#he figures he should make sure he gets himself dead and cremated at the same time as Brakul so they can navigate the

[serpentface]

This was going to be a panel of a little comic but I got too invested in drawing minute background details so, here.

[lemontwst]

Nessun Dorma | 01 - f!ver.

he says i am sorry i am not an easy person to want i look at him surprised who said i wanted easy i don’t crave easy i crave goddamn difficult

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: harem x f!reader.  |  male version here.

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: cyoa + smut.

⟶ index  |  prologue.

__

You can’t say no to him.

You don't think you'd ever be able to deny Mira anything, really. Not when he looks at you like a kicked puppy… a tall, imposing kicked puppy with weird horns on his head who could probably cremate you alive without breaking a sweat.

"Of course I would stay with you! Do you even have to ask?" You reach out to touch his face. His skin always feels so cold under your fingers, but the fire in his eyes burns brighter than ever, as if the intensity of his flames depends solely on the intensity of your affection for him.

"I love you, Mira."

Your heart flutters at your own words and for a second you don't even know if you mean that as a friend or as a lover. But, well, you're only sixteen years old. You have a lifetime to figure it out.

You think Mira stops breathing, but it's hard to tell because the rise and fall of his chest is usually pretty much imperceptible anyway.

“I… I love you too.”

He sounds like he’s about to cry. One of his hands rests against your chest. It’s an innocent touch. He’s just feeling your heartbeat under his palm, tiny and steady like that of a little bird, “I will always, always love you. Even if one day you grow to hate me. Even if you forget about me. Even should you fall in love with somebody else…”

You suddenly feel very tired.

His gentle voice is like a lullaby in this field of roses. His words leave you dazed, like he’s casting a spell on you.

“I love you, (y/n).”

The last thing you hear is Mira wishing you a happy birthday before you fall into a warm, comfortable sleep without dreams.

___

A sharp pain in your chest jerks you awake.

It fucking hurts, like your heart is being pierced by a shard of glass. Like the fissures of your very existence are being pulled apart at the seams.

You clutch the spot above your heart, almost elbowing Epel in the face with all your trashing, trying to catch your breath.

"(y/n)! What the hell...?" Your friend rolls away from you, finally letting go of the octopus hold he had on you all night. He's all disheveled as he gives you a weak glare, falling back into the makeshift bed you two share with a groan.

It's not even a bed, really. Just a pile of cotton blankets messily thrown under the skylight of an unused barn. This is your little hiding place, and despite you two having perfectly comfortable beds in the main house with Grandma and Grandpa, you prefer to spend your summer nights sleeping in this very loft, where it's cool and open and comfortable. 

"Sorry! I… had a nightmare… I think.” 

Your friend is used to it by now, “Do you remember what it was about?”

"No… not really."

"Nothing at all?

"No, just…"

"Green eyes." Epel finishes the sentence for you. You've been having the same nightmare for a while, and your friend knows all about it, considering he sleeps right next to you most of the time.

Green eyes. Burning emerald. It's all you remember, alongside a gut wrenching, heart shattering feeling of longing that stays with you long after you've woken up.

"... Hey, you okay?" You must have looked as miserable as you feel, because Epel leans closer to you, peering into your face with worry in his eyes.

"Yeah… it's just a stupid dream." You shrug, leaning your head against his shoulder, "But you know what would make me feel better?" 

Epel shrugs, but the way his brow crinkles tells you he's already prepared himself for whatever dumb thing you're about to say.

He knows you too well.

"I'd feel sooo much better if I had an additional piece of toast for breakfast today…" you sigh dreamily and Epel sighs.

"Fine." He shrugs you off and stands up. When he stretches, a peek of white skin flashes under his light blue shirt.

"What, really?" Your eyebrows shoot up. It's not usually this easy to get him to hand over his morning toast.

"Yeah," Epel walks the length of the loft and starts going down the ladder to the ground level of the barn. Before his head completely disappears under the edge of the loft, he throws you an arrogant smirk, "I wouldn't want the deafenin' roars of your stomach wakin’ up every wolf 'n boar in the area."

You're rushing after him immediately.

He can’t claim the bread if he’s dead.

___

You live a simple, happy life here in the Village of Harvest.

Your journey might not have had the best start—your parents left you on a doorstep in a basket when you were a small baby, but Epel's grandparents took you in and cared for you like you were theirs, and you grew up surrounded by love in a small farming community.

Sure, your days might not be terribly exciting. You don't have things like a mall, or a cinema or… anything built after the seventeenth century, really, but you have Epel and your grandparents and that's enough.

Oh, and you have Beau.

The little lamb trots towards you as soon as you're out of the house, your belly full with toast and Grandma's delicious apple jam, and starts nibbling at your socks immediately. 

Beau is minuscule. The tiniest lamb you've ever seen, always struggling to follow behind you on unsteady legs like you're his mother. Epel says it's because he feels a kinship with a fellow pipsqueak. You're always quick to point out that Epel is not that much taller than you anyway.

"Good morning, sweetie." You pick up Beau in a swift movement and hold him to your chest with one arm, carrying a wicker basket in the other, "Ready to pick some apples?"

Beau starts nibbling on your hair in response. This little guy… he's always munching.

"Just make sure he doesn't actually eat the apples." Epel starts walking in front of you, throwing Beau an unimpressed look.

You can't be sure but you feel like Beau is glaring back at him.

Sigh. Children.

___

You're always dead tired when you finally reach your bed. Farm life is fun and rewarding, but it’s also incredibly exhausting. That coupled with the fact that you haven’t been getting much sleep lately means that you’re out like a light as soon as your head hits the pillow, barely having the strength to say goodnight to Epel before you’re spiraling into a deep sleep.

…

…

You know you should be surprised to see him, but you never are. You can always feel him creeping around the outer edges of your dreamscape, but it doesn’t bother you. You invite him in every time, even if you forget all about it when you wake up, almost like you know instinctively that he won’t hurt you. Almost like you know him.

The man in your dreams is gorgeous, the kind of beauty that makes you want to learn sculpting so you can attempt to immortalize it. His skin is paler than marble, free of scars or blemishes. His ebony hair looks silky, a stream of ink that frames his handsome face and falls past his shoulders. He is tall, the tallest person you’ve ever seen, and the evil-looking horns on his head make him look ever more imposing. 

But what you find most striking about him are his eyes. Emerald gems with flames inside them. It’s the only detail of his that you remember when you wake up, the rest of him a cloud of black smoke when you attempt to picture him outside of your dreams. 

“Good evening, Deerlet.” His voice has the texture of silk and when he speaks, it feels like the ground shakes beneath your feet. “Did you miss me as much as I missed you, I wonder?” He closes in on you with slow, purposeful steps, elegant as a cat even as he leans forward slightly, like he wants to keep you in place by towering over you. His expression is curious and serene. You have a feeling he always looks at you like this.

“Why are you here?” You take a few steps back, not because you’re scared of him, but because you're scared of how badly you suddenly want to reach out and touch him. Your bare feet step on something soft, like flowers, and suddenly the dull landscape around you shifts into a view that feels strangely familiar to you. An open meadow and a purple sky above you. An endless sea of black roses around you.

“Your eighteenth birthday is tomorrow.” He closes the distance again, as attracted to you as you are to him. You’re like two ends of a magnet, when one pulls back the other follows. “I really felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation.” The small, arrogant smile on his face sends a flurry of tingles down your spine.

“In any case, I won’t be able to celebrate with you tomorrow.” 

You feel like you already know where this is going.

“So I’ve brought you your gift today,” He reaches out to touch your elbows, languidly pulling you closer to him in a half-embrace that makes your heart skip a beat. There’s too much empty space between the two of you. His fingers linger over your skin, barely touching you. 

“Do you want to know what it is?” He whispers against your ear. One of his hands gently cradles your face. His lips brush against your temple and you shiver, completely paralyzed on the spot, “It’s my love, of course.”

Not granting you the chance to run away, the man picks you up like you weigh nothing, then gently lowers you over the roses.

"I don't… I don't even know you." You meekly push at his chest, turning your head away. It's like trying to move a mountain, and the hardness under your hands makes you blush something fierce.

He chuckles above you, but he's not amused. It's a pained, bitter sound, like you just reached inside his ribcage and crushed his heart in your hand. His ebony hair tickles your skin when he leans down to press kisses against your jaw, "Oh, you do know me, beloved. You are the other end of my soul, as I am yours."

His adoring voice, barely a whisper against your skin, leaves you dazed and gasping for air. Your legs open almost instinctively for him, your thighs wet with excitement. A clawed hand makes his way from your shoulder to your side, slowing down when it passes over your breast as if he's indulging in the forbidden fruit. His fingers reach your inner thigh and he runs a slow circle against the wet, trembling flesh, eager to soak in your juices. 

You watch with half-lidded eyes as he brings his hand to his mouth. A forked tongue peaks between his lips, slowly running over one of his lucid fingers. It brings back a memory of that time you dropped jam on your forearm, and that same forked tongue cheekily swept it away. The vision is so clear it leaves the hint of a name in your dry mouth.

"Mi… ra?" 

His eyes dart to yours and you think they're actually burning. Emerald flickers to life. His snake pupils shrink. He makes a show of slowly running his thumb down his tongue, leaving a trail of milky fluid behind. Your stomach clenches with need, your entire body lighting up like he just poured gasoline on you and burned it with a match.

"Is… is that your name?" You manage to gasp the words out, suppressing a shiver when he hums low in his throat. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to just give in already. To stop asking questions and wrap your arms around him instead, letting him use your body until he's satisfied. The urge to make him happy is almost primal in you, cauterizing your synapses. The need for him almost tears you apart.

"It's what you call me." It's a habit of his to sound both sad and adoring, you realize. You open your mouth to scold him for being so cryptic, but snap it shut when his hands rest on your chest. He palms the soft flesh gently, a small smirk on his arrogant face, "My precious Deerlet. Always so insatiably curious."

His thumbs slowly circle your hard nipples. Little jolts of electricity run down your spine, your chest growing sensitive under his ministrations. It's agonizingly slow. The sweet way he rubs you through the cloth of your dress makes you quiver with need, your voice coming out in short little gasps that make his eyes darken to a dangerous jade.

You lay your hand on top of his. You can feel his hard veins move under your palm as he gropes you, and the sensation sends another wave of slick down your thighs. Shaking like a frightened animal, you slowly move his hand to the side and slide it under your dress. A gasp leaves you when his fingers touch your bare skin. Mira exhales a long, pained sigh through his nose, then allows his digits to explore the expanse of your flesh. His fingertips tingle and his muscles tighten almost violently as the impulse to fuck you threatens to overtake him.

"Patience, daelin." He teases you, his deep voice a heated, playful murmur. Your pussy clenches in response. A small, frustrated whine leaves your lips. 

"I'm going to savor every moment of this." He takes his hand away and your heart almost breaks, but the pain is soon replaced by scalding embarrassment when he rips the front of your dress apart, easily, like it's tissue paper.

Nothing could have prepared you for the thunder that rattles the landscape of your psyche when his forked tongue makes contact with your perky nipple. Your hands find his broad shoulders and you hang on for dear life as he licks, nibbles and sucks like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. His mouth is devastatingly gentle and you weakly beg for more. Mira smirks and ignores you, dragging out his tender torture for as long as he can, even as you desperately grind your drenched core against him.

"Mira!" You're sobbing at this point. Your body is on fire and your core hurts from clenching without something to hold your walls apart, "Please—" He moves to your other nipple and you arch for him, making a pretty line with your back. Mira takes this chance to slip a hand under you, keeping your chest raised to his mouth so that your head falls back, away from the dangerous tips of his horns. But he still doesn't touch you where you want him.

Suddenly, another memory comes to mind, as if summoned by your sexual frustration. You remember something that makes him shiver without fail, and suddenly you feel like you've regained some sort of power over this arrogant man. You bring a hand to his horn and tug and the loud, startled moan that leaves him is enough to satisfy the hunger in your stomach, slick pooling under you like dew against the roses. 

"... You little brat." Mira pulls away, struggling to catch his breath. His eyes are full of mischief as he looks down at you, the smirk ever present on his handsome face, "Is this how you treat your King?"

You try not to look too offended that he stopped touching you, giving him a defiant look that makes his smirk grow wider, "It is when the King is mean to his Queen."

His expression falls and he suddenly looks flustered. It seems like he enjoys hearing that you belong to him quite a bit. Mira quickly composes himself, the fire in his eyes now dim and subtle like a dangerous warning. 

You yelp when he grabs the back of your knees and pushes your legs against your body in a quick, rough movement, leaving you spread open and helpless under his watchful gaze.

"This is far from me being mean." He growls at you, allowing his instincts to take over for just a second, "So I advise you don't do that again." The stern look on his face makes his presence feel even more oppressing than usual.

It's like he's speaking the words directly into your ears. His voice bounces off the walls in your head, heated and demanding as a spark of his magic runs over your sensitive skin. It's a tingly feeling that makes your heart stutter, more intimate than anything you've ever felt. He shares just a fraction of his arousal with you through the link between your touching powers and suddenly you're crying and convulsing on top of the flowers, the heat between your legs akin to flowing magma.

The world around you loses focus. There's no more questions, no more doubts, you don't need to know anything about him, you just want him to touch you while you moan and gasp and whimper his name. It feels like you're on the verge of shattering and when Mira caresses you with his magic one more time, your stomach squeezes and releases, the dam in your abdomen breaks and blinding white flashes in front of your vision. You're left boneless and dazed and shivering, the shock from climaxing so hard and so abruptly leaving you speechless as you gasp and try to catch your breath.

...Holy shit. You catch his eyes and notice the subtle way he’s panting, sweat coating his forehead as he stares at every twitch of your body with intense rapture. Mira looks almost famished, desperation written all over his face. He looks like he’s in pain.

"I'm trying to be gentle, daelin." He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to keep the pieces of his disintegrating self-control together. Your scent is everywhere. The light spice in the air threatens to render Malleus insane and he has to momentarily block you out to keep himself from turning into his half-draconic form.

No no no, he can't do that to you. Not now. Not during your first time. He wants to cherish and protect you. He won't let his feral instincts get in the way of this precious moment…

"...I know."

Malleus opens his eyes. A small, tired smile greets him. Your face is sweaty and flushed, like that one time he took you deep into the woods.

"I trust you, Mira."

Love washes over him like high tide across a deserted shore, filling every crack on his eroded heart, replacing the pitch-black ink that constantly threatens to swallow him.

You trust him. Of course you do. You love him. You are his and he is yours. Forever, like you promised him.

"... I'll make you feel good." He sounds oddly resolute as he looks at you, his pupils large on a background of gentle flames. He kind of looks like a happy cat and you can't help but giggle. He's still as awkwardly sweet as the scrawny boy in your memories.

"You already did."

He snorts, "I'll make you feel better."

You let out a surprised gasp when he lowers his face right between your legs. You hear him take a deep breath and then he's exhaling right against your wet pussy. Your legs tremble in response and Mira chuckles. You don't need to look at him to know he's smiling that closed-eye smile you like so much.

Your excitement flares back to life as his tongue traces the line of your entrance. The split in his tongue feels… weird, but it's also strangely erotic, and you can't help but moan shamelessly as he teases your slit. Then he runs his tongue up until it finds your clit and suddenly you can't bear to look at him anymore. Your eyes squeeze shut as little earthquakes shake you from head to toe, your hips going numb as he draws slow semi-circles around the sensitive nub.

"Which one feels better?" He has the nerve to ask you even as you convulse under him.

"The tip…" his tongue flicks your clitoris and your head falls back, slick dripping out of you like a fucking river and coating his face in a lucid sheen of arousal, "Or the base?" He drags his tongue under the hard nub and slooowly licks up and you nearly lose your mind, your hands tangling in his raven hair and gripping his horns for comfort. Mira gasps loudly against you, claws digging into your legs from the shock of the sudden stimulation, but you don't even notice it, lost as you are on the edge of your release.

Your core pulses desperately with the need to cum all over Mira's face. Everything feels wet and hot and stars, his tongue is lapping up everything you have to give him. It's like he's desperate not to let even a single drop go to waste…

"Mira!" You cry out in a broken voice, trying to grind your core against his eager mouth, "Mira—I'm going to—"

He suddenly lets go of one of your legs. The boneless limb falls over his shoulder, your soft thigh caressing the side of his soaked face. He doesn't grace you with a warning before one of his fingers plunges into you, finally granting your clenching walls some sort of relief.

Your moans increase in volume. You trash under him as if you want to get away. This is almost too much. It's scary. He adds another finger in and rubs that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you and suddenly the bliss is debilitating. Your back arches as another orgasm crashes over you, scalding hot and earth-shattering and too fucking vivid for this to be just a dream.

You completely miss the dazed expression on Mira's face, the dark jade of his eyes fading into a glassy mint. 

You're so out of it as you slump back against the roses that you almost don't hear him when he speaks again.

"This scent is—addicting—" his chest heaves and he looks almost intoxicated, "I feel like I'm getting drunk on you..." his cheeks and chin are all shiny and sticky but he clearly doesn't mind. Not when he starts wiping the cum off with a hand before bringing it to his mouth, swallowing as much of it as he can. It's strange how he looks like an animal and a prince at the same time. An otherworldly creature of indescribable beauty, even as he eagerly eats your essence off his face.

“(y/n), I can’t take it anymore…” He breathes frantically, finally allowing himself some sort of relief as he takes his erection out of his pants. His dick is so hard it fucking hurts. He really wanted to take things slow for your sake, but he only ended up edging himself to the point of almost going into a rut.

He lets his hot member fall against your stomach. He’s fucking huge, you stare with wide eyes at the point where his length ends across your abdomen. 

"It… it won't fit…" You mumble, even as your pussy clenches with traitorous want.

"Not this time, probably not." Mira cradles your little body in his arms, "I'd have to train you for it to fit. Stretch you out until your insides have my imprint." He runs a hand down his face in a quick, agitated movement. Every single cell in his body is fighting against the urge to ravish you. His muscles hurt from tightening so violently and Malleus has to force himself to count to ten to keep from showing his cock inside you at once. 

“It’s… fine. I won’t hurt you.” He promises, searching your face for your approval as he lines himself against your entrance. He’s been alive for centuries and yet his heart has never beaten so fast. His hawk-like eyes are focused on you and you alone, burning the image of you laying helpless under him inside his corneas. 

Then you nod up at him, looking so cute as you try to put on a brave face that Malleus almost cums right then and there. The head of his dick slowly pushes inside you. Your head lulls back and Mira's hands shake violently.

It's so big. Your vision goes out of focus as your hole clenches around him greedily. Stars, it's stretching you so well. You're soaking wet and yet he still has to push to enter you because you're so fucking tight. Your legs shake uncontrollably, the feeling of being filled completely wiping out every thought in your head.

He finally touches the deepest place inside you, his large cock still not completely inside, and you both go completely still. The only sounds that break the humid silence are your loud gasps and his feeble ones, mixing together in a cacophony of absolute amazement as you two take in the surreal feeling of finally being connected.

Mira is inside you. You completely forget that this is a dream, that sentence repeating inside your head over and over again.

"...Small." He mutters. You look at him and your heart almost collapses at the tender expression on his face. You think his pupils might have turned into little hearts, rouge dusting his pale cheeks as sweat drips off his hair and chin.

"So small." He makes a show of hovering over you completely and suddenly the sky disappears. There's only him. Above you and around you and inside you. You're face to face with his chest, and as you lean your head back, trying to catch his eyes, you see that he has to tuck his chin against his neck to look back at you. 

…

...

Fuck. Your heart lodges in your throat and your hole clenches around him, coaxing a surprised moan from both your lips.

"(y/n)..." your name sounds heavenly when he says it like that. On a quiet, vulnerable gasp.

"I… I'm going to start moving now, okay?" 

You can't speak, so you give him another frantic nod, squeezing your eyes shut. You're not prepared for how good it feels when he pulls back. His veins scrape against you, the stretching becomes almost unbearable and you're left moaning long and loud in a way that makes Malleus sweat. If you could see him now, you'd notice he looks almost shy, like the first time you kissed his cheek. 

He's almost out of you when he decides to thrust back in, scattering stars across your stomach with a single, gentle motion. Every nerve ending tingles with pleasure. Sweet nonsense falls from your lips and Malleus has to grit his teeth and dig his clawed fingers into the ground in order to cling to the last remains of his thinning patience. His fangs hurt with the primal urge to mark you.

