#duck isn’t deranged but I can’t leave her out

[lesbianfakir]

[cherienymphe]

My sister has a married (separated but they’re still pretending they’re together for the kids) man over and she’s gone an fucking waited for us all to go to sleep and she’s in the living room with him. It’s the second time she’s done this.

I want to cry. I know that sounds so ducking stupid because it’s none of my business but I literally haven’t sat on my sofa for months because of when she has him over the first time. I don’t want to sit on a sofa where they probably fucked. And like, I get up at the middle of the night for cereal most nights but I literally can’t now because they’re down there.

All I wanted to do is sleep but I can’t because there’s a man in my house who I’ve only met ONCE. It’s genuinely making me want to go and sleep in a hotel. I want to leave. I was trying to be a cockblocker and I was in the kitchen for ages pretending I couldn’t sleep, and she was just there watching me, texting him and laughing. (I know that’s bad, but tbf I was thirsty)

He’s a fucking scumbag (I pretend I find him okay but reality I fucking hate him). I know I need to work on myself because this is probably jealousy or some shit. Like I know this isn’t healthy for me. It’s not like any of what I’m typing right now my sister knows. She thinks I either 1. don’t know, or 2. that i’m fine with it.

She’s 35. She hasn’t got kids or a husband and I understand he’s the first person to be obsessed with her for years, but he’s already done the kids and marriage thing for 12 years so… Is he really looking for that again? I doubt it. I just don’t like that he’s making her wait, like you’re either with your wife or you’re not.

But at the end of the day it is NONE of my business. It’s just making me feel sick right now and I was planning on having a nice sleep but I have this problem where I literally cannot fall asleep when there’s other people in my house.

I know I sound deranged but she’s my only reason for living some days and when she’s ignoring me to text him constantly it’s literally so fucking soul sucking. I should probably move out but leaving my mom and my sister together is just recipe for trouble and if I moved out my mother would literally be homeless because she can’t pay for rent on her own. I’m the youngest (20) and always wanted to travel but I’m scared of leaving because I’m scared of coming back and being alone for the rest of my life. I don’t want my family to break apart.

Anyways, my GAWD that’s long. I’ll leave this here if you want to read it. I know you’re not a therapist lol so you don’t have to reply. Just had to rant because I haven’t got anyone to talk to. Okay, I’m going to either read gothic fiction or watch Buffy to distract me 💜

Hey I don't think you're wrong to be bothered by some strange man being in your house at all hours of the night. I get that everyone's family is different, but I wasn't raised in an environment like that so I too would be bothered. Yes, she has just as much right to the space as anyone else, but it's not solely her house. You have a right to feel comfortable too.

As for your sister, you have to let her make her own decisions/mistakes. While I personally don't think it's wrong for separated couples to see other people, it's almost always a recipe for mess when no one has officially filed for divorce. Are the chances pretty great that he and his wife will reconcile and leave your sister in the dust or maybe even a dirty little secret? Yeah probably but that's her problem not yours lol. Especially since she's way old enough to not be so dumb.

As for you...babes you're 20! I understand the pressure to make sure your family is alright, but you're telling me that if you leave and live your life, your fuckass 35 y/o sister can't keep the bills paid and help your mom out? At 20 y/o, I just don't think that's your responsibility. That's supposed to come when you're older and borderline decrepit and you have to help your mom to the bathroom in her old age 😭

I won't flat out tell you what to do bc it's your life and you're the one who has to live with your decisions but if I was in your shoes...ain't no way

[whumpcereal]

whumptober, day seven: shaking hands | seizures | silent panic attack

Will's first wake up at the kennel. Parts one, two, and three here. I will make a masterlist this weekend, I swear. Also, this is officially a birthday gift for @hold-him-down. Happy birthday, Holdy!

content warnings for: dehumanization, animalization, forced nudity (non-sexual), muzzles, cages, panic, forced feeding, comments about weight, accidental urination, creepy/intimate whumper, adult language

part four, rise and shine

Will doesn’t sleep. It’s not like he can. It turns out, dog kennels are not, in fact, made to accommodate the six foot frame of a human who isn’t used to being on his hands and knees. Everything fucking hurts, until it doesn’t. At some point, the persistent ache in his back starts to burn and then dulls into numbness. His shoulders feel like they’ve floated off into space, and he can’t feel his legs at all. 

Maybe it’s a mercy not to feel for a second, but there’s a part of Will that’s scared shitless. How long are they going to leave him in here? Like, what happens if you don’t get enough blood to your extremities? Do they die or, like, fall off? He knows it’s unreasonable, but still, Will imagines himself as a limbless body.  

It’s not exactly comforting. Neither are the sounds of the room around him. The restless shifting of other bodies, already used to their cages. Heavy breathing. A few snores. They are all normal, human sounds, and this is not a normal, human situation. Will doesn’t know how many of them there are, but even one person locked in a fucking cage is too much. It doesn’t make him feel any better to know that he’s not alone. Especially because it feels like he’s the only one who realizes how fucked up this is. The rest of them are fucking sleeping. 

And he still doesn’t know where Tommy is. 

So, yeah, no. Will doesn’t sleep. 

He stares into the darkness, floating on a choppy sea of really fucking problematic thoughts,  and he watches as the light in the room shifts from black to ink blue and then a cold gray. Morning. 

There’s the snap of a switch, and the fluorescent overhead lights buzz to life. 

“Rise and shine!” chirps a man’s voice. Fucking Doc. “Hup-hup! Out in the yard to potty. You know the drill.” 

Will’s eyes sting with fresh tears. He can’t do that. He can’t. But he hears the jangle of cages being opened, and it doesn’t seem like any of the others hesitate. A door opens on squeaking hinges; there’s a blast of freezing cold air. Skin slaps against cold cement, and the room quiets before the door slams shut again. 

Will is still locked up. He whimpers behind the muzzle, and without thinking, nudges his head against the cage door. 

Fuck. Did he just do that? 

There’s a soft laugh, and then footsteps move closer to him. Doc crouches in front of the cage, and he ducks his head to get a good look at Will. There’s a smile that, on anybody else’s face, would almost be reassuring; on Doc’s, it just sort of makes Will want to crawl up his own asshole. 

“Aw, now, little mutt,” Doc coos. He curls his fingers against the wires. “Don’t get too excited. You’re not socialized yet, are you? It would be wrong to put you in the yard with the others before you know the lay of the land.” 

Mutt. Cold shame coils in Will’s belly. It’s all he can feel, since the rest of him’s gone numb. 

He knows it isn’t true. He’s not a mutt, he’s–well, he’s himself. And maybe that isn’t always what he’s wanted to be but, fuck–he’s a person. But somehow, the word sinks into him just like Doc’s tracking chip, sharp and stinging beneath his skin.

“Did you get some good rest last night?” Doc asks. “My Annie says you were good as gold.” 

Will’s eyebrows crease beneath the forked straps of his muzzle. ‘Good as gold’ is a stretch. Maybe Annie meant it when she said she’d do what she could for him. Though if half-lying to her deranged father is all she can do, it’s not like it’ll make much difference.  

“I hope you stay that way,” Doc says, his tone all sugar and honey. “You’ve got a big day today, mutt. A very big day.” 

Will can only blink. Who knows what the fuck ‘a very big day’ with Doc looks like? Will isn’t exactly chomping at the bit to find out.

Except he is. Because there’s an actual fucking bit in his mouth. 

He should snarl, growl, bash his head against the cage. But the sudden awareness of the weight on his tongue, of his own half-naked body makes him shrink. He tries to press himself to the back of the cage, but he has no idea if he’s even moved.

“Oh, hey now, buddy. There’s no need to be afraid,” says Doc. 

Right. Because he isn’t muzzled and mitted and fucking caged. Because he isn’t in a basement that was, until very recently, packed to the gills with human animals. Because he doesn’t know where Tommy is or what’s happened to him or how they’re going to get home or if they’re going to get home, and– 

Will can’t breathe. He can’t make a sound, and he can’t breathe. He tries to suck in air through his nose, but nothing happens. His chest feels like it’s stuck. He can’t–fuck, he can’t–he can’t–

Doc slams his hand against the door. “Stop that now. You’re fine. You hear me? There’s nothing for you to get so worked up about.” 

Will doesn’t mean to, but whatever air is left in his chest pushes out in a mangled whine. And then he feels a wet warmth spread between his legs. 

Shit. Or, you know, the opposite. 

Will’s eyes stay glued on Doc as he dribbles through his boxers and onto the newspaper. He can feel his tears slipping down his face, disappearing into the leather, but he doesn’t move. 

Doc sighs, shaking his head. “Naughty. Naughty boy!” 

He bangs against the cage again, and Will jumps. 

“Looks like you might take more training than I thought. But that’s okay, buddy. Isn’t it? We’ve got all the time we need.” 

Will’s heart sinks to his bowels. He still can’t draw a full breath, but he doesn’t think Doc cares. 

Doc reaches into his pocket and slips out a ring of keys. “We’ll get you cleaned up, won’t we? But I want you to listen to what I say here, boy. When you come out of this cage, you’re going to stay on your hands and knees. You’re going to heel and follow where I lead you. And you are not going to fight. If you fight, I’ll make sure you can’t get around any way but on your hands and knees ever again. You nod if you understand, mutt.” 

Will’s head moves, just a little. His nerves are starting to fire again; he’s fucking shaking. 

“That’s a good boy,” Doc soothes. 

He unlocks the door and swings it open, then turns behind him and produces a braided cord with a big slipknot at the end. 

It’s a fucking leash. Will’s chest might rip open if it could. He tries again to suck in air, but he’s crying too hard now to make any headway.   

Doc waggles the loop in front of Will’s face. “You don’t have your collar yet, so we’ll use this slip lead for now. If you tug, you choke.” 

And then he pulls the loop over Will’s head, tugging it snug against his throat. Doc yanks forward, and the cord cinches tighter. If Will couldn’t breathe before, this is not going to do him any favors. 

“Up now, boy,” Doc urges. “We’ll have to get you back to the exam room before the others come in. We don’t want to overwhelm them. I work hard to help them forget what it’s like to be in your place, you know?” 

But Will can’t get up. He can’t fucking move. He’s shaking too much. He tries to push up on his mitted hands, but they’re trembling inside the leather; his joints melt like wax. Doc tugs again on the lead, and this time, Will fucking chokes. 

“Come on now, boy. Heel.” 

He doesn’t get all the way up to his hands, but Will manages to creep out of the cage like a loose-limbed baby, half-letting Doc drag him by the throat. 

“Easy now, mutt. Come on. You’re fine. You’re just fine.” 

Will pushes up on his jittering knees and slides his mitts along the cement toward the door Annie was watching last night. His wet boxers cling to his crotch, already starting to chafe. It’s a small relief that all of Doc’s other–pets? prisoners?--that the others are in the yard so no one can see him this way. 

He hopes Tommy’s with them. That Tommy can breathe. That he’s not so fucking terrified. 

But when Doc opens the door, Will’s hopes plummet straight to the concrete floor. 

Tommy’s there, kneeling on the floor in front of a dog bowl. And he’s eating from it. 

Tommy? Will forgets he can’t speak, and his trapped tongue aches under the weight of Tommy’s name. The sound alerts Tommy, and he looks up, eyes glassy with tears of his own. Greasy brown chunks of dog food cling to his chin. He looks back at the bowl, his cheeks burning. 

“Awww,” laughs Doc. “What a good boy you are, Champ. Eat up now, come on.”

Tommy doesn’t move as Doc closes the door and locks it behind him. Doc doesn’t notice. He snaps his fingers next to his hip and points at the floor next to his feet, tugging on Will’s lead.

 “Heel up, mutt.”

Will barks out a cough, but he does as he’s told, balancing on shaking hands and knees next to Doc’s leg. Careless fingers ruffle his hair. 

“Good boy. Sit. Back on your heels.” 

Will does. He’s across from Tommy now, but neither of them can look the other in the face. 

“Now, Champ here promised he would eat every bite of that food if I brought you in here. He wanted to know you were okay. Isn’t that good of him? A beautiful boy like him looking out for a dirty mutt like you?” 

It is good of Tommy, and Will knows it. If he’s a dirty mutt, Tommy’s a purebred. Will’s head sinks down below his shoulders. 

Tommy pushes up on his hands. “He isn’t–” 

Doc slaps Tommy hard across the face, and Tommy falls over backward, naked limbs flying. Will forces his eyes back to the floor when he realizes that Doc hasn’t even left Tommy his underwear. He’s never seen Tommy naked before. It isn’t–that’s not the kind of friends they are. 

Will doesn’t move, even though Doc’s dropped his lead. He doesn’t do a thing to help Tommy. How can he? He can’t even fucking breathe. 

“Don’t hurt him,” Tommy begs. “I didn’t mean–it’s just that–” 

Will’s gut twists. Tommy is pleading for him, and all Will can do is sit there, like some dumb fucking dog. Doc grips Tommy by his blond curls and dumps him on his knees in front of the bowl again. 

“You keep your mouth in check, Champ, or I’ll muzzle you too,” Doc says casually. “You lick this bowl clean while the mutt watches; he’s got some weight to drop, so you’ll have to do his eating for him.”

Will shrinks down even lower. 

“Will–” Tommy tries, but Doc shoves his face back into the bowl, holding it there until Tommy is practically drowning in brown slop. Tommy’s breath gurgles; Will can’t breathe at all. 

“Eat,” Doc commands. He lets go of Tommy’s head and then steps back to Will, petting his hair with a gentle hand. Tommy raises his filthy face and mouths at the dog food, his lean body shaking with silent sobs. 

“Thattaboy, Champ. Good boy. And when you’re done, both you dirty boys need a bath. We’ve got to get you two camera ready, add you to the catalog.”

Will’s eyes meet Tommy’s, just for a second. 

They are so fucked.  

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @msjessmahler, @highwaywhump, @highwaywhump, @youngchap, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @whumpworld, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk

[wesimpforxiao]

Say My Name and I’ll Be There:  Chapter 10.1

Author’s Note:  Travelers! We are nearing the end of Reader’s journey! (I’m expecting it to end at 10.4 but we’ll see if that ends up being an accurate estimate lol)  Enjoy the newest chapter!

Zhongli was lost in deep thought as you and Xiao faced the Tsaritsa, while Paimon and Aether were arguing on whether they should jump in to help or not.  Despite Paimon's protests, it seemed to Aether that Xiao could very well handle the god on his own.  He wasn't exactly a team player to begin with...

"ZHONGLI!"  Paimon's high-pitched screech finally prodded a hummed response from the former archon.  "We need to jump in!"

"It would be wise for the two of you to leave the palace at once," he advised instead of indulging in the mascot's wishes.  It wouldn't be long now; he could feel the power from the battle reaching its peak.  "Xiao cannot unleash his full power with the three of you here. Your bodies would not be able to withstand it."

"We've already fought with him plenty of times and we're fine!  Don't go underestimating us now!"

"As much as I agree with you, I'm siding with Zhongli.  We'll only get in the way."

"W-Wha-!"  The frustrated emergency food placed her hands on her hips as she gawked at Aether for a few seconds.  Then she turned to Zhongli.  "Then what about her?  Shouldn't we get her out of there too?"

"Do not fret, dear friends,"  the metallic clank of his polearm rang against the floor, "I will retrieve her.  We'll meet again outside.  Go now."  Aether nodded and ran in the direction from which the group had entered--followed by a pouting Paimon.  Zhongli returned his eyes to the throne room as the tiles in the hallway began to freeze over.

"Now."  You and Xiao nodded in confirmation before pushing off the ground in opposing directions.  The air parted for you like the wind had granted a favor, though you had yet to realize you were the one manipulating it.  Metal and gale met ice in a shockwave that sent the Tsaritsa's opponents flying backwards.  

Xiao landed more gracefully than you did and was already at the Tsaritsa's neck by the time you sat up.  He swung his lance down at her, rage filling his eyes.  The karmic debt illuminated his body in black fog, but the Tsaritsa remained unfazed.

She caught the blade in the palm of her hand like it was nothing more than a wooden staff.  The force of the impact sent icy winds ricocheting into the walls.  The support beams and columns groaned unhappily from the jolt, and parts of the ceiling crashed to the floor around the three of you.

"I've killed your kind with ease in the past," she cooed up to him.

"And I've slaughtered hundreds of gods stronger than you."  

"Then you've underestimated my strength."  Her free hand swung towards his chest, with a dagger of ice forming from her palm.

"And you've underestimated mine!"  The chunks of the stone ceiling came tumbling at the god from both sides at a tremendous speed that should've been impossible given their weight.  The hand that was about to pierce Xiao gave up on the idea and went on the defensive to stop the boulders in their wake.  Ice pillared up just in time.  Xiao flipped back with his lance still in hand.  There you stood, on the other side of Tsaritsa with both palms facing her as you controlled the gales.  

How is she manipulating anemo?  Did Barbatos-  Xiao squinted only to find your beltloop devoid of any vision.  And since when was she ever this powerful-

A deranged, fed-up cackle chilled the throne room further, and the Tsaritsa now set her sights on you.  She was before you in an instant.  A breeze was enough to send her back a few inches--a subtle defensive tactic, but it worked enough so that you had a fraction more of a second to react.  Xiao went for her nape, then her knees.  But the god was prepared for the repeated pattern of attack; she ducked enough to expose you to his blade, and Xiao was forced to shift his momentum with exercised precision to avoid decapitating you instead.

A burst of ice emitted from the Tsaritsa and blasted the two of you several feet away from each other.  Xiao, just like last time, landed nonchalantly on his feet while you violently collided with a pillar.  Besides the dull jarring pain ringing through your spine, a sharp one stung your hand as you pushed yourself to all-fours.

"What..." It wasn't the blood that caught you off guard.  Carefully but quickly, you removed the glass from your palm.  Then your tunnel vision dropped to your empty beltloop.  My vision shattered?  When did my-  Realization finally struck you like a brick wall.  How had you been fighting all this time?  How did you have access to manipulate the snow?  Were those stars above you related?  Wide eyes stared at your bleeding hand, your brain pushing out the sounds of the battlefield and of Xiao yelling for you to get out of the way.  When sound finally returned, your gaze trailed upward to find a wall of iced spears barreling at you.

"Rise!"  Another wall of material shot up in front of you, though it was way more solid than the Tsaritsa's attack.  The pillar blocked the spears' paths, then the familiar boots of Zhongli entered your vision.  A hardened gaze met your lost ones, and flashes of a Zhongli in a white hood interrupted the present.  The faint golden glow of his shield shimmered protectively around your crouching figure.  

The archon held his hand out to you with a warm expression.  Mesmerized by his conflicting appearance, your hand met his.  "Rex Lapis..."

Looking down at you, Zhongli couldn't help but see Xiao in your stead just like all those years ago when he had taken the yaksha under his wing.  "Come.  Let us leave now."  It was clear you were having the same sense of deja vu as he was.

You stood obediently, but quickly snapped back to the present moment when you heard Xiao's grunt as he struggled fending off the cryo archon.  "Wait," you stepped away from Zhongli, attempting to get past him.  "We can't leave him.  I have to fight!"

"Xiao is more than capable of handling this matter on his own.  You'd only get in the way."  A grip on your arm was somehow enough to stop you in your tracks despite how light and gentle it was.  Your head whipped back to him.

"I can't abandon him."

"He will join us as soon as he's done. Do you trust me?"

"I-"  Your gaze returned to the violent battle ahead of you.  At some point in your daze, the Tsaritsa had injured him; he was bleeding from his arm from what you could make out.  "Zhongli, I can't leave him.  He's injured.  We can't leave him!"

"Do you not sense the power in the air?"

"Huh?"  The question made you falter, but he was right.  Something about the air was different.  Whether it felt thinner or heavier, you couldn't tell--but there was a clear, crisp feeling to it that wasn't correlated to the icy chill of the Tsaritsa.

"Xiao cannot unleash his full power with you here.  Trust in him; he needs you out of the way."

"...Fine," you muttered with an ache in your chest.  Zhongli pulled you towards the exit as more pieces of the ceiling came crashing down behind you.  You regretted glancing over your shoulder when you heard a cry of distress once you reached the door.  "Z-Zhongli, wait-!"  The entrance collapsed before you had the chance to dive back into the throne room and chase after the sight of a severely injured yaksha.

"We must go!"  He didn't let up his grip on your wrist.

"Xiao!"  The desperate cry fell from your lips this time as you still attempted to fight against the archon's grasp.  "Xiao!"  Please don't die! You come back to me alive, you hear me?!   Please!

..................

Golden hair was the first color other than white that greeted you outside.  "Aether?  Paimon?  What're you three doing here?"

"We must keep moving."  Zhongli finally let go of you and took the lead away from the palace.  His grim expression made your puffy red eyes fill with more tears.  Zhongli said to trust him and Xiao, but what if Zhongli didn't believe that Xiao could win this fight on his own?  

"Come on, it's okay.  We'll get you out of here."  Aether protectively wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled your heavy feet forward.  "Xiao will be just fine."

"Yeah!  He's handled worse than this," Paimon encouraged.  "He'll meet up with us once he's done!"

"Just how far are we going?"  The group must have walked a mile or two from the palace by now--the sight of the shrinking building filled you with trepidation.  That battle would not be easy to win, and it wouldn't be a short one, either.  Still though, you couldn't help but panic at how long it's been already.  "Isn't this far enough?"

"We will rest for a few moments, then we must continue until we get out of Snezhnaya.  Xiao will-"

"I thought we were going to wait for him."

"The country is swarming with Fatui.  We cannot risk-"

"You didn't mention we were going to leave him behind completely!  We can't just leave him, Zhongli! Do you not care at all what happens to him?"

"Keep your voice down-!"  Paimon shushed.  "We can't attract any unwanted attention..."  The ground shuddered, and Paimon's eyes widened as she stared past you.

"What?"

"T-The palace!"

The group turned its attention to the epicenter of the earthquake, and was met with a disturbing sight.  Pillar by pillar, wall to ceiling, the building collapsed on itself.  The palace was reduced to rubble in mere seconds, and the sound echoed faintly until it was replaced by an eerie silence.

"X-Xiao," a faint murmur, then your knees gave out beneath you.  All you could do was stare in shock at the palace, unaware of the tears that streamed down your face.  "Xiao...?  Can you..." hear me?

"Seems the Tsaritsa finished her fight," a foreign voice had everyone but you on edge.  The view of the rubble was blocked by a large hat and blue hair.  "What luck, that I've run into the intruders."

"Scaramouche."  Aether tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

"Hey, get behind us!"  Paimon yelled out from behind you.  "You're in no shape to fight!"

"No...shape...?"  Your gaze finally focused on the harbinger directly in front of you.  He found amusement in your broken expression, his lips even having the audacity to curl into a sadistic, lopsided grin.

"I have orders to kill, but I won't give you the chance for reciting your last words."  He raised his hand to strike you down--

--And was met with a blast of anemo that countered his electricity.  He stumbled back into the snow, his hat even dislodging from his head.  "'No shape to fight?'"  Paimon was met with desolate eyes that lacked their usual copy of an amber tint.  Puffy eyes were dried and replaced with a rendition of anger that was neither boiling rage nor cold revenge.  Zhongli could've described it as similar to the Tsaritsa's change of heart over the centuries.  "I feel perfectly fine, Paimon."

"Are you...?"  Aether took a step forward and lowered his sword when you held your palm out to him as a threat.

"I'm fine.  I'll hold him off.  You guys should leave before things get messy."

"Messy?"

"Traveler," Zhongli caught the attention of Aether and Paimon.  "I think it would be wise to follow her lead."

"But she's not in the right state of mind--"

"I'm afraid that's exactly why we should listen to her.  Come now," he ushered them over and they all began to head in the direction of the border.  Aether was still protesting, but you couldn't hear what he was saying.

"You--"  An angry voice prompted you to turn your head.  "--are DEAD!"

"On the contrary,"  you didn't budge when he came running at you, "it's you who'll die today."

Sparring sessions in the snow with Childe made it much easier to navigate the fresh layers.  It appeared that Scaramouche's time in Mondstat had made him rusty when faced with using the snowy terrain to his advantage, but that didn't stop him from promoting a superconductive reaction whenever he managed to get close to you.  If your vision didn't break, it would be much easier to use that strategy against him.  Instead you relied on an old tree branch as your weapon and the wind to guide your stiffing movements as the temperatures finally bit into your skin.  

Speaking of Childe, where is he today?  He couldn't be waiting at the border to ambush the group...right?  A quick glance over your shoulder gave Scaramouche an opening.  

"Haah!"  Electricity pulsed through the branch that blocked his attack from striking your head.

"Ngh!"  Bear through it.  I've felt worse pain.  I can handle this! "Get back!"  Your hurricane-force winds didn't catch him off guard now that he knew it was your only strategy against him;  you had no idea how to use this unfamiliar power, and while your movements were quick, your inexperience showed.

Scaramouche leapt in time to dodge the gust that tried to sweep him off his feet, and the hat that was in his hand struck your jaw hard enough to bring stars into you vision.  Who knew such a small person could strike like one of those electro skirmishers-

You stumbled and attempted to regain your footing, but not before those all-too familiar jolts rang through your body.  "Ah!"  The snow beneath you didn't help, and neither did the fact that you were now on your knees.  Violent winds whipped blindly in every direction; you couldn't bring yourself to open your eyes.  It seems you were missing your target since you were still being electrocuted.

A sharp kick to your stomach, and you were now staring at the overcast sky.  Then that damned hat obscured your view.  "After this, I'm killing that hero of Mondstat and your retired god."

"Tch."  The taste of iron overwhelmed your tongue.  "You won't kill us that easily."

"What do you care?  You have nothing to live for now that that adeptus is dead.  Die while you still have some smidge of dignity left."

Your confidence faltered if only slightly.  "Take that back.  Take that back!"  You swung the branch at his catalyst and leapt to your feet.  "He's not dead!"  Your aimless, sloppy swings were enough to draw a laugh from the harbinger.  At least, until he kicked you backwards, using his vision to push you further and harder into a tree behind you.

CRISTCH.

W-What...Involuntary tears of pain made it difficult to see where the wound was until the pain pinpointed somewhere around your right kidney.  What just...?

"Good, right where I want you."  Scaramouche began to stalk over with his catalyst floating closely behind him, eyes glinting with satisfaction at the growing spot of blood at your abdomen.

"The tree..ngh..."  What do I do? What do I do? I'm pinned.  I can't--I can't think straight--

"Hey girlie, hold still."  TWISH.  The firing of an arrow rudely interrupted the battlefield and the force of his elemental burst knocked your opponent off his feet.  The voice of a dangerous man shouldn't have been this comforting.

"C-Childe?  What the hell are you--"

"What the HELL are you doing?!"  Scaramouche readied his catalyst and sat up prepared for 'friendly' fire.  Anger practically radiated off of him.

"Making amends.  What does it look like?"  The harbinger emerged from somewhere behind you and moved so that he was between you and your opponent.

"What...?"  Your whisper reached his ears, and Childe glanced at you briefly.

"What a gorgeous sight you make, ojou-chan!  Your blood on the snow is simply breathtaking."  The friendliness in his eyes emptied.  "Unfortunately, I'll have to cut my admiration short.  Can you move?"

"Ngh, I think so.  Give me a minute."

"Perfect," he returned his attention to his fellow harbinger.  "Sorry to interrupt, but you won't be killing her today.  And I have to say, Scaramouche, I've been looking forward to this for a long time."

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Wordcount: 2k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm

Masterlist here 

AO3 link here

Author’s Note: And we’re at the penultimate chapter! Am rly excited to hear what you guys think - so please, drop me an ask, a note, a comment, anything!!! Thank you for following this fic with me <3

He stays away from her over the next two weeks. He still picks Shino up from childcare - he’s never leaving his little girl again - but takes Osamu’s advice to duck into the kitchen the minute he hears the bell chime to mark her entrance into the shop. 

‘Is everything alright with Atsumu?’ he hears her ask Osamu after a week of radio silence from him. 

He imagines Osamu just shrugs, because his twin later gives him a look of askance that he ignores. 

‘Meet me on Sunday afternoon? Was hoping to have a quick chat and pass something over to you since my arm is out of its sling.Osamu agreed to take Shino for a couple of hours, so don’t worry about her’, he texts her. 

‘Fine’, she texts back. ‘Works for me’. 

‘Hey’, he greets her as she opens the door, fighting the impulse to scruff his shoes into the ground like a nervous schoolboy on his first date. 

‘Hey yourself’, she responds without heat, slipping on her shoes. ‘Shall we?’ 

He nods, turning on his heel and she follows suit, their footfalls matching in pace, though they angle their bodies to avoid each other’s gaze in the lift. They do not exchange a single word until they reach the car park, and he leads her past all the cars to a dim corner, lit by a single flickering electric bulb.  

‘Atsumu - what’s this?’ she says, staring uncomprehendingly at the motorbike parked in front of her, the exact replica of the bike she sold when she got pregnant with Shino, albeit updated with a shining coat of new paint and the latest modifications, top of the line. 

‘Surprise?’ he tells her, unable to hide a grin when she runs a hand reverently over the seat of the bike. 

‘I can’t accept this, ‘Tsumu. It’s too much’, she demurs but he knows she’s fallen in love when she’s unable to tear her eyes away from the bike.

‘Sure ya can! I registered it under yer name, and paid for the parking fees for the year, and look! It even comes with a helmet!’, he assures her, crossing his fingers behind his back. ‘Ya can ride it whenever ya have time to yerself - I’ll make sure I or ‘Samu will take Shino-chan for a couple hours every weekend so ya can go break some speed limits on the bike!’ 

