words | “I’d say you make my heart pound, but well…” Stiles nods meaningfully to his chest, where if you look hard enough between the slots of his ribs, you can see the lump of muscle that once was his heart, pointedly not beating. “You know.”

the night is softly, sweetly calling | Teen Wolf | Sterek | 2,938 words | Here’s the thing that Stiles never tells the Hales: his mother was strange too.

Haunt | Buzzfeed Unsolved | Ryan/Shane | 1,486 words |  Ryan couldn’t remember a time when the world didn’t believe in ghosts.

bite my tongue, bide my time | PJO | Nico/Percy(/Annabeth) | 1,376 words | “What’s wrong with you?” Nico asks, cowering when Percy places a gentle kiss on his collarbone.

Bird Song | Raven Cycle | Ronan/Adam, Gen | 1,445 words | On a dreary Sunday in early January, Ronan dreams himself a pair of wings.

kiss me hard until you’re done | Star Wars | Reylo | 3,082 words | He looks up at her from under heavy lids, dark hair sweeping forward to frame his face. “May I have this dance?”

beauty in the dissonance | Marvel | Tony/Loki | 1,411 words |  When Tony dies, it isn’t for forever.

like real people do | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 2,808 words |  “I’ve got the sight, man,” he says with a small shrug. “And look, I feel for you. You’re dead and I’m not, and that sucks, but unless you’re planning on doing something about it, I’d really appreciate it if you could stop feeling me up and let me get back to sleep.”

i’d rather drown in your ocean | Naruto | Itachi/Shisui | 1,630 words |  The Uchihas are an odd sort. Everyone says so.

catch your breath | The Bright Sessions | Mark/Damien/Sam | 2,588 words | Mark had never assumed in a million years that he would ever see Damien again. He hadn’t factored in zombies.

Nightmare | The Magnus Archives | Martin/Jonathan | 1,424 words | “All right,” he says, taking Jon’s still outstretched hand. “Let’s give the dream what it wants.”

dreaming of the crash | Gravity Falls | Mabel & Dipper | 484 words | When the end of the world comes, they’re under the bed.

don’t we love it now? | Kingdom Hearts | Sora/Riku/Kairi | 1,784 words |  When Kairi is eleven years old, she gets lost in the woods.

all this, and love too, will ruin us | Star Wars | Reylo | 1,102 words |  Rey is awake to watch the sunrise

open the walls, play with your dolls | Coraline | Coraline/Wybie | 2,886 words | Halloween at the Pink Palace is a lot like any other time of year.

in every golden trace | Queen’s Thief | Costis/Eugenides/Irene | 4,645 words |  For as long as Costis can remember, he’s had two names scored across the skin atop his ribs, one on either side of his rib cage, nearly perfect mirrors to one another.

a different kind of danger in the daylight | Shades of Magic | Lila/Kell/Holland | 6,930 words | Sleeping with Holland was never part of the plan. 

Best story I wrote this year: Probably the night is softly, sweetly calling. I wrote this for the 18th of October, and it’s the much awaited third part of a Teen Wolf/Addams Family fusion that I wrote back in 2014. A lot of people have asked me to continue this series over the years, but I never did because I felt my writing style had changed too much and then I fell out of the Teen Wolf fandom completely. But I’d written another Teen Wolf fic a few days before (more on this later) and I was just... very nostalgic all of a sudden. My style of writing had changed, but to offset the change of tone, I wrote the story from Stiles’s POV instead of Derek’s and it made all the difference. I was pretty pleased with the result, and hope that it made everyone happy.

What’s your favorite story this year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest. patron saint of the lost causes. There were a couple fics that I think I did a really good job writing this year, the one listed above and below included, but I think that this one was my favorite. Writing Drarry was a surreal experience, because even when I was in the Harry Potter fandom I didn’t really write for it (well, I didn’t publish what I’d written for it) and I was surprised by how easily it came to me. I tried to channel a lot of the feeling of men who had mothers when I was writing this one, because it seemed very right. 

Okay, NOW your most popular story. All right, so technically my stats are all messed up this year because when I posted the third part of the Addams/Teen Wolf fusion, I also posted a chapter to Que Sera, Sera since so many people were subscribed to that story. So. From a purely stats standpoint, Que Sera, Sera was the most popular because it has a total of 25,790 hits, 2973 kudos, and 115 comments. BUT, I did not actually write anything new for that one so-

in the woods somewhere was the first fic I’d written for Teen Wolf since I wrote  take me to church in August of 2017. It has over 900 kudos and some 5000+ hits. When I decided to do Dark Month this year, I knew that I wanted to revisit some of my old fandoms, so Teen Wolf was always going to be a given. I wrote take me to church as a cathartic goodbye to the show, the fandom, and of course, Stiles and Derek. It was my soft epilogue for the boys.

in the woods somewhere has a very similar feel to it. It’s post-canon, obviously, and features Stiles buying a house in Virginia and Derek slowly working his way back into his life. It is also very much in the ‘soft epilogue’ genre, leaning heavily into the magical Stiles Stilinski trope while maintaining the FBI agent direction canon was leading us in. Also it has a lot of comfort things for me - judicious descriptions of food, a packed witchy cabin in the woods, and warm shower kisses. Story of mine most underappreciated by the universe, in my opinion: Possibly either won't be too soon 'til I say... goodnight moon or all this, and love too, will ruin us. The first of these two fics is almost 5k of spooky season Riku/Sora that was strongly inspired by Uzumaki-sama’s old fic Goodnight Moon. It was the second day of October and my prompts for the day were moon cycles, nightmare, cage, lookalike, mirrors, and glowing eyes, which was just asking for fic exploring doppelgangers and old haunted houses. I loved writing it, and maybe I should have expected it since Kingdom Hearts is such a quiet fandom nowadays, but it honestly stung that it didn’t get more attention.

The second of those fics was a Reylo fic (yes, yes, I know, it’s an awful ship, etc. etc.) that was very much written to be slow and melancholy and kind of surreal. Sometimes my smallest fics are my favorite, and I really liked this one. But alas, some things were not meant to be.

Most fun story to write: I had a whole lot of fun writing summoning demons (and other bad first date ideas). A lot of the fics I wrote this year, particularly during October, were really fun and easy to write. I missed writing every day. This one in particular though was about 4k of Ryan accidentally summoning Shane (the demon) while Shane was standing right next to him in his human suit. It let me play with a lot of body horror tropes that I don’t explore usually, and Buzzfeed Unsolved is a very fun, fresh fandom to dig around in. This is the second of the three (I think it was three, at least) fics that I wrote for the fandom during October and I had so much fun with it.

Story that could have been better? I don’t know about better, but Sunlight and Bird Song were both supposed to be significantly longer. I wrote Sunlight shortly after watching Endgame, and it was always going to be me working my way through my issues with that movie (Loki not really coming back, weird wonky time travel, Thor leaving his people after his whole arc was him learning how to be a good king) but I got distracted and had to go somewhere that day and just never got back to it.

Bird Song is actually a fic I’ve been meaning to write for years. Ages ago (and we are truly talking ages ago, like September 2015 ages ago), @kaikamahine gave me a prompt for E, 17, and hymnal, which basically balanced out to Ronan, churches, and wings. So day 20 of October was going to be Raven Cycle (with such prompts as stacked deck, darkness, wings, and fight fire with fire, it was begging for it) and I was finally going to write Ronan wingfic. It was going to be great. There was going to be Calla and Ronan interaction and found family themes and there was going to be a church, because obviously, but then I wasn’t doing so well and ran out of time, SO. Definitely could have been better.

Story I wrote to fix things: beauty in the dissonance, the 24th fic of October, was a Tony/Loki flavored story where both Tony and Loki are, in fact, alive. Sunlight was written as a direct response to Endgame, even if it was never finished properly. make this chaos count was the 4th day of October, and written because I’m still not fucking over Ryan and Akmazian. And then knocking on heaven’s door was written just after viewing s3 of Stranger Things. It was uh, less of a fix it fic and more a wallow in your grief fic, but it still applies.

Oh, and a different kind of danger in the daylight was technically fix it fic? I’m generally okay with how Shades of Magic ended, despite my favorite character dying because it came off as a good death. However, the recipient of my Yuletide gift wanted no character death and I wanted to write something post-canon, so presto, fix it fic.

Longest completed fic this year: a different kind of danger in the daylight, followed by Cheers. Both are hovering between 6 and 7k, which isn’t technically long, but since about 90% of my fic this year was written over the course of a day each... I’ll take it.

Fandom you enjoyed writing for most this year: I had a lot of fun with Buzzfeed Unsolved and The Magnus Archives, but I also had fun dipping briefly back into Harry Potter and Teen Wolf.

Favorite character you wrote this year: I had way, way too much fun writing Geralt and Regis in eat you up whole. I have literally no idea if it translated into good fic, but it was fun and just shy of porny and I just really like Geralt. I also had a lot of fun writing Lila in the Shades of Magic fic.

Most memorable comment(s) this year: I got two comments from @kaikamahine about a week ago that honestly made my day. @faorism reread one of my older Stranger Things fics and left a comment, which made me reread it, which was just very good. Every single comment I got on the new Teen Wolf fics with some variation of ‘missed you’ or ‘so glad you’re back’ made me fucking melt. The two different comments where the reader wasn’t even familiar with the material, just read and enjoyed because I wrote it. The comment on one of my Stranger Things fics that just reads, “What the FUCK this SLAPPED.” The comment directly above that one that is from one of my favorite writers in the fandom. The several comments on the single PJO fic I wrote this year which were different variations of “oh my gosh it’s you” and “it’s been so long.”

And of course everyone losing their collective shit over some of the grosser October fics. Namely Itch.

Fics you wanted to write but didn’t: For the most part, the fics I wanted to write but didn’t are the same as last year- Sabriel AU, Enjolras/Grantaire fic, found family Dishonored fic, bodyswappying Reylo, Sterek Bioshock and Carmilla AUs which I am likely to post as is sometime next year. 

I still want to finish the Castlevania OT3 fic, the giant canon-divergent Bright Sessions AU where years after the series ends, Mark ends up running into Damien again in a small town in the middle of nowhere only to realize that he has a daughter, a farm, a life, and is just so drawn to it that he keeps coming back. I have the Wolf 359 post-canon fic where everyone has feelings and found family is a general theme and maybe Eiffel smooches an AI. I also have the smuttier Wolf 359 fic that’s been lurking in the back of my head for months where Eiffel and Kepler er, basically eiffel tower Jacobi.

Oh, and I have the Reylo fic where Rey (and Ben, through the bond) sit through General Organa’s funeral and keep coming back to each other afterwards. And that Final Fantasy 15 fic where Dino and Noctis do the nasty. And the Hera & Jacobi fic from October. And uh, the post episode 9 fic that’s been lurking about in my brain.

Oddest story: Probably i’d rather drown in your ocean? It was pretty spot on aesthetically for me, but it was weird to write Itachi and Shisui again, especially in a strange modern day vampire context? Also Itch and Nightmare were both Magnus Archive fics that were super gross (Itch) and just plain spooky and bizarre (Nightmare) but they were so fun to write. Hardest story to do: Cheers gave me some trouble initially but got a lot easier as I went on. I hit writer’s block pretty bad with the Shades of Magic fic too, but that seems to be what happens when I come up on deadlines. Easiest story to write? Most of October’s fics were a blast to write and super easy besides. Basically all of the Kingdom Hearts, Stranger Things, and Teen Wolf fic. And the Buzzfeed Unsolved.

Most mining of your own history in one story: Probably either  open the walls, play with your dolls or no more dreaming like a ghost. Not in any way that really matters, but there are a couple familiar details.

Themes, or absence thereof: Mostly either spooky scary things or fix it fics. Sometimes both.

Where did you publish/archive your stories? Ao3, as per usual. Story I haven’t yet written, but intend to: The only thing that I currently have planned is the post episode 9 fic and a couple things that I’ve had planned for a while that may or may not come out.

Sexiest moment (excerpt): “How many mouthfuls do you think I could take from you before it had some effect?” Regis whispers, lips against his throat. Geralt can feel the pinprick of fangs. “Four? Six? Ten? More, even?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Geralt murmurs, and Regis laughs.

“I would,” he agrees.

“So, why don’t you find out instead of boring me with all the details?”

Regis pulls away from his throat, far enough that Geralt can meet his eyes again. He swallows at what he finds there. Amusement, yes, but also hunger, brighter than the moonlight reflecting in his eyes.

“A taste, first, I think,” Regis says in a low, cool voice, and then closes the space between them.