"My (y/n)—" He eases into a steady rhythm, pushing what he can of his shaft inside you. Sweat pours down his face, his hair sticks to his chin and his tongue swipes the salt off his lips, "My sweet girl—my cute little Deerlet—" His hips snap back against your smaller ones in short strokes, his movements growing more and more frenzied as tight, magma hot pleasure builds inside him. The obscene sounds that fill the air turn him on so much he's now full-blown moaning. His beautiful voice calls your name shamelessly, desperately, like you could disappear from under him at any given moment.

"I love you—you're mine—" He growls placing a large hand under your ass as he pounds into you, keeping your hips locked to his, “Say that you’re mine."

The order resonates inside your head. You're not even offended that he's using his magic to intimidate you. You can barely cling to your consciousness at this point.

"I am—I'm—yours, Mira!" You don't even know which way is up anymore, but you know that what you're saying is true. You belong to him. Your best friend. The love of your life.

"Malleus." He corrects you through gritted teeth, then he stops moving entirely, ignoring your disappointed cries as he desperately tries to resist the pull your body has on him, "Say I'm yours, Malleus." 

"I'm yours, Malleus." His real name becomes a moan in your mouth and Malleus finally snaps. There's no more gentle, just a carnal urgency and a need that has waited centuries to be satisfied. He pulls his hips back and then slams into you and fuck, you should be screaming by now but you can't, there's not enough air as you bounce over the flowers and sob, clinging to him like he's your lifeline.

The loud "Fuck!" that leaves his mouth pushes you over the edge, the word so unexpected but so fucking sexy coming from his graceful mouth. You clench down around him, delirious as stars explode behind your vision, and drag him right over the edge with you. 

Malleus holds you so close to him you feel like you might melt into each other as he releases pulse after shuddering pulse of his essence into you.

He cums so much. You can feel his hot semen fill you up and then spill out like it's a waterfall. He's not letting go of you, his face hidden in your hair as he recovers from the star-shattering pleasure of finally, finally being one with you.

"I love you." He mutters, voice breaking.

...

He's crying. That lone thought destroys something inside you and you start feverishly kissing his jaw, his cheek, his neck, anything you can reach as you try to soothe him.

Don't cry don't cry don't cry—

You feel him starting to fade in your arms. You can feel yourself starting to fade.

Nonononono— Maker, please—

He pulls away from you and you finally see his face. 

He looks lost. His dark lashes are wet with tears, his mouth is curved in a confused frown and that's when you realize that he loves you so much, but he doesn't know how to process the feeling. He's like a panicked child and you are fading. And he’s always going to remember this moment, but you won’t.

You scream out his name, his real name.

…

And then you wake up, sobbing all over yourself, unable to remember. 

Epel tries his best to comfort you, but you don't stop crying for a long time.

___

Life goes on.

You have a part-time job at a beach bar, on the coastline that extends about 60 miles away from the village.

Epel hates that you have to travel so far when you could just help him out at the farm like you usually do, but you’ll be attending NRC coming September, and you want to save some pocket money for you and Epel to spend on all the cool city stuff you can’t find in your hole of a town.

Beau likes to walk you to the bus stop. Epel would too, but you won’t let him waste his time on you when he has his own work to take care of. Your lamb companion stops following you when the dirt road opens to the fields, getting distracted by the dandelions sprinkled at the edges of the village. 

"See you later, Beau." You chuckle, knowing he will go back to the farm as soon as he gets bored. Beau ignores you and munches away.

The bus stop isn't far, a lone plastic port on a background of sunflowers. As per usual you're the only one here, but the occasional horse and buggy passes by, and the farmers who live in the nearby granges all greet you with cheerful smiles on their faces. They all know where you're headed and wish you a good day at work. You really can't keep anything to yourself in such a small community.

The commute to the beach takes almost an hour. The road zig-zags and then straightens towards the coastline. You're almost tempted to doze off, but finding your way to the beach if you miss your stop is going to be a pain in the ass, so you force yourself to stay awake, keeping your eyes on the picturesque horizon and daydreaming about your mysterious man with the emerald eyes.

You always think about him when you’re riding this bus.

…

You should probably stop being so obsessed with him.

___

The sun is almost in the middle of the sky when you get to the beach bar, and as per usual, it's a crowded mess. This is the infernal hour, and not only because it's hot as sin.

There's people everywhere, craving drinks and food before they go lay down on their beach towels for the rest of the day, their flip-flops leaving sand in every corner of the bar that you'll be sweeping for an eternity. Screaming children run this and that way like they're high on vitamin gummies. Their melting popsicles leave a sticky trail on the ground. They step on it and spread liquid sugar everywhere.

…

Why do you work here again? 

…

Because the pay is good, and your coworker is cute.

Said coworker perks up when he sees you. His ears give an excited wiggle (Maker, he's adorable) and he shoots you a smirk that shows his little fangs, "Ah, kitten! Always a sight for sore eyes." He hisses a 'kishishishi' that you've learned to recognize as his laughter, his closed eyes looking like little half-moons.

"Now move your bum and go change. I need my sla—coworker to serve some tables outside.”

Figures. His lazy ass hates leaving the coolness of the bar to handle the customers sitting outside.

“Is that how you ask for favors, Ruggie?~" You tease him as you step behind the counter and head for the changing rooms in the back.

"I'd smooch ya as a treat but snoggin's not allowed in front of the children." He gives you a cheeky smile. One of the moms around the bar throws him a glare, but he shamelessly ignores it. 

You shake your head and grin to yourself. At least you have him around to make this job a little more bearable.

___

“I am dying.” You groan and rest your head on the counter, the coolness of the wood soothing your flushed face, “Why did I take this job anyway? I don't need the money! I can just live off the land with my lamb companion and eat apple jam for the rest of my days."

Ruggie snorts next to you. He finishes cleaning a beer glass and places it back on the decorative shelf behind you, “Says the one who only works half a shift.”

You turn your head to look at him, cheek smushed against the counter. Rush hour is finally over, but god, you're in pieces. Waiting tables is not as easy as it sounds, and dealing with entitled moms on vacation is a torture worse than stepping on two Legos at the same time.

The sun is starting to set. The blue sky fades into a gentle orange above the deep indigo of the calm sea. Your shift is almost over, but Ruggie will have to stay here for a while longer.

"I'm not a masochist like you." Your eyes follow him as he wipes, cleans, moves, washes and dries plates and glasses at half the speed it takes you to do it. He's like a super cleaning pro.

"Ye gotta work if you want ta eat." He pops open a can of peach tea, then pours it in a glass filled with ice.

"It's not masochism, it's the law of the Savannah." He places the glass right in front of your face. You lift your head off the counter and wrap your hands around the cold beverage as he shoots you a mischievous look. He waits for you to take a sip before adding: "But it's nice ta know you're so interested in my sexual preferences."

You choke.

He laughs that kishishishi sound.

As you wipe your mouth with your wrist and send him a half-assed glare, a familiar sparkle sizzles the air between you.

You bask in the sudden heat for a second, watching as Ruggie's blue-gray eyes trace a slow path down your body.

This kind of flirting is… not uncommon between the two of you, but it never really leads to anything, if only because you're both stuck manning the bar and you can't really leave the place unattended.

But something you can't help but wonder… would he act on it if you two were alone and away from trying eyes? Would you act on it? Ruggie is very cute… and witty and funny and reliable...

Regardless of your feelings on the matter, his casual teasing makes you feel like the hottest person on this beach, so you don't discourage it. You take another sip of tea, sighing through your nose at how pleasant the cold beverage feels when it runs down your throat.

...

"Uh…" Ruggie suddenly looks away, his cheek tinged the lightest shade of pink, "You may uh… want to take that shirt off, kitten."

...

What?

You look at him like he's grown another head.

"Excuse me?" You must have sounded more outraged than you feel, because your voice sends Ruggie into an embarrassed panic.

"N-not like that! It's just…! You've been sweating a lot and your shirt's gone transparent! I can see everythin' from here— I mean, what if a perverted old man walks in and sees you like that?"

You look down at your white shirt. It wasn't visible while you were wearing your green apron, but you can indeed see the outline of your swimsuit peek out from under the wet fabric, and you figure your wet back looks the same. Oops.

"Ah shit, sorry I didn't notice." You stand up and Ruggie turns his head away at the speed of light.

"No no… s'fine I have— a jacket you can wear while you walk home if ya need it."

Your lips quirk in a grateful smile as you head for the changing room, "Thank you! You're the best, Ruggie!"

"Yeah, yeah…" he breathes, quietly rubbing his temples as soon as you're out of the room.

___

Left alone in an empty beach bar, Ruggie barely resists the urge to slam his head against the counter. His shoulders are burning like he's been marked like cattle, and all he wants to do is to walk into the ocean until the waves swallow him completely. Maybe the abhorrent heat that singes his skin would fucking disappear then. And if not, at least the cold water would kill his boner.

This happens every fucking time. Every fucking time. He should be smarter than this, and yet he always falls for the same tricks, and the worst part is that he's tricking himself. Ruggie knows that flirting with you is akin to showing burning coals in his abdomen. He gets so fucking excited his entire body starts tingling with electricity, which is not the ideal state to be when you're at work.

And yet he still does it anyway.

Maybe he really is a masochist.

And maybe he should actually bend you over this counter and finally get rid of the frustration that's been building up inside him for the past two months.

And oh God, you're going to the same school as him in September. You're going to be prancing around in your little uniform, calling him 'senpai' and shit and he's going to have to go through his heat while being tortured like that.

Ruggie pours himself a glass of ice-cold water and downs it in one gulp.

Yeah, he's fucked. 

___

"Epel! Carry me!~" You cling to your friend, Grandma and Grandpa chuckling at your antics from the sofa and the armchair respectively.

Having finished washing the dishes, Epel wipes his hands on a dishcloth and pushes you away with his elbow, "No thanks. I'm tired too ya know."

This is not the first time you've done this song and dance. With how little you've been sleeping lately, you're always looking for excuses to be carried around by Epel. Your legs feel like jello, you are not walking all the way to the barn tonight. Just changing into your pajamas has been hard enough.

"Yeah, but you slept like a rock all night!" You hug him from behind and rest your lips against his shoulder, giving him an unimpressed look from over his shoulder, "I woke up to you drooling all over my shirt multiple times."

Epel flushes the color of the fruit he's named after and mumbles something unintelligible. He waves goodnight to his grandparents and so do you, then he struggles towards the front door, pretty much having to drag you across the hallway.

"If you're this tired then why don't ya just quit the beach job already?"

The two of you step outside, greeted by the loud crying of the cicadas. There's not a cloud above you, the stars clearly visible in the inky blue of the night.

"I can't do that. Ruggie needs me."

Epel scoffs. It's the exact same sound he made when he saw you come home wearing your coworker's jacket. 

"Why don't ya go ask yer darlin' Ruggie to carry ya then?" His accent gets more jumbled as his irritation grows. Still, for all his fussing, Epel bends down and waits for you to climb on his shoulders. 

You do so happily, nuzzling into him like a spoiled cat.

A pair of emerald eyes flashes behind your eyelids, but you shrug it off.

"Sorry but I'm too drunk to go back to the beach to ask him."

"Only you can get drunk after two glasses of apple cider." Epel smirks, ignoring you when you hit his arm and start whining again.

__

You lay down onto Epel's checkered blanket like a starfish.

"Where am I supposed ta sleep? On the ground?" Epel turns the lantern off, then lights the incense to keep away mosquitoes and other bugs and places it on the windowsill.

He turns towards you with his hands on his hips, watching as you lay in your shared nest without a care in the world, and sighs. So spoiled.

"You can sleep on top of me, I don't care."

Epel almost chokes on his saliva.

You laugh at his flustered face. It almost looks like he's angry, eyes wide and an outraged blush on his cheeks.

You open your arms for him, "Come on! It's not like we won't end up in this position in the morning anyway."

It’s true. Epel often rolls on top of you in his sleep, and nothing you do ever seems to shake him off or wake him up. You figure you can just get right to it, since he apparently loves resting his head on your chest while he snores.

Your friend closes the distance between you with three hesitant steps. "... You're such a moron, seriously." He mumbles, kneeling between your legs and then draping himself over you, careful not to crush you with his weight. He smells like apples, as always. His cotton pajamas and his fluffy hair make him the perfect cuddle buddy. You sigh contently into his hair and wrap your arms tighter around his back.

It’s quiet for a bit. Epel’s weight is strangely comforting over you. The sound of his steady breaths is a familiar lullaby, and you quickly find yourself floating in that comfy, tingly space between sleep and wake.

…

“Do you do this with Ruggie too?” 

Epel mutters so quietly you almost don’t hear him. He doesn’t say it accusingly just… like he’s sulking.

“... What?” Any semblance of sleep disappears from your mind as you catch his dejected tone of voice, “You mean like hugging?— Of course not.” You bring a hand to his hair and start scratching his skull like you know he likes it, and you feel him relax in your arms.

…

…

“Have you ever kissed him?”

Okay, now you’re definitely wide awake.

You look down at him, trying to catch his expression, “Epel, what are you talking about?”

He raises his head and pins you down with a demanding, silvery gaze. You sigh and lay your head back down, closing your eyes as you think of the best way to answer him.

“I haven’t kissed him.” You open your eyes and catch Epel’s expression shift just a little. He tries to keep an impassive front, but you can tell he’s relieved, “But I haven’t kissed you either.” You could maybe understand the cuddle comparison, since Epel is your designated snuggle friend, but who you kiss or don’t kiss shouldn’t matter to him.

Right?

“... Do you want to?” 

Your breath catches in your throat. Everything seems to still around you. Your heartbeat speeds up as you look into Epel's eyes. You know he's pretty manly despite his soft features, but he's never been so… forward before. You two have always been like siblings, so you really didn't think Epel felt that way about you. Maybe he's just joking?

… He's not. His eyes dart to your lips and darken, like there's a thunderstorm inside his gaze. Soft blue turns to rainy gray.

Do you want to?

…

"Yes." You think Epel stops breathing, but you don't have time to think about it because he's suddenly leaning towards you, stopping only when his lips are a few centimetres away from yours.

His labored breaths fan your lips and send a flurry of tingles down your abdomen…

___

❥ How do you handle this situation with Epel?

⟶ Lay back and let Epel take the lead. You deserve this after being teased in your dreams by your mystery man and teased in real life by your hyena coworker. Besides, you kind of want to see what your stubborn Epel is capable of in bed... (sub!deerlet content)

⟶ Touch him, claim him, make him beg for the next kiss. With the way he’s always clinging to you, you suspect this is what Epel has always wanted anyway. (dom!deerlet content)

vote here      |      what is this?

❥ taglist: @mirrorsandpacts @stormweaver13​ @bobaryn @justsomepersons @mokkeguts @maiieus​ @trashmomarcya @dat-bi-bitch @lem-thebeast @mythrule @hfhgjgji @zzz-sleeplessy-soft-xxx @anicious @kae-draws-sometimes @cogitover @sammy6667 @shrimp-heads @twistedmintcandy @gyghii @akelois @maknae-lenna @chiefcashgianthero @carasketch​ @mayorkoopbob @linseyz @gardenondreams @andromeda-gay @equus-meretrix @the-king-of-blue @spacebabesupernova @kagicannotsee @doraconia @hello-starlight @yandere-romanticaa @skyboo @uwu-dreams @kay8675 @meltyans @drawbud @msyaoigodkanna @roseinbloom02 @hoodiedevil @ikemenisruiningme @miiluka @hello-selene94 @moondustinhislungs @nosochek-3o @epher-posts @monoshii-wasu @rosavine @bitch-let-me-die @raychel @pumpkiethepie @hypmicluvbot @theallpowerfulrosami @mmquinno @mayunnaise21 @ruvelise

[voiceless-terror]

would you consider writing me some precanon jongeorgie angst. bc i imagine they probably bonded over their interest in the supernatural but never. you know. actually talked about their personal experiences/trauma. just give me a little of both of them handling that trauma very badly while never admitting their closest brush with the supernatural. or something. idk.

Hello anon! I haven’t written Jon/Georgie yet, but this prompt was too good to pass up. Hope you like!

Being with Georgie was easy. It shouldn’t have been, not for him.

But it was.

She carried herself with the utmost surety: of her opinions, of her feelings, of her place in the world. It wasn’t arrogance, more like confidence and something else Jon couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was a blankness in her eyes sometimes. Not an absence of feeling but an absence of...understanding, maybe. Of empathy. Georgie saw the world in black and white; she knew exactly what was right and what was wrong. She was blunt. She bulldozed over others in conversations, pointed out flaws that polite society knew to overlook and not name. Jon admired it, as much as it made him cringe.

But it was complemented by her fierce capacity for loving, her clever, teasing words, the way her fingers ran through his hair when he was stressed. That black and white view could quiet his mind like no other- ‘yes, Jon’, ‘no, Jon.’  She listened to his incessant rambling, nodding in the right places and adding her own commentary. She filled out the crosswords in the morning, her brow furrowed in concentration, colorful nails tapping at the table. She never wanted help, stubborn to a fault. Her dark skin ethereal in the morning light, the way her voice was low and croaky before her coffee. The ease with which she said ‘I love you.’ 

He remembered the day she first approached him, all ripped-tights and smudged, smoky eyeshadow. Just leaned against the wall on that chilly fall night and snatched the cigarette right from his hand, an eyebrow flicked upward as she took a drag. He couldn’t get a word out, just silently took her phone when she offered it and typed in a number with shaking hands. A year later and she was still that same girl, though he’d seen her stash of manga and her weird cat memorabilia. She was whole, real. It was comfortable.

“I’m not really sure if I should go.” They’re curled up on the couch, Jon leaning into the warm bulk of her. “All of the others are going, though.”

“It’s not like you’re close, right?” Jon’s petting the Admiral, the new addition to the household fitting in seamlessly. “I’m sure she won’t take it as an insult. You can always say you’re busy. Who was it, again? Her father?”

“Yeah.” Georgie’s shifting against him, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. It’s odd- she’s not usually so awkward about these things. If there’s something she doesn’t want to talk about, she shuts it down right away. This seems...different. “And no, not close. But everyone else is going- they want to show their support, I guess. It would be awkward if I didn’t.”

Perhaps Georgie didn’t like funerals. You’re not supposed to, of course. Maybe it was a phobia, a perfectly valid one. Plenty of people don’t like to see the reminder of death laid out before them. Jon’s been to a few in his lifetime- for his Gran’s friend, for a distant cousin.

For his parents.

He doesn’t remember his father’s, he might not have even gone. He was only two at the time. He distantly remembers his mother’s; it wasn’t well attended, he sat in the front row with his Gran. He doesn’t even remember crying, if he even realized the thing in the box was his mother, dead and gone.

Needless to say, he understands Georgie’s sentiments. “You don’t have to go, not if...not if you don’t like it. Plenty of people are uncomfortable with death-” This was the wrong thing to say, for Georgie tensed instantly, leaning away from him.

“That’s not it at all,” she says, snatching her legs out from where Jon’s leaning comfortable against them. “It’s- it’s the performance of it all. All those people standing around a body, sniffling and moaning-”

Jon tried for levity, bristling at her tone. “People grieve, they need closure-”

Georgie snorted, this time shoving him away on the couch, the Admiral jumping from Jon’s lap at the movement. Her words became impassioned, as if Jon needed to know, needed to understand. “Cremate them, then! Say a few words, scatter the ashes, whatever. But having the body on display like that?” She gets up, starts to pace. Jon’s never seen her like this. “Paint the corpse, dress it up, pretend it’s a person still but it’s not, and everyone’s just standing there around it, praying over it and watching it like it’s not just rotting meat you put lipstick on-”

“Georgie!”

“I can’t stand it.” She stops in front of him, chest heaving and eyes aflame. “What’s so monumental about it? We live, we die- and her father was old, it was bound to happen sometime. No need to make such a to-do. It’s- it’s just disgusting, is what it is.” She didn’t continue, and an awkward silence permeated the room. 

Georgie got worked up about things on occasion. But the wild look in her eye, the total sense of incomprehension was...disconcerting. He agreed with her on certain points, of course, but the vehemence behind them- something wasn’t right. But it didn’t feel right to pry, either, and Georgie surely wouldn’t appreciate it.