‘This isn’t a bribe, right? Or some attempt to trick me into agreeing into something I don’t want to do?’ she asks him suspiciously. 

‘No - no tricks, I swear on my life. Look - I’ve signed the divorce papers, they’re in my bag. I just wanted to give ya the bike as a partin' gift’, he says, keeping his voice deliberately light. 

She stares at him, searching his face for any sign of duplicity, but he holds her gaze until she turns away, satisfied. 

‘You never do anything by halves, do you ‘Tsumu? But thank you anyway’, she laughs breathily and his heart lurches to a start when he sees her slowly start to glow whilst fussing over the bike, exclaiming to herself as she admires the paint job and the extra compartments he’d gotten the mechanic to install. 

Watching her brings back memories of their adventures together before Shino came along. She’d pick him up for a ride to the outskirts of Osaka on their rare days off, in search for a spot to lay their picnic mat down and shoot the breeze. They’d never found that perfect picnic spot, but that just meant that there were more places to explore, more roads to traverse, more adventures for them to go on. That’d all stopped once Shino came along, and he wonders if they wouldn’t be in such a state if he’d put in more effort to carve out more time for them.   

And even before that - there was the time she’d surprised him by turning up in Kobe for one of his matches, sweeping him away from his confused teammates right after the match to celebrate over egg mayo sandwiches at 7-11. He suspects that was the day he’d fallen in love with her, half realising that she was probably the only person crazy enough to burn hours on the road on the back her rusty old bike right after an exam, just to stay up all night sitting cross-legged in a dim combini with mayo in her hair, listening to him ramble about his volleyball match. 

Wow. 'Samu's right. Even the reason he fell in love with her was fucking selfish. 

‘Hey ‘Tsumu’, he hears her say after a while and he looks up. ‘Wanna go for a ride?’ she asks brightly, twirling the keys around her finger. 

‘Huh?’ he responds, genuinely perplexed. 

‘A ride, you idiot. Don’t you want to find out how the bike feels on the road, especially since you’re the one who paid for it?’ 

‘Sure’, he says, a little lost - but then again she’s always found ways to keep him on his toes. ‘But there’s only one helmet’. 

‘I still have my old one upstairs. Give me a second so I can get it!’ she rushes off, a spring in her step he’s sorely missed seeing and despite the ache in his heart, he smiles. 

His smile vanishes the moment she kicks the bike full throttle and hurtles through weekend Osaka traffic at breakneck speed, making such sharp turns he almost falls off the bike if he weren’t already clutching her waist for dear life. ‘Oi! Look out!’ he yelps, as she weaves her way through narrow gaps between cars, seemingly deaf to the horns of outraged drivers behind her - and fuck he wants to puke but can’t because there’s no way that doesn’t end badly for him. 

‘Slow down, you fuckin' maniac’, he manages to shout when his stomach gives itself up for dead, but the wind swallows his words and she only whoops in response. The neon city lights blur into a mess of colours and he runs through his repertoire of curse words. He swears she’s evil - it’s not enough that she’s killed him once by divorcing him, her insane riding is going to make sure he’s doubly dead.

They burst onto the highway in a squeal of tires, the city skyline fading into a sea of lights, and they’re both so focused on the road ahead of them, well – she is, at least, he’s trying his level best to stay on his seat - that neither of them notice the dark clouds gathering above until the first splatter of raindrops on the road. 

The sky is threatening enough to make her swerve off the highway into a quiet neighbourhood, screeching to a halt at the nearest park with an empty shelter large enough to fit both of them. They jump off the bike, helmets dangling over their arm, and she catches hold of his hand as they splash their way through muddy puddles in a bid to escape the incoming storm. 

‘That was amazing!’ she laughs when they reach shelter, twirling on the tips of her feet, cheeks flushed pink with excitement, looking so happy and bright and alive -  like a bird spreading its wings to fly high in the sky, the way she used to be before their marriage broke her wings and shackled her to the ground. 

If only he hadn’t been blinded by the false allure of his dreams to appreciate what was right in front of him - a woman bold enough to whisk him away from the clutches of deranged fans on the back of a motorbike, fierce enough for Osamu to assign her to deal with his bullshit - and most of all, crazy enough to marry and have a child with him. And he knows she isn’t his, not anymore, but he's a greedy, selfish man, and he wants her one last time, so he throws his jacket over her shoulders as a pretext for drawing her close to him, slanting his mouth gently over hers. 

She stills for a second, and he’s about to pull away when she melts into him, tilting her chin up to grant him greater access to her lips. An unexpected heat coils in his stomach when she tangles her fingers in his hair, scraping her nails against his scalp, a thrill running down his spine as he loses himself in her familiar softness and warmth and groans.

She gasps, jerking away from him, tracing her bruised lips with her fingers, looking up at him with wide eyes.

‘Tsumu’, she begins to say, but he cuts her off, frantic with worry that he’s scared her off before he’s had the chance to say his piece. 

‘I’m sorry - I know I shouldn’t have but I just...can I just say what I meant to say to ya before this?’ he asks, banking on the fact that she hasn’t slapped him yet, and to his relief, she nods. 

‘I’ve thought about what ya said, and yer right -  I’ve taken so much from ya I don’t deserve to ask ya for anything else, not when I should be the one making it up to ya for the rest of my life,’ he says, his heart cracking beneath his ribs (so it’s true, a heart can actually break) – because he knows now she’s lost to him, has been the second he'd forsaken his vows and stormed out of her life, but he gulps a breath to calm his pulse, forcing himself to continue on. 

‘All I want is for ya to be happy and free - and if signing these papers is the price I have to pay, I’ll do it for ya’. Then he draws the brown envelope from his bag, holding it out to her with shaking hands. 

She makes no move to take it from him. 

‘Do you even love me, ‘Tsumu?’ she asks, her voice feather light, a wisp in the wind. ‘Be honest with me, you don’t have to lie’.

There’s a searing pain in his chest and he closes his eyes, losing himself to the undercurrent of regret pulsing in his mind. 

‘I do’, he manages to choke out, peeling aside the rotting layers of vanity and greed and selfishness and pride to flay his chest open to present his heart to her, in all its bleeding, broken glory. 

‘Yer everythin’ I could’ve ever asked for, and it’s killin’ me to watch you walk away - but I deserve it cos I’m a fuckin’ idiot for not realisin’ that sooner, and ya have no idea how fuckin’ sorry I am for hurting ya so badly and making you think that I don’t love ya - because I do, gods, I do, I love ya so goddamned much.’

‘Does our marriage mean that much to you?’ she stares at him, her eyes clouded with an emotion he can’t make out. 

‘Yes’, he says simply, his response both a confession and a prayer. He makes no move to touch her, fearful that any misstep might tip them both over the edge, the storm of emotions swirling within him already threatening to swallow him whole. 

‘Then ask me again, ‘Tsumu’ she whispers, her fists clenched, trembling by her side.    

He blinks at her, but his confusion morphs into elated disbelief when she takes the brown envelope from him and rips it cleanly in half. 

Oh. 

‘Ask me again, ‘Tsumu’, she repeats, the clouds in her eyes clearing into pools of light. He wonders if it mirrors the rush of warmth and love and most of all - hope, overflowing in his heart. 

‘Wanna try jumping off a cliff again?’ he asks, voice shaking, echoing the request he made of her years ago.

She steps forward into his waiting arms, her smile like golden sunlight spilling through grey rain.  

‘Only if you promise to jump with me’, she says softly against his chest. 

He catches her forgiveness desperately in his hands, and seals his promise with his lips. 

[alexaplaysgames]

Hideaway

Pairing: Felix Escellun x GN!MC

Fandom: Fictif (Last Legacy)

Rating: T (swearing, dorks making out)

Words: ~2600

Description: Felix and his barista explore his childhood home.

Notes: Felix has all my uwus 🥺 did not post five fics in one day (yet) but I might if convinced.

Thanks to @callioops for the inspiration :)

Please go easy on me I am in no way a fanfiction writer by nature but my love for Felix has evidently overpowered my insecurities ;)

Edit: Uhh.... I was debating between settings for this and realized I made it super ambiguous, so I’ve edited it now!

Warning: This is heavily canon divergent now. Oops.

I’m not even sure how I ended up here, to be quite honest.

But I would’ve had to be crazy to have predicted such a thing- a portal to another dimension (is this another dimension?), a towering manor overflowing with stuffy furniture and servants, a raven-haired goth (although he would protest to such a description) with a bird skull strung around his neck. Honesty, his fashion sense is questionable, though admittedly charming, but I nonetheless can’t seem to get him out of my head.

No, this is the stuff of fantasies born to the insane, of perhaps just the slightly deranged.

I’m not protesting, however, quite the contrary. As I pull Felix through the winding corridors of his childhood home, trying not to thing about the smooth softness of his cool hand in mine, I can honestly say that I haven’t had such fun in a very, very long time.

“Stop, stop!” Felix laughingly protests between laboured breaths, tugging on my hand. I gradually slow to a halt, our footsteps echoing in the large, surprising empty corridor, and Felix slips his hand from mine to brace his hands on his knees as he pants. I try to ignore the resulting disappointment that pangs in my chest and grin.

“You doing okay there, bird boy?”

Apparently, he still has the energy to raise his head and glare.

“My apologies, dear barista, that I have not your physical endurance.” He rolls his eyes, then pauses and smirks. “My being a magical prodigy has spared me the effort of such trivial things as exercise.” He spits the last word out with a scoff.

My grin widens as I saunter closer, placing a finger under his chin to raise his gaze to meet mine from where he is still bent over and panting.

“Perhaps we’ll just have to work on your stamina then, won’t we?”

Felix’s cheeks flush that pretty red that I know has nothing to do with exertion as he ducks his head. I smirk as I turn to examine the nearby wall, giving him time to collect himself. How fun it is to make him blush.

A row of framed paintings lines the wall, all of the equally bizarre. I try to make sense of the faces in them, but the harder I look, the more blurred they become. They are all covered in a discernible layer of dust, indicating that this hallway is rarely used. A peculiar sort of coldness rolls off of the strange pieces, one that has me averting my eyes from the freaky, obviously magically concealed paintings.

“Do you think anyone will find us here?”

I question as I turn to see Felix straightening and running a hand through his hair. I try not to let my eyes follow the motion, choosing instead to meet his icy gray gaze.

He seems perturbed as he looks around, biting his lip. It’s as if he’s just realized where we are. His fault for letting me lead him through the monstrous maze that is his home.

“No. Escell has not entered this corridor in years. I’m surprised he has not blocked it off. He rather enjoys avoiding all things that make him uncomfortable.”

“And what makes him uncomfortable about this wing?”

“Too many memories, my dear. Memories he would prefer to keep locked up.” Though he says it with a smirk, tapping one black-painted fingernail against his temple, it comes out only as sounding rather sad.

I open my mouth to reply, but am interrupted by a sharp-

“Master Felix! Enough with your foolish hiding!”

Felix’s eyes widen as he visibly flinches. “Great goddess, have mercy.”

The voice of Madam Usoro, an angry, mean, lump of a woman, sounds like it is coming from just down the long hall. I cringe inwardly, and probably outwardly, at the thought of meeting her again. According to Felix, she was one of his many childhood nannies (the only one that actually managed to survive his torments), and judging by her scowl, she hasn’t had a “me day” since then.

Unfortunately, Escell also assigned her the task of watching over Felix.

“Ridiculous,” he huffs, “it is as if I am nine years old again!”

My gaze darts frantically between the doors lining the walls, not sure where any of them lead.

I grab Felix’s sleeve and tug, though his eyes stay trained on the end of the hallway, his expression resigned.

“Felix!” I hiss, “which of these goddamn doors will get us out of here?”

He merely sighs. “Why bother? My inevitable capture fast approaches, thus I have decided to be accepting of my fate. I will remain here as a prisoner for the rest of my days while Escell continues to treat me like a babbling infant.”

Great. Now really isn’t the time for his dramatics. I lunge forward and lock my hand around his wrist, tugging him once more down the endless corridor of doors. I feel Felix stiffen as I go to open the first door that catches my eye, but I yank it open and pull him inside before he can protest. The door shuts with a satisfying click and we are alone in a strange, dark room.

“Felix?” I cannot see a thing.

A flash of light, and then Felix appears, a green

orb of light glowing in his palm. I suck in a breath as I take in the captivating way the light hits his features, highlighting his long eyelashes and silvery eyes.

“Apologies! I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

I shake my head, unable to divulge to him the truth. I can’t have him knowing about my strange infatuation. Though I often indulge in what I consider to be harmless flirtation, I know Felix obviously isn’t interested in me. Just days ago he was crying over me, thinking I was someone else! The thought is sobering, and I shake my head.

“What is this room?”

“Ah,” he appears uncharacteristically lost for words. “This is... nothing. We can wait here, I’m certain she’ll cease her endless badgering soon enough.”

I send him a thumbs up before I turn to examine the room. I might as well look around, if there’s nothing else to do but sit around.

“Wait!” Felix’s sharp cry is especially harsh in the quiet of the strange room.

My head jerks up. “What is it?”

“I simply think it best not to carelessly voyage through the uncertainties of the dark. You haven’t a clue what you could stumble upon.”

Something about his tone sounds off, but I sigh and move back towards the door anyway. I have learned that there is no use arguing with him.

I’m almost near the safe haven of Felix’s orb of light when my foot slips on something. I manage to catch myself, but lean down and pick up the offensive item out of curiosity.

It’s a bound, leather notebook. It looks worn, from what I can tell in the faint light, and I flip it open to the inside cover, ignoring Felix’s faint protests in the back of my mind. On the right page are lines of scrawling, messy and unintelligible handwriting. But that’s not what catches my eye. On the left, the page reads:

Property of Felix Iskandar Escellun

I lift my gaze to meet Felix’s guilty visage.

“This is yours?”

He cringes but attempts to hide it with a shrug. The movement does not at all look natural on him.

“You are aware I was raised here?” He snatches the journal out of my grasp with his free hand, then quirks a brow. “Why are you surprised to find an object previously in my possession?”

Felix is an atrocious liar. I glance around the room and suddenly it hits me where we are.

“This was your bedroom, wasn’t it?”

Although Felix is, I assume, currently staying somewhere else, his reaction leaves me with no doubt in my mind that this used to be his room.

Felix bites his lip (he really needs to stop doing that lest I get distracted) then slowly nods. With another sigh, he presses his palms together, then spreads them apart until green light flows throughout the room, the night vision goggle-like effect making it look like we’re on an episode of ghost hunters.

“I would rather not spend time sifting through old memories,” Felix says quietly from beside me as I observe my surroundings.

The room is relatively sparsely decorated. In the centre of the opposite wall is a large, canopy bed, the sheets tossed to the side and the curtains haphazardly thrown about. A large desk is pressed up against one wall, overflowing with notebooks and stacks of parchment, and a bookcase on the opposite wall is spilling over with messily arranged books. A large, elegant armchair is piled high with odd boxes near the middle of the room, and an open armoire is empty save for a pile of clothing laying at the bottom. The whole place is a mess, and though the furniture is very fine, Felix’s attempts to hide that fact are quite obvious. The few windows are boarded up, the curtains surrounding them singed. In fact, there are several odd burn marks on the floor, and I don’t think they’re due to the large stone fireplace.

“Wow.” Very eloquent of me to say.

“Ugh. I despise this room.”

I drift curiously about making note of the objects in the room. Aside from the pieces of writing, there is very little here to signify that the room was Felix’s.

I walk over to the window and am pleased to find the the large wooden board covering it is relatively easy to dislodge. Behind it, there is a window seat, and I glance out the window to see a view of the rolling hills that stretch far and beyond, illuminated by the moonlight.

Felix flops onto the window seat with a sigh. I sit beside him and try to ignore the fact that our knees touch.

Felix squeezes his eyes shut. “I apologize for my theatrics, dear barista, but I would truly rather leap off the highest tower of the castle of Porrima than suffer through living in this room again.”

I refrain from telling him that I did, in fact, almost leap off the castle’s highest tower, and it is not as fun as he makes it out to be.

He hardly ever speaks of his past without flippant disregard for true emotion. “Will you tell me why it was so bad, Felix?”

His eyes shoot open and he scoffs, though his eyes glisten in the moonlight which shines through the window.

His voice is small as he replies. “I was forced every day to live a life I hated in hopes of pleasing a father whose love I already knew I would never earn. I have never felt so useless, so pathetically desperate, as I felt here. And here I am, back again. All my work to escape this place has been for naught.”

My heart aches for him, the expression on his face causing a physical pain in my chest.

“Felix...” I say softly, and before I even register what I’m doing, my hand is grabbing his.

Felix meets my gaze, eyes wide. Every time I touch him he gets so surprised, and I wonder how often he has been touched lovingly in his life.

“I would never think you useless, Felix, never. You are so extraordinary, so brilliant, and it’s a shame that you can’t see it. You have done so much for me and... I need you. Not just to get home, I don’t even know if I care about that anymore, but because you’ve make me so happy, Felix. Being with you feels like being able to breathe. I know that everyone else has left you, but I promise you, I never will. Never.”

His lips part in shock at my words and this time I can’t stop my eyes from flickering down to his mouth. He is so beautiful. I would do anything to kiss him, even just once.

Felix raises his hand and his fingers draw lines down my cheek, making me shiver. Then he leans forward and presses his forehead against mine, closing his eyes.

“Thank you.”

The words are said so quietly that I barely hear them, but I don’t need to with the gratitude that seems to roll off of him in waves.

“Felix?”

“Hm?”

A pause.

“Do you ever think about me?”

“I... I- of course I do. You have consumed every aspect of my waking life.” I can hear a slight teasing in his voice.

I lick my lips. “Do you ever think of me like you think of Rime?”

I can feel him flinch at the name and am about to apologize before he speaks.

“Rime is gone. A necromancer knows better than to waste energy attempting to recall what has been truly lost.”

“Oh... I-“

He sounds so incredibly sad. Whoever Rime is, I’ve no doubt that Felix loved this person. Though I know I shouldn’t feel jealous of a dead person, envy ripples through my stomach all the same.

“I... do. Think about you.”

And the meaning has changed. He pulls back with a shaky breath, cheeks bright red. “I know I am not the most naturally affectionate person, but I-“

He thinks about me. My heart does a fluttering little happy dance at the thought.

Screw it. If I leave this world, I don’t want to have any regrets.

And that’s the thought that propels me forward as I crash my lips into his with a longing I have never before felt. Felix gasps against my mouth and stiffens, and I panic. What the hell am I doing? But no sooner has the thought left my mind then he relaxes and kisses me back. He kisses me back! And I’ve never felt anything more wonderful.

His hands come to set at my waist as mine cup his face, feeling his jaw work as he kisses me and that makes it all the more real that he is kissing me and this isn’t some sort of fervour dream. I pull his hair free from its tie and tangle my fingers in the silken locks of his hair, and god, it’s just as soft as I thought I would be.

Felix kisses like he talks- a little hestitant, full of passion, and enough to make your head spin. It feels like I’m falling, I don’t know which way it’s up and which is down, just like when he rambles on about spells I could never hope to comprehend, but the drop is thrilling because I’ve wanted it so badly and for so long. At first it’s slow, soft, but I want, so I press myself harder against him in effort to let him know that’s it’s okay for him to let himself take from me what he needs.

HIs hands tighten around my waist as he pulls me closer to him, hands drifting over my sides, and I smile against his lips at his momentary display of forwardness. I retaliate by tugging on his hair that flows between my fingers like water, causing his lips to part against mine as he gasps, the perfect opportunity to slip my tongue into his mouth and I’m worried that I’m moving too fast but he moans. I sling a leg over his thigh and we’re grabbing at each other like horny teenagers now-

Felix pulls away with a gasp (I knew we had to work on his stamina). We’re both breathing hard, echoing in the quiet of the large room, and he blinks rapidly; he looks rather like someone hit him over the head with a brick.

I smile at him, running a thumb over his lower lip, and he lets out a pained noise somewhere between a whimper and a squeak.

“I liked that,” I whisper.

“You- you did?”

I nod. “Of course, Felix. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long.”

“R-really?”

I roll my eyes, responding by leaning forward and pressing another chaste kiss to his lips.

“Me too.” He whispers it like a secret, one that I’ll gladly hold forever in my heart.

Felix tentatively reaches and takes my hand in his, flipping it over and drawing little patterns into my palm as he turns to stare out the window again. It’s soothing, and I don’t really pay attention to the patterns. But after a while I think he starts inadvertently drawing hearts into my skin. It’s rather cute; I didn’t take him for a romantic.

“Master Felix!” The voice sounds from not too far outside Felix’s bedroom door.

“Shit.”

I’m afraid I don’t possess his way with words.

Our eyes meet and we both burst into a fit of giggles as the sounds of Madam Usoro’s footsteps gets louder. Trapped as we are, she’s bound to find us soon. Somehow, I’m not worrried. Nothing could ever take Felix from me.

And he knows that I will never leave him.

[mearcatsreturns]

15 for Abby/Luka

For reasons ;)

Under a cut because it's long.

July 2003

To: Luka Kovac <“croatdoctor65@aol.com”>

From: Abby Lockhart <“nursefirecracker@yahoo.com”>

Subject: I’m drowning and praying ghosts are real

Dear Luka,

Something about knowing that I’ll never talk to you again is just unbearable. I’ll never laugh at your malapropisms, look into your beautiful eyes, feel your strong hands holding mine, or make love to you again. There won’t be any more jokes about jam and cheese on toast, or you teasing me for my weak but constant supply of coffee. I’ll never hear your amazing, deranged laughter after you prank someone again. No more of your hugs—which are somehow the best hugs in the world. Because you’re gone.

It’s been three days since we got the call telling us you died thousands of miles from home, whether that’s here in Chicago or in Croatia. I didn’t know your dad’s name, Luka. We needed to call him, and I didn’t know. How did I not know? And now I can’t. I mean, L’Alliance told us his name, but the fact that I’ll never learn pieces of your history, of the wonderful man you are, FROM you...how am I supposed to go on and live my life?

For years, I’ve thought medicine was my great thwarted love. I’ve wanted to be a doctor for so long, and I thought I was bitter about having to let go of that dream. Now I wonder. I let obstacles get in the way of pursuing medicine, and it’s made me...well, it’s part of why I was so unhappy. But that makes me think about how I also let obstacles get in the way of us. I was happy with you, you know, until I let fear and my mother and Carter get in the way. God, I wish I could do that over again. We could have had everything, and if I hadn’t gotten in my own way, I’d be happy. I think maybe I could have made you happy, too.

It’s funny. I knew things with Carter weren’t working, and he implied you were part of it. I said it wasn’t, but then five minutes later, I found out you were—are—dead. And I realized you were the reason, or one of the big ones. As soon as Chuny told me, I knew I loved you and had loved you for years. Yeah. Great timing, isn’t it? I keep thinking that maybe I could have kept you from going if I had known or if I had told you. I didn’t want you to go when I thought you were my very attractive friend and ex that I still was fond of. Knowing that I love you—how do I move past that? Knowing that I lost you, first to my stupidity and then to death?

I just...I miss you, and I don’t when I’ll stop, or how to. Susan caught me crying on my last shift, and I didn’t even know what to say. I feel like I’ve been crying or standing still, brittle and stuck in time, since I heard the news. I can’t, Luka. I know I have to keep on moving, and I thought maybe writing you would help. I know you’ll never see this, never have a chance to respond. But the idea that some fragments of your soul linger and can maybe sense...I don’t know. That I’m writing? What I’m feeling? Jesus, this is crazy.

All my love,

Abby

Abby angrily swipes the tears from her eyes. God, what’s the point of writing this? He’ll never see hsi email or her again. Just...without Luka, how can the world be anything but grim and sad and pointless?

She laughs mirthlessly. Maybe it doesn’t matter. No, she knows it doesn’t. Because Abby knows the futility of it, aches with the meaninglessness, she presses send without another thought.

&&&

Three days after that, a miracle occurs. Luka, the Lazarus of this new millennium, comes back from the dead. He’s never been dead, and maybe, Abby thinks, there’s a God above after all. So many people wish for this exact boon, and she—they, the world—gets it. Some higher power believes this planet is a better place with Luka Kovac in it, and Abby is ecstatic.

Until she remembers the email and that they can’t be unsent.

It’s fine. She’ll be fine. Luka is coming back, apparently with a French nurse. Maybe he’ll just delete it without reading it. Maybe it didn’t go through—how does email work for the dead, and how quickly is all that processed?

Abby shakes her head. It doesn’t matter; Luka is alive and returning to them. She can handle a little awkwardness in the face of the sheer joy of knowing the world is a brighter, kinder place. He’s coming back, and that’s what’s important.

&&&

August 2003

It takes Luka almost a week after returning to Chicago to convince Kerry and the other staff to let him go back to his apartment. Even so, they only agree when Gillian assures them she’ll see to his every need.

Abby winces when she hears that, and it makes something flutter in Luka’s chest. Which probably isn’t good for his malaria, but the hope...that is.

It’s another two days of lying in bed before he has the energy to ask Gillian to bring him his laptop. At this point, it’s been months since he’s checked his email, and Luka grimaces at the undoubtedly horrible state of his inbox. He briefly considers never checking again and just getting a new one, but he knows his father struggled to add him to his contacts once already. To expect it of him again would be absurd.

With a sigh, Luka opens his email. It’s just as bad as he feared. He snorts at the myriad messages about Viagra, Nigerian princes, and Russian brides, deleting them without thought. He saves a couple from his dad. He slowly whittles down his inbox, but he freezes when he gets to one email in particular, sent about a month ago.

It’s from Abby, during the time everyone thought he was dead.

Luka considers calling and asking her if someone hacked her email or is sending spam from her account, but the subject line...it looks real. And Abby’s been odd around him lately, seeming both deliriously happy to see him and awkwardly nervous.

His heart pounds, and he clicks to open it. If this is a spammer, they’re probably about to get whatever they want.

&&&

Abby pours herself another coffee, internally swearing as she prepares for the last two hours of her shift. Deciding to go back to school is great; having to coordinate all the details is less thrilling and leaves her tired and cranky.

Frank ducks his head into the lounge, beady eyes narrowing on her. “Hey, Abby. The Croat is on the phone for you. Line 2. Try to get back out there as fast as you can, Weaver’s yelling at the med students about IVs.”

“Okay, Frank,” Abby says, though she flushes and her palms start to sweat. It’s fine. She can always hide the panic and butterflies in her stomach with sarcasm. It has yet to fail her.

Frank gives her one last suspicious look, then nods and heads back to Admit.

Abby takes a deep breath, then picks up the phone. “Hey, Luka?”

“It’s me. Glad I could reach you. How are you?” He sounds...ugh. So good. And eager and happy, and her heart could leap right out of her chest.

“Doing all right. I just have a couple hours left on this shift, and it hasn’t been too awful today. Only one MVA. How about you? You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Recovering. Listen, did you want to come over for dinner?”

“Please tell me you’re not trying to cook.”

“What? I’m a good cook, even if you don’t appreciate wonderful, traditional Croatian dishes,” he says with a chuckle.

“Luka, you just got out of the hospital five days ago. You still need to be resting.”

“Abby, don’t worry so much. I was just kidding. I have some sandwiches from Manny’s, and Anna sent me home with lots of matzo ball soup too.”

Abby bites her lip. Of course she wants to go. But the prospect of spending the evening with Gillian cooing over Luka, knowing that she shares a bed with him, is decidedly less appealing. And there’s the email she sent, which Luka hasn’t acknowledged. He might well have deleted it, or he’s giving her a gracious out.

Her conscience twinges as soon as she thinks about bailing, though. Didn’t she promise herself she wouldn’t take life for granted anymore? She’ll go back to med school, she’ll have dinner with Luka when he asks.

“Abby?”

She starts, realizing she needs to respond. “Yeah, sorry. Yeah, I can do that. I can be there an hour after my shift, if that’s okay.”

“Sounds great. Looking forward to seeing you.”

“Me too.” He has no idea how much, even if she wishes she knew for sure that he’d deleted the email.

&&&

Abby rings Luka’s doorbell three and a half hours later. She’d meant to come straight from work, but after a patient vomited on her, she decided to head home, shower, and splurge on a taxi to Luka’s. The poor man is recovering from being deathly ill and doesn’t need County’s fumes making things worse.

There’s the sound of the deadbolt sliding, and Luka answers the door, grinning happily at her. “Good, you made it! Come on in!”

“I did. Sorry it took me longer than expected.” Abby steps into his apartment, looking around. It’s been such a long time since she’s been here, and she notes the subtle changes in the art and decor.

“No worries. I know how it goes.” He places a hand at the small of her back, guiding her inside.

Abby stiffens for a second at how his touch burns even through the layers of her shirt and light jacket, but she relaxes, enjoying the feel while she waits for Gillian to appear and end the fleeting joy.

Luka is unfazed. “Now, of course we can just eat the sandwiches, but if you want to heat up the matzo ball soup, you can. Since you don’t want me standing,” he says with a wink.

Abby smiles back, shaking her head. “Oh, I see how it is. Make the woman who worked all day do more household work when she gets ho—wait, where’s Gillian? Isn’t she supposed to be taking care of you?”

“She’s not here,” he says simply.

Going to the fridge and taking out the containers of soup, Abby places them in the microwave. Is Gillian out for the evening, or is she gone gone? “Shouldn’t you be with her? Or her here with you, whatever.”

Luka is quiet for a long minute, and Abby wonders if he intends to answer. Finally, he breaks the silence. “I asked her to leave.”

Abby’s pulse speeds up. “What? Why?”

Luka takes a deep breath, clearly ready to respond, and—

The microwave dings, and they both jump. Exchanging a sheepish look, they laugh.