Geralt had forgotten the blood on his lip, but he remembers it when Regis catches him in an open-mouthed kiss. It’s wet and bruising, and Geralt is responding before he remembers he shouldn’t, fighting back the only way he knows how with the rest of him indisposed. He claws at him, bites at him, and the vampire laughs when Geralt catches his plump lower lip between his teeth and bites down. Regis gives his mouth one last darting swipe of the tongue before he is pulling away.

There’s a flare of color high on Regis’s cheeks and his ears are distinctly more pointed than they were five minutes ago, the sclera of his eyes gone red.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been bitten by a human before,” Regis tells him, leaning close like he’s divulging a secret. “It’s a rather exhilarating experience.”

“I’m all for a repeat experience,” Geralt quips, eyes narrowed. “Lean in just a little and we can see if I can manage to tear off your lips before you rip out my throat.”

.

“Please,” she whispers, and feels herself quiver like a taut bowstring when he touches her mouth gently, with the very tips of his fingers.

He smiles and leads her away, through the demons and goblins and fae that she came here to kill.

They make it as far as the parking lot before he is hitching her up the side of a gleaming Mercedes, hooking her legs around his shoulders, and hiking her skirts up over her thighs so he can duck his head beneath them. His fingers linger for a moment on the silver of the knives strapped securely to her thigh, and then he is reaching in, guiding her underwear to the side and getting his mouth on her, right where she wants it.

She must make some kind of noise, because he chuckles, tongue circling her clit in a slow, languid way that makes her think that he is savoring her, that he likes the taste of her on his tongue.And he must, because she knows what he is. Knows that just as he’s savoring the taste of her, he is eating her, feeding off of her want like the things that she hunts in the dark feed off of blood and marrow and souls. She knows, but it isn’t enough to stop her from tilting her head back, gasping for him, the distant wink of streetlights and stars so far away.

He makes her come with his mouth on her, with his fingers inside her, and even as she’s shaking around him, she knows that it isn’t enough. She wants more, wants to feel the heavy press of him inside around, wants to kiss his lips and taste herself on his tongue.

“Please,” she says, her thighs shaking, and he laughs, pulling away and easing her down, until her legs are looped around his waist instead of her shoulders. He reaches between them, and she knows what’s happening beneath her skirts, knows that he’s getting his cock out of his pants and pressing it against her, can feel it as he sinks slowly into her, the tight fit of it so sweet, so perfect that it makes her ache.

“You’re lovely,” he whispers, kissing her shoulders and fucking into her slow, a teasing stretch that makes her mouth water, makes her twitch.

.

“Is this what you wanted?” Hank jeers, one finger circling the rim of Connor’s hole. There’s a flush of angry blue across his cheeks. His hair is coming loose from its usually immaculate tail, curling against his forehead. His eyes are blue. His LED is not. “To lay back and take it? From a fucking machine?”

Connor whines, back arching as Hank dips the tip of his thumb inside, just enough to hold him open.

“That is it, isn’t it?” Hanks says softly. There’s a touch of triumph to his gaze as he fucks Connor open on his thumb. Something mean, too. Disdain, slowly unfurling in the curve of his lips. He shakes his head. “All this time, coming to this bar. Talking to me like you thought I was some kind of human, and you just wanted something like me to hold you up and take you apart.”

“No,” Connor gasps, but can’t help the twist of his hips when Hank adds another finger.

“No?” Hank says with a laugh. “Look at you.”

Connor’s cock jerks against his belly as Hank drags his pants the rest of the way down his thighs. They make it as far as his knees before they tangle, stuck on his shoes. His cheeks feel hot, and he- god, he wants to protest. Wants to say that Hank’s got it all wrong, that this is more. That he’s more.

But then Hank is flipping him over, until the arm of the couch is digging firmly into his belly, his ass high in the air. Hank pulls his fingers out, then leans over and spits, the cool slippery slide of the saliva trailing down the curve of his ass.

“All right, Connor,” he says. “This what you want? I’ll give it to you.”

No, Connor should say. It isn’t like that.

Instead, he says, “Please.”

Crackiest moment (excerpt):

“Did you just sneak into my house?” Stiles breathes, absurdly charmed.

Derek’s in his human disguise, everything dangerous about him hidden away from view, lurking just under the surface. He gives Stiles a look, and says, “Don’t be weird about it.”

He shuts the door behind him.

“I’ve got a nice monster knocking on my door just before the witching hour,” Stiles tells him playfully, making room for Derek to take a seat next to him. “How am I not supposed to be weird about that?”

Derek does something akin to rolling his eyes, the flames doing a little shimmy around the circumference of his eye sockets. He leans back against Stiles’s headboard, seemingly unconcerned that their sides are pressed together. Derek’s skin is very warm, human warm, and Stiles is all bones. He sucks up the warmth greedily.

“I’d say you make my heart pound, but well…” Stiles nods meaningfully to his chest, where if you look hard enough between the slots of his ribs, you can see the lump of muscle that once was his heart, pointedly not beating. “You know.”

.

“What’s the local legend about this thing?” Shane asks, hopping up onto the throne easily and spreading out, eyes on the night sky. He looks good. He always looks good, but Ryan likes him best like this, out here with the moonlight shining down on them and the camera catching all his best angles.

As Ryan watches, he blinks, and turns to look at Ryan, puzzled. “Ryan?”

Ryan clears his throat. “The locals say that if you make a wish while sitting on her throne, the witch will grant it.”

Shane gives him a wicked smile and hums a few bars of Genie in a Bottle. Ryan chokes out a laugh, crossing the space between them until he’s leaning up against the side of the throne himself.

Shane closes his eyes. “I wish, I wish with all my might, please dear god, let there be ghosts here this night.”

Ryan holds his breath.

“C’mon, ghost,” Shane urges. “Make all my dreams come true. Fuck me up, fam.”

All around them, the world is still.

Shane cracks an eye open and squints at him. “Did it work?”

.

“Jon?” someone asks, and Jon blinks.

Martin is standing before him. He’s wearing something out of another time, a costume of silken breeches with a well-cut waistcoat of a rich, opalescent blue. There’s a puffy cravat hugging his neck, and polished buckled shoes on his feet. Jon almost expects him to be wearing a wig, but his hair is the one thing that’s been left untouched, hanging loose around his chin.

“Martin?” Jon asks.

Martin seems to take him in, his eyes running slowly down Jon’s body, lingering at his wrists, his waist, his thighs. It’s a bold sort of move, one that Martin would never be half so blatant about if he were awake.

“You, er. Look nice,” Martin says, and Jon glances down at himself.

He’s sure that moments ago he’d been wearing the same thing he’d worn to the office, shabby coat, mostly clean shirt, a pair of nondescript trousers that didn’t have any stains. But now, he finds himself in a dress. The gown is long and brilliantly red, the skirts heavy around his thighs. There are embroidered patterns reminiscent of roses along the bodice and down the front of his petticoat.

“Well, shit,” he mutters, still staring. Experimentally, he moves his hips, and finds that the skirts swish obligingly with the movement.

“Yes, well,” Martin murmurs, cheeks flushing horribly. “You always did look rather good in red.”

“In red-” Jon repeats in horror. “Martin, I’m in a gown.”

Favorite dialogue (excerpt):

“Are you ever going to stop looking for me?” Akmazian asks him one night.

Ryan is tired. Akmazian is a shadowed figure in the dark that he tries not to look at too closely, because if he does, Akmazian will be gone.

“Maybe,” Ryan tells him, and turns over onto his side. Away from the shadow, the ghost.

The bed dips under the weight of a person who isn’t really there, and Ryan can feel Akmazian’s breath on the back of his neck, warm and damp.

“Don’t touch me,” Ryan says, and means, I don't want this to end yet.

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, darlin',” Akmazian murmurs back, then drags his lips over the back of his neck anyway, just to be contrary. Ryan swallows, his throat dry, tongue thick in his mouth. He clenches his fingers in the sheets, eyes squeezed so tightly shut that his vision stains red behind his eyelids.

“Please,” Ryan says.

“You really should stop looking for me,” Akmazian tells him, fingers creeping across Ryan’s ribcage, mapping the architecture of his ribs.

“I know.”

“You’re never going to find me.”

Ryan laughs. “Never say never.”

There is silence behind him and then, “Ryan. Please. You’re hurting yourself.”

Ryan trembles a little when a hand lands on his hip, just this side of too solid.

“Don’t care.”

“You’re hurting the stars.”

Ryan is silent for a moment. Then, “I just miss you.”

A sigh.

“I know,” Akmazian murmurs, and leans over to place a kiss on Ryan’s forehead. “I miss you too.”

Ryan opens his eyes, turns to look, and like always, Akmazian is gone.

.

“Look,” Potter says, audibly slurring. “I’ve had an idea.”

Draco crosses his arms. “And what, pray tell, is this idea of yours, Potter?”

Potter leans forward, using a hand to prop himself up, until he’s well into Draco’s personal space. He smells like beer and whiskey, and his cheeks and jaw are more beard than stubble.

“Break your curse with me,” he breathes, a hand settling atop Draco’s blanket-clad knee.

Draco swallows. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

“No, look,” Potter says, leaning in even closer, eyes a bit wild. “We can just… you know.”

“No, Potter,” Draco tells him. “I don’t know.”

But he does. He really does.

“You know,” Potter says again. “Shag it out.”

“I think that you’re confusing things again,” Draco says tiredly. He sets the book on the nightstand next to him. “Remember the terms of the curse? Love, Potter. Not sex.”

Potter’s nose wrinkles. “But sex is part of love. Usually, anyway. It’ll work, I know it.”

“It won’t,” Draco insists, slapping Potter’s hand away when it begins to wander up his thigh. “Do you really think that I didn’t shag my wife before she left me? Because I did. We tried for years. Years, Potter. Trust me, if the curse were going to break because of a fuck, it would have happened well before now.”

Potter blinks at him, his eyes wide. There’s a ruddy flush on his cheeks, and Draco’s not sure if he likes it.

“We could at least try,” Potter says, almost gently. He doesn’t touch Draco again, but he looks like he wants to, hand trembling where it lays on the bedspread.

It feels like there’s glass in Draco’s throat. He is so, so tempted. Here is what he wanted - or at least part of it - Potter in his bed begging to fuck him, and he’s going to have to send him away.

“I think you should leave,” he tells him, and Potter’s mouth shuts with a click.

Favorite lines (excerpt):

“Relax,” he croons, stroking her fingers before he pulls away. “Your secret is safe with me. Most of this crowd knows that I’m not on speaking terms with that side of my family. They won’t suspect you because of me.”

Her face is flushed, either from rage or humiliation. Possibly both.

“So you-”

“Yes,” he says, fingers dropping to caress the fabric of her gown, swirling a thumb around the sweeping petals of an embroidered rose. His gaze is sly, a bit predatory when he glances back up at her. “I know what you have under this pretty skirt of yours.”

Rey’s breath catches, and she feels something- a slow trickle of heat seeping in to pool around her navel. She shifts, thighs sliding together, and hopes that he can’t smell her.

“Just as I know exactly what you’re doing right now,” she tells him in a hard whisper, jerking away from his grip on her elbow.

His eyes widen, affecting a look of innocence - a ‘who me?’ - that isn’t quite as effective when his lips are also curling up into a slow, pleased smirk.

“And what exactly am I doing?” he asks, his eyes laughing at her.

She glares at him. That seems to be enough of a reply, because he chuckles before taking possession of her arm again and pulling her smoothly towards the dance floor. Once they’ve reached the edge of it, he stops, dropping her elbow in favor of dipping into a low, courtly bow.

He looks up at her from under heavy lids, his hair sweeping forward to frame his face. “May I have this dance?”

The dance floor is crowded, full to the brim of masked people sweeping by in jewel-bright dresses and dark suits. She knows not to - knows that this place is a lot like fae courts of old. You don’t eat the food, you don’t drink the wine, and you definitely don’t dance.

But she’s already drank the wine, so she might as well dance.

.

The ship wrecks several hundred miles off of the coast of Karnaca. The storm that ends them is a rare sort, fiercer than most, a huge bank of dark clouds that seems to come from the void itself, blooming on the horizon like a warning. The lightning cracks the world asunder, thunder deafening, but it's the wind and waves that will always be a ship’s downfall.

Corvo watched the wave approach, saw its frothing white caps and the way it had stretched, higher and higher, until it loomed over the ship.

They never had a chance, and by the time the wave came crashing down, Corvo was already holding his breath.

