#gotta do it before libraries CEASE TO EXIST

[milksockets]

Good afternoon to all 4 of you who might enjoy an exhaustive collection of entirely reasonable and objective (cough) reviews of libraries here in the greatest city on the planet somehow still run by Eric Adams, NYC.

Stay tuned for only the most hard-hitting content of the utter tomfoolery that goes down on the daily in these hallowed halls…or sad little single rooms.

[calaofnoldor]

Drug of Choice

Characters: Dean x Reader (gender neutral)

Words: 3,790

Summary: A night of drunken rambling leads to an unexpected change in your relationship status.

Warnings: angst, language, alcohol, feelings of inadequacy, very slight allusions of alcoholism/talk of drug addiction, reader likes the sound of their voice a bit too much when drunk, fluff, implied smut

A/N: written for @deanwanddamons 1st blogiversary and 2k follower celebration challenge! my prompt was “I wish I knew how to quit you“ which is bolded in the fic. congrats on the incredible milestone, sorry this is late! also for @spnfluffbingo and it fills the mood board square for @girl-next-door-writes‘ Make Me Feel Bingo challenge!

Square Filled: Kissed to Keep Quiet

MASTERLIST

It was four in the morning when Dean finally came home, and the bottle of Jack Daniels that sat before you atop the library table was over a quarter of the way through.

The heavy thud of his boots against the bunker floor drew your dark-adjusted eyes toward his shadowy figure, while the alcohol in your bloodstream loosened your lips, "How was she?"

"Jesus- Fuck!" There was a slight commotion before the lights flickered on, forcing your eyes to shut against the onslaught of sudden brightness. "Y/N??” Dean’s gruff, alarmed voice shattered the previously eerie silence, “What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark by yourself?"

Your eyelids lifted an experimental sliver but you kept your gaze directed down at the glass of whiskey in your hands. "It wasn't dark when I started."

Dean narrowed his eyes when he noticed the slur behind your words. "Started what? Are you drunk?"

His second question prompted a dismissive snort from you, "Hunters can't get drunk; you should know that by now, Dean."

"Yeah alright, we need to get you to bed." The man of your dreams began to make his way over to you until your gravelly words ceased his steps.

"I can't sleep... you haven't answered my question yet."

"What question?"

"How was she?"

"Who?"

You looked at him like he was crazy, "You know, the girl from the bar, the one with the curly hair… the one that was climbing onto your lap when I left?"

"I don't- there was no girl," Dean stumbled. His lips were parted and his eyebrows pulled together in an ever-gorgeous expression of bewilderment, but you were too busy examining the way the newfound light danced along the lustrous amber liquid between your fingers to notice.

"Oh," you grumbled in response, sounding a bit disappointed, which only served to deepen those adorable lines of confusion between Dean’s brows. "She sure was pretty though.” There was a pause as you pondered his declaration before blurting out in disbelief, “You really didn't fuck her in the back of Baby?"

"What- No! Y/N, there was never a girl and nothing happened, OK?" He sounded genuinely serious, so you conceded.

"I'm sorry."

"Why- why are you sorry?"

"I know you needed to blow off some steam after today, after I pissed you off by fucking up the hunt." You ventured a glance up at him through your lashes and the unadulterated pain in your eyes almost had Dean reeling back in surprise.

"What are you talking about? You didn't 'fuck up' the hunt," he argued, shaking his head as if to accentuate his point.

"Course I did. I got you hurt and I nearly let that dickbag get away."

A weighted sigh escaped Dean, "Y/N, you have to know that wasn’t your fault, and it’s not like you haven’t done the same thing for me. Besides, I wasn’t pissed off, I was... I was scared, OK?”

You were about to take another sip of your drug of the night when you lowered your glass to let the irrepressible giggle leave your system, “Scared? Since when does the big bad Dean Winchester get scared? And if he did, he definitely wouldn’t be talking about it out loud. Are you sure you’re not the one who’s been drinking?”

“I mean, I have been drinking but that’s beside the point. Look, Y/N, why don’t we talk about this tomorrow, alright? You’ve just gotta sleep this off.”

"Pft. This isn't something I can just sleep off. Trust me, I've tried." There was a tickle in your throat that alerted you of the oncoming word vomit, but your friend Mr. Daniels seemed to be gaining complete control of your tongue; it was all he was ever good for really, “I’ve also tried drinking it away, but clearly that doesn’t work either. There’s just- so much- of it, of you… and now, now you’re in me-“ Dean’s eyes went wide but you were no longer at liberty to stop, “and I can’t get you out. Sometimes I don’t even think I want to. But I don’t think I can keep going like this any longer either… all this waiting, and wondering, and watching.” Some fragment of sobriety within you recognized how ridiculous and melodramatic you sounded and it gave you enough sense to avoid eye contact with the subject of you’re alcohol-induced speech, as if that could help you elude further embarrassment.

“OK, you’ve gotta slow down, Y/N/N. What the hell are you talking about?” At this point, Dean had moved to take the seat across from you, subtly sliding the bottle of Jack out of your reach as he sat down.

A mirthless laugh was your reply, "Of course you don’t know. Why would you?“

“What does that mean? Why wouldn’t I? Y/N, what’s going on?”

But you ignored his questions and answered with one of your own, “Why am I never enough? You know what, don't answer that; that was a rhetor- rhetor…”

“Rhetorical?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, flailing your index finger in his direction, “Yes, that’s the word. See, even your brain is too good for me.”

“What- why would you say that? Y/N, you know that’s not true. And why do you think you’re never enough? You’re plenty enough.” Concern now painted Dean’s features. He hated seeing you this way, broken and depressed, trying to drown your feelings in whiskey; he’d figured that was his trademark amongst the bunker residents. And he couldn’t understand how someone as incredible as you would think themselves unworthy of anything. Whichever son of a bitch made you feel this way would pay, Dean swore it.

“Then how come you never pick me?” you countered simply, deciding it was finally time to call out his hypocrisy.

The accusation floored Dean. He scooted back in his seat as he stared at you with a slack jaw, utter perplexity swirling within his emerald eyes. Over the years, Dean had garnered an inkling that you felt some kinda way about him, but he never really let himself believe, and not once did he think he could be hurting you. On the contrary, he always figured it was his own hopeful heart playing tricks on him. Even now, he wasn’t entirely sure he was hearing you correctly, or that your drunken state could be trusted, though he remembered you once told him that you were always the most honest version of yourself when you drank, whiskey in particular.

“I watch you go out with waitress after bartender after waitress, but I’ve been here the whole time, and you never consider me. It’s like I don’t even exist, like I’m not even an option, like I could never even help you scratch that itch, at least not as good as any barfly across the Midwest could.” You were aware that this was getting out of hand, but you couldn’t seem to find the brakes. “But that’s not even the real problem – I mean, sure, a roll around the hay with you would probably be mind-blowing as fuck – but it would never solve the root of it, never be enough for me.”

Dean had been studying you meticulously as you spoke, your words starting a fire to the embers of his soul, breathing life into a long-forgotten hope that brought him both joy and fear. “What would? Be enough for you, I mean?” His tone took on a raw sultriness that matched the intense, borderline predatory glaze of his eyes. Needless to say, Dean hadn’t expected your sardonic laughter to fill the air, and your sudden frenzied, carefree state certainly took him off guard.

“Nothing!” you laughed, “I don’t think anything will ever be enough for me! C-cause you’re like this drug that I’m hooked on and it’s just so fucking hard to get off… I mean, it’s also hard to get off without you now, or thoughts of you anyway...” Your tangent was quickly overcome when you remembered the topic of your initial spiel, “But it’s like everything about you draws me in! From the way you reference classic literature even though I’ve never seen you pick up a book that’s not about lore, to the way you rebuild Baby from scratch like it’s no big deal, to the way you’re so good with kids even though you never got to be one yourself, to the dumb way you bottle up all your feelings and never let them see the light of day yet still manage to do so much good in the world, t-to the way you get excited over classic rock and crappy horror movies and pie, and don’t even get me started on the way you love Sam! I mean, it’s just all of it! It’s your strength and perseverance through literal hell, it’s your huge fucking heart despite the mask of swagger and charm, it’s that stupid grin you get when you make a dumb joke and Sam rolls his eyes at you, it’s just those god damn lips in general! And then you walk around looking like that!?” you gestured wildly at all of him, “I mean, who gave you the right?!”

Dean looked like he was about to respond, but you cut him off. There really was no stopping your tirade now, “I’m like an addict who can never get enough, and when you leave, I get feelings of withdrawal, and I don’t know how to fucking deal with those either… You’re so deeply ingrained in me; I don’t think I’ll ever be able to flush you out of my system. And I just-“ you took a rare pause to heave a large breath before admitting quietly, “I wish I knew how to quit you. I really do, because as much as I love you, and trust me, it’s a whole fucking lot – God, does it feel good to finally say that out loud – but for every ounce of love that I have for you, for every bit of you that I’ve inhaled, it hurts just as much. Because you don’t feel the same, and you never will, and I don’t blame you, because you’re Dean fucking Winchester and you could have whoever you want with just a wink and half a smile, and you deserve to have whoever you want-”

“Are you done?” Dean was quick to latch onto the brief respite in your monologue, “Fuck, Y/N, you really have no idea what you do to me, do you? What you are to me?” His head shook in disbelief while his troubled green eyes searched yours.

“What I am to you? I’m your hunting buddy, Dean. The one you call when you need an extra hand with a vamp nest or an extra set of eyes to scour the books, the one who stays up with you when you have nightmares about the souls you tortured in hell, the one you sing rock songs out of tune in the car with, just never the one you go to for a booty call,” you finished with a bitter laugh.

Dean’s head had never ceased it’s shaking, even as he got up and walked around the table towards you. “Only because you’re worth so much more than that. Y/N, you deserve so much more than me.”

It was your turn to shake your head. How typical, you thought as you rolled your eyes and stood up to meet his eye line, “Don’t give me that bullshit, Dean. I know you’re trying to let me down easy and that’s nice of you and all, but you can’t fool me. I know you too well, Dean Winchester, and I know there’s no way in hell that- Mmf!“ The rest of your words were intercepted by Dean’s lips on yours.

The feeling was unexpected but not at all unwelcome. There was an urgent force behind the kiss as he pushed his mouth against yours with gentle yet firm ferocity, bracing your head with large hands cupping both sides. It felt as if he was desperately trying to convey a message to you, to disprove your woeful words of self-pity, or perhaps he just wanted you to shut up. You, of course, responded with tremendous enthusiasm regardless of his intent, grasping blindly at his forearms while slotting your tongue and lips around his in an increasingly frantic manner. You didn’t care if the kiss wasn’t good for him; this might be your only chance to take what you need from Dean Winchester, if only a tiny fraction of it.

When he finally pulled back, you were both panting for air. Dean still held your head in both hands as he leaned forward to rest his forehead upon yours. “Dammit, I shouldn’t have done that; you’re drunk... Do you at least believe me now?”

A slight grimace contorted Dean’s features as his mind was suddenly bombarded by a multitude of conflicted thoughts and feelings, feelings of desire and regret and bliss and unease, but when he caught the dazed look in your eyes, Dean made up his mind, “Ah, what the hell, you’re probably not gonna remember much of this anyway. Look, Y/N, you’re wrong. I do feel the same way about you; I have pretty much ever since I saw that magnificent ass of yours.” Pausing to chuckle at his own words, Dean licked his lips, still able to taste the whiskey from yours.

“The only reason I fucked around with those other people was because I couldn’t stand not being able to have you,” he continued through closed eyes and gritted teeth before filling his chest with a deep breath, “Like today, when I saw that fucking werewolf come at you, I nearly lost it. The thought of anything happening to you scares me shitless, and I didn’t know how to process that feeling, so I let that girl at the bar get close. I was trying to fill the hole you created but it was pointless cause in the end, just like every other time, I couldn’t go through with it. Every time I try to forget about you, your face shows up in my head,” he growled in that low, throaty tone that always seemed to reverberate down to your nether regions.

“But I- I wasn’t lying when I said you deserve more than me. Y/N, you know me. I’m a broken, twisted, shell of a man. I’m-“

“Poison, I know,” you finally lifted your head away from his so that you could look directly into his dazzling eyes. Dean’s hands slid down along your neck and landed on your shoulders while yours remained on his forearms, not willing to lose all contact. “I know what you’re gonna say. You think you’re poison, that being with you puts a target on my back, that loving you is a death sentence… Did I get that right?”

Dean gave you a miniscule nod and a look of resignation as he reluctantly released you from his hold, forcing you to let go as well when he took a large step back. You suddenly felt extremely sober, the effects of the alcohol and that kiss all wearing off instantaneously, “And you hate yourself. No one hates you more than you, Dean.” Your voice was hardly a whisper now, “But that’s OK, cause I hate myself too, for never being able to make you realize that you are so much more than you give yourself credit for, that you deserve all the things you think you can’t have, that you can have them all and still be Dean Winchester.”

You watched as Dean’s eyes began to water and when a single tear rolled down his cheek, you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore. Approaching him as slowly as you would a nervous animal out of its natural habitat, you stopped directly before him before cautiously raising your arm to wipe the offending tear away with your thumb. Your eyes seemed to be locked in a silent exchange of colossal magnitude, expressing everything mere words could not, from harrowing regret to agonizing self-inflicted torment to desperate desire. It was the yearning in his shimmering eyes that gave you the courage to speak your next words, a runaway tear of your own joining the whispered plea, “Please, let me show you.”

When your eyes fluttered open the next day, they were greeted with the most beautiful sight you'd ever awoken to. Dean’s face was barely a foot away from yours, and the man himself was already awake, staring directly at you. He was lying on his back with his head turned towards you, while your body was twisted to face his. A bedside lamp was on, allowing you to marvel at the breathtaking perfection in front of you, and despite the booze having long since evacuated from your veins, your mouth still imparted the first thing that came to your mind, “You know, I've always wanted to count your freckles,” you murmured honestly, “Maybe map them out like tiny constellations so I can memorize them better, so that one day I could trace them even with my eyes closed.” Your fingertips moved of their own accord as you spoke, gliding softly over his cheeks and across the ridge of his perfect nose.

Dean caught your hand in his and kissed it repeatedly as his magical olive eyes continued to bore into yours, never once leaving your face. His pouty lips curved into the slightest smile as if he were afraid to rear hope yet couldn't fight the peaceful thrill you were bringing him by simply lying next to him. “You’re not still drunk, are you?”

“Not unless it counts to be drunk on you… Sorry, that sounded a lot less cheesy in my head.” You cringed but Dean’s smile broadened.

“And no hangover?”

“No, I told you, hunters can’t-“

“Get drunk. Yeah, I heard. So does that mean you remember everything?”

“I don’t think I could forget that kiss if I wanted to; my brain wouldn’t let me.” You glanced down at his gorgeous mouth before meeting his gaze again, “I meant it all, you know? Everything I said was the truth. Every word.” You moved your thumb to graze his lower lip and he puckered his lips to kiss it.

“So did I, every word… Especially the part about that sweet ass of yours.” The hand that wasn’t holding yours roamed down to grab at your butt cheek with a hefty yet tender squeeze, causing you to squeal in delight. When you settled down, he moved your hand to place it above his heart, “You know I’m no good at chick flick moments, but you can trust me when I say I’m addicted to you too.”

The sincerity in his voice sent butterflies through your stomach and your smile felt invincible. “I hope you know that when I called you a ‘drug’ I didn’t mean it in a derogatory way. Some drugs are good for you. Some drugs can save your life,” you whispered as you fisted lightly at the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“I wouldn’t go that far, sweetheart.”

“Isn’t that what you did yesterday?” Dean was about to retort but you sent him a raised brow and a look that said ‘don’t test me, I’ve got loads more evidence where that came from’ so he simply looked down with a small grin. “Does it still hurt?” You motioned to the white bandage on his shoulder where the werewolf had scratched him up yesterday when he jumped in front of you.

Dean shook his head, “Right now I can hardly feel it. Actually, it hasn’t hurt at all since I kissed you.”

The corners of your mouth lifted some more at his words. “See, that’s what I mean. To me, you’re like coffee on an early morning, morphine when I’m hurting, tranquilizers when I’m freaking out, Zoloft when the world’s got me down, mixed with a shot of ecstasy, and quite possibly the most potent form of Viagra known to mankind.” You might have lingered a moment to chuckle at your own joke, thinking ‘it’s funny cause it’s true’. Dean belted a guffaw himself and you were quite pleased as you continued, “You’re everything I’ve ever needed, all wrapped up in one beautiful, self-loathing man.” You stroked his stubbled jaw and caressed his cheek, letting your words waft softly across the distance between you, hoping he could sense the veracity within them, “And I just want you to let me love you, let me get high on you, so I can show you how good you are. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

A wave a sadness flowed through Dean and he lowered his gaze from yours. “This could end bloody.”

“I know,” you nodded, “But it’s so much better than the alternative... It was getting a bit too hard to bear, even if you were only eye fucking all those other suitors. Besides, if it means I get to kiss you whenever I want, it’ll be worth it. And if it means I get a chance to prove to you how worthy you are, then it’ll be more than worth it.”

“I was only staying away because I wanted to protect you from me, but I didn’t realize it was hurting you. I never wanted to cause you pain; Y/N, I need you to know that.” Dean’s warm, calloused palm ran up your arm, it’s gentleness in stark contrast to his fierce tone, while yours continued to cup his cheek.

Astounded by the passion behind his words and the utter beauty of his face, you whispered in awe, “How are you so perfect?” Seeing the cogs begin to turn in his brain, you quickly moved your index finger to press against his plush lips, “Shh, just let me say it. Baby steps, Dean.”