“Look, let’s get some food, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Abby dishes up their soup and sandwiches, preparing trays so they can sit on the couch. Luka turns on the television, and Abby’s heart rate comes back under control. They sit together in companionable silence while they eat and watch Thom and Jai and the rest of the Fab 5 whip some hapless lawyer’s life into order. When they finish their meal, Abby cleans up, taking the trays back to the kitchen.

She heads back to the couch at the opposite end from Luka, not daring to get closer when she really has no idea what’s going on.

Luka clears his throat and mutes the TV. “So, yeah. I asked Gillian to leave.”

“Oh. So, um, did you break up?”

“She was never my girlfriend, really. She has a boyfriend back in Montreal, they just…” Luka shrugs and runs a hand through his hair.

Abby is more lost than ever. “Ah.”

Taking a deep breath, Luka continues, finally looking over at her. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful she helped me get here and took care of me, but we were never serious.”

Something starts to tug at Abby’s heart, squeezing and twisting and kicking to get free. Is it...hope? “Well, I’m glad she got you here safe, but you should have someone staying with you while you recover, Luka. Malaria is dangerous.”

He gives her a look. “I know how dangerous malaria is. I’m getting better. And besides, it wouldn’t have been fair for me to ask her to stay when things are over because I’m in love with someone else.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Someone else?” she squeaks.

Luka nods, swallowing. “Yeah. And I have a reason to think she might be in love with me too.” He slides over to her side of the couch, reaching for her hand.

Abby meets his eyes—those beautiful green eyes that are the best color in the world—and squeezes his hand, incapable of words. Does he mean…?

With his other hand, Luka reaches up and cups her cheek, running his thumb along the subtle arch of her cheekbone. “Abby, if you’ve changed your mind since you sent that email, please tell me to shut up.”

That stupid, ridiculous email might be the best thing she’s ever done in her life. She leans into his hand, licking her lips as she shakes her head slightly. “I haven’t changed my mind. I didn’t mean for you to see it and hoped I could learn how to hack computers and delete it but—”

Luka cuts her off. “I would never forgive you if you managed to delete it. You wouldn’t believe how much faster I healed after that.”

Abby leans forward, sliding into Luka’s waiting arms. “Then maybe I’ll write you some more emails.”

“Emails aren’t what I want right now,” Luka says.

Funny, Abby doesn’t either. Then his lips brush hers, and all her worries and fears fade away. She knows she has to tell him about med school and he needs to finish recuperating, but when Luka deepens their kiss and pulls her closer, Abby ceases to think at all.

She has Luka back, and now they have each other again.

[sooibian]

The Spy Who Loved Me

gif credits @byunvoyage​

Pairing: Spy!Baekhyun x Assassin!Reader ft. Chen, Chanyeol

Description: It’s an obsessive cat and mouse chase

Themes: Dark comedy, angst, heavily inspired by season one of Killing Eve

Warnings: Violence, strong language

Word Count: ~2.8k

A/N: This one-shot comes during a very busy season for me so if you can make time for feedback, I’d be very grateful. Thanks :)

———————————————————————–

It’s the way light escapes their eyes.

Fear. Despair. Hope. Then…nothing.

They hope to be spared. I have a family…what about my children…please…why are you doing this to me…. The utterly foolish ones even offer you money. This imbecility makes the corners of your mouth curl upwards - especially when they’re out of breath from running or begging or whatever it is that gets their heart rate up. Eh. Factor in some cardio before dissolving into a permanent state of slumber, maybe? Poor things always mistake the twitch of your lips for impending clemency…what they don’t know is that it’s always been the breathy ones that peak your excitement.

There’s not a single hit you’ve regretted.

Mostly because you don’t bother with the futility of why. They give you a name and you jet off. To you, it’s really a fun job involving travel, costumes, languages, a hefty allowance, sticking pointy objects in the right places and theatrics. You’re not one to just do your job and slip away quietly. No arterial air embolisms, no unidentifiable fumes or poisons. No boring and discreet.  Where’s the fun in that? Flamboyant is your middle name. Every assassination is a heroi-comical poem for you - killing an asthamatic nez with a fatal concoction of perfume or a feeble-hearted fetishist with clamps that turned out to be a wee bit too intense for him.

You’re good at this. No, infact, you’re the best there is, the best there was, the best there ever  will be.

“The NIS has deployed a team of four to hunt you down because of the mess you left in Beijing. So you’ll be working with a team now. No more flying solo.” Your handler Chen says nonchalantly. 

Shit.

Beijing. “Make it look like a suicide”, had been the directive. The assignment Kasia had been put under witness protection after you’d murdered her mafia boyfriend. She was in a hospital - injured and deranged from the shock of it all, watched over by armed men. Things obviously didn’t go as planned and the security detail bloodbath was, well, collateral damage.

You saunter towards Chen with an intentional swing in your hips, a pout on your lips. You sit a little too close to the astute man, almost purring with seduction, “NIS, you say. Give me a name." 

“Byun Baekhyun.” His lips curl into a cat-like smile as he stealthily adds a foot long distance between the both of you.

“Never heard of him”, you say neutrally, gliding closer to his stoic form.

“He was a security officer before this. A nobody. In fact, he was fired right after the Kasia debacle in Beijing. She was his responsibility.” Letting out an exasperated sigh, he gets up on the pretext of fetching a glass of water.

“Why the sudden promotion, then?”

“A change of jobs. He’s heading a team…Operation Jinseong, they call themselves. Apparently, he’s the only one who believed that the murders have all been executed by a woman. If they can get to you, they can get to them. The organization. This conjecture has seemed to have impressed a higher up. After firing him, they swept his computer and found hoards of theories and all the intelligence he could gather about the faceless demon that’s actually…you. An insider thinks he’s fascinated. And a little cuckoo.” Chen’s laughter is throaty and taunting. 

He takes a sip of water and places the glass carefully on the counter, eyeing you the entire time. Chen. It’s a nom de plume. He’s a ghost - a shadow of a shadow, if you will. You know nothing about Chen but you know better than to snoop around. He’s always been affable yet distant, but he has this maddening habit of scrutinizing people. The changes in the expression, the dilation of the pupils. The man doesn’t miss a beat. And he stares unapologetically. You wonder what he thinks when he looks at you. You wonder how he feels. Disgusted? Lustful? Terrified?

He wants to know everything that’s behind those vacant eyes. With him, you feel disrobed.

“You’re only as good as your last”, he says finally, in his threateningly soft voice, thrusting a thumb drive into your hand. But you don’t feel threatened. The truth is, you feel nothing at all.

He’s at the door when you exclaim, “You never have sex with me!” Feigning annoyance.

He laughs and states matter -of-factly, “I’m married”, before closing the door behind him.

Like that’s ever stopped a man before.

***

Byun Baekhyun.

You search the thumb drive and a fresh faced man with luminous eyes smiles at you from the screen. His arm is wrapped around a slender, honey-skinned woman with big hair and big teeth. They look like an advertisement for home buyers.

A wave of recognition floods your mind.

He was there. 

He was there at the Beijing scene. The beautiful man who helped you with the coffee maker in the hospital. The very same coffee you doused barista Kasia with. 

There’s an inexplicable swell in your chest.

.

.

.

You’re no team player.

The undertaking with your ex and her boyfriend didn’t go as planned. Chen should’ve known. 

After a disagreement, you instigated her to off him, your shin getting injured in the scuffle. Then you ran her over with the jeep - once, twice. The third time was just to be sure. This commotion affected the escape of the NIS Agent you were after.

The mole that ratted out Baekhyun’s Operation Jinseong. 

The murders of your “colleagues” you could manage to explain - you’d tailored them to look like accidents. However, the assignment’s escape was sure to reflect poorly on you.

You’re only as good as your last.

The Agent scurries across a field of dead grass towards the feeder road, putting considerable distance between him and an injured you, where someone sat waiting anxiously in the driver’s seat.

Oh, Baekhyun…

It’s the first time you look into each other’s eyes, the moment stretching between you. It is like standing on the ledge of a skyscraper. With the wind in your hair, the world at your feet but in this space exists trepidation. A fear of falling.

Your gun wielding arm suddenly feels too heavy and your legs threaten to give up on you. Your heart rate escalates as the hot embers of his gaze gloss over the stretch of your skin. 

The mole slips into the backseat of Baekhyun’s compact Kia Morning as you continue to take aimless shots at his vitals - eyes still intertwined with Baekhyun’s. 

What good was a mole to the NIS?, you wanted to ask. Especially one that looked like a sewer rat.

You were only doing them a favour.

Aiming the gun at Baekhyun, you fire, only to realize he isn’t fearful or panicky. On the contrary, there is a sense of purpose in his eyes as well as something you could only identify as a glimmer. A spark. 

Even from a twenty foot distance you can tell Byun Baekhyun is in awe of you.

This…thing…this electricity surges through your veins and you sprint towards your jeep - as fast as your good leg could carry you. 

Oops. You didn’t mean to run over her for the fourth time.

***

Reverse. Acceleration. A few well thought out turns and your jeep is hardly a hundred meters behind Baekhyun’s car. You continue to fire and he continues to dart, swerve, sidestep. A good driver.

Suddenly, his car comes to a screeching halt.

He steps out of his vehicle amidst shrill cries of protest from the mole in the backseat and you follow suit.

Weaponless, crouched, he inches towards the gun pointed at him. 

“I mean no harm”, despite his scared posture, his voice is confrontational. “Leave the man alone. He has a little girl.”

Oh, Baekhyun…

You smile at him. He smiles back.

A genuine smile. Like the one your father used to give you when he saw you relishing ice-cream as…a little girl.

In a flash, you aim the nozzle at your temple and Baekhyun cries out a loud, pained, “NO!”

Laughing, you lower the gun and fire at his feet. He ducks. 

You vanish.

.

.

.

It was exhilarating to use the alias ``Mrs. Byun ” for your next job especially since the man and his giant partner have been on your tail for three months now. 

But, maybe, you shouldn’t’ve stolen Baekhyun’s luggage as soon as he landed in Tokyo to investigate the mysterious death of a Chinese colonel. He and his team knew perfectly well whodunnit. But one can’t bring faceless demons to book now, can they?

Who knows how this easily distracted giant of a man is supposed to protect Baekhyun if it should ever come to it. He couldn’t even watch his luggage for a measly five minutes.

***

You watch Baekhyun and the giant from your apartment overlooking the crime scene. He looks frazzled and the giant slightly apologetic. ‘You’ll have your bag back soon, baby’, you whisper, sucking on a bubblegum flavoured lollipop.

Thirty minutes roll by and the investigation seems to be heading nowhere. Bored out of your wits, you slump into your bed and toy with the contents of Baekhyun’s bag - shirts, slacks, underwear, toiletries.

Dull, tedious, and soul-destroyingly unimaginative. 

Save for one green scarf. 

In a sea of monotones, the scarf stands out. Demanding attention. Fluttering your eyes shut, you slowly bury your face in it - your senses entirely enveloped in his heady scent. 

***

“Excuse me, if you don’t mind me asking, where did you get that scarf from?”

Day two in Tokyo. You’ve been following Baekhyun (and, by extension, Chanyeol). Studying him. It was like adopting Chen’s personality. Apart from the occasional loud laughter, his demeanour, you learn, is self-effacing, gracious, and polite. He’s a picky eater who only eats to live and not the other way round. He’s also very observant and intuitive. But not enough to know that he’s being watched. 

Also, he’s thinking. Constantly. He’s thinking about you. 

“Excuse me?”

Chanyeol asks again - large, deep brown eyes focused on your neck trying to stop you from getting onto the same train as Baekhyun. 

Very subtle.

“It’s from my mother’s store. I could give you the address if you like”, smiling, you crane your neck to look into his disturbed eyes as you both pretend not to know each other amidst a swarm of dog-tired people on the platform at six in the evening.

You slip into the crowd but the oaf chooses to follow.

What does he think he’s doing following an assassin through a strange city! Unarmed.

Forty minutes elapse and he continues to chase you through the streets of Tokyo, keeping up with your brisk pace. With your easy charm, you breeze into the club called Camelot and wave Chanyeol goodbye as he’s stopped by the bouncer and sent to the back of the line. His eyes are dark with a murderous rage.

The club is loud, dark…stuffy - the air thick with over-the-counter happiness. Definitely not to your taste but you stay to give Chanyeol a head start. He’s pissed you off and he’ll pay for it later. Not today. 

You really didn’t want to upset a tired Baekhyun. At least not until you feel a beefy hand weigh down your shoulder.

“I didn’t want to do this”, you rise on your tippy toes and whisper into his ear before sticking a short blade into the side of his stomach. He’s heaving as you stare into his round, childlike, startled eyes while supporting his stumbling weight and stabbing him repeatedly until he finally collapses.

You leave him to bleed out on the dance floor and on your way out, you grab the arm of a medium-built man, your blood-dipped, glistening lips stretched into a lascivious smile.

“Let’s put you in a costume first”, you say to the unassuming moron, excitably thinking of Baekhyun’s dull shirts.

.

.

.

Grief draws people closer, your grandmother used to say, every time someone died of sickness in that impoverished little village of yours.

Baekhyun’s grieving the oaf who was slowing him down. He’s looking for company. So..he’s snooping. 

He’s in your apartment.

The “trusting old lady” - your next door neighbour, who actually works for the same organization as you handed him the key exactly as instructed. You’d been expecting him, this meeting was long overdue. But you wait in the cute little French cafe just around the corner - watching him scout out your apartment through your phone, while devouring a Charlotte Russe cake - dressed pretty in a flouncy pink dress.

He’s careful not to make a squeak. Walking on tippy toes, running his beautifully slender fingers along the drapes, the furniture, the walls as he goes. Your skin tingles all over. Oh, how you wish to be a piece of furniture in the moment. Only Baekhyun could make you want to be something muted and inanimate. Furniture, mattress, drapes.

He saunters slowly to your blackwood Georgian cupboard. The one you use for your wigs, costumes, weapons, and his own green scarf. He wears the scarf around his neck, ruffles the costumes but he’s gentle with the wigs. Stroking and caressing. 

From the drawer he picks out a .38 and shoves it in his waistband. Right behind his hip bone.

Oh, Baekhyun…

Pretty boys and their dangerous toys.

He finds himself in the kitchen. The revolver seems to have straightened his spine and suffused his step with a very welcome spring. Mi casa es su casa. 

In the fridge he finds exactly what he’s supposed to. No food. Only a dozen bottles of celebratory champagne of the best kind. What comes next from him is a scornful snicker which fills your mouth with a bitter taste. The Charlotte Russe doesn’t look very appetizing anymore. He draws a bottle out of the fridge, studies it and smashes it onto the floor. Then another, then another until all the bottles are reduced to shattered glass dripping in gold strewn across your kitchen floor.

Playtime is over, Baekhyun.

You make a run for your apartment.

***

He’s exhausted. 

Breathless, air tousled, shirt crumpled, eyes droopy, beads of sweat lined across his forehead and upper lip - standing clueless, smack-dab in the middle of the mess he’s made - clothes torn off their hangers, furniture overturned. You can’t recognize your upscale Seoul apartment anymore. Careful around the glass, you make your way towards his still frame, withdraw the weapon from his light, jaded grasp. 

You take his hand in yours and lead him to your bedroom - which is entirely ransacked just like the rest of your house. Save for the bed.

He lies down on his back and his first words are, “God, I’m tired.”

“Me too”, you say, as you lie facing him, “Are you wearing the cologne I gave you?”

You’d sent him a bottle of cologne along with the bag you had nicked in Tokyo, as a token of appreciation. It was handcrafted to smell like power.

He hums, turning to the side to face you, nestling into the depths of your irises.

“Are you going to kill me?” He asks, eyeing the revolver in your hand.

Your heart falls to pieces at the ache in his voice.

“No”, you say simply, tossing it to the side.

“Really?”

“I promise.”

Relief ripples across his soft, boyish features smoothing the lines of worry as it goes.

“You’re all I think about”, he says, studying your face. And you’re left wondering yet again, about his thoughts. His feelings.

“So you trash my apartment?” You sound as gentle as you can. But if you’re honest, you don’t even have to try that hard.

“I lost my job, my partner, my wife left me, and I even lost my sanity because of you.”

With his dulcet touch, he traces along the edge of your lips.

“Fair enough. I think about you too. I mean, I to you masturbate a lot.” You say as your thumb rubs his cheek lightly.

He lets out a loud, embarrassed giggle that makes him look a decade younger.

“Too much?” You ask, apprehensively.

“No, I just wasn’t expecting that.”

And with that you’re both inching closer to each other, like magnets.

Baekhyun’s soft gaze darkens and simultaneously you feel something sharp poking at your stomach.

“You can’t do it”, you wrap your hand around the blade, almost mocking him. He’s too nice for something this abominable.

“I can”, he whispers, his eyes still nestled in yours, as he plunges the blade deeper, tearing you apart. 

He places a chaste, soft kiss on your forehead.

Fear. Despair. Hope.

“Sorry, baby.” 

Continuation - My Lovable Curse

[cl-01-kestis]

Shut Me Up - Jerome Valeska x Female Reader | Part 1

Summary: it’s been revealed that Jerome was the killer all along, you can’t process the information and try and convince yourself to visit Arkham Asylum to have a word with him.

Prologue <

Warnings: None

It was a few days since your encounter with the strange circus boy, Jerome. You had a hard time getting him off your mind, especially with loads of schoolwork and your job on the agenda.

Your father and Leslie didn’t update you about anything to do with the case about Lila Valeska, you were eager to know but whenever you asked Jim he’d push it to the side with a clenched jaw and tense figure. It didn’t make any sense to you as to why he was hiding stuff from you, you were one of the only, if not the only person to comfort Jerome when he was crumbling about his mother’s death. It’s understandable as to why you’d want to know who was behind this diabolical crime.

Thankfully, you remembered you had Harvey and visited him at the GCPD whilst your dad was away on some other mission. Leslie was in the morgue so you were in luck, Harvey could help you discover who was behind the murder.

For some reason, it took a hell of a lot more convincing than you expected, Harvey was stubborn and insisted it was best if you didn’t find out. He was acting strange, secretive. If there’s one thing you hated, it was being lied to.

Harvey tried telling you it was no use but you were desperate, Jerome had such an impact on you it was almost scary. You’d never acted this way towards someone before, especially to do with one of your fathers cases. Harvey eventually gave in due to your constant bickering and whining about him keeping secrets from you. He warned you multiple times about preparing yourself for what you were about to see as he guided you into one of the empty security rooms which was dark, tv screens and camera feeds airing through.

You sat yourself down on one of the seats, Harvey sitting in the one beside you and typing in something in one of the computer data bases of the GCPD. It took less than a minute for a security camera feed to pop up and cackle to life on the screen before you, revealing your Dad and the boy who was on your mind constantly.

“Again, please prepare yourself” Harvey whispered, turning up the volume of the feed so you could hear it better.

You watched intensely as the interrogarion filtered out between your dad and Jerome. He was crying, that poor boy. Your heart ached for him and you wish you were there as the interrogation went on. But, slowly you started realising something wasn’t right.

Jim started accusing Jerome of killing his own mother, the boy looked completely appalled at your dads accusation and you were too. How could he say that?

“Don’t be deceived” Harvey butted in once again, fast forwarding the camera feed and stopping it to point at Jerome’s face.

Something was wrong. A new man was sitting next to Jerome, a blind man with a walking stick and grey hair. Jerome was crying, his head ducked and eyes squeezed shut. But everything around you seemed to shut off when the ginger headed boy started laughing to himself, shoulders bobbing with each chuckle he made. You felt your heart drop when his emotional facade came to a close and his eyes held such evil and darkness. This wasn’t the Jerome you met at the circus.

“Why did you kill your mother, Jerome?” Your dad asked, hands pressed on the desk as he faced Jerome with a face full of thunder.

“Oh, you know how mothers are,” Jerome scoffed. “She just kept pushing... and I’m like, fine, mom. Be a whore, be a drunken whore, even. But don’t be a nagging, drunken whore” Jerome’s voice growled with venom as he finished his sentence, his words catching you completely off guard as you watched through tears and leaned back in your seat. Harvey watched with sympathy as you covered your mouth with one hand.

“I don’t believe it” You choked, leaning forward and pressing your elbows onto the desk as you hid your face in your hands. Harvey awkwardly patted your back, trying to comfort you as you sobbed quietly to yourself, to pity yourself that you’d been so oblivious.

“I gave him so much support, I told him about my past- oh fuck Harvey what am I going to do if he’s after me?” You panicked, gripping the sides of your hair as you lowered your head and sniffed back more tears. Harvey was quick to assure you.

“The lunatics been locked up in Arkham, you’ll be glad to know. He’s not getting anywhere near you anytime soon” The detective said, you looked up through your hands and breathed out a sigh of relief. You rubbed away the tears only to have more falling down as you tried to compose yourself.

“Jim didn’t want you knowing because he knew you’d react this way, he’s just looking out for you, kid” Harvey rubbed your shoulder before leaning over and switching off the camera feed, only for you to stop him halfway.

“I need a moment Harvey, I’m going to look over this stuff” You sighed, turning to face the computer once again and finding your way around the controls, reversing the feed so it went all the way back to the start. Harvey wanted to say something, he certainly didn’t want you to hear more of what was yet to come in the tape.

“I’ll leave you to it, but you got 10 minutes” He pointed his index finger at you in a warning manner before saying his farewells and leaving the room, closing the door behind him so you could bathe in the darkness and soil in your grief as you replayed the feed.

Whilst you were watching the interrogation, you felt sick to your stomach as Jerome laughed like a maniac and started talking to Jim about you. You felt scared, targeted by the most insane man you’d ever met, well, seen. You didn’t understand why he’d done this, why he’d drag you along with his little act and make you out to be a fool. It destroyed you more than it should’ve.

Jerome smiled and spoke about you in a somewhat positive manner, at least not threatening Jim by doing anything to you as he sat back in his chair cockily and continued giggling. You tried not letting the butterflies get to you when he said different sugar coated words that were bitter sweet.

“That girl back there was so sweet; ...yours, isn’t she, Gordon? Certainly gets my blood pumping, seeing that innocent face of hers... poor thing, thinking I was a good little boy” Jerome teased, grinning from ear to ear as he cackled. Your dad looked like he was about to kill Jerome, balling his fists and clenching his jaw as Jerome continued taunting him with crude words and snarky comments. You couldn’t take anymore of the torment and switched off the feed, standing up from your seat and leaving in a hurry whilst trying not to get caught by either Jim or Leslie.

Ever since then, you’ve been struggling with trusting anyone at all, even your own dad. You stopped opening up to people because of Jerome, you stopped being who you used to be. Of course, you were still friendly and kind, happy and bubbly, but you didn’t say anything to anyone about your family or personal life. You had over shared your life to a psychopath who slaughtered his own mother, it’s safe to say you have a reason for not opening up to anyone now a days.

It’s been around a week since Jerome was sent to Arkham and to say the least, it was taking a toll on you. With exams coming up and endless studying, you couldn’t seem to get your head down and concentrate because of the handsome red headed deranged teenager. Your dad occasionally checked in on you about Jerome and how you were feeling, usually you said you had to study which always ended with him giving up on trying to get you to open up to him and leave your room.

You and your dad didn’t always get along since the very beginning. He adopted you when you were 9 years old and at first you didn’t like him. You didn’t speak to him very much and spent little to no time trying to get on with him because of your traumatic past. You came from an orphanage with abusive caretakers and nuns, other girls like you were just the same when they were adopted by couples or single parents. However, as the years went by, you warmed up to Jim and started speaking to him like a daughter would with her father. He became the only person you ever trusted and it was still the same to this day. Jim fought hard to help you, he fought hard to keep you in his care and bring you up as his own considering he never had the chance to have his own kids. He adopted you in his mid 20’s with not much experience of being a parent so your relationship was strange to say the least.

When you started high school, that’s when you started changing and forming a new identity. The girl who was once vulnerable and terrified of human contact and so much as speaking to someone was finally blossoming into an outspoken omnivert who’s curiosity outshone everything around her. Jim was proud to say the absolute least, his girl was growing up and now, here you were at 17 years old, almost graduated high school and spending more time with him than you ever had in your life.

Jim knew how much caring about someone fragile meant to you. You thoughtlessly cared for people who were complete strangers but were suffering of some kind. That’s why when you comforted Jerome, he had a feeling it would turn in a different direction. And it did, it did alright. It was worse than anything he ever imagined which is why he never wanted you to find out about Jerome’s true character. Your heart was too fragile for this kind of stuff, your empathy and sympathy towards people was your downfall and for all Jim knew, Jerome could’ve killed you if he wanted to. The thought made him shiver alone.

When Jim was off to work and left you alone in the house, he had a horrible feeling something would happen to you and he wasn’t there to protect you. Even though Jerome was locked up in Arkham, he couldn’t help but worry. Of course he had to worry, his father instincts were hammering him and he hated leaving you alone, considering there were a few occasions when you got caught up in a couple of his cases and ended up being put in danger.

Jerome was different though, unlike the others Jim could see that you really cared, or used to care, for Jerome. You never formed any connections with any of your dads cases but Jim could see the look in your eyes when you bid the red head farewell. Your eyes were full of sadness and sympathy, Jim had never seen you look so upset before, so the fact Jerome turned out to be the complete opposite of what he seemed to be was the worst possible thing to happen. Jim kept the tapes and recordings of the interrogation away from you, covering up the truth with assuring lies that seemed to keep your curiosity and urgency at bay. But you were one step ahead of him and knew everything there was to know.

Jerome was a cold blooded killer, a killer with an innocent act you were so stupid to fall for. You weren’t worried about being killed, it wasn’t the first thing you thought about. It was the fact that Jerome was buried in your mind like a parasite. His crocodile tears and whimpers invested themselves in your memory and you could only see Jerome as a sweet, gentle teenager. You hated the way you felt whenever he crossed your mind, you certainly weren’t the type to get caught up with a boy but this was different.

Everything felt different.

-

You were finding it hard to keep your composure as you stood in front of the gates to Arkham Asylum. It was 3pm in the afternoon and it had been a while since you’d viewed Jerome’s interrogation tapes. You held your coat tight to your body and waited to be let in, leaning on your toes and rolling your balance back to your heels in an attempt to distract yourself from tie burning anxiety cackling in your stomach and chest.

You gave Arkham Asylum a call before you arrived, so you were expected and it saved you from explaining yourself as to why you were here.

“You must be (Y/N) Gordon, follow me please” A man dressed in a white shirt and a doctors coat unlocked the gate and let you inside, closing it with a loud clash behind you which made you jump suddenly. You didn’t like this, but you had to remind yourself that you’d be here for a short moment and then you’d never have to visit again. You were here for one thing only, and that was Jerome.

You reluctantly followed the man into the main entrance of Arkham, hearing yells and screams from the windows of cells around the building. You weren’t entirely terrified but you were wary enough to fear for your own health as you entered the building and took off your coat.

The man lead you down hallways and past many cells where insane inmates rattled the bars that replaced the small window in the door. You tried not to be intimidated by them but you’d never been in this sort of environment before.

Eventually, you were led into a room which was full of booths, the room separated in half by a long stripe of glass. There was stalls to sit at, boards at either side so there was a form of privacy within the person and whoever they were visiting.

“Mr Valeska will be happy to have a visitor, if anything happens please report it to me and I’ll have it taken care of” The man nodded to one of the stalls at the end, leading you to it and pointed out a small red button at the front of the table. It was an emergency button, in case of any emergency’s.

“Thank you” You mumbled, sitting down in the seat and exhaling out a shaky breath. The man left and closed the door, the noise of it slamming scared you briefly but you quickly composed yourself and cleared your throat.

You kept your feet flat against the ground, legs fairly spread as you sat comfortably in the chair and held your coat in your lap. You waited for a few minutes at most, tapping your fingers against the table which was split in half by the glass and hearing the sound echo around the visiting room. No one else was here, it was clear this wasn’t a popular day for visiting inmates, lucky for you.

A loud buzzer rung out in the room and you almost fell out of your seat as a result, placing a hand on your chest and feeling your heart speed up in your chest as the door on the other side opened.

Two guards walked in, holding a familiar ginger by each arm and leading him to the booth you were sitting at. Jerome’s face was empty until his eyes met yours, smiling the same creepy smile he had in the recording of his interrogation.

“You’ve got half an hour” One of the guards said in a stern voice before leaving the room and slamming the door shut. Silence was cut short when Jerome started giggling to himself, straining in his handcuffs as his hands rest on the table.

“Well look who came to visit me! I must say, it’s nice seeing your pretty face again” Jerome snarled with a grin on his face, his eyes narrowing slightly as they looked into yours.

“Why did you lie to me?” You cut to the chase, crossing your arms as a glare made its way onto your face. Jerome only laughed.

“Not even a hello? You’re boring” He repositioned his arms so his elbows rest on the table and his hands held his face. You didn’t lean back and instead moved closer, you weren’t scared of him.

“I don’t have time for games, Jerome, I trusted you!” You slammed your fist against the table, frowning as Jerome continued smiling as if you’d told a funny joke. This whole thing was a joke to him.

“Trusted me huh, that’s your mistake, doll” His voice lowered a tiny bit and the fact he was right made your blood boil. You clenched your fists, looking away from his face and down at your hands.

“What, are you sad because the person you had so much faith in turned out to be crazy? News flash! We’re in Gotham! Sorry I hurt your precious feelings, doll” Jerome started getting meaner with his statements, leaning closer so his head was inches from the glass. You didn’t move, you didn’t even feel like replying, but you were stuck in a room with him for the next half hour so it wasn’t like you could just leave.

“Stop calling me that” You hissed at the red head, feeling hopeless as he started cackling and leaned back in his chair, cuffed hands still on the table.