“You could just say you’re busy, you don’t have to go,” he tries tentatively. She seems to deflate where she stands, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. So he stands up, taking her hand in his. She lets him, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “But if you do, I can come with you. If you’d like.”

They stand in the very back row of the church after awkwardly greeting her grieving coworker. Georgie’s nails dig painfully into his arm, but he says nothing. They leave after ten minutes and stop at an Indian buffet on the way home. He silently watches her dig into a curry, his own untouched.

___________

When she first met Jon, she thought he was utterly out of her league.

It was her first semester back at school, she was an absolute fucking mess- drinking at all hours, barely present in her classes. She was out at the bar with a few new friends, most of whom she’d already forgotten the names of, and saw him standing there under a single flickering lamp, a cigarette dangling from long, slender fingers, raven hair back in a messy bun. Not many people could pull that off but he looked almost effortlessly cool (a thing she’d later find laughable for ever thinking) in his dingy leather jacket, his eyes far away and shadowed. She wondered what made him lose sleep. He had an odd, crooked little smile on his face and she was filled with liquid courage. The look he gave her when she took that cigarette out of his hand made her knees weak, and he took the proffered phone like he was only a little impressed. She sent a text to his phone and left, so embarrassed she went straight home.

He never did text her. To be fair, she never expected him to.

But she found him not two days later, hunched over a table in the campus library. She did a double take- surely this couldn’t be him, her impossibly handsome, silent figure who she surely dreamed up. But there was no mistaking that hair, those eyes. He was smaller, somehow diminished in his baggy jumper and wire-rimmed glasses, tapping a pencil against his textbook in irritation. Before she knew it she found herself picking up her phone, sending a text to the number with no name. And sure enough, his phone buzzed.

They went out on their first date a day later.

Jon was a ball of nerves, awkward and not at all like the man she thought she met that night. Somehow, the real Jon was better. She liked the way he blushed and stammered, the way a touch of her hand left him flustered and unable to speak. The way he could talk for hours about nothing at all, making even the most dull of subjects seem interesting with that voice of his- a voice surely meant for radio or T.V., something Jon himself endlessly scoffed at whenever she brought it up. They would sit in front of the telly for hours, marathoning ridiculous ghost hunting shows and pointing out the obvious fakes. Jon had a weakness for ghost stories, just like she did. “Most of them are absolute drivel, of course,” he said.

Most of them. 

They found comfort in each other, their small island of two, had no need for other company. Georgie had never been able to relate to someone so well, not since Alex, and Jon was never fond of crowds. Three months in he tried to break up with her, saying he could never give her what ‘she needed’ but she stopped that in its tracks- Georgie would be the one who decided what she did and didn’t need, thank you very much. She liked the way he leaned into her on movie nights, like her touch was the only thing that mattered. The sincerity in his eyes whenever he complimented her in that earnest, awkward way of his. He challenged her when he thought she was wrong, sometimes their fights lasted days. But they always came back to one another, each knowing they had no one else who understood them. Was it healthy? Georgie couldn’t answer that, she didn’t know herself. Jon probably didn’t either. But she loved him, in her way. 

That night they have a few glasses of wine, and Jon’s regaling her with some ridiculous story from his youth- apparently he was somewhat of a delinquent, wandering about at all hours. She laughs in delight, imagining a small, serious Jon climbing fences and evading the law. But suddenly Jon stops, his eyes going wide and his face growing ashen as he stares unblinking at the table.

It’s a spider- a tiny thing, really. Georgie’s been seeing a lot of them lately, and she really should be better about dusting the place. But Jon- Jon looks absolutely terrified, like the thing’s bound to leap out and kill him. She opens her mouth to tease, an instinctive reaction, but is instead startled by the loud smack of a hand against the table. Jon had smashed it certainly, but he lifts his hand and stares at it in wide-eyed horror, as if whatever he sees is nine times worse than the original thing.

“Jon-”

The chair hits the ground as he stumbles to her bathroom with heavy, labored breathing. She gets up slowly, approaching as quietly as possible to find him hyperventilating against the sink, the faucet on full blast as he washes his hand- scratches it, really. He’s mumbling frantically under his breath.

“...so many legs, get off, get off-”

She makes her presence known as not to startle him, approaching from the side and gently wrapping a hand around his arm once she sees him drawing blood. He starts anyway, his movements jerky and frenzied as he rips his arm away like her touch burns.

“It’s just a spider Jon,” she says softly, lifting her hands to show she means no harm. “It’s okay, you got it, it’s dead now-”

“But what if it isn’t!” He spits, slamming his hands on the marble rim of the sink and leaving bloody prints in his wake. He’s breathing so fast she thinks he might pass out. “What if it isn’t?”

She has no answer to that.

It takes about two hours, a hot shower and a stiff drink for him to calm down. They lay on the couch, watching something stupid, mind-numbing. She runs her fingers through his hair. He always liked that. She doesn’t say a word, he’s exhausted, and she knows from experience that pushing him will just lead to another fit like before. The next day, he brings her Hungarian by way of apology. They eat in a more comfortable silence, Jon gradually warming up as the evening goes on. Still, she doesn’t ask.

She spends the weekend cleaning her flat, standing on a chair and vacuuming at the cobwebs.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440474

[unsaidmar]

Call.

a/n: hello peeps! this is a request! thank you for liking what i write, it means the world to me. love y'all. requests still open. 

wc: 1.5k hehe

warning: mentions of death, curse words, sad stuff.

pairing: spencer x bau! reader.

plot: For the first time, you’re not where he is. It drives you crazy. 

--------------

You considered yourself quite the resilient person. Emotions got to you but never incapacitated you. Danger was a given in the career path you had chosen and the prospect of it was something you were used to, but never like this. It was always your own life you were worried about, but the BAU had taken the grasp you had on your job and your reality and completely redifined it.

Being guarded with your emotions and affections was a defense mechanism you had developed thanks to your experience in law enforcement. People always got hurt and you had to move on from it, that’s just how it was. But the BAU was the one to break the mold.

Those people had been through a lot together, the good, the bad and the ugly. They had seen it all and done it all, and now you were a part of it. They took you in and accepted you like you hadn’t just joined the team and you let them. Soon enough, Rossi was walling you “kid” and kissing both your cheeks when he greeted you, Morgan was fist bumping you when you made stupid jokes and you were going out to dinner with Emily, JJ and Penelope. Not one of them hesitated to put their life on the line with or for you, and it shook your world.

All of a sudden it wasn’t just yourself you had to worry about, because every person walking into burning buildings and hostage situations with you was your family. You loved every one of them and losing them scared you a lot, enough to feel like your heart was beating out of your chest whenever they were in danger.

And still, you had to go and fall in love.

Spencer had woven himself into your life, your routine, your work life and eventually your heart. It felt like he was marking his territory before he knew he was doing it, something resembling a person moving into your home, but the things he left behind were more than a toothbrush or a book. He left his mark in little things you incorporated into your life and it slowly transformed the both of you into a collage of each other.

He started drinking soy milk when you convinced him it was not bad and that subjecting himself to the pain of being lactose intolerant and still consuming milk, wasn’t worth it. You stopped leaving your windows open at night when he freaked you out about stray cats taking residence in your couch and potential burglars getting in. And those absolutely inconsequential things were forever going to be a gift you had given each other, no matter what came out of your relationship, even if you went your separate ways. Which, you never did.

Three years into working at the BAU, and two into your relationship with Spencer, you got married. The both of you figured that the wait was not necessary because you knew very early on that that was it, you were it. Next thing you knew, your fourth wedding anniversary was coming up, and so were many other things.

After getting kidnapped and shot, you were never the same. You had come to terms with dying, you wanted it to happen so you didn’t have to deal with the inevitable trauma that came with surviving, but you weren’t that lucky. Everyone had been worried about you and the living ghost look you were sporting. It looked like you were re living the situation in your head every moment you were awake, and that was indeed the case. It haunted you when you were sleeping and it consumed you when you were awake, so Hotch made you take a break.

Stubbornness was your thing, so he took away your badge any other form of ID that could get you into the building, he didn’t answer your calls and only texted your work cellphone to ask you to stop asking him to reinstate you. Being alone with your thoughts was hell. Having your family out there risking their lives without you was even worse.

“Hey Spence, it’s me again… um... could you let me know if you’ve been getting my texts? It’s just that… you never not text me back and I’m getting worried. Is that too much? I’m probably being ridiculous. Anyways, call me back. Or text. Just let me know you’re okay. I love you.” You sighed and put your phone down for what felt like the twentieth time in the last half hour.

This had never been the case. You were never the worried spouse that had to rely on phone calls or texts to communicate or to even know your husband was alive. It made you empathize with Will, with Haley. It made you want to ask them for advice on not going crazy. Your mind was already going rouge.

I can’t be a widow. I can’t mourn the love of my life, how does anyone? What happens if I lose him? How foolish of me to have dismissed this when we got married. We’re FBI agents, for the love of God. We point guns and have them pointed back at us for a living. I’ll have to take my ring off. Do I keep it? I can’t look at it if he’s gone. Who picks out the dress for the funeral? If I have to do it, I’ll go insane. I can’t bury him; I can’t go watch them lower him to the ground. I will just cremate him and split his ashes so his mom has him too. His mom. That woman won’t be able to bear outliving her baby. God, please pick up the fucking phone.

You: Honey, please text me back!!! Have someone text me for you, idc.

You: Spence, charge your phone.

You: Why is Derek not texting me back either?

You: Are you angry at me?

You: I’d rather you tell me if you’re angry. Don’t ghost me when you’re on a case.

You: Spencer.

You: I’m calling Penny.

Three rings it took for Penelope to answer.

“Hi my sweet, beautiful, ____. How can I be of assistance to you at this indecent hour of the morning/night?” She chirped, her tone already relaxing you. She would be the first to know if something had gone wrong.

“Hi Penny, do you have any word on the team? I keep calling and texting Spencer and he hasn’t gotten back to me. It’s been like three hours.” You said, holding back the tears.

“Oh, sweet stuff. Last I heard, they were delivering the profile. They’re in Kansas and there was a tornado warning. The power is out. Maybe all of their phones ran out of battery.” She tried to reassure you, like always, already knowing what was happening in your head. “Is everything okay? Have you slept?”

“Not really. Spence stopped replying and I got anxious.”

“Don’t worry hun, bad news travel fast.”

“Yeah, yeah… you’re right. I should…”

Before you could finish your sentence, the door creaked open and you saw a defeated looking Spencer hang his jacket and take his shoes off trying to be quiet, assuming you were asleep. You felt the color come back to your face and you dropped the phone on the couch without even making sure you had ended the call.

“Oh, thank God.” You ran to him and aggressively hugged him. Much to your embarrassment, the tears you were trying so hard to hold back were now streaming down your face.

“Hey, hey…” He took in your appearance and instantly worried about you. “What happened? Is everything okay?”

“What the fuck happened to your phone? And everyone else’s for that matter!” You said, letting go of him and raising your voice without meaning to. Spencer knew you never yelled, so he was taken aback by your words.

“It died, ___, four hours ago, the power went out and the generator wasn’t working. Why are you screaming?” He rushed out.

“Because you never texted me back and I thought you were dead!” Your voice was a lot calmer now, much more frustrated and tired.

“Honey, I’m so sorry, everything happened so fast, I didn’t even think about my phone. I didn’t mean to make you angry; I promise.”

“I’m not angry, baby. At least not at you. I hate being here and not out there with you. I can’t sit around and wait for you to give me proof of life. it’s driving me insane and it has only happened once.” You groaned, choking back quiet sobs now. “I can’t lose you. I can’t be the last to find out.” You fell to the couch like your legs had stopped working.

Your husband was looking at you like he didn’t even think about that, like the realization had just hit him. You couldn’t blame him, neither of you were used to that dynamic of checking your phones because the one person you would want to update was always along for the ride.

“Baby, you’re not going to lose me. I’m so sorry, I promise I’ll care more about my phone. I didn’t mean to worry you.” He said, crouching to be eye to eye with you and taking your hands.

“No, no..I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous, I went crazy. You shouldn’t have to do that…” You kissed his knuckles and slid down the couch to sit on the floor with him. All you wanted was to be near him. You put your arms around his neck and whispered. “I love you, I’m sorry I yelled at you. I was losing it. I’m not used to this feeling of not knowing where you are or if you’re okay, I felt helpless.”

“It’s okay hun, I get it, I love you too. We’re both new to this whole being-a part thing. If I’m honest, I don’t like it.” He pulled you to his lap so you were tangled up like a koala.

“I hate it. It 's the worst. I’m done with this break”

“Hotch is just looking out for you, he wanted to give you your space after the accident. You can talk to him and see how he feels about you coming back.” His reassuring words were already lightening the mood, and you were grateful he was fine. Once the adrenaline died down, the sleep you had been missing hit you like a ton of bricks. You stifled a yawn and planted a kiss on Spencer’s forehead.

“You’re tired. Let’s go to sleep.” He took notice of your droopy eyelids and went to stand up. “Have you been awake all this time?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t just go to bed.” You replied, removing yourself from his lap and taking his hand.

“Come on, let’s crash. I’m off tomorrow, we don’t have to wake up early.”

Oh, thank the lord.

“I’ll go to sleep, but I have one condition.” You said with your best attempt at a mischievous grin.

“What is it?” Spencer asked, knowing that tone and that face all too well.

“Get a stupid portable charger.”

[clonecest-bin-account]

Request: Toast (the sandwich/toast clone) and Dogma, SFW, where Dogma is new to the Coruscant Guard after being transferred there post-Umbara.

(This turned unexpectedly serious hdsjhfh anyway I hope you enjoy!)

When he’s been told that he had been reassigned to the Guard, Dogma had been confused. So what? No reconditioning? It turns out, reassigning clones left and right has been a strategy that has been going around for a while, now; the Jedi know about it, but they always turn a blind eye when they find a trooper in their ranks that wasn’t there before.

So hooray, he’s not going to get reconditioned, but now he has to navigate through the Guard; needless to say, he’s not that confident in his interpersonal skills, but he’ll manage, he’ll have to. He doubts he’d get a third shot at this, so he can’t screw this up.

Things turn out to be not that bad, especially considering that everybody minds their own business, which he appreciates. There’s also a certain structure and security that he appreciates, something that, in the heat of the battle, it was impossible to maintain for the battalions that are more involved in the war efforts.

 After he’s had enough time to get used to how things are on Coruscant, he’s been sent to prison duty; more specifically, he needs to supervise the correct cremation of the prisoners’ dead bodies, which is quite morbid, thinking about it, but at least isn’t that hard for a rookie to do. Besides, Dogma has already lived through the battlefield, he knows about death, so this doesn’t faze him too much.

There’s only one thing: he doesn’t know what to do about his co-worker. Not that he causes any problems to him - he’s quite jovial actually - but still, Dogma doesn’t know how to address him, or if he should address him at all. He’s not exactly a huge fan of “making friends”, though the more time the two of them spend together, the more he wonders if he should at least try to strike a conversation with him that isn’t work related.

What if he sounds unlikable? What if they don’t get along? Wouldn’t that disrupt the working space’s peace? The last thing Dogma wants to do is to cause trouble, not when he’s got a second chance that he doesn’t even think he deserves.

 Still, one day, the curiosity becomes too much to handle, and…

 “Toast?”

The other clone startles before turning towards him. He probably wasn’t expecting to be addressed like this, out of the blue, and by Dogma of all people. “Yeah? Something’s wrong?”

“No, I was just wondering… Your name…”

There, he finally said it: it’s since they’ve met that he’s wondered about his name. Not that it’s such a weird name - at least Dogma thinks so, though he doesn’t believe clone standards are that universal when it comes to this stuff - but… Let’s just say that he has a hunch, and he wants it confirmed so that he can begin focusing on something else. Yes, he’s thought about it a lot; don’t ask him why, because he doesn’t know the answer himself.

“Ah…” Toast utters. Dogma isn’t able to read the expression on his face. “Well, I think we’ve been in each other’s company for you to understand why I’m named like that…”

Oh yes, Dogma is aware of Toast’s eating habits, but that’s not what he’s wondering about. “I just meant…” C’mon, Dogma, you can do it. “Did they give you this name, or did you choose it?”

“Huh?” Toast cocks his head to the side, looking at Dogma like he doesn’t understand what he means. Then he goes back to look at the control panel. “Well, if you really want to know, I didn’t pick the name. People began calling me like that and it kind of stuck.”

Oh, so it is like Dogma suspected. Interesting…

 “How about you?”

“Sorry?”

“What? You asked me about my name, but I can’t ask you about yours?” Toast chuckles. At least he doesn’t look offended or upset.

“Oh, that…” Dogma mutters. “Well, it’s not that different from your name. I always followed orders to a fault, and thus ‘Dogma’ was born.”

“I see…”

 For a moment, neither of them speaks again, thinking about this odd similarity they share.

Then, Dogma opens his mouth, and everything he’s been holding inside comes overflowing in his words.

“It didn’t bother me, or at least it didn’t use to, but now… You know, I’ve been wondering. If I was so much like that to earn myself a name specific for how I acted, can I ever become something more? How much of me is me, and how much is ‘Dogma’?”

He doesn’t even know why he’s telling this to Toast of all people, especially considering that they’ve barely interacted, but he couldn’t help himself. Maybe it’s because, deep down, he hopes he can understand.

“You know, I think I get what you’re trying to say…” is all Toast says on the matter, but to Dogma it means the world, because it means that he’s not alone in this.

 And to think that there was a time in which he didn’t even care about it. For him, being called Dogma was a source of pride, because following orders is what they’ve been born to do, but after Umbara… He’s not so sure about that anymore.

Maybe one day, he’ll figure it out…

 “Hey.”

O-Oh… Did he space out? Yes, he absolutely did. “Y-Yes?”

“I was wondering…” Toast begins, eyes still on the control panel, almost shy about looking at Dogma in the eyes. “You’re free this evening, right?”

“Yeah,” Dogma replies. Toast should know; they have the same shifts after all.

“Then… Would you like to… I don’t know, go to 79’s or something?”

Is Toast asking him out? Or maybe it’s just a friendly outing. Jeez, Dogma, don’t jump to conclusions immediately.

 Is this because of the discussion they’ve just had? Or would’ve Toast invited him anyways? It’s hard to tell, though if he has to be completely honest, Dogma doesn’t really care about it.

Whatever the reasons may have been, he still feels flattered that someone would want to spend time with him, especially considering how little they know each other - and maybe that’s the reason, a mean voice suggests. Still, he believes that the two of them understand each other a little bit.

Besides… He never went to 79’s, and he’d lie if he said that he’s not curious about it, thus Dogma can only turn to look at Toast, waiting for him to do the same, and smile.

“I’d love to.”

Tag list: @maulusque​ @snap-p​ @menac-ika @captainrexwouldnever If you want to be added feel free to let me know! Just know that if you are a minor you’ll be tagged only for the sfw fics.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Tightrope Fanfic

Title: Tightrope

Summary:  Virgil feels lost. It’s not a foreign feeling, especially when one is the embodiment of Anxiety. But it feels like one as he stares down at a sniffling Roman in his arms. He doesn’t know what has happened. One moment, the others are having their spat about the wedding. The next, Roman barges into his room mid-breakdown and hasn’t left since. 

Pairings: platonic prinixety

Word-Count: 2.9k

Warnings: Crying, Anger, Panic, Discussion of POF, Hurt/Comfort

This is a companion fic to Safety Net, but you don’t have to read that one to understand the context of this one <3

-

Virgil feels lost. It’s not a foreign feeling, especially when one is the embodiment of Anxiety. But it feels like one as he stares down at a sniffling Roman in his arms. He doesn’t know what has happened. One moment, the others are having their spat about the wedding. The next, Roman barges into his room mid-breakdown and hasn’t left since.

He keeps expecting the rug to be pulled out from under him. That perhaps this is some delayed April’s Fool joke. A ploy by Remus or one of the Others to fuck with him. His mind crafts a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations for why this can’t be reality.

Because Virgil doesn’t know how to handle a Roman who fell from a great height and shattered completely. What if he cannot put the pieces back together again? What if he messes up and makes things worse? What if he’s the one to cause this in the first place?

No, he refuses to go down that spiraling thought pattern. Because if he unravels now, then he’ll be completely useless to Roman. He compartmentalizes the fear, stuffing it away to haunt him at a later date.