He took your finger and guided your arm to wrap around his wide shoulders, careful of his injury, then reached out to pull you snugly towards him until your bodies were completely flush, your chest heaving against his. “Well do we have to take baby steps with everything? Cause now that I’ve finally got you in my bed, I was kinda hoping you’d let me take you for a spin in it. Maybe find out if it’s really – how did you put it again? – ‘mind blowing as fuck’ I believe were your words?” That signature smirk of his that always brought you to your knees came out to play.

Your laughter fanned across his face, and the smile on your face was effervescent, “You really are one hell of a drug, Dean Winchester.”

thank you for reading! as always, feedback is marvelously appreciated!

TEAM IDJITS: @mrswhozeewhatsis​ @carryonmywaywardbucky​ @swiftlymoniquesblog​ @moosewinchester​ @sams-sass​ @thinkinghardhardlythinking​ @jotink78​ @winifrede​ @writingforthelonelysoul​

TEAM SQUIRREL: @deanwinchesterswitch​ @deandaydreaming​

[aitarose]

CACTUS JUICE | SOKKA

sokka x reader [fem]

PLOT: Three kids and a flying lemur stranded in the desert with nothing but the bags on their backs, not to mention the boy that’s high on cactus juice.

WORD COUNT: 1.4k

A/N: i love boyfriend!sokka but lmao how does suki deal with this?? also this is my favorite thing i’ve ever written, sokka on crack is high quality stuff

MY MASTERLIST

“You look gross.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped in annoyance at her boyfriend’s remarks. She, Sokka, and the rest of the Gaang had been trekking through the desert for hours without any clear path ahead.

With Aang and Appa missing, they had no direction or any idea of what surrounded them. Their only objective was to find someone, anyone who knew the way out of the sand filled hills.

“I’m sorry..what was that you just said to me, Sokka?” Y/N raised her eyebrows at the warrior.

He stared at her with wide eyes while he watched his beloved girlfriend wipe beads of sweat off of her forehead. She was covered in sand, they all were—but Y/N was in a bit of a worse condition than everyone else.

Grains of sand fell from her hair with every step she took. Her clothes were stained with a thick layer of dusk. Dirt gathered beneath her fingernails and was smeared across her cheeks.

“Oh nothing, Y/N.” Sokka laughed sheepishly, cowering slightly from the harsh glare the girl was sending his way.

He slung his wrapped arm over her shoulder, pulling her close whilst the dust migrated to his own body. “The dirt really captures your personality, brings out your character.”

Y/N jokingly pushed Sokka away as she heard sparse giggles from Toph and Katara. Even Aang let out a curt laugh at the couples’ playful antics. It had been a really tough day. It was nice to have some sort of positivity after the incident at the library.

As the group of misfit teens carried on, it was becoming apparent that they wouldn’t be able to go all day without any source of water. The sun was beaming directly above the group, tiring them to near exhaustion and dehydration.

Sokka felt that it had become almost unbearable, to the point where he was using Momo as a sun hat to cover both him and Y/N. 

“C’mon guys,” Katara sighed from up ahead. She was trying to keep everyone motivated and optimistic, something she had to do far too often. “We’ve gotta stick together.”

Y/N stifled a laugh as Sokka peeled himself out of their lazy embrace. 

“If I sweat anymore,” he sarcastically replied, “I don’t think sticking together will be a problem.”

The group was beginning to become restless, specifically Sokka. He needed some sort of liquid to calm his nerves.

“Look!” He cried, using Y/N’s finger to point to a tower of cacti. Surprised by the strength of his pull, Y/N fell to the ground, sand filling her entire mouth.

“Some boyfriend you are!” She huffed, spitting the tiny morsels into the air as Sokka made his way to the cacti in a trance. “You could’ve at least helped me up!”

Sokka waved his hand dismissively at the girl, “Not now, my little dirt queen. Sokka needs water.”

Everyone watched as he brought his sword down on the plant, making a clean slice. He held the makeshift cup above his head before he chugged the strange juice, not letting any drop go to waste.

Y/N grimaced at the thought of drinking the pale liquid. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Y/N’s right, Sokka.” Katara said, agreeing with her brother’s girlfriend. “You shouldn’t be drinking from strange plants.” 

Sokka shrugged whilst he split open yet another cacti. “But there’s water inside these plants!”

He looked up at Y/N as he held up a freshly cut cactus for her to drink out of. She smiled sweetly at the boy before pushing his hand away, knocking over the cup in the process.

“No thanks,” she blatantly said to him. Y/N was thirsty, but not thirsty enough to drink out of something that could give her a disease. “It’s all yours.”

“Suit yourself!” Sokka exclaimed, liquid dripping down his chin onto Momo’s head. “It’s very thirst-quenching, though!”

Not even a moment later, Y/N’s face dropped to see Sokka’s eyes wide and dilated. He seemed frozen in place, holding his cactus while he stared into space. 

“Drink cactus juice.” He said, twirling his fingers around the drink. “It’ll quench you. Nothing’s quenchier!”

Y/N stood up, still picking sand out of her teeth. She cautiously made her way over to her boyfriend and placed both hands on his shoulders. 

“Sokka.” She could feel him shaking with anticipation, but anticipation for what? “Are you alright? You don’t look so—”

“IT’S THE QUENCHIEST!” 

Y/N screamed in surprise at Sokka’s outburst. His nose touching hers as he surged forwards offering her another drink. She stood completely still, making uncomfortable eye contact with the water tribe boy.

“Okay, I think you’ve had enough.” Katara’s eyes narrowed as she emptied his drink. 

Sokka completely ignored her, using Y/N’s finger yet again, this time pointing at Toph.

“Who lit Toph on fire?”

“How did we get out here in the middle of the ocean?”

“Why am I dating a sand monster?”

Sokka��s questions were relentless. The cactus juice made his usual nonsense sound even more delirious. He was bouncing off the walls with energy. Constantly relaying between the three girls.

After the first five minutes, Toph was over Sokka’s antics. She continued walking, pretending the boy didn’t exist while Katara made her best attempts to control his outbursts. 

The only girl enjoying the insanity of the situation was Y/N, but then again she was his girlfriend. She enjoyed anything and everything Sokka did.

“Y/N!” Sokka exclaimed excitedly, pulling her along with him as he ran in circles. “I’m making a tornado! Who’s the airbender now, Aang?”

Y/N burst out laughing while she was yanked in each direction. Her hair whipped in her face, dust flying everywhere. She and Sokka looked like two flying lemurs during a hurricane. It was truly a sight to see.

Her feet stumbled over each other as Sokka sprinted in front of the others. He continued screaming absolute nonsense to the clouds, not noticing Y/N struggling to keep up.

“Sokka!” She yelped, tripping over her own footsteps. She was beginning to think she had had enough of her boyfriend’s chaos. “I think we should slow down now!”

The boy whipped his head around to look at her. His gaze intense, not with lust or romance, but with a frenzied craze. 

His abrupt movement shocked Y/N, who was still in motion.

As she went flying forwards, Katara screamed, watching her friend fall down the massive sand hill. Sokka rolled down after her, somersaulting in unison with her tumbles. Toph stood still not knowing what was happening. 

“Sokka!” Y/N shouted between faceplants, “I am so breaking up with you after this!”

The free falling girl came to a halt at the bottom of the hill. Once again sand filled her mouth, but this time that wasn’t it's only hiding place. It was lodged in her ears, her armpits, and her clothing. 

Y/N cradled her neck in pain as she heard muffled footsteps nearing her. She looked up to find Sokka. Her vision flared. Anger being the only emotion on her mind.

“You idiot!” Y/N slapped Sokka’s knees from her seat, feeling satisfied as she watched him crumble to the ground. “I could’ve gotten hurt! I could’ve broken my neck! You could’ve broken your neck! If I fall down on something tall—you don’t jump after me!”

While Y/N scolded Sokka with worry laced in her voice, he moved to hold her tightly. His muscular arms wrapped around her waist and he nestled his face in her neck. 

Y/N’s rant ceased. She maneuvered herself so that they were in a more comfortable position. She sighed contently as Sokka ran his hands up and down her back.

“I’m sorry for getting upset.” She mumbled in his ear. “It wasn’t really your fault.”

Sokka pulled back slightly, a soft smile gracing his face. He pushed the loose strands of hair away from his girl’s forehead, holding her cheeks in his palms. 

Y/N blushed as he surged forward, much like the last time but also much different. Now he was gentle, the rowdy mood long gone, as he pressed a soft kiss to her chapped lips. 

Sokka didn’t need to use his words to apologize, the kiss speaking for him. 

As he slowly let go, Y/N grinned at the boy. She was glad that his insanity had finally passed.

“Let’s get back to Katara and Toph,” he said whilst helping her stand, his hands finding their rightful place in her’s. 

“They need to see that my girlfriend looks even grosser than before.”

With that comment, Sokka received a hard smack on the head.

[alilbihh]

hocus pocus — 1

masterlist  previous part  next part

pairing: maknae line x reader

summary: jungkook wags his tail and his eyes look like truffles. jimin drinks blood out of juice boxes and bendy straws and tries to wink but ends up blinking both his eyes closed. taehyung likes the ocean and all kinds of art and apologizes to rocks. you don’t know if they want to take you out the date way or the assassination way and somehow you think it’s both. 

genre: werewolf!jungkook, vampire!jimin, hybrid!taehyung, witch!reader; crack (lmao); humor (??); poly!au (in the future!)

words: 6.3k

a/n: this is entirely self-indulgent. this will benefit no one but me and will have 3 parts. thank u

This kind of patience better earn you a great seat in heaven, you think offhandedly.

"Please help me! The test was only announced today and I don't have much time, I need a potion that gives me photographic memory!" Says a desperate looking girl, hands clasped together as she repeatedly whispers a mantra of pleases under her breath, as if worried she'd push you over the edge if she were to say it any louder.

Little does she know she's, metaphorically speaking, already pushed you. Hard. With no remorse. Probably followed by a series of stabs to the back.

"Please, I would do anything!" She looks frantic. The only time you've seen her unclasp her hands was to pull desperately at her hair. She's pretty, you'll give her that, the kind of pretty that makes people more easily soft and influenced to her desires. But you're no sucker, and you're certainly not soft.

"Anything?" You whisper, leaning forward a bit. She nods, hope pooling in her round, pretty eyes.

"Anything!" You're not really used to people interrupting you during your free time. She at least has the decency to keep her voice down in the library, but you have a feeling the librarian and usually easily irritable students would easily succumb to her puppy dog eyes and let her scream all she wants.

You don't tell her that there is no such thing as a potion for photographic memory. You don't tell her that, even if such a thing were to exist, it would have drastic long-term side effects. As in, death.

"Anything anything..?" You lean forward a bit more, the female eagerly mimicking the action. You stare into her pretty eyes, the honey gold of her skin. "...even study?"

The female deflates, shameful as she twirls at a strand of her hair. This girl is just one of the many reminders on why you should never have been known as the campus witch in the first place.

You also should have just stayed in bed, despite the uncharacteristically calm day you've been having. You should have slept through your subsequent assignments and uncountable morning classes; but Jungkook had pulled the sheets out from over your head that day almost knowingly, reminding you how much you're paying for tuition. Curse that familiar of yours.

(Jungkook's voice also seemed to be the one to coax you into giving the girl a discount on your widely known all-nighter potion; which really just mostly consisted of a monster and some ground coffee beans, but she didn't need to know that. But you're still definitely, definitely not a soft witch.)

Three years ago you started a shop of your own, one typical of a witch like yourself. All herbs and tea leaves and scented candles and crystals, ground sunflower seeds and fruits and, later on, potions; the thing that's gathered the most attention in your community, from both supernatural beings and, as harry potter so delicately put it, muggles alike.

On Sundays, you sit behind the shop's counter on the red cushioned bean bag chairs that Jungkook likes so much, taking in the low hanging vines of your small, dainty little shop, the smell of old parchment and the sound of fluttering pages, the shelves of books barely anyone but yourself reads but are familiar and comforting nevertheless.

On Sundays, people stop by; sometimes for tea, mostly for potions, and one time someone asked for a potion to help him get laid but even so, business is buzzing, Sunday or not.

On Sundays, you tolerate Jungkook's grunts and groans of boredom, the boy taut as violin strings until he starts arm wrestling with the plants and reading books by the corner, his long hair obscuring your view of his features as he bounces all over the place.

In the corner by the bookshelves sits a fish tank you'd gotten over a year ago, courtesy of Jungkook, now barren of fish of any kind. (The male managed to get a goldfish at some point. He named it ironman. It died a week later, now buried in Yoongi's greenhouse, and you coaxed some flowers into sprouting around its grave for his sake. Mostly lavender, reminiscent of your familiar. Lavender helps you sleep. Lavender soothes small hurts.)

Sometimes, if you're lucky, you'll hear little snippets of a singing voice, murmuring when he thinks no one can hear him —��and you can almost feel the creaking of the floorboards and bookshelves ceasing, the books shifting about in their spines halting at the mere sound of it —  as if even the walls are straining to hear the tiny little sounds of your familiar's voice.

And although Sundays are meant for that, meant for all of that, on one particular Sunday you find yourself out of faerie tears to mix into your concoctions. An odd ingredient it is, but important nevertheless. And you know just the faerie willing to hand over some more.

"Yoongi!" You squeal as you enter the greenhouse, messenger bag over your shoulder, glass vials inside of it clinking together as you walk.

The greenhouse isn't big— not as big as Yoongi would have liked it to be, anyway— but it's tall enough to make room for trees of all sizes. Certain panes have been removed on its walls to allow the branches to carry through towards the sky, as if Yoongi would rather tear the place down than tear off a branch. Vines curl around your feet as you walk, tickling at your legs, and the plants greet you softly as you pass, (except the roses. They don’t like you too much and they tend to gossip quite a bit).

You tip your head up to stare at the hazy sky through the glass. It's humid and will probably rain later, another late summer storm.

You hear a grunt.

Hunched over a flowerbed sits a tuft of black, the endearing sight bringing a smile to your face that remains even as the male in question notices your amusement, frowning as his brows furrow and his nose crinkles.

He stands up as gracefully as his little faerie ass can manage, wiping the accumulated sweat on his forehead away with the back of his hand, a streak of dirt on his cheek and, somehow, on his nose. "Yes?" He mutters, grumpy and all, despite his patience as you move to grab an empty vial from your bag.

You stretch the empty glass expectantly, "I'm in need of some faerie tears, my good man."

The man waddles towards you in typical Yoongi fashion, inspecting the vial for a second before his gaze shifts to you, eyes squinted. "You know I don't cry," He says stubbornly.

"Oh, please. You’re one of the softest boys I know. Didn't you take theater in high school? The tears don't have to stem from real sadness, you heathen."

His cheeks redden at your reminder, grabbing the vial from your hands with a huff. "I just messed with the lighting for a while. Fixed the sound. It's not like I acted, damn you."

"But still! You gotta feel some sort of.. kinship. Come on. I'm not asking for much!"

"You're asking for my bodily fluids. It seems like quite a bit to me."

You hide your smile with your hand as you watch the male grunt and grimace, trying to get the tears out by sheer force. His body is shaking a bit at the strain, and you finally laugh when he lets out the breath he'd been holding with a dramatic, Yoongi flair. "Can't do it?" You ask through laughter.

"Shut up." He shoves the vial onto your chest. "Anything else for you to humiliate me with?"

"Huh. I am in need of some pixie dust, now that you mention it."

"Hobi probably has some of that, he's full of pixie friends." You, personally, aren't a fan of those tiny little rascals. The ones around your hometown were known for trouble, pulling at your ears and pushing objects off tables.

Though you suppose the ones around your current home weren't all bad. You've caught a few helping motivate your plants by your window to sprout, and sometimes you find petals by your windowsill that weren't there before, all layered with pixie dust. Sometimes they simply flutter overhead, tossing pink dust at passersby, and sometimes you hear them sneezing by your ear, drunk on plum blossoms.

They hang around Hoseok almost regularly, and it's not uncommon to find a few napping on his head and shoulder, warbling softly in their sleep. That merman attracts a whole bunch of creatures, so you don't blame them, really.

"Well. Walmart probably has some faerie tears, anyway. Thanks, Yoongs!" You pat at the now frozen male's chest thoughtfully, the man blinking slowly with wide eyes. You take off into a sprint at his bewildered WHAT? from behind you, laughter on your heels.

"Here, noona." Your familiar mutters as he walks into you finishing some paperwork, your form hunched out of view under the shop's counter, red bean bag hardly a chair for such a feat but at least it's comfortable. He places a cup of tea by the coffee table beside you, still steaming, the smell wafting through the tiny expanse of your homey shop.

"Thanks, Guk." You murmur in response without looking up, but you still catch his tail let out a tiny wag at that before he nods and shuffles away, almost like a waddle, and disappears into the closet-sized kitchen, large clothes swallowing his form adorably.

He shuffles back a few minutes later with his own cup, sinking into the bean bag beside you. He stretches the cup towards you after a second of hesitation, "Sorry, but could you heat it up please? Do that thing?"

You chuckle, sitting up straight to drop your papers on the counter before turning back towards the werewolf, "'course." You take the cup, fingers brushing against his, and you see him recoil in his seat as he sinks further into it.

Your fingers cup the mug lightly, and you feel the liquid slowly heat up, becoming darker in color. Your eyes catch his gaze as you hand it back, his eyelashes trembling as he looks down, cheeks dusted a shy pink, taking the drink generously. "Thank you," he mutters.