“Nope,” Jerome started, putting emphasis on popping the p.

“You are, you remind me of one; small and fragile, easy to break... easy to tear apart” His voice was low and had a seductive ring to it, but you weren’t going to let his words hurt you. He was terrifying as it was, but there was a wall of glass between you. You had nothing to fear.

“I’ll have you know I’m none of those things, you know nothing about me” You snapped back.

“Oh really? What about that time at the GCPD when we were outside the Interrogation room? From what I recall... you were an orphan, lost both of her parents, no siblings and no real family there for her. You’re favourite colour is red, you like cats, especially the ginger kind, that’s what you said right?” He smirked. You stared wide eyed at the psychotic teen sitting in front of you, horrified as you looked away once again and tried swallowing down the lump in your throat.

“You go to Gotham high school, you’re 17- oh! And your father’s Jim Gordon” Jerome continued, grinning from ear to ear as he watched your eyes begin to glisten with tears. You looked back up at him and Jerome swore he saw a fire in your eyes.

“You know, my mother never loved me. She never cared about what I did or where I went, she always spent her time fucking strangers and getting high, she neglected me most of my childhood... do you know what that’s like?” Jerome’s smile faded and he looked at you with a stone cold serious face, eyes boiling into your soul as he clasped his hands together and tilted his head to the side.

“I do” Was all you said in reply, gripping your upper arms as you fought back tears. Jerome smiled once again and winked at you in some form of congrats that you’d actually made common ground with him about something.

“Did your real mommy and daddy leave you?” Jerome pouted, putting on a baby voice as you sniffed and started slipping, tears falling at last and the lump in your throat taking over.

“Stop it” You whimpered.

“Oh but it’s true, they left you at that orphanage, didn’t they? Poor little baby, all alone... but I know,” Jerome lowered the volume of his voice so it was barely above a whisper. He looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered, it made your stomach churn in a good and bad way. You tried denying his lingering, sincere gaze but your eyes betrayed you.

“How can you understand? Your mother may have not looked after you but at least she didn’t throw you away” You snapped, gritting your teeth together in anger as Jerome stated silent for a few seconds.

“I may not know what it’s like to be given away, but I know what it’s like to have no one there for me. You’ve been alone your whole life, all by yourself, but not anymore... you have me now” Jerome’s Cheshire-like grin returned to his face and you were so close to feelingc comfortable around him. Now you felt the same nauseating sensation buried in your stomach that was only there when he was around.

“You can go to hell if you think I’m coming back here, you’re lucky I even came here-“

“Yeah, your right, I am lucky” Jerome snapped, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and blinking up at you with eyes that didn’t exactly scream insanity. You had yourself on the edge of a sharp knife, you kept wobbling about whether to get the hell out of Arkham, or stay and take time to see Jerome, if he was really as insane as you thought he was.

“You amuse me, doll,” Jerome purred.

“You know, you’re the first person to ever treat me with compassion. Not even my mother held me in her arms like you did... it was a strange experience” The red head looked at your eyes and down to your lips, biting the inside of his cheek as his hands played with the cuffs. You tried looking away but his eyes held you in place.

“I didn’t ever get enough of it; affection, it’s my instinct to give what I never received” You said, not much emotion in your voice but Jerome seemed to be impressed with himself that he got a sincere reply.

“Shame really, if I hadn’t been caught, do you think you would’ve fallen in love with me?” Jerome smirked, licking his teeth teasingly as you tensed in your seat and let out a frustrated sigh. The tension in the visiting room was thick and the two of you looked at each other with narrow eyes. You no longer felt anger or disgust towards Jerome, he was still an insane inmate at an asylum so you couldn’t let your guard down too fast.

“It’s too late to ask that, Jerome” Was the last thing you said before the buzzer from earlier rung out in the room, signifying that your visit with Jerome had come to an end. The red heads eyes were wide with shock, he wanted to say something but the two guards from before came in and grabbed his arms.

“Goodbye, Jerome” You mumbled, standing up from your seat and waiting for him to leave before you did. The door on your side opened and out came the man who escorted you in.

“Well, that went pleasantly well” He smiled, watching as the door on the other side opened and closed. You nodded once, not saying anything as the man turned around and lead you out.

“Would you like me to send updates about Jerome’s behaviour?” The man turned his head to ask you.

“Oh no, I’m okay thank you” You cleared your throat, looking behind you as you walked out into the hallway outside the visiting room, feeling like Jerome’s eyes were still on you the whole time.

You had to get out of here.

[starcrossedyanderes]

Beauty and The Birds Part 9

Warning: This chapter contains former abuse from parents, religion (mostly cult-ish stuff), mentions of  ‘The Catholic Church’, and supposed witchcraft. A long with general harm of a person because of them being different. If any of this effects you I recommend possibly not reading this. If you are facing any of the above (except for maybe supposed witch craft) you can access this website for help https://www.thehotline.org/ this is the domestic violence hotline and are generally good for a lot of situations.

Disclaimer: I, as always, do not condone this behavior in any sense. A made up sort of cult-like religion is brought up that tries to hide itself as The Catholic Church. I have absolutely nothing against the catholic church as I am personally a protestant (but of course you know how us protestants feel) and I have nothing against what people believe in as long as no one gets hurt. This is based off of the sad incidents of exorcisms and how the are most commonly performed on regular children and how they quickly turn violent. Please, this is never acceptable. You should never be harmed by your religion or because of your religion.

~Previously on Beauty and The Birds~

“Isn’t that cannibalism?”

“Doggo!”

“Sheepies!”

“No. Other birds. I don’t think there’s another like me.”

~Back to Beauty and The Birds~

“It’s a uh.. long story that I haven’t shared with anyone. As you can tell I’m not exactly the best at communicating-“

He physically backed into himself with a blush on his cheeks and a hand rubbing his neck. You physically drooped as you started to walk away.

“Okay, I guess you don’t want to tell me-“

“NO!”

At seemingly the speed of light and a large ‘whoosh’ the bird man appeared right in front of you with his hands spread.

He had this deranged look on his face that seemed to become more and more common as the days passed.

He stepped closer to you with a shaky crazed smile on his face.

“No, no! I’ll tell you! I would tell you anything.”

He placed his hands on your shoulders to pull you in closer as his smile only widened.

“I would do anything for you. You just have to ask and I would tell you whatever you could possibly want to know. As long as you stay so couldn’t care less. It’s all worth it.”

Hm, he seems to show a lot of territorial behavior and desperation. Could this be part of a courtship sort of thing. He seems to be quite attached for only knowing you for what? 2 days? You’ll have to look into that later.

His smile and piercing gaze finally softened as he seemed to return to his normal self.

“I will admit this is a rough topic for me so I would rather if we could instead talk in the nest.”

You eagerly nodded your head as you gripped your discreet recording device as you were flown up to the top floor’s glass observatory.

It seems the nest acts as a comfort sort of place for him. Somewhat how some animals do during heats and pregnancy’s. From what you can tell he isn’t in a heat (although it could explain some things) and he certainly isn’t pregnant so it is quite odd behavior for a bird to exhibit.

~|~

You were currently perched inside the nest as you awaited on Avery’s return. He, to your annoyance, insisted on getting a few snacks

You irritably clutched on a corviknight plushie you found in the nest before it was quickly abandoned on Avery’s return. 

In his hands he carried various junk foods but there was an odd one that stood out from the rest.

Tater tots.

After putting down the foods on a little side table he quickly joined you in the Blanket Void TM and quickly into you. His wings wrapped around and whilst spreading sent a turtle duck plushie off of the bed. He quickly let out some gentle cooing as he nuzzled deeply into your neck.

“I’m ready to answer your questions now.”

“Alright, how about an easier question to start off. What’s with the tater tots?”

Of course this question was just a ruse to make sure your device was recording and genuine curiosity.

Avery’s head pulled away from your neck and a frown pulled at his lips. He then proceeded in what you like to call his ‘bby voice’

“Is there something wrong with them? They’re my favorite.”

That-that was not the answer you were expecting. Huh, that’s odd.

“Oh, nothing. Just genuine curiosity.”

Avery immediately relaxed back into your arms after popping a tater tot into his mouth. 

“Now, you say you don’t think there’s anyone else like you. Is it because you believe to be the last of your species?”

He stiffened up once again before digging himself more into you.

“Well no, I think. I don’t believe I am part of a species. This may take a while to explain and please bare with me. This is a rough topic that I haven’t really been able to share with anyone.”

You eagerly nodded your head and made sure to give him some headpats which only induced some coos to leave his throat.

“Well my family were rather wealthy and owned an airplane company and I think we did general logistics stuff. We were also rather catholic although now I think we don’t quite fit that term. At least hope not for the sake of people who are actually catholic.

My mother was the heiress and received a lot of suitors. She was supposedly cursed by one of her suitor’s mother after turning him down. We think this may have led to me.. being me.”

You felt rather disheartened but also even more intrigued by this information. So he doesn’t seem to be part of a species, but an odd mutation? (You highly doubted this is from some curse.)

“So where exactly is your family now”

After speaking you popped a tator tot into your mouth.

“I think about 5 years ago my parents, ironically enough, died in a plane crash. I was pretty much only allowed on the estate, the woods, and the church after my wings developed so I wasn’t allowed with them. That was probably a mistake on their parts.”

You waved your arms a bit.

“Hold up, you siad you weren’t allowed anywhere after your wings developed. Does that mean you weren’t born with them.”

Avery let out a reflexive chuckle.

“Ha ha, well I technically was born with them. I was a healthy baby but I had these bumps on my back. Of course everyone was concerned about these being tumors so I was tested frequently. Turns out they were merely bone and somewhat.. hollow. As I grew the bumps started grow into my wings today. The bone thing is also why I take a good bit of calcium since they’re so fragile.”

“But why weren’t you let anywhere after they developed?”

Avery let out a sigh as he mentally prepared himself.

“After the doctors kinda figured out I was somehow growing wings paired with my purple eyes my parents were very excited for me to be an angel like thing. Yeah, I don’t know their understanding either. Maybe consider me as a miracle of the lord of something? Either way they were rather hopeful of this and treated me like a regular son with giving me an education to run the business. But then I got my feathers. Their dreams of an angel were crushed upon seeing that were not pure white but instead a dark black. They became horrified and I was forced to spend a lot of time at the church and was forced to have exorcism after exorcism performed on me. It.. wasn’t pleasant to say the least. My parents quickly hated me and locked me away. But they still needed an heir and they feared to have another child so I was still given an education as I sometimes needed to appear to confirm that they were nice enough to keep me alive.”

You felt some water cascade down your neck as you could place your arms around him in a hug.

“A-Avery that’s awful. I-I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Avery gained a small smile as he pulled away from you hug with tears still gliding down his face.

“Y-You’re the first person to every say sorry to me.”

“Oh, Avery. No one should be deprived of that.”

You forced a small grin on your face to try and cheer him up.

“Ok, no more hardcore questions. Stuff that shouldn’t make you cry now. Sorry to open those wounds like that.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I said I would tell you anything. And I’m honestly over joyed to share anything with you.”

How can someone say something so creepy yet sat at the same time? “Alright then, if you’re sure you want to continue. You’re able to communicate with birds from what I can tell. Do they see you as they’re leader or something?”

“Since I was only really allowed in the woods birds quickly became my only friends and company. Also I’ve done a lot of rehabilitation work that a lot seem to feel indebted to me. A lot of birds tend to follow the bigger bird naturally and they see me as a really big bird so they just kinda.. naturally do what I tell them. It also helps that I feed them too.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Like when I saw this heron in a pond one time and a bunch of ducks just followed him around. Last question for the day, alright?”

Avery nodded his head as he pulled you closer.

“I brought like 3 scarves here but I can’t find any of them. I have a slight feeling you may know where they are.”

Of course you couldn’t see it but a dark blush covered Avery’s face.

“W-well two of them are in the nest. I’m afraid that some of the birds got their hands on the other one somehow and are currently using it to snuggle. I’m working on getting them another scarf so you can get yours back.”

Huh, so he puts many different things in his nest. Also now you had to deal with the conflict of you taking a scarf from some cozy, snuggling birds.

“The birds can keep my scarf. I couldn’t just take it from them like that.”

Avery smiled against your neck and cooed.

“I’m sure they’ll be estatic for their cuddling not to be ruined. Now enough questions, more cuddles and movies.”

[mystewion]

redrew a few small scenes from a roleplay @professorchaos and i have been chipping at for the past year...kenny and chaos share a natural affinity for being pretentious and weird in the most embarrassingly compatible of ways. snippet from the 23k word long monster below the cut

(kenny uses she/they/he pronouns and chaos uses he/him at this point in the narrative! enjoy :) perceive at your own peril)

"You'd have to ask Butters Stotch, I suppose," said Chaos with a wry smile. "I believe that his sense of self-preservation was somewhere in the negatives. Hence... this whole situation." He gestured down at himself, giving a mock bow, a little dip of the head almost like a curtsy. "And I could easily ask you the same- even I could barely put up with him then. I suppose you two were similarly reckless, weren't you?" He rolled his eyes and huffed out another little laugh. He knew that Leo didn't understand it yet, so he doubted that Kenny would, but talking about Butters like he wasn't around anymore was almost cathartic. A eulogy, to something not quite dead.

Kenny didn't turn to look at him, but also didn't try to hide the look of something bordering between slight-revulsion and near-complete understanding that made a mockery of her face. All she could really manage was a pitiful, sorry laugh as she pulled a second cigarette out of her pocket and lit it - while the first still burned weakly in her mouth.

"Why do I feel like we've been to each others funerals already - and," she coughed a vile, phlegmy, chain-smoker's cough, "done downright unspeakable things with each other at the receptions?" Chaos blinked at her, then let out a loud laugh, discordant and rough. It felt like violin strings were snapping in his throat, forcing out a raw and painful sound that was both completely unlike him and, somehow, the most natural state for him to be; untuned. He pinched out his cigarette between two fingers with hardly a wince and threw it to the ground.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, McCormick. If only the sonnets could cut so deep." He raised a hand to his face, a few harsh giggles escaping as he stroked the scar that cut through his left eye with a certain fondness. As the months passed and they continued meeting like this, clashing and merging and clashing again like waves on the shore, that particular memory was becoming something he was thankful for. The pain he'd felt that day, the dull, throbbing discomfort he felt now- it was the thing that really tied them together, he thought. The one thing he had over Leo and Butters: a familiarity with pain that rivalled Kenny's familiarity with death.

He let his hand fall and between his dangling legs, looking up at her from between the hunch of his shoulders. He didn't know what kind of expression he was wearing right now, but he actually found himself hoping, in that moment, that it was tender.

Not once did Kenny’s eyes leave Chaos' face - not that she could have even torn her gaze away if she’d wanted to. As if the past seven years - seven fucking years - had been a pot set to boil that had never quite overflowed, a heat expanded in her chest that blurred her vision and burnt her cheeks. In what world did she deserve be the one that got to see this side of him?

This was a different sort of warmth to what she was used to. Softer around the edges like sea foam that lingered on the sand even after the tide had recessed from the shore. Soft like the last blanket of leaves in autumn, too wet with rain to crunch. Soft like whispered promises in empty houses, like the last traces of ash melting away in the morning snow.

 When she began to move it was without thought or reason, only honest impulse and a healthy dose of soul-crushing guilt. In one slow and trembling movement, she discarded her first cigarette to the ground - not even bothering to stomp it out - and with a gentleness she reserved only for seldom few, she cupped Chaos’ cheek in her hand. In an act of morbid tenderness, Kenny traced the gut-wrenchingly familiar scar from the jagged tip above his eyebrow, through the flutter of his eyelashes, and down the flat plane of his cheek. She didn’t dare retrace the path yet - not when it was still so fresh on the tips of her fingers. But she couldn’t pull her hand away from him, not yet. A boundary had been crossed - one they had both ducked and avoided for so many years, and now they were going to have to face it together.

Kenny let the smoke filter out of the corner of her mouth and into the night, and then spoke with an expression she hoped Chaos read as sincere. “I've done a lot of unforgivable things in my life - and I've got a lot of apologising to do to a lot of people, especially you,” And in a motion that felt almost sacrilegious, she grazed her thumb across his cheek once more. “But I can't apologise for this.” Fingers still trembling, she drew her hand back again and let it rest awkwardly in the palm of her empty hand. "No matter how much I wish I could." She added - almost too quietly to hear against the heavy drumming of her own heart.

For one incredibly confusing moment, Chaos he thought that maybe Kenny had done something- that her touch had somehow infected him, poisoned him with the ancient death that lurked inside her. It was as if the air in his lungs had been frozen, and the numb cold settling in his chest almost overwhelmed him. It was with great difficulty that he pulled himself up from beneath the ice.

“You,” he told her, realising with horror that he was shaking, and then, with even greater horror, that his body was so distant from his mind he couldn’t force it to stop, “never.” He coughed, and the splinters of ice in his chest felt like they were digging right into his heart. He clutched at his shirt, as if he might cradle the ache in his hands.

Get a hold of yourself, he thought, with a frustration bordering on anger, this isn’t you.

Still, the trembling refused to subside. He bit his lip, hard, and the copper tang of blood met him like an old friend. He was- he was in control of this. He could handle it. He would. 

“You never needed to,” he spat out, eventually, hardly knowing what he was saying yet knowing it was, somehow, the raw and confusing truth, “or maybe it’s that you never needed to apologise for anything else. The one thing that was your fault, and it was- it doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered. God!” He laughed, sounding deranged, because it also mattered more than anything, but he didn’t know how to explain that to her- that Butters saw it like a gruesome friendship bracelet, that Leo saw it like some hastily stitched red thread.

That Chaos, right there and then, saw it like a blood pact. A reminder that things which hurt, even enough to blind you, could still be good. 

[sie-werden-nie-vergessen]

“Ruth and Ephraim as a couple” headcanons/AU, ft “Sarah in Boston”

@shapeshiftersandfire, so here it is. I finished way earlier than I anticipated, but I just started typing and here it is!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=muFFeiBUffQ (this song is required listening when reading these headcanons. It IS Ephraim and Ruth’s theme song. I recommend starting it at 3:14 because that point of the song is the section that really gives me Ruth and Ephraim vibes) 

First off, there is SO much covert flirting. SO, SO MUCH FLIRTING.

Ephraim is definitely having an identity crisis on the way home after the card game.

He gets home and Deodat asks him how the party went and he just kind of stands there like an oaf.

“It went fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No Yes”

“...okay”

Deodat doesn’t believe him but he assumes that maybe Ephraim was just rejected by a date or something. Little does he know…..

“Fire Meet Gasoline” is a very good analogy to their relationship.

Because not only would it be passionate

But their relationship would probably also develop very quickly

They wouldn’t rush things, per se, but the “crush” phase is definitely very short for them

They’re both very outspoken and confident, so they very quickly open up about their feelings rather than beating around the bush.

They’re both very passionate people in terms of personality, and even when Ephraim is open-minded enough to fall for Ruth, they still inevitably clash with their opinions

They don’t fight but they definitely debate.

But in a healthy way. The debates can get heated but not in a hostile way. They’re just both very opinionated and they get very passionate about their opinions and their different thought processes.

 “I know I’m right!” “Yeah well I know that I”M right!” “Well I think I’m right because xyz” “Well my reasons are abc” “...that’s a good point. But I’m still right ;)”

So it probably looks like arguing to some people, but they both know that it’s all in good humor so neither Ephraim or Ruth are actually hurt by it or anything

They actually think it’s a good source of entertainment.

They once got into a heated debate about the correct color of socks in the middle of the new Mill Valley department store just to see the reactions of the cashiers

The aforementioned cashiers were horrified

Ephraim was arguing in favor of brown socks, and Ruth in favor of gray.

They ended up buying both colors.

Ruth now buys him brown and gray socks for a gag gift every Christmas (were gag gifts a thing in 1898? No clue, but I like the idea so I’m running with it and not researching something for once).

Ephraim keeps her a secret for a long time, for obvious reasons.

Ruth doesn’t mind this because she understands his reasoning behind it. 

She takes it as an opportunity to introduce him to her family and friends.

Ephraim gets along great with her brother Charles, and almost immediately the “future brother in law” jokes start.

Ruth is surprisingly embarrassed by this.

Ephraim teases her for days about that fact.

“Finally! I finally found something that embarrasses you!”

Ephraim goes to her performances and cheers her on (he always brings a bouquet too)

He sits in the front row right at the bottom of the stage and claps the loudest when she comes on stage.

Ruth is big into theatrics and has an entire setup of smoke cannons and mood lighting that announce her entrance.

She steps into this cloud of smoke and raises her arms dramatically and announces herself

Ruth loves to wear the color red because it looks so striking against her pale skin, but she secretly loves lighter shades of blue even more (they just don’t give off very strong “mystical” vibes, so she sticks to dark reds when she’s in the spotlight)

She works as a fortune teller and does card tricks as well

She loves to hear the ridiculous rumors and urban legends surrounding the “mystical powers” of albinos and then she incorporates that into her routine

“ALBINOS CAN READ MINDS” okay, well now she does mind reading as a new trick

In reality she’s just a very analytical person so it’s easy for her to pick up on small body language or vocal cues

Ephraim always asks her to tell him her fortune and it inevitably turns into some sappy “well I think you’ll end up marrying an amazing circus performer who just so happens to also be the most beautiful woman in Pennsylvania” thing

Ephraim definitely agrees with her “fortune”

He tells her about Sarah pretty early on in the relationship. He doesn’t want to hide anything from her.

He isn’t sure how she’ll take it, especially considering the fact that he was complacent in Sarah’s abuse for years until he really got out into the world and realized that everything he “knew” about albinism was wrong.

Ruth is definitely shocked but she assures him that he’s not some sort of monster, because he realized that what his parents trained him to think was wrong and he was able to grow from that.

One day when the rest of the family is out, Ephraim sneaks Ruth into the mansion (with the help of Sylvie and Lou Lou, of course) and she goes down to the cellar to meet Sarah.

Sarah is absolutely floored that there are others like her.

Of course she knew, because Ephraim told her when he returned from college and made amends, but when she sees it infront of her eyes it’s still a shock.

Ruth and Sarah hit it off instantly, of course.

Ruth promises to take Sarah to see a circus someday

Sarah can’t wait to see the elephants.

A few days after the secret meeting, Ephraim decides to tell his family about Ruth.

He tells Harold, thinking that maybe Harold would understand

But Harold just rats him out to Deodat and Delanie

They’re furious, of course

They don’t tell Gertrude because they claim that it would give her a heart attack

And tbh, it might

Gertrude figures it out anyways from the deranged yelling that comes from downstairs

“After all we’ve done to hide Sarah, and now you do THIS?!!”

“Mother, there’s nothing wrong with her.”

“She’s a circus freak!”

“By choice. She enjoys working in sideshows. That doesn’t make her a bad person.”

“Are you sure she isn’t just trying to mooch off of OUR money?!”

“She’s very wealthy, Mother. She works because she enjoys it.”

Deodat has more or less the same reaction.

Harold just can’t believe that Ephraim would “betray” the family in that way.

Ephraim tells Ruth the next day, and they decide to take Sarah away and leave for Boston.

Charles helps with the legal side of things, and pulls a few strings with his lawyer friends in Pennsylvania to have Sarah legally emancipated from her parents.

The trio moves to Boston and temporarily lives with Charles and his wife Louisa.

Louisa is smitten with Sarah from the start and insists on baking her ridiculous amounts of gingerbread.

(For no reason, really, but Louisa just has a thing for gingerbread. Sarah doesn’t complain)

Sarah gains quite a lot of weight in those first few months, and for the first time in her life she weighs a healthy amount. 

Ruth takes her clothes shopping often, and she insists on buying Sarah the nicest and newest fashions (even though she grows out of them so quickly now. It’s as if 18 years of growing have finally caught up with her at once).

Sarah hugs Ephraim for the first time after she and Ruth return from their first major shopping trip. Ephraim almost cries, and Ruth grins so hard that her face hurts. 

Ephraim wasn’t sure if Sarah could ever forgive him, but that was proof enough for him.

Ruth gives Sarah her first diamond necklace. It’s the one that Ruth wore the day she met Sarah. Sarah had said that it was the prettiest thing that she had ever seen, and Ruth saved it for her until they reached Boston. It was an informal adoption gift, really.

Ephraim and Ruth eventually buy a nice brownstone in Boston. It’s a few streets away from Charles and Louisa’s home, and there’s a large park across the street.

Sarah loves to sit in the park and watch the swans and ducks on the pond.

Sometimes Ruth and Ephraim go with her, but a lot of the time they let her go alone. They know that she’s been through a lot, and that sometimes she needs time alone to process everything. 

Sometimes she comes back with tears in her eyes, but no one mentions it. Ruth brings her a cup of tea or a piece of gingerbread (Louisa is always sending over fresh gingerbread) and offers her a shoulder to cry on, if she needs it.

Ruth takes Sarah to meet her fellow albino circus performers. For once in her life, Sarah feels truly accepted and understood when she stands in a room surrounded by people like her.

There are so many children in the room, and they’re all so loved by their family members, regardless of their albinism. It makes Sarah sad at first, but she’s also happy to see that they were raised in loving households instead of abusive and hateful ones.

For their first Christmas together in Boston, Ephraim buys Sarah a Kodak No. 2 Bullseye Camera. When the first Kodak Brownie camera is released a few years later in 1900, he buys her one of those as well.

He tells her that she can use it to document her new life in Boston.

The first picture she takes is a picture of a sleeping Ephraim.

He’s sitting in an armchair next to the Christmas tree, surrounded by wrapping paper and plates of half finished cookies.

Once the picture is developed, she puts it in her new photo album that Charles and Louisa gave to her.

When Ephraim woke up, Sarah asked to take a picture with him. 

Of course he obliged.

She keeps that one in a frame by her bedside.

Sarah has a whole pile of her “treasures” that she keeps beside her bed, but that picture is at the center of it all. 

Ephraim notices it one time when he’s helping Ruth collect the laundry, and it touches him more than he can say.

For her gift, Ruth arranges for Sarah to take some writing classes at the local women’s college.

Sarah is thrilled. She starts to write stories other than horror.

She still loves scary stories, but she finds a new love for children’s stories and romance novels.

Little Women is her favorite (Ruth is delighted! It was her favorite book too!)

In 1900 Ruth and Ephraim have a son. They name him Eli, in reference to Sarah’s middle name (Elizabeth).

Sarah is the proudest aunt you’ve ever seen. 

Ephraim and Ruth go on to have more children, but Sarah has a special bond with little Eli. He is the first baby that she ever held.

The odd little family on Pearl Street is probably the happiest family you’ll ever see.

Sarah eventually marries the son of one of Ruth’s circus colleagues. 

His name is Thomas, and he’s a quiet man.

He loves birds too, just like Sarah. 

He and Sarah go bird watching often.

They go on to have a large family. 2 out of the 5 children have albinism, but they love all of their children the same.

They live a long life.

Neither Ephraim, Ruth, or Sarah ever return to Mill Valley. They’re more than happy to let the past remain in the past.

Bonus: Harold In Boston Headcanons/AU

Once Ephraim does reach out to Harold, and he’s surprised to learn that Harold has also distanced himself from their parents.

Gertrude died in 1899, and shortly after that Harold’s fiancée Violet died of tuberculosis. With his ties to Mill Valley significantly loosened, Harold took an extended business trip to Philadelphia where he eventually opened his own publishing company. After the mercury scandal at the mill, Deodat and Delanie are essentially ruined and Harold is free to pursue his own interests independent of the mill.

He goes to visit Ephraim in 1900 to congratulate him on the birth of his son. 

It’s tense at first, when he see’s Sarah. He isn’t sure how she’ll react to him.

She’s wearing a white lace dress with small puffs at the sleeves, and pale blue ribbons at the cuffs and waist of the skirt.

Her hair is in a soft gibson girl-esque style, and Harold realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever seen her in anything other than the old gown she always wore back in Pennsylvania.

“Hello Sarah”

“Hello Harold”

He isn’t sure what to do at first, but Ruth quickly introduces herself to abate the awkward silence.

He’s never met Ruth, but he quickly understands why Ephraim likes her so much.

After he meets the baby and pleasantries are exchanged, he wanders off into one of the upstairs rooms of the home.

(Sarah left the room once Ruth brought out the baby. She loves Eli, but she feels awkward being everyone all at once, as if she’s intruding on something she isn’t, of course).

He accidentally goes into Sarah’s room, only to find her at her desk writing.

Her room is nothing like the dark basement she used to call home, and Harold is thankful for that.

“So, you still write?”

Sarah jumps in her chair a little, before suddenly whipping around. She’s still not good with loud or sudden noises, even after 3 years of safety.

Harold cringes when she jumps. He hates that he still scares her.

When she composes herself, she smiles a small smile. “Yes, I still write.”

Harold asks what she writes about these days, and she tells him that she writes children’s stories.

It’s a sad irony, considering the mercury scandal, but Harold doesn’t tell her about that yet.

She had left Mill Valley before the worst of it, and he knows how much she loved those children.

After they talk for a while, Sarah eventually invites him to sit with her.

They sit side by side on her bed and she shows him her notebooks.

He’s surprised by how much she’s grown since he last saw her. She’s a little taller now, and she’s gained a lot of weight. Her face isn’t hollow anymore, and her eyes are bright now. Her hair is shiny and thick, and she truly looks happy.

She only shakes a little when he’s so close to her. Harold still scares her a little, but Ephraim promised her that no one would ever hurt her again.

Sarah trusts Ephraim immensely, so she’s willing to trust Harold too

Still, it’s a little hard for her to have him in such close proximity.