Roman’s cries have died down to a few hiccuping gasps of air. The ever-poised, ever-presentable Prince of Passion is anything but. He lays in Virgil’s arms, as limp and lifeless as a doll. His white princely jacket wrinkly and half-undone, red sash hanging loosely. Virgil cannot see his eyes from underneath his rumpled, messy hair but he’s willing to bet they’re bloodshot. Virgil bits his lips as he notes the dark ichor running down Roman’s cheeks like smeared mascara. 

Roman has been in his room for far too long. Especially for someone who was already in a fragile emotional state upon showing up. Virgil shouldn’t have allowed him to stay. But he couldn’t find in himself to deny Roman, not when he’d looked at Virgil with a helpless terror in his eyes. So he had chosen instead to hold onto a sobbing Roman while trying to figure out what the hell happened. 

The clock in his room is hardly reliable, but he’s certain at least an hour has passed and he’s still nowhere closer than he’d been at the start. Which is that it involves the stupid wedding, Patton and Deceit. The latter of which, apparently told them his actual name. He won’t know more unless Roman divulges more. And in the swirling storm of hysteria that is his room, the chances of that happening is slim.

Before he can let doubt rake its claws into him, he pulls Roman closer to his chest and syncs out. Roman realizes a moment too late what’s happening. He lets out a startled gasp, tries pushing away, but it’s too late. With a loud crackle, they appear in the gloomy fog of a dead forest.

Roman looks around, eyebrows bunched up together. If this was any other situation, Virgil might’ve smirked.

“It’s the imagination,” Virgil says, answering the question behind Roman’s bewildered gaze, “Or at least my little pocket of it. No one will find us here.”

Well maybe except Remus, the one responsible for its creation. Virgil is hoping that today will not be the day he decides to return here for the first time in years.

Roman opens his mouth to speak, yet hesitates halfway through. He turns his head away from Virgil, shrugging. Virgil’s cold dead heart plummets at this. Roman isn’t supposed to be this defeated. He’s supposed to be stubborn, obstinate, argumentative. Virgil knows how to handle that. He knows how to bait Roman into banter, to get him to admit the root of his problems. But this? He doesn’t know how to deal with a Roman this apathetic. And that scares him.

Virgil should apologize, he thinks. After everything that happened, he hunkered down in his room. He stayed away thinking his presence would only be detrimental than beneficial. He was Anxiety after all, flight or fight. In this case, he chose flight. But obviously, like everything else in his existence, that’d been the wrong choice yet again.

He inhales deeply, his breath hitching at the last moment, the words refusing to come out. They remain stuck in clumps inside his throat, refusing to solidify into verbal spoken words. The ghostly howl of the wind is the only sound between the two.

Then Roman laughs. It sounds more like a cat hacking up a hairball than his usual melodious chuckles. It’s loud, harsh and absolutely dripping with pain. Halfway through he ends up in a coughing fit. Virgil watches, unsure how to respond.

“You were right.” Roman croaks at last, sagging heavily against a tree.

Those words aren't what Virgil likes to hear. It’s never good when he, Anxiety, is right.  He’d much prefer to be proven wrong. Even if that meant Roman lording it over his head for weeks on end. It’s annoying as hell and he never thought he’d miss that until now.

Virgil swallows, pushing the sudden ache in his chest aside. He doesn’t need confirmation to know what he was right about.

 Still, his heart thudding heavily in his chest, he asks anyways, “About Janus?”

Roman nods, grimacing. 

“Ro, what happened?” Virgil asks, unable to hold that question within himself any longer.

The fanciful side doesn’t respond at first. His hand traces the grooves of the bark on the tree he’s leaned against. His lips twist and contort, as if fighting to find the words to say. Virgil isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Roman ever at a loss for words until now.

“I thought it was a villainous trick at first. Just another ploy to get us to trust him. I made fun of it, even. It wasn’t until the way you reacted when I mentioned it to you that I thought otherwise,” Roman says, breaking in mid-conscious thought. Something that is very Roman-like, forgetting other people can’t read his mind. There must be something in Virgil’s face because he clarifies, “Deceit’s name I mean.”

“I mean, I don’t blame you,” Virgil says slowly, toying with his hoodie strings, “He never told any of the Others.”

“But he told you?”

Now it’s Virgil’s turn to stare at the ground. The ache in his chest returns, except it’s different. It’s like a fire-pit at a summer camp-out. It’s warm and comfortable to linger next to, but stay too long and you’ll be sweltering in the unbearable suffocating heat. The same goes for thinking about the past. That’s why he hates getting nostalgic. It’s hard to reminisce about the good times without remembering why they ended.

The old him that hasn’t been extinguished yet, the one that called himself Janus’ friend, is indignant that Roman apparently made fun of Janus’ name. However the newer him that calls himself Virgil and wears the purple hoodie, isn’t. Good, he thinks, he deserves it. And he isn’t too ashamed of feeling that way. Not after the raging forest fire that burnt down their friendship in the first place.

“Yeah.” Virgil breaths out with stifled lungs. He can feel Roman’s eyes burning a hole in his head. He thinks he’d find an unspoken question in them if he looks up. He doesn’t elaborate. He isn’t in the mood for scorching his tongue on the ashes of a cremated friendship. Especially when it’d shift the focus onto him and not Roman. Something he’s certain Roman wants despite it being so rare for him to flinch away from the spotlight. 

For all their vast, stark differences, they aren’t really that different when it comes down to several things, one being that neither of them like showing weakness. They are also incredibly stubborn. It just so happens Virgil has the stronger resolve at this moment.

“I trusted him,” Roman says, continuing where he’d left off, “I trusted him, I thought he’d knew best and I just wanted--” 

A huff cuts off Roman’s words as he flings his arms towards the sky. He paces in front of Virgil, muttering bits and pieces too quick for him to understand. Perhaps he does need to share a little. Just to help Roman know and understand he isn’t alone. 

“Listen, I get it,” Virgil says, “I also trusted Janus once too--”

“No, it wasn’t Janus--well, yes, but--” Roman yanks at his hair, “I meant Patton!”

Patton? Virgil feels as if he'd been riding on the flying magic rug from Aladdin. Only the magic rug has been ripped from underneath him and now he’s freefalling into a waterfall full of sharp pointy rocks at the bottom.

He’d thought he knew where this conversation was heading except now he’s lost more than ever before. He needs a minute to breathe, to process what’s happening. Roman doesn’t give him that. He pushes on, shaking his head like a riled-up mistreated stallion from a horse girl movie.

“I wanted to do what was right for Thomas and--and Patton has always known what’s right, right?”

He gazes desperately at Virgil, searching for reassurance, for affirmation. Virgil’s heart sinks. He can't honestly give that to Roman, though he'd love to give Roman whatever his heart desires to stop his pain. 

Patton tries his best, he really does. But even he is wrong sometimes. He has made mistakes, ones that have hurt Virgil himself both past and present. And although Virgil has forgiven him, it doesn’t change the fact that even their softest puffball isn’t always right.

He can tell Roman realizes that by the way his scowl grows bigger.

“Am I too dimwitted?” Roman growls, “Was I the only one foolish enough to believe that? Just like believing that I could truly be--be--” 

He lets out a tormented scream, slumping down against a tree. Head bowed, knees drawn close, arms pulled tightly around himself. Virgil stands a few feet away, still so far from understanding as he was when Roman first appeared in his room. Only that apparently he needed to kick both Janus’ and Patton’s collective asses.

Virgil withholds a sigh as he crouches down next to Roman. 

A gloomy fog hardly provides the best lighting. It’s better than the dark murkiness of his room, however, and it’s here that he notices something. A blueish-purple splotch of something. Just barely poking out of Roman’s collar. It’s then, Virgil remembers that a metaphoric “bruised ego” is anything but metaphoric for one metaphysical entity such as Roman, Creativity and Ego in one.

“Princey,” Virgil says, his voice unusually level, “did you get hurt by what happened earlier?”

Roman doesn’t answer his question. Not directly at least. “Lee and Mary Lee hardly spoke to Thomas at the wedding, did you know that?”

“Yeah,” Virgil bites his lips, “I knew that.”

It’s a rhetorical question. Of course Virgil knows--he’s a part of Thomas. He’d been with Thomas during the wedding. The leg bouncing up and down in an anxious jitter. Directing the eyes away from the merriment of the wedding and towards that pointless moronic mobile game. The clenching feeling in Thomas’ throat during the brief interaction with Lee and Mary Lee. He hadn’t even been able to say hello because of Virgil.

He’d tried so hard to hold back, to not torment Thomas with his decision anymore than his host had already endured. It didn’t really matter in the end. As Thomas finally slipped away from the wedding, so had Virgil slipped into his room. He ignored the muffled noises of the debate erupting outside the mindscape. Why show his face when Thomas already knew what his input would be? Or knowing what he’d once been, for that matter? Or at least, that had been his justifications at the time.

“Which hardly seems fair! After what I--Thomas sacrificed to be there for them. B-but it’d been the right decision, right?” Roman laughs, shaking his head. He doesn’t wait for an answer as he pushes on, “Was it too selfish to expect more? To think that making the right decision would result in an award?”

Virgil stays silent. Morality isn’t his forte; sure as Anxiety he often cautioned Thomas to follow societal rules. It’s often easier to go with the current rather than fight against it. So he’s hardly the most reliable source of it. 

And as for his role, both the wedding and the call-back offered the same amount of dread. After all, he’s Anxiety. It’s literally his job to nitpick and point out every single thing a situation could go wrong, no matter how improbable or absurd. Unlike Roman, he’d be lying if he said he was surprised by the outcome of the wedding. It’s not far off from what he had predicted.

On the flipside, he could offer a million ways of how the audition could’ve ended poorly. A tear in Thomas’ pants mid-audition. Thomas blanking out on a crucial line. A meteor falling from the atmosphere and effectively crushing Thomas to death. Okay, that last one is highly improbable but it could still happen! You never know!

Regardless, he doubted any of that is what Roman needed to hear.

“I trusted him. He’d said it’d been the right decision when I made it. And I believed him.” Roman scoffs.

Virgil frowns, cautiously sitting a few feet away from Roman. He chooses not to look him in the eye, treating him as if he’s an easily-startled wild creature.

“Y’know, he and I are going through a bit of a rough patch. He’s trying his best, I know he is. But take it from me--sometimes someone’s best isn’t always good enough. And I think it’s okay if it...takes time for you to forgive Patton.”

“No!”

“No?”

“I mean,” Roman lets out a frustrated scream, “I don’t know! Before, there was a script, a stage, parts to play. Ones I had intimately memorized! But it’s as if it’s before the curtain rises before the opening show and the director has thrown out the script completely. He expects me after years of practice to perform something I’ve never seen--that even he has no concept of what it looks like and h-how is any actor expected to perform in such conditions?” 

A light-bulb finally goes off in Virgil’s head.

“You’re...angry at Thomas, aren’t you?”

Roman flinches as he’d been struck, throwing his body backwards harshly against the tree. He looks hardly affected by it as he scrambles quickly to his feet.

“Wh-what? No! That’s absurd!” Roman protests, “I’m not angry at Thomas--”

“But you are,” Virgil interrupts, rising to his feet, “You’re angry at both Patton and Janus, yeah, but they’re just targets to throw your misplaced anger at. Because you don’t want to admit it’s actually Thomas--”

“Yes, because you’re wrong, Mary Mary Q-quite Misconstrued!” Roman puffs up his chest, trying to keep his head high, “I--I’d never, I can’t hate Thomas--”

“Whoa, I didn’t say you hated him,” Virgil says, gently tugging Roman’s hands into his own, “there’s a difference between being mad at someone for something, and hating them.”

Roman looks at him with almost a wild gaze to his eyes, so close to almost hyperventilating. Virgil can almost see the invisible cracks in Roman’s skin, his multitude of facades peeling away before Virgil’s eyes. He looks at Roman and sees himself. 

“I used to think they were the same thing,” Virgil begins, “But they’re not. Hate is when you abhor ill will towards someone, when you wish them dead or worse. Anger...anger is just a form of fear. And it’s okay to feel and experience that anger, you don’t have to repress it.”

“I’m not scared of Thomas,” Roman scoffs, his gaze drawn to the forest floor rather than Virgil.

“But you are afraid that if Thomas can accept Janus and possibly Remus, then he could just as easily change his mind regarding you, right?” Virgil questions, “You’re afraid because all you've ever done has been in Thomas’ best interest and suddenly now you’re being told all it’s done is hurt him. You’re afraid but you don’t want to admit it, so you turn to anger instead because that’s better than being scared, right?”

“I’m not…” Roman trails off, clenching his jaw. Virgil is fully expecting to get punched by the way his body tenses up. Roman does lunge towards him just then, arms flailing out. Virgil doesn’t even have a chance to raise his arms up in defense before he gets an armful of blubbering prince once more.

“I’m supposed to be Thomas’ hero, he told me I was, but what if I’m not? W-what if I never was? And--and I have to be good, Virgil, I can’t be evil--”

Roman lets it all go then. It’s a tidal wave of anxiety and fears, of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Almost any other person would become overwhelmed by how much perturbation Roman’s kept hidden all these years. But Virgil is Anxiety, his realm is terror and trepidation. He’s experienced every fear-induced thought and more under the sun. He understands it better than perhaps anyone else ever could.

He knows Roman will most likely clam up after today. That later on, they’ll need to address these things in detail and take care of the bruises mottling his skin. Roman will need encouragement to rebuild his confidence and to turn away from self-destructive habits. Both of which are things that Virgil struggles with all too well. He knows it to feel as impossible as walking across a tightrope blindfolded. Right now, however, all Roman needs is for someone to listen.

And so listen Virgil does.

[secretshinigami]

Title: Zombie Note Author: @izaori For: @llawlietofficial Pairings/Characters: Light Yagami, Ryuk, L, Matsuda, mentions of other characters Rating/Warnings: Teen, nongraphic violence, potentially unsettling descriptions of zombies (the effects of death on the human body are interesting, right? Now make that corpse jiggle) Prompt: Light didn’t read the fine print on the death note and now everyone he killed using it has turned into a zombie Author’s notes: Interesting idea! I wanted to explore Japanese folklore in either the fanart you requested or fanfic but I quickly discovered that these ideas are popular because they are specifically western. That being said, I tried to incorporate a couple cultural things since Death Note is so Japanese culture heavy, and I figured it would make sense if something like a “zombie note” happened would have something related, too. Then I got wrapped up in the details… I hope you like reading. It’s much more than 750 words. Thanks for the fun idea! It was a great last prompt to go out on! I wanted to do the fanart but it just wasn’t coming out right. Bonus sketch at the bottom based on those requests, though. Mods feel free to ditch that if you want just the fanfic.

—————————–

There’s a saying that life doesn’t always go as planned. Light Yagami, top student in the country and owner of a death note, knows this very well. He’s quickly learned that sometimes death doesn’t go as planned, either.

With someone more average, less motivated, maybe even scared and cowardly, there could have been minimal damage. An incident or two at most, enough to be written off as something silly like someone eating bath salts. Unfortunately for Light, and for people around the world, the young man had written names of hundreds if not thousands of criminals in the span of a week, along with scheduling many more to die that he cannot reverse. Death cannot be erased.

News of the first revival popped up in Japan, of course. Light had tried to space out the deaths enough that authorities could keep up with the stream of dead bodies, but there was bound to be a build up at first as society gets adjusted to a new, less crime ridden world. In a morgue somewhere, apparently one of the first criminals he had killed as a test subject got up from the table. The previously dead man scared the undertaker out of his mind, reaching out for him, clearly wanting to take a bite–!

It really was a stroke of luck that the undertaker had already sewn the corpse’s mouth shut using wire. After getting a quick yet confused grasp on the situation, the undertaker took the nearby fire extinguisher and made the corpse still once more.

News got out fast across the world. Dead bodies coming back to life. Unfortunately, not many people were nearly as lucky as the undertaker. Those killed by the zombies were turned into zombies themselves so long as they were salvageable. The very smallest relief is that the zombies seemed to ignore small children.

Light paces around his room, death note on his desk, untouched. It was obvious to him from the first occurrence but even the news is broadcasting what everyone is thinking now. Kira has created zombies. Any of the praise he had previously is gone, replaced with fear and disgust. Only a select few loons are absurd enough to support someone turning criminals into zombies! A few minutes pass, and Ryuk laughs, breaking the tense silence.

“This is funny to you, Ryuk?” Light asks, tone sharp. He stops in his tracks, glare icy.

Ryuk stares at him, unblinking. Can a shinigami even blink? “Very,” Ryuk states, “since I thought you read all the rules.”

“None of the rules say anything about zombies!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Light.” Ryuk floats over, snickering to himself, and flips open the death note. He points to a seemingly blank page on the back. Upon closer inspection, in a different more similarly colored ink, there is a rule that clearly states that humans written in the death note by another human that have died will come back as zombies after 72 hours from their time of death, provided their body is intact enough to be reanimated. Not only that, but a second rule states that these reanimated humans are able to do the same to other humans with the same restrictions.

Light can’t help but gawk at the hard to notice rules. He had been so careful to read over the rules before, but had missed this. Shameful trickery. Ryuk laughs again, watching the gears turn in Light’s head. These people are already dead, the death note can’t kill them again. Even if it could, they’d simply be zombies another time over.

~

Meanwhile, government officials that had already been pointing fingers about conspiracies on the deaths of criminals across the globe are now making much more serious accusations. This has now escalated from planned death to some kind of biowarfare, involving what is assumed to be a state of not actual death followed by this zombified state. There are arguments, with some people insisting that these are genuine zombies, not flukes. These people would be right.

L sits in solitude, listening through his computer to the chaos in Interpol. This Kira person, was this their intention all along? It’s not the feeling L had first gotten from them, but it had also only been a week since the Kira murders started. For all he knew, Kira could have planned this from the beginning. L feels rather confident that this was not, in fact, Kira’s goal, for if he was Kira and wanted to bring around the death of many people to become zombies, he wouldn’t have picked criminals. There would have been some overlap with criminals for sure, but just criminals? Not a chance.

Watari brings in L over the conference call, and L lays down the law. To prevent as much further tragedy as possible, no more reporting crime as much as possible. In fact, try to keep everything on paper. On the possibility that these aren’t genuine zombies, a cure for this zombified state should be researched. Furthermore, the finger pointing needs to stop. No country would have willingly inflicted this upon themselves along with the rest of the world. It goes on similarly with L heading to Japan.

~

Just how many criminals did Light already sentence to death? Pages upon pages, names and names, all over the world criminals continue to die. All over the world, corpses begin to reanimate. In more fortunate, more savvy places, people have already begun cremating all the corpses to circumvent the problem. It’s hard for a zombie to happen if it’s a pile of ash. Some places, however, are already under total lockdown. Mass zombie infestations turning people left and right.

Light pours over ideas, drilling Ryuk for answers, but Ryuk doesn’t give. He laughs, giving vague responses and going on about how interesting humans can be in a crisis. Light has had to completely halt his plans in cleansing the earth of criminals. By the sound of it, he won’t be able to continue his plans at all. The death note was just a farce, a false hope. Something designed to be dangled in front of his face like bait that he took like a starving fish.

“If I’m the one who created these zombies, shouldn’t I be able to control them? Since I’m able to control the actions of people before their death, to an extent.”

“No,” Ryuk laughs, “You can’t control a thing. This isn’t about you, Light. The power isn’t yours. You’re just using it.”

Of course. To a shinigami, to Ryuk, this is all just a funny game. Light feels burned by something he didn’t fully understand the scope of to begin with. It truly wasn’t his power, but he felt it was given to him with purpose. Bestowed upon him by some divine intervention because he is able to sway fate with a written name.

~

Zombies. Walking the streets, drudging, semi-intelligent despite being functionally brain dead. Varying degrees of rotted bodies. It’s funny and unfortunate, really, because one would think that a lockdown because of an actual zombie outbreak would mean people would stay inside as much as possible. That’s not the case.

“The government can’t take away my freedom!”

“The zombies are misunderstood!”

“There are no zombies!”

An actual zombie apocalypse could be in the works and there are people denying the existence of the zombies. Some people believe the zombies are real but straight up don’t care whatsoever. Then there are the people who think of the zombies in almost an animalistic sense, thinking that since they were once human they shouldn’t be killed again even though they are actively trying to eat at and therefore turn more humans.