Much of what he remembers after are mere snippets: the gulping suck of the water around him, broken pieces of the ship spinning by along with those of the crew who were unlucky enough to be caught by the ship’s pull, sucked down into the void, devoured by the whale god himself. He remembers his first gasp of air once he’d surfaced, the tang of brine and salt heavy on his tongue as wave after wave battered his body.

He doesn’t think that most of the crew survived the first few minutes much less the whole night, and he is certainly alone when the sun blossoms on the horizon hours later, clinging to a piece of ship the size of his torso and kicking relentlessly towards the dawn.

Corvo grew up on the coast, his hair stiff with salt from the ocean breeze. He grew up in and out of the water, hauling cargo or gutting fish on the docks. He’s familiar with the ocean - how the pull of the tides work, which days its best to avoid the dock, how to escape the sea’s wrath when a riptide or an undercurrent tries its damndest to drown you.

So he knows that his chances of making it to land are slim. But Corvo has always been stubborn, his legs have always been strong, and his story is far from finished.

.

Stiles buys a house in Virginia. It’s a modest thing close to Quantico, but not too close, tucked away into the heart of the wooded Appalachians. The bones of the house is all stonework and sturdy dark wood, a rickety wraparound porch bracketing the house on all sides. The first thing that he’d bought for it were two overpriced rocking chairs he’d gotten from the nearest Cracker Barrel.

Over the course of a year, he fills the house with things. A soft, dark gray sofa. Several solid end tables. A pair of emerald lamps he gets from an antique shop. A moss-green throw that is warm as a hug when it’s wrapped around his shoulders in the dead of winter. His living room is a bit too mountain man chic, but he likes the way that it looks when he’s coming home from a long day at the academy, warm and inviting.

He gets his bed set from a woodworker a couple dozen miles down the road, a man with a gruff bristled gray face and a warm smile, who trades Stiles the custom set for some warding and a couple bottles of what he calls, ‘miracle elixir.’ The set is sturdy mahogany, a pair of wolves carved across the top of the curving headboard, runes filling the gaps between them. The chest of drawers and dresser are just as solid, and Stiles has to hire movers to help him get everything back to the house.

The bulky rednecks decked out in worn flannel that help him with it carefully avoid looking at the runes of the headboard, their eyes skittering away from the carvings like frightened rabbits. They exchange apprehensive looks when they see the herbs drying over the sink in his kitchen, but to their credit, stay quiet and hightail it out of the place when he pays them. Here in the Appalachian backwoods, no one talks about magic, but everyone knows it exists.

Stiles has people over every once in a while - flies his dad and Scott in from California, has Lydia drive down from Boston, or Kira from North Carolina - but mostly, he’s alone. It’s a strange thing to get used to, the silence of the nights out here, where the night sky is bright and clear enough to see the stars above him, not a hint of light pollution to be seen, and the trees rustling in a quiet wind is almost louder than the hoots and hollers of the local wildlife.

He’d thought it would be lonely, and to be fair, sometimes it is.

Some nights he comes home and collapses back onto his sofa, and would do anything to be right down the road from Scott and Melissa and his dad again. He has days where he craves Melissa’s pozole or his dad’s meatloaf so badly that he can taste the heat of it on his tongue.

But mostly, the quiet is nice.

He cooks himself soups that simmer in the slow cooker while he’s at the academy and roasts that he makes on the weekends. He experiments with food the way he never used to back in Beacon Hills, where he had his dad’s heart to worry about if he made anything, and fast food which was easier to grab when he didn’t. He takes a world tour through his kitchen - homemade pierogi, hearty paella, steaming pirozhki, spicy-smelling curries, and hand rolled sushi. The first time that he makes his own bread in the ancient oven that came with the house, the smell of it coming fresh out of the oven is so good that he nearly cries.

It’s three winters into living there before he hears a scratching at his door in the middle of the night, and when he goes to investigate, finds a large black wolf on his doorstep.

It’s favoring one of its paws, dark fur matted on one side of its head where he can dimly make out a sluggishly bleeding gash. It blinks at him, eyes glowing a bright, familiar blue, and Stiles spends a minute watching it before he smiles and steps aside.

Fic goals: Hey Heather, it was only 800 words, but you did technically write something original. Now, let’s do something original that’s a little longer. And while we’re at it, let’s do something novel length. 

[mysteryinc-hq]

Halloween, October 31st !!

A week lies between the night Coolsville’s most beloved went missing, and the evening of Halloween. A curfew has since been placed for all those under the age of 21 to be in their houses before 8pm, leaving desolate streets and and abandoned bus stops. Rumours pass by residents lips and imaginations thrive on the questions on everyone’s minds- what happened to Reese Milage-Davidson?

Animal bones and decaying birds have been seemingly found in front lawns through the week it’s been implemented, blamed on feral cats or bored teens. Through out the week however, teens and young adults have been waking to ominous findings by their bedsides and on their study desks, twig pentagrams tied by corn husks. A sealed letter rests beneath them- few words written in fine red pen on the parchment inside.

“ October 31st. 9pm. Corn fields on the left of the highway. Hide your identity. ”

There are few unfortunate souls however found much more. A blonde doll’s head smeared in blood, scrunchies tied in her hair, and stickers lining her plastic body. She holds a note out to the unlucky few - Benny Till, Tessa Hwang, Asher Murdock and  Max Goddard. Inside is their own time, and a map of a specific spot within the corn field. 8:30pm.

While most residents arrive to the fields to find glitter smothered stalks, wading through a maze of harvest crops only to find themselves following the sounds of loud music radiating through the autumn night. Some too terrified to venture through, shrilling with their girlfriends and clinging to the corners of their masks. But those brave few who made it through are met with the sight of kegs gathering teens adorned in costumes. Ominous invitings all leading them to nothing more than a party in a field. Many are quick to text their friends and encourage them to sneak out for the night and the word gets around quickly.

As for the others they arrive early to their clearing, finding those listed who listened to their own invitations. They find scrunchies tied around stalks, and stickers lining their path. A raven fresh with blood lies dead with its insides open, a pink journal covered in doodles lies in front of it- spattered with blood itself. Reese Milage-Davidson written inside the first page of the journal, in the girl’s favourite glittered gel pens. Another sealed envelope is found there- inside is another letter they find before they’re promptly invited to the party on the other side of the field by the rebelling youth of Coolsville.

“Four of you stand where one stood before, one of you must choose, you can not ignore. One must take the book of the damned, I hear it might be useful to keep on hand.”

ooc information below the line

all event posts are to be tagged with mysteryevent001

This event will be starting on Tuesday the 29th of Oct and threads may continue until Tuesday 12th of Nov. In game however the threads will all take place over the night of Thursday the 31st of Oct.

While it’s not mandatory for all muses to participate, word spread quick amongst the youth that it was nothing more than well planned party and perhaps the best one Coolsville has seen.

Those with older muses are also not exempt from attending the party, there is no actual age limit and it’s likely word spread further than just the youth. They were just the targeted invitations.

Costumes are encouraged.

With the resent unsettling disappearance, there is idle talk around the party of ulterior motives to gathering everyone in hidden stalks and a maze to safety. But surely they’re just paranoid right?

As for those who received specialised notes-

Your muse is allowed to decide not to visit the location- please message the main if that’s the case and we will discuss the consequences.

Those who did decide to show found what was listed above- yous may partake in a multi way thread or your own. If discord rp for these few is preferred we will discuss such, however plotting prior regardless is highly recommended.

The suggestion is that one of those who showed must take the diary of Reese Milage-Davidson.

These muses are welcome to attend the party afterwards if they desire to.

[eisforeidolon]

Episode: Don’t Go Into the Woods

Can all supernatural things potentially make the lights flicker?  I know demons and ghosts do, but has this been a thing for more straight up physical monster-monsters before?  I honestly can't remember.

I hate to be complaining about the Winchesters actually working a case just by themselves?  Especially with as rare of a thing as that’s become?  But let's be honest, I wouldn’t trust Jack with a mission as perilous as shopping.  He might kill somebody or destroy the world. Dabb & Co. have pointedly made him incapable of learning or understanding anything, so he's less a realistic character and more a dangerously idiotic plot bomb perpetually set to go off at random intervals. 

Who the Winchesters are now going to leave entirely unsupervised while Cas also just happens to be elsewhere.  Well, isn't that suspiciously convenient?  

Right now when he's just got his canon-breaking powers back and may not have a soul?  NOW is the time to leave him alone?  

O-kay, crippling brain damage for everybody is again necessary for this episode's events to happen, I see.

The only thing more frustrating than Jack being a perpetual shifting blob of whatever the plot calls for?  Is further manifestation of Dabb's desperation to write for a teen audience via the dumbass teenybopper trio returning.  Knew it was coming, still did not brace me for hating having to sit through it this much.  

I'm a little puzzled about they guy one being able to watch Ghostfacer videos.  I kind of doubt any teenager would notice the videos if they weren't being currently produced, and the Ghostfacers broke up last we saw them.  Did they somehow get back together after that episode with the lulzy anvilicious supposed parallels?  If they didn't and this kid is just trawling the Internet for videos that are at least five years old at this point, wouldn't whichever Ghostfacer it was who had gone off to run a business or whatever have had this shit scrubbed off the internet to avoid being made fun of by his colleagues?  Seriously, I am way way more interested in this probable continuity fail potential mystery than in anything about the teens themselves.

I don't have a lot to say about the case Sam and Dean were working. Again, it was fine.  New monster, okay.  I mean, it does seem like maybe a questionable choice to go for something that's similar to a monster the show has already highlighted (wendigo)?  But really, a lot of folklore monsters are variations across slightly different legends, so it's probably stranger we haven't had more similar monsters over the years.  It did at least look quite different and I thought it was cool how it melted. 

Local townie sheriff in denial and really obtusely insistent about coyotes snatching people out of bathrooms? Eh, I can go with that, I guess.  Though, what, was he planning on spending the next who knows how long of his life futilely trying to keep people out of the local woods for reasons he was going to just refuse to specify to anyone?  And he even kept going on about coyotes while his son was so blatantly campaigning to win the Most Likely to Wander Into the Woods for Revenge Award?  Kind of dumb, but I don't think it was too far over the threshold of unbelievably dumb. Yeah, it was all more than a little on the nose obvious about the sheriff knowing something such that the Winchesters were going to ultimately need his help.  Still, there was at least some Winchesters working together and Dean got a cool moment disarming the sheriff in the woods.  Though I'm not any less sick of yet again the rando of the week killing the monster while the Winchesters get knocked about, I'm kind of resigned to it at this point.  Dabb clearly finds believably competent characters actually getting to be competent unspeakably boring. 

So yeah, that part of the episode was mostly just there for me.  I was inordinately bugged by how during one of those conversations between sheriff guy and his son the show chose to toss in an egregious flashback to the dead girlfriend.  Like, do they think we as the audience have so little attention span we can't remember the kid is upset his girlfriend just died a few minutes ago in this same episode?  Or do they trust their actors so little to convey emotion they felt it was necessary to go DEAD GIRL IN YOUR FACE AGAIN, BOOM! at the audience?  There was that and the sheriff lecturing Sam & Dean about how they should just tell people monsters or real or put it on youtube – because that doesn't sound crazy and people can't make fake videos?  I feel like that was less a genuine moment and more like the something the writers stuck in because it's one of the complaints that's been circling the fandom for years.  Maybe I'm just cynical or the scene didn't come off too well, but I was less sympathizing with something that's actually a pretty reasonable response for someone blindsided by monsters being real and more rolling my eyes at his whining.  

Here's a poll, which is more stupid?  The cringe-y cluelessness of shoehorning in a dead horse of a fanfic cliché like, “We have movie nights on Tuesdays!”  Or that the writers continue to think annoying teenybopper canon fodder calling Dean old is cool/funny.  I can't decide!

Also, what are the writers wanting us to think about whether or not Jack has a soul?  Because I am having some trouble here believing that he doesn't have any soul left when this episode turns into him angsting about accidentally almost killing Whatsherface #2 and getting rejected by the teen trio even after “fixing” his “mistake”. I mean, if the writers are intending us to know but not for Cas and the Winchesters to, that's fine, but if this is meant to be a mystery I feel like it's a fail in terms of how they're writing potential soullessness because while I don't care all that much, I don't feel any doubt that he does.  Even if I am annoyed at the groundhog day feeling of this incident after we already sang this song over the security guard incident. 