Harold notices her discomfort and moves a few inches away (still close enough to see her notebooks, but far enough that it gives Sarah a safe buffer). Her nerves calm down once she has a “safe zone.”

Harold finally works up the nerve to say something.

“Sarah, I-”

“I know. Ephraim told me.”

“He did?”

“He did”

“Well...that’s...that’s good.”

The next thing that Sarah does shocks Harold to his core.

She reaches out, her hands shaking, and grabs his hand.

“I know that you didn’t mean it - what you did to me -...not really, anyways. I know you’re different now.”

Harold squeezes her hand in return, and she stops shaking.

“Thank you”

Sarah smiles

“Of course”

Ephraim happens to pass Sarah’s bedroom on his way upstairs and nearly dies of shock at the site of them. Harold doesn’t notice Ephraim, but Sarah does.

She bursts out laughing, because Ephraim genuinely looks horrified, shocked, and immensely confused.

“He said that he was sorry!,” she explained in a half yell in Ephraim’s direction.

Ephraim is still in shock, so he doesn’t say anything.

Harold is also in shock, but because of Sarah’s laugh.

The man genuinely didn’t think that it was possible, and yet here she was laughing.

When everyone recovers from their respective shocks, Harold is invited to stay for dinner.

This dinner invitation turns into a long term stay, and eventually Harold moves his business to Boston.

He buys the brownstone next to Ephraim and Ruth’s home.

He remains a bachelor all his life, never having truly recovered from Violet’s death.

Harold definitely earns the title of “World’s Greatest Uncle” in regards to Sarah and Thomas’ children.

By 1980 the neighborhood block is so full of Bellows descendants that it’s unofficially renamed Bellows Square

Ruth and Ephraim’s house becomes a local historic landmark, considering the fact that Ephraim went on to become one of the country’s early geneticists who (humanely) studied genetic disorders and medical conditions.

The house later becomes a museum in the early 90s, having been restored to the same state that it was when they once resided in it.

Sarah’s Kodak No. 2 Bullseye is put on display, but the crowning achievement is her collection of photo albums and notebooks. She went on to become a children’s writer and illustrator, basing many of her books on her experiences in Boston. 

The old Bellows Paper Mill is torn down in 1948 to make room for new housing following the G.I. Bill and the post-war Baby Boom.

None of the surviving Bellows are sad to see it go.

[halothenthehorns]

GRIM DEFEAT

"Okay," James said, drawing the word far out past its normal syllable count as he glanced carefully between the book and his best friend. "At least now we know Sirius really is at Hogwarts," he finished with a mutter.

"Er, Sirius," Remus said cautiously when the silence just kept dragging on and they just kept staring at him like he would have a completely normal explanation for this. "No offense mate, but I'm honestly wondering if you hadn't really lost your mind on that one."

Sirius was mouthing wordlessly, his eyes so round his friends were wondering if they weren't just going to completely fall out of his head.

"Don't suppose it just has something to do with his low impulse control?" Lily offered weakly. "He finally made his way there and was just that eager to see Harry?"

"If he wanted to get in that badly though, he would have just broken into a home in Hogsmeade and floo'd into the common room," Remus corrected. *

"With a knife?" Harry reminded. Harry couldn't help but shift his weight around uncomfortably as he continued eyeing Sirius. Remus might have meant it as a joke, but Harry really was starting to have this feeling like there was some darker, unknown reason Sirius was trying to get into Gryffindor tower... but what? It had to be because of him, what other motive would he have for going in there? But something just didn't feel right, and as always his mind was unhelpful as ever in giving him a reason why.

The others were trying, their minds spinning in every direction possible for this to seem logical, for any kind of motive that didn't make their skin crawl, but they were all coming up with a blank on this one. At least four of them were, Sirius looked like he'd completely shut down and wasn't going to be processing anything anytime soon.

"If he wanted to get in that badly though, he would have just broken into a home in Hogsmeade and floo'd into the common room," Remus corrected. 

James got uneasily to his feet and walked over to pick up the book, checking his chapter before walking back over and smacking Sirius with it.

"Ouch!" Sirius yelped in shock, rubbing at the spot on his arm, and coming out of whatever trance he'd clearly been in. "What was that for?"

"Felt like someone should for that stupid stunt," James said with an air of carelessness, while he was still keeping a very protective eye on his friend, "got any ideas why you did?"

Sirius shook his head miserably from side to side, sighing deeply before saying, "I don't know, maybe Lily's got something in saying I was just really impatient to see Harry, and I had the knife for protection? I've obviously not got my wand anymore."

"See, I don't know about that," Remus argued back with a frown in place. "It would have been much easier to set up something with me, then we could both talk to Harry at the same time. Even you're not so mad as to think this was a good idea Padfoot."

"Maybe now I'm not," Sirius grumbled, eyeing the ceiling carefully and not looking at anyone.

James and Remus exchanged heartbroken looks, while to be perfectly honest Lily couldn't really come up with a way to argue that point.

Then James grit his teeth in frustration, and made to swing at Sirius again. This time he was paying attention enough to duck, then glared daggers at his best friend. "Why do you keep trying to hit me?"

"Because you're being an idiot," James snapped, and Sirius felt like leaning back at the fiery glare he was now receiving. "I don't want anyone to ever say that again, least of all you. I'm positive you must have a reason for this, and you will get your chance to talk to Harry by the end of the year and explain it." With that he turned to his chapter and began reading; not leaving any room for argument. Remus looked happy that the subject was being changed, agreeing with James all the way, but Harry and Lily exchanged uneasy looks.

Lily couldn't help but wonder if her husband wasn't in denial about this matter. Something wasn't adding up with this, and though neither of them had an idea of what, they were both thinking it might have a little more to do with something other than Harry. Lily just couldn't help but think that, unless Azkaban really had driven Sirius mad, what other explanation could it be?

Dumbledore personally escorted the whole of the house back down to the Great Hall, and moments later the other houses arrived as well in a swell of confusion. Dumbledore instructed all of them that it was safer to be kept in here for the night,

"Interesting little slumber party," Remus muttered, still keeping a worried eye on Sirius. James' words hadn't seemed to be much comfort to him, and he was still rubbing absentmindedly on where he had now been whacked twice, and looked as if he was only half paying attention.

and to remain as quiet as possible, while the Head Boy and Girl were in charge. Percy couldn't help but swell with power as he glanced around the room at that news.

"Course he was," Harry rolled his eyes, now continuously throwing worried glances over at Sirius, they had all noticed he didn't seem to have as much confidence as James did.

Then Dumbledore summoned enough sleeping bags for all of them,

"Glad he remembers the little things," Lily chuckled without any real humor.

"Where did they all come from?" Harry yelped in shock, his mind boggling at the idea of summoning so many things at once.

"I'm fairly confident they keep a private store of those somewhere in the castle," Remus explained, "for emergencies like this."

Harry still found this a pretty big feat, but didn't say anymore.

and left. Percy jumped in at once, telling them all to get to sleep, he was turning the lights out in a minute.

"He is such a killjoy," James smirked, trying his very best to put a sense of normalcy back into his tone that no one actually bought.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione grabbed up their own bags and pulled them into a corner so they could talk in peace, while Hermione asked if Black was still in the castle.

"Absolutely not," Remus said at once, punctuating that with a roll of his eyes to show how ridiculous he thought that was.

Ron pointed out Dumbledore thought so, and Hermione whispered it was good fortune he'd picked tonight to pull that stunt,

James suddenly brightened all the more, a real smile coming across his face as he began laughing.

"I don't see why that's funny," Lily scowled at him, wondering if James wasn't joining Sirius in a spot of madness now.

"I was just thinking that Hermione might be wrong on that one," James disagreed, "and that Sirius was trying to get a bit of irony owed to him on this particular night. All that rubbish-" no one needed to ask why he couldn't actually say the words 'we died' and had instead deflected to that, "on Halloween, so Sirius wanted to make an impression."

Lily's eyes might have brightened with understanding, but she didn't look any more convinced.

Remus was shaking his head from side to side, not looking any more convinced but a little more indulgent as he replied, "think that's giving him a little too much credit mate. Can't imagine Sirius thinking in that kind of poeticness."

"Hello, I am sitting right here," Sirius sniffed, allowing a genuine smile to appear as he was easily able to focus on this simple thing, his friends picking on him. The others were relieved to see him get some sense of normalcy back about him, which made James feel all the worse when he realized no one was going to comment further and he had to simply turn right back to this.

the holiday where everyone was out of Gryffindor common room.

"Perfect time to try and sneak in and wait out for Harry to be alone," Remus reminded Sirius quietly. Sure that plan had some major holes, like he obviously hadn't snooped out and found the password for one; but Sirius could turn into a dog and hide under the bed for just this opportunity. No it wasn't ideal, it would make more sense for him and Sirius to work out something far better...but perhaps Sirius had grown impatient and gone ahead without him? It wouldn't be the first time Sirius had disregarded his advice on something because he was so impatient, though he would have liked to think on something like this he could have gotten through his friends thick skull... Remus sighed when he realized he just kept creating more questions rather than a solution.

Ron pointed out the man was on the run, he probably wasn't keeping track of the days of the week, otherwise he'd have just come right into the hall.

Sirius grumbled something about he still didn't think he was that deranged, but quietly enough he didn't think either of his friends really understood what he meant.

Then Hermione whispered, how did he get in?

"That's something I am still genuinely curious about," Lily said briskly, trying to keep her suspicions about Sirius' mind state out of her voice. She wasn't sure how good a job she did, since James kind of gave her a dirty look anyways, but Sirius distracted them by saying, "I've still got no idea. I really have been thinking about that, and all I can come up with is that I must learn something new within the next year."

"That isn't public knowledge, and that Dumbledore doesn't know and has proofed against, and the rest of the wizarding world hasn't figured out?" Remus asked in disbelief.

They were all genuinely puzzled, only one thing coming to mind in that Sirius was an animagus. That qualified under all of those questions, but what did that have to do with getting past dementors? Sirius did know all of the secret entrances in and out of the school, so if he did waltz right past the guards as a dog and use one of those, was it doable? That didn't answer one of their original questions, of why he hadn't simply done this moments after he'd been taken to Azkaban, why wait all this time? Of course, as far as any of them knew, this hadn't ever been studied; did dementors have an effect on animals? Was it the same basic principle as werewolf bites didn't affect an animal, just humans?

Harry was nearly bouncing in his seat when James voiced all of this, which meant they must be on the right track, he didn't normally show this much excitement when they weren't. By the time they had circled through every bit of possibilities on this subject, they were all practically beaming at having figured out something even this minor. It certainly made them all feel better than the other tons of questions they had about the situation that just kept getting worse.

Others all around the hall were asking this very question, one Ravenclaw kid suggested he might know how to apparate onto the grounds.

"Of course I do, most any adult wizard does," Sirius rolled his eyes. Even finding out something as minor as how he had gotten himself past the dementors finally seemed to have lifted Sirius' mood tenfold, bringing back his more boisterous and rather pompous nature.

He looked to be in such a good mood again, no one bothered to point out to him he most likely didn't have a wand, and the obvious part where he can't apparate inside the actual school; since Sirius knew both of these anyways and was just answering the rhetorical question.

A Hufflepuff postured that Black had disguised himself.

"Actually not that far off," James smirked, now feeling like rubbing it in Lily's face that they most likely hadn't registered and this was how Sirius was getting around. After all, if they had, then surely they would have put out an alert on Sirius' dog form as well as his human picture.

Lily properly acknowledged his smug tone by sticking her tongue at him, having come to much the same conclusions.

While Dean offered that he could have flown in.

"And we've already explained why that wouldn't work," Remus shrugged, "not only that, but dementors could sense him even if I did invite him on the premises, so that wouldn't work all the more."

Hermione scoffed at all of these, asking if she was the only one to have read Hogwarts, A History?

"Only one who's memorized it," James smirked.

Ron told her she was, and Hermione explained why each of those wouldn't work, and she'd love to see the disguise that fooled dementors.

"Well I very much hope it impresses you," Sirius smirked.

Reminding them they were at every entrance, and Filch knew all of the secret passages into the school.

"I doubt he actually knows all of them," James scoffed, "otherwise they'd be boarded up and blocked off from all students."

Lily couldn't help but wonder if perhaps they were. Harry certainly hadn't found any out of the school, but perhaps her son wasn't the best way to argue that point. The one thing she could say for her son was that he really didn't go out of his way to find trouble like that, unlike his father on that one.

Then Percy called that it was time they all get to bed, not to talk anymore.

"Please," Remus scoffed, "as if anyone could sleep with this kind of news going around." If he didn't think it would inflate his friends ego another few degrees, he might have even pointed out just how much of an accomplishment this really was, sneaking into Hogwarts in this manner. Side effects and actual reasons for him doing this aside.

The lights did go out, and then the most dominant noise was the ghosts flitting in having serious conversations with the prefects.

"Not as Siriusly as I could have," Sirius said quickly, taking the absent minded nudge he received from James with a happy grin this time. He was going to soak in this pleasurable mood for as long as he could, knowing by now he shouldn't count on it to last long this time.

Between that and the ceiling above that mimicked the stars outside, Harry found himself wondering if this was what camping was like.

"That sounds like fun honestly," Lily grinned, "I think we really should go camping some time."

"I'll keep that in mind," James acknowledged.

Harry looked horrified at the thought. He had no idea why his mother's innocent suggestion would give him a whomping smack, his first instinct to say he wanted nothing of the sort, but something about him, Hermione, Ron, and the word camping wasn't being taken lightly inside of him. He didn't say any of this though, because as always it came with that nuisance of a feeling that it came with memories he had no business prying into so early.

Teachers periodically poked their head in to check on them, and by the time most of the students had nodded off, Dumbledore himself came.

Despite the confidence James had that Sirius really wouldn't have stuck around and gotten back out of there, he also couldn't help the slight relief he felt at the headmaster's reappearance. Surely if Sirius had been caught, Dumbledore wouldn't have come back, but would be tied up for hours dealing with the ministry and what have you because of it.

Harry feigned sleep as the headmaster approached Percy, who was nearby telling off some kids for talking.

"I think he just needs to keep his girlfriend at his hip, see that 'lighter side of him' we still haven't seen," Remus muttered into Sirius' ear, making Sirius begin snickering again.

Ron and Hermione quickly pretended to be nodding off as well when Dumbledore approached.

"Convenient," Lily rolled her eyes, though to be honest this time she really thought that might have just been a lucky break. Of all the students scattered in the great hall, there was no way they could have possibly noticed those three in particular when they were talking. Even then, it wasn't out of the realm of possibilities that Percy would be cycling near his brother.

Percy asked if Black had been caught, and Dumbledore said no.

This time the other four couldn't help but joining James in the relief at this confirmation Sirius really hadn't been recaptured.

Then he said he'd found another painting to be put in front of the Gryffindor tower.

Sirius grimaced and pushed his hand through his hair in frustration, truly bothered he had clearly hurt the Fat Lady's painting so much it couldn't just be mended quickly, but James distracted him easily enough by asking, "Wonder who they got to do the job?"

There were several memorable portraits some of them suggested, Harry's favorite being Remus who offered they might have even used one of the old Headmaster's ones from Dumbledore's office, but then James really did have to keep reading to get his answer.

Percy asked about the Fat Lady, and Dumbledore explained she was hiding out, still afraid because she'd denied Black entrance when he didn't know the password and he'd lashed out.

Sirius couldn't help but bite at his lip, torn between anger at himself for this act, and confusion as to why he seemed so desperate to get in as really; seeing Harry shouldn't have caused this much of a forceful reaction. Yes, he'd be going crazy wanting to see his Godson, but then he grimaced at his mind's choice of words as he was once again very forcefully questioning himself if he truly had gone...well crazy.

Remus and James weren't having it, refusing to let him dwell on this, so Remus offered him back the baby who Sirius took happily, and James made the comment, "I think she owes you a thanks to be honest. How often does she get to travel the castle like this?"

Harry released a surprised snort of laughter at that, only Lily still look perturbed as her thoughts had been paralleling Sirius' and she didn't seem able to shake it off quite as easily. While no she didn't really think he'd do Harry harm, it still was distressing to even consider what had become of Sirius, and not thinking about it wasn't going to make it any easier if she happened to be right. Then she sighed as she focused back in on James, also recognizing dwelling on it wasn't going to make the problem better either.

Then more footsteps announced the arrival of Snape.

"Oh great, just bloody perfect, I really wanted him to come around and get his opinion on the matter. Would have kept me dwelling all day if we didn't hear his stupid-" Sirius cut himself off by blowing a loud raspberry in baby Harry's face, causing great peals of laughter from all of them at that sudden random act.

Dumbledore asked for his report, and Snape said that the whole of the castle had been searched with no trace, and Dumbledore agreed he hadn't really expected Black to stick around.

"See, even Dumbledore still has that kind of faith in you," James smirked.

Then Snape asked if Dumbledore had an idea how Black got in, and Dumbledore admitted he had several, though none of them fit.

"Would honestly kind of like to hear that," Remus chuckled.

Sirius didn't seem to find that quite so funny, having come to the sudden realization that even Dumbledore probably thought he'd committed that terrible crime, and finding it quite depressing his old headmaster thought that of him. McGonagall would as well, Merlin anyone he once knew would think the worst of him now... except Remus of course. He sighed, refusing to allow his mind to linger on this depressing realization, taking a comfort in that one small fact his friend still would have stood by him, no matter how little influence he could have offered because of his status.

Harry cracked an eye open to see Snape, his profile making it clear how angry he was.

"He would be upset you obviously got the better of everyone in that castle," James cackled.

Snape then tried to remind Dumbledore of a warning he'd given before, now trying to put himself between Percy and Dumbledore, clearly trying to butt him out of the conversation.

"Well then you should have had this out of earshot, like oh I don't know, in one of your offices," Lily rolled her eyes.

Dumbledore agreed with a sharp tone, a clear warning not to keep going.

"Hope he does, as I'd really like to hear this," Sirius said honestly, taking any pleasure in this old bat getting told off.

Snape didn't take that warning, continuing that Black may have gotten help from the school, Snape hadn't been very pleased with the newest appointment,

"I see what he's on about," James rolled his eyes.

"While he's most likely not wrong-" Remus shrugged, but Sirius finished for him, "like I need anyone's help."

Dumbledore cut him off that he did not think for one second a teacher would help Black.

"Huh," the others muttered, Dumbledore phrasing it this way actually managed to spring a few questions to mind. Was Dumbledore implying he didn't think Remus would help him, in which case Remus would have had to lie and fool the headmaster about this; or did Dumbledore possibly know something? That Sirius was innocent every person in this room still believed, could it be possible Dumbledore still believed it too, and hadn't been able to do anything about it during the trial, and was now trying to possibly help out Sirius himself.

Harry in particular didn't really think that, and it also turned his mind into an even darker train of thought, could he be saying that because Dumbledore really thought Remus wouldn't help Sirius? Why though, what could make the headmaster think this? Harry was getting a very sticky feeling deep inside him, that emptiness was rearing its ugly head when his mind was trying to disagree with his gut on this matter.

James couldn't help but hesitate before he kept reading this time, torn between wanting to question this further, and afraid of what answers might crop up. After exchanging a look with Remus, and the silence continued to drag on from the others, he decided to leave that one be for a time.

Then Dumbledore excused himself, saying he had to go and check on the dementors. Percy asked why they hadn't helped search the castle, and Dumbledore stated that so long as he was running this school, no dementor would come through those doors.

"Thank Merlin for that," Lily said in relief. Harry ignored his odd little tick in the brain trying to say that would be a lie someday as well.

Harry looked over to see Ron and Hermione looking just as confused as him.

Sirius couldn't help a surprised snort of laughter, he honestly kept forgetting these kids in the book weren't privy to the knowledge they were half the time. It was more than obvious to them, but of course even Harry wouldn't have known at the time Remus was obviously who they meant. Then that humor dried up slightly, just a tad of resentment taking its place as he remembered all over again Harry really should have known that.

Black was in every conversation for the next several days.

Sirius couldn't help but grimace at that, having always enjoyed attention in his youth, and finding that mirrored back now the worst form of mockery.

Everyone was speculating to no end how he could have pulled off this latest stunt, Hannah suggesting that he turned himself into a bush.

"I threatened to turn you into a dandelion one time," Lily remembered fondly.

That gave them all a soft moment of amusement again, Harry in particular as he asked, "and why was that?"

"I caught him flirting with one of my friends, the day after he'd broken up with another girl," Lily shrugged, "told him to get lost or I'd turn him from a hound dog to a dandelion. Seemed cleverer at the time than it does now."

"I took the threat for what it was though," Sirius shrugged, not looking any kind of abashed at this little retelling, "wouldn't have been the first time Lily'd cursed me for much less."

The Fat Lady had been replaced with Sir Cadogan,

"Wow," Remus chuckled in amusement, "didn't see that one coming."

"This ought to be fun to watch," James agreed mildly.

Harry rolled his eyes, already getting a faint feeling of more agitation then humor, but didn't argue the point.

which didn't please anybody as he randomly changed the password twice a day into the most random things possible.

"Can he do that?" Lily frowned, "thought only McGonagall could do that."

"Probably gave him permission, after my little stunt," Sirius reminded her, with just a touch of bitterness complimenting that.

Seamus could be heard complaining to Percy about it, but Percy pointed out he couldn't do anything about it, as Cadogan had been the only one willing to do the job.

"Brave or suicidal," Sirius piped up again, and when Remus made to smack him again for that dark humor, Sirius quickly reminded, "thought I was allowed to make jokes about that."

Remus sneered at him, still not finding that the least bit funny, but Merlin if it made him feel better who was he to argue?

Harry couldn't care less about this though, as he had his own problem. He was now being followed,

"Oh crap," James groaned, planting his face in the pages for a moment to collect himself at this amount of absurdity all over again. He still found it laughable at best of anyone thinking Sirius could do Harry real harm, but he obviously couldn't convince anyone of that in this future, and it was pointless to grumble on the matter now when Sirius was trying too hard not to let himself stay down on this matter, so he blasted through this part as fast as he could.

by teachers who found any reason to walk with him to his next class, and worst of all Percy, who Harry got the suspicion was acting on orders from his own mother, kept an eye on him like some guard dog.

"Can't deny I adore the description anyway," Sirius huffed to himself.

Remus rolled his eyes, not finding it any more amusing his using the dog jokes then his own name, and dearly wishing he hadn't given up the baby now so that he had more a reason to swing at him.

McGonagall turned out to be worst of all, as she called Harry to her office one day with the demeanour akin to someone dying.

"Only person that could refer to is the Dursleys," Harry offered, trying his own attempt at humor, "then I can't imagine I'd be too sorry."

That did give them all a chance to give a laugh, albeit a dark one as they half wished that were true anyways.

She began to explain that she couldn't hide it from him anymore in a serious tone,

Sirius opened his mouth to say that same joke again, but Remus took the opportunity to poke him in the jaw, smirking as he scolded, "not twice in the same chapter, please save my sanity from that."

Sirius rolled his eyes at him, telling his friend now he was being a killjoy, and James took that distraction to read out the ridiculous sentence

that Black was supposedly after Harry. Harry said he knew this, he'd heard about it over the summer from Mr. Weasley.

"Oh yeah, you could just hear the surprise in Harry," Lily rolled her eyes, wanting to laugh all over again as even she wouldn't have openly admitted to eavesdropping like Harry had done twice now.

While shocked, McGonagall said that he should then understand full well why he was being taken off the Quidditch team.

"She what!" James cried in outrage, now matching the expression that someone had just told him someone had been killed.

"Couldn't they just ask someone to oversee the practice if they're that worried," Remus scowled, knowing he'd personally volunteer in a heartbeat.

"She can't do that," Sirius spluttered in disgust. "What the bloody hell do they think I'm going to do, get onto the pitch and chuck that knife at him?"

"Well, yes it seems," Lily frowned over at him when James and Remus scowled at him for that stupid comment.

Sirius matched her expression, but James refused to let them really start arguing and began reading again swiftly, dearly wishing Harry would do something to make her see sense!

Explaining practices just left him to vulnerable. Harry tried to protests, saying he had a game coming up this weekend, he had to train!

"Well, she isn't actually kicking him off the team," Remus said slowly, frown still in place, but this wasn't as bad as he'd originally thought. "I guess it wouldn't be too bad if you just couldn't practice with the team, but could still play in the games."

"I'd still go crazy," Harry disagreed, "Quidditch was the best stress relief I had, no way do I want that taken away."

McGonagall did consider, and Harry held out hope since he knew his head of house was as much a fan of her team as anyone, so she did bargain that Harry could keep at it so long as Madam Hooch was there at all times.

"Thank you," all the boys breathed in relief. Lily rolled her eyes, she personally wouldn't have felt too bad if Harry hadn't been able to play anymore since the moment he'd started he'd yet to be able to go one game without her heart wanting to leap out of its chest, but she wasn't going to begrudge Harry this getaway either.

While the weather seemed determined to rain on them until they drowned, this had never affected the Gryffindor's practices, now overseen by Madam Hooch.

"Bollocks," Sirius scowled when he realized this was most likely going to be the chapter that held said match.

James gave him a pitying look, but before he could even open his mouth to offer Sirius turned his attention resolutely back to the baby, silently answering before he could offer. Sirius would keep his word, he'd wait until Harry's final year to openly demand his due Quidditch match, but it certainly was frustrating this just kept skipping over him.

James considered for a moment still asking, Sirius might have silently answered but he'd been dealing with so much lately he might have forced him to read it just to put a real smile back in place, but then Remus subtly shook his head and pointed out the now dozing child. If James traded now, baby Harry would fully wake up again, and they may as well give the kid his nap while he could.

The father shrugged and decided to go on. Harry watched all of this with high interest, greatly enjoying the silent conversation that had just taken place, and feeling a depressing realization all over again when he recognized he'd never truly see this in his own time.

It wasn't until the training run before the game that Wood delivered the worst news, that they were going to be playing Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin.

"Those crappy little tarts," James said at once.

"Is Malfoy still faking that injury," Remus rolled his eyes.

"Sadly yes," Harry sighed, that remembered issue making its reappearance. "How come Madam Pomfrey couldn't prove that he wasn't faking this?" He added on, as it was obvious to anyone as far as he was concerned.

James did not look pleased as he worked out, "As it wasn't technically school related, he still had an arm to do his homework and such, I suppose Wood couldn't have gotten this to happen. He had no proof, and so long as Hufflepuff agreed to the switch it wasn't technically forfeiting."

"What's the big difference?" Lily asked curiously, as all the boys were clearly taking a great offense to this. Lily certainly found it sad that these students were still playing up this, but she could tell there was something else about this.

Sirius was more than happy to explain, all the while using a huffy tone at these little jerks, "Every team has a different style of playing. So giving such short notice that the team won't be playing means they've been practicing a completely different regiment then they would have against the other team."

Lily couldn't help but recognize that there clearly was much more thought and skill in this sport then she normally thought, but simply nodded in understanding.

Wood as outraged as anyone at the news as he explained that they'd been able to get away with this because Malfoy's arm was still injured. Of course Wood knew they just didn't want to play in this horrid weather.

"Like it will make a difference when they still play," James spat. "Gryffindor's team will still smoke the field with these backhanded twats."

Harry insisted that Malfoy was faking it, but as they couldn't prove that, they were stuck. Then Wood informed Harry that Hufflepuff's Seeker was named Cedric Diggory.

Harry suddenly released a furious yelp of pain, clasping his hand to his forehead like he'd just been scalded. The others startled at once, looking to him with mounting worry, but Harry was determinedly already putting himself under control, ignoring the painful build up that name had caused and blinking the white spots out of his eyes to glance around and see their fearful looks. He gave them a sheepish smile, but didn't offer an apology this time, knowing by now how that would be received, and instead explained the feeling that had accompanied the flash. "Another name I'm sure I know. It is definitely significant to me," then he paused and cocked his head to the side as he tried to consider and absorb all he could from that already faded feeling without straining himself. He shrugged, recognizing he had nothing else to offer on this.

The rest of them exchanged curious looks, that had hardly explained why Harry felt so strongly about this student, but knew better than to press him for a more direct answer.

The Chaser girls began to giggle.

James rolled his eyes, not understanding that attitude one bit about a rival team, but read curiously.

Wood asked what was so funny, and Angelina happily explained that Diggory was that handsome one, yes?

"Ah," Lily smirked.

"Would recommend against dating someone on a different house team," Remus chuckled, "but to each their own."

Fred snapped back people only thought that because he was too dense to say anything.

"Did I detect a hint of some jealousy in that?" Sirius asked with interest.

"Wouldn't surprise me," James shrugged, not nearly as curious about these boys love life, and far more concerned about what kind of player this Diggory was.

Then Fred continued addressing Oliver, reminding him the last time they'd gone against Hufflepuff, Harry had broken a record for the fastest catch.

"Hope he doesn't let them get too over confident," James noted, quirking a brow in surprise, "letting them get cocky could cost them later."

"Wish someone had told you that sooner," Lily snipped at him, and James gave her an indulgent smile for that.

Wood rounded on him, shouting that was completely different!

"Dang, bit of an overreaction with the shouting," Sirius winced.

"Might I remind you, this is the same boy who said, 'get the snitch or die trying'" Lily rolled her eyes, "I don't think anything's an overreaction to this boy about this game."

"Mum," Harry groaned, "I told you, he didn't really mean that."

Lily shrugged, she still wasn't taking that back.

Wood was still insisting they had to remain sharp, as Diggory was bigger than Harry and his bulk would be an advantage in this weather! They had to win! Fred looked very startled as he began calming his captain.