The moment is interrupted by the gentle chiming of the wind chimes tinkling in welcome as someone opens the door, and you stand up with a groan the second you hear it. Gently placing your cup on the coffee table, your attention shifts to the customer tripping into your shop, the smell of rain and autumn and wonder on his heels.

"Can I help you?" You ask, albeit uselessly as he continues inspecting your array of books without a word, pausing at the poetry section.

Maybe you shouldn't have bought those bean bags. They're low enough to hide you completely from view of anyone if you were to sit and you, being the one to sit by the register, kinda have to do that a lot. You take to standing, taking occasional sips from your tea when you think the boy that stumbled in isn't looking.

The boy suddenly marches towards you. Eyes you for a minute. Blinks profusely. "Morning," he says after a moment, voice soothing and soft, like melting butter and dripping honey. He slides a book onto the counter. Poetry.

"Good afternoon," you answer with a twitch of your lips, "Is this all?"

He clears his throat, his cheeks a bit flushed, "Yes."

You can feel his eyes on you. They flick over you quick and then again slower and then again one more time, dragging like a lip being pulled through teeth. You feel tingly.

With a hum, you mutter the price you know by heart as you stuff the book into a bag. His voice interrupts you.  "Do you sell blood here?"

You blink, catch Jungkook freezing from where he's seated. The boy in front of you at least has the decency to look sheepish after a moment, smiling with just a twitch of his lips, and it's then you notice the ever protruding fangs that line the sides of his teeth.

"Uh, nope, sorry."

"Hm." He hums. "How long has this been here? It's, well. Nice. Must be nice to work here."

You scoff out a laugh, "It has its downsides. Pay is shit, mostly. You're mostly just making drinks and making sure no one is doing anything stupid or trying to hide a body in one of the vanishing bookshelves."

"I already disproved that theory, noona!" Comes Jungkook's interjection from somewhere below you, voice laced with an odd sort of pride. "I sat there for an hour and didn't disappear."

"That... okay." Maybe you would scold him in any other setting, seeing as the bookshelf was completely capable of actually making him disappear — but seeing his pretty, honest eyes, his cupid's bow pulled into a smile, well.. who were you to take that away?

It's only then you remember the strange vampire you still have yet to know the name of was here for a reason. Your eyes stray to the book he'd bought, and you notice he seemed to dwell on which to buy for a bit too long. "Do you like poetry?" You mutter as you hand over his purchase.

"Nope." He grins. "I'll be back!" The boy says it like a promise before closing the door behind him, nimble as a cat and grinning like one, too, giving the dream catcher by the entrance a dangle and, in a blink, he's gone.

"That was weird." Jungkook mutters through the rim of his cup, and you agree with a simple nod of the head. “He was pretty, though,” he adds thoughtlessly. You nod again.

You spend your lunch, as you usually do, in a coffee shop close to campus, Jungkook sipping on a milkshake beside you and Yoongi sitting opposite you both, the latter pumping an unreasonable amount of sugar into his coffee.

"So Hobi's in this wack exercising mood these days. He signed us both up for couple's yoga classes."

Your lips twitch upwards at that before you purse your lips, trying to hide your smile. "That's.. wild."

"Yeah. Worst part is that I don't even mind going that much 'cause I know it'll make him happy. Gross, huh?"

"Super gross, dude."

Yoongi picks up his spoon and promptly stabs at the thick layer of sugar in the bottom of his cup, stirring glumly. "Anyway, how's the shop? Anyone walking in asking for condoms again?"

"Well, no, but I was asked if I sell blood bags."

Yoongi raises a brow, probably more surprised that there's a vampire on campus than he is surprised at the question. "Huh. That is weird. Was he cute?"

"Yoongs, you are not asking me if my vampire customer is cute. Tell me you're not." The man promptly starts to sip loudly at his coffee, avoiding eye contact stubbornly. You sigh. "Yes. Yes he was. Damn you." The man grins.

"He really was, though," Jungkook speaks up for the first time since you all sat down — not counting the little hello he'd whispered to Yoongi — and you watch as he sinks down his seat, smiles this shy little thing, cheeks and nose all scrunched up, trying to hide it as he sips aggressively at his oreo milkshake.

You smile knowingly at him and he all but melts, looking out the window, the tips of his ears a pretty pink.

"That so?" Yoongi says, watching you over the rim of his cup, "I was starting to think you two were cave gremlins incapable of feeling. How nice for you."

You scoff out a laugh, "Easy for you to say, you met Hoseok on Grindr."

"And we are positively thriving, thank you for asking."

"Oh!" The tiniest sound, whispered more to himself than anything but you manage to catch it anyway, your familiar's eyes widening prettily as he spots something out the window as his whole face breaks into a smile, cheeks crinkling at the edges, "It's Hobi-hyung!"

"Where?" Yoongi asks but sees him immediately after, the man in question spotting them through the glass and waving frantically, like he thinks you all might not see him.

Hoseok opens the door to the coffee shop cheerily, both the dulcet soft chime above the door and the usual light he carries on his shoulders alerting others of his presence. There are remnants of pixie dust on his shoulders, strapped to his clothes, glued to his hair. He smells of salt water and chlorine and dried flowers and something like pomegranate, just on the edges. The smile that always seems to be perpetually glued to his face brightens as he power walks towards your table by the corner.

"Hey! What're you all doing here?" He asks with a laugh as he slides on the seat beside his boyfriend, and Yoongi allows himself to be hugged by Hoseok, who hugs everyone.

"We're the physical manifestations of Y/n's inner demons." Yoongi says before Jungkook snorts out a laugh endearingly.

"How're classes, Hobi?" You ask, managing to ignore Yoongi only due to several years of training.

Yoongi groans at your question. Pretends to be annoyed. "His yoga classes or his dance classes?" Hoseok laughs at that, a loud and confident thing.

Hoseok laughs a lot. Dances a lot. Smiles a lot. Sometimes helps his dad teach little kids how to swim. Sometimes sea foam sticks to his eyelashes. Knows nothing about flowers but listens patiently when Yoongi talks about them, when Yoongi talks about his greenhouse and his love for jasmines and sweet sweet bubble tea.

You watch as Yoongi listens to Hoseok's ramblings, very much enamored and very much enraptured, eyes filled with love love love, a shy but fiercely sure thing. He's watching with the same soft, scrunched eyes he tends to be looking at everything with these days; at his plants and his friends and his music, like they're something precious, something to be cherished. You watch and it fills you with a not-jealousy, an almost-jealousy, an almost-want.

You want that kind of love, and yet you stray away from it at the first chance you get.

Yoongi leans in close, whispers something in his ear, and it's then that Hoseok snorts the coffee he'd been drinking through his nose, flushed from the tips of his ears down to his collarbones and suddenly they're all laughing, the two sneaking glances at each other. Glances you feel are private, intimate, probably something you weren't meant to see. You look away, feeling as if you're intruding.

Your eyes catch shifting from your peripheral vision, and you turn to see Jungkook moving hesitantly about in his seat, nibbling at the straw of his now empty milkshake. He stops. Purses his lips. Makes eye contact for a second before looking away.

You sigh. "If you clean out the backroom at home tomorrow for twenty minutes, I'll buy you another drink."

Jungkook perks up immediately. "How about if I clean out the backroom for ten minutes?"

"Twenty."

"..Fifteen?"

"Twenty."

"Seventeen."

You consider it. "...Deal."

Jungkook bursts into a celebratory dance as Yoongi tries hard to rein in his smile. You flip the two off before catching Hoseok's eye. WHIPPED, he mouths, enunciating it heavily just to be annoying, so you flip him off, too.

Two years ago, Jungkook entertains a visit to the town's newest herb shop; his expectations low and, despite his pack sending him out to search for medicine, his eyes were mostly searching for amusement.

Witches. A funny lot, all of them. They gather leaves for a living and use brooms as a means of transportation and they sprinkle basil into their soups and they think they know how to — how to herb.

The werewolf approaches the wooden door — printing paper taped to it with 'open' written in sharpie — and in he steps, wind chimes tinkling in welcome. If there was one thing he was expecting, it wasn't this. 

The air smelled like wood and scented candles, paint that's just beginning to dry. Shelves lined the walls from top to bottom with potions and tea and crystals and, well, herbs, and in the far back stood a nearly empty bookshelf, only half the books on the shelves and the rest still sitting in a box not quite in plain sight but not exactly hidden, either, as if the owner hadn't quite finished packing them.

If Jungkook holds his breath just right, he can feel his heart beating in sync with something in the air. Something living. 

Jungkook approaches the counter, searching left and right. No one in sight. "Hello?" He calls out. Flinches when he feels a thud, followed by a very abrupt, very loud—

"OW."

He leans forward tentatively after a moment of hesitation, glancing beneath the counter and, sure enough, there you are. This small thing curled on the floor, rubbing at your head from when you'd just tried to stand. No pointy hat or a big nose or dozens of moles, no evil laugh threatening to tumble out your lips, hidden just under your tongue.

It was just you. Wide eyed you. Sweet smelling you; sugar cookies, his brain supplies even though he didn't ask it to. Sugar cookies and vanilla and dark woods and something like coriander, just on the edges.

"Why were you sitting on the floor?" He asks you, the first thing he asks you.

You look up at him. Stare for a while. Your eyes don't linger on his ears stretched up in curiosity, black fur tipped with brown, or his tail wagging a bit behind him. He grabs at it to make it stop.

"I don't have any chairs." Is all you say, the lilting tone of home in your words. Jungkook laughs that terrible laugh of his, the one with his grin stretched ear to ear, his nose and eyes crinkled terribly. His laugh makes you laugh. Your laughter is terrible too, he notices.

He gets the medicine, tossing a pouch of coins onto the counter, courtesy of his pack. They have a knack at bringing the most inconvenience possible and living as if it were the nineteenth century.

Jungkook thought that would be it. But his father needed more scented candles and his brother needed more tea and his mother whined, like, once, that they were out of basil. And of course there are other shops that sell scented candles and tea and basil, but yours happened to be on his way every time.

True to his word, the vampire does indeed come back.

Despite barely talking to the boy, you know a bit about him from his interactions with Jungkook and what Jungkook, himself, shares with you. There's a dog with angry and very expressive eyebrows as his lock screen. His lips are naturally pouty and his hands are never quite still. Jungkook once stepped into the kitchen with peppa pig bandaids on his knees and despite knowing fully well that it could be any one of your friends, Yoongi is the least prepared person you know, Hoseok was working at that hour, and Jin only carries hello kitty bandaids from down the street, so you have a pretty clear idea of who's responsible.

And despite all that, you know little to nothing about the man personally.

"Noona, he's.. so nice. He's, like, my weekly reminder that I am, in fact, bisexual." Jungkook speaks as he polishes a crystal, sky blue in color and warm in his palm, and you watch him from between the bookshelves, placing your newly ordered volume of Jim Morrison's books through the available spaces.

"That's nice, Guk-ah." And it is, it really is. He's starting to move on and he's happy and his eyes are shining brighter than the crystal in his hands, tiny constellations hidden behind his eyelids, his eyelashes. "Tell me more?"

And so he does. He explains in a tiny voice, a soft one, occasional giggles and nose crinkles and bunny teeth as he talks about this mysterious boy and it all just feels like. So much.

The shop's lights dim the slightest bit. Jungkook doesn't comment on it.

It goes on until you both hear a loud gurgle from the closet-sized kitchen followed by the scent of smoke, and it's only then you remembered the potion you'd left brewing in the cauldron. You trip only once in panic, and Jungkook's laughter echoes through the walls and it follows you the whole way there.

It's a small little thing. A typical witch cauldron in its finest, smaller than average, sitting over your stove and under the kitchen cupboards. They're all filled to the brim with color-coded tupperwares, its ingredients labeled in sharpie in each respective container; because otherwise you wouldn't be able to distinguish the luck potion from the mashed potatoes, the health potion Jungkook thinks tastes like dirt from the apple sauce.

Somewhere between you opening your window to let the smoke out and your attempts at dwindling the damage, your familiar approaches you from behind and looks over your shoulder curiously, ears moving about in alert. "Can you save it? Is it still good?"

"Yeah, no thanks to you." You say in response, but there's no bite to your tone. He bites your shoulder playfully, a tiny howl slipping from his throat. You chuckle, fully endeared.

You grab a nearby measuring cup. You'd prefer glass vials, but they were all being used at the moment, sitting somewhere in your cabinets. You should probably move them somewhere else. Last time they were left alone too long, one exploded and ruined everything else you'd left in that cabinet.

"Do you know if we got any crystal orders recently?"

Jungkook hums at your question, chin propped on your shoulder, his arms still and unsure at his sides. You should probably nudge him off. Some selfish part of you, the bigger part, doesn't let you.

"Um. I think so. Maybe last week? I think you shoved them in a box somewhere." You probably did. It's starting to become a bad habit of yours.

"Dammit."

Jungkook laughs. "What do they do, anyway? Do they predict the future or something?"

"No, unfortunately. Only specific kinds of witches can do that. Divination is pretty hard so I'm pretty sure, like, only Namjoon is capable." You huff out a laugh, "And they're for curses, mostly."

"Namjoon-hyung can do everything so he's the only exception." He pauses. "Except context clues. He's very bad at context clues."

"And taking care of plants," you add. Just last year you'd given him a succulent because you figured it was the easiest thing to keep alive. It died within a week.

You grab a ladle and scoop up some of the liquid from the cauldron, bringing it to your lips before blowing softly. Probably a bad idea to taste test unknown substances, especially in its early stages, but you decide that it's as good a day as any to challenge death, so you swallow some determinedly. It doesn't burn in your throat, just fuzzes and warms a bit on your tongue, so that's a good sign.

"Are we cursing someone?" Jungkook says with a toothy grin before then resolutely, decidedly, adamantly, rests his hands on your hips, twisting his head so his cheek is on your shoulder instead of his chin. You can feel his breath on your neck, goosebumps prickling at your skin, his touch burning even through your clothes.

"No." You say, feeling small. "Not today. Crystals aren't made for that, Gukkie." You mix the wooden spoon through the concoction absentmindedly as you continue, "Plus, curses need a lot of magic. Usually more than one witch. And don't ask Namjoon because I know he would say yes if you asked."

"I think you can do it yourself." He mumbles, nose pressed to your neck.

"Sweet talk isn't going to make me curse someone." You say but your eyes are wide and lovely, as if you'd give in with just a bit more persuasion. "Who do you have in mind, anyway?"

"No one," he hums for a bit, lips pursed, and they tickle your neck a bit in a not-kiss. An almost-kiss. "Yet."

A hearty laugh bursts from your chest and Jungkook giggles along, giggles, the sound delightful and lovely and the cacti on your windowsill hum, leaning into it. You find yourself doing the same. The kitchen gets a tad bit warmer and the lights get a tad bit brighter.

"Any crystal can curse someone if you throw it hard enough." He grins, bright and unreserved. His eyes look like the chocolate truffles he drools over when commercials for it show on TV.

Some days it hurts more than others. This intimacy you have with Jungkook, how safe he makes you feel. How sometimes is hurts just a bit, just around the edges, where it's easy to hide. How sometimes it hurts too much, when the words are all up in your throat and blocking your airway, no space to let your rib cage expand when you try to draw in a breath.

"Guk- grab me some aloe vera roots, please? Please." You whisper, afraid that if you talked any louder the other words would come tumbling out. Your heart sits so big in your chest it's taking too much effort to hold it in place. Hands claw around it incessantly, some squeezing at it and others making it harder for you to breathe.

Jungkook untangles himself from you just as the lights overhead flicker indecisively. His hands don't linger. They feel like they might linger. They hover over your hips for a second, as if he stopped them from lingering.

He says something that sounds like okay, noona but the words get lost somewhere between his tongue and his teeth and only half of it makes it out. You hear cupboards opening and closing—feel Jungkook lingering in the air you breathe in.

You turn around and the werewolf is moving aside your many tupperwares, reading the label of the ones he finds the strangest. He picks up one with a soft pink color, the liquid bubbling unpleasantly. He places it right back, brows furrowed.

"How do you know how to make all this stuff, anyway?" He exclaims with a huff, closing another cupboard with a thud.

"Pinterest. Yoongi. Years of training, maybe. Or not. I think I stopped paying attention after seventh grade."

He laughs a bit at that, a soft thing. Hands you the tupperware with the root you asked for, which ended up being shoved somewhere in the fridge. You really should reorganize your things.

You take trains sometimes.

Faraway trains, hidden somewhere in the deepest part of the city. Trains taken straight out of Ghibli films, splashes of watercolor and pencil art drawn by hand. You take them when you feel like getting away, like outrunning the heartbreak chasing you down, like you want to go somewhere but have no destination in mind. You get off on stops where you don't know where you are.

The train sometimes takes you to farms, where the horizon is burning against the tips of the wheat, setting the world on fire. Sometimes it takes you to towns you haven't even heard of, where everything is homey and everyone knows each other and the flowers sitting on windowsills to bask in the sun greet you softly.

Everything is nice. Calming. You like when the train goes through tunnels, the dark inviting and comforting, a childlike wonder. The sound of the rail wheel on the track almost lulls you to sleep at times, white noise in your ears, and the few people in the train agree — most already doing exactly that, slumped against the seats.

The train skids to a halt. Nothing compels you to get off, so you don't.

People are leaving, a mother sitting in the seat in front of you urging her daughter awake, the old man sitting a few seats back getting up slowly, with kind eyes and laughter lines. You stay slumped by the window, sunlight warming the side of your face.

Amidst your daydreaming and despite the available seats, a man gets on board, spots you, sits beside you. He watches your side profile for a bit, as if waiting for you to complain or call him out on it. You don't, so he gets comfortable in his seat, closes his eyes. His skin is the color of honey and gold.