It’s impressive. It makes Light want to double down and get rid of criminals more, give people a reason to think more clearly, but the more he tries to create that ideal world the more damage he’ll do.

L’s solution is simple, after an autopsy. Or vivisection, depending on how one would argue the inspection. The zombies are just animated corpses. It isn’t a disease. It isn’t a mass case of doctors and undertakers around the world collectively thinking all these bodies are corpses. Something impossibly otherworldly must be happening right here, right now. A force beyond their mortal comprehension is making these corpses come back.

“Kill them again,” L says bluntly, “Destroy them. If it’s a zombie, it’s already dead.”

“Ryuzaki, what about their families! Surely they wouldn’t want their loved ones being destroyed!” Somebody argues with L, of course. “What would you do if Watari became a zombie?!”

L puts a finger on his lip, dragging it down. His eyes go to the ceiling. “Unfortunately, I’d have to kill Watari. If the situation was reversed, he would need to do the same. Regardless, there is no saving them. The zombies exist only to destroy, so we must destroy them.”

Watari doesn’t respond, but what L said is true. He doesn’t want to think about it since he considers L to be his son, but if something were to happen that led L to become a zombie, he would want to be the one to put L down. He’d be much more upset if someone else did it.

~

Gun shots. Bats. Sledgehammers. People running over zombies with their cars. Some people have taken this as an excuse to let out their violent urges. Light sees this on the news and feels his blood boil. Something he wanted to prevent, senseless violence, has sprung up even more because of this damned note. Telling Ryuk to take it back is pointless. The damage is done. What would happen, though, if Light held onto it without using it? Would Ryuk kill him?

Light glares at the shinigami. “You said I was the first human you’ve seen write this many names so fast. That implies other humans have had a death note. Wouldn’t somebody have noticed a zombie before?”

“Who knows?” Ryuk floats over to the window, looking out at the abnormally empty street. “Maybe it’s been forgotten.”

There’s nothing Light can do to reverse the chaos, nothing he can do to end it. Fine, then. The worst have the worst have already been written, many other well-known and otherwise publicly known criminals have already been written. More zombies are bound to appear, but this is it. On a regular piece of notebook paper, Light writes himself a note explaining the situation, knowing he won’t necessarily believe it when he reads it.

“The death note is worthless to me now. If this is its purpose, I don’t want it. Take it back!”

“I’ve had a lot more fun than I expected already.” Ryuk laughs, grabbing the death note away from Light. “Too bad. I wanted to eat more of your apples. They’re so… juicy.”

“Leave already.”

~

Having excellent marksmanship, Matsuda is part of the force assigned to patrol. It’s not his favorite thing in the world, in fact, he’s a little scared of the zombies. Too bad for him his skills are simply too much to pass up on in a time like this. He’s got not just one, but two guns locked and loaded, ready to go. It’s unusual for him to have even one on him most of the time, but the circumstances are grim.

Think on the bright side, Matsuda. According to sources around the world, the only new zombies popping up are ones being turned by already existing zombies, which are dwindling. He’s already taken down a couple. It’s unnerving. Most of them look almost like they could be okay if they put on a little weight, got a little color. Initially, Matsuda was surprised that rigor mortis let them move at all, but was quickly informed by an irritated Aizawa that at most rigor mortis lasts up to 84 hours. Then Matsuda felt grossed out by the idea that the zombies might be overly squishy. That idea was quickly stamped out, as the zombies are probably not squishy at all due to dehydration. Would they even really have blood? Probably, right? The one he shot had some blood.

What disturbed Matsuda even more was that when he went to check the body, taking hold of the hand, the skin came clean off like a glove. Admittedly, it made him sick. None of the sighted zombies have looked particularly bloated, though, which is a positive for him. Matsuda wasn’t sure what he would do if they smelled any worse than this.

Smelled. Can they smell? Matsuda was lost in thought, wondering how the zombies managed to find their way around, when he was interrupted by his earpiece.

“Focus, Matsuda.”

“Sorry, Ryuzaki!”

He taps something on a device that lets a cleanup team know the location of the zombie before moving along, wondering again about a zombie’s senses. Depending on how they died, their eyes might be all dried up, so surely, they couldn’t rely on vision. Maybe hearing is the way to go unless they died already deaf. Then Matsuda remembered that these zombies aren’t actually a result of an ailment. Not the original ones at least. The ones turned after the fact were declared uncurable as well, and Matsuda had his doubts, but the human body can only take so much decay before it’s irreversible.

Another shot rings out. Matsuda means business.

~

Light sits at the dinner table with his family, discussing the zombie topic. Light now has no memories of ever having owned or used the death note, and his brain has filled in the gaps for him. His dad insists that they all continue to remain in lockdown, that he can make the runs himself if they absolutely need anything from the market. Light encourages his dad and offers assistance. Why wouldn’t he?

Sayu and Sahicko have a brief argument that ends with Soichiro telling Sayu to respect her mother. Light smiles. For some reason, he was beginning to miss this.

~

By the time the zombies are cleared up, L is unsatisfied. He was never able to pinpoint who or what exactly caused this out break. Many people try to tell him it was a freak accident, but he knows better. Even if it was an accident, it was no accident. L wanted to know so badly who the face behind the operation was. He clenches his fist and bangs it on the table.

“Kira…” Yes, whoever Kira was, if they’re still out there, might have been killed by their own creation. What a twist of fate. L decides for his own sanity that Kira is still alive, but he doesn’t press the subject. How could he? Kira is seemingly no longer active, and the zombie situation has been solved. If something like this ever happens again, L will be ready to track down and find Kira.

~

[prose-for-hire]

I [still] know what you did last Halloween...

Part one // Part Three // Part Four

Pairing: Scooby gang x reader (platonic)

This is the second part to a platonic story with the reader as part of the Scooby gang. Set season 3. This is a multi-parted serial killer/slasher fic for Halloween. Yes, I had to include Spike. Yes, I am sorry. Reader lived with Giles, but is not related. 

Warning: It is a serial killer fic, main characters are going to die (I’m sorry, it’s Halloween). Violence. Blood mention. Alcohol consumption. Swearing.

Sunnydale students: SOS

Sunnydale Express, October 1999.

The Sunnydale slasher strikes again, leaving one teen dead and two injured. There was a house party last night [12/10/1999] which left the student body with one less. The identity of the teen, who is yet to be identified based on extensive injuries should be announced to the public after the family is informed.

However, it makes us at the Sunnydale Express question: was it the teens fault for breaking curfew?

It was the day of the funerals. There was to be two back-to-back.

The first funeral was Giles’. It was an intimate ceremony, the core group and a Watcher who had never met Giles alive. He was there to ‘oversee’ matters but Wesley told him where to go. This had surprised you, the man wasn’t usually so forthright but he had appeared to be fond of Giles in some way.

Your group stood, staring into the open grave. You were now minus two members. There had been some crying earlier, but everyone’s faces were stony now. As if they were set in place. Exhausted from crying, not sure if you would die from dehydration if you wept another drop.

All of the colour had been sucked out of the world and you were all now aware that you were only briefly passing through this life. You weren’t aware everyone else was sharing your cynical thought, but they were.

You felt the most immeasurable guilt. You felt guilty for Giles’ death. For being the reason he was gutted so brutally. Used to write a crude message on the wall. His life had come down to being the ink in someone’s pen and it angered you that this was what his life had been reduced to. But mostly, it sickened you.

And, as Willow tapped you on the shoulder and gestured that it was time. Your mind still trying to wrap your head around the imagines you had seen in the past week. It was never going to get easier.

It was all a blur. It was screaming and rushing of bodies all around you. 

The room had started to thin. Only the injured and your friends remained. Willow had started to mutter something, a kind of protective spell - she grabbed your hand needing your strength. 

The slayers danced around each other, their fight mean and brutal. he appeared human, but his reflexes were good. Almost, too good.

He was blocking them at every turn. He appeared to be enjoying it. He was studying them. Learning their movement. Anticipating what would come next. They fought hard. Buffy hissing as the tip of the scythe cut into the flesh on her upper arm.

Then it happened. You could barely stomach thinking about it. Xander had walked into the room-

Xander had been a good friend to you. He was never perfect and you liked that about him, he never pretended to be someone he wasn’t. He looked out for you and he had been there for you when you had almost broken down and run to the police months ago. He had been firm that it had to be kept secret what you had done, but never refused you a shoulder to cry on.

His funeral was a lavish affair, his parents turning on the waterworks despite everyone knowing how they would treat him at times. They had paid for only the best, with a large number of people attending. The church was packed out. It made you wander that if any of them knew what he had been involved in with the rest of you, would they be so quick to say they had always liked him? Always seen him as brave and strong?

Any time the family saw any of the people that were there that night they scowled. They glared. And they burst into more tears. Why were you spared, when he wasn’t?

The six of you huddled together. Oz was more distant than usual, his hand on Willow’s shoulder as she couldn’t control her sobbing now. Buffy was sat with you, trying to hold it together as you wrapped an arm around her - willing yourself not to fall apart either. Cordelia and Faith had started bickering. It was getting progressively louder and your group was getting funny looks. They eventually stopped but only when the priest shushed them and started to say the final words before Xander was cremated.

Bravery. It was a word that had been said a lot that day, in that stuffy church hall. But it rang true, clearer than the tolling bell.

He had been brave.

 Everything stilled when he entered the room, as if time had been slowed for that one moment. And who knows, maybe it had. It was Sunnydale. The masked figure stopped fighting Buffy and stepped over an injured party-goer. He had been waiting for this. the guest of honour.

The masked figure had just been killing time fighting the slayers. Xander’s fate was decided before he had got to the party that night. 

Xander’s face had twisted in horror, his eyes met yours and you started to scream. He nodded, resigning himself to what was coming. The figure swung his scythe back, shrugging Faith off him who had tried to tackle him and swung at Xander.

A sickening noise. A splatter of blood sprayed the entire room. Willow dropped your hand in horror, stunned into silence as Xander’s head rolled to Buffy’s feet, the same look in his eye. 

There were media crews set up everywhere outside the church. They were using Xander to tell their stories. It would anger you, but you felt too washed out to say anything. You didn’t even comment when you overheard Harmony on her fifth interview, now talking to the local news outlet.

“Did you know the victim well?”

“Well, yeah. He was a total dork- which was so cute we all loved him” She smiled saccharine sweet making sure nobody had noticed her initial look, “Like, everyone wanted to date him he was a total stud-bucket”

“Were you there that night?”

“Yeah – everyone was, duh! But Carrie totally crashed and I don’t hang around with losers. Even being seen with her is like social suicide!” Harmony maintained firmly, as if that was the most important thing she had been interviewed on, “So I left early”

“Okay- that’s great Harmony. One last question: how are you and the rest of your high school class going to cope after this devastating loss?”

“Well, we’re all gonna graduate as long as we’re not all dead first. I am going to be a counsellor at Camp Crystal Lake in the summer. I’m just pleased to have a break from Sunnydale – senior year has been kind of a bummer so far what with the killings” Harmony shrugged and turned away, swishing her long blonde hair as she walked and her clique followed her. Even Cordelia rolled her eyes as Harmony walked past your group.

You stood motionless for a moment, it felt like a second to all of you but to onlookers there had been enough time to paint a detailed impressionist painting. The only title fitting was: loss. 

“Where do we go from here?” someone finally spoke up.

“To the function”

“I-I don’t think I can” Willow sobbed into Oz’s shoulder.

“It’s worse if we don’t show our faces. Even if it’s just for a minute…” You suggest, really wishing the words hadn’t come out of your mouth. You didn’t want to have to face Xander’s family again, “Angel said he might come, what with the sun going down soon”

“Free alcohol. Score” Faith smiled.

“You’re right” Buffy said, still staring into the distance.

“You wanna get drunk?” Faith raised an eyebrow that lowered when Buffy shook her head.

“No. Y/n’s right. We should go. But we all need to talk – in private, when our heads are clearer. Need to figure out what’s going on” Buffy spoke, her usual self-assured tone was weakened slightly. Her voice hoarse from all of the crying.

You all nodded distantly, walking into the function room together, but feeling miles apart.

Death! Destruction! Mayhem!

Sunnydale Express, October 1999.

Rioting of many stores in the centre of town has been widely reported by those on the ground. Many young people, have taken to the streets to ‘protest’ the curfew. These troubled teens do not understand the importance of hard work and have instead taken to looting and picking up where the killer left off: damning our town.

They have old friends to meet; Disco music to dance to and big ticket items to steal from struggling small businesses.

Meanwhile, the death toll of the cases related to the ‘Sunnydale Slasher’ is now 5, and we ask the residents of Sunnydale: when will they learn?

You walked into the magic shop, one of the only shops on the row that appeared to be untouched. Maybe people knew better than to loot a magic shop. The rest were fair game. You had been hoping to find some kind of ingredients that would help you sleep. Or at least, allow you to relax for even a minute. You felt responsible. For everything and you weren’t sure how to deal with it anymore.

But apparently, this store hadn’t been untouched by those taking what they wanted. You stumbled in on a vampire having a midday snack. Spike. Shit.

You started to back out slowly, but he had seen you. He dropped the corpse of the shop-owner and stepped over her, walking slowly towards you. You sighed, you really weren’t in the mood for this. Everyone around you was dying and now you had to talk to one of the undead.

“Don’t move” He warned, pointing at you as he licked the side of his mouth to catch the blood that had been dripping there. When he noticed that you weren’t even scared, almost a little bored – waiting for him to finish he got annoyed, “You know what I could do? I could snap your neck and-”

“I already have one killer after me, what’s one more?” You sighed again. He raised an eyebrow and you just shrugged, not willing to get into it. Not until he said something.

You had sat, sliding down the wall and he had for some unknown reason (to either of you) decided to join you. He was sobering up and needed some kind of distraction at any rate. He had been staring, sitting beside you and scanning your features in a way that would make you feel uncomfortable if you had cared what he was deciding on.

“You seem different, y/n. From last time, I mean. Not sad, but damned near it - you’re almost making me feel better about my Dru”

“I killed someone. Well, not me, but I helped cover it up…” You admit, after a huge sigh. Spike barely even blinked, this kind of confession didn’t phase him in the slightest.

“Who did?”

“Slayers”

“I think they have a licence to kill, love. Don’t make it right but there it is” he shrugged, ready to get back to his feet and look for some liquor. Until you spoke again.

“He was human” You say softly, “Mr Bates. He had a name and a-a family-”

“I’ve killed hundreds of humans, so what?” He spoke over your turmoil. He didn’t feel guilt in that way, so he couldn’t really relate to your low mood.

“It hurts. It aches… but worst of all it makes every experience I’ve ever had… tainted. Wrong in ways I can never describe. It’s like I’m walking through a nightmare, and everyone else is right there with me. It’s not as if I can go to the police. Or talk to anyone else about it… not properly”

“Thanks, that’s sure to make a fella feel special” implying he wasn’t counted in anyone. But he wasn’t very hurt by the statement. This was the first full conversation you had together, he wasn’t that invested in your relationship.

“You know what I mean” You shrugged. And he did. He started to explain to you why he was back. About Dru and everything that had happened since you last saw him. You tried your best to wade through your own thoughts and chip in here and there. He clearly needed to vent too.

You and Spike eventually left together. You had convinced him, after hearing of his predicament, he needed to convince Dru to take him back and he agreed. You walked part of the way before he was going to go and get into his car and you were going to head home.

Night had fallen and you were about to part ways when he came for you. Spike heard him before you saw him. But the figure still made the both of you flinch slightly, before Spike rolled his shoulders and decided he would have to fight doubly hard for showing that weakness.

The hood was down and you could see the mask properly. It was a black material, with a chiselled grey skull etched so forcefully it was as if it was his actual face. The bones were harsh and looked as if it could cut despite it being a plastic mask.

Spike ran straight for him and started to match his offensive blows with his own. Spike appeared to have the upper hand as you just stood and watched. You knew if it came down to it, you could be collateral damage and neither of them would be too bothered.

Somehow, Spike had been knocked to the floor and before he could get up, a scythe had been lodged deep into his torso, hitting the ground beneath him with a horrible metallic sound. The reaper hacked at Spike, who hissed and cursed at him, but didn’t die as the killer had suspected. The reaper stepped back a few paces. It allowed Spike to get to his feet. There was a lot of blood running down Spike’s torso. His shirt was in tatters.

“I bloody liked that shirt!” He snarled, looking down. Trying not to choke on the blood that was moving up his trachea. If he had been mortal, he would have died ten minutes ago.

The masked figure cocked his head, figuring something out. Not working. Not human.

Spike charged at him, throwing punches and blocking the scythe easily. He was stronger. Spike had bit into him and knocked him to the floor. He started to stamp on him repeatedly until a gargled choking sound was heard from behind the mask. He landed on more swift kick for good measure before deciding he was as good as dead.

Spike turned back to you, for some unknown reason, and for probably the first time in his un-life he went to check on you. A human. He felt that you had some kind of bond after you both shared your woes. He was about to ask if you needed any help before he drained the killer and left to find Dru, but the words never left his lips.

“Spike!” You screamed as you saw the killer rise to his feet and remove a stake from his pocket. It all happened in slow motion. Spike wasn’t able to turn quick enough, he had been caught off-guard. Bollocks. The killer plunged the wooden object directly into his heart and the bleach-blonde vampire exploded into a pile of dust.

“You did this” He spoke for the first time. His voice like gravel. He knelt and took a handful of dust and walked towards you. You stumbled back, hitting a brick wall. You had nowhere to run. You were backed into a corner. He threw the dust over you, leaving you spluttering and rubbing your eyes. You were expecting death any moment, but it never came.

When you opened your eyes again, there was nobody except you in the street.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Sunnydale Express, October 1999.

Many have petitioned the Mayors office due to the large volume of litter and dust that has appeared, often overnight, leaving citizens having to take matters into their own hands. The large number of ash filling our streets tells us that unauthorised fires and barbecues have been set up through town with little being done by authorities to subdue this illegal activity – especially after our newly enforced curfew.

We implore the mayor’s office to make an immediate press release and ensure there is enough man-power to make sure our humble town is cleared during the night.

You were in Giles’ house. It had been left to you. You were touched, but every footstep you made in that house filled your body with guilt.

You were hosting a scooby meeting. You didn’t have any food in, everyone had started to pass around Giles’ single malt, drinking it straight from the glass. Even Buffy took a sip every now and again. You all needed it. Life was starting to become unbearable. Cordelia had joined late, rushing straight from cheer practice.

“What do we know?” She asked as she set her bag down and looked around as if you had the killer tied up in the bathroom, waiting for her to come so you could unmask him. 

“Zip. Nothing”

“The killer is targetting us, that’s all we know. Some kind of twisted revenge. We just need to find out how he knows and why he’s so strong”

“Simple then” Faith shook her head.

“Oh and he takes out anyone in his way, so it’s not just us”

“What did the swim team ever do to him?” You wondered out loud

“It’s the tight pants, he likes a little modesty” Faith snickered and you scowled. How could she be so okay with this? She was the one that had stuck the stake in his hear, finished him off. You were feeling all this guilt and she just didn’t seem to even care.

“But does he even have any proof? Let’s just go to the police and say we’re being targeted”

“Yeah there’s witness protection! We could get new names!” Willow backed Buffy up quickly.

“That won’t change anything. We’re still killers” You mutter and everyone stopped. You had never said anything like that out loud before. You were usually the one that kept everyone optimistic. But it was too hard at the moment.

“Shut up! We’re not! It was an accident. Just an accident”

“How do you explain Giles?” you said glumly, glancing sideways to where his body had been.

“What is up your ass today? God, people are dead. We all feel it. But you’re just giving up! It’s not right!” Cordelia shouted. 

“I’m living in our dead librarians house. Rent free” You sighed, “The house we cleaned and made look like an accident”

“Can it, y/n. None of this is our fault. We gotta do this or we’d be in jail”

“But if we keep doing this, we’re going to die” You replied, “Like Spike… he was gone. Just… dust”

“Well, I can’t say I’m gonna shed many tears” Buffy muttered.

“He was… nice. The last thing he did before he died was come over to check on me”

“Oh come on, y/n! He was probably gonna eat you”

“Whatever. I know what I saw and I can’t help feeling that you’re suddenly on team psycho” you muttered. Faith was watching in interest, but didn’t speak up again. She took another swig of alcohol and shrugged. You couldn’t help think you saw a satisfied smirk on her face, but it may have been a trick of the light. Or the whiskey. You set the glass down and went to see what Willow was looking at some research. 