"Glad I wasn't the only one thinking it," Sirius smirked, though to be honest he did agree with Oliver as well. He would love more than anything to hear about Harry getting the Cup, it would probably make up for any awful feelings he had about this year.

Promising they were taking Hufflepuff seriously.

"Oh come on!" Sirius cried in outrage, receiving two very sharp pokes from both sides of him, making him squirm slightly and nearly waking up the infant. Both boys looked slightly repentant, and Sirius began grumbling if they didn't stop it he was going to move to the fireplace again. James didn't take the threat, well seriously, but he did stop attempting to smother his friend; while he was holding his son anyways.

The weather refused to be on their side, slowly getting worse as time went on, to the pleasure of Malfoy.

"Wish they would just cancel the match, and wait until this little brat stops faking his injury," Lily sighed.

"Not going to happen," James shook his head, "last year was an anomaly, Quidditch isn't usually cancelled for anything, since in the professional leagues Quidditch really isn't cancelled for anything."

He lamented how sad he was he couldn't play because of his injury.

"Someone needs to show that kid a real injury," Sirius scowled.

Harry didn't get much of a chance to think on that, as Wood kept randomly running up to Harry in the corridors and coaching him on maneuvers for the game, and at one point this went on for so long he realized he was late for his DADA class.

"Well then, it's a good thing you have such an understanding professor," James snickered.

Remus rolled his eyes indulgently, privately thinking he would end up defending himself if his future self did give Harry a warning for that, then he went slightly cross-eyed, still finding it just a little weird he was thinking of himself in the future tense at all like this.

Wood was still yelling after Harry as he ran off that Diggory was known for his turning abilities,

"Glad he took the hint," Lily grumbled.

but Harry paid that no mind as he darted into class, already apologizing to his professor for being late, when he caught sight of Snape.

"Say what?" They all frowned, looking genuinely upset and confused at this.

Then Remus blinked in understanding, asking, "don't suppose you know how close to a full moon it was Harry?"

Harry thought about it for a moment before shrugging, admitting he really had no idea as he didn't keep an eye on that type of thing.

James was still frowning as he said, "yes alright, so you wouldn't be feeling too good if that's it, but Snape! No other teacher could have covered for you!"

"I'm fairly sure I didn't get to pick my replacement," Remus offered.

Sirius was just a little too distracted to put his opinion on this, thinking back to that potion and what he'd thought it was. If Remus was still this sick around the full moon, had they been wrong, and this had nothing to do with his lycanthropy? He was still frowning, very unhappy that he might have been wrong on that guess, but also at least a bit happy he'd never voiced this theory, since they would have been wrong and it would have given false hopes to Remus.

Harry was still scowling though, grumbling that, "of all our rotten luck. We'd heard rumors a few times by now that Remus had missed some of his classes because he was sick all the time, but the twins got Sprout for a cover."

They all agreed it was a real misfortune the schedule had worked out like that, but Remus had been right, it wasn't like it had been planned.

Snape wasn't pleased, telling Harry he'd lost ten points for his house for being so late and told him to take his seat.

Remus frowned, since he knew Harry wasn't always late he found that a far harsher punishment then it was called for, but this was Snape, so there wasn't any point in saying this.

Harry didn't, instead asking where their normal teacher was.

"I'm touched," Remus smiled indulgently at Harry, who instantly smiled right back. He didn't need to know the missing link he hadn't then to always know he'd rather have Remus then Snape any day of the year.

Snape smirked as he informed them that he was feeling sick today,

"Sadistic little bastard, finding that funny," Sirius scowled.

Lily gave him a rather ugly look, though mostly for his saying that while holding her son.

then again told him to sit down. Harry asked how sick, and Snape seemed mildly disappointed when he admitted it wasn't going to kill him.

This time James, Sirius, and Harry all said something rather foul for that implied tone, even Lily couldn't help a cheeky response for his being all the more unprofessional in front of the students like that.

Remus was just warmed and slightly amused at their defense of him.

Then he took five more points away from Harry for still not taking his seat, and threatened to do more if his orders weren't followed.

"Maybe if you did more to earn their respect, they'd listen to you," Remus snarked, causing James and Sirius to exchange triumphant smiles, very much wishing Remus would really say something like that to Snape soon.

Harry slunked off to his seat as Snape began talking to the whole of the class, beginning by saying Lupin hadn't left any kind of note about what they'd gone over in this class,

"I doubt that," James scowled, knowing Remus was usually a pretty organized person and would think to do something like this.

"Most likely, you just didn't look for one," Sirius agreed with a growl.

and Hermione raised her hand and began to explain, but Snape told her to be quite, he'd only been pointing out how little Lupin kept up with his work.

"He could have left you a whole damned book worth of notes and you'd still complain," Harry huffed.

Lily gave a disapproving look at her son, clearly thinking these boys were rubbing off on Harry since this was the first time he'd said something like this, but she couldn't disagree either.

Dean shot back that Lupin was the best teacher they'd ever had, while the rest of the class nodded in total agreement.

This time Remus really couldn't help but blush, the combined affection from this class and his family both unexpected and more warming than he would have seen coming.

James and Sirius were unsurprised, James continued in a rather pompous tone of voice as if he'd just received the compliment himself he was so happy for his friend.

Snape was not pleased, looking more menacing than ever.

Sirius rolled his eyes, knowing he'd have to see that to believe it. While he considered Snivellus no one to underestimate during school, he still found it hard to find him 'menacing'.

He scoffed that they were easily pleased, telling how a first year should have been able to deal with the stuff they'd been handling.

"And I might agree with you," Remus frowned, "if they'd had a competent teacher the past two years."

"I was fixing to have heart failure," Sirius told him with a straight face, "watching you agree with him like that."

Remus rolled his eyes indulgently as he explained, "I'll bet that Dumbledore had told me of the past two years, so I haven't been surprised one bit what you've been going over."

He turned to the instructed book, and went to the very last chapter, knowing full well the class hadn't gotten to it yet.

"Typical," James gave a long suffering sigh, before doing a double take at the next sentence.

Which happened to be over werewolves.

"Why that-" Lily then proceeded to call him something that would have made her go red in the face on a normal day. The boys hardly noticed, as their language wasn't much better. What Snape was doing right then was absolutely horrible, and he had no right whatsoever!

Remus went from giddy pleasure he had clearly been handling his dream job like a glove, to shame and fear that he very well might get kicked out of it before the first term was up. If even one student figured it out, mayhem was going to explode inside the castle, owls from parents were going to start arriving...Merlin he might even be arrested. No, surely he was just being paranoid, Dumbledore wouldn't have hired him if it could get that bad... right?

After being the last one to stop his verbal abuse, Sirius finally found some small words of comfort, "look at it this way, students have to learn this every year, and no one figured it out while you were at school. Surely it won't be any different now."

Lily wanted to disagree, saying it was slightly different from a random student to a more prominent teacher, but she refused to be the one to drain what little color had just returned to Remus' face; clearly he'd taken Sirius' comfort to heart.

James was still gritting his teeth so hard he wondered if it was going to crack his skull, Sirius might be right but it didn't excuse this slimeballs actions, but after swallowing a bit of bile forcefully read.

Hermione tried to protest that they were on something else, but Snape snapped at her he didn't need her opinion on it. The class hatefully began flipping to the proper chapter, and Snape began questioning them what were the differences between a werewolf and a normal wolf. Hermione was the only one to raise her hand,

"Guess I'm not too surprised," Remus sighed, not looking nearly as amused as he tried to put into his tone, "Hermione would read ahead and know this."

but Snape ignored this, taunting them that they could come face to face with the monster and not recognize it, Lupin was clearly lacking.

"Yes, because he'd just go out of his way to do that," Sirius growled.

Remus couldn't help but wince, almost happy now that he thought about it, that Snape had decided to take this lesson. Twisted as his reasons were, it was still slightly better than having to do this himself. He chose not to say that aloud though, knowing it wouldn't be received well.

Parvati began to remind Snape that they hadn't studied this yet, and Snape told her to be quite as well, before saying he'd make a mental note to tell the headmaster how far behind this class was.

"Behind?" James scowled. "I'd like to see how many of your students can pass a simple potion, considering how much they all hate you I wouldn't be half surprised if they failed on purpose."

Hermione was still trying to stay on topic, beginning to list the ways she knew the two differed, but then Snape took five points from her for speaking out of turn, and being a know it all.

Harry scowled so badly at the book, he actually made as if to twitch for his wand that time.

"That man has no bounds," Lily yelped in outrage, "he asked a question and then insults her! I can't believe I'm even surprised anymore, after the way he's been treating Neville," she trailed off into foul mutterings, but the other boys didn't have nearly the same restraint. They continued griping about him for a few more minutes until it started getting loud enough the baby started squirming again.

James sighed, but relented they couldn't continue yelling forever, so pressed on.

Ron lost his temper, as Hermione put her hand down and looked near tears he shouted at the teacher that it was Snape's own fault for asking a question he didn't want the answer to. Disregarding the fact that he called his friend a know-it-all once a week.

"And that's why I adore Ron," Lily smiled fondly before Sirius could make a joke about how she'd mimicked him. "Very happy someone said that to him."

James looked for a moment as if he might get up and kiss his wife for that one, having only been a beat away from saying something similar, while the other boys were nodding in fervent agreement.

Snape gave Ron a detention for that, telling him that if he ever spoke about the way he taught again, he'd be the worst kind of sorry.

This thankfully didn't reignite the attitude, though it hardly lessened it. The only reason they weren't doing a bit more than grumbling was because they could hardly argue that point, though they each found it personally loathsome at the implied threat he'd just made to a student.

Then Snape set them to work on taking notes, while going over previous assignments they'd had. He was critiquing that one had been graded wrong, kappa's weren't from Mongolia,

"What, did the student simply say East Asia and that just wasn't specific enough for you?" James scowled.

and on one he wouldn't have given the student a three out of ten it was so poorly done.

"I'm finding it more of a miracle every day anybody ever passed his courses," Sirius snarled.

When they were finally released, Snape set them the homework of an essay on how to spot and kill a werewolf,

"He shouldn't even be allowed to assign homework while he's subbing," Harry huffed.

Remus personally felt he might have argued that point, for any other teacher, but didn't find it worth it for this pompous git.

two rolls of parchment,

"Two rolls of parchment?" Lily balked. "They may as well just copyright the whole chapter on them."

"He may as well simply write on the board what he's wanting them to figure out!" James snarled.

and he wanted it Monday.

"Please Remus, please drag your arse out of bed and make it to that class," Sirius groaned.

Remus gave his friend a pitying look, though he couldn't deny he hoped so himself.**

He finished by saying it was high time someone took over this class.

"I swear he'd mock Dumbledore himself he's so bitter about not getting this job," James grumbled.

Ron had to stay behind to be given his detention details, while the rest of the class stormed out and hardly waited until they turned the corner to talk about Snape.

"Impressed they even have that self-restraint," Sirius huffed.

Harry was telling Hermione that Snape had never been that bad before, what was it about Lupin?

"Even knowing the answer, this is still stupid," Harry scowled.

Harry wondered if it was all really because of the boggart.

"Actually not," Remus disagreed, then he blinked when he realized Harry actually didn't know the complete reason. Harry now thought Snape hated him for their childhood grudge they had told Harry about, but they had actually left something out when briefly telling Harry a bit about their time during school. No one had brought up the night that Snape had figured out he was a werewolf. Harry didn't seem to be questioning this now, and Remus swallowed hard before asking hesitantly, "ah Harry, why aren't you more surprised Severus knows about me?"

Harry just shrugged as he said, "thought all the teachers would know, none of them seem to be that confused as to why you're sick."

James and Sirius exchanged uneasy looks when they realized what Remus was considering telling Harry, then Sirius nudged Remus hard, not particularly wanting that story to come to his ears right now. Yes Harry right now still didn't really think the worst of Sirius like he did back when he was thirteen, but he'd still rather go as long as possible without that little story coming up.

Remus wasn't going to argue the point, so James took the silent opportunity to keep going.

Hermione disagreed, but did hope Lupin was feeling better soon.

"Trust us Hermione, we all do," Lily sighed.

Ron ran up to them not long later, calling Snape something that made Hermione say 'Ron!'

"What did he say?" Sirius asked, far too amused in Lily's opinion.

Harry told them, which made Lily do a double take that he knew that word, but James chuckled in complete agreement and moved on anyways.

Then he explained his detention was to scrub out the bedpans in the hospital wing, without using magic.

Most of them muttered either 'ouch' or 'ew' for that particular punishment.

Then Ron groused at the world why couldn't Black have hid out in Snape's office and done him in for them?

"Now why didn't I think of that," Sirius cried, shifting the baby carefully into one arm so he could pop himself on the forehead for the theatrics, causing at least Harry to laugh.

Harry woke the next morning with Peeves blowing air into his face.

"I've never known Peeves to get into the dorms," Lily startled.

"We've let him in from time to time as personal vengeance," Remus shrugged, more than happy at this change of subject. "The twins might have done the same for some pregame jitters release."

Harry asked what the point of that was, and Peeves just laughed as he left.

"He's a lovely chap really," James snickered.

Harry glanced at his clock and saw it wasn't even five in the morning.

"Dang," Sirius drew the word out, now grimacing in pity.

It was impossible to go back to sleep though, the weather outside was so awful you could hardly see five feet. So instead Harry got up and went downstairs to lounge in front of the fire, but as he was leaving his room, Crookshanks tried to sneak past, and Harry had to grab him to stop him.

"That cat really does seem to have it out for Scabbers in particular," Lily winced.

Harry gave his mom a curious look, very much wondering why his gut's first reaction was to agree with his mother's obvious joke. Cats didn't 'have it out' for any other particular animal...right?

He pulled the cat outside and scolded it, telling him to leave Scabbers alone.

"Never met a pet with a grudge," Remus chuckled without any amusement.

Harry was left stewing in the common room, reflecting that the larger boy Diggory who he'd seen in the hallway would have a better time in the field today as this weather wouldn't bother his bulk nearly as much.

"Well dang, this just all kinds of sucks," Sirius grimaced.

He didn't move around too much, except to occasionally get back to his feet and stop Crookshanks going back up to his room,

"Jeez, I think Hermione should put a leash on this cat," James scowled.

"We'll be lucky if we go till the end of the year without another accident like last time," Sirius agreed.

but before long the rest of the team arrived and they went down to breakfast. Oliver was in a clear panic as he kept eyeing the storm outside, and Alicia tried to calm him down it was just a little rain.

"Admire the girl's pep anyways," Remus smiled.

"Even if this sounds like quite a bit more than 'a bit of rain,'" Lily smirked.

Such was the popularity of Quidditch, that the weather be damned, and the stadium filled to capacity just like always. As Harry tromped down in the muck, he spotted Malfoy and his friends with an umbrella laughing at the lot of them.

"You just wait you pompous, arrogant little thing," James sneered, "you've got four more years of this game, and I'll bet the next time you do have to play Harry the weather's going to be just as bad, and Harry's still going to sweep you seven ways."

Harry couldn't help but grin at his dad for the confidence, allowing him to ignore a building sense of unease about this game. He was trying very hard to ignore this, not wanting yet another game to be ruined again.

Inside the locker rooms, Wood was trying to give his usual pep talk, but words were escaping him, until finally he gave up and led them outside.

"Wow, poor kid," Sirius said in sympathy.

Lily still couldn't help but feel he was taking this a little too seriously, but she also recognized that there wasn't much she could do but continue hoping nothing to bad happened during this game. One quick glance at Harry didn't help those spirits.

The wind was so fierce Harry was staggering even before he made it to the center of the stadium, and already half blinded by the rain all over his glasses.

"No one's still showed you that charm," James scowled at Harry's team mates. Sure it didn't say anyone else wore glasses, but surely someone would have taken the time to show Harry this.

Harry just shrugged, admitting that no, no one had told him about this so he'd not known to do it.

Harry was having problems seeing his own glove, how was he going to find the tiny golden ball? The Captains of the teams shook hands, and while Diggory tried for a smile, Harry saw that Wood looked more tense then anything.

"Nicer than some other teams, I assure you," Remus snickered.

Harry didn't hear Madam Hooch's order to get on their brooms, but he followed suit as the others did, and also went on faith as he kicked off that the whistle had been blown.

James couldn't help the little swell of happiness that reading this caused him, absolutely positive that nothing could go wrong during this game.

He shot into the air like always, but soon found himself completely lost. He couldn't hear the commentator, could barely make out the sea of students below, and more than once a Bludger nearly took his head off because he couldn't see through the downpour drowning his glasses.

All five of them were frowning at this, knowing the game was hardly any fun in these conditions. James was still personally affronted someone, like himself, hadn't been able to give Harry some simple advice like blocking the rain from his glasses, but he refused to let his mood stay dampened and so read on with forced chipper.

He only just noticed Wood waving him to the ground, and Harry shot down to find Wood had called a timeout, and Harry took the quick moment to try and wipe off his glasses.

"What did you even have to dry them on," Sirius rolled his eyes, "sounds like everything on you was soaked."

Harry nodded, admitting he hadn't exactly done a good job and had in fact made his glasses even wetter.

Harry asked what was going on with the rest of the game, and found they were winning by points, but they had to catch the Snitch soon to keep it. Harry was just pointing out how useless he felt with the glasses when Hermione showed up, telling Harry she knew something that might help.

"Thank Merlin for Hermione," James smirked.

"High time someone thought to give you that spell," Sirius agreed.

She took Harry's glasses and used the spell Impervius on them.

Harry nodded to himself, now determined to commit that spell to memory for future use.

She explained that now they would keep water off his face, and Wood looked likely to kiss her.

"I'm sure that would have been a sight," Remus said, not even bothering to hide a light laugh at this obvious joke.

They returned to the game with renewed vigor, and Harry was just banking around the field when he saw it again, in the highest points of the stands was sitting a black dog.

All of them released surprised bursts of laughter at this. Even Lily had to admit, loco or not, Sirius would certainly not have sat by when he found out Harry was on the Quidditch team and would swim across an ocean just to see this for himself. Harry went from startled at realizing this to amusement himself, further burying that nuisance of a feeling that something really bad was about to happen. Surely he was just remembering the feelings of having to play in such weather.

Harry was so shocked he nearly slipped off his broom,

Sirius refused to let his wince ruin his proud look, so he'd startled Harry again, Harry was sure to shake it off and continue playing.

but when he steadied himself and looked again, the dog was gone.

"Looks like you got spotted," Remus noted lightly.

Sirius cocked his head to the side, curious why he would have moved even if Harry had stared at him. Honestly he'd have much rather his future self had done something that would make Harry want to seek him out, rather than this constant disappearing act. The Knight Bus he could understand not wanting to hang around, but in the stands like this, why should he do more than he already was to stay out of sight?

He didn't get long to dwell on it, as he spotted Cedric racing into the sky, and feet above him, was the snitch.

"Dang it Sirius," James fake scowled, "quite distracting him!"

"Well I am just so sorry he spotted me at all," Sirius grinned with good nature, then he turned to Harry and said with mock sternness, "how dare you pick me out in the crowd like that and get caught off guard."

Harry was chuckling lightly, ignoring the growing tension inside of him as he continued bouncing around in unease. All of the boys noticed his mood this time, and James frowned for real now, wondering if Harry really might have lost the match this time. He quickly turned back to the book rather than let anyone dwell on it too much.

Harry slammed into high gear, yelling at his broom to go faster so he could catch up,

'Doubt yelling at it actually helps' Lily couldn't help but think, but leaned forward, just as hopeful as anyone else that Harry truly did win.

but then he realized something weird was happening. The howl of the wind was dying down, and a new cold was seeping in. He glanced around in confusion, wondering why his hearing was failing him,

Harry groaned, coiling back into the couch suddenly as the ghost of a chill crept back over him; he now knew without a single doubt what was going on, and he didn't want this one little bit.

James turned an ugly shade of gray as he looked swiftly from the book, to his son, to Sirius; coming to the sudden realization why Sirius might have run out of there now. If Sirius had sensed the dementors coming, it's no wonder he would have bolted.

Sirius had to restrain himself from not shivering so hard it would wake up the napping child in his lap, but instead wrapped his arms as tight around him as he could without disturbing him. Remus gave him a pitiful look, but no words of comfort really came to mind.

Lily made a choking noise, remembering all too well what had happened the last time Harry had been around those things. She didn't even have the heart to ask how high up he was on his broom, but simply scooped up her sons hand and held it tightly in her own, feeling slightly warmed when he returned the pressure.

then Harry glanced down as he recognized that cold feeling, and saw them moving on the field blow, gliding up towards them.

"Like I needed confirmation," James muttered as he turned the page with perhaps more force than necessary out of nerves.

At least a hundred dementors,

"A-a hun-" Lily stuttered, looking nearly faint.

"Harry passed out when he was around one," James moaned, his hands shaking so hard the book was close to falling from his grip.

Harry didn't seem to appreciate the reminder, but he just couldn't muster up the energy to gripe at his dad for it. The echo of that empty, cold feeling was as clear now as if he were in front of a dementor right now, but it wasn't nearly as bad as what his gut was insisting. Something was about to happen, something bad, something that his family wasn't going to appreciate hearing about.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, still on the same mindset as James and hoping that at least this time someone would step in sooner and try to get rid of those dementors. Then each remembered their own reason why that wouldn't have happened. Remus was too sick to attend class, surely he was passed out in a bed somewhere. Sirius had just made a run from the arena, most likely unaware of Harry's condition, and even if he was, could he really do anything to help without getting caught?

James swallowed hard, now desperately wishing he had forced Sirius to read this chapter just so he wouldn't have to, but knew it wouldn't be right to force anyone else to read about this either, so he mustered himself up and read.

could be spotted floating towards him,

'Why him!' Lily wanted to sob. Those things were in a stadium full of people, she vaguely understood why they would have been attracted to the swells of emotion coming from there, but why would any of them focus on her son in particular. She wasn't an expert on dementors, and wasn't even sure of how they worked. She understood they could be controlled and given directions, but she also couldn't understand how that would relate to her son. She had no doubts though that no one understood this any better than her, maybe Remus, but she was far more concerned with hearing that Harry didn't break every bone in his body and couldn't bring herself to ask without really starting to cry so bottled that in.

and once again Harry could hear screaming beginning inside his head, it was a woman he knew, then he could make out her words, 'not Harry.'

Now the book really did clatter to the floor, and James couldn't help the tears that sprung to his eyes. He realized what Harry was remembering now...

"Oh," Lily whispered, swallowing very hard and blinking slowly and carefully as she tried her very best not to burst into tears as she suddenly realized what her baby's worst memory was.

Harry went pale as his father, leaning away from the book as if it were going to lash out and bite him, and almost wishing it would. That would feel better than this horrible pit that was growing inside of him as that memory came back to mind.

James was just looking down at the book like it truly was his dead wife. He didn't think he could do this, sit here and read about Lily's final moments. It wasn't like when he'd realized the deadly situations Harry was in, like reading the basilisk. Then, he could continually glance up at his grown son, and take comfort Harry had survived. Now though, now he truly couldn't do that, because Lily...

"Here," and suddenly his son was being placed into his vacant hands, and James was rather startled to realize that his lap had some odd little wet spots. He shook his head so violently his glasses were nearly tossed across the room as he glanced up and around to see Sirius now picking up the book and rummaging around for his spot. Then he quickly went about settling his now fussy child, who clearly wasn't pleased at the sudden change in placement.

Both Sirius and Remus were the color of new snow, and one look over showed Harry and Lily were only a bit better than James because they were clinging to each other. Harry was all but curled into his mother, and while Lily's lower lip was trembling violently she was holding herself together by brushing her hand repetitively through her son's hair in comfort for them both.

Sirius' hands were shaking so bad, he was likely to get a couple of paper cuts from flipping pages until he found his place, but he'd take that any day rather than try and watch James say what he forced out next.

There was another voice, telling her to move, but the woman refused, begging over and over again not Harry. Harry knew he should do something, because that woman was going to die, but there was nothing, he knew nothing but sound as the woman continued to scream for mercy. Then he blacked out.

He had read all of that so fast, most of the words had strung together and his voice was so thick with emotion it was lucky they understood any of it. They all had though, so it was more unlucky in this case. Sirius had to clear his throat several times before he made as if to keep going, but then James forced himself to collect his emotions, and shove them out so that he could deal with it later. For now, he gave Sirius a grateful squeeze on the shoulder, and offered back Harry.

Sirius took a moment to silently asses his friend. He didn't really like what he saw, but under the circumstances the fact that James wasn't curled up into a ball on the floor was a miracle in itself, so he relented. Recognizing that James needed to do this for himself, not only finish this chapter, but continue reading this play out.

Remus and Sirius exchanged a look, loaded down with concern and their own distraught at the situation, but Sirius did indeed take the baby back so that James could read. Taking several deep breaths to make sure he could go on intelligibly, he began again.

There were other voices now, talking about how lucky Harry was he wasn't dead, it was a very good thing the ground had been more mud than anything, but it couldn't have been that bad as his glasses hadn't even broke.

"That's right comforting to wake up to that is," Harry mumbled, rubbing furiously at his arms to get the ghost of that chill away. Lily wrapped her arm protectively around him, not letting any more space between them then she could help, but knew better than to offer a spell to warm him. This wasn't the kind of thing normal heat could cure, but her warm hug seemed to be doing the trick.

Harry struggled to remember, but was coming up blank. He had no idea where he was, or how he'd got there, or what could have caused this.

"Don't rightly want him to remember to be honest," James huffed, dearly wishing he could purge that own memory from his system, let alone it festering in his son's mind.

Then someone whispered how scary it had all been, and Harry's brain caught up and he did remember as his eyes jerked open.

Remus sighed, wondering if it might be in his power in this future to convince Dumbledore Harry might do some good with a couple of extra DADA lessons. He was clearly vulnerable to dementors in particular, who could blame him, and Remus knew without a doubt he'd work day and night with Harry to help him learn the charm to counter them. Considering how limited he'd been so far though, he couldn't help but wonder if the headmaster would assent to this. Clearly Remus didn't have a lot of say in the matter, despite that right now he wouldn't have cared and done it anyways no matter what anyone said, it seemed in this future he may have lost his will along with his friends.

Harry was in a bed in the hospital wing, with the majority of his team around his bed looking like they'd had a mud bath. Ron and Hermione were there as well, though more wet then anything. Fred was the first to get over his shock of him being awake, asking how he was?

"Absolutely peachy, and you?" Sirius scowled.

Harry let his mind rewind back, to that Grim he'd seen, watching Diggory go after the Snitch, then the dementors showing up.

The group gave a collective shudder, now knowing they'd rather break an arm then allow Harry near those dementors again.

Harry asked what happened after that, and Fred told that Harry had collapsed, falling fifty feet back to the ground.

"Because this wasn't the worst day of my life already, I really needed that mental image," James scowled, for the first time ever really wanting Fred to shut up now.

Alicia mumbled that they'd thought he'd died. Hermione made an odd noise, her eyes looking rather bloodshot at that statement.

That drew a wane smile from Lily at least, remembering her little guess that Hermione might truly see Harry as more than a friend, or at least it was heading that way, but she still felt a little too emotional about a few other things to really think on it.

Harry wouldn't linger on that, asking when the rematch for the game would be.

James snorted so violently the book nearly slipped from his grasp again.

"Well, glad he's got his priorities straight," Remus said in a too high pitched voice.

Harry gave them a rather sheepish look, before shrugging and admitting, "really didn't want to dwell on that memory in front of them, so I picked the first thing that came to mind."

"Would they do a replay?" Lily asked quickly, fully understanding his logic.

James mulled that over for a moment, deciding he needed to thank his son for giving him this distraction as he said aloud, "It depends. What with the dementors interrupting, and depending on when exactly Harry fell off, if that other kid caught the Snitch before Harry fell it would have been fair."

Harry didn't think his feelings could actually sink lower, but now as he continued remembering his teammate's faces, and his father's words sinking in, he realized this day actually could get worse.

James winced as he realized he wasn't exactly helping, so hoping he was wrong he read.

When no one answered him, Harry then came to the conclusion that they'd lost. George explained properly saying Diggory had got the Snitch right before Harry fell.

"Dang it," they all muttered, though absently noting they didn't feel nearly as down about this as they should have. Somehow, this game just didn't feel as important as it should have anymore. They were certain that if Harry had won and this still happened, they would have properly congratulated him, but do to circumstances, James instead did what any good father would and told his son, "'s'alright Harry. Can't win every match you play right? You're still a damned good Seeker, but even the best have to lose at it sometimes."

Harry beamed over at him, warmed beyond belief the others didn't blame him all the more for not only bringing up this terrible memory, but losing the game to boot. They were in fact going out of their way to comfort him and still try to make him feel better.

Diggory had tried to call it off, asking for a rematch himself,

"Least he's a decent kind," Sirius grinned.

but even Wood had admitted it was a fair game. Harry then realized his captain wasn't present, and asked where he was. Fred told that he was drowning himself in the shower somewhere.

They all grimaced, thinking the captain of the team should be up there making sure Harry was okay along with everyone else, but none of them could muster up the energy to be too mad at him, still drained themselves.

Harry curled into himself then, pressed his forehead against his knees in frustration and grabbing at his hair. Fred wouldn't allow that, shaking Harry's shoulder to keep his attention.

James immediately took back what he'd thought before about wanting the twins to shut up, and hoped these two would set Harry straight then like he had now.

Comforting the boy that Harry couldn't win every game there was, it had been bound to happen. George jumped in that it didn't even put them out of the Cup, it all added up to points from the other teams.

"See, you're not even out of the running yet," Remus reminded bracingly, making Harry really smile this time. He may have lost the match, and was still stuck on hearing his mother's last moments, but it was still good to know he hadn't lost his team the running. Surely there must be some way to combat dementors and their effects, his gut was already assuring him he was on the right track so that he could fix this problem and hopefully not have to deal with this ever again.