He looks absolutely horrible. Well, not outwardly—not outwardly at all. He's wearing slippers with little rabbit ears drooping horribly endearingly, a flannel and basketball shorts, two articles of clothing that don't match at all, as if he grabbed them last minute, but he makes them work. You have a feeling he would look good dressed in cardboard and trash bags.

His ears are a light brown color, and on his head sat a pair of antlers, the tip of one broken off a bit.

But his aura. His aura is absolutely horrible. It's gloomy and so unbelievably dark, hovering over his form and twisting into something ugly.

Maybe this strange man is like you. Maybe he likes to take train rides to the middle of nowhere in early mornings, when the clouds are still blurring over the horizon. You catch him staring at it, the horizon; right when you look up and see him looking not at you, but just past your head up to the skies.

You stare, too. The silence stretches, and a voice—thick and smooth like honey—breaks it. You're comparing him to honey a lot, you notice. His voice and his skin. You'll call him honey boy for now. "Blue."

The sky is awfully blue today, only a few clouds hovering overhead. "It'll rain soon," you reply thoughtlessly.

"How'd you know?" You sense a lilting tone of comfort in his tone of voice. He has a bit of a lisp. His eyes are big and open and honest.

"The leaves are turned on their back, the crickets are chirping, there were some colorful streaks on the sky today." You can tell he's processing the words, taking them to heart, listening gently.

"Oh." Is all he says. The silence stretches again. It doesn't last long. "Are you sad, too?"

Your eyes are wide with surprise when you turn to look at him. A grin splits across his face at your unintentional open admittance, and it's so pretty you can't look away.

The man explains he hasn't gotten more than four hours of sleep for the past two weeks. That he hasn't properly interacted with another human that wasn't his roommate and his mom probably since last Wednesday ("Maybe, that might have been a fever dream," he adds. You laugh). That he's been functioning solely through chocolate, granola bars and vitamin gummies—not coffee, no, he can't stand caffeine—and you laugh until he opens his backpack and pulls out, like, thirteen kitkats.

Describing honey boy is some new word you don't know. Like all the gentle love in his heart has manifested itself, is seeping out through his skin. You wonder how many strangers he's charmed in his life.

Honey boy hums a song absentmindedly from beside you, probably unaware that he's doing it. His voice is a deep timbre that fills the silence in a quiet way. His voice is nice and the train ride is nice and for a second it feels like you've run so far ahead from the heartbreak that it's likely impossible for it to ever catch up.

"Do you like the ocean?" He asks after a bit. The train is getting closer to it, to the ocean, and you can see the line where the blue of the sky blurs into the blue of the ocean. He answers before you get the chance to, "I really like the ocean. I would come here a lot with my grandparents. I like how my dad used to chase me around the sand and my mom would sing to me and my grandma would buy me cotton candy from the vendors that walked by and my grandpa would playfully pull at my antlers. And how the pretty scaled mermaids kept the tide gentle when I was learning to swim and it's, just. A cradley sort of place."

The way he views the world is so gentle. "It'll kick your ass, though," you mutter.

He giggles, really giggles, and it comes out as a ehehe kind of sound. It's cute, your mind supplies even though you didn't ask it to.

"It will, won't it?" He says between laughter. "Sorry, I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

"No!" You say too quickly. Clear your throat at the realization. "No, you're not. I like when you ramble."

Pretty pink on his cheeks. He looks small, somehow. "You sound like someone I know."

"That's good. You should have those kind of people in your life or else you'll go mad."

He laughs. The train skids to a stop the same way it always does, but it feels different. The man goes to stand up, hesitates, sits back down. Looks at you, almost as if to ask for permission. "Will I see you again?"

Your breath hitches in your throat. "I don't know."

"Gram says that people that are meant to find each other, will." He looks determined. One of his ears twitch. "See you soon."

And with that he gets off the train, doesn't look back for even a second, is saving that glimpse for when you see each other again. A part of you doesn't think you will. Another finds itself wishing for it.

[buckleyirondad]

xvii. stay with me

Peter sold his soul to bring Tony back. Now, his ten years are up. (Supernatural AU) WARNING: IMPLIED MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

Peter sacrificed his soul to save Tony. 

It sounded easy enough to understand, but even after ten years, Tony still failed to wrap his head around it.

Tony spent years surrounded by gods, aliens, enhanced individuals and sorcerers but he drew a line in the sand when it came to demons. Turns out, they existed. The myths were true.

A bereaved sixteen-year-old Peter tricked Strange into letting him wander around the Sanctum Sanctorum's library. It didn’t take Peter long to find everything he needed to know about crossroad demons, he learned how to summon them, and sell his soul, in return, Tony came back from the dead like he’d never been gone. Peter didn’t come clean until two years after Tony’s miraculous reincarnation. Everyone spent their time attempting to work out how Tony was dead and buried, for three months. Then suddenly, he reappeared, on the porch of the Lake House, alive. All along, the answer had been right in front of them. Peter broke one night, while he was visiting from college. He collapsed to the kitchen floor in a heap, sobbing out non-sensual apologies and explanations. It took a while for Tony to make sense of what he was saying but when he did, the universe fell around him. 

Tony tried, he’d exhausted every possibility to save Peter’s soul, but to no prevail. Peter was clever, he made sure that no one else could strike a deal to save his life. His death was locked in, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Peter was given ten years. A decade to live his life. After that time was up, the hellhounds would tear him apart. At first, everyone was angry. It didn’t take them long to realise that their anger would never amount to anything. If they let their rage dictate their time left with Peter, they’d regret it.

Peter dropped out of college, and they decided, in the time they had left, they had to make sure he lived every day to the fullest. Behind the scenes, with Strange, Tony kept trying to find a way to save him, but there was nothing. They went on adventures around the world. They even took a few trips out into space with Carol, Thor and the Guardians. Tony watched Peter grow into the man that he knew he would be, but it hurt to see knowing he’d never made it past twenty-six.

Importantly, they gave Morgan memories of her brother, that she could treasure for a lifetime. The years turned to months, and months turned into weeks, in the blink of an eye. Peter’s final days were a celebration of his life. Everything he had accomplished. The memories they made. Tony couldn’t help that he fixated on what Peter could have done if his life wasn’t selfishly cut short. Peter had decided, early on, that he wanted to be alone when it happened. It would happen in the woodlands that surrounded the Lake House. He didn’t want his family to see, he wanted them to remember him as he was. Peter’s final day, was normal. It was what he wanted, he didn’t want an extravagant goodbye that would hurt too much. They had a Barbecue at the Lake House and they all spent the day teasing one another.

When it came to the end, reality crashed around them. Goodbye hugs and well-wishes lasted longer. Silence fell over them. Everyone who stepped out of the Lake House got into their cars, and droveway knew, that it was the last time they’d ever see Peter. Morgan, now fourteen, refused to let go of her brother. She held him as close as she could, with her legs folded around his middle as she sobbed against his shoulder. In the end, Tony and Pepper had to pry her off. Ned, Peter’s best friend and Guy In The Chair, was now, also a father, to one-year-old Benjamin. The infamous pair did their signature handshake, for the last time. Peter bent down to press a kiss against his nephew’s forehead. Ned left, hand-in-hand with his wife, Betty, and Ben cradled in his arms. Michelle tucked a drawing in Peter’s pocket, and whispered to him, words Tony knew weren’t his to hear. From then on, the goodbyes blurred into one.

Tony watched on, with his arms crossed over his chest and tears in his eyes. May went last. She leant her forehead against his and muttered soft apologies, before pressing a long kiss against his forehead. She pressed a hand to his cheek, and gently muttered, “My boy.” Tony stayed. It was the plan, always had been. Peter didn’t deserve to be alone on his final night. They curled up together on the couch, Peter had fallen asleep with his head on Tony’s lap. As Tony twiddled Peter’s curls around his fingers, time ceased to make sense. In an instant, years, collapsed, into minutes. Ten to be precise. Peter stood out on the porch, taking in the view. The sun was setting, and soon, Peter would be gone. Tony stepped out, hovering by his side. Peter moved, leaning his head against his mentor’s upper arm as he let out a slow breath. Tony wished this moment could last forever. It didn’t feel like the end. It felt like a normal day, that’s why he hated it. If Peter was going to die, then the universe, at least owed him the common decency to mourn. Peter reached over, squeezing a shaking hand around Tony’s wrist, “I have to go.” Tony dipped his head down, as a weight pushed heavily against his chest. Peter made a move, but Tony grabbed his wrist, “Don’t.” He begged, his voice hoarse. Peter tilted his head to his shoulder, staring at him with blood-shot eyes, “Stay with me.” Peter shook his head, “Tony…” “You don’t have to do this alone, kid.” “I do.” Tony’s throat seized, “This is my fault.” “This was my choice.” Peter cried as he stepped closer, grabbing Tony’s hand, “And I don’t regret it.” “Peter…” “What?” Peter laughed humorlessly, “I don’t. It was worth it.” Tony’s stomach lunged, “Your entire life, for the end of mine. How is that worth it?” “The end?” Peter blinked tears away, “ I know what it’s like growing up without parents. If you can’t remember them…” He held out his arm, “There are pieces. Questions you can’t have answered. I couldn't…” He stumbled over his words, “I couldn’t do that to Morgan, not when I could do something about it.” “Not this.” “Yes, this.” Peter said firmly, as his voice wavered, “It’s already done, Tony. This is happening now…” He paled and he snapped his head back. Tony could feel him trembling under his hand, “Kid, what is it?” Peter looked back, fear swimming in his eyes, “I can hear them.” By them, he meant the hellhounds. Peter’s watch buzzed, he clicked it, “Four minutes.” Tony pulled on Peter’s arm, in a desperate attempt to keep him safe, “I don’t want you to be alone.” “And I don’t want you to see this.” Peter chorused back, “I have to do this on my own, Tony. You’ve gotta be strong, for…” He bit down on his lip as he let out a pained breath, “Don’t give up, please. I need to know that you’ll be happy.”

Tony knew he never truly be happy ever again, but Peter only had moments left, “I’ll try.” Peter grabbed Tony’s hand, holding them up, “Don’t blame yourself.” Tony couldn’t hold back a slight scoff, “I’m serious, because I’ll haunt you if you do.” Tony leapt forward, dragging him into a hug. Peter folded his arms around his back, swaying back and forth, as they held one another. “Okay, okay...” Peter leaned back, looking at him, eye-to-eye. Tony placed a kiss in Peter’s curls before cupping his cheek, “Stay here.” Peter pleaded, “I’ll be alright.” No, Tony couldn’t let him do this one his own. “Peter....” Peter extended his arm, revealing his web-shooter, “No.” He pressed down on it, the web caught around Tony’s wrist, sticking him to the banister of the porch, “Peter!” Peter squeezed Tony’s other hand as he smiled, tears glistening in his eyes, “Goodbye, Tony.” Peter let his hand fall away, and he sprinted into the woodland.

He didn’t look back, not even for a moment. Tony didn’t stop screaming his name, like a mantra. He pulled against the webbing but he couldn’t escape. He watched as his kid disappeared in the trees.

Tony's plea died in his throat, as the daunting reality settled in his stomach. He would never see Peter alive again.

[honeykngdom]

souvenir for the road | fangs x reader

WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol, angst PROMPT: “You’re a Serpents who’s afraid of snakes.” A/N: I actually had a really hard time figuring out what kind of twist I wanted this story to have - while it is a fic written for @southsidejuggie‘s writing challenge; it’s the first Fangs fic I’ve posted and I really wanted to be nothing less than the best I can offer for such a small, neglected character. I sincerely hope you all enjoy! 

August 24th, 2017

Feet dangling over the ledge, I lifted the bottle back to my lips; the burning sensation travelled from my nose to my stomach, encouraging me to take a few deep breaths before I held it out. “Where did you get this? Why did you get Jäger?” I asked sourly, mouth pinched together.

He rips the bottle from my hand, eyes set into a hard glare before he tilts his head back and swallows a mouthful, “Jäger is delicious.” My eyes rolls, prompting him to continue, “Mix this with Goldschlager, and you’ve got yourself liquid cocaine.” 

“That sounds like a bad time.” I retorted wearily, leaning back on my hands. The night was unreasonably quiet and still; the water beneath us flowed silently, the crickets in the long grass on either side of Sweetwater River played their gentle melodies. It had been Fangs idea to drive out and sit on the ledge of the bridge, split a bottle in a toast to the summer days coming to an end — to celebrate. After months of building the courage, Fangs had finally gotten his chance to undergo the initiation process. 

Of course, this was all to be kept a secret from his mother. The mother whom I loved dearly, the mother who welcomed me into her home on numerous occasions, the mother I couldn’t stand to see in a state of unhappiness, or worry. He had made me promise not to tell her — and as much as I loved her, my loyalty to her son would always come first. Always. 

I stared at the bandage on his arm, watching as he inspected the freshly inked tattoo. His eye was still swollen, and his lip had a rather sizable split in the corner. “Are you sure this is what you want?” I asked quietly, returning my gaze to my hands folded in my lap. 

I was surprised when my question prompted him to sigh loudly into the night and fall back with his arms raised above his head. I examined the cuts and bruises on his fingers and knuckles, poking the nearly healed scabs on his palm. Fangs hissed in response, fist clenching tightly; I offered him a sad smile in apology and took the bottle at his side. “She’s dating losers.” He started quietly, although its softness didn’t hide his annoyance. Confused as to what he was talking about, I allowed him to continue,  “I’ve gotta do something that’ll offer her some sort of protection.” 

He was referring to his mother — this made more sense. “Paul wasn’t so bad.” I tried optimistically, tilting my head back to swallow another mouthful of the dark liquor. 

“And the Serpents aren’t so bad — there’s less of us than Ghoulies. We aren’t into drugs or racing. Just all about family loyalty and shit like that.” I quirked a brow as he paused, thinking to himself before he started to laugh — loudly. 

“What?” I asked, watching as his hands came down to clutch his stomach and he rolled onto his side, face pressing into the pavement of the bridge. “What?” I asked again, this time louder. 

“You wanna know what’s really funny?” He asked in between fits of giggles, resting his hands on his aching stomach as he stared up into the night, “I fucking hate snakes.” 

I blinked, hoping for a small moment that he was kidding, but when he continued to rest against the warm pavement, I let my eyes fall shut and dropped my head, holding the bottle between my knees. “So, you’re a Serpent who’s afraid of snakes.” I laughed once, shaking my head before I lifted my eyes and stared out at the river. “Great.”  

September 25th, 2017

I sat in the first seat just outside their chained fence, somehow still trying to remain close to my friends. So many of them had fallen into cycle after their parents, and if not their parents then their siblings or peers. Your loyalty in the Southside mattered to these groups of people that stood as one solidified unit of trust and unity and respect. Who you lie with defines who you are as a person, and that was a simple fact. 

I lifted my eyes, catching a quick smile and brow raise before he returned his attention to his new live-in bestie, Sweet Pea. Since his initiation, Fangs had started to fall into step with his fellow brothers like it was second nature. Like he was finally becoming the person he only ever believed he could be. And while his intentions were pure and good, they were equally dangerous. That made him all the more terrifying — he was all in. He wanted to feel everything all at once, and he wanted it raw. 

The Serpents were able to provide him with solid protection and family loyalty — to ensure his mothers well-being at all times. Being the man of the house could be exhausting, that much I knew. I watched the mornings he would arrive at school with tired eyes and sleepy smiles, each one always paired with disarrayed bedhead and thick heavy hoodies. He loved having his hair played with, at any time. How many lunch periods had I sat in the library with him so he could nap, and lull him to sleep by scratching his skull lightly with my nails. 

Now, no one played with his hair or lulled him to sleep. Sleepy Fangs never existed in this new version of himself; he was always, always on high alert. Always. Like he had to drink an extra large instead of a medium,l or have a red bull with his bagel. No one touched anyone, unless it was aggressively. Punching, slapping, hard back pats — you name it. It was intense and intimate. The only thing that made anyone on the outside more uncomfortable than the rough behaviour? Their calm and lulled conversation, when they’re in each other’s ears and careful, because something terrible was going to happen. And it was going to happen soon.

Wasn’t the point of joining in unity to protect the Southside is to be approachable, not intimidating?

But he was always Fangs whenever it was just the two of us, that much I was sure. While I ceased to exist within the school halls, I could count on gossip, and long walks home after class. We’d still do Sunday brunches at Pop’s — chicken waffles and milkshakes. We still called each other if the other was up late and couldn’t sleep, just because the screen hurt his eyes and he hated texting (his thumbs are just too damn big).  

Yeah, he was still in there. This version of him was exclusive to few people while he earned and grew into his hard exterior. He grew his stubble out longer, making him appear older, and started dressing the part. 

Couldn’t have lied to him if I wanted to, he looked too damn good in that leather jacket. 

There was a day he walked me home from Pop’s because he wanted to make sure I got in okay; we split a mickey (courtesy of Mama Fogarty’s  girl’s night out), and took the long path around the park instead of straight through. 

“I feel like you should be with your friends.” I started, staring at my shoes as we walked, hands shoved deep into my pockets. “Aren’t you like .. obligated to be with the community in all  your free time if you’re not with VIP’s like ma?”

“You’re not a VIP anymore?” He asked, clearly amused by my poor word choice. “C’mon, it’s not that bad. Ma gets her time, you get your time, I get me time.” Fangs smiled, holding up the empty mickey. 

I chucked it into the bushes, “Your time? What exactly are you doing in your time?”