Giles had left some books open on his desk. He had been looking into the Sunnydale slasher, it seemed. When the books gave you nothing, you turned to the internet. You all started looking for some magical solution. There had to be something.

As the night wore on and the words got blurrier, it was getting harder to concentrate. And harder to get along.

“There’s no- no trace!” Willow said, getting more frustrated, “I can’t find anything”

“Maybe if someone did less cheating on her boyfriend and more reading” Cordelia snapped.

“That’s so not fair! I’m doing more than you!”

“Will, you’re doing the same amount as her” You offered. Cordelia had been researching too.

“Why are you always on her side – you’re supposed to be my best friend”

“I’m just being fair”

“You think this doesn’t involve you, huh?” Faith suddenly stood up and stared you down. You had been the first to admit you were at the centre of it all, but the way she phrased the comment, just made you snap.

“Well, you were the bitch that killed the poor man and managed to be surprisingly cool about it. Maybe you’ve done this before. Maybe, you did it on purpose!” You shouted and Faith pushed you hard. You landed on your ass.

“Fuck you!” She screamed. Not as cool or collected as you thought. The flash in her eyes spelled danger. It concealed guilt and deceit. It told you everything you needed to know. You got to your feet, walked straight out of the room and slammed your bedroom door. Allowing them to let themselves out.

Cordelia had gotten worked up as you stormed out, standing up to Buffy and shouting, “Sunnydale would have been better without you in it! All you do is attract stuff like this. You know who I blame, Buffy? You. You’re a Slayer all wow and look at me but what have you done? What have you done to protect any of us?!” Cordelia flung her arms out in annoyance, the glass that had been holding the whiskey flying out of her hand and crashing to the floor.

“Cordelia-” Buffy started.

“No, let her speak” Faith said nodding along.

“They’re picking us off one by one and of you – either of you – have done anything except hide bodies and celebrate that you’re slayers so you’re not gonna die! What about us!? What about people that are meant to be your friends?” Cordelia shouted. She was scared. She was angry. She couldn’t trust any of them anymore. You had given in. Willow just agreed with Buffy and she had a history with her. Buffy and Faith didn’t seem to be anything and she just wanted to escape. Hopefully with her life intact.

“Cor, we’re doing everything-”

“You’re not! You’re so not!”

“So what’s your plan then, huh? Lay down and wait for the killer to come get you? ‘Cause I haven’t heard anythin’ helpful come out of your mouth” Faith

“Shut up anyway, you just got here and you expect us to care? I hope you go next!” Cordelia screamed in Faith’s face. Faith just shrugged, but the whole room could tell that had stung her. She then turned back to Buffy,  “This is your fault, Buffy. This, everything that has happened since last Halloween is your fault”

“Get out” Buffy said firmly, “Go!” she raised her voice as a tear slid down her cheek and Willow quickly went to comfort her.

“Fine. I’ve had enough! I’m leaving – I’m moving! I don’t wanna see any of you ever again!” Cordelia shouted, slamming the front door behind her and cursing every single one of you as she huffed and stalked away into the night.

[cracknoir]

i wrote a thing about the night jack died Big Yikes

As I burned rubber the fuck out of there with sirens on my ass, I pondered how I could be so stupid. It was a fucking set-up. Two bikes rounded the corner, high-beams blinded me, I spun out, skidded to the pavement and was chucked through a window. I was immediately met with shouting in a language I didn’t understand, egg-fried rice and broken glass in my hair. I grabbed my gun as I jumped to my feet, waved it around yelling indiscriminately, through the broken window I saw the bikes stop. Four guys hopped off, they had SMG’s. I ducked, bullets tore through the restaurant.

The job had seemed easy enough. The shipping containers had been empty; the cops were there, it was a real mess. Cops were dead. Me and my crew were splintered. Scattered like rats, lost them in the explosion. In the second I spotted my face on the news on the tiny TV in the corner of the Chinese restaurant, I knew I was fucked. I’d been to jail before, sure, but I’d never been to jail for killing six cops, never been made running around the docks with a Kalashnikov. Guess it all had to come crashing down eventually.

The bikers outside had popped some lady, she was looking at me while I was crouched behind the TV, chest heaving, sputtering blood all over her flowery dress. What a fucking mess.

Whenever I was pinned down, whenever I had to do something stupid, I thought of getting home. I think about my kid. I couldn’t concentrate. The lady was dying. There was a break in the fire, I bounced out from my cover and fired, six bullets burst from the chamber, the visor of one of the bike helmets smashed, the dude dropped, my gun clicked. Shit. I ditched the gun, jumped behind the counter and burst into the kitchen. I could see the back door, but instead I waited by the door, ready.

I glanced back to the door, I hated how often I chose fight over flight. I planted myself, centred my weight. Come on, you bastard.

I grabbed the tip of his gun, pointed it to the air, my arm shook violently as he pulled the trigger. He head-butted me, my head clanged off the hard plastic helmet, I stumbled back, catching myself on the counter. Raw chicken stuck to my hand as I reached across to grab the meat cleaver. Before the other could firm up, I drove the cleaver into his side.

I used the cleaver again, brought it down on the other side so as to break the strap of his gun. I sliced through his bicep, the gun dropped to the ground.

With an almighty shove, I grabbed the gun. Another had made it to the doorway, I mowed them both down.

I was speared by another biker, one who had ran in the back door. He slammed me against the wall, ass pressed to the counter, head smashed against a shelf, and gun cracked against ribs. I pushed him off me with my legs, unfortunately the gun went with him. I pulled the meat-cleaver from the dead guys bicep, swung erratically, it cracked into the helmet. I pulled, smashed the guys visor off the counter, bullets wrung out as his grip on the gun tightened. I dragged him around the kitchen, put his face in something boiling on the stove.

I knew I hadn’t killed them all, I had to get out of there.

I ran out the back door.

“Jimmy!” Jack yelled, as I sprinted from the alley. What the fuck was he doing here? It all happened so fast. For half a second, I was relieved to see my friend, for another half, I was pissed that he was here, and not high-tailing it the fuck away from here, then the bike passed. Whizzed clean past, it was so loud, I nearly didn’t hear the hail of bullets.

I was fine. Jack dropped to the floor.  

I wish I could tell you I cradled him as he died, but when I got closer, it was clear he was dead. Jack had nerves of steel, but he wasn’t a mercenary. He got by on luck, and I guess it ran out.

I stole a Fiat. Strapped Jack into the passenger street. I drove around, smoking cigarettes all night. I think, maybe, I wanted to get pulled. Wanted the cops to find me with Jack, covered in blood. But they never did.

I delivered Jack to the funeral home. They knew the score. With dead eyes and dead tongue, I shakily asked for a cremation ceremony. Before I asked, one of the funeral directors asked me if this one meant a lot to me. Maybe I nodded, maybe I just glowered at him, I can’t remember.

What I do remember was Beneventi. He was a rat, back in the day, when Don Lorenzo retired, he swooped in. His son’s in charge now, thinks he’s hot shit, but Beneventi’s really pulling the strings. He had made a pact, I figured, after a couple lines, with the Russians. Tried to wipe me out. Once a rat, always a fucking rat.

I walked into the bar, poured myself a drink. Frankie and Kayleigh were there. They just looked at me. I think they knew, the second I walked in, “Jack’s dead,” I said. Frankie collapsed. It had been a long night. I downed my drink, looked at Kayleigh. She had the same dead look in her eye that had haunted me in the rear-view mirror. “What are you going to do?” She asked,

“I’m going to kill Beneventi. I’m going to make him hurt.”

We sat in silence on the drive over.

“You ready?” I asked her, outside Beneventi’s garage.

“Yeah,” I kicked in the door, Beneventi shit himself. He had been hosing down an apparent torture room, chair in the middle of the room was empty. “Jesus Christ – Jimmy! What the fuck are you doing here?!”

I didn’t answer. Just walked towards him. He scuttled into the corner of the room, I threw the chair out of my way, it crashed into something metal. “Jimmy, please,” Beneventi begged, “I’m just an old man, I didn’t know shit was gonna get so fucked up,” I grabbed him, “it was the Russians, would I steer you wrong, kid?” I spat in his face and threw him to the ground. He got back up, held his hands on.

What proceeded was nearly fifteen uninterrupted minutes of Kayleigh and I wailing on this guy, we threw him around the room like a pinata, burst his face open and broke his fingers, Kayleigh bit his ear off, it was all very cathartic. I was having a great time, really putting my all into it, Kayleigh was like some sort of professional boxer, the way she hit him with that long reach, it was impressive. The mood shifted when Beneventi got his hands on a chainsaw. He pulled the string, Kayleigh and I backed off. Beneventi, with his busted face, tried to say something to me, but none of it registered, I just sent a quizzical look to Kayleigh.

There’s something about being threatened with a chainsaw explicitly that I did not like. Beneventi lurched at me, I dodged out of the way, the chainsaw brushed my shin, I squealed like a pig and punched the wall as some sort of gut reaction – which shattered my knuckle. I saw red, swung my leg back and kicked Beneventi square on the chin with my fucked leg,  Kayleigh grabbed the chair, ran at him. Beneventi held the chainsaw up, went through the chair, missed Kayleigh by inches, I took that opportunity to grab the nail gun and pop one in the back of his knee. He screamed. I grabbed the chainsaw off him. My eye’s met Beneventi’s. I kicked him onto his back. “Make him watch,” I said to Kayleigh, she grabbed him, wrapped her arms around his neck, held his eyes open. I revved the chainsaw.

Kayleigh and I sat outside on the side-walk, head-to-toe crimson, shotgunning cigarettes, eyes wide with shock.

“You just – don’t think that much blood’s in someone,” Kayleigh said.

“It’s fucked,” I said, “you did good in there.”

“I don’t blame you,” Kayleigh said, abruptly.

“You can,” I said, “I do.”

“Do you have any ecstasy?” She flicked one of her cigarettes, I passed her my half-smoked one.

“Yeah, at home,” I sparked a new smoke.

“I need a shower,” Kayleigh murmured, “then we should get really fucked up.”

“Kayleigh,” I touched her shoulder, she jumped. I opened my mouth, nothing came out.

She spoke before I could find my words; “don’t.”  

[thevoidable]

How and why Dabi is still alive - a theory

Now, assuming the Dabi is a Todoroki theory is correct, there’s always been one big, persisting question since we got a certain confirmation several chapters ago in the manga: just how is Dabi still alive?

That’s the question I’m hoping to answer or at least provide some more insight on by the end of this post, and what I’ll be doing is going in-depth about the cremation process and digging into context clues within the manga, so, major manga spoilers and TWs ahead.

Before we look into how Dabi is still alive, we must first answer how Toya himself actually “died”. As I previously mentioned, chapter 249 gave us confirmation that the Todorokis all firmly believe that Toya is dead, but it was still left unclear on just what was the cause, and most of us had the idea that Endeavour had possibly killed Toya during training.

But then, chapter 252 gave us another vague yet crucial detail:

Endeavour was not directly responsible for his death, but the way this is worded still implies that he is somewhat part of the reason. So, if Endeavour didn’t kill him, what did? Previously in chapter 250, Fuyumi mentions the following:

So, we know that whatever happened to Toya was after the kettle incident. Now, given all the build-up of him being the eldest (therefore him seeing and experiencing the most), suffering through Endeavour’s abuse, and then his mother snapping and becoming potentially just as dangerous, the most likely cause of death for Toya is, unfortunately, suicide. Everything was just too much for him at that point and he, too, snapped. It’s likely that he hid away in an empty room and burned himself alive, and by the time Endeavour (or possibly any of his siblings) found him, it was too late.

So now that we know how Toya died, we can finally start getting to the juicy part, but before we do, I would just like to quickly bring up Dabi’s Quirk and how compatible it is with his body, because that’s going to be important later.

During Dabi’s fight with Geten, we got confirmation that his flames are indeed detrimental to his own body.

Paired with Endeavour’s words said to Shoto during training, and Natuso, Rei, and Fuyumi’s conversation in chapter 187,

it’s easy to put together that Toya inherited a body more suited for an ice Quirk. Given that, it’s still very impressive that Dabi is getting away with the burns that he has and isn’t just straight up dead, so just how hot are his flames? With a quick Google search, blue fire burns at a whopping 1400 - 1650 degrees Celsius (2600 - 3000 degrees Fahrenheit), which means that despite his disadvantage, he still has an amazingly strong resistance to extremely high temperatures. Not only that, but his body is also very likely to survive extreme cold temperatures too, so in a way, Toya essentially has a very flawed version of Shoto’s body and Quirk.

Alright, back to our regularly scehduled programming.  So, Toya burned himself alive, and now Endeavour has to deal with the aftermath. What does he do? Something that I’ve noticed which is incredibly strange is that none of the authorities have been able to figure out Dabi’s identity at all - as of right now, every single core League member has been revealed except for Dabi. If Dabi is Toya, why has no one been able to get DNA tests, fingerprints, etc.? If the other members can be figured out, then Dabi should be too. ...Unless Endeavour had wanted to erase Toya from public existence entirely.  It’s entirely possible that Endeavour contacted the Safety Commission to help him cover up his son’s death and make it as if he had never existed in the first place. Back then, Toya was seen as nothing but a mistake, a failure, so with him dead, it was easy for Endeavour to just sweep him under the rug and move on with his successful son. The Safety Commission would have handled erasing any and all data on Toya, which would explain why investigations regarding Dabi’s identity are coming up dry (oh the irony). So, with his digital existence erased, what about his actual physical one? Considering that around 99% of deceased in Japan are cremated, and Dabi’s name itself means “cremation”, the choice is blatantly obvious. What we have next to look at to figure out how Dabi survived is the cremation process. It consists of a few basic steps: - The body is transported to the crematory and kept in cold storage until the time of cremation - The body must be identified before the cremation process can begin - The body is cleaned and dressed (optional) - The body is placed into a cardboard box or casket and is cremated in the cremation chamber for 2 - 3 hours - Lastly, the remains are then ground up into “ashes” and given back to the family. First of all, in order for this theory to check out, we must address the elephant in the room: Toya is presumed dead.  So how would he even be alive at this point anyway? Well, there’s actually a pretty good explanation for that. Turns out, people waking up in morgues can happen every so often. (As a side note, I’m no medical expert, so if I get anything wrong or get the information confused, then please let me know.)

A reduction in temperature you say? Like...being kept in cold storage? When Toya burned himself alive, he would have burned until he lost consciousness due to the fire eating away at his oxygen, which could have prompted his heart to stop or reduce its pulse greatly. Thus, as the above article suggests, when he was placed into cold storage, he was kept alive and given time to recover. The fact that his body is more suited to the cold is even better in this case, meaning that there’s no way the cold would harm him either.

With the elephant removed, we can now move on to the next steps: body identification and cremation preparation. Assuming that the Safety Commission is taking all measures to make sure that no one knows this is Endeavour’s eldest son, this part of the process suddenly becomes extra shady.  What the body identification means is that the body is labelled with a unique number so that the remains can be identified after the cremation. However, there is also paperwork involved - yet another thing that the Commission would have to keep confidential, or perhaps even alter, giving fake names and the like.  As mentioned earlier, the body being cleaned and dressed is optional, so that is clearly off the table too in order to keep Toya’s identity hidden from whoever works at the crematory.

And finally, we now get to the best part: the cremation itself. I doubt that Endeavour would have a casket prepared for Toya, so he would just be placed in a sturdy cardboard box, and then he’d be slid on into the cremation chamber, which is basically a human-sized brick oven. Now, this is where Toya’s body compatibility really comes into play. Remember how I said that blue fire burns at 1400 - 1650 degrees Celsius (2600 - 3000 degrees Fahrenheit), and that regardless of his burns he still has a crazy high temperature tolerance because of it? If he is able to withstand a decent amount of his own flames, then a measly cremation temperature of 1000 - 1300 degrees Celsius (1400 - 1800 degrees Fahrenheit) will do almost nothing to him besides make his already existing burns a little worse. So, it’s at this point that we now have to ditch science and research and start letting our imaginations run wild, because everything that happens next is all plot-based. It’s worth mentioning that I have never worked in a crematory before, so I’m not sure if the bodies are watched constantly while they burn (I know that families can watch their desceased be cremated if they so choose, but as far as general monitoring goes, I’m not sure), mostly because the process takes 2 - 3 hours, but if they’re not watched, then it’s my personal belief that Toya wakes up as he’s being cremated and busts his way out of the cardboard box in a fit of panic. Once out of the chamber, he realises what’s going on due to another body that could be cremating at the same time.  I’d imagine that what’s going through Toya’s head right now is that people think he’s dead when he’s actually not, and he’d perfer it if it stayed that way. He has the perfect opportunity to get away from Endeavour and start anew elsewhere - this is his second chance. To avoid being found out, he braves the flames again to switch out the ID labels so that the other body’s ashes will be mistaken for his, and he makes his escape out of the crematory to face the streets for the first time. As for what happens during the ten year gap between then and now, I have no idea of what Dabi does or goes through, so that’s all for Hori to know and us to find out.

And so, that concludes my theory! 

I hope you all enjoyed reading it - I did as much research as I could and tried to come up with the most logical scenario possible, and this was the result. I’ve been working on it since midnight and it is now 3AM, so I am going to go the fuck to bed and get some sleep lmao. Let me know your thoughts and if you have anything to add!

[starlightsoulwriting]

L’appel du Vide

Cliff Unger x Reader

L'appel du Vide (n.) The unexplainable desire to jump when on the edge of a cliff Call of The Void AO3 Link

Porters are going missing. You and Fragile are at each other’s throats, and you’re still reeling from your incident ten months ago. And, on top of all your shit, life decides to drop a Cliff on you.

[Prologue][1][x]

Part Two

Skull masks.

Blood on your hands. blood on the floor.

Knives. So many knives, all in your stomach and chest. When had that happened? When had you let Higgs back in your shelter? Why would you do that?

Sam was dead. Cliff was dead. And Heartman and Lockne and Deadman and Fragile. All dead and you would join them soon.

Higgs laughed at you when you cried.

“Didn't your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?”

You startled awake.

Tears streamed down your face, and you rolled over to throw up in the trash can, shaking like a leaf. Stupid brain, you thought, stupid nightmares, stupid Higgs. You coughed past your stinging throat, trying to breathe evenly but hyperventilating instead. Your scar stung in your stomach, despite nothing being there. The memories were enough to set it off.

You kicked your sheets off of you and stumbled to your bathroom, legs shaking. You needed a shower, and badly. You pressed your hands against your eyes, massaging your face in a hollow effort to calm yourself down. You felt like your lungs were made of sea urchins.

You missed the DOOMs nightmares. At least those hadn’t been so personal, so painful.

You stood under the tap and let the scalding water run over your body, forcing all the memories from your skin. His laughing, the knife, your blood - you scrubbed yourself off as if water could wash away your dreams, your flashbacks, the lingering feeling of his knee on your chest, holding you down.

When you made it to your jaw, you wanted to scream. You opted to slap the tiles of your shower instead, so hard it hurt. The phantom feeling of his tongue clung to your skin like tar, and the soap didn’t help, no matter how hard you tried to wash it off.

Let's see how fast Sam can run. His voice intruded in your head again, a record stuck on repeat, grating in your ears and spiking your heart rate. It wouldn’t go away, you could feel his hands on your neck, the knife at your side, digging in just enough to bleed.

Hot water, cold tiles, your favorite soap. Grounding was only helping so much.

You dug your hand into your thigh, nails digging in deep and stinging. You sang some old rock song to drown out the noise. He was far away from you. You were safe. You didn’t need to worry.

You don’t know how long you stayed in the shower crying. After a while it stopped, and left you feeling detached from your body, numb. You were raw and your skin was bright red, but you weren't covered in vomit, so that was something.

You turned off the shower.

You curled up in your blankets and called Heartman. You knew he might be sleeping, but there was a chance he would be up. Your hands shook as you found his contact.

“Y/N? Is everything alright?” He asked after the second ring, voice rough and tired. A wave of relief went through you. Heartman’s voice could drown out his.

“No, Heartman, I’m not okay.” You breathe, pulling the blankets over your head and burrowing in. It was dark except the soft blue glow of your comm. “I can still hear him. He’s on the other side of the continent and still won’t leave me alone.”