I'm also not terribly impressed about the Winchesters arguing in the car over Dean's lying to Jack about needing someone to stay in the bunker.  If Sam really felt that strongly about it, why did he just agree?  Even if it was some bullshit don’t argue in front of the “kid” thing, he could have tacked on an addendum about being worried about Jack’s powers without contradicting what Dean said.  Oh, right, for the dramaz.  In the same way that the show careens wildly back and forth between treating Jack as a competent adult and a toddler with some kind of memory retention disorder, the way the Winchesters handle him makes just as much sense.  Speaking of lying, is it really that much better to tell a white lie about being worried about Jack being “comfortable” with his powers instead of finding a polite but honest way to say they suspect he'll accidentally kill people because he has no brains consistent control and an issue with overconfidence? 

I think there were some Dean fans that thought the thrust of that end conversation was to blame Jack almost killing some fools on Dean - but whether or not there were any intentional shades of that, it's too stupid for words.  Jack being badly written is Jack's problem, not any other character's prevarications.  If Jack didn’t learn back with the security guard, the idea any talkity-talking over reckless use of his powers at the beginning of this episode would have prevented what happened is ludicrous.  That’s only confirmed by spoilers I know about the rest of this season making it clear that even accidentally almost killing somebody outright here doesn’t teach him anything.  Because again, he’s written as largely incapable of learning.  Which, I guess there’s a weird pacifier-toting squad of infantilization-loving fans who are into that shit, but for my part?  Ew, no thanks.  I prefer characters with more personality than “helpless ball of woobified stupidity”.  I liked Jack well enough to begin with, but the more central they make him to the story, the more obviously deficient he is as a consistent and three dimensional character.

[lastbluetardis]

Chemical Potential (10/11)

Summary: Slightly homesick and stressed about her abysmal chemistry grade, Rose Tyler meets quirky James Smith, the boy who sits in front of her in their chemistry class. They become fast friends as James makes it his personal mission to help Rose get through the semester.

Ten x Rose University AU

This chapter: ~5100 words, teen

Notes: This was written for the lovely @thegreenfairy13 as part of the @dwsecretsanta gift exchange. Also tagging @doctorroseprompts.

The chapter we’ve all been waiting for! Just the epilogue left after this, folks.

AO3 | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | epilogue

“You’re so brilliant!”

Rose was still in shock even as James swept her into a crushing hug in the middle of the lecture hall. He’d pinned her arms to her sides, so she couldn’t really reciprocate the embrace. But even if she could, her brain was too wrapped up in the memory of the little red 89%—Great improvement! Well done! that was scribbled at the top of her exam.

“I’m so proud of you,” he crowed into her ear, a little too loudly but she didn’t mind.

Still not completely convinced she wasn’t dreaming, Rose pulled back from his embrace to glance at her exam again. The same 89% was staring back at her.

“How…?”

“Because you’re brilliant,” James said with a decisive nod. “You, Rose Tyler, are a genius.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, even as a grin stole across her face. “But I am pretty good.”

James rolled his eyes at her and held out his hand for hers.

“This is cause for a celebration. Let me buy you breakfast?”

Rose followed James to the dining hall. When they were settled in one of the few empty tables, James pulled out his iPad and tapped at the screen for a few minutes before his face lit up.

“With this newest exam score, you now only need a fifty-nine percent on your final exam to get a passing grade in the class.”

Fifty-nine percent. That was doable, she hoped.

“What’s your exam schedule like?” Rose asked. “I’ve asked my boss to have off until my finals were over, and she graciously agreed. Hopefully that’ll make it easier for us to find days to meet up, but I don’t want to take away from the time you need to study for your other classes.”

“Chem is my first final,” James replied.

“Mine too,” Rose said.

“The exam is Tuesday morning, so let’s meet up both days this weekend? And then we can use Monday to take practice exams.”

Rose blinked. “How do you have practice exams?”

“Remember, Professor Young said the final is standardized. That means it’s a national exam that the ACS—the American Chemical Society—puts out for colleges and universities across the country. It’s done this for decades, so there are loads of past exams and practice exams on the internet.”

“Oh. That’s helpful.”

“Indeed. Almost every science class uses an ACS exam as their final,” James said. “Hopefully this will help you get the feel for how the exam will go. It’s all multiple-choice, and designed to fit within two hours, so the problems aren’t all that complicated.”

“Maybe for you, they’re not,” she muttered.

His eyes widened when he realized how that came out.

“No, no,” he said hastily. “I merely meant that they problems are designed to take a couple mathematical calculations, is all.”

Rose nodded and continued tucking into her omelet.

oOoOo

During the last week of classes, James and Rose didn’t see much of each other. Rose had a final project in lieu of a final exam in two of her classes, and she was swamped with work as she frantically finished everything that was due on the last day of classes.

But finally, she turned in a painting project and final report, leaving her free to meet up with James to study for their chemistry exam.

Finding a place to study was trickier than normal, as the entire student population was on the hunt for a quiet, secluded room. James, however, knew that the science buildings were fairly empty during exam week, and so they took over a small room tucked away in the basement of the physics building.

“I’ve brought snacks,” James proudly proclaimed when he and Rose met up on Saturday morning to begin their first study session.

To call it ‘snacks’ was an understatement; he’d brought a huge tote bag filled with not only pretzels, crisps, trail mix, and granola bars, but microwaveable meals so that they wouldn’t need to abandon the room for a lunch break. He’d also brought a cooler filled with drinks, as well as his electric kettle and all the makings for tea and instant coffee.

“You’re such a mother hen,” Rose teased, even though she was grateful for all of the food he’d brought.

He stuck his tongue out at her and said, “If you’re gonna be rude to me, I’m not gonna share my food.”

She rolled her eyes. “My humblest apologies. I am forever in your debt and am grateful for the bounteous meal you have scavenged for us. I grovel at your feet and beg your mercy and pray that you share your wealth of sustenance.”

James broke out into peals of giggles that had Rose laughing too. She loved the way her chest warmed at the sight and sound of his happiness.

“I suppose you’re forgiven,” he said after a minute.

“Brilliant!” Rose immediately reached for a tea bag and began to make them both a cuppa.

They saw very little of the outside world for the next couple of days. Rose had never worked so hard at anything in her life, and by the time Tuesday morning rolled around, she was utterly exhausted but determined to get that fifty-nine percent she needed. She refused to let one stupid class get in the way of the rest of her time at uni, or between her and James.

Their friendship was the most important thing to her, and they were right on the cusp of becoming something more. Ever since Thanksgiving, they’d both been aware of the electricity between them, but, true to his promise, James kept their friendship strictly platonic.

But Rose was impatient to get finals out of the way and hopefully go on a date with James. If he still wanted to.

They sat in their usual seats in the lecture hall as they waited for their professor to arrive with their exams. All around them, students were frantically cramming and flipping hastily through their notes in a last-minute study session.

“How are you feeling?” James asked as he twirled his pencil end over end across the table top.

“Okay,” she replied. “I just want this to be over. I never should’ve taken this class in the first place, but this nightmare is almost done.”

James nodded silently but didn’t say anything else. He instead faced the front of the room. Before Rose could ask what was wrong, their professor stepped into the lecture hall and began speaking, telling them to put everything away except for a pencil and calculator.

Minutes later, the exam booklet was passed out, and Rose began filling in her student information. When she was finished with that, she waited impatiently for the professor to tell them they could start.

She watched James out of the corner of her eye. He was on his phone, copying down his student ID number. A moment later, he tucked his phone into the front pocket of his jeans and continued playing with his pencil.

Rose reached over and rested her hand on his thigh. He let out a muffled squeak and flinched.

“Good luck, James,” she whispered, giving his leg a squeeze. “Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me this term. No matter what happens with this exam, meeting you was the best thing to come from this class.”

His face softened and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“For me, too,” he replied, and he reached down and covered her fingers right as the professor told them to begin.

The exam passed in a blur of words and numbers and bubbling in her answer sheet. She was so focused on taking her test that by the time the professor told them time was up and to turn in their exams, she realized James had already left. With a slight headache building behind her eyes, Rose turned in her exam and walked out into the lobby, where she assumed James would be waiting for her.

He was, and when he saw her, he beamed and held out his hand for hers.

Despite the fact that their chemistry exam was over, she and James continued to meet up for the rest of the week to study for the rest of their classes. While they didn’t speak very much, Rose was glad to have his quiet company as she prepared as best she could for her other exams.

The week passed relatively quickly and uneventfully. James’s last exam had been Thursday evening, while Rose’s wasn’t until Saturday. Because there would be nothing for him to do and he would undoubtedly get bored watching her pour over her books, Rose stayed home all of Friday to prepare for her Shakespeare final the following morning.

A few minutes before eight o’clock, Rose stumbled groggily into the classroom along with the rest of her classmates. She wasn’t at all nervous for this exam; it was the class she was doing the best in and one she genuinely liked.

But that didn’t mean she enjoyed taking the test. It was all essay-writing, and Rose’s hand was sore by the time she turned in her test booklet. She flexed it and her shoulders as she walked out of the room, taking care to not let the door slam behind her. She’d made it a step into the hallway when a tall, lean body invaded her personal space.

Before she could reel backward, the familiar scent of soap and laundry detergent pervaded her senses.

“You’re done!” James crowed loudly. He then winced, realizing there were still people trying to take an exam. His voice was much more muted when he said, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks!”

She skipped up to him and wrapped her arms around one of his, hugging it to her chest.

“So. Are you hungry?” James asked.

“Starved,” she said. She hadn’t had time to eat breakfast that morning.

“The university is serving free breakfast until noon to anyone still here. Want to go take advantage?”

“Absolutely!”

Arm in arm, they made their way across campus to the dining hall. It was utterly dead inside; there were two other students milling around the food court and three more sitting at their own tables.

James and Rose each grabbed a tray and loaded it with food. Waffles, eggs, potatoes, sausages, fried tomatoes, flaky croissants. Rose wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to eat everything, but it all smelled incredible, and her stomach was growling nonstop.

Rose found James at the coffee station, filling up his travel thermos. She opted for tea instead. When they were each satisfied with their platters of food, they walked past the cashier with a friendly smile.

“Got any more finals to take?” she asked.

“Nope,” James said, as Rose answered, “Just finished my last one.”

“Congrats to you both. Enjoy the break.”

Rose followed James to a table by the back wall of windows very near to the table they’d sat at the first time James had treated her to breakfast earlier in the semester.

For a few minutes, silence enveloped them as they wolfed down their breakfast. It was all delicious and sated Rose’s hunger quickly.

But even as they both slowed down their eating, James still wasn’t saying much. Instead, he was fidgeting with his thermos, flipping the lid on and off repeatedly.

“You all right?” Rose asked.

“Fine,” he said a little too quickly. He stopped playing with the lid, as though realizing what he was doing. “Have you been on the grade book portal yet?”

“I took a final at eight,” Rose reminded him. “Why?”

“Well…” James’s eyes darted back to the table as he murmured, “The chem final is up.”

Rose’s ears rang and she thought she might throw up everything she just ate.

“Oh,” she whispered faintly.

“Do you want to check it?” he asked quietly.

“I dunno…” Rose kneaded the heel of her hand into her forehead. Did she want to know how she did, or did she want to live in blissful ignorance until her final transcript was released? But surely she’d achieved at least the fifty-nine she needed, hadn’t she? “Can you look and tell me how I did?”

“I could,” he said. “As long as you don’t mind me seeing the rest of your grades.”

Rose snorted. “You literally have a spreadsheet of all of my grades.”

He stuck his tongue out at her. She took her phone out of her pocket and tapped through it to get to her online student portal. She entered her login information and handed the phone to James.

Her heart thudded against her ribs as she watched James flick his finger up the screen. Rose folded her arms on the table and rested her forehead on them.

What was she going to do if she hadn’t gotten a high enough grade? What was she going to do if they revoked her scholarship? Could she plead her case to the university? Tell them she’d made a horrible mistake in trying to take chemistry and that they should put her on probation until she could prove she could keep her grades up?

“Rose!” James’s excited voice was in her ear and his hands were roughly shaking her. “Rose, look! Look! You did it! Look!”

Rose lifted her head cautiously, not quite believing what he was saying. He thrust the phone under her nose, and she blinked rapidly to try and focus on the blur of black letters on the screen.

Final Exam: 72%.

“You did it!”

Rose’s jaw slackened and she grabbed her phone from him.

“Impossible,” she muttered, and she refreshed the page—twice, for good measure. But the little 72% was still there.

“That’s thirteen whole points above what you needed!” he exclaimed, grinning like a loon at her.

He jumped to his feet, then grabbed her biceps and tugged, urging her to stand too. She followed, feeling weak to her knees, but that didn’t matter, because soon she was enveloped in his arms. His comforting scent filled her lungs and she buried her face into his shoulder as he held her fiercely.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, squeezing her. “So proud.”