“Y’know, the running, resistance, lifting shit.” He started to flex his muscles, brows wiggling in a very ha-ha Funny Man Fangs way. “Gotta keep the hot bod.” 

“Uh huh.” I laughed, deviating my eyes from his biceps. 

He snorted, “What, you don’t wanna look? Everyone else does, they made me cut off all my sleeves on my shirts.” 

I remember, I wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, I kicked a rock in his path, laughing when he kicked it up and away with his foot. We shared a knowing look, before he nudged me with his arm and sighed, “Lemme hear it, baby. What is it? I’m not pretty enough for you?” He laughed once and stopped to look at me, “Nah, we both know you’ve had it bad for me for years.” 

I stared at him over my shoulder for a moment; his smile was smug and sure, but eyes still appeared soft and warm,q so I caved. I turned to look at him and shook my head in annoyance, “So full of yourself; it’s becoming pathetic how much you sound like the Serpent Drama King.” Fangs knew better than anyone how self-righteous Sweet Pea could be with his alpha male attitude. Over the top, but hot and charming, nonetheless. 

Fangs fingers hooked into my belt loops, and he pulled me into his hips roughly, pulling the breath from my lungs. His eyes darkened, lips falling into my smile with a tainted twist. Something darker, more intense. I inhaled deeply, pursing my lips tightly as he examined my reaction, and then the intensity melted away, and his hands relaxed onto the exposed skin above my hips, holding me close. “Am I wrong?”

I shook my head once, tearing my eyes from his gaze. “Don’t.” 

“There’s still a lotta firsts we promised each other.” He reminded me, swaying his hips with mine. “I don’t know why you don’t let it happen anymore.” 

“Because it means more to one of us than the other.” I snapped, meeting his eyes with a hard glare. Fangs blinked, considering this for a moment before he dropped his hands and took a small step back. 

“That’s what you think?” He asked, almost amused, “That it’s just you?” 

“It is just me.” I hissed, unwilling to meet his eyes again. “So don’t.” It’ll complicate everything more — how unbiased could I be in the Southside with a Serpent for a boyfriend? That kind of influence? “Please don't.” 

“Who said I didn’t want that?” He asked abruptly, suddenly in my face (his eyes were swimming, but the intensity remained). “You can’t just assume.” 

I shook my head with a smile, taking another step away from him, “Everyone’s already thinking it,” I shrugged, adjusting the strap on my bag. “So it’s just better if you don’t.” 

Fangs squinted, a smile tugging at his lips, “Not even a souvenir for the road?” 

I paused, licking my lips slowly as I considered his words; I then took a step forward with a nod, no more than two seconds later he had roughly attached his lips to mine and tangled his fingers into my hair. And soon as I reacted, everything balanced. Hands traveled, our tongues worked against each other as though we were insatiable. When we finally parted, chests heaving and lips stretched in large smiles, he leaned down to gently lift my chin up and press his lips to mine, much softer this time. 

“See ya around, Pigeon.” He patted my backside as I turned, tongue running along his bottom lip before he retreated across the street towards the park. 

God, I wish I hadn’t let that night happen.

October 19th, 2017

I had been busier this year peer tutoring with the influx of Serpents; FPs absence was making the group anxious, so the younger gen had grown nearly doubled in size since the summer. Like they were preparing, knowing they would need numbers. Due to dedicating most of my lunch periods to tutoring, I wasn’t able to sit outside the fence as much, and therefore didn’t see Fangs within the school halls at all.

Which was fine — until one day his greeting in the morning across the parking lot had gone from a shared friendly smile to just simply a look. The first day he didn’t offer a smile, I felt my chest tighten, and my mood instantly dropped. After the first week, it stopped hurting. I usually waited until he and his friends and gone inside for the day, and if necessary, I walked around to the east wing door. 

He finally landed his hands on the motorcycle he had been helping Julio with in the shop over the summer. This meant we couldn't’ walk home together — and I was excited for him until I realized neither of us was willing to go without a helmet, so I had to walk as he rode off with his friends. 

We had only had Sunday brunch once in the last three weeks, and the brunch we had resulted in a lot of uncomfortable silence. Fangs was unable to talk about FP or what was going on with the Serpents, which I ultimately respected since they still scared the crap out of me in general. There was only so much I could fill him in on, and in all honesty, Fangs seemed too preoccupied and on edge for me to believe he was really paying attention to a word I was saying. 

So I didn’t bother to reach out and speak to him anymore.

There was that one day we bumped into each other at Mel’s; he was helping Mama Fogarty with the grocery haul, and I had walked in to grab some milk and conditioner (still used the strawberry, just because I knew it was his favourite. I still hated it). 

“Oh, hey.” Fangs waved, pulling his lips back in a warm, familiar grin as he took a step towards me. “How’s tutoring going?” It had been his idea for me to volunteer, having always prided me on my strengths. 

I shrugged, hugging the milk carton to my stomach, “Busier that normal, but it’s mainly just lack of patience, so it’s a working progress.” 

His mother — with her bright and beaming smile — came around the corner and rushed towards me, wrapping her arms around my frame in excitement, “Oh, baby! How are you?” She asked, rubbing my arms. 

Fangs’ mother was a wonderful woman; there was no getting around that. Only thirty-seven, having had Fangs during her teen years, made her the poster child for the typical Southside mom: single and fun. She had a warm, vibrant soul, and when necessary, she had her dark moments. Over the years, it wasn’t too difficult to tell where Fangs got all of his humor and anger from. 

After the awkward confirmation that neither of us had been able to see the other in nearly a month, she tsked her son and apologized for his rudeness. Reminding him that she didn’t raise him to be anything but a gentleman — or something like that, she always started to speak Spanglish when she got angry with him. She invited me over for dinner the following night — I promised to think about it and let Fangs know. I had to excuse myself shortly after, casting them a final smile before I darted for the self-checkout. 

I spent the remainder of my night thinking about the last time I had tasted him, the last time I had run my hands eagerly over his muscled chest, and how it could’ve been so much more. How all of the first times could’ve been fulfilled that night, and I had done everything I could to try and keep a distance to avoid any shift in my bias. 

I wish I had just gone for dinner. 

December 4th, 2017 

The head staff member for the peer tutoring organization at Southside High was imprisoned, and then later killed by the Black Hood. With nothing to do at lunch, I still didn’t sit outside of the fenced area that contained what was left of my friends. It was too bitter and heartbreaking, seeing him them all the time. It was better if I sat at my locker or outside, away from the clear divide between the students within the two gangs.

Fangs no longer waited in the parking lot after school when it let out for the day because he had started to miss class to leave early. Most of the Serpents had; faculty wasn’t oblivious to their collective disappearance but still took no punitive action. Our mornings consisted of silence. He never looked up across the parking lot for me, instead seemed too preoccupied with Sweet Pea or Toni to see anything outside of the three of them. He had definitely settled into his place among them, and seemed quite happy and at home. I tried to be comforted by that.

I still walked by him in silence. 

The last text I sent to Fangs was dated 10/30/17. He hadn’t responded. He spent plenty of time with Sweet Pea at the Wyrm; I’d seen his bike parked out front in a circle with the others. The rare occasion we did bump into each other, it was awkward side-steps around one another and muttered apologies. Looking on the outside in, you would’ve never known we had been best friends four months prior. 

There had been a raid, and I watched Fangs and his friends walk out of the school doors, cuffed and shoved into the back of the cruisers. That was the second visit from the Sheriff in two weeks. If Fangs hadn’t told his mom about his affiliation with the Serpents yet, I was sure she knew about it now. 

I walked out of Pop’s, hot chocolate in hand as the snow littered the ground and my breath spun in swirls into the bitter air. I had just made it past the train tracks and was passing the mini-mart when I rounded the corner and saw his beefy frame leaning against the side of the building. 

Fangs glanced up, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather, mouth and brows pulled together. His exterior had hardened significantly over the last three months; Funny Man Fangs didn’t live here anymore. What was left was merely a shell of the person he used to be. His eyes had grown tired, and he sported heavy dark bags underneath of them. His muscle had packed in bulk, ensuring his shoulders reached their full potential to give him a full, thick frame. 

Stop that. 

“You don’t say hi anymore?” He asked loudly, surprising us both. It had been the first thing he had said to me in almost six weeks — with the exception of the run in at Mel’s. 

I laughed once, shaking my head in slight disappointment, “You used to be the boy who hated snakes,” I replied, turning to look at him over my shoulder, “Looks like that’s changed.” 

I wish he had said something, or stopped me. I wish he had gotten angry, or offended. I wish he had gotten vocal, gotten loud, given me anything that reminded him of what we were supposed to be. 

Instead, he let me walk away in silence.

read part two here

[a-simple-lee]

Artistic Inspiration - An SPN fic

Prompt (anonymous): Can u do a soulmate au destiel, were they both won’t stop bothering each other with tickles?! I know that theres not really a plot, but I love the soulmate au and I thought that you wrote for it before, sorry if you didn’t ( I have a horrible memory) thank u 😘

Author’s Note: Ok so although I do not in fact write for the Soulmate AU, I was so happy to receive this request bc it’s absolutely one of my favourite AU’s ever, and I’d been hoping to write it for a while! I wasn’t sure exactly which Soulmate AU was referred to in this prompt, since there are a bunch of different ones, but I went with the classic one where soulmates are linked through their skin, and whatever is drawn on their skin also appears on their soulmate’s skin, if that makes sense. I think there was a tickle fic I read a while back set in the same AU, I’ll go and find it and link it as soon as I can! 

Wordcount: 3,122

Description: Destiel. Cas probably shouldn’t have told his soulmate he was ticklish. Silly drawing antics ensue.

           It had first started when Dean was in secondary school. His teacher was attempting to somehow excite interest in a bunch of teens who couldn’t possibly care less about trying to find the solutions of simultaneous equations, and Dean was barely awake. Somehow the pen that was supposed to be taking notes had drifted to the inside of his wrist, where it was tracing the beginnings of a small doodle. Dean glanced down at the ink flooding onto his skin and squinted in concentration, joining the last two points. There. A tiny star. Some miniscule whisper in the back of his mind scolded him for drawing on his skin; from a young age it was strongly discouraged that children draw on their arms, lest their soulmate reply - that sort of bond wasn’t meant to be formed until later in life.

           But Dean had had enough. After all, it didn’t exactly feel like he was ruining fate’s plans; there was no sense of foreboding, no guilt burning in his blood. None of this seemed wrong. It just felt like the nib of a pen pressing on his skin.

           …Wait a minute.

He wasn’t drawing.

His breathing stilted for a moment, air seeming to catch in the space between his throat and chest. Eyes turned to the ceiling, he tried to find where the oxygen in the air had gone. There wasn’t any. Against his will, his gaze drifted to where he’d drawn the star.

A single planet orbited it. The ink was blue, written in fountain pen.

Hand fumbling over the maze of his desk, Dean grabbed his biro. His mouth found the end and chewed as his mind raced. What do you say to the person you’re supposed to spend eternity with?

Bored.

He could’ve rolled his eyes at the stupidity of it. But it was all he could think to write.

A wave of cobalt swept over his wrist, forming a letter. Rapt, Dean watched in unbridled curiosity as the reply took shape.

Same.

Dean grinned. Glancing at the teacher to check they were still occupied, his pen returned to his skin.

I’m Dean. You?

Castiel. But Cas is easier.

At the front of the classroom, the teacher’s whiteboard pen stopped squeaking as they turned to the students.

“And…that’s the solution. Everybody got that?”

           Six years later, and Cas was propping his head up over a med textbook. He couldn’t fathom why he’d wanted to choose one of the most tedious majors in existence, yet for some reason he felt himself driven to study. At one am. On a monday night. Technically tuesday morning, Cas reasoned to himself with a note of hysteria. The college library wasn’t completely empty; a few solitary students were hunched over their notes as if they held universal secrets, clearly cramming for tests. Cas winced out of sympathy - his phone buzzed, and his hand reached out to dismiss it in a frustrated swipe. He tugged on his sweater sleeves and rubbed his eyes, too exhausted to try to memorize any more diagrams of the human Endocrine system. Picking up his pen with a huff, he attempted to make some more notes.

           Yet when he found his hand drifted to his skin instead, Castiel didn’t mind. His eyes widened when he saw he’d already been left a message.

You awake?

He quickly scribbled out a response.

Sorry. I didn’t notice the writing. I am awake. Why are you?

I dunno. Couldn’t sleep, or something.

Dean, you make no sense.

Right back at ya. Why are YOU awake?

           A small huff of a laugh juddered out of Cas as he shook his head. A girl at the desk working over her calculator gave him an odd look.

Revision.

Need some help?

No. Too tired.

Why don’t we play a game, then? Keep you awake.

Dean, I don’t-

           His message was cut short when Dean scribbled over the ‘don’t’ he was writing.

Just say yes, I’m trying to help here.

Fine.

Ok. I’m gonna draw on you and you gotta write the scientific name of the body part on your wrist.

Dean, that sounds like it could-

No. I’m just trying to keep you awake, is all. Chill.

Ok.

           Cas planted his head firmly on the desk in a gesture of exasperation. There was a slight pause as he waited for something to happen. He flinched when the familiar pressure of Dean’s biro scraped over the inside of his upper arm, tracing a tiny line. Eyes scrunching as the pen suddenly changed course in an erratic jerk, his hand quickly scribbled the name out onto his wrist.

Bicep Brachii.

The writing halted for a moment as Dean seemed to consider Castiel’s answer. A few more seconds passed before his scrawled capitals appeared next to Cas’ cursive.

Sounds right. I just wanna finish the drawing, then I’ll do the next one.

Whatever you say, Da Vinci.

Shut up.

           The seconds between transitioning from Cas’ wrist to his inner arm seemed to carry an air of indignation. The med student felt his arm twitch against his will as the ink made touchdown on his skin again, continuing to make seemingly random lines. He tried to trace their paths in his mind, attempting a sort of mental join-the-dots; but it was becoming increasingly hard to concentrate on forming an image when the doodle seemed to be encroaching further and further up his arm. A slight quirk of his lips tried to pull itself into a reflexive smile as the trailing lines suddenly became quick pokes; Cas felt random ink dots being prodded and squiggled into his arm. He reached for his pen.

Ok, that’s enough. Can we move on?

Why?

It tickles.

You didn’t tell me you were ticklish.

           Castiel regretted the decision immediately - the feeling of a pen trailing up towards his armpit had him clamping his arms to his torso, trying to keep his composure in the middle of a library.

Stop!! I’m in the library!

           Much to his relief, the pen nib ceased its torture.

Alright, you dork.

Shut up.

Only if you go home and get some sleep.

           He rolled his eyes, reluctantly sliding his textbook into his satchel.

Fine. Good night.

Good night.

           A concerning groan sounded from the car as Dean made what felt like the thousandth tightening with his spanner. The impala juddered worryingly, and Dean groaned, wheeling his way out from underneath the car for a lunch break.

Hello, Dean.

           Cas’ writing was a welcome distraction from the frustration of car fixing, Dean decided. He grabbed his pen and began scrawling a response on his way to the kitchen.

Hey, Cas.

Sam was sat at the table, two sandwiches in front of him.

“How’s the break from college goin’, Sam?”

His brother groaned, sliding a sandwich to Dean, who took it and sat down, leaving it untouched for a minute.

“Uneventful. Jess and I have been writing to one another,” he paused, gesturing to his ink-covered arm. “but everybody else is just kind of taking a breather for the weekend.”

“Huh. Well, Baby’s not holding up too well. I’m gonna have to grab a couple new parts for her sometime-”

I didn’t appreciate your torture yesterday.

           Dean spluttered, shaking his head with a grin.

“Cas, you son of a b*tch.”

           Sam had since learned better than to question his brother’s conversations with his soulmate, and went back to eating his lunch.

It wasn’t torture, Cas.

You try being quiet in the library when someone is tickling you.

Nice try, but I ain’t ticklish.

Really?

Nope. Not at-  

A brief scribble under his arm caused him to recoil, words dying on his skin as his pen trailed into a jerky sort of flatline.

“Dude, you ok?” Sam was giving him a questioning look.

“U-uh yeah, Cas is just being a b*tch, is all” He remarked, before slamming his hands down on the table when something scrawled over his side.

“You sure?”

Cas, you’re so weird. Stop. His handwriting was stilted and shaky despite his efforts to remain unaffected by the pen scratching under his ribs.

“Dean, you are such a liar.” The older WInchester had failed to notice six foot four of brother behind him, reading the conversation on his arm. Before Dean could protest, Sam grabbed his arm and wrote a message to his soulmate.

Don’t listen to him. He’s lying about being ticklish.

Thank you, Sam (?)

           Dean snatched his hand back, rubbing at the ink in a vain attempt to erase it. A slight giggle escaped from his lips as Cas moved his focus to his tummy.

Dammit, Cas! Stop!

I need to finish my drawing.

           He sighed in annoyance, eyes pivoting to the ceiling in a plea to the Heavens before glancing back down and lifting his shirt slightly. A small galaxy was dotting its way over his torso, stars and planets floating in the gaps between his freckles. His head lowered to the table in resignation. It was going to be a while before Cas was finished.

           “Dude, where is your beer?” Gabriel’s head emerged from the kitchen doorway, and Cas looked up from his position in front of the TV to give a vague gesture.

“Second shelf, fridge door.” The loading screen of the WiiU didn’t seem to be moving much. It was one of the occasional times where Cas found himself visited by a brother, normally to play outdated video games and chat about college over beer. To call the experience enjoyable was far from the truth; people meant visits, and visits meant cleaning, which meant trying to convince others through the state of your living space that you were, in fact, mentally stable. Not to say that Cas didn’t appreciate Gabriel’s presence, per se; in fact he found the snarky blonde one of his more bearable relatives.