Harry said nothing, still frozen on the fact that he'd lost his Quidditch game.

"Happens to the best of us," James and Sirius said together. It still wasn't as funny as it usually was to them, but any attempt at humor was happily welcomed as the somber mood continued to linger.

Madam Pomfrey came marching over then, telling them all to get out so Harry could rest.

"She's such a killjoy," Remus huffed with a roll of his eyes.

Ron and Hermione didn't move though.

"Oh good, at least they got to stay," Lily slightly perked up.

Hermione began to explain how angry Dumbledore had been when he'd heard, that he'd been the one to use a spell to slow Harry's fall to the ground,

"Good of him, least someone did," they all muttered a variation of this, still wanting to kick at themselves for not being the ones to do this.

and how he'd used some silvery spell to make the dementors go away.

"What silver stuff?" Harry asked swiftly, having noted before this was what Remus had been said to do as well to make them go away.

Remus was quick to respond, explaining all about the spell, and by the end Harry looked nearly back to normal. He was so sure in that moment that he must have already learned this, no matter how advanced Remus kept trying to tell him it was. The spell seemed very familiar to him, it seemed to hold a significance he couldn't place, plus Remus being the one to tell him this felt right. When Harry tried to explain this to them, they all beamed with pleasure, having no doubts that, no matter how hard it would be, Harry, along with Remus' help, could master this.

Then Ron jumped in that Dumbledore had been the one to take Harry up here, but it hadn't looked good, everyone thought he might be...

James grimaced in disgust, mentally tallying up the times he'd had to say that aloud, and growing more than sick of the number.

he didn't seem able to finish, but Harry didn't need him to, nor did he really pay it much mind. He was stuck on what he'd heard when the dementors came for him, and the screaming returned. He looked around for something else to think about,

"Guess you didn't tell them then," Lily murmured, hardly looking upset this time. She personally didn't want to sit around and hear Harry explain this to anyone, let alone his friends.

and asked where his broom was? No one answered.

"Oh this can't be good," James' frown actually deepend at their hesitation, then he read quickly.

It took Harry prompting them for Hermione to begin saying that when Harry had let go, his broom had blown away,

"Someone couldn't have summoned it back?" Sirius asked listlessly, personally still too distracted by memories to come to really think on this much.

and hit the Whomping Willow.

Considering how numb most of them felt, this really couldn't draw nearly as much of a reaction out of them as it normally would have. It was pretty awful that something like that happened to him, but it was clear as Harry continued leaning into his mother it wasn't his greatest concern right now. Sirius couldn't even bring himself to make the joke that falling off his broom had really been the better option.

Harry felt a horrible jump inside of him, well remembering that violent tree as he continued asking,

"And I'm guessing the broom didn't come out on top in that fight," Remus sighed, so quietly no one but Sirius really heard it, and he couldn't really muster up a smile for him this time.

and Ron added on that the tree didn't like being hit.

"I'm sure Harry remembers that actually," James grumbled.

Then Ron finally turned loose a bag full of twigs and the remainder of his handle, and Harry stared down at his destroyed Nimbus Two Thousand.

"Ouch," James muttered, tossing the book away from him and watching with only the vaguest satisfaction as it landed on the table, then reached eagerly out for his son which Sirius willingly handed over.

HPHPHP

So this had to be like the most depressing chapter, for all kinds of reasons. Their wrong assumptions of all these people's motives, poor dang Sirius, Remus, and James, Lily and Harry, and Harry's Nimbus...  but I hope you still enjoyed.

*A hilarious plot hole that I think can be waved off by Dumbledore, he allows Sirius to do exactly this next year but under normal circumstances would be blocked so that any random old person couldn't do exactly this.

**This is just something personal I noticed but couldn't work in how to make anyone point it out since Harry would obviously know by now, but does this mean that Hogwarts has block scheduling? Harry went his whole first week and didn't have DADA until Friday, why would Snape tell them to give it to him Monday. He's clearly assuming he'll have the class again for the assignment to be handed in to him, but that must mean the weeks have different class time frames different weeks. In the next chapter though, they clearly have DADA again on that Monday, so I don't know why they wouldn't have had it on their first week.

[fabllama02]

That Superhero AU

Dagur the Deranged dives into Jackson’s path during the hazy dusk of a weekday. Jackson’s been patrolling for hours now; he suited up straight after school, webbing his backpack full of civvies and calculus homework to the underside of an apartment building’s AC unit before taking to the sky. He’s chasing a couple of thugs who’s held up a local 7/11 when Dagur makes a grab for him.

Jackson flips safely out of the way. Dagur cackles, and chases after him, mouth full of wet, pointed teeth.

“Get a hobby, you maniac!” Jackson calls over his shoulder. Dagur forces him to duck and roll to the left. Those thugs and their bundles of cash must be long gone by now.

“You’re my hobby,” Dagur says.

“Yeah?” Jackson yells back. “You want me to come with you to the craft store? Help you pick out some wool, some watercolors; maybe we could pick up a model airplane to build together-”

Dagur snags his arm. He’s intimidatingly larger than Jackson. His hand wraps entirely around Jack’s bone thin wrist, almost obscuring his entire hand beneath that meaty fist.

“Uh oh,” Jackson says, right before Dagur throws him through the air and into the side of a building. Cement cracks under the force. “Ow.”

Dagur chases it with a punch. Jackson back-flips out of the way, crouching low on the pavement. The street is bustling with people rushing home from work, all of them skittering backward with fright.

“Come on, Dagster, can’t we talk this out like the rational people we aren’t?” Jack offers.

Dagur rises back up on his feet and- yup, oh yeah, he is definitely stupidly taller than Jack. He’d be getting a complex if he wasn’t too busy dodging deadly, swiping hits and ignoring the screeching whine of his spider-sense.

Dagur bares his teeth. It’s not a smile. “I don’t want to talk, little Angel. I want to see what your insides look like.”

“Thank but my insides prefer to be on the inside-”

Dagur grabs Jackson again, nails digging into the soft skin of his throat, and bodily throws him. Jackson doesn’t just crack the side of a building; this time, with a hitch in his breath and a scream of his spider-sense, Jackson goes careening through the storefront window, glass shattering and customers inside shrieking, and then straight through the solid far wall. Jackson’s been thrown through walls before. It never stops being so painful, so disorienting, like a boulder has been smashes over his head.

“Ugh,” Jackson says. He lies in the nest of fractures cement and shards of glass and wonders if numb, tingling limbs is a blessing or a very, very bad sign. Probably the latter. “Ughhhhhh.”

“My boss is going to kill me!” The middle-aged manager in a polo shirt stands behind the broken wall. The glare he wears is anything but sympathetic. Geez, a guy can’t even get thrown through a window and a wall without upsetting someone in this city.

“My super-villains are going to kill me,” Jackson snipes back.

“Look what you’ve done,” hisses an older customer, tiny, glinting glass shards in her hair. She’s not hurt, though, thank god. “I just bough this shirt! Are you going to pay for it?”

Jackson hauls himself out of the Jack Frost shaped hole, stumbling over shaking feet. “When the deranged guy comes back, I’ll probably be paying for something. With my blood.” The manager and the customers go back to cursing him out. The sharp, accusatory bite to their words sounds vaguely venomous. “Are none of you concerned about the guy that was just chucked through a solid wall? And has a giant, murderous super-villain on his tail? No?”

“I should sue you for-” says the manager. He’s several inches taller than Jack and uses his height to bare down on him, arms crossed.

“Why is it that everyone who hates me is tall?” Jackson wonders. “You, Dagur’s ugly butt. And people wonder why short people all have tempers and complexes-”

“I like your height,” Dagur says, clambering into the broken electronics store. Looks like Jackson’s lunch break is over, then.

The manager and the other customers shriek and rush for the exits. The deranged man ignores them, all his attention focused keenly on Jack- hooray for him!- as he shifts, grins, continues, “You’re conveniently small. So easy to throw. To manipulate.”

“Well, hey,” Jackson says, “at least one of us appreciates my height.”

Dagur snatches Jackson’s hand; he’s too off kilter from being ditched through a store to dodge or shake him off but Dagur doesn’t throw him again. His fist tightens, and Jackson’s spider-sense drags a warning up his spine, and then he snaps Jackson’s fingers backward.

Jackson howls and throws himself backward. Dagur is too strong- Jackson dangles from his grip, four fingers of his left hand broken crookedly, panting against his mask.

“See?” Dagur remarks as Jack gasps through the pain. “So fragile and small.”

“Go jump into the Hudson,” Jackson says.

Dagur leans in, shark-like teeth brushing against the vulnerable, hidden curve of Jackson’s ear. “I’m going to kill you next week,” Dagur promises. It’s low, not a whisper, but a quiet exchange passed only between them. “You’re going to come to come, and I’m going to pull you apart until you’re gasping, and bleeding, and dead.”

“I would never go to you,“ Jackson spits. Dagur readjusts his hold on Jackson’s hand, and yanks again. His glove twists, and his skin burns- his wrists isn’t sprained, but it’s a near thing, accompanied by stinging, heated pain.

“You will,” Dagur says like the condescending asshole that he is. He drops Jackson, and the teenager skitters away from his hold.

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, then I guess I’ll just have to come to you. Do you think the news channel would be horrified by a man being ripped open on a public street, or do you think, in lieu of an obituary, they’ll publish an article blaming you for dirtying public property?” That smile- it’s going to crawl it’s way through Jack’s nightmares like the haunting, damning thing he knows it for. “I doubt anyone would even mourn.”

Jackson’s breath is hitched, his wrecked hand cradled to his heaving chest. Dagur laughs once more, a victorious sound, before taking off into the darkening city, leaving Jackson to the approaching sound of police sirens, the judging eyes of surrounding civilians, and a growing, cancerous dread.

The injury in his hands had vanished quickly, but Dagur’s promise stayed with Jackson. He tried to ignore it, but there was something unsettling about Dagur, more so than any bullies, or criminals, or even super-villains that Jackson faced before. The deranged man is a different breed of villain. He rattles Jackson; it doesn’t matter how hard Jackson tries to ignore it, the man always manages to crawl under his skin.

But, over a week later, when Jackson flips past Oswald Tower and his spider-sense blares to life, Jackson doesn’t think about Dagur. His senses direct him downward, into a hatched window on the lower floor. His hearing picks up begging, someone crying, and then a choked off scream- and Jackson’s running before he thinks about where he is.

Jackson just wants to help. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

It’s uncomfortable to search out a crime like this. His spider-sense naturally urges Jackson’s body away from danger. To rush against it like this, sprinting further into the winding hallways, having it build louder and louder in his head, makes him uneasy. It’s like the world’s worst game of hotter/colder. Jackson’s colors slowly melts into his surroundings; making him invisible.

It’s late, and Jackson thinks nothing of the hallways being almost entirely abandoned, only a few interns shrieking at the sudden sight of him crawling along their ceiling like something out of a horror movie. He shushes them and points towards the nearest exit that isn’t blocked. They nodded in thanks before rushing past him and he turns invisible once more.

His spider-sense takes him to a closed set of doors. Jackson crawls in the room through the vents. He found two men inside. One is knelt as though in prayer, drenched in blood and shaking visibly. The other- impeccably dressed, all sharp angles and too seeing eyes- smiles before looking up. At his direction. His grin only grows, his head cocks, and when he takes one testing step forward, Jackson’s spider-sense flinches up his neck like a panicked animal and his invisibility falls off.

“Always a surprise,” the man remarks. “Always exceeding my expectations of man’s ability for blind, foolhardy heroism.” The man’s visage flickers before it completely falls and reveals-

“Dagur.” Jackson says through gritted teeth.

“Permafrost!” The man on the ground tries to reach for Jackson. “Help-”

“Oh, shut up.” Dagur bends down and slams the man’s bleeding head into the floor. Jackson’s spider-sense is a haunting, distracting thing, urging him to run.

“Get away from him,” Jackson says.

The deranged man looks down at the slumped, unmoving man. “Whatever you say, little Angel,” he says, taking a pointed step away, towards Jackson. “He’s just a scientist that out grew his usefulness, anyway.”

“I’m more heroic each time; you’re more vague and creepy each time. We’re a match made in heaven.” Jackson doesn’t leave. He knows Dagur would only take it out on the helpless man on the floor. From the glint of teeth, Jackson guesses Dagur is well aware of the responsibility Jackson has to the unconscious man, too.

“I didn’t even have to enact the second part of my plan. You came straight to me, sought me out through the twisting burrows of my Tower. A dog returning to his master.”

“That’s not very nice,” Jackson says through the building fear. “And after all the effort I made to come visit you…”

The deranged man wearing Oswald’s skin smiles. The click of the reinforced door behind him and the spray of gas shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does. The villain straps a gas mask over his smile.

Jackson rushes Dagur. He doesn’t make it to the man before chocking on his breath and collapsing into a pile of weak, useless limbs. Jackson passes out there, goes lax in the bowels of Oswald Tower, spread out at Dagur’s feet.

Jackson comes to with a weight against his throat and heavy limbs. His legs feel like they’ve been dipped in tar, a sticky, moving wetness on his legs and arms. His spider-sense is still with him, screaming incoherently at the base of Jackson’s skull. It gives a rough indicator for just how screwed exactly Jackson is.

He tugs against the wet slime. It shifts, pins him down. He tries again, but the thing doesn’t move and his palm is clenched firmly closed inside it so he can’t frost his way out of this either. It’s like being held down by chains made of molasses.

“Sssssstay,” the Venom-like thing gurgles. His spider-sense shudders down his spine at the sound. Of course, this is why his senses had freaked out; not only was someone in trouble, but a symbiote is involved. They always set Jackson’s spider-sense off, too loud, almost painfully so.

And whatever Dagur’s planning must have been a factor, too. Maybe his spider-sense wasn’t hightlighting the pain the scientist was suffering. Maybe it had sniffed out Dagur’s plan and lit up like a Christmas tree in fright.

“You walked into this one, Jack,” Jackson croaks around the dryness in his throat (how long was he out?). “You idiot.”

“With an IQ so high, you’d think you’d see a trap before you walked blindly into it.” Jackson’s head tips against the tiles to see Dagur, stood above the lain out teenager, looming like a skyscraper over pedestrians. “Hello, Jackson.”

Jackson freezes. Splutters, “I’m- I’m not-”

Dagur holds up his red mask. Jackson realizes, stomach dropping, that his face is bare.

“I’ve known for a while, Jackson,” Dagur says. “A long while.”

“You weren’t good for this city. You’re good for me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jackson says around his panic, “you’re not very good for me. I want to take this relationship back to the shop and get a full refund. The receipt is still in my other tights-”

“Your incessant babbling isn’t as sharp when you’re this panicked. And here I thought you’d be slinging clever puns until the sun burnt out.” Dagur crouches down next to Jackson’s pinned form, grin as slippery as the symbiote holding Jackson in place. He thumbs at a square piece of metal held in one hand. “Maybe I can make you shut up for once. Let’s see, shall we?”

Jackson opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the weight around his throat tightens, buts off his air and his words, before it pulses electric shocks down his nerves. This is different from the familiar sting of the police’s tazer shots aimed at him- this burns. It scorches. Jackson doesn’t have enough air to scream.

Jackson feels floaty. Distant. When he come back to himself, his chest is heaving. Fingers card through his sweat damp hair.

“You shouldn’t wear that mask,” Dagur admonishes. “It’s too nice, seeing your face. Do you have any idea what you look like when I do this?” He presses at the remote and Jackson is lost beneath another wave of encompassing, red hot pain.

“Bet- bet I still don’t look as ugly as you,” Jackson pants when the sensation ebbs. Dagur’s right- his jokes aren’t as good.

Dagur ignores that. “I’ll tell you; you’re pale. Your eyes roll back in your head, leaving only bloodshot white, and your mouth slips open.” The fingers drift from his hair to trace Jackson’s cracked lips, pressing in. Jackson tastes his fingers on his tongue. He tries to bite him, but Dagur retracts his hand too quickly. “Your whole body convulses…”

“If that hand drifts any lower, Dagur, I really will bite it off.”

Dagur laughs and plucks his hand from Jackson’s clavicle. “You’re lovely, like this.”

“Gross,” Jackson says. “You’re so, so-”

Dagur presses down on the remote. Jackson throws his head back with all his strength. His cranium bangs loudly against the hard floor. But he barely notices the tingling pain or the blood pooling there. He won’t notice the concussion until later.

It continues like that. Dagur leans in, brushes his fingertips over Jackson’s panting, sweating face, looming over the wreck of a teenager and grinning like he wants to devour him whole. The remote is twisted, the collar tightens in warning and then-

Jackson tries fighting, but he feels like he’s underwater. The symbiote holds him down. So, too, does the shocking, sporadic pain and the piercing weight of Dagur’s eyes.

“I made you this way,” Dagur whispers as Jackson gasps for air, shaking violently under the billionaire’s hand. “I made you what you are. I own the spider serum, I own you; my collar belongs around your throat.” The symbiote gurgles. It moves, crawls like a seaworm, like it’s fidgeting. Dagur laughs at the sight, “Your brother is jealous of my affection, Jack, you should be grateful.”

It’s not Dagur’s sugary words that make the half-formed symbiote anxious. It’s the collar. Each flick o Dagur’s thumb on the trigger makes the symbiote skitter along Jackson. He didn’t pick it up in the beginning, too blinded by the waves of pain that swept over him, but after a while, after even Dagur has grown impatient with this method of torture, Jackson is numb enough to recognize the symbiote’s fear. It stays away from where his nerves are the thickest- his feet, his fingertips, the inner curve of his thighs (places that, unfortunately, Dagur is not afraid of touching).

Jackson remembers; Venom had been frightened of pulsing waves of sound, like Church bells. Electricity- this one doesn’t like electricity.

Jackson upper body surges like he’s going to attack Dagur, and the villain reacts instinctively, thumbs slamming down on the collar’s remote trigger. It tightens in warning, leaving him breathless, and Jackson twists on his side. Rather than going lax, surrendering to the inevitable rush of pain, he curls and presses his lips to the writhing, black mass pinning down his arms. When the bundles of nerves beneath his skin flood with electricity, the symbiote screams with Jackson.

It’s just enough. The symbiote flinches off of him and Jack rolls, shuddering with the aftershocks, and punches the shock off of Dagur’s face. As the two monsters recover, Jackson skitters across the lab floor. His free hand reaches up and freezes the collar before crushing it. The bulky metal cracks and energy crackles inside the ice but didn’t fully reach Jackson. It hurts, burns like spitting oil, but it’s nothing like before.

Dagur roars behind his teeth, one hand pressed against his broken nose, spurting blood against his fingers. Jackson smiles victoriously, feeling a little feral.

Take that, Dagster. Jack, 1. Dagur…probably more than 1, come to think of it-

The symbiote is still squirming, but makes no move towards Jackson, skittering away from it’s master’s hands.

I kissed the symbiote, Jack thinks, staring at it. I kissed Venom’s less developed cousin.

And Dagur, Dagur- his eyes are dark and wild. He runs at Jackson and he sees a flash of metal, a loud warning from his spider-sense, before the much taller man barrels into him.

They tumble to the ground, Jackson beneath Dagur. He’s burnt out and exhausted, his collar still spitting toned-down shocks of electricity through his fried nerves at random intervals. Dagur’s teeth are red. His blood drips from his nose and wets Jackson’s maskless face.

He hasn’t don his villain’s suit yet, but he’s still the very picture of Jackson’s nightmares.

Dagur’s elbow digs into Jackson’s chest. It hurts. It pins him. Jackson makes a grab for it, but his spider-sense screams, and Dagur shoves a knife between Jackson’s ribs.

“There it is,” Dagur pants, his blood splashing onto Jackson’s wet cheeks. Some of it gets into the teenager’s open, screaming mouth. It doesn’t taste coppery; all Jackson can taste is pain. “That open, lovely expression. I don’t even need this.” He fiddles with the collar, but snatches his hand back when it splutters and chocks both him and Jackson.

Jackson grapples with Dagur, knife still embedded in his side. Dagur blocks easily enough. Jackson’s strong, but clumsy with pain. The deranged man is still not wearing his gears, but coherent and running on the high of victory.

Dagur grabs his hand and twists. Jackson feels something crack, and Dagur drinks in Jackson’s scrunched expression and breathy cry of pain.

“This wasn’t the type of father-son bonding I was picturing,” Jackson says through his teeth, because he has to, because the other opinion is to scream or cry, giving Dagur what he wants. “I thought- I thought we were going to go fishing, maybe watch some baseball, play catch out the front-”

Dagur punches him across the face, fist closed. Jackson knows how to take a punch.

“You need to watch more American family films, dude, because this? This is not how adults interact with teenagers. There’s a severe lack of baseball mitts and nicknames like ‘sport’ and ‘sonny’-” Dagur hits him again, harder. His lip splits open, and Jack swallows a mouthful of blood and spit. He slants a glare up at his villain. “You’re kind of an asshole, I ever tell you that, Dag-fart? Ha- oh my god, Dag-fart the Deranged, that’s my new name for-!”

Broad hands wrap around Jackson’s neck, ignoring the metal collar and squeezing. Jackson squirms against the chokehold, he tugs at Dagur’s hands and promptly spread frosts along his forearms but strangely enough, he didn’t budge. Even as skin seems to darken in blue at the beginning of a frostbite, Dagur’s sharp-nailed fingers dig into the soft column of his throat. He splutters up at Dagur’s face- purpled in rage, eyes wild, grin as manic as ever- and tries to form words.

“I prefer you quiet,” Dagur tells him. His grip tightens. Jackson’s fingers scramble at the tiles, at Dagur’s hands, desperate for air. “Ah, I think I like this face even more than the last one. You’re so beautiful, desperate. Dying under my hands…”

Dag-fart, Jackson thinks through the airless haze. Dag-fart.

Dagur relaxes his grip enough for Jackson to take in rattling, shallow gasps. His lungs burn. Dagur’s hands go soft, his spread fingers rubbing circles along Jackson’s shaking throat. This deceptive gentleness is sickening.

Their faces are inches apart. Less than. They’re breathing in each other’s air, and Dagur can feel the violent trembling of Jackson’s body, can feel how warm the blood beginning to seep from his stab wound is. That, after everything that has happened today, is what pushes Jackson over the edge.

His legs snap out and he kicks Dagur off of him with all the strength of a bucking, enraged horse. The billionaire’s ribs crack with the force. Jackson yanks the knife out. He resists the urge to curl around the injury or spend any more precious seconds tearing at the collar that keeps spitting electricity. With adrenaline thrumming through his blood, he clambers up and makes for the door. Dagur is still curled on the floor on the other side of the room. The symbiote lays still, as harmless as spilled out, spoiled milk.

Jackson hastily activates his invisibility and limps out of the door and down the long, dark corridors as fast as he can with a bleeding side and a malfunctioning collar.

Dagur isn’t down for long; Jackson can hear the man’s chocked off shouts of rage through the walls. He limps faster, puffing little breathy gasps with each jarring step.

His torso feels soaked through with the blood even as he iced his bleeding side. Wall crawling may be faster and give him the rare higher ground on his too-tall enemy, but it’d paint a path to Jackson. Dagur would just have to follow the dripping, bloodied handprints along the wall to find him.

No. Walk-limping would have to do.

“JACKSON!” He hears the shout muffled through the wall. Dag-fart sounds pained. Good.

Jackson’s been hurt as Jack Frost before. Concussions, jarred fingers and sprained ankles, bullet wounds to the thigh, even a stab wound or two. But there’s something different about this- something that’s visceral and real. Too raw, too much. This, limping through evacuated, empty halls, nerves burnt out and a head wound beginning to make itself known, a concussion pressing nauseous into his throat and blurring the edges of his vision, frostbite beginning to take place on his badly bleeding side, the echo of Dagur’s manic voice ringing through the walls-

It’s too much. Jackson clenches his mouth shut, teeth trapping any noise he might make, and breathes raggedly through his nose. He won’t succumb to the jagged whimpers he can feel in his throat, won’t cry, won’t let panic attack pressing against his ribs take him down.

He has to get out of here.

Dagur is a distinct point; Jackson can just hear his rough pants and the slick-slide sound of his button down and slacks against the villain gears he wears as Dagur the Deranged. Jackson just has to… stay out of his grasp. And find help.

An adult, his mother would say often, driven by worry that her tiny, fresh in his teens, son would think he had to deal with anything awful by himself. She knew he was too selfless. Too stupid to draw attention to his problems. You tell an adult if something bad happens, okay? Promise me, Jackson.

 Jackson, tiny and trusting and sick of these too familiar lectures, had nodded his promise. Had sworn it.

Jackson hates the idea that he’s not enough as he is. He hates being told he’s too weak or not capable or should be protected cause he’s 15 years old and still impatiently waiting for a growth spurt. He’s a superhero. His fists are small, but they pack a mighty punch.

But even stupid, stubborn Jackson has to admit that he’s in a bad position here. Fingers clenched tight to his iced stab wound, Jackson relents; his mother was right.

Jackson needs an adult.

He finds the phone in an empty lab a few levels down. Dagur had taken him to the basement levels, floors hidden beneath the concrete ground of the city, buried in the soil. The man assumed that, after escaping, Jackson would’ve limped up. Tried to find his way out into the sunlight.

But Jackson’s seen enough animal documentaries. He knows about the feral, sharp toothed predators that wounded their prey and then stalk it down, waiting for it to slow, to eventually succumb to their injuries, before capturing and devouring it. He’s not going to crawl and get inches from safety, only to have Dagur snatch him back up.

So Jackson winds his way down to even lower levels. It buys him time.

The scientists usually manning these labs must have been told to abandon them in a hurry. Bags are still left at workstations. There’s no one here to stop him from rifling through their belongings until he finds a phone without a passcode to crack.

With shaking, wet fingers, Jackson dials the closest hero. The one that had- after snapping at him for going out, young and untrained- reluctantly handed over a phone number. Not a name, not an address; a phone number. For emergencies.

It’s one of the few numbers Jackson has memorized, outside of his mother, and his little sister, and a few other dozen friends, and-

“This is Matt Murdock’s phone!”

 “Um,” Jackson says. The voice doesn’t sound like Daredevil; it’s too chirpy. “I’m looking for Daredevil…?”

The man on the other end of the line sighs. “Of course you are.”

“Is this the wrong number? Are you, like, his secretary?”

“Sometimes I feel like it.” Jackson has no idea what that means. “How did you get this number?”

 “Daredevil gave it to me. We’re…we’re colleagues.”

“Winkwink, nudgenudge colleagues?”

 Jackson stares blankly at the lab wall. He’s starting to feel floaty again. Out of body. Like nothing, not even a phone in his hands, not even the warm voice in his ear, is quite real. “I’m a superhero, I’m not sleeping with him or anything. That’s gross.”

“No, no, I got that-” Something shifts in the background. The man murmurs gently, urging someone back to sleep. When he returns, he asks, hushed, “What do you want? Daredevil isn’t available tonight.”

 “He needs to be available,” Jackson says through his haze, heart thumping like a frightened animal. His collar shocks him every ten minutes or so, sending out a weak, painful pulse of electricity that makes him jump and lose his train of thought. “I-I need his help. I’m in tr-”

“Foggy?” Someone in the background says, words badly slurred. “Who’s on the phone?”

 “No one, buddy!” says this Foggy, this man who acts as Daredevil’s secretary, this man who’s keeping help from Jackson. “Go back to sleep, you’re still too injured. It’s just a prank call.”

 “Is that him?” Jackson begs. “I need to- I need-”

“I’m sorry, kid, but running around in spandex can wait. You’re going to have to be patient for a few nights.”

 “Wait-” Jackson begins, but Foggy has already hung up. Jackson tries to call again, but the phone rings out. Foggy must’ve turned it off. Figures.

“Okay, Jackson,” Jackson tells himself around the chattering of his teeth (either blood loss or fear, the jury is still out). His lungs feel tight, like they’re stuffed full of cotton wool and there’s no room for his sharp, shallow inhales. “Don’t panic. So Daredevil hired an asshole secretary who won’t take your calls, you’ve faced stuff like this before. Who else do you know? Who else?”

There’s a group. A group, in their gleaming building with their famous name, who Jackson’s been snapchatting and texting, who’s number his scrambled, fried brain remembers.

He lowers himself to the ground, one hand around his bleeding middle, the other dialing quickly. E. Aster Bunnymund answers with a gruff, “Hello?”

 “Bunny? It’s-it’s Jack Frost,” Jackson whispers. His mouth is wet and dripping; there’s too much salvia in his mouth like he’s about to throw up.

Bunny laughs on the other end of the line. “Frosty? Is this another prank call? Because, I tell ya, I ain’t gonna fall for it a second time around-”

 “Bunny,” Jackson says, “listen, I need the Four’s help with something. Now.”

“Come on, Frostbite. You don’t call, you don’t write- I feel neglected-”

 “Bunny!”Jackson’s voice pitches too high, gone crackling with panic. On the other end, Bunny audibly winces. “Sorry. Sorry. I just… I really need your help. Please.”

“Sorry, Jack, but the Four and I are off-world. We’re actually on our way out ta deal with another spacial anomaly thingy. Ye just caught us; we’re going to fly out of the range of Earth’s satellites soon.”

 “Talk about a long distance call,” Jackson says idly, almost distantly, as though his heart isn’t trying to fight it’s way past his ribcage. The too wet feeling in his mouth worsens. Maybe he really will throw up, this time. Would that attract Dagur? A loud, retching sign of weakness- blood in the water, calling out to the hungry, hungry sharks.