“I passed,” she rasped, shaking slightly. All that hard work had finally, finally paid off.

“Yes you did! You’re brilliant, you are!”

Rose pulled back to look up into his face. It was bright with joy, and her stomach did a little somersault. She would never have been able to do any of this on her own. And through some sheer luck and James’s unending patience, kindness, and intelligence, she met all of the requirements to keep her scholarship. She could stay at the university.

She didn’t have to leave James, her best friend. She’d never met anyone like him, and nobody had ever made her feel as good about herself as he did. She felt like she was the very best version of herself whenever he was around, and she loved him more than she’d ever loved anyone.

Standing there, with his hands resting at the small of her back, his eyes bright, his mouth curved in a smile, and their bodies invading each other’s space, Rose’s control snapped. Between her promise to herself—that if she passed, she would try to make something with James work—and her almost certainty that James was interested in a relationship with her, it was inevitable.

Their hips were pressed flush together as their arms remained around each other’s waists. As though realizing how intimately they were standing, James’s face flamed red and he pulled his hips back a fraction of an inch. But his eyes were dark as they darted from her lips, to her eyes, then back again.

“Rose…” he croaked.

His voice was breathy and made a thrill of heat shoot from her heart into her belly. He licked his lips, making them shine invitingly. Rose sucked in a trembling breath and, with her heart beating through her entire body, she rocked up onto her tiptoes, settled one of her hands around the nape of his neck, and pressed her lips to his.

He let out a muffled sigh as his muscles relaxed and he melted into her arms. He clutched at the fabric of her jumper, pulling her impossibly closer as he angled his head to the side to deepen the kiss.

Of all the times she’d imagined this—and she’d imagined it embarrassingly frequently—none of it came close to the real thing. His lips were soft, warm, and full against hers, moving in time with her as though they were already familiar with kissing each other.

Their lips danced together, tugging and releasing, chasing and yielding. Nothing had ever felt this good, and Rose never wanted it to stop. Heat sparked down her spine as he let out a helpless whimper when her tongue tentatively probed his bottom lip. She echoed the sound when his fingers tangled into her hair, massaging her scalp as he held her tenderly, reverently.

Oh, God, how am I ever going to stop?

She felt like laughing and sobbing all at once, because this was the most perfect moment in her entire life. The weight of the world flew off her shoulders and it seemed as though it would never settle on her again. Being in his arms was the only place she ever wanted to be and she prayed he felt the same way.

She caressed her hand up his jaw, gliding along the smooth skin before landing in his hair. It was even softer than it looked. She grabbed a handful of it, her nails scraping across his scalp, and he let out a wrenching groan as his entire body shuddered in her arms. Her core ached and throbbed with desire.

Oh, God.

Half a second before she was going to hitch her leg obscenely around his hip, James broke their kiss that was actually probably more of a snog now. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath; little black dots were swirling in her vision, and she wanted nothing more than to wrap him into a tight hug. And possibly another kiss.

He was deliciously rumpled. His hair was sticking out at all angles and a happy, dazed glint had entered his eyes.

Rose licked her swollen lips and breathed, “All right?”

He nodded quickly, and he reached out to cup her cheek in his palm. His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, and she had to restrain herself not to suck the pad of his thumb into her mouth. Instead, she settled for pressing a quick kiss to it before he dropped his hand to his side.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah. I just… I wanted… did you… did you want to do that?”

Rose furrowed her brow as her heart sank a little. “What d’you mean?”

His cheeks were bright red and his eyes darted across her face, then to her lips, then to a far-off point behind her shoulder. They traversed this path several times. He looked terrified and helpless, and something in her chest cracked at the sight.

She reached out and took his hand, hoping to offer him some bit of comfort until he could tell her what he was thinking.

“It’s just… did you want to kiss me like that? Or were you just happy about your grade?”

Rose frowned at him. Did he seriously not know? He had to know. He had to realize she’d been wanting to kiss him for weeks. That she was irrevocably in love with him. That she wanted to spend the rest of her life kissing him and being with him.

“Both,” she said firmly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m overjoyed I passed the class, but I also wanted to kiss you. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now.”

His face morphed into an expression of utter delight, and she debated her next words for many long seconds. She was tempted to leave it at that, then return to kissing him in the middle of the dining hall, but she swallowed her nerves and said, “You’re my best friend, James. And I know we’ve only known each other for a few months, but I… I’ve fallen in love with you.”

His jaw slackened in surprise and his hand went limp in hers. Her cheeks burned, but she forced himself to keep his stare as she tried to parse through the emotions flitting on his face while trying not to vomit with nerves.

“You… you love me?” he squeaked.

She nodded, and his face slowly bloomed into the widest, most beautiful smile she’d ever seen on his face. The sight of it sent her blood thrumming as hope swelled though her.

“Oh, Rose. I…I…” He reached forward and cupped her cheeks in his palms. His thumb idly stroked her cheeks as he tilted his head down until his forehead was flush with hers. His breath puffed against her lips, and the closeness of him made her eyes flutter shut. “I… I’ve fallen in love with you, too.”

He shifted and hugged her closer, burying his face into her shoulder. Her heart raced at his words, aching with love for him as she held him just as tightly.

“I’d thought maybe you fancied me,” he whispered into her ear. “But I hadn’t been sure if you were just a really affection person who hugged and held hands with her friends all the time. And I’ve tried asking you out on dates, but I would either chicken out or you would stop me. I barely dared to believe… to hope…”

“Believe it, mister,” she teased, taking one of her arms from around his waist to poke his belly. He squirmed and giggled, then pulled back to look at her. His fringe had fallen onto his forehead, and she reached up to brush it back. “I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way, either. Then I worried that if I said something and you didn’t like me like that, it would make studying awkward and uncomfortable. So I’d decided to wait ‘til the end of term, just in case you weren’t attracted to me, I could run away and avoid you for the rest of my time here.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And then I was terrified I wouldn’t pass chemistry. I didn’t want to fall in love with you only to have to move back to London a month later. It would break my heart.”

His face softened, and he leaned down to brush a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you,” he murmured. “So much. I don’t care if we’ve only known each other for three months. You’re my best mate, and I always want you to be my best mate. Even if you’d had to move home again, I wouldn’t have let you go without a fight. Or at least without making sure we would stay in contact.”

“Sap,” she teased, but she couldn’t help the grin that split her face.

He blew a raspberry at her, but then his face went solemn.

“I, er, I should probably tell you. I haven’t really, er, done this before,” he said in a rush, his face flushed pink.

After her initial confusion faded, a lump settled in her stomach. “Was that your first kiss?”

She was mortified. If she’d known that, she would’ve made it gentler, sweeter. The kind of first kiss he deserved to have. And she would’ve asked if it was okay that she kissed him, rather than yanking his face into hers. But for his first time kissing, he was sure good at it…

“No, no, ‘course not,” he said quickly. “I’ve had a few girlfriends, and we’ve kissed. But… but that’s it. None of them were ever serious enough that I wanted to do anything more with. Y’know… anything physical. Never been in love like this before.”

His cheeks had somehow turned redder and he looked uncomfortable and vulnerable.

“I… I’m not really sure how this works,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “Because I want everything with you, Rose. Everything. But I don’t want to muck anything up.”

“It works however we want it to work,” she said simply. “I want to do everything with you, too, but I only if you want it and are ready for it. We can go as slow or fast as we’re both comfortable with.”

His shoulders straightened a bit. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “That’s what it means to be in a relationship. We’re in this together, James. Together.”

He smiled, his body relaxing. “I like the sound of together.”

She beamed. “Me too.”

“So… d’you think maybe we could get back to the kissing thing?” He towered over her and leaned down far enough that the tip of his nose brushed hers.

“It was rather marvelous, wasn’t it?”

“The best kiss I’ve ever had,” James said honestly.

“Me too,” Rose admitted.

James’s eyes widened, but he looked pleased and slightly smug. Rose rolled her eyes, then pressed herself closer to him until their lips slotted together.

This kiss was gentler than their frenzied first kiss, but the knowledge that he wanted to kiss her—that he loved her!—made shivers rocket down her spine. She trembled in his arms as she looped her hands over his shoulders, scrabbling for any purchase to pull him closer.

He moaned against her mouth as his hands dropped to the small of her back. His fingers clenched and loosened repeatedly into her jumper as they made slow passes up and down her spine. It was as though he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For that matter, neither did she. They ran through his hair, then went to his jaw, then cupped the back of his neck. Anything to keep him close. Anything to keep him kissing her.

His lips moved gracefully with hers. The only evidence that they were new kissing partners was the occasional bump of their noses and missteps when they each went to adjust the angle of the kiss. But it was still perfect, and they each automatically corrected any errors they made.

Rose’s mind was empty of anything except the man in her arms. Her body fizzed with pleasure and endorphins, leaving little room for anything else except for the unending mantra of I love you, I love you, I love you looping through her head.

The words were bursting to escape her mental filter, and she eased them out of the kiss. James’s breath came in choppy pants against her lips; hers wasn’t much better. Her lips felt deliciously swollen, and she licked them, still able to taste him on her tongue.

“I love you,” she said softly, reaching out to rest her palm on his chest. His heart thudded steadily beneath her palm. “I love you, James.”

His breath caught in his throat and he lifted his hand to cover hers. He wrapped his long fingers around hers and squeezed them, then brought her hand to his lips to place a delicate kiss to each knuckle.

“I love you, too,” he croaked. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

“Neither have I,” she admitted.

Something flashed behind his eyes. “Not… not even Jimmy?”

Rose shook her head. “No. I thought I loved him. And maybe I did, as much as my teenaged self could. But you… my God, James. It’s like my body is way too small to contain this. I’m overwhelmed in the best way possible.”

“That’s how I feel.” He ran another line of kisses along the ridge of her knuckles. “I’ve felt like this for so long. I’ve been terrified you might not feel the same.”

Rose couldn’t help but chuckle. “I was worried about the same thing.” Then her brain caught up with what he said. “When did you realize you were in love with me?”

James tilted his head to the side. As he thought, his tongue pressed to the backs of his teeth.

“I think I’d known for a while,” he said at last. “Or I suspected. I don’t entirely know when the transition from ‘friend’ to ‘more’ happened officially; I just know that I loved our study dates and mate dates and wished they were real dates.

“But the point of no return for me was the night you stayed with me on the anniversary of my parents’ death. You stayed with me even though I was miserable company. And you spent the night. When I woke up and saw you asleep on the recliner… I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I wanted to wake up every day and see you first thing.”

She smiled softly at him.

“Your turn,” he said, pinching her waist lightly. “When did you fall in love with me? It was immediate, wasn’t it? You just couldn’t resist this foxy body and suave, sexy charm, eh?”

He winked roguishly, and Rose burst out laughing. He pouted, but the effect was ruined with the smile creeping across his face.

“After our trip to Philly,” she said when her giggles subsided. “I was looking through the photos we took together and I realized that was the most fun I’d had out with someone in a very long time. And I wanted to spend a lot more time with you outside of studying.

“And then on election night, when I told you about Jimmy, you didn’t judge me for anything.” His brows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to argue. But she placed her finger over his lips. “You’d be surprised how many people wanted to give me a lecture about how I should’ve left sooner than I did. But you… you just listened. And you gave me a hug and didn’t make me feel stupid for anything that happened.”

“I think you ought to rethink your friend choices, if you fell in love with me for common decency,” James huffed, talking through her finger. “Er. Not to be rude or anything.”

“Though that is a teensy bit rude,” she teased.

He stuck his tongue out at her, then licked her finger. She pulled it back with a shriek, wiping the wetness off on her jeans.

“You’re disgusting!” But she was laughing, which softened the reprimand.

After a beat of silence, James asked, “So… since it’s the end of finals and we’ve cleared the air about our feelings, could I take you out somewhere? A date-date. No more mate-dates. Not that you’re not my mate. You’re my best mate. But you’re more than just my mate now and…”

Rose’s chest warmed with affection for the man babbling in front of her. She rocked onto her tiptoes and brushed a kiss to his cheek.

“A date-date would be wonderful,” she said, then she pressed her lips to his once more.

[shirtlesssammy]

14x16: Don’t Go in the Woods

Then:

Jack is FINE.

Now:

In a deserted rest stop at a park, two teens are enjoying some alone time in the back seat of their car. The girlfriend, Barbara, hears a noise that doesn’t seem like it came from nature. The boyfriend, Thomas, shrugs her off at first but then agrees to go check out the noise. He’s confronted by his sheriff father just as he opens the door. AWKWARD.