           Cas’s train of thought was interrupted when the familiar scratching of Dean’s handwriting appeared on the back of his hand.

Hey.

Hello, Dean.

“Talking with lover boy again, are we?” The couch cushions sank as Gabriel plonked himself next to Cas, placing a couple bottles of beer on the table. Cas grunted in acknowledgement, too busy reading Dean’s forming words to reply.

You know, Cas, I forgot to get you back for embarrassing me yesterday.

You wouldn’t. My brother’s here.

Great! He’ll probably help me figure out your ticklish spots.

Please don’t.

           The pillow resting under Dean’s chin shifted as he turned behind him to face Charlie, rucked up plaid shirt obscuring his vision as she stood beside his bare back.

“You know it’ll take a while to wash off, right? It’s some expensive ink.”

“Worth it,” He grinned. Charlie shrugged, grabbing her ink pot and a small paintbrush.

“He’s going to hate you for this,” The redhead’s smile was full of mischief as she sat down over the lower part of her friend’s back.

“Oh, I know. I know.” Dean grabbed the pen lying next to his hand to write a quick reply to Cas.

Sorry, no can do. Charlie needs to practise her body painting.

DEAN-

           Cas’ heart rate shot up, and he turned to Gabriel, eyes wide.

“U-uh, Gabriel, I know you just got here-”

“Something the matter, Cassie?”

“N-not really - yes - it’s complicated.”

“What’s he been saying to you?” Eyebrows furrowed, Gabriel seized his wrist, a wicked grin swiftly overtaking his features. Cas ducked his head, heat rushing to his face.

“Oh, I see~” Gabriel purred, eyes alight with mischief.

“No, Gabriel, it’s not what it looks like-” Suddenly he clamped both hands over his mouth, frame jolting in a reflexive twitch.

“Then, pray tell, ticklish baby bro, what is it?” But the person in question was curled up on the couch, streams of giggles flowing from his mouth as his body flailed in an attempt to stop an invisible tickler.

“Shehe’s pahahainting on my bahack! Mahahahake him stop!”

“Now why would I do that? His friend needs to practice!”

           A snort punctuated Cas’ hysterics, and Gabriel paused to laugh at his spectacle of a brother before whipping out a pen and leaving a message for Dean.

“Dammit-” Dean suppressed a grin as Charlie’s paintbrush swirled over the dip in his spine.

“Aww, whassa matter, Dean-o? Ticklish?”

“Shuhut up, this is worth it.”

“If you say so.” He could feel the smugness radiating from Charlie but didn’t have the resolve to snark at her without dissolving into giggles. With a note of hysteria, he wondered how Cas was holding up. Pressure on his right arm made him glance down.

Wow, Dean-o, going in for the kill already?

Dean frowned at the comic sans-esque writing.

Gabriel? How do you mean?

Dude, his back is a major tickle spot. He can’t stand it.

A smirk overtook his features.

Lucky guess, I suppose.

           Cas shrieked as the brushstrokes reached his shoulder blades, back contorting in the hopes of stopping the feeling of the ink being swished and dotted in playful swirls over his skin.

“Yikes, Cassie, you sound a little tense.”

“Gahahabe, no!”

“Lemme help you relax a bit.” With that, the elder sat over Cas’ hips, tippling his fingers over his brother’s sides as an experiment.

“Ahahaha, plehehehease!” Cas shook his head, dark hair beyond messy as he tried to escape the torment.

“Please what? Carry on? Sure.”

Cas had heard about Charlie before, and she’d sounded nice enough. Yet for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to think of her favourably any more, not with the downright sadistic painting technique. Each and every stroke took a detour, dragging out the tickling to its fullest before the brush lifted for only a few seconds before touching down on another area of his back to wreak havoc with a new style of brushwork, switching from broad sweeps to brief flicks and dabs. It was maddening.

“Nahahahaha!” His hysterics quickly became interspersed with more snorts, and Gabriel paused his torture to laugh at Cas.

“Are you kidding? Snorts? This is too adorable.”

“Shuhuhuhut uhuhup, Gahahabriel!”

“Telling me to shut up? In your position, Cassie? You’re gonna pay for that.”

           Gabriel swiftly returned to pinching up and down his brother’s sides, taking delight in the childish giggles that resulted.

“You okay there?” Charlie’s voice was tainted with mirth; she was enjoying herself way too much, Dean thought. He suppressed a flinch, and nodded, jaw tense.

“I-i’m good. How muhuch longer?”

“Almost done.” She replied, a wolfish grin taking shape as she flicked over a dimple at the bottom of Dean’s spine.

“I swear, you’re going down after this, Bradbury.”

“I’d watch your step, Winchester. You’re in no place to be making threats. And it’s Queen Bradbury to you.”

           Dean groaned into the couch cushion. The next few minutes would feel like forever.

“Aahahaha, Gabrihihiel, plehehehehease stahahahahap!”

“Bingo-bango! He speaks! For a moment there I thought you’d turned into a giggle machine, Cassanova!” Gabriel watched with amusement as Cas’ cheeks flushed a darker shade of red at the teasing.

“Ihihih’m nohohot a chihihihild! Plehehehease!”

“Hmmm,” He paused, feigning deliberation as he raised a hand to his chin. “Methinks it’s time for an attitude adjustment, no?”

“GABRIEL NO!” Cas marvelled at the fact the plea managed to make its way out in between laughs.

“More like, Gabriel, yes! Now where was that big bright red tickle button of yours? Yknow, the ones that have ‘do not push’ written on them in capitals?”

“PLEASE DON’T!” The younger Novak kicked his legs against the couch in desperation, dreading the oncoming assault.

“Ah, that’s right!” Gabriel halted, quickly snaking his hands up under Cas’ arms. “There they are!” His fingers wriggled in tandem, a smirk lighting up his features as his brother’s arms immediately clamped to their adjoining torso.

“NAHAHAHAHA!” Cas shut his eyes, the conflicting feelings too much to bear as his nervous system was overloaded with the signals from his heightened nerves. Unmitigated laughter bounced against the walls as he struggled to get free, words escaping his grasp as the tickling became too much. Within seconds, his laughter fell silent, and Cas was reduced to nothing more than a helpless, giggling puddle.

           His sibling quickly withdrew his hands, watching as Cas slowly regained some coherency. Eventually, the hysterics subsided into a more controlled flow of giggles, and Castiel curled up into a fetal position, riding out the remainder of the tickle attack by himself.

           At long last, Charlie’s work appeared to have come to a halt. Cas lay breathing heavily for a few seconds to regain precious oxygen before cautiously reaching for his pen, ignoring Gabriel’s snide remark about his ‘ridiculous ticklishness’.

I hate you.

No you don’t, Cas.

           Dean smiled at the ire seeping from Cas’ message before sitting up and turning to Charlie, careful not to let any wet ink on his skin touch the back of the couch.

“You think he’ll like it?” He huffed. Charlie nodded from beside him.

“It might get you out of any potential repercussions. Maybe.”

“I’ll take maybe over going through that again,” Dean grinned, elbowing Charlie when she reached up to ruffle his hair. His pen drifted to his wrist to elaborate.

No you don’t, Cas. Look in the mirror.

           The door to his bathroom swung open, and Cas stepped onto the tiled floor hesitantly, smooth stone feeling cold against his bare feet. Gabriel followed, and the pair stood in front of the mirror above the sink.

“Well, are you gonna see what it is?” He pushed, nudging Castiel in the shoulder. The latter rolled his eyes, and pulled off his ACDC shirt with a huff that was promptly cut off when the ink was revealed. Cas turned in front of the mirror, trying to get a better view of his own back.

“Wow, little bro. That’s a nice tattoo you got there.”

“I suppose Charlie’s practice may have payed off,” Cas admitted begrudgingly, staring awestruck at the masterpiece that had been traced onto his skin. A pair of black-tinged wings rested unfurled on his back, feathers branching out over his back and crossing onto the backs of his arms in places. He stretched, watching as the drawing shifted with his movements - the wings seemed have their own mind, branching out in synchronisation with his body. Cas fumbled for his pen.

…Thank you. I…suppose this warrants a truce?

           “Dean Winchester, you are a class A Dork.” Charlie muttered, unable to fight back a grin as she watched their conversation on his skin. They were stood in front of the mirror in the corner, admiring her artistry and waiting for the ink to dry.

“Shut up, nerd.” He teased, wings opening as he reached for his pen.

Sure, Cas. Truce.

[emeraldwaves]

Title:  Angels in the Snow Chapter 3 Pairing:  Promptis, side Gladnis, minor Ignoct Rating: E (eventually) Word Count:  5,658 Read on Ao3 Summary: On a snowy morning, the wolf Prince Noctis discovers an intruder, a fox boy from Niflheim, playing in the snow. Though they quickly become best friends, everyone knows Prompto Argentum does not belong in the Lucis palace, and Noctis can only protect him for so long, especially when Prompto isn’t exactly what he seems.

Full fic under the cut!

"Iggy, it's been hours since you left the library," Gladio sighed, leaning against the door. "What the hell are ya' doin'?"

Pushing his glasses up, Ignis sighed, turning around to stare at the older Alpha. "Gladio," he muttered. "Come inside and shut the door."

Gladio raised his eyebrow, staring at the other for a moment. Ignis had his quirks, yes, but the strange way he turned around, looking for others to possibly pop out from behind Gladio was odd. He stepped further inside, shutting the door behind him.

"What the hell is wrong with ya'?" Gladio asked, folding his arms.

Ignis slammed the book shut, standing up. He pulled up his gloves, waggling his fingers around as he adjusted them under his silver wristlets. "King Regis informed me I wasn't to tell anyone about this, but since you've worked closely with Prompto, and you are an unmated Alpha, I believe you should know about this."

"Hah?" Gladio asked, his ear twitching slightly. "What about the kid?"

"He presented," Ignis began, but Gladio cut him off with a hearty laugh.

"Before our Prince?" he snorted. "Noct must be thrilled!" Ignis cleared his throat, and Gladio immediately stopped his laughter. "Right, continue, please," he said, gesturing with his hand.

"He presented twice," Ignis said finally, but didn't continue speaking, expecting the reaction which slipped from Gladio's mouth.

"The hell?!" he growled, his tail swishing in frustration. The tall Alpha huffed out a large breath of air, blinking as he processed the information. "Is that even possible?"

"Apparently..." Ignis replied. "I am certain this will not surprise you, but it originated with Niflheim."

"'Course," Gladio scoffed.

"It has to do with genetic manipulation," Ignis explained. "There was a project which tried to make people capable of shifting which class they were. So it was meant to allow people to assume the class of Alpha, Beta and Omega, changing what class they were at will. However, the project failed. They were only able to manipulate people into presenting twice instead of three times. Additionally, it only seemed to work with Betas. For instance, they could get Betas to present as a Beta and either an Omega or Alpha, but if someone were to present as an Alpha they couldn't also be an Omega."

"Those damn Niffs," Gladio muttered, gritting his teeth. "What the hell is the point of that?!"

Ignis placed his finger on his chin. "The motive is unclear." He sighed, "It seems Prompto's heats will be quite intense, though up until he hits his heat, the Beta markings will hide his scent completely. However, the moment he's in heat, he will smell dangerously irresistible to people like you," Ignis said. "Which is why I thought you should know, since you will be spending a great deal of time training him. Noctis tells me Prompto has been training in secret with you?"

"Mmm," Gladio muttered. "He was, yeah."

"Was?" Ignis asked, tilting his head.

"If he's an Omega...one that has intense heats, it will make his training even more difficult. I dunno if he can handle it. That fox has surprised me before, so I don't wanna say I'm givin' up on him, but..." Gladio muttered, trailing off.

"I see..." Ignis hummed. "I think he would be quite disappointed if you gave up on him now. He seems rather determined to be by Noctis' side," he paused, "Which is also something worrisome, in regards to his class."

"Because of the heats?" Gladio asked.

Ignis nodded sagely. "I'm concerned Noctis will be unable to control himself around Prompto when he is in heat, once Noctis assumes his Alpha status that is."

"He might be fine," Gladio said, though the words felt forced. The two were practically inseparable, only splitting up when Noctis had to deal with his princely duties, and Prompto felt the need to train.

"Mmm," Ignis hummed, knowing that probably wouldn't be the case. "The most bizarre part is...the project shouldn't exist anymore. Years ago, before King Regis' time even, the World Council found out about the project and asked Niflheim to stop. On record, the project appears to be dead, however, Prompto would suggest otherwise."

"So they continued in secret," Gladio said, stating the very obvious truth.

"Indeed," Ignis hummed. The more he'd researched about 'Perfect Omegas', the more concerned he grew with Prompto's situation, and the longer he spent looking for a way to possibly change Prompto's class. "I thought perhaps there would be a way to rid his body of one of the classes, but it seems all manipulations happen before presenting takes place. Once a person has presented, their class is permanent. No one has ever been able to change that," Ignis muttered.

"So he's going to be both an Omega and a Beta for his whole life?" Gladio said, more a statement than a question.

"It would seem so. I do worry about how this will affect their friendship, they're both so attached, and Noctis would be devastated if something happened and-"

"Iggy," Gladio said, stepping forward. He placed a gentle hand on Ignis' shoulder, squeezing it tight. "It's gonna be okay. I know it's basically your job to worry about the Prince, but he and Prompto are going to be okay. They'll figure it out. We're all going to figure this out."

Ignis let out a long sigh, his breath trailing off as he raised his gaze towards Gladio's. "You're right. For now, I need to inform the King of my findings."

"'Course. I'll go with ya'," Gladio said, opening the door.

"Thank you Gladio," Ignis said, bowing his head slightly. "I can always count on you to calm me," he chuckled. "And...admittedly it was nice to speak of all my findings out loud before speaking to the King.

"Anytime, Iggy," he smirked, taking a step back as they headed out of the room. "You know, sometimes I wish you were an Omega."

"I beg your pardon?" Ignis said, freezing in place.

"I dunno, it'd be...cute to see you all affected by scents and what not," he chuckled. "Don't look so offended."

A gentle pink color painted Ignis' cheeks, and he clutched his notebook tightly to his chest. "Gladiolus," he said, his gaze staring towards the ground. "I...am a Scientia, to be an Omega would be unheard of. As the first male born to the Amicitias, you would be offended if I suggested you be anything but an Alpha."

Gladio snorted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I was just teasin' ya'. You don't gotta be so serious," he chuckled, his ears twitching down against his head. Admittedly, some of his thoughts about Ignis weren't the most pure, but after Ignis' reaction to his Omega comment, Gladio assumed it was better to keep any feelings he had to himself. He would never be able to officially mate with Ignis, even if he could mark him. And knowing Ignis, he'd not do anything of the sort, not when he had the Prince to worry about.

The prince's Beta was meant to be there for all the prince's needs, and since Prompto was an Omega, Ignis would be the Beta to watch after Noctis in any way he needed. Meaning he would not be allowed to officially mate until Noctis took his own mate. Actually, Noctis would probably be spending more time with Ignis than he realized.

Gladio doubted Ignis minded, not when he'd been trained and prepared for this his entire life. Still, Gladio wanted Ignis to experience other parts of life, relationships, etc. He was 16, and yet he acted as though he was an old man well into his 60s. Ignis needed to loosen up, have fun. Really when it came down to it, Gladio wouldn't have minded sharing with the Prince. Not in this case.

"A-Anyway, teasing aside," Ignis said, clearing his throat, as though he had read Gladio's mind. "I need to head to the throne room. King Regis will surely be awaiting this information, I know he wanted it as soon as possible."

Ignis' footsteps echoed in the hallway as he carried his notebook towards the throne room, his tail swishing gently back and forth with each step he took. Gladio followed closely behind, his boots making a heavier sound than Ignis. Ignis had spent the majority of his week looking for and gathering information on Prompto's...condition, and he was very determined to share the information he'd learned with the King.

"Did you sleep at all?" Gladio asked, breaking the awkward silence which floated between them.

"Ah just a bit here and there," Ignis said.

Clicking his tongue, Gladio rolled his eyes. "Look, I know you have a very strong sense of obligation, but it's important you get rest yourself, idiot." He gently hit his hand against Ignis' back. "You won't be much help to the King and Prince if you're sleep deprived."

"Noted," Ignis muttered stopping outside the throne room door.

It didn't take long for Ignis to explain everything he had learned to King Regis. He stood in front of the man, Gladio behind him, as he read from the notes he'd taken in his notebook, repeating much of the information he had already shared with Gladio.

"Hmm..." Regis said. "It is as I suspected. Niflheim most likely never stopped their program. Maybe they simply moved it to a different location. Furthermore, it's been ages since the program was issued a cease and desist, and yet all this time they've still been conducting experiments? We don't know what progress they've made and what changes have occurred. We don't know what this means for Prompto."

"You are correct, Your Majesty," Ignis began. "However, Prompto only presented as two, so their initial goal to create someone capable of all three classes seems to still be out of reach."

"As far as we know, yes," Regis said. "But we don't know if that is still their goal..." The King rubbed his forehead, his eyes glancing down at Ignis. "I need a more watchful eye kept on Prompto and my son. I mostly need someone watching over Prompto. Gladiolus, since you are here and aware of the situation, I would ask you to keep an eye on them, along with Ignis." King Regis bowed his head to both of the teens. "I do not wish to split the two boys up, but if it comes to that...my son's safety and the safety of our Kingdom does come first."

"I understand," Ignis said softly, bowing his head.

"I trust you both to watch over them. I hope I am worrying over nothing," Regis sighed.