“Good thing ya didn’t call on yer cell,” Bunny agrees. He laughs again. Jackson doesn’t laugh with him. “It’d be phone bill out of this world.”

 “Do you know a phone number that will get me into contact with the other Guardians?” Bunny hums, doubtful, and Jackson begs, “Does North know? Does he have Ombric’s phone number? Someone else, even- any unknown vigilante currently living in this city?”

“No and no to da last two, I think.” Bunny leaves the call briefly. Jackson can hear him talking to the others briefly. There’s a click over the line and the telltale crackle as Jackson is put on speaker phone.

“Jack Frost!” North greets joviantly. “What’s the problem? Is it something we can advise you on? If it’s a strategic battle I could walk you through-”

 ”No, no.” Jackson chokes on the words, around the congested, panicked feeling building in his chest. “I need actual physical help. I need the cavalry, North.”

“We’re pretty far from being able to help, Frostbite.” Bunny’s voice is light, on the edge of a joke. It makes Jackson feel like crying.

“Do you know how I can contact the other Guardians? Or a- a superhero helpline, maybe?”

“I’m sorry, Jack, but my superhero contacts are all saved in the Workshop servers on Earth. There’s nothing I can give you-” North says.

“Nothing?” Jackson asks. Beneath his mask, tears drip down his nose. He didn’t cry when Dagur loomed over him and made him shake and whispered awful, awful promises, but this? Knowing how well and truly alone he is? It’s choking. A hysterical, knife-edged sob crawls it’s way out of Jackson’s throat without his consent.

“Frosty?!” Bunny’s voice is back. Jackson bites at his bottom lip, and curls up tighter around his knees, and presses the phone closer, like he can climb into the screen if he tries hard enough. “Are you- are you crying?”

 “Jack, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” That’s Toothiana. Her voice is hard with worry.

“Blyat,” North says, panicked. Jackson is growing numb and distant and cloudy, the way he does when a panic attack is really brewing, thick and heavy, in his chest. “Is he-”

 “I’m on my own, then,” Jackson cuts North off. His words are shaky and strained; concussions are awful things, especially when coupled with blood loss. Jackson swallows thickly. “It’s- alright. It’s alright.”

“Frosty!” Bunny says. “Snowflake, wait a second-”

 Jackson hangs up.

The phone rings almost immediately. He silences it by denying the call, but it rings again moments later. It doesn’t even occur to Jackson to turn the thing off. He picks it up and crushes it between shaking fingers. It doesn’t ring after that, scattered as it is in warped, useless parts.

“It’s going to be alright,” Jackson says, just once more, and gets to his feet.

Jackson realizes, belatedly, that he should have used that phone to call his mother and little sister. He really may not make it out of this, not if Dagur catches him. A phone call to apologize and say goodbye would have been nice. Then again, the sound of both of their voices may have made him break down for real, and Jackson can’t afford that right now.

The pain is distracting, but the accompanying immovability is what makes Jackson grit his teeth. His whole body feels stiff. He can’t limp away from this. He can’t jump from a window and flips his way to freedom.

The collar goes off again. Jackson freezes the damn thing again and ignores it. He doesn’t have the time or coherency to pull the thing apart.

The blood running thick and slippery over his shaking fingers is alarming. Like a red flag, it shouts Jackson’s own stupidity back at him. He shouldn’t have gotten caught. He should have fought harder. Been faster. Shouldn’t have even gotten out of bed that morning-

Dagur is back.

A door opens and shuts a few hallways over. Dagur’s wearing an expensive grey suit, but beneath it, hidden from prying eyes, is the synthetic gears of his villain outfit. The same way Jackson’s suit is usually tucked away beneath hoodies and t-shirts.

Daredevil’s secretary may have denied him, but Jackson’s still grateful for the hours the older man had spent helping Jackson hone his advanced senses. He can hear the slick-slide of the deranged man’s suit against slacks as loud as a warning bell.

Daredevil may not know it, but he just saved Jackson’s life. Even if it may not matter, in the end.

Jackson immediately activates his invisibility again and wedges himself into a maintenance closet, and holds his breath, and silently begs Dagur doesn’t find him.

He doesn’t- the slick-slide of fabric passes Jackson’s hiding place and disappears further down the corridor. Jackson hasn’t stopped to hide yet, so Dagur has no reason to check all the rooms. He knows that will change the longer he evades the older man. Soon, Dagur’s going to stumble over him, and Jackson’s going to be in no condition to run or fight him off.

But, for now, Jackson shuffles further against the wall, curls into an impossibly small ball, and , with hands smothering his loud breaths, lets his looming panic attack finally crash over him.

The slick-side sound returns. Jackson is exhausted in the aftermath of a panic attack, the vinyl beneath him a sticky red, showing off his blood loss. There’s no air vents in the closet, no hidden nooks for him to disappear into. When Dagur inevitably finds him, he’ll-

“I don’t care how many laws it breaks, scan the corridor. Find whatever experiment Dagur is doing down here.” The voice isn’t Dagur. It’s warmer, a part of him thinks. It doesn’t send shivers down Jackson’s spine. “Who cares about lead lined walls? What are you, Superman? Oh, come on, Fishlegs, you’ve trained better than that-”

An intruder, Jackson thinks. Dagur’s enemy. An ally, in a nearby corridor, starting to wander away from Jackson and his hiding place.

Jackson clambers to his feet and stumbles into the hallway before he can stop himself. His spider-sense has been active since he first burst into the building, and it’s still simmering on low. A reminder that something is coming, that danger looms on Jackson’s horizon. But it doesn’t raise it’s warnings when Jackson started towards the voice,

“Wait!” Jackson blurts. The slick-slide sound fades out. For the first time today, Jackson desperately wants it to come closer.

Jackson hobbles after the voice. The stiffness in his legs is worse after sitting still for so long. His torso flares with old, inhibiting pain with every hurried step. His head lolls, too heavy. Jackson’s fighting through mud, not air, limping after the one person who might actually be able to help him.

The ache in his legs finally, finally gets to him; Jackson stumbles and falls. Shaking tremors work up his body, so violent Jackson has to lean against the wall to keep himself upright. He can’t stand. He should at least be able to sit. The cream wall behind him is smeared with red handprints, where his messy hands struggled to keep him upright.

“Wait. That’s- that’s not right.” The voice, that deep nasally voice- Jackson chokes on the hot lump in his throat. “There shouldn’t be any heat signatures. All the workers were evacuated from this part of the building, and it’s too small and bright to be a fully grown-”

The slick-slide of fabric. Fat, brisk steps. The faint whir of a machine working overtime. A tall young man rounds the corner and freezes, eyes blown wide. He flinches violently back at the sight of bloodied spandex and folded limbs.

“Help,” Jackson slurs. He thought the shaking would abate if he found another ally, but it doesn’t. It worsens. He’s too overstimulated. The shock is like a dam, blocking any relief and putting hot, prickling tears in his eyes.

The man sprints the few meters between him and Jackson. The slick-slide sound is so loud- why does this stranger sound like Dagur? The intruder’s suit is somewhat bulky yet light. Maybe- maybe it’s another kind of undersuit? Something he wears under there like an armor? Or maybe-

“Hey,” The man says, and he sounds panicked. “Hey, can you hear me?” Jackson hums, yes. He tries to nod his head, but it flops, rolls to the side, and doesn’t co-operate. “What happened?”

“Dagur. Turns out, he was right.” An arm snakes around Jackson’s neck, and the taller man tugs him closer. Jackson’s wet, ruined face presses against the man’s suit jacket. “No- no- I’m too dirty-”

“I don’t care,” The man says. The taller man is vehement, oddly so. He presses gentle fingers over the bulky collar, with it’s warped pieces sitting snug against the base of Jackson’s throat, finger-shaped bruises blooming on skin beneath it. “Oh, my gods…”

Jackson’s ruined fingers latch onto the man’s shirt. He doesn’t feel safe yet, but the guy is warm. He’s not hurting him. He’s an anchor to Jackson, who’s been floating and lost all day.

“Did you come for me?” Jackson chokes. Maybe the Big Four had managed to call someone under the Guardians before being out of the Earth’s satellites. He didn’t think anyone was coming. He didn’t think he was allowed this kind of help.

The guy hesitates for a long moment. “No,” He admits, and Jackson swallows, “I’ve been suspicious of Dagur for a long time. I knew he was up to something, and I’d been in his servers, so when I got the report that he had his basement levels evacuated without reason, I snuck in.”

“Sorry. No big conspiracy. ‘s just me.” Jackson’s fingers slip from the man’s button up. He feels less like he’s going to hyperventilate again, less stressed, just this heavy, empty kind of tiredness. “I’m a pretty sucky Christmas present, I know. You wasted your time for nothing.”

The man doesn’t let Jackson go, though. He holds on, even as Jackson’s thoughts haze over, body going loose. “Stay with me,” The guy whispers against his bloody forehead. “I’m going to get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do.”

Concussions really do suck. Or maybe it’s the extended exposure to electric shocks; that cant be good for the human body. Or maybe it’s the knife wound, or blood loss, or good old fashioned shock that’s sending Jackson in and out of awareness, everything blurry and distant. He tries to grab hold of his surroundings and pull himself into coherency, but his body won’t co-operate. For the first time in a while, his spider-sense is quiet. His body takes that as a sign to shut off.

Jackson barely registers that he’s being carried. He barely hears the sound of a vehicle door opening before he’s slid onto leather seats.

Someone sucks in a sharp gasp. “Gods, what happened to him? Is that a collar?!”

Jackson’s head lolls. He squints up at a blonde young woman, peering over the front seat at him. “Dag-fart,” he informs her, seriously.

The man’s surprised bark of laughter is nice. The other woman smiles, but the edges are wrong; she’s too sad for it to be real. “Heroes are really all the same, huh?” she says.

“Yup,” The guy says with delight. “Dag-fart. Oh, that is too good. Remind me to change his name to that in absolutely everything.”

“I’m surprised Dagur let you leave, Hiccup-”

“He didn’t, Astrid. I had Fishlegs map us a path back up to you so that we avoided the snake. I’m not sure he would have let me leave with him, and I couldn’t risk fighting Dagur. Jack Frost needs help too badly.”

“How long did he have him?” Astrid asks. She doesn’t sound very happy, Jackson notes.

“I don’t know,” Hiccup says with a choked tone Jackson’s soupy, useless mind can’t quite understand. “I didn’t even know he was missing. He didn’t even call for help-”

“I did,” Jackson says. He’s half-guessing that they’re talking about him, but he needs them to know that he’s not this useless. He can tie his own shoes, fight his own baddies, and knows when to call for reinforcements when necessary. Even if he doesn’t have any reinforcements available to him just yet. The concept of real, dependable allies- outside the sudden, accidental appearance of this stranger, who’s assistance is born from moral responsibility rather than anything more tangible, like friendship- is still foreign. An unlockable feature Jackson hasn’t gotten to yet.

“Daredevil’s secretary is bad at his job,” Jackson slurs up at the man.

“Yeah, you’re definitely concussed there, Frost. Take it easy.”

Jackson squirms in his seat. “Thought I was- was going to die,” he admits, and then frowns. “Don’t let Dag-fart get my comic books, ‘kay?”

“Your comic books are safe,” Hiccup reassures. To the blonde young woman, he says, “Fly us home.”

“Got it,” says the woman, accompanied by the soft thrum of a powerful engine as they rocket away from Oswald Tower and the monster stalking it’s halls.

Hiccup lets Jackson go limp against him. His stab wound drips onto expensive leather, and he’s wetting the guy’s fancy suit, and he’s probably a bony, uncomfortable weight on the guy, their relationship not close enough for this easy contact, but the guy doesn’t push him off, just gathers him closer. And when fingers card through Jackson’s damp hair, he leans into the touch, relaxes, and doesn’t think about the monster hidden beneath Dagur’s skin.

[fiendfluid]

it is an unmooring of the mind

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims & Daisy Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Daisy Tonner Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, Daisy Tonner, Peter Lukas, Tim Stoker, Background & Cameo Characters Additional Tags: Selkies, Drowning, Lonely Typical Depression And Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Body Horror, Touch-Starved, Casual Physical Affection, Blood and Gore, Hopeful Ending, Fluff and Angst Chapters: 7/10

“Persistent bastards.”

Jon pulls the binoculars away from his face, his mouth set in a grim line. 

They had to leave port without Daisy, with the Tundra looming ominously in the horizon--drawing closer with every panicked minute of unmooring and setting off. Jon had insisted she would be able to track them down, but even he had looked worried, which of course set Martin off in turn. 

They set off, staying as close to shore as they dared, something about being in the open water without her set Jon on edge, though nowadays anything did, really. Not that he was paying attention.

“Your lot must have finally killed one too many of their playthings.” Martin mutters coldly.

In the six days of speedy travel away from the Tundra, nothing had been done to improve the strain between them--not that either of them have tried to fix anything; Jon just hovers around, like some kind of nervous moth, drawn toward the light but unsure what to do once it got there--and frankly Martin isn’t in the trying mood. 

“Martin,” Jon says slowly, staring in that way he does often; usually when he thinks Martin’s being a moron. “the Tundra was never chasing after me, they’ve been looking for you.”

Martin scoffs, frowning. “What? No it’s not. They dragged you onto the ship in the first place, Lukas has been trying to kill you!” 

The clouds overhead crackle with ill temper, casting the boat in strange, draining grey light. It makes Jon appear more gaunt, haggard as he slides into the chair across from Martin. He hasn’t been sleeping, that much is clear from the shadows under his eyes, the lifeless sheen to his skin--and even if he hadn’t been looking, the nightmares are enough of a tell themselves. Martin stamps down the spark of pity he feels.

“While you’re right that Peter Lukas has never turned down a chance to hurt us, he’s never gone out of his way to seek us out until now.” Jon clarifies. “He’s--he’s probably not even allowed to kill me.”

“What does that mean?” Martin asks, and Jon twitches uncomfortably. 

“It’s a long story.” Jon deflects, fumbling blindly for his lighter as he lights up yet another cigarette. But Martin isn’t in the mood. 

“No, sorry, you don’t get to do that.” Martin says, stabbing an accusing finger toward Jon. “Now isn’t the time for secrets or being cryptic. No more games, so just talk like a normal person.”

Jon doesn’t so much as flinch, matching Martin’s stony gaze with one of his own. He has never been one to push, or walk directly into conflict, but he holds his ground now, and it doesn’t take long before Jon relents, letting out a long, frustrated noise akin to a growl alongside a billow of smoke. 

"You’re right…” Jon concedes, like he’s been forced to swallow glass. “listen, things have happened with Lukas in the past, terrible things I don't ever wish to repeat--you don't know what he is, the friends he keeps."

“Then tell me.”

“Fine.” Jon starts, his voice adopting a tone of professional distance, his eyes fixed at a point just past Martin's shoulder. “I have not been, nor will I ever be safe as long as I live this life as a creature such as I am. I have spent years avoiding the nets and collars of every monster worse than I that wishes to claim me or my skin. But the Tundra has always been one step ahead of me...”

Jon trails off, lost in thought. He smiles so sadly that Martin almost asks him to stop, but curiosity keeps him quiet. 

“I was so cocky, so sure of myself and my abilities. But you can't avoid a cage when it is shrouded in fog.” Jon continues, “I was caught--Lukas wanted to give me back to the Institute, as a gift, probably. I had to fight tooth and bloody nail to get away before that happened. By the time that damn ship finally vanished from the horizon, I was just angry.

“I met Daisy, and she was willing to help me…deal with the Tundra. So I tried to hurt him. Whatever he wanted I took before he could have it. Whether that be potential victims turned proteges or damaging the ship, it didn't matter. We were riding the world of monsters, at least, that's how it felt...but well, you know.”

His eyes flit up to catch Martin's gaze before shying away. “Things...changed.”

His voice warps and changes, fraying at the edges of control. Martin can feel the way his own face turns down in a grimace, unable to keep his horror from manifesting. Not when Jon bares his soul, albeit reluctantly. 

“But he never retaliated against us,” Jon frowns, with a very unsubtle clearing of his throat, “he’s never batted an eye until now.”

“The Institute you mentioned,” he starts softly, wary of Jon’s responding flinch. “does Lukas have a hand in that as well?”

Jon shakes his head, gathering his arms close around himself. “Not entirely. He supplies them with money and other such things. No, that place is...someone else’s doing.”

“And they hurt you too? They did--” Martin cuts himself off. He weakly gestures toward the whole of Jon. 

“Not all of it.” Jon says, rubbing at a couple of his scars. “But yes.”

“And have you hurt them? Has it even helped at all?”

“No. No it hasn’t.”

“Well.”

“Like I said, I'm not trying to justify my-my monstrosity.” 

“You aren’t a monster, Jon. But I don’t understand why you chose now to run away from everything.”

“Because I’m scared, Martin!” Jon snaps, his voice loud like an explosion between them. “I don’t ever want to set foot on that ship again, and I won’t go back to whatever hellish games await me inland. But Lukas wants you--for what I don’t know, could be something to do with the mark Gerry mentioned or simply just being a part of the Tundra, but that could mean anything. So if it means I have to run to protect us, then I will.”

Martin takes him in, all harsh edges and deranged eyes; biting at his lip with single minded doggedness, nails scraping skin as if to rip up every one of his imperfections up from the root with little care for the damage he’ll leave in its wake. 

“You don’t have to fight the world alone,” he says at last, though he isn’t surprised when Jon just shakes his head in instantaneous refusal.  “I’m scared too, for what it’s worth.”

Jon jerks as if struck. The look on his face shatters the distance between them just as swiftly as it shatters Martin into a million tiny pieces. He meant it to pacify, to calm the turmoil raging away in Jon's mind so plainly. But Jon just looks as if the world crashed around his shoulders, the wall he had been building back up between them falling to the wayside, leaving him small, fragile. 

“I'm sorry.” he says, with such sincerity and grief it stabs a shard of pity deep into his chest, that Jon would assume it was him Martin was afraid of. Maybe in the past that would have rang true, that his deeds would have proven too damning. 

“Just promise you won’t do that again.” Martin says, holding his gaze without flinch. 

Jon bristles immediately, predictably, despite all his claims against defending himself. His face does an interesting dance, twisting an array of emotions too quickly for Martin to truly parse until he lands on something weary, accepting. 

His voice is small, a croak of noise in the hollow of his throat. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yes, okay.”

“Just to clarify, you know I mean the drowning--”

“Yes, Martin. I understand, thank you.” He snorts, a humorless sound but a step in the right direction. 

Martin ducks his head, hiding the small, blooming smile spreading across his lips. He reaches out between them, plucking the cigarette from Jon’s unsteady fingers, ignoring the absolutely pissy look it earns him. Depositing it into the bin where it belongs, he turns back to face Jon, daring him to argue. 

Jon scowls, albeit softly, something turning it wobbly. He raises the binoculars back up to scan the empty yet teeming wake they leave behind, not saying another word.

(LINK TO READ THE REST IN THE REBLOGS)

[yourartmatters-itswhatgotmehere]

THIS SCENE in IMAGINE ME

“I will only ask you one more time,” Anderson says to his son, his voice trembling as it grows louder. “What did you do with her?” Still, Warner stares impassively. He’s spattered in unknown blood, holding a machine gun like it might be a briefcase, and staring at his father like he might be staring at the ceiling. Anderson can’t control his temper the way Warner can—and it’s obvious to everyone that this is a battle of wills he’s going to lose. Anderson already looks half out of his mind. His hair is matted and sticking up in places. Blood is congealing on his face, his eyes shot through with red. He looks so deranged—so unlike himself—that I honestly have no idea what’s going to happen next. And then he lunges for Warner. He’s like a belligerent drunk, wild and angry, unhinged in a way I’ve never seen before. His swings are wild but strong, unsteady but studied. He reminds me, in a sudden, frightening flash of understanding, of the father Adam so often described to me. A violent drunk fueled by rage. Except that Anderson doesn’t appear to be drunk at the moment. No. This is pure, unadulterated anger. Anderson seems to have lost his mind. He doesn’t just want to shoot Warner. He doesn’t want someone else to shoot Warner. He wants to beat him to a pulp. He wants physical satisfaction. He wants to break bones and rupture organs with his own hands. Anderson wants the pleasure of knowing that he and he alone was able to destroy his own son. But Warner isn’t giving him that satisfaction. He meets Anderson blow for blow in fluid, precise movements, ducking and sidestepping and twisting and defending. He never misses a beat. It’s almost like he can read Anderson’s mind. I’m not the only one who’s stunned. I’ve never seen Warner move like this, and I almost can’t believe I’ve never seen it before. I feel a sudden, unbidden surge of respect for him as I watch him block attack after attack. I keep waiting for him to knock the dude out, but Warner makes no effort to hit Anderson; he only defends. And only when I see the increasing fury on Anderson’s face do I realize that Warner is doing this on purpose. He’s not fighting back because he knows it’s what Anderson wants. The cool, emotionless expression on Warner’s face is driving Anderson insane. And the more he fails to rattle his son, the more enraged Anderson gets. Blood still trickles, slowly, from the half-healed wound on his neck when he cries out, angrily, and pulls free a gun from inside his jacket pocket. “Enough,” he shouts. “That is enough.” Warner takes a careful step back. “Give me the girl, Aaron. Give me the girl and I will spare the rest of these idiots. I only want the girl.” Warner is an immovable object. “Fine,” Anderson says angrily. “Seize him.”

Six supreme guards begin advancing on Warner, and he doesn’t so much as flinch. I exchange glances with Winston and it’s enough; I throw my invisibility over Winston just as he throws his arms out, his ability to stretch his limbs knocking three of them to the ground. In the same moment, Haider pulls a machete from somewhere inside the bloodied chain mail he’s wearing under his coat, and tosses it to Warner, who drops the machine gun and catches the blade by the hilt without even looking.

A fucking machete.

Castle is on his knees, arms toward the sky as he breaks off more pieces of the half-devastated building, but this time Anderson’s men don’t give him the chance. I run forward, too late to help as Castle is knocked out from behind, and still I throw myself into the fight, battling for ownership of the soldier’s gun with skills I developed as a teenager: a single, solid punch to the nose. A clean uppercut. A hard kick to the chest. A good old-fashioned strangulation. I look up, gasping for breath, hoping for good news— And do a double take. Ten men have closed in on Warner, and I don’t understand where they came from. I thought we were down to three or four. I spin around, confused, turning back just in time to watch Warner drop to one knee and swing up with the machete in a sudden, perfect arc, gutting the man like a fish. Warner turns, another strong swing slicing through the guy on his left, disconnecting the dude’s spine in a move so horrific I have to look away. In the second it takes me to turn back, another guard has already charged forward. Warner pivots sharply, shoving the blade directly up the guy’s throat and into his open, screaming mouth. With a final tug, Warner pulls the blade free, and the man falls to the ground with a single, soft thud. The remaining members of the Supreme Guard hesitate. I realize then, that—whoever these new soldiers are—they’ve been given specific orders to attack Warner, and no one else. The rest of us are suddenly without an obvious task, free to sink into the ground, disappear into exhaustion. Tempting. I search for Castle, wanting to make sure he’s okay, and realize he looks stricken. He’s staring at Warner. Warner, who’s staring at the blood pooling beneath his feet, his chest heaving, his fist still clenched around the shank of the machete. All this time, Castle really thought Warner was just a nice boy who’d made some simple mistakes. The kind of kid he could bring back from the brink.

Not today.

Warner looks up at his father, his face more blood than skin, his body shaking with rage.- “Is this what you wanted?” he cries. But even Anderson seems surprised. Another guard moves forward so silently I don’t even see the gun he’s aimed in Warner’s direction until the soldier screams and collapses to the ground. His eyes bulge as he clutches at his throat, where a shard of glass the size of my hand is caught in his jugular. I whip my head around to face Warner. He’s still staring at Anderson, but his free hand is now dripping blood.

Jesus Christ.

“Take me, instead,” Warner says, his voice piercing the quiet.

 Anderson seems to come back to himself. “What?”

 “Leave her. Leave them all. Give me your word that you will leave her alone, and I will come back with you.” I go suddenly still. And then I look around, eyes wild, for any indication that we’re going to stop this idiot from doing something reckless, but no one meets my eyes. Everyone is riveted. Terrified. But when I feel a familiar presence suddenly materialize beside me, relief floods through my body. I reach for her hand at the same time she reaches for mine, squeezing her fingers once before breaking the brief connection. Right now, it’s enough to know she’s here, standing next to me.

Nazeera is okay.

We all wait in silence for the scene to change, hoping for something we don’t even know how to name. It doesn’t come.

“I wish it were that simple,” Anderson says finally. “I really do. But I’m afraid we need the girl. She is not so easily replaced.”

“You said that Emmaline’s body was deteriorating.” Warner’s voice is low, but clear. Miraculously steady. “You said that without a strong enough body to contain her, she’d become volatile. You need a replacement,” Warner says. “A new body. Someone to help you complete Operation Synthesis.”

 “No,” Castle cries. “No— Don’t do this—”

 “Take me,” Warner says. “I will be your surrogate.”

Anderson’s eyes go cold. He sounds almost convincingly calm when he says, “You would be willing to sacrifice yourself—your youth and your health and your entire life—to let that damaged, deranged girl continue to walk the earth?” Anderson’s voice begins to rise in pitch. He seems suddenly on the verge of another breakdown. “Do you even understand what you’re saying? You have every opportunity—all the potential—and you’d be willing to throw it all away? In exchange for what?” he cries. “Do you even know the kind of life to which you’d be sentencing yourself ?”

 A dark look passes over Warner’s face. “I think I would know better than most.”

 Anderson pales. “Why would you do this?”

It becomes clear to me then that even now, despite everything, Anderson doesn’t actually want to lose Warner. Not like this. But Warner is unmoved. He says nothing. Betrays nothing. He only blinks as someone else’s blood drips down his face.

“Give me your word,” Warner finally says. “Your word that you will leave her alone forever. I want you to let her disappear. I want you to stop tracking her every move. I want you to forget she ever existed.” He pauses. “In exchange, you can have what’s left of my life.”

Nazeera gasps. Haider takes a sudden, angry step forward and Stephan grabs his arm, somehow still strong enough to restrain Haider even as his own body bleeds out. “This is his choice,” Stephan gasps, wrapping his free arm around a tree for support. “Leave him.”

 “This is a stupid choice,” Haider cries. “You can’t do this, habibi. Don’t be an idiot.” (..)

 “I will stop fighting you,” Warner says. “I will do exactly as you ask. Whatever you want. Just let her live.”

 Anderson is silent for so long it sends a chill through me. Then: “No.” Without warning, Anderson raises his arm and fires two shots. The first, at Nazeera, hitting her square in the chest. The second— At me. Several people scream. I stumble, then sway, before collapsing.

Shit.

“Find her,” Anderson says, his voice booming. “Burn the whole place to the ground if you have to.”

The pain is blinding. It moves through me in waves, electric and searing. Someone is touching me, moving my body. I’m okay, I try to say. I’m okay. I’m okay. But the words don’t come. He’s hit me in my shoulder, I think. Just shy of my chest. I’m not sure. But Nazeera— Someone needs to get to Nazeera. 

“I had a feeling you’d do something like this,” I hear Anderson say. “And I know you used one of these two”—I imagine him pointing to my prone body, to Nazeera’s—“in order to make it happen.” Silence. “Oh, I see,” Anderson says. “You thought you were clever. You thought I didn’t know you had any powers at all.” Anderson’s voice seems suddenly loud, too loud. He laughs. “You thought I didn’t know? As if you could hide something like that from me. I knew it the day I found you in her holding cell. You were sixteen. You think I didn’t have you tested after that? You think I haven’t known, all these years, what you yourself didn’t realize until six months ago?”

A fresh wave of fear washes over me. Anderson seems too pleased and Warner’s gone quiet again, and I don’t know what any of that means for us. But just as I’m beginning to experience full-blown panic, I hear a familiar cry. It’s a sound of such horrific agony I can’t help but try to see what’s happening, even as flashes of white blur my vision. I catch a mottled glimpse: Warner standing over Anderson’s body, his right hand clenched around the handle of the machete he’s buried in his father’s chest. He plants his right foot on his father’s gut, and, roughly, pulls out the blade. Anderson’s moan is so animal, so pathetic I almost feel sorry for him. Warner wipes the blade on the grass, and tosses it back to Haider, who catches it easily by the hilt even as he stands there, stunned, staring at—me, I realize. Me and Nazeera. I’ve never seen him so unmasked. He seems paralyzed by fear. “Watch him,” Warner shouts to someone. He examines a gun he stole from his father, and, satisfied, he’s off, running after the Supreme Guard. Shots ring out in the distance.

My vision begins to go spotty. Sounds bleed together, shifting focus. For moments at a time all I hear is the sound of my own breathing, my heart beating. At least, I hope that’s the sound of my heart beating. Everything smells sharp, like rust and steel. I realize then, in a sudden, startling moment, that I can’t feel my fingers. Finally I hear the muffled sounds of nearby movement, of hands on my body, trying to move me.

 “Kenji?” Someone shakes me. “Kenji, can you hear me?” Winston. I make a sound in my throat. My lips seem fused together. “Kenji?” More shaking. “Are you okay?” With great difficulty, I pry my lips apart, but my mouth makes no sound.

Then, all at once: “Heyyyyybuddy.” Weird.

 “He’s conscious,” Winston says, “but disoriented. We don’t have much time. I’ll carry these two. See if you can find a way to transport the others. Where are the girls?” Someone says something back to him, and I don’t catch it. I reach out suddenly with my good hand, clamping down on Winston’s forearm.

“Don’t let them get J,” I try to say. “Don’t let—””