“What do you need? Should I put on my music?”

“Sure,” You needed to keep him on the phone, you could focus on him instead of your nightmares. “I’d like that.”

Neo-Classical music played over your speaker as he shared it with you. You closed your eyes, listening to the soft piano. This wasn’t the first time the two of you shared a late-night call.

“I can still feel it, sometimes,” You started again, just over a whisper, restless. “The knife.” You gulp, trying and failing to shove away your thoughts. “I’ve been doing everything Julia said would help but it’s not going away and I’m still so afraid, all the time,” You stopped talking when your eyes welled up, shutting your eyes harder as if that would stop the tears.

“I’m sorry,” He said simply, voice heavy. “I wish there was something more I could do to help. Do you want me to come over for a few days and keep you company? Or would that just make it worse?”

“I already have a visitor, but... Maybe after that.”

“You took in a guest?” He sounded surprised, but why wouldn’t he? You only let him and Sam in. Not even Lockne or Deadman, no. Or friends you’d known in your old shelter. You didn’t run your clinic or tours anymore, either. Too many strangers. Too dangerous. Not since you came back. Not since Higgs.

Not until Cliff.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “He’s a friend. Just needed a place to stay for the night.”

Heartman was quiet for a moment. “Do you think that’s why you had a nightmare tonight, having someone there? I know that’s a… sensitive matter.”

You sighed, not wanting to talk about technical aspects of your trauma with him. “Maybe,” you bit your lip and played with your fingers, itching to make paper stars but not wanting to move out from under your blanket mountain. “I’ll bring it up with Julia, though.” You said to reassure him more than yourself. You hated the thought of him worrying about you.

So you changed the subject, breathing starting to level out. You had so many thoughts running through your head about Cliff, you needed help figuring it out. “Hey, Heartman… some things happened yesterday that sound really crazy.” You took the risk in asking. You needed to know. “Promise me you won’t think I'm nuts?”

“Cross my heart,” He replied, going along without question.

“Is there a time limit on repatriation? Like, could someone be on the beach for ages and then come back just fine?”

“I suppose, as long as the body wasn’t destroyed, there shouldn’t be any reason they couldn’t. Why do you ask?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, mulling over your next words. “What if there wasn’t a body left?”

“Then there’s nothing for the soul to return to. They’d be trapped,” He paused. He’d heard the tension in your voice. “What’s wrong, Y/N? I thought you weren’t going to the beach anymore.”

He was right, you weren’t. There was no point in going unless it was to keep him company. “I didn’t find him on the beach. It was out in the mountains.” You stopped, bracing for his reaction. He was going to think you were insane, you just knew it. “He died forty years ago. He says he just woke up out by Lake Knot in spring. I know it’s true, too, but it’s making my brain explode trying to work out how it happened.”

There was a long silence. You tried not to think of how he was probably calling Julia, your therapist.

“You’re absolutely certain of this?” He said, eventually.

You nod absently, before remembering he can’t see you. “One hundred percent. I have his file and everything. How he died, the date, the cremation records - everything. I met him on the beach when I was looking for Sam, even.” The knot in your chest was untangling itself as the one in your brain wound itself tighter. “But here he is, alive and talking. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“I’ll call Fragile and have her take you both here right away then, this is unprecedented.” He started, voice picking up speed. “If what you’re saying is true, this could revolutionize the way we think about repatriation, especially in the wake of Amelie’s separation. There might even be a direct correlation - you said he woke up in spring? There might be unforeseen instabilities in the beach gone completely unnoticed -”

“Heartman.” You cut him off, wincing as soon as you did it, but you had to stop him before he got too far in. “Fragile is already taking him to Sam.” You’d gotten through to him after dinner, and given Cliff and him privacy by staying in your room and making an absurd number of paper stars. Fragile would be there in the morning to take him.

“Why would you take him to Sam’s?”

You were quiet as you double-checked your connection to make sure it was secure. Bridges liked to monitor the networks, to eavesdrop. “You’re using the VPN I sent you, right?” Your voice dropped back down to a whisper.

He must’ve sensed your seriousness because he responded in kind. “Always, of course.”

You hesitated. You could trust Heartman, but did he really need to know? Would Cliff be mad? Surely Sam would tell Heartman, himself, right?

“Y/n?”

“It’s Sam’s dad,” You breathed, barely hearing your own voice. “It’s Cliff Unger.”

...

“Fascinating.”

--

You’d given up on trying to get back to sleep at about four in the morning, opting to work on some projects instead. Or, more accurately, obsessively making origami to distract yourself. It gave your hands something to do, your mind something to focus on. Your works had become increasingly more complicated, thanks to network access. You could make anything you wanted. That morning you were working on an Asian dragon design you messed up three times before.

Cliff woke up just after than four-thirty, with bags under his eyes. Both of you were surprised the other was up so early, but neither of you pried. You didn’t ask so he wouldn’t. You assumed he did the same.

Breakfast was easy and quiet. You worked on making omelets while he cooked roasted vegetables with potatoes. They were really tasty, too. You missed having someone to cook with. You enjoyed making meals with people, so the comfortable dance around the kitchen with Cliff had been a breath of fresh air. These days you only got to cook for Sam, Louise, and Heartman, and their visits were few and far between for obvious reasons. You hummed a song as you flipped the omelets. You missed Cliff’s smile, but soon he was humming along too, baritone ringing through your quiet house.

You felt less alone, then. You wished he would stay.

Somehow your morning silence was comfortable and awkward at the same time. The eerie quiet of the early morning did that, sometimes. He thanked you again for letting him stay and you thanked him for helping with breakfast. He’d scoffed at that, saying that was the absolute least he could’ve done - he wasn’t a freeloader.

Then he made a pun about his roast potatoes being “Spudtacular.”

You groaned. Dad jokes!

Afterward, at around ten, you were taking care of your indoor plants while Cliff read some recent history title in your favorite armchair. You were looking forward to seeing Fragile - it had been a few months since her last visit. Tension was still thick between you, and you were pretty sure it would linger until you felt safe. But you were trying, and that’s what's important. Both of you were, delicately avoiding reference to Higgs. It’s worked for the most part, thankfully.

At least if Rami - who still hadn’t been found - caused a Voidout, she and Cliff would be out of implosion distance. That was good. Sam didn’t need any more tragedies. You would’ve been out looking still, but there was no way in hell you were leaving someone alone in your shelter unless it was actively on fire, no matter how much you may or may not have liked them.

You looked over at him then. Talking with him had been difficult, like pulling teeth. Harder than it had been before, when you were on the beach. It was frustrating. You were too nervous to start a real conversation with him, too. He was quiet and closed off, and answered you distantly when you tried, redirecting to jokes instead of real answers. He had shut you out.

You supposed both of you were out of it. He’d been through hell in the past you months, you could tell - the weight lingered on him like useless cargo. And after your nightmare and panic attack that morning, you hadn’t felt like talking much either. Maybe he just didn’t like relying on people, and you shouldn’t take it personally.

It was nice, though, having company. Just his presence was reassuring, conversation or no.

Rocky liked him, too, which was something. He’d been bothering him all day, headbutting his hand to demand pats, and persistently returning to his lap time and again, purring happily. Cliff seemed to like the attention, too, whispering baby talk to him as he purred. It was unbearably cute, seeing him so sweet with the cat, and you had to turn back to your plants before you turned into a puddle of goo. He obviously needed his space. And he was leaving today; there was no use in feeling such a mess over it.

You continued to tend to your African Violets, their fuzzy leaves brushing your fingertips. They weren’t blooming yet, but it looked like they would soon. It would be nice to have a bit of color in the house again.

Cliff caught your attention again soon enough, though, with a sudden, rich laugh - and his smile actually reached his eyes. You were confused for a moment, he was reading a non-fiction book - but then you noticed him looking at Rocky’s name tag like it was the best joke he’s ever heard. Then he looked at you, light in his eyes, and your heart twisted.

Oh boy. Here it comes. This was too embarrassing.

A scarlet blush worked its way up your face.

“You…” he stammered, interrupting himself with a chuckle. “You named your cat Rocket Launcher?”

Yes, you had.

You wanted to die.

“Yeah,” you choked out, fighting your urge to run and hide. His megawatt smile kept you in place, though. Your stomach was doing backflips.

At least he had your sense of humor.

You turned back to your plants to avoid his gaze, face hot with embarrassment. His laugh echoed quietly behind you as he whispered baby talk to said cat named Rocket Launcher. This man would be the death of you, you knew it.

--

Your anxiety had started with unease at eleven-thirty. Then it escalated to worry at noon, then to actual distress by one; you were going to make a wear pattern in your carpet if you kept pacing like you were, but she never missed time. Something had happened.

Fragile hadn’t shown up by three. She was supposed to meet you at eleven.

So you were worried. Like, there’s-no-way-you'll-sleep-tonight, can't-eat, shaking-ball-of-mess worried. You were short with her, but god, you still cared.

You called her at twelve. And at one, and at two.

Her comm didn’t even ring, it went right to voicemail. All three times. Maybe it had just run out of power, you told yourself. And she was busy with an emergency delivery? You hoped it was as benign as that, but you had a sinking feeling that something had gone terribly wrong.

Sam called you at two, asking why you were late. You told him you would call him back if Fragile didn’t show up for a while longer. So, when you called him at three he picked up right away, your fingers tapping against your thigh in a nervous rhythm. His hair was messy and he looked even more tired than he usually did. He was just as worried as you.

“I’ve tried to get through to her, but there’s nothing.” You started, voice unsteady, “You get anything?”

“Nah, no updates since last night.” Sam wasn’t the most expressive of men, but you heard the stress in his voice loud and clear. He had no idea where she was, either.

Your brain was going a million miles an hour, trying to see if there was something you missed, something you could do, someplace Fragile could be where she’s safe. “I’ll call Lockne and Heartman,” You said, hoping someone else would know, “Can you check in with Deadman and the President?”

Sam looked at you like you’d asked him to hike across the US a third time, but he nodded. He was far more likely to get through to Die-Hardman than you were and he knew it, even if Sam was walking on eggshells. He would want to help.

At that point you felt heat on your back. It was Cliff walking up behind you, getting in view of the camera. Most people wouldn’t have been bothered by it, but you moved aside anyway, giving him space. You didn’t like people close to you anymore; it made your gut churn.

Although this time you weren’t sure if it was because you didn’t like people close to you or if it was because you really liked him. So you did the logical thing and ignored it. There were more important things to do than ponder your personal space issues.

--

Cliff was beyond frustrated. How many more things would keep him from Sam? He ran his hand down his face with a heavy sigh. These past eight months had been the longest year of is life. But nothing could stop him, universe be damned. If fate wanted to make his journey hell, then so be it. It was nothing that had stopped him before.

So he decided that if you two hadn’t found your friend by morning, he would have to take that hike through the Rockies, BTs and all. Of course, he would have loved to stay with you, but he knew the longer he did the harder it would be to leave. He’d gotten an amazing night’s sleep for the first time he can remember, and the only meals that weren’t freeze-dried. It would be best if he didn’t linger. He couldn’t get complacent, he should move on as soon as possible. He could rest when he on the other side of the mountains.

He spent his time that afternoon going through possible routes on your map, let you handle things yourself. But then he heard you mention John, who now called himself by his war name, Die-Hardman. It chilled him to his core; the thought of his best friend wearing Bridget Strand’s mask was enough to make him ill. He didn’t blame John for Strand killing him, but to wear her mask? He’d made it clear what was important to him, so Cliff hadn’t bothered him when he was so clearly busy upholding the legacy of a murderer.

So he joined your call with Sam. It was unnerving, these holograms. Sam was so solid, but hundreds of miles away from him still. Like a mirage in a desert. Cliff didn’t even notice you tense up until you stepped aside. He would have to be more careful with you, then, you seemed on edge and he would hate to make you uncomfortable.

He focused on the call, though, conflicted. “Sam, please don’t mention me to John. I don’t know what I would say to him, I’d prefer if he didn’t know I’m… traveling.” He had to stop himself from cringing at himself. Traveling, truly an amazing euphemism for being back from the dead, way to go.

Sam’s brow furrowed just enough to see. His son was quite the stoic, it seemed. “Don’t you think he could help set you up out here? He would come all the way out here himself if you asked. He... “ Sam was uncomfortable for a moment, crossing his arms and looking away from him. “He never really got over losing you. He thinks it was his fault.”

Cliff closed his eyes hard and shoved the guilt deep, deep down. His resolve would crumble if he let himself think too much, and that wouldn’t end well, not then, not while he was still so hurt. “Later, Sam.” He forced passed his teeth. His tone didn’t leave room for argument.

He would sort it out later, surely. He had priorities.

He would talk to John.

Eventually.

When he disconnected the call you were already working on your computer.

You had multiple screens set up, and at least ten programs open. Were you pulling up security cameras? He put his hand on the desk and leaned in to get a better look, careful not to intrude in your personal space too much.

Technology had improved so much during the time he was gone that he could barely tell what you were doing. He knew you were busy, though, so he suppressed the urge to question you about every last detail. He hated not knowing how things worked, especially as someone who used to know tech like the back of his hand. It made him feel all the more out of place than he already did. “What is this? You said you were going to call your friends?”

You nodded absentmindedly, focusing on the screen. “I will call them, after I look for Fragile myself.” You pulled up another program and dragged in a headshot of a blonde woman Cliff assumed was your friend. The software mapped her face and started combing through the video feeds. You busied yourself with some other program while the facial recognition ran.

Cliff tensed - there were Bridges logos plastered in the corners of the videos you’d pulled up. You’d told him you weren’t affiliated. Would you lie to him? What did you want? “How do you have these feeds? Bridges has a strict no-access policy.” He grit out, trying not to sound too high-strung - he didn’t need to make more problems for himself.

“I gave myself access.” You stammered. You sipped your coffee and kept working, not looking back at him. He studied your face, searching for any sign of a lie. He wanted to trust you. But he couldn’t trust the company that killed him and took Sam. You mostly just seemed embarrassed, though, there was no sign of you lying. Just a focused, serious look in your eyes. “They’re bullies,” You continued after a moment, more spite in your voice than he would expect. “They can take their secrets and drown in them for all I care.” Your fingers rapped on the desk as you worked.

He couldn’t say he condoned hacking into confidential servers, but they had shut him out, too, so…

Maybe it was petty, but Bridges’ security being breached by a civilian was hilarious. Good for you.

As you continued working he grew uncomfortable, though - restless. There was a tightness growing in his chest. He knew there was nothing he could do to help you. Nothing short of finding Fragile would. He’s had too many men go missing in action - he was used to the distressed searching, the anticipation, the threads of hope that would keep you searching. But he wasn’t used to being useless. He’d always prided himself in his ability to work through a crisis, so being obsolete was an unwelcome, grating itch on his nerves.

He needed something to do.

He squeezed your shoulder lightly in what he hoped was a comforting manner. You met his gaze with a tense smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Is there anything I can do?” He asked simply, praying you would respond.

You sighed. “Not really, but thank you.” You squeezed his hand softly in response.

Damnit.

That sad and grateful face you made was almost physically painful. It worried him, how quickly he had grown attached to you. But he supposed it was inevitable. You had been there for him on the beach. You had shown him the way home. Following you into the water had been a long-shot, desperate move on his part - but it had worked. He was alive, and had a chance to spend time with his son.

All because you had been a kind stranger when he was lost.

He shoved that deep down inside him, though. Everything was painful these days, even the possibility of friendship. Guilt and pain and apprehension? No, he couldn’t do this now - he would leave in the morning and it would all be irrelevant anyway. He would be a world away from you and it wouldn’t matter how much he enjoyed the company. No use thinking too much about it know.

You went back to work on your computer.

He still didn’t know what to do with himself.

You seemed to notice, though, and took pity on him. “You can get dinner started, if you want.”

His whole body relaxed. He could do that much for you, at least.

He got out some ingredients, and had to look in five different places to find a knife - they were hidden deep inside one of the cabinets, shoved underneath some Tupperware.

He’d barely started chopping the vegetables when you blew past him, frantic, eyes wide and hair messy, and ran outside. You hadn’t even bothered with a raincoat - no one went without one, even with how infrequent timefall was now.

He stood at the doorway for a moment, baffled. But it all became clear when he moved to look at your computer.

Security footage was playing on a loop. One of Bridges’ feeds, out near Capital Knot. It was time-stamped for that morning at 09:42.

At first it looked like any other porter drop-off he’d seen. Fragile dropped off the cargo and began walking to the road.

Just as she was almost out of frame, she froze, body going tense. She tugged something out of her neck with a visible wince. A second later her frame was wracked with tremors, starting in her hands then progressing through to her arms and legs.

She fell.

Her head hit the pavement, and Cliff knew that if the feed had sound, it would’ve made a sickening crack. Fragile lay still.

A tranquilizer dart, hummed the back of his mind.

Blood pooled around her skull.

A white-gloved hand came just into frame to touch her arm - and Fragile disappeared in a flash of black shimmers. The hand retracted.

There was no other sign of the assailant. The feed was empty again.

Cliff ran after you.

--

You tore out of your shelter, not bothering to pull on a suit or Odradek. It was too hot and cramped, you were about to burst, this was all too much. You needed space, you needed to breathe.

Of course as soon as you thought something might finally start to be alright with you two Fragile gets kidnapped! What the hell was wrong with these people? Why did they even care? Why were they taking people?

You blinked away tears as you shambled to your greenhouse.

You needed to hit something.

You rummaged around your pumpkin patch and found the squashiest pumpkin you had. Then you grabbed your shovel from the supply closet. Then you pulled the shovel over your head, and you slammed the shovel into the gourd. The sound you made was inhuman, a hot rush coursing through your veins. You were so angry!

And then you did it again.

It gave a smack-squelch sound and caved in, guts oozing out of the gaping cracks you’d made. Your hands were shaking? You hit it. Your knees wobbling? You hit it. Fet like your heart was ready to burst? You hit it. You hit it again. And again, and again, letting its gross pumpkin guts get all over your clothes. Were you screaming? You weren’t sure if you were screaming or not. You didn’t care. Your friend was gone.

By the time the pumpkin was nothing more than puree you were spent and sweaty and gross, panting and flushed. You didn’t even notice how hard you were crying until you wiped pumpkin seeds from your cheek and it felt all teary.

You… didn’t really feel better either. Just less pissed off and more sad. Empty, like someone had hollowed out your insides and replaced them with cotton.

You heard footsteps on the grass behind you.

Damn it! You didn’t need Cliff seeing you like this! God, how embarrassing. You turned around reluctantly, shoulders slumping and shovel barely in your grasp.

There he was, warm eyes and kind heart.

That was almost enough to get you crying again - you weren’t used to people caring enough to come after you. People out here took care of themselves.

You saw him take in the scene - the destroyed pumpkin, the seeds on your clothes, the tears streaming down your face. He cautiously cracked a smile, after a moment, “If I had known you were making pumpkin pie I would have helped.”

You laughed and burst into tears at the same time, dropping your shovel. That was such a stupid thing to say! He was ridiculous! You covered your face in your hands, mortified but unable to stop crying.

You and Fragile never truly reconciled - you had just ignored your argument altogether and held a tense peace.

You felt like the worst friend on the planet.

And now someone had taken her.

Careful hands rested on your arms, lightly pulling you in. You could have resisted if you wanted to; you could’ve told him to go away, to leave you alone and he would have done it in a heartbeat. But you’d been crying alone for so long.

So you let him pull you close, let him gently wrap his arms around you as you cried. He was warm, and had strong arms, and you cried into his shirt like some damsel in a shitty movie. But you felt safe. “It’ll be alright.” He murmured into your hair. You could feel his voice rumbling in his chest. You clung to the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. “You’ll find her.”

You knew those were empty platitudes, that neither of you had any idea what the future would bring.

But for now, just for tonight, you would choose to believe him.

A/n:

This chapter is brought to you by the need for therapy. I hope I’m holding the right balance between vague and intriguing with Reader-San’s flashbacks. They won’t feel like going into full detail until much later, so I hope its enough to almost tell what happened, but not quite.Anytime I mention singing you can insert whatever song you want, btw.I would also like to apologize to the Fragile and Higgs stans. This fic isn’t really nice to them and I really am sorry about that, but Fragile’s teleportation is too convenient. How else am I going to get (Y/n) and Cliff to hike across the Rockies, huh?So what do you guys think? I’d really appreciate some feedback, I don’t have a beta so I’m not sure.I hope you enjoyed it!