"It is a very strange circumstance," Ignis mused. "Though I do hope drastic measures won't need to be taken. We will watch out for both of them."

"I am praying for the same. I do thank you for your hard work, Ignis. I leave my son's safety in your hands."

Both of the teens bowed to the King. "Of course, Your Majesty," Ignis said, praying the worst would not happen.

~~

When Noctis finally presented, it wasn't nearly as thrilling as Prompto. Sure, it had hurt, his wrists felt itchy and pained, and he'd watched as the black fiery lines of the Alpha markings curled around his wrists. His fingers trembled from the pain, and he collapsed to his knees, his legs slamming against the floor.

"Noct!" Prompto said, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he stood back up. "You presented!" he cheered.

Blinking, Noctis turned his wrists around, his ears folding downwards. "I guess I did."

"Lemme see!" Prompto said, leaning over the Prince's shoulder to glance at the markings. "Alpha. Just like you thought!"

"No surprise," Noctis mumbled, and he slowly turned around, feeling Prompto slide off of his back slowly. His fox ears fell to his head, his tail swishing against the ground. "Ah...Prom...I didn't mean I wanted...a surprise..."

"No, no!" he said, his fingers running over his bronze wristlet. His ears perked up quickly, and he shook his head. "I know what you meant. But Noct, do you...not wanna be an Alpha?"

The dark-haired boy shrugged. "I always knew I'd be this and nothing else. So it doesn't really matter," he said.

"Gotcha," Prompto said quietly. It was strange, Noctis had presented, quickly, and without any drama. He'd always known what he was going to be, and though Prompto didn't like the fact that he was apparently both a Beta and an Omega, he wasn't sure he'd like knowing what he was meant to be from the get go. Something about planning his entire life, knowing his fate all along, made him feel uneasy. Based on Noctis' flat expression, Prompto was certain his best friend felt the same.

"Guess I better tell Ignis, and my Dad," he said, slowly rising. Prompto clung to his arm, holding him up as Noctis stumbled, falling into the other. "Man, you really don't smell like an Omega," Noctis said, pressing his nose against Prompto's shoulder. He felt his tail stand on end; it was true, he didn't smell like an Omega, but the moment Noctis said that, Prompto was hit by the intense Alpha scent of Noctis. His pupils dilated, and he took a step back.

"C-C'mon Noct, you don't even know what an Omega smells like! You just presented," he teased. Though he knew Noctis probably would've been able to smell his scent right away, as he had been hit with Noctis' new Alpha scent immediately.

Noctis' brow furrowed, his knees finally steadying as he stood up straight, his tail moving back and forth. "Are you okay, Prompto?" His best friend wasn't exactly subtle when it came to his reactions and facial expressions, the blond was incredibly easy to read.

Prompto swallowed, his ears folding down as he glanced away. "S-Sorry Noct," he said, wringing his hands together. Noctis noticed Prompto's hands slide up to his bronze wristlets, a nervous tick he'd developed over the past month. It seemed he didn't enjoy wearing them, or perhaps he was more uncomfortable with the color? Noctis hadn't asked, and if Prompto wasn't offering the information up on his own, it usually meant he didn't want to talk about it, especially since the blond was usually such an open book.

"Why are you apologizing?" Noctis asked, tilting his head.

"It's just...I wasn't expecting your scent...and it threw me off a little bit," he said finally.

"My...scent?" Noctis whispered, his nose twitching as he sniffed at the air.

Prompto let out a loud laugh. "You can't smell yourself Noct!" he chuckled. "Don't worry," he said, wiping his eye. "You don't smell bad..."

"So do I smell good then?" he smirked, leaned forwards towards Prompto.

The fox's ears turned upwards, his blue eyes widening as he stared down at Noctis' smug looking grin. "W-Well," he cleared his throat, "u-uh...yeah!" The second the words left his mouth, Prompto's face turned bright red, and a shiver ran down his spine. "Actually," he said, turning his blue eyes towards the ceiling, his teeth pulling on his lower lip. "Uhm...you smell really good?" he said finally.

"Good," Noctis hummed, stepping back. "Well, better than bad I guess," he snorted.

"No!" Prompto said quickly, waving his hands in front of him. "You definitely don't smell bad!" he urged, but Noctis couldn't help but laugh.

"Prom, calm down, it was just a joke," he said, folding his arms in front of him as his tail moved slowly.

Prompto sighed, his body deflating with his movement. "Jeeze Noct! Sometimes when you do your deadpan thing it's hard to tell!" he admitted, following after him as Noctis began to walk down the hall.

"Sorry," Noctis shrugged, "I figured as the Royal Best Friend, you could figure it out by now."

"H-Hey!" Prompto said, hurrying to catch up. "I usually can! I was just...flustered!"

Noctis let out a small laugh, sniffing the air. It was so bizarre that Prompto had absolutely no scent. He knew that was the case with Betas but Prompto was both, and yet there was absolutely nothing that told Noctis Prompto was any part Omega.

"You really don't smell like an Omega at all," Noctis muttered, glancing to his side.

Prompto's gaze was fixated on his bronze wristlets. The King had told him to wear the bronze Omega bands since eventually he would hit heats, but it seemed so useless. Perhaps because his first heat hadn't exactly hit yet, but everyone who knew about his...peculiar situation had currently noted Prompto had absolutely no scent whatsoever.

"Which...isn't a big deal or anything," Noctis mumbled quickly.

"Yeah, it's probably for the best right?" Prompto chuckled, his voice hushed and quiet.

Noctis clenched his hands, looking at the marks moving with the muscles of his hands. Prompto didn't deserve to feel like this, so out of place and awkward. Turning towards him abruptly, he grabbed his hands, pushing up the cuffs to reveal the strange double markings.

"Noct! W-What are you-"

"Prom...you gotta know these don't matter. I don't care what you are, or what you smell like, okay?" Noctis said, wrapping his fingers around Prompto's bare wrists. A smile pulled across Noctis' lips. "You're still my Royal Best Friend," he grinned. "And future mate," he added quickly, his words mumbling together.

A wide smile appeared on Prompto's face as he nodded to Noctis. "Okay, okay, I'll try and remember that," he giggled, his tail wagging happily.

"Yeah," Noctis said, pulling the bronze bands back down, over his marks. "These don't define who you are or anything, okay?"

"Right," Prompto laughed again, the two boys squeezing each other's hands tightly.

"Boys," Ignis' voice cut through their laughter, and he approached the two, a gentle smile on his face. "Glad to see you two are having an enjoyable morning," he chuckled.

"Iggy!" Prompto cheered, stepping back as he held up one of Noctis' wrists. "Noctis presented!"

"H-Hey!" Noctis said, trying to break free from Prompto's grasp, his cheeks heating up.

"What?" Prompto retorted, letting Noctis' hand drop to his side. "You were gonna show him anyway!"

"Well, yeah!" Noctis said, his ears folding down against his head as his fingers covered up one of his wrists. It was a futile effort, there was no way Ignis hadn't seen.

"Noctis! When did you present?" Ignis asked, stepping forward to take Noctis' hand into his own, looking at the markings on his wrist. "Alpha, just as expected," he smiled. "You must be quite proud!"

Noctis turned his eyes towards the floor, his ears flattening yet again. "Yeah, proud," he mumbled.

"It happened just now!" Prompto smiled, looking excited for his best friend, though he knew Noctis was less than excited. He'd have to deal with his father, and his Presenting Ceremony too. It was a large mess Prompto knew Noctis was not interested in dealing with.

"Splendid!" Ignis said. "Come along, we must speak with your father immediately."

As they walked through the hall, Ignis continued to talk about preparations for the Presenting Ceremony, and what exactly Noctis should expect. Anyone who had not presented wasn’t allowed to attend Presenting Ceremonies, and thus Noctis had never attended one. Apparently, there were some wolves who had been prepping for Noctis' for quite some time now, even before he'd hit the appropriate presenting age. Being a prince was an odd thing it seemed, or so Prompto had come to realize over his time being in the palace.

Opening the door to the throne room, Ignis stepped inside first. "Your son has some news for you, Your Majesty," he bowed, Noctis walking inside. (Prompto proceeded to bow as well, but it took him a moment to remember, and he lowered himself in a rather flustered manner, his tail swinging about awkwardly.)

Holding his wrist up, he glanced away from his father. "I presented."

King Regis stood up, making his way towards his son. He bent down to look at his wrist. "It seems you did," he smiled. "An Alpha, just as we thought. Ignis will bring your gold wristlets to your room, and we will begin the preparations for your Ceremony."

Noctis' lips grew thin as he pressed them together tightly. His small fist clenched at his side and Prompto could tell Noctis wasn't prepared for the whirlwind of events which awaited him.

~~

Gladio's arms were folded as he stared down at the smaller boy. His ears were flat against his head, his tail dropping, and his large blue eyes would occasionally glance up towards the Alpha wolf, terrified to hear what Gladio had to say exactly.

"Kid, you know why I called you here," Gladio began, and Prompto shrugged his shoulders. Gladio had caught on to the fact that Prompto was avoiding him. He'd seen the fox practicing on the course a few times, but it always seemed to be at times when Gladio had other trainees to deal with, or things he was working on for the King.

Gladio's golden eyes flicked towards the bronze wristlets, and he shut his eyes sighing. Prompto was possibly one of the most transparent creatures he'd ever met. Were all foxes from Niflheim like this?

"We gotta start your Omega training. You wanna be a part of the guard for Noctis' Presenting Ceremony, right?" Gladio asked, watching as Prompto's face slowly lit up, his tail began to wag and he raised his fists with determination.

"Of course!" he said, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

"Good," Gladio hummed, a smirk twisting onto his lips. "So no more avoidin' me," Gladio scolded, and the blond immediately blushed.

"So...you noticed?" he squeaked.

"'Course. You train harder than anyone, you think I really wouldn't notice you were gone?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Prompto giggled shyly. "Well, I dunno. A lot of people here ignore me, or try to at least."

Gladio sighed, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. "Not everyone." Clearing his throat, Gladio pulled back his hand, and pulled down on his jacket. "Anyway, Iggy already told me all about your...special situation."

With that, Prompto took a step back, immediately hiding his hands behind his back. "He...did?"

Gladio nodded. "You don't gotta be worried. Actually, this works to your advantage," he began.

"Really?"

Another nod. "Mmm," he grunted, sniffing at the air. What Ignis had said had been true it seemed, Prompto didn't have much of a scent, just as Ignis, a true Beta, had absolutely no scent either. "You don't smell like anything."

"Yeah, that's what Noct said," he mumbled.

"But apparently, you smell really damn strong when you're in heat. Which remains to be seen of course," Gladio continued. "We're not going to know for sure until you actually experience a heat and we can see how your body reacts." Gladio's large tail swished about pensively. "At the very least, you can monitor when your heats are and hideaway during that time. Hopefully you won't have to worry about having a heat just yet, and you don't smell anything like an Omega now, so there's no risk," he explained, letting out a long breath once he was done.

"True!" Prompto gasped. Bringing his hands back around, he stared at the bronze cuffs, for once not feeling any sort of hatred towards them. He was still an outsider, strange, but at least it had finally worked in his favor.

"Alright, now that we've settled that," Gladio said, stretching forward with his arms, rotating his neck around. "I can let you know how this is all gonna work."

"Okay!" Prompto replied eagerly, his tail wagging back and forth as he hopped up and down excitedly.

"You're not old enough to actually be a part of the guard. Ya' gotta be 16 to do that, but we can say you're a junior member in training," Gladio smirked. "I know you wanna be there for your best friend's Presenting Ceremony."

"Yeah, of course!" Prompto said, still looking excited.

"We line up first. Since I'm the leader of the Guard, I'll be at the front of the line and you'll be at the back, since you're the youngest. Noctis will come out, his father will give a speech and present him with his wristlets, and Noctis will walk down a long aisle and once he walks by you, you shift to your fox form. It’s just for show really, Noctis will be wearing the wristlets ahead of time, but everyone likes to make a big deal out of it," Gladio rambled. "So, think ya’ got it?"

Gladio's explanation was brief and a little bit stilted, but Prompto nodded his head slowly, trying to take it all in. "Got it" he said slowly.

"Do ya' really?" Gladio asked, raising his eyebrow. "I don't wanna go into too much detail or it'll ruin the whole thing for you. Just follow along and you'll be fine," he shrugged.

And though Prompto was a bit lost, he did want to see it for himself, experience everything about Noctis' Ceremony.

~~

With a large breath, Noctis attempted to adjust the long black robe Ignis had draped over his shoulders. The robes around his waist were tied tightly, and chains and ribbons of various colors draped over his arms and curled around his legs. The sleeves were only half length, leaving his wrists completely bare for the world to see, his fiery black markings standing out against his pale skin.

Ignis smoothed out Noctis' shoulders, adjusting the robe so it sat perfectly straight, draped over his chest. Noctis let out a grunt, his tail flicking back and forth. "Ignis, it looks fine."

"Noct, this Ceremony is important, you can't simply go out there looking a mess. You are the Crown Prince of Lucis, and while, yes, everyone has Presenting Ceremonies, this is the Ceremony everyone has been looking forward to.

Noctis rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I get it."

Letting out a gentle sigh of air, Ignis smoothed out his own robes, tucking his long tunic into his waistband. "Alright. I'd say we are ready." Offering Noctis his arm, the Prince took it, walking slowly as Ignis led him out to the main courtyard.

As expected, Noctis' face paled upon seeing the crowd. It looked as though the whole kingdom was there to watch his ceremony. Cheers were heard once Noctis came into view, and a shiver ran down his spine, his bare wrists freezing in the winter cold. Thankfully the snow had held off for today, though the wind hadn't been as forgiving.

Making his way to the main pedestal, Ignis left his side, and Noctis stood, the wind gently blowing the ribbons from his headband and belt around. He had never been so thankful that he did not have to speak. Someday he would have to find a way to speak to these people, find a way to get them to trust he could be just as good of a leader as his father. It seemed impossible.

His throat felt dry, and the longer he kept his wrists bare, the colder her grew. He glanced to his side, noticing Gladio and the rest of the guards lining the side of the small staircase which led down to the balcony where he and his father would shift. Right by the balcony, he caught eyes with Prompto who winked, smiling at him. The edges of his mouth turned upwards, even from this distance Noctis could see Prompto's blue eyes twinkling, if he could've waved in that moment, he would've. He felt warmer, seeing Prompto standing so near. He was safe, protected.

King Regis' entrance was far more grand than Noctis'. His own personal Glaive followed him out in wolf form, protecting the King from any potential danger. He waved, pausing his minor procession to allow the crowd to cheer more, and far louder than they had for the Prince.

"Welcome all!" he called out, his voice booming and loud. Noctis was certain he couldn't talk that loud even if he tried. "I am proud to be here to honor my son, Noctis, now that he has finally presented!" Regis continued.

He walked towards Noctis, placing a hand on his head, as he stood on the pedestal. "Many of us have waited for this day, and just like the Kings who have come before him, Noctis has presented as an Alpha." With that, Noctis raised his wrists, showing the fiery markings which encircled his small limbs. It was a silly gesture, as really only the people in the direct vicinity could see, but he was told to do it anyway.

"Today, I am proud to adorn his wrists with these golden cuffs," Regis explained. "They have his initials carved into the side, as well as sun carvings, in hopes that you will be a ruler who carries the light of our kingdom with you always," Regis finished.

Slowly, Regis hooked the cuffs around Noctis' wrists, while he still held them in the air. "Noctis Lucis Caelum is now officially an Alpha!"

The crowd erupted, loud cheers could be heard and Noctis kept his wrists high in the air for everyone to see. The golden pattern glistened against the white winter sky, and Noctis felt a chill again.

"Come, my son," Regis said, gesturing for Noctis to walk first. As he descended down the stairs, his father followed, each of the guards shifting down into their wolf form once the Prince and King had passed. Noctis glanced to the side, his eyes catching Prompto just in time to see his body shake and twist down into its small fox form. Noctis couldn't help but chuckle, Prompto looked so small compared to the large dark wolves he was surrounded by.

"On the next hunt, Noctis will be allowed to join us. We will look forward to a prosperous hunt during the next full moon!" With his final statement, King Regis shifted down into his large, black wolf form, and Noctis followed to do the same, his body twisting down. His father nodded his head, and Noctis tilted his head back, letting out a long drawn out howl. After him, all the other wolves joined in for a choir of howls. Noctis was officially an adult now, which meant he had to start taking his responsibilities more seriously, and as he looked out into the massive crowd of wolves, he had absolutely no idea how he was going to ever rule them.

~~

Noctis was beautiful. It was a fact many seemed to know and recognize, but no one spoke about, but boy, oh boy, did Prompto wish he could speak about it. He would've talked for hours about how perfect Noctis' hair had looked during the Ceremony, how even with the wind, it had swept across his forehead just right, the ribbons curling down to his shoulders. He would've talked about the elegant way he walked, though knowing Noctis he was probably just walking slow because his clothes were so damn heavy.

But most of all, Prompto would've talked about how beautiful Noctis' deep blue eyes were. Even from the short distance between the two, Prompto could see how incredibly sharp and tense Noctis' eyes were. Their gazes met, and Prompto winked, smiling as wide he could. Anything to try and calm Noctis down.

Prompto knew he should've been listening to everything King Regis was saying, but he couldn't focus on his words when he was too busy focusing on his Prince. Hell, he didn't even notice how cold it was he was so lost in his own thoughts and observations of his best friend. Noctis' wrists were thin and pale, the black markings sticking out like a sore thumb until his father covered them with the absolutely gorgeous golden wristlets, custom made for Noctis. Perfect, for a prince.