They fight about what he’s up to and Barbara heads to the bathrooms to give them some space. The bathroom is …the picture of perfection. She heads to the least disgusting stall. Once inside, she hears noises and sees a shadow in the room, and then a creepy monster hand curl itself around the top of the stall door.

Cue the screaming! Sheriff Dad rushes in to a now empty bathroom. He runs into the forest, briefly sees a Bigfoot-like creature in the shadows of the trees. Thomas cries out and the sheriff finds his son bereft over the dead body of Barbara. (Honestly, I thought we were only going to kill off white men for the rest of this show. This seems regressive.)

At the bunker, Sam is sitting alone in the dark kitchen. He’s clearly not doing well by pouring himself into finding another case to work. Dean wanders in and I enter a fugue state where I can’t remember what happens for the next couple of minutes. (I actually agree with this post 100%. Dean knows Sam’s state of mind. He’s always willing to fit that role that will help Sam feel better, more confident, and distract him with antics they both know aren’t real.)

Anyway, Sam has a case of missing people through the years in Iowa. Dean agrees, and Sam says he’ll grab Cas. Dean admits that Cas left earlier in the morning.

Dean also thinks that Jack should sit out hunting for now. He’s a bit of a wild card and it might be better to keep him close to home for a bit.

They find Jack in the library reading about zombies. Dean tasks him with restocking the bunker with beer and beer. (Um, I guess those driving lessons paid off. Now Jack can drive to the store alone and buy liquor he’s totally old enough to buy. Good parenting, Dean!)

Once in Iowa, at the sheriff’s station, the brothers are told the murder was actually a coyote attack, nothing more.

They still insist on viewing the body. They see the claw marks, and the burns around them, and know this isn’t a coyote attack.

Jack, meanwhile, is on his shopping excursion in Lebanon. It pains me how friggin’ cute he is. He’s awkwardly waiting for the store to reopen when Eliot, Max, and Stacy arrive. Eliot is garbed up in a cute brown and plaid jacket (such a hunter in training!) and watching videos of the Ghostfacers (what a blast from the past!) They notice “Bambi” just chillin and talk with him.

Eliot wants to know if Sam and Dean are ghost hunting, and Jack asks, “What’s a ghost?”, followed instantly with, “I have to go.” Boy, that line delivery was so perfect. In any event, Jack’s making friends, guys!

Jack and Eliot bond over reading about monsters. I just want to squish them, they’re so cute.

Also, how can Alex Calvert seem so young? Jesus, he does a good job playing baby Jack. We learn that the bunker has movie night every Tuesday, and that Dean really likes The Lost Boys. The kids learn that Jack is two, er, um, twenty-two. Whew, good save there, buddy! They still invite him to the abandoned house to hang out. Then they ask for ID to buy the beer (and I’m all like? Hello, you now have someone old enough to buy beer for you? What kind of narc kids are you?) Jack agrees to hang with his new friends.

At the sheriff’s office, Sam and Dean get free reign of the joint after hours (my how things have changed for them.) Sam thinks they’re dealing with a Kohonta, a local and ancient forest monster (in the great Northwest forests of Iowa —the X-Files often explored these forests as well.)

At the park a couple are hiking, in the dark.

They hear a weird whistling, and then see a figure in the trees. They call out to him. It’s the forest monster! All twigs and stomach acid! (And once more not a dead white guy in sight. Sigh. —I don’t know what I’m focused on this this week?)

At the crime scene, Dean and Sam interview the other hiker. She gives them a location on where to look. The sheriff arrives and wants to shut down operations. Dean insists that because they’re the feds, they can still search the forest. He tells them they can’t, and the brothers are totally going to follow those orders.

Jack shows up at the house laden with books from the bunker’s library. Jack! Did you fill out a borrowing slip for those? Jack wanders the room with his signature awkwardness. In the space of minutes, he reveals that he likes Dean’s music, has never heard of the SATs, and that demons are made of smoke and totally real.

The Local Teens ™ are intrigued by Jack’s purported hunting prowess and, encouraged, he brings them outside to demonstrate an angel blade. It goes poorly at first… Poor Jack. It’s hard to impress older kids.

In the woods, Sam and Dean hunt the kohunta. As they’re stalking through the woods, the Sheriff sneaks up behind Dean with his shotgun and orders them to drop their weapons. Yikes, but also mad props to the Sheriff for sneaking up on Dean. He doesn’t get the drop on them for long, though.

Cut to night… Jack’s apparently been trying to throw his blade all afternoon and the Local Teens ™ are bored. They goad Jack into defending his skills and he activates his newly restored nephilim power to finally hit the target. Hooray! Cool! Also, whatever.

Until…Jack uses his power to mind-mojo the blade back through the air and into his hand. Jack’s ecstatic about this, Eliot’s excited, and the two girls (who are clearly more sensible) are majorly weirded out. (Max is intrigued, at least.) Jack, encouraged by the sudden interest, levitates the blade in the air and then begins to swirl it around. It zips around in ever-increasing complex patterns. “I can control it,” Jack chirps while whipping the blade feet away from the teens, who are getting freaked out. Stacy tries to run and Jack’s blade cuts right into her, buried up to the hilt. Jack pulls out the blade and light glows from his hand as he tries to heal her. We’re left to wonder for just a moment if Jack failed…but Stacy sits up. She’s healed!

Jack moves towards them, encouraged by being able to heal Stacy and thinking he’s back in the teens’ good graces. They turn him away and Eliot orders Jack to stay away.

Dean and Sam talk to the Sheriff about the kohunta and we get a quick info dump on the MoTW. It’s an old tribal legend about the Parker family - some of the first white settlers in the area. One winter was particularly hard and the boy went crazy and ate the rest of the family. He developed a taste for people and started going after the people of the tribe. Instead of killing the crazed cannibal, they transformed him into the kohunta - a starving creature cursed to roam the woods and either eat people or slowly die of starvation. Legends being legends, this was forgotten and the woods they trapped him in were eventually invaded by interlopers a.k.a. tasty snacks.

Phew. Okay. Plot continues…. Sam and Dean totes kill monsters and they’re ready to help the Sheriff. The Sheriff asks them about going to YouTube to tell the world how to fight monsters but Sam’s against it.

The Sheriff’s son, Tom, interrupts their narrative wheel-spinning by calling and telling his father that he’s going after his girlfriend’s killer himself. The Winchesters and the Sheriff race to save him, silver blades at the ready (because it turns out that is what will kill them).

Tom reaches an old cabin, stalked by the monster, only to be attacked! It’s not looking good for Tom, who is about a second away from getting a giant acid lugey to the face. The Sheriff and Winchesters break in and they fight off the kohunta. One punchy kicky fight scene later and the monster gets a knife to the heart and dies. (Query: if this beast was around for long enough that the tribe forgot it existed, then how does cloth survive on its back? Magical curse blah blah, I guess.)

Tom’s alive. The Sheriff’s alive! Everybody wins. Sam and the Sheriff discuss the truth of the monster. Sam counsels him to tell the truth to his son; it’s the right thing to do.

Later, in the Impala of Feelings, Dean asks why Sam wanted to tell the truth. Lying’s the best way out of anything. Sam reminds him of lying to Jack…and all the times they lied to their dad about being “fine just to make him happy.”

Dean and Sam arrive back at the bunker. Jack got all the groceries except for the beer. (He only has fake IDs!) The Winchesters tell him they’re worried about Jack’s powers and they want him to not use them for a while. They’re telling him how they feel because they care. Feelings!

Jack mulls this over, and then fails to tell them about how terribly his powers just went wrong. Yeah. This is great. (Side note: he has learned one thing from Local Teens ™: subterfuge.)

Let’s Have a Quote Saber Fight!

Dean says that any music made after 1979 sucks ass

Well, there are standard hand to hand moves…like a light saber

Are you like a Jedi or something?

Whoa, that’s like full on Raiders!

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

[let-it-raines]

Rising From The Ashes (Ch. 2)

Summary: When her husband died, Emma wasn’t sure that she could ever move on. He left her with a broken heart and a baby who was only three-months old. It’s enough to take most people down, to make them not want to keep going, but Emma Swan isn’t most people. She’s stronger than she has any right to be. And after years of heartache, she’s found ways to move on…one of those being in Neal’s best friend, Killian Jones. As she’s always known, however, things are more complicated than they ever seem to be. 

Rating: Mature (who was I kidding thinking it would be teen?)

A/N: WOW, you guys! I was not expecting such a reaction from you all. Like, at all. It’s been blowing my mind, and I hope you guys like where this story is going. All I can really say is to be patient. There are a lot of moving factors, and it might take awhile to understand them all :D

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

Found on Tumblr: 1 | 2

Tag list: @resident-of-storybrooke @resident-of-storybrooke @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @ekr032-blog-blog @mayquita @bmbbcs4evr @wellhellotragic @kmomof4@jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld 

Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! It’s not a problem at all!

*Double “-/-” break means a flashback

Sergeant Neal Cassidy, presumed dead since 2011 and officially declared as deceased as of May 2018, has been found alive. The details around his presumed death are still unclear. It’s assumed that he was held as a captive in Iraq near the end of the Iraqi War and never listed on the known registrar of war criminals, so he was not released in the agreement the United States had with Iraq to trade war criminals. After Delta Force raided an al-Qaeda compound last month and found Sergeant Cassidy, he has been in an undisclosed German hospital recovering. In recent days, he has been moved to a hospital in Maine where his wife Emma Swan and son Henry Cassidy reside. He is also welcomed home by former Naval Captain and close friend Killian Jones. We cannot speak for the world, but this is a feel-good story that we’re sure brings joy to even the darkest of hearts. It’s a family reunited from death. What could be more heartwarming than that?

-/-

“Ms. Swan, Captain Jones,” Dr. Vibuthi greets them, reaching over and shaking their hands before settling down in her chair while he and Emma sit in their seats across from her. The office is oddly bright, colorful paintings adorning the walls with the odd educational diploma mixed in. Every doctor’s office he’s ever been in is sterile, dull, but this is likely because he’s only ever been in an exam room. It’s not like it matters what the office looks like, not in the grand scheme of things, but he needs something to focus on besides the vomit that continuously threatens to leave his body.

“Killian?”

“Huh?” he asks, turning to Emma who is looking at him with eyes full of concern.

“Did you hear the doctor? She asked if you were okay.”

Oh. He didn’t hear her at all. He didn’t know anyone had said anything since she greeted them. How much did he zone out? It’s only been a few seconds, hasn’t it?

He might not be okay.

“I’m fine, love,” he assures Emma before looking at Dr. Vibuthi. “I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed is all.”

“That’s completely understandable with what you all have been through. Miracles like this are wonderful, but they do come with a certain amount of shock.”

Miracles. Shock. Surprise. He’s already tired of hearing those words. It’s been two weeks.

“They do,” he grits, his fingers fidgeting across his thigh until Emma reaches over and places her palm over his knuckles, the smallest of touches already making him feel infinitely better. “So, can you tell us how he is? How Neal is?”

She looks down at her files while he interlaces Emma’s fingers with his, needing the connection and support, knowing that she needs it too. “So Mr. Cassidy is a rare case. He hasn’t given us a lot to go on, is always insisting that he’s fine, but we’re running as many psych tests as we can just to make sure.”

“Yeah, that’s what they told us when we talked to General Neller on Tuesday,” Emma explains, her hand tensing in his. “But he said you could tell us how Neal actually is? Is he hurt? Is he malnourished? Does he have PTSD? What tests have you run on him? I just feel like for two weeks we’ve known he was alive after thinking he was dead for almost a decade, and yet no one will fucking tell us anything other than they’re running tests.”

With every single bone in his body aching, wishing to know more, wishing that he could understand what the hell has been happening, he also knows that in all the ways he wants to be weak, Emma needs him to be strong. She’s strong enough herself, likely the strongest person he’s ever met, but she’s gone through hell more times in her life than anyone ever should. Right now is simply another round of walking through the flames and hoping not to be burned to ashes.

The first few days after the news was released that Neal had been found alive had been an adrenaline rush of trying to understand what the hell was going on, how it could be going on. He and Emma were convinced that it was a false report, that it wasn’t him, especially since no one had bothered to notify Emma. The first fucking thing they should have done was notify Emma that Neal was alive. It should have never made it to the news, not without her knowledge.