It still made no sense to the fox boy, why Noctis chose to spend practically all his free time with him, but Prompto was selfish and chose not to ask, too scared that asking would make Noctis realize his mistake, and leave Prompto behind.

He watched each step Noctis took, and he could see the fear in his eyes, and Prompto couldn't blame him, standing in front of such a large crowd of people with such high expectations. This wasn't so bad, but Prompto could only imagine Noctis' mind was focusing on all the other things he'd have to do in the future; giving speeches, leading large pack hunts...there were plenty of things Noctis would have to do as the future King of Lucis.

The two walked by finally, and Prompto shifted down, glancing around at all the far larger creatures surrounding him. It was one of the first times he'd been completely engulfed by other wolves and he felt his heart begin to race. They were so much larger than him, and he stuck out like a sore thumb. He crouched to the ground, his instincts kicking in, but he glanced forward, watching as Noctis shifted down to his own animal form.

The two large black wolves stood on the balcony, looking out onto the crowd. Noctis wasn't anywhere as close to as large as his father, but he stood majestically next to him, poised, ready to start howling. As he tilted his head back, the sound rang out, echoing across the open area. A shiver ran through Prompto's fur, but it wasn't because he was freezing, oh no, Noctis always made Prompto's stomach flip flop and his spine tingle.

The other wolves began to join in, and Prompto tilted his head back, opening his small mouth. And though his howl sounded nothing like a wolf, Prompto still cried out, wanting to give Noctis every last ounce of his support.

[sevenclowds]

Frank Weekend

My account of going to see Frank Iero and the Patience play at the Baltimore Soundstage in Maryland, Sat Apr 22 2017.

My companions for the weekend are my 19 yr old and my friend's 16 yr old daughter. Both their names begin with C and will henceforth be known collectively as C&C. My teen was forced to listen introduced to MCR from the age of 7 and obviously has great musical taste. My friend's teen is a huge fan of the Emo Trinity, but is not familiar with Frank's non-MCR work. "Is Frank the drummer for MCR?" she asks innocently. Oh dear. We gotta lotta educating to do this weekend. Someone needs to save this poor child.

[Very long post. You probably want to put the kettle on for this.]

We leave North Carolina at 8am and make our first stop at 10am at a Starbucks. It is here that I purchase a fateful cup of coffee that will keep me buzzed for the next 19 hrs. Just how strong is Starbucks Pike Place Roast? And what on earth possessed me, a caffeine lightweight, to get a grande instead of a tall? It'll help me keep awake while driving, I thought. Someone punch me.

I treat C&C to my music on the drive. My iTunes music library appears to be like my blog: 95% MCR with the occasional snippet of something random. We make sure to play plenty of Frank, for educational purposes. C&C are huge Hamilton nerds and we listen to the soundtrack as we near DC. As we pass the capital city, I point out that Washington is now literally on our side. Groan. #momjokes

We arrive at our hotel in Baltimore around 4pm, then go out around 5pm. We walk past The Soundstage and there are lots of people lined up waiting to get in. I'm so happy to see several Frank fans wearing the same Death Spells hoodie as me and as we walk past I feel really fucking cool! These are my people! My tribe! They will see my DS merch and know that I am one of them! Whereas last week, walking round Harris Teeter, I felt vaguely conspicuous in my black hoodie with the scorpion on the back, but now, I fit in. I am home. If I didn't have C&C with me I would be lining up there with them. But I have to feed my teens and not leave them to stand outside in the rain, so I sigh, and head toward Shake Shack for some food that we'll loosely call "dinner", like a grown up.

After eating some fries, we head to a spiffy steampunky Barnes & Noble where C&C, both devoted book nerds, are in heaven and bond further over their love of fiction. I'm itching to get to the venue but it's still raining and cold and they're having so much fun that we don't head over there until about 7.30pm.

VIP Ticket Fiasco Two months previously, when buying the tickets online, I wasn't quite fast enough to get the VIP tickets and I sat at my computer spitting curses and venom at those who managed to buy them in 0.2 milliseconds flat. The VIP experience included a private acoustic session before the show, a copy of Parachutes, and a seat in the posh table-and-chairs bit near the side of the stage. But alas, it wasn't to be so I made do with the regular tickets.

So, as we enter the venue, we're informed that we can upgrade to the posh section for an extra $10 each. C&C look thrilled at this idea, and my kid has issues with being in crowds and had been intending to stand quietly near the back, so this is a fantastic opportunity to get a great view without the crush. I relent and upgrade, even though I'm crying inside because I know we've missed out on the private session earlier and I just want to die. Fuck me, I get to sit at a table like somebody's mom. Kill me now. My plan is to stay with C&C for a couple of songs and then venture out into the crowd, but that damn parental mode kicks in and I feel guilty about leaving them so I stay. But actually, the view is really great, even though the atmosphere in the VIP area is nonexistent.

Dave Hause and the Mermaid open the show with some so-so rock stuff. Perfectly fine and competent band to fill the time, although nothing too exciting until the last song, dedicated to Trump, and called Dirty Fucker, causes the crowd to go wild.

Then Frank Iero and his Beardy Wondergroup come out, launch into World Destroyer, and time ceases to exist. It's the first time I've seen Frank since 2007 when he wore his Black Parade jacket (sniff) so I'm very emotional and I'm grinning the whole time. I realize I don't know as many lyrics as I'd like to, on account of Frank lyrics being hard to learn without serious study, which I haven't had time for. I do my best and probably sing a pile of nonsense for the most part. He tells us that today is the first time he's showered in 5 days. Why so gross? He tells us a story about how bad the crime is in Baltimore, which makes everyone nervous about getting home tonight.

I take some great photos

And some not so great photos

After the show, we head to the pizza place next to the venue to kill time until the band hopefully come out. We huddle in the corner by the door and eat pizza. I can't really taste it. Maybe it's because it's gluten free and vegan, maybe it's because I'm really not quite in my body. I realize I'm shaking and figure it's still The Coffee I had earlier plus added adrenaline and fatigue.

I message Kyle @casesandcapitals to come meet us in the pizza place because I know he's here somewhere and we've never met before. Next thing I know, Jen @jen--ne--sais--quoi and Kyle are walking in and I realize three fundamental truths at the exact same time: 

1. Jen has intimidating make-up skills 

2. Kyle IS recognizable without the 5ft tall metal flamingo

3. These people are way too cool for me

I am a little excitable and extra when meeting them and their friends Abbi @grewuponyourbackporch and Cole, but mainly because Jen's jacket is all kinds of awesome.

My new friends eat pizza and go outside to wait again but it's too cold for us so we stay in the restaurant. I feel really sick, I'm still shaking and I feel like crap. In my fevered state I manage to post the same pic to Facebook twice and cannot for the life of me get anyone's name right in the above photo that I post to tumblr. My brain has gone. I'm a mess. I'm not really in my body and I wonder if they'll put "death by frank" as my cause of death.

We go to join everyone outside at about 1.30am because those band members aren't going to meet themselves and we don't want to miss it. It's fucking freezing! You can tell the direction that everyone has traveled to the show by how many blankets they're shivering under. Southerners are suffering and northerners don't give a shit because they're tough as nails. My kid discovers their Hamilton hoodie isn't at all warm but I'm not going to give them my hoodie because I need to meet Frank in my Death Spells hoodie because I'm shallow and a really bad parent. I actually choose to let a child freeze because I want Frank to know I'm a fan and not just someone's mom. Priorities, people!

Evan and Alex keep appearing and disappearing again. They mill around and meet folks, clearly enjoying themselves or at least faking it really well. Me and C&C go stand in the parking garage entrance for a bit because it's possibly 5 degrees warmer than outside. It's 2.20am. C&C want to give it until 2.30 before we leave. It's clear by now that Frank isn't going to come out. But he ALWAYS comes out. I'm faced with the reality of having to leave without meeting him and I'm distraught. I comfort C&C because I feel bad for making them wait all this time but they end up comforting and hugging me. They tell me to wait until 3am and to come speak to Evan because he's being adorable and there's hardly anyone left so we'll have him to ourselves. And so we do, and he's just the loveliest, sweetest man and he fixates on the fact that me and the kiddo are British, haha! We tell him we drove 8 hrs today and he should come to North Carolina. He agrees and says he loves Chapel Hill so maybe that'll happen some day (yeah right). He imparts wisdom on doing what you love and not being obsessed with grades because they won't matter once you leave school. He starts talking to someone else and just as we're thinking of leaving, there's a tap on my shoulder and someone behind me yells, "Oh! Nando's!" It's Evan again, wanting to tell me about his favorite British experience - a restaurant that serves the best chicken. He's so enthusiastic as we discuss Nando's menu, particularly the veggie options and the bean burger. Hilarious! He's my new favorite person without a doubt.

It's 3am and we leave, jogging back to the hotel (because Frank's made us nervous about Baltimore). We get to the room and I get into bed in my clothes because it's too cold to consider taking anything off. My body is still buzzing (can it STILL be The Coffee from this morning or is it shivering?). I get maybe 1-2 hrs sleep because my mind insists on composing Hamilton/FIATP hybrid songs and some of them are actually quite good so I stay up and listen to the inside of my head.

Next day we drive back to NC. It takes 7.5 hrs. I force C&C to listen to the entire Death Spells album and even a little bit of Leathermouth just because I know it's what Jen would have wanted 💜

[jackblankhsh]

The priest in black scapular and emerald capirote went on, “It seemed so obvious.  Years of lip service begged the turning of a page.  Sacred scripture made yawn inducing routine by decades of inclination towards the misperception of metaphor.  The very idea itself, once so inspiring, turned into an impotent call to emotionless displays of empty gestures.  As such, she felt it necessary to reacquaint the faithless, who mistook themselves for faithful, with the truth.   “Interrupting the preacher’s prosaic sermon with the toss of a Molotov, she burned the church.   “Amidst the screams in the inferno she shouted, ‘This is all for you my dark savior,’ then embraced the flames.  But she did not die.  Such is the gift bestowed on the truly faithful.” Gordon stifled a yawn.  Surreptitiously he glanced at his watch.  If the sermon wrapped soon, and he hustled the family out, they might make it to the bagel shop in time for a fresh warm dozen.   His wife, Cassandra, gently prodded him with her elbow.  A grunt impersonating an apology, Gordon ceased checking the time.  He nodded at her, acknowledging his error, and she took hold of his hand.  A soft squeeze signaled forgiveness. She whispered, “He’s a bore, but I worry about the kids.” Gordon nodded again, “Gotta set an example.  I know.” They glanced over.  Rose and Louis sat staring up at the stained glasses windows.  The depictions of Saint Lucinda burning the church, resurrecting the infernal Lord, it mesmerized them.  The exquisite recreation of the faithless howling in torment as flames consumed them — Gordon often felt the windows spoke enough; he doubted he could set a better example than Lucinda.  However, parents sometimes have obligations beyond their abilities.  His father taught him that when they gutted Gordon’s brother.   The preacher concluded, “Let us rise, and as one affirm our faith.” Cassandra stood, already speaking the creed, her words a breath ahead of the congregation, “We give thanks for knowing the infernal almighty, not its kindness, but proof of its existence.  Its bloodlust killing apathy, we are awakened by the screams of the dead warning us not to doubt...” Meanwhile Gordon went on mechanically, “...that when the sleepers slumber too long, Lucinda shall strike a match, burn our eyes open, and fuel another revelation... The kids recited, “...for she so loves us all she burned herself, a living torch illuminating the truth.” The preacher smiled, and as one the congregation said, “Amen.” # Driving the boulevard of crucified, Gordon couldn’t help pointing at one writhing figure, “See him?” He slowed the car as Rose and Louis looked over.   Rose said, “Yeah?” Gordon said, “I nailed him up.” “You did?” Louis said.  He sounded excited.   Gordon shrugged, “Well, it had to be done.” Cassandra turned in the passenger seat, “Everyone has to do their part.” Rose scrunched up her face in confusion. Cassandra asked, “What is it honey?” Rose said, “Nothing.  It just seems, I dunno, excessive?” “He deserved it,” Cassandra said.  She turned back around.  She glared at the crucified corpses lining the boulevard, frowning at the sight of those still alive.  She said, “They all deserve it.”    Louis said, “I can’t wait to nail one.” Glancing in the rear view Gordon smiled, “You’ll get your chance buddy.” “When?” Gordon winked, "Patience li’l buddy.” # Pulling into the driveway Gordon saw a letter tacked to the front door of the house.  He couldn’t help smiling.  The red wax seal spoke of its contents.   “Hey Louis,” Gordon said, “See that?” “Cool!” Before the car even stopped Louis jumped out.  He run up the steps.  Snatching the letter off the door he broke the seal.   Cassandra said, “I’m happy, but I don’t know if he’s old enough.” Gordon patted her hand, “I was his age the first time.” Forcing a smile Cassandra quoted Saint Lucinda, “‘When called we must act.’” “He doesn’t look happy,” Rose said.   Indeed, Louis looked disappointed.  The rest of the family got out of the car.  Before Gordon could ask Louis handed him the letter.   Shoulders slumped Louis said, “It’s for Rose.” Rose stopped short.   Gordon glanced over the letter.  The expected bit of Scripture followed by a brief note summoning Rose to the next round of crucifixions.  However, an extra paragraph informed that Saint Lucinda would be presiding over this event.   “Lucinda herself is coming to witness the silencing of doubters.”  Cassandra reached for the letter, “That’s wonderful.”  Rose said, “I don’t want to do it.” Eyes on the letter Cassandra said, “Of course you do, honey.  It’s an honor.” “I don’t care.” “If she’s not going to do it I will,” Louis said.   Gordon said, “She’s going to do it.” “You can’t make me,” Rose said. Cassandra looked at her sternly, “You don’t have a choice.” # The week passed with all the peacefulness of a hurricane.  At first Rose’s parents attempted to appeal to their daughter’s faith.  Cassandra quoted Scripture, told stories about Saint Lucinda — “She led her followers across this country, spreading the new faith on a wave of blood.”  However, Rose still refused until finally, frustrated and fearful beyond reason, her parents resorted to threats.  They grounded her, took away the fourteen year old’s phone, and stopped feeding her.  Every effort only seemed to strengthen the young woman’s resolve.   Until one night Louis went in Rose’s room, “Can I ask you something?” Hesitantly Rose said, “Sure.” “Why don’t you want to silence doubters?” Rose said, “I dunno.” She worried about sharing her concerns with her nine year old brother.  She didn’t think he would understand.  Louis applauded when the screams came as the nails went in.  She hid her tears.  No one in the family noticed because they didn’t expect her to cry — blind faith.   Louis nodded, “Okay, but it makes the world a better place.”  She shared a half truth, “I guess I’m scared,” leaving out her thought, “That it doesn’t.” Louis said, “It’s okay to be scared.  I’m scared what’ll happen to you.”  Rose furrowed her brow, “What do you mean?” Looking at his feet Louis said, “I overheard mom and dad talking.  If you don’t do it inquisitors will come for you.” Rose immediately hurried out of her room.  She went downstairs to confront her parents.  When asked if what Louis told her might be true her parents hesitated.   Cassandra took a deep breath, “Yes.  If you don’t do what’s expected, you’ll be taken away by inquisitors.” “Children aren’t usually told until after.  That way it’s an honest choice, not something done out of fear,” Gordon said.   Rose looked terrified for a moment.  Then something flashed across her eyes.  A steeliness entered her demeanor.   She said, “If that’s the way it is, fine.” # On a raised dais seated upon a maroon throne, Saint Lucinda sat.  Her skin looked like aged parchment.  A purple river stemmed from her flowing robes.  Her milk white eyes with their red pinpoint pupils surveyed the crowd.  She waved a skeletal hand, a general gesture that never failed to make some believe she waved specifically at them.   An acolyte in gold vestments set a microphone near her.  At a 197, she no longer rose to address the assembled faithful.   She spoke, “Today we silence those who have chosen not to believe what has been revealed.  Where once there was no proof, our dark savior is with us.  Let those who deny what is be nailed and raised as a warning to all who doubt what is true.” The crowd cheered.  Black uniformed inquisitors led a procession of shackled people to a row of crosses.  Those charged with nailing stood by their designated cross.   Rose and Cassandra waited silently.  Daughter with the hammer, mother with the nails, no one would’ve perceived anything amiss.  After all, Rose showed no signs of being ill at ease.   When the inquisitor arrived, shoving a doubter into position, Rose held out her hand.  Cassandra gave her a nail.  The inquisitor held the struggling doubter in place.  Rose knelt down.  She put the nail in place.  Ignoring the doubter’s pleas she drove the nail into the wrist.  Her mother handed her another, and she did the other hand then the feet.   The inquisitor dismissed them as acolytes set about erecting the crucifix on the boulevard.  Walking away Rose and Cassandra passed the dais.  Saint Lucinda nodded at them in appreciation.  Cassandra beamed.  Rose forced a smile. Later that night Rose went out.  She lied about wanting to go to the library.  Instead she rode her bike to the boulevard of crucified.  Pedestrians ambled along underneath the dying.  Rose found the person she nailed.   She waited for a couple to pass — young lovers holding hands — then said to the crucified, “I’m sorry.” The person smiled down at her, saying between gasps, “You... don’t... believe.” Rose shook her head.   A sound cut through the stillness of the night.  Those on the street looked up.  The vast nebulous form of the dark savior drifted across the sky, a boiling cloud of teeth and eyes.  Briefly it obscured the moon.  The faithful raised their hands, and shouted praise to the deity they could see.  Rose, however, pedaled home certain that gods are not always for the best.