Their house had been a mess. When Emma collapsed, the plate she dropped shattered and glass cut into her skin. So with a numb girlfriend, a terrified son, and a wailing daughter shocked by all of the commotion, he’d had to get the glass shards out of her legs and clean her up. Henry had made the decision to call David, which is what they taught him to do in situations like this (not that there had ever been a situation like that before), and David had quickly come over and helped them take care of the kids while Killian called every military contact he could think of to try to find out what was going on.

And they’ve basically been in a loop of looking for information ever since.

With crying. A hell of a lot of crying, sobbing really. He doesn’t think he even knew that the human body was capable of producing that many tears.

This is the closest they’ve gotten to any information, though. They’re in the same building as Neal, even if they have no idea what happened to him, how he’s alive, where he’s been. They know nothing other than that he was found in some undisclosed compound.

So the compound. They know about the compound. That’s it.

Well, they know that he’s alive.

How the fuck is Neal alive? And why is he not outrageously happy about it?

His best friend is alive, back from the dead, and it’s been the worst two weeks of his life. How damn selfish is that? He should be elated, feel like his life is back and all of the tragedy of the past eight years is gone, but it’s complicated. Life always is, but your best friend coming back from the dead only to find out that you’ve slept with his wife isn’t exactly ideal.

He shudders at the thought because while he and Emma have slept together, it wasn’t just to scratch an itch. They love each other, have for over four years now, and he’s never felt guiltier about it than he does right now. One shouldn’t feel guilty for being in love, and yet all he wants to do is drown himself in a bottle of rum…and in Emma.

They never meant to fall for each other. He doesn’t think anyone ever does, but it just happened. They were both grieving, and as the two people closest to Neal, they’d leaned on each other. For years it had been the purest of friendships, two people mourning over something they never could have imagined happening to them, and he’d spent more of his time helping her raise Henry than anything else. But somewhere along the way – between diapers and potty training, breast pumps and cooked meals, late nights and early mornings – he’d developed feelings for her.

He’d never despised himself more than the moment he realized his heart fluttered at the smell of her hair or the way her lips felt when she kissed his cheek in greeting. It was wrong. He couldn’t have feelings for Emma. He wouldn’t just be hurting Neal’s memory, but he’d be hurting Emma, too. She was, still is, the strongest woman he’d ever known, but she’d also been through hell. Who was he to complicate her life?

-/-

-/-

“Alright, Jones,” Emma sighs, handing him a glass of wine before she plops down on the sofa next to him, crossing her legs up on the couch, “I am kid free. I have wine. I have HBO. We are about to have the night of our lives.”

He chuckles underneath his breath before taking a sip of his wine and placing it on the side table so that he can grab the giant fleece blanket Emma has and pull it up over them. “When the hell did we become so boring that wine and HBO means having one of the nights of our lives?”

“I also have Chinese takeout.”

“Touché, love. That makes all the difference.”

“Exactly. And I have a three and a half year old. I only get to watch something with cursing when it’s past eight, and usually I’m so tired that I fall asleep on the couch.”

“I know. I’m usually the one that has to make sure you don’t hurt your neck by sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh yes, my hero.” Emma dramatically rolls her eyes even as the corners of her lips tick up on the side. God, that smile. He loves that smile, and he hates himself for loving it. He’s pretty much decided that he’s going to suffer for the rest of his life loving that smile, and honestly, he’d be okay suffering that way. If Emma’s smiling, it means she’s happy, and she deserves nothing more than to be happy. That’s all he wants for her. “But I’m not doing that tonight, okay? We’re going to catch up on Game of Thrones and stay up far past midnight.”

“You’ve never even seen an episode.”

“And thus, the catching up.”

“Whatever you want, love.”

They get caught up in the show, even if he’s seen it as well as reading the books, but watching Emma’s reactions to learning everything is priceless. She gasps and groans in all of the right places, laughing in several inappropriate ones, and she spends far too long coming up with theories that are so far off base that he has a difficult time not saying anything to correct her. He’s not sure if it really is the fact that she has the weight of the world off of her shoulders for one night, Henry spending the night with Mary Margaret so he can spend time with Leo, or if it’s the two glasses of wine she’s had.

It’s probably both.

The wine is likely heightening things. She’s not much of a drinker, hasn’t been in recent years at least, wasn’t old enough for too long before Henry was born to develop a real tolerance. He’s not saying Emma is a lightweight, but he’s also saying that Emma is a lightweight. And it’s not like he can say much, his drinking having toned down ever since he started helping Emma out with Henry. Time and time again he wanted to drink when Henry wouldn’t stop crying or even when Emma wouldn’t, but he wanted to be there for them.

Besides, until a few months ago, he was still in the Navy, and he’d get calls at all hours of the day. No one really wants a drunk Captain, whether he’s at sea or not. He wasn’t spending much time out at sea in the past few years anyways.

“He’s cute,” Emma sighs, Rob Stark on screen.

“Dark hair and blue eyes your type, Swan?” he teases, nudging his shoulder into his. “Not to mention British.”

“Most definitely. That’s an attractive combination. If I were to – oh,” she laughs, her lips gaping open before they close. She slaps his shoulder, the force far too strong to be playful. “You’re an asshole. You know I wasn’t talking about you.”

“You most definitely were. I am literally the definition of your type.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma says, moving her hair over her cheeks to hide the blush he saw a minute ago, “you wish, Jones.”

I do, he thinks, something inside of his stomach twisting before he makes it stop, makes it twist in an unpleasant way. He can’t. He can’t do this. He can’t flirt with her. But the words keep falling off of his lips. It’s like he can’t stop himself, especially when he falls back on flirting whenever he’s trying to hide something. People always discount flirting, teasing. They don’t take it seriously, so he can say the things he wants. He can hide how he feels without really hiding it.

It’s what he has to do.

“What is your type?” Emma asks, shocking him out of his thoughts. She’s not watching the screen anymore. She’s watching him, her beautiful green eyes looking directly into his. His skin his buzzing, his entire body really, and he begins to wonder how much he’s actually had to drink tonight.

“Swan, you don’t care about that.”

“I do,” she promises, twisting her body and placing her hand on his forearm. His skin practically ignites with her touch, and he wonders if he can burn from both her touch and his guilt. “I’ve known you for, like, seven years, and I think I know everything about you except for your ideal woman.”

“I don’t have an ideal woman.” “Oh come on, don’t lie to me like that. I know how men work. You like someone with big boobs and a good ass. It’s not that complicated. It’s disappointing for humankind as a whole, but it’s not that complicated.”

He groans, reaching up to rub his hand over his face before grabbing his glass and taking a large gulp. How the hell is he supposed to answer this question?

“Aye, love, I can say that you lot all have various assets that make you appealing, but, you know, once you’re out of the phase where all you can do is fall into bed with each other, you do have to have things in common, things to talk about. I like to be able to laugh, to have a good time, but values are important, you know?”

“You mean, good form and all that?”

He laughs, shaking his head back and forth. She’s never going to let it go that he believes in good form. He’s been a military man for too long, been taught too much chivalry from his mother, and even though Emma accepts when he opens doors for her or when he pulls out her chair before they eat, she always murmurs something teasing about good form.

Like flirting and innuendos for him, he thinks that’s how she protects herself too. She didn’t have anyone to help her out, to do nice things for her, until she was fifteen and adopted by Ruth Nolan, and even though she’s now twenty-six, he thinks some of those things linger. He knows they do. Scars made when we’re young tend to linger.

“Aye, good form, darling. But I’m serious. Yes, obviously I enjoy how a woman looks, but I do like someone who understands me, you know?”

“Yeah,” Emma sighs, scooting closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder, “I get it. I want that too, someone who understands me. It’s been…awhile.”

He wraps his arm around her shoulder, tugging her closer before kissing her temple. “I understand you, love.”

“Yeah, yeah you do.”

The rest of the night seems to fly by, and before he knows it, it’s two in the morning and he and Emma have gone through another bottle of wine. At least, he thinks it was one bottle of wine. It might have been two. Honestly, he doesn’t know anything except for the fact that Emma is currently straddling his lap with her hands in his hair and her lips on his.

Everything about it is glorious, the sensations overwhelming him. She’s soft, so damn soft, and every inch of her skin is warm. Her lips are warm too. And her tongue. Actually, everything about Emma from her lips and her skin to her compassion is warm. God, he loves her, and he’s not entirely convinced that this isn’t a dream. It has to be a dream because she is kissing him like her entire life depends on it.

She is kissing him, and he is giving as good as he’s getting, sucking on her upper lip and making her whimper, the sound shooting straight to his groin. She’s pressed hotly over his length, rolling her hips into his, and every coherent thought he has is gone the more she grinds against him, the more that her tongue tangles with his in a slick, pleasurable dance.

But the moment her hands begin to tug on his shirt, begin to try to undress him, he has to stop them. He can’t do this. They can’t do this. And they really cannot do this while drunk. It’s wrong. It’s one of the best moments of his life, but it’s wrong.

“Emma,” he breathes, panting really, “we can’t.” “Why not?” she whines, resting her forehead against his, her breath ghosting over his swollen lips.

“You know why, love.”

Her eyes flutter closed before she’s moving off of him, her steps wobbling a bit. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning when we take Henry to Kaleb’s birthday party, okay?”

“Goodnight, Swan.” God, what has he done?

-/-

-/-

But then there was that night, that glorious night where they’d let the alcohol get to them, where they’d let their inhibitions down, but it was wrong. There was the alcohol. There was Neal. There were far too many reasons why they shouldn’t have done it, but they still did, even if the both of them ignored it for weeks afterward. It wasn’t talked about. It wasn’t referenced. For awhile, he wondered if Emma even remembered.

God, he had both hoped that she didn’t remember and also that she did. It felt like he was living in one of the most complex, torturous little loops of time imaginable.

He obviously had no idea how wrong he was.

Because over four years, three houses, two states, and one new baby later, they were as happy as can be.

And now everything has become complicated.

As if it wasn’t before.

He thinks he’d go back to the complex, tortuous time loop any day over this.

Because he’s a bloody wanker.

“Ms. Swan,” Dr. Vibuthi calmly begins, obviously used to dealing with upset people if how she’s reacting to Emma’s myriad of questions is any indication, “I cannot begin to understand the ordeal you have been through, but I ask you to be patient with me.”

Emma nods her head, her throat bobbing up and down while she bites her quivering bottom lip. God, what he would give to take away all of her pain. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just…I need some kind of information. Something more solid.”

“That I can give you. Mr. Cassidy is healthy. He’s not malnourished, he doesn’t have any diseases. From what we can tell, he had several broken bones over the last few years and has several healed scars that you’ll likely see and that may shock you. But there’s nothing currently physically wrong with him.”

Killian sighs, releasing the breath he was holding. In the moments where his mind has been clear lately, he’s thought about Neal being tortured. He had to be. There’s likely no way around it, but he’s never wanted to be the one to bring it up. So while from what Dr. Vibuthi has said, he’s sure Neal was tortured at one point, he doesn’t seem to have been lately.

At least physically.

None of it makes any sense.

He cannot come up with any possible explanation for what’s happened. If he could be a fly on the wall in the debriefing that he knows Neal is going to have to do with the CIA, he would. There’s so much he wants to know, even more than just what Neal has been through, but he has a feeling that he won’t be allowed to know any of it. And as close as he and Neal were before, he would bet that they will never be that close again, not with everything that’s happened.

“But what about mentally?” Killian begins, squeezing Emma’s hand. “Can you tell us how he is mentally? What his mindset is?”

“Unfortunately not quite yet. He won’t talk about what happened in much detail, but we are running all of the evaluations that we can as I said. We have our own and the military also has several that they’ve asked us to run since Neal has expressed interest in remaining in the service. All he truly talks about, however, is getting back to Emma and Henry.”

“Oh God,” Emma gasps, letting go of his hand so she can cover her mouth with both of her hands, her entire body shaking.

Why the hell would he want to return to the service? Killian has been retired for five years, and he didn’t even leave in bad circumstances. He simply wanted to be around for Emma and Henry more, wanted to live life. He can’t imagine being held hostage for eight years and wanting to return to the very thing that basically took his life away.

“So can we see him?” Killian soldiers on, reaching over and rubbing his hand up and down Emma’s back, stuffing all of his thoughts down and focusing on what’s important right now. “That’s why we’re here, right?”

“Yes, you can see him, but for a limited time. We don’t want to overwhelm him. And afterward I’d like to set up an appointment with both of you about his treatment here and when he leaves. Unfortunately, you all have a long road ahead of you.”

-/-

“Are you ready, love?”

“No, but we need to go in. I’ll just freak myself out more if we don’t do it.”

“Aye. It’s just…it’s going to be okay, Emma,” he promises, dipping his head down to quickly brush his lips over hers. He hasn’t done that nearly as much as he should lately, a distance between the two of them building, one that he’s likely been putting there himself. What else is he supposed to do when his girlfriend’s husband is back? But still, he loves her, supports her, and he won’t let her think otherwise, not now. “I love you.”

She smiles, but it’s weak, sad even. It’s not Emma. “I love you too.”

With that, Emma pushes down on the handle and pulls open the door, walking inside on a visibly shaky step as he follows behind her. Neal is sitting in the hospital bed in gray sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking healthier than he did the last time Killian saw him. He’s obviously older, the difference between thirty and thirty-eight hard to miss, but he looks stronger somehow.

It’s…jarring.

It’s also jarring to see him in person. He’s real. He’s actually alive. Killian knew it to be true, but this is real, physical proof. It makes everything almost surreal.

“Ems,” Neal laughs, a bright smile forming on his lips that causes the lines around his face to wrinkle. He doesn’t say anything else, hopping up from the bed and rushing toward Emma, immediately cupping her cheeks and crushing his lips into hers.

That may be the most jarring thing of all.

He’s seen Emma kiss Neal, something he saw plenty of times before, but it was never when Emma was the woman he loves, never in a situation like this.

He’s never seen Emma kiss Neal when he knows exactly how Emma’s lips feel.

Was he allowed to feel jealous? Is that okay? He knows that he can’t just make his emotions disappear, that he can’t stop loving her, that he won’t  stop loving her, but there’s no guidelines for this. As far as he knows, nothing like this has ever happened. There’s no one to follow or help tell him what to do.

What is he supposed to do when the love of his life’s husband shows up from the dead? What is he supposed to do when his best friend is experiencing some kind of miracle second chance in life and Killian has all of the power to break Neal’s world apart when it’s all finally coming back together?

What is he supposed to do if he has to not love the woman who he intended on marrying? The woman who has an engagement ring in the pocket of his old Naval uniform only because he knows she won’t look there. To the mother of his child…to the mother of his children.

He wants to say that he’ll step back, that he’ll let them mend their fences, but he can’t do that. He and Emma have a life together. They have Henry. They have Ada, who Neal doesn’t know about yet, which is a bag of bag of worms he doesn’t know how to handle.

They can’t hide a child, and bile rises in his throat at the fact that his little girl is going to be a reason for friction. Ada is one of the lights of his life, and she’s done not a thing wrong, so similar to Henry who’s been unusually quiet since he found out his father is alive.

It’s all fucked up, and he just doesn’t know what to do. He wants to hold his family and never let go, but he’s likely going to have to let go. He can’t do it, but he may have to.

It’s going to break him.

His best friend is alive, and he can barely be happy about it.

Neal finally pulls back from Emma, leaning his head against Emma’s forehead in a move that nearly breaks Killian. That’s what he and Emma do. That’s…theirs. His legs practically collapse underneath him, but he refuses to let that happen. He absolutely refuses.

Then Neal turns to him, his eyes staring directly into Killian’s. “Jones,” he sighs, “nice to see you, man. Can you believe this?”

He can’t.

[bookdragonlibrary]

Third Tuesday YJ appreciation

1-3 ; 4-6 ; 7-9 ; 10-13 ; 14-16 ; 17 ; 18 ; 19 ; 20 ; 21 ; 22 ; 23 ; 24-26

—————————— Early Warning

- Star Girl is back.

- We didn’t see their mission in Chicago :(

- “The Outsiders are bigger than the Big League.” Seriously? So Gar has reach his goal to inspire people.

- We’re 21 December. Will we have a Christmas episode? 

- Santiago de Cuba. Is this the whole city name or it’s just to specify is the Santiago located in Cuba, because you know USA have a lot of countries which names already existed in other countries, so it’s confusing...

- Mother of Goat xD

- 04.31 is indeed too early to go to school...

- “You mean I’m Gabrielle’s corpse brought back to life by the energy of a dead motherbox.” Violet, you need to chill. It’s really sad you see yourself this way :( 

-  What do you mean she’s dying? She has better superhealing than a speedster!

- I like that the first thing she does is healing herself. 

- Months left? Well, all her previous dead must have been painful... But I’m sure Jace had misinterpreted what she saw. Maybe Violet has a high metabolism like a speedster with a fast regeneration of her cells so maybe they would discover this later by her aging slowly. 

- Her mentor? Who could that be? Was they the person she called in the 15th episode?

- Wait to tell them? How is this supposed to be a good idea? One secret is enough of a burden.

- A funeral? Who’s funeral? :’( 

- They are up against who to make Zatanna worry? Maybe she would bring Traci with her *finger crossed*

- What is this big pink cloud? It’s up to no good...

- Klarion? Of course Zatanna would be worried! The Team never succeeded to win against him! It was always Dr Fate.

- So he was the one who chose Project Rutabaga name? It’s difficult to understand which only one side of the conversation, more difficult than with Jaime and Scarab actually.

- “Stop to ruin my fun, Teekl.” He’s indeed the Witch Boy with that pouting xD How old is he to still be considerated as a child?

- I didn’t know human can have a reddish brown skin. Where is she from? 

- It’s me or he’s dumb not remember what he’s supposed to do?

- No need to explain it to us, I’m pretty sure we all understood as we are now in an adult plateforme...

- So the teen could speak? I thought she was mute. Because of trauma maybe?

- Change of eye and hair color plus... gills? She can’t breathe? Can’t she be like Kaldur and has a double breathing system? :( 

- So that’s where the mark in the forehead comes from... So he already sent teen in to Granny before. How could he forget if it’s not the first time he does it?

- So now she’s a red gaz and... does it where the big cloud comes from? 

- That monster looks like the one in FMA. So the Light is trying to create a mix of metateen with different powers combined for one super powers soldier? We already saw of terrified it could be with Amazo in season 1...

- So the minidrones come indeed from Blue right? 

- RIP  minidrone :(

- “We saw so pretty weird days.” Does he speak about the Reach? :( 

- The way Gar said funeral shows he’s so used to it...

- Joan is dead?! So quickly? From what? Aging?

- Virgil is so cool with blue eyes!

- “Outsiders away!” “Dude, that catchphrase, need work.” You mean “Outisiders go!” right? it was an easter egg right?

- Klarion seriously didn’t recognise them? Or never be against them? 

- “Flesh Monster” I know you are sadistic demon, but it was really disrespectful :( 

- Gar is so clever to attack Teekl! Mouse to elephant, the two opposites! 

- Klarion, we really don’t need your explanations, everyone had seen season 1... (why are you watching season 3?)

- No don’t use a bazooka on those kids! :( Yeah Geo-force! o/

- “No, not in the house.” New Team catchphrase?

- Did he just killed Beast Boy? Desintegrated him? It’s not possible! :’( Not another funeral! 

- Yes he’s alive! Stop with the fake deaths! 

- No Cassie! :( Did anyone how the monster become huge with Wonder Girl addition? She’s really strong!

- Virgil horrified to see his BF like that :( 

- Yeah! They are free! Except for the girl who still can’t breathe. 

- We need to bring Zatanna to Granny’s place so she could free the other teens. 

- Klarion is still busy with a hornet? Seriously?

- They are in Tower of Fate? So the balance between order and chaos are unbalanced in the place of power of one of them?

- “Still in the Tower? *meow* Dang it!” It shouldn’t be that funny! xD

- Virgil, you’re hanging out with Ed and Jaime, your Spanish should be better than this... 

- Yep, the girl still can’t breathe! :( Gar save her! :D She said “Thank you!” :3

- “Where is Violet?” Probably not well after learning she’s dying... 

- Tara’s struggle with English vocabulary (especially oral expressions) feels so real!

- We’re going to see Harper? :D 

- Is that guns and alchohol? Seriously? Is that beer or stronger alchohol? --’ Violet doesn’t seem at ease....

-  It’s cool Harper ask about the alchohol being allowed for Muslims. She’s the first one in the serie to ask VIolet about Islam. You can’t learn about it if you don’t ask to people :) But maybe Violet isn’t the best to ask as she probably doesn’t know much. Wait, does she know about alchohol by the way? 

- “I’m not a Muslim.” Is Violet rejecting everything about herself because she’s dying? Or is alchohol a way to cope with the big new? Or is she rejecting everything about Gabrielle’s identity because of the murder or Brion’s parents?

-  She doesn’t want to talk to Brion and doesn’t like the taste :/ 

- What? 

- “I have a boyfriend.” She clearly doesn’t need this to her emotions... And she sounds surprised? Is this a reminder or a news for Harper? It’s like 2 months she’s dating Brion so she should have told Harper right? 

- “So do I.” The bi cheating trope, really? I HC a lot of characters as bi or pan and it’s not the first rep I wished... And it could have been handled better. Like Harper not kissing her a second time after she said no (I have a boyfriend so I’m not available for kissing someone else, if it wasn’t clear for everyone...). Harper not having a boyfriend but a crush on Violet for a long time, for example? Because the kiss seem to mean nothing to Harper, just a funny thing to do... You know, because bi people can’t stay in a relationship and get bored... --’

- How Violet could be so good at firing? Thanks to her training with Artemis? Motherbox senses? 

- Wait, they are in Mount Justice beach, isn’t it private? How a cop could be there in the middle of nowhere or almost? Why didn’t she show up when Dick were firing with an ever bigger gun? It doesn’t make any sense! Or it’s just plot convenient...

- Violet’s hesitation really show how much she became self destructive because “I’m dying so why not? I have nothing to loose” kind of logic...

- Why they made the General so heartless? :( The cliche of the male soldier who is heartless and the female soldier who cannot do her mission properly because of love/mother instinct...

- I need to check YJ comics because I’m sure I can find some of them in it. *check* Ok I just found Serpenteen...

- Colonel Ramon Bracuda. So he’s indeed a Colonel xD

- Tara and Artemis! 

- The slap at the end was unnecessary, Slade. She was already down... è.é

- Artemis is so good as a mentor! She understood what Tara had been through!

- Tara is surprised and afraid Artemis discovered she was trained. Maybe Artemis will be the one who understands she’s a mole and try to reason her. (Like she tried with her sister...)

- I love how Artemis shows her she can relate to her trauma and reassure her she won’t do the same.

- Tara’s smile again!

- Police station. Right. 

- So Harper’s father is an alcoholic? That would explain why Harper want to forget about her life too... And where she found the bottle. Did she try to take the bottles away and wanted to try it instead?  

- A whole day waiting? That parental abusive!

- I’m not sure Violet truly understood what happened to be honest... It’s a lot in a day! She’s sure having a bad one :( 

- Guess it was an animated error last episode: Wendy still has her collar :( 

- Of course Kaldur will find a solution for the girl :) 

- Virgil, awkward... When he said “excuse” and then close his eyes because he realises it wasn’t the best word choice and Bart reassuring he understood he meant no harm :3 I love the Team dynamic :)

- With Ed, I’m never sure he’s looking at Bart or Wendy...

- “I want in.” In the hug? Of course he’s talking about the Outsiders xD Wait, what?! Doesn’t it seem out of character?

- Even Virgil  didn’t seem to know. 

- So Ed went to the funerals to support/confort Bart?

- So he talked to Bart and Jaime first? Ouch for Virgil... 

- So half of the Runaways in the Outsiders. When do we get to see Tye and Asami? They should have been there in episode 16! Are they ok? Are they kidnapped again? :( 

- “The kids here just don’t know you.” Yet! Come on, Ed, you could have invited all the Runaways, the first abducted metateens so the kids could relate to someone who go through the trauma. Virgil should be known in the Center! He is one of their own already! And that should have been Virgil’s character motivation to be part of the Outsiders and not the skin color... Black characters are more than just black they’re humans, you know? Where are the writers who wrote the other POC characters in the previous seasons? Anyway, the reason to do this for the kid would have been unnecessary if it was written properly with this character arc for Virgil because Ed was fine as a peer councelor to show to the kids there are other ways to use your powers than fighting bas guys, the living example for Paula’s point. 

- So great everyone supports Ed’s decision. 

- Yeah Virgil, his dad would totally freak out...

- Wendy is so small compared to the others! She seems to be 12. And Ed seems to have a big brother reaction who wants to be praised by the little sister ^^

- The comments said “The Outsiders are the best” in Spanish, no idea for the second one and “The Outsiders are unbeatable” in French :)

- “the Outsiders are bigger than the JL.” *Kaldur raises an eyebrow* priceless xD

- Klarion is still trapped in the Tower and it’s still so funny xD