Edit: Change what Higgs said.

@paanchu786

[stanbillyhargrove]

11 minutes

Hey Baby, I'm eleven minutes away. I've missed you all day. Can't wait to see you. Love you.

But Billy missed her call, had been on the other line with Max for a quick visit. He was telling her about how he was planning to propose, perfecting his plan. When he heard her message his belly filled with butterflies and he smirked, thinking about a stupid joke she had told him once. "Why would you eat butterflies? How will they come out?"

And sure, they weren't always sunshine and butterflies, sometimes they fought like feral dogs, words biting sharp and deep. But they had stained each other, they weren't the same without the other anymore. There was nobody else who could balance them out, it's like they were made for each other.

But eleven, fifteen, twenty minutes pass and now the butterflies in Billy's stomach have died, turned to lead. He paces the floor, heart trying to pound it's way out of his chest. And it felt like he was going to sink through the fucking floor with how heavy his gut felt. She's not answering her phone and it's one, two hours later when Hop comes to his door.

Hop hates doing these visits, hates it even more that it's someone he knows. Cause he used to pull Billy over all the time for speeding and then one day there had been a girl in the car with Billy who looked at Hop with a smug grin and said "I kept telling him to slow down." She'd filled the car with her laugh when Hop walked away and he'd heard it before he got into his cruiser and he figured Billy had found someone good in his life. Someone to balance out all the bad that Billy had grown up with, cause he'd grown with Neil Hargrove who everyone knew was a monster. But Billy had met her and they'd moved into their own little place as soon as they could, just outside of town and now Hop was here to destroy his whole world.

Hey Baby, I'm eleven minutes away. I've missed you all day. Can't wait to see you. Love you.

Hop hates these visits, hates seeing how people crumple in on themselves when he tells them. But Billy didn't crumple, his eyebrows knit together and he shook his head.

"No, she was only ten minutes away. That's impossible."

"I'm sorry, Son. You can come to the hospital with me to see her."

It's the first snow fall of the year and the roads are slick and Billy told her, told her so many times, to drive safe and be careful on her way home. And Billy's in the back of Hop's cruiser cause he can't drive himself and the ring is in his pocket and it weighs a tonne. When they pass the intersection, the last intersection before getting to their house, Billy sees her car being pulled onto a truck and it's half the size that it should be. The drivers side is demolished, destroyed, it's all shattered windows and crushed metal. Billy thinks he's gunna puke when he sees the pink snow.

Hey Baby, I'm eleven minutes away. I've missed you all day. Can't wait to see you. Love you.

Billy would, would sell his fucking soul to go back, to tell her how much he fucking loved her. Cause she held his black heart in her hands and made him whole and now she's gone. Billy ran a shaking hand down the side of her cold face.

"H-how...how the fuck did this happen, Hop?"

Hop laid a large hand on Billy's shoulder, "drunk driver."

"But she..she doesn't look-" Billy still didn't believe it, "is this a joke?"

"Billy, this isn't a joke."

"But she looks fine," Billy's eyes were so big, dewy.

Hopper let out a long sigh before the doctor with them took over, "her ribs broke, stuck into her organs. She died of internal bleeding."

Hopper squeezed his shoulder, "I'll give you a minute, I need to call her parents."

Billy crumpled then, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and clutched her to his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, I should have..should have told you. I should have picked you up, I should've..."

When Hop comes back, Billy is sitting on the floor, holding her hand in his.

"Son."

Billy looks at him, all red ringed eyes and this is why Hop hates when he has to do this. Almost hates it enough to quit the force because that look, that fucking look, rips away a piece of his soul every time.

"I can take you home, Son. Unless you want me to call someone?"

Billy's lip wavers and his voice is hitched and he feels like he's dying when he coughs out, "Max."

Hey Baby, I'm eleven minutes away. I've missed you all day. Can't wait to see you. Love you.

And it's a week later when Billy has to drag himself out of bed for her funeral. Well, Max drags him out of bed cause she's stayed with him ever since and he's drank himself to sleep every day and he hasn't showered all week and he smells as dead as he feels. But Max slides an arm under his shoulders and half carries him to the bathroom, only complaining a little.

"Billy, you're really heavy. You gotta help me out here."

Max shoves him into the bathroom and waits until she hears him get into the shower before letting herself in. She didn't want to leave him alone and she had to get herself ready anyway. It was a while before Max heard a withering sigh.

"It should have been me," he murmured.

Max turned around, staring at the shower curtain, "Billy.."

"She was so good, too good, it should have been me," he rambled, turning off the water.

"Don't say that," she chided, passing a towel into the hand he had stuck out of the curtain.

He stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist and Max frowned at the sight of him. His normal broad golden shoulders were drooped in and he looked pale, withered, like he had spent the last week decaying away and in a sense, he had been.

"It's not fair, Max," Billy broke then, new tears rolling down his face.

Max stepped forward and gathered her brother into her arms, holding his back like she might be able to keep him together. And she kind of did, but Billy had died a week ago so there wasn't much to hold together anymore and now his heart had been cremated, incinerated and he had to compose himself to sit in a room full of people and her ashes. His arms wrapped around Max loosely but his hands twisted into her shirt as he cried into her shoulder.

Billy is 23 and thought he had his whole life to spend with the one good person in his shitty life and Max is 18 and she's never seen her brother as anything but strong. But she has to be the strong one now, standing in a room of people who came to honor the love of Billy's life. Max holds onto his hand with white knuckles and keeps her sobs at bay in order to keep him grounded. Billy makes it through with puffy eyes and a clenched jaw and he takes her urn home with him and places it in his room with the ring on top and drinks himself to sleep again.

Hey Baby, I'm eleven minutes away. I've missed you all day. Can't wait to see you. Love you.

Billy never deletes the message from his phone, he keeps it and plays it every day just to hear her voice. And every Sunday, every fucking Sunday, Billy goes to the flower shop and buys a bouquet of roses and forget me nots and he and Max go for lunch and take most of the flowers to the intersection. Billy keeps a bit of the bouquet to bring home and lay on her urn and Max moves in with him, to finish out her school year so that he's not alone. And it's good that she does cause all the other twerps are always at the house and they force Billy to be better, they force life back into him with their game nights and pizza fridays and they fill the house with laughter, life, and Billy starts to glow again. He gets his life back on track, stops soaking in his grief and let's himself heal and after Max moves out and goes to college he starts dating again. Max never misses a Sunday, if she can't make the drive back she'll phone Billy and they'll talk for hours about their week but she never misses it. Billy tells his new girlfriend after six months, about the time he died, had his heart cremated and brings her into the Sunday tradition.

Hey Baby, I'm eleven minutes away. I've missed you all day. Can't wait to see you. Love you.

Now he's twenty six and he takes the ring off the urn and he's not going to miss out this time. So he plans everything perfectly, middle of summer, he takes her out for a picnic, away from everything and he gets down on one knee and pours out his heart to her, the one that she helped rebuild. The first person they call is Max who's bleary eyed on the other side of the video chat and starts excitedly planning with Billy's new fiance.

They're twenty seven when they get married and Max is the Maid of Honor cause she saved Billy's life when he died and she's beaming from ear to ear when she officially has a big sister and everybody's laughing and dancing and even Susan came to support Billy. And when the dancing is in full swing, Billy's sneaks out the back and drives to the intersection. He sits there and talks to her, the first love of his life, and tells her how he misses her and he's sorry, he'll never not be sorry but he tells her how much love his wife has brought into his life. How she and Max coaxed him back from the dead and he'll never forget her and he doesn't wish that he died in her place anymore. He's alone there for a while before headlights shine behind him and Max and his wife get out of the car.

"Hey," Max calls, "you're missing the party."

Billy stands, takes his wife under his arm and presses a kiss to her temple, "I know, just had to get away for a minute."

Billy's wife, the new love of his life, presses her fingers to her lips and then to the cross they had put there, leaving a light red mark on the wood and looks at Billy, "do you want us to stay?"

He smiles, shakes his head and buries his face in her hair, "no, let's go back."

[lemontwst]

Nessun Dorma | 01 - m!ver.

he says i am sorry i am not an easy person to want i look at him surprised who said i wanted easy i don’t crave easy i crave goddamn difficult

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: harem x m!reader. |  female version here.

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: cyoa + smut.

⟶ index  |  prologue.

__

You can’t say no to him.

You don't think you'd ever be able to deny Mira anything, really. Not when he looks at you like a kicked puppy… a tall, imposing kicked puppy with weird horns on his head who could probably cremate you alive without breaking a sweat.

"Of course I would stay with you! Do you even have to ask?" You reach out to touch his face. His skin always feels so cold under your fingers, but the fire in his eyes burns brighter than ever, as if the intensity of his flames depends solely on the intensity of your affection for him.

"I love you, Mira."

Your heart flutters at your own words and for a second you don't even know if you mean that as a friend or as a lover. But, well, you're only sixteen years old. You have a lifetime to figure it out.

You think Mira stops breathing, but it's hard to tell because the rise and fall of his chest is usually pretty much imperceptible anyway.

“I… I love you too.”

He sounds like he’s about to cry. One of his hands rests against your chest. It’s an innocent touch. He’s just feeling your heartbeat under his palm, tiny and steady like that of a little bird, “I will always, always love you. Even if one day you grow to hate me. Even if you forget about me. Even should you fall in love with somebody else…”

You suddenly feel very tired.

His gentle voice is like a lullaby in this field of roses. His words leave you dazed, like he’s casting a spell on you.

“I love you, (y/n).”

The last thing you hear is Mira wishing you a happy birthday before you fall into a warm, comfortable sleep without dreams.

___

A sharp pain in your chest jerks you awake.

It fucking hurts, like your heart is being pierced by a shard of glass. Like the fissures of your very existence are being pulled apart at the seams.

You clutch the spot above your heart, almost elbowing Epel in the face with all your trashing, trying to catch your breath.

"(y/n)! What the hell...?" Your friend rolls away from you, finally letting go of the octopus hold he had on you all night. He's all disheveled as he gives you a weak glare, falling back into the makeshift bed you two share with a groan.

It's not even a bed, really. Just a pile of cotton blankets messily thrown under the skylight of an unused barn. This is your little hiding place, and despite you two having perfectly comfortable beds in the main house with Grandma and Grandpa, you prefer to spend your summer nights sleeping in this very loft, where it's cool and open and comfortable. 

"Sorry! I… had a nightmare… I think.” 

Your friend is used to it by now, “Do you remember what it was about?”

"No… not really."

"Nothing at all?

"No, just…"

"Green eyes." Epel finishes the sentence for you. You've been having the same nightmare for a while, and your friend knows all about it, considering he sleeps right next to you most of the time.

Green eyes. Burning emerald. It's all you remember, alongside a gut wrenching, heart shattering feeling of longing that stays with you long after you've woken up.

"... Hey, you okay?" You must have looked as miserable as you feel, because Epel leans closer to you, peering into your face with worry in his eyes.

"Yeah… it's just a stupid dream." You shrug, leaning your head against his shoulder, "But you know what would make me feel better?" 

Epel shrugs, but the way his brow crinkles tells you he's already prepared himself for whatever dumb thing you're about to say.

He knows you too well.

"I'd feel sooo much better if I had an additional piece of toast for breakfast today…" you sigh dreamily and Epel sighs.

"Fine." He shrugs you off and stands up. When he stretches, a peek of white skin flashes under his light blue shirt.

"What, really?" Your eyebrows shoot up. It's not usually this easy to get him to hand over his morning toast.

"Yeah," Epel walks the length of the loft and starts going down the ladder to the ground level of the barn. Before his head completely disappears under the edge of the loft, he throws you an arrogant smirk, "I wouldn't want the deafenin' roars of your stomach wakin’ up every wolf 'n boar in the area."

You're rushing after him immediately.

He can’t claim the bread if he’s dead.

___

You live a simple, happy life here in the Village of Harvest.

Your journey might not have had the best start—your parents left you on a doorstep in a basket when you were a small baby, but Epel's grandparents took you in and cared for you like you were theirs, and you grew up surrounded by love in a small farming community.

Sure, your days might not be terribly exciting. You don't have things like a mall, or a cinema or… anything invented after the seventeenth century, really, but you have Epel and your grandparents and that's enough.

Oh, and you have Beau.

The little lamb trots towards you as soon as you're out of the house, your belly full with toast and Grandma's delicious apple jam, and starts nibbling at your socks immediately. 

Beau is minuscule. The tiniest lamb you've ever seen, always struggling to follow behind you on unsteady legs like you're his mother. Epel says it's because he feels a kinship with a fellow pipsqueak. You're always quick to point out that Epel is not that much taller than you anyway.

"Good morning, sweetie." You pick up Beau in a swift movement and hold him to your chest with one arm, carrying a wicker basket in the other, "Ready to pick some apples?"

Beau starts nibbling on your hair in response. This little guy… he's always munching.

"Just make sure he doesn't actually eat the apples." Epel starts walking in front of you, throwing Beau an unimpressed look.

You can't be sure but you feel like Beau is glaring back at him.

Sigh. Children.

___

You're always dead tired when you finally reach your bed. Farm life is fun and rewarding, but it’s also incredibly exhausting. That coupled with the fact that you haven’t been getting much sleep lately means that you’re out like a light as soon as your head hits the pillow, barely having the strength to say goodnight to Epel before you’re spiraling into a deep sleep.

…

…

You know you should be surprised to see him, but you never are. You can always feel him creeping around the outer edges of your dreamscape, but it doesn’t bother you. You invite him in every time, even if you forget all about it when you wake up, almost like you know instinctively that he won’t hurt you. Almost like you know him.

The man in your dreams is gorgeous, the kind of beauty that makes you want to learn sculpting so you can attempt to immortalize it. His skin is paler than marble, free of scars or blemishes. His ebony hair looks silky, a stream of ink that frames his handsome face and falls past his shoulders. He is tall, the tallest person you’ve ever seen, and the evil-looking horns on his head make him look ever more imposing. 

But what you find most striking about him are his eyes. Emerald gems with flames inside them. It’s the only detail of his that you remember when you wake up, the rest of him a cloud of black smoke when you attempt to picture him outside of your dreams. 

“Good evening, Deerlet.” His voice has the texture of silk and when he speaks, it feels like the ground shakes beneath your feet. “Did you miss me as much as I missed you, I wonder?” He closes in on you with slow, purposeful steps, elegant as a cat even as he leans forward slightly, like he wants to keep you in place by towering over you. His expression is curious and serene. You have a feeling he always looks at you like this.

“Why are you here?” You take a few steps back, not because you’re scared of him, but because you're scared of how badly you suddenly want to reach out and touch him. Your bare feet step on something soft, like flowers, and suddenly the dull landscape around you shifts into a view that feels strangely familiar to you. An open meadow and a purple sky above you. An endless sea of black roses around you.

“Your eighteenth birthday is tomorrow.” He closes the distance again, as attracted to you as you are to him. You’re like two ends of a magnet, when one pulls back the other follows. “I really felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation.” The small, arrogant smile on his face sends a flurry of tingles down your spine.

“In any case, I won’t be able to celebrate with you tomorrow.” 

You feel like you already know where this is going.

“So I’ve brought you your gift today,” He reaches out to touch your elbows, languidly pulling you closer to him in a half-embrace that makes your heart skip a beat. There’s too much empty space between the two of you. His fingers linger over your skin, barely touching you. 

“Do you want to know what it is?” He whispers against your ear. One of his hands gently cradles your face. His lips brush against your temple and you shiver, completely paralyzed on the spot, “It’s my love, of course.”

Not granting you the chance to run away, the man picks you up like you weigh nothing and gently lowers you over the roses.

"I don't… I don't even know you." You meekly push at his chest, turning your head away. It's like trying to move a mountain, and the hardness under your hands makes you blush something fierce.

He chuckles above you, but he's not amused. It's a pained, bitter sound, like you just reached inside his ribcage and crushed his heart in your hand. His ebony hair tickles your skin when he leans down to press kisses against your jaw, "Oh, you do know me, beloved. You are the other end of my soul, as I am yours."

His adoring voice, barely a whisper against your skin, leaves you dazed and gasping for air. Your legs open almost instinctively for him, your dick wet with excitement. A clawed hand makes his way from your shoulder to your side, slowing down when it passes over your chest breast as if he's indulging in the forbidden fruit. His fingers glide inside your shorts and he runs a slow circle against the humid head of your member, eager to soak in your juices. 

You watch with half-lidded eyes as he brings his hand to his mouth. A forked tongue peaks between his lips, slowly running over one of his lucid fingers. It brings back a memory of that time you dropped jam on your forearm, and that same forked tongue cheekily swept it away. The vision is so clear it leaves the hint of a name in your dry mouth.

"Mi… ra?" 

His eyes dart to yours and you think they're actually burning. Emerald flickers to life. His snake pupils shrink. He makes a show of slowly running his thumb down his tongue, leaving a trail of precum behind. Your stomach clenches with need, your entire body lighting up like he just poured gasoline on you and burned it with a match.

"Is… is that your name?" You manage to gasp the words out, suppressing a shiver when he hums low in his throat. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to just give in already. To stop asking questions and wrap your arms around him instead, letting him use your body until he's satisfied. The urge to make him happy is almost primal in you, cauterizing your synapses. The need for him almost tears you apart.

"It's what you call me." It's a habit of his to sound both sad and adoring, you realize. You open your mouth to scold him for being so cryptic, but snap it shut when his hands rest on your chest. He palms the taut flesh gently, a small smirk on his arrogant face, "My precious Deerlet. Always so insatiably curious."

His thumbs slowly circle your hard nipples. Little jolts of electricity run down your spine, your chest growing sensitive under his ministrations. It's agonizingly slow. The sweet way he rubs you through the fabric of your shirt makes you quiver with need, your voice coming out in short little gasps that make his eyes darken to a dangerous jade.

You lay your hand on top of his. You can feel his hard veins move under your palm as he gropes you, and the sensation sends another wave of arousal down your crotch. Shaking like a frightened animal, you slowly move his hand to the side and slide it under your tank top. A gasp leaves you when his fingers touch your bare skin. Mira exhales a long, pained sigh through his nose, then allows his digits to explore the expanse of your flesh. His fingertips tingle and his muscles tighten almost violently as the impulse to fuck you threatens to overtake him.

"Patience, daelin." He teases you, his deep voice a heated, playful murmur. Your dick throbs in response. A small, frustrated whine leaves your lips.

"I'm going to savor every moment of this." He takes his hand away and your heart almost breaks, but the pain is soon replaced by scalding embarrassment when he rips the front of your shirt apart, easily, like it's tissue paper.

Nothing could have prepared you for the thunder that rattles the landscape of your psyche when his forked tongue makes contact with your perky nipple. Your hands find his broad shoulders and you hang on for dear life as he licks, nibbles and sucks like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. His mouth is devastatingly gentle and you weakly beg for more. Mira smirks and ignores you, dragging out his tender torture for as long as he can, even as you desperately grind your stiff erection against him.

"Mira!" You're sobbing at this point. Your body is on fire and your dick hurts from the lack of attention, "Please—" He moves to your other nipple and you arch for him, making a pretty line with your back. Mira takes this chance to slip a hand under you, keeping your chest raised to his mouth so that your head falls back, away from the dangerous tips of his horns. But he still doesn't touch you where you want him.

Suddenly, another memory comes to mind, as if summoned by your sexual frustration. You remember something that makes him shiver without fail, and suddenly you feel like you've regained some sort of power over this arrogant man. You bring a hand to his horn and tug and the loud, startled moan that leaves him is enough to satisfy the hunger in your stomach, precum leaking in your shorts like dew against the fabric. 

"... You little brat." Mira pulls away, struggling to catch his breath. His eyes are full of mischief as he looks down at you, the smirk ever present on his handsome face, "Is this how you treat your King?"

You try not to look too offended that he stopped touching you, giving him a defiant look that makes his smirk grow wider, "It is when the King is mean to his Queen."

His expression falls and he suddenly looks flustered. It seems like he enjoys hearing that you belong to him quite a bit. Mira quickly composes himself, the fire in his eyes now dim and subtle like a dangerous warning. 

You yelp when he grabs the back of your knees and pushes your legs against your body in a quick, rough movement, leaving you spread open and helpless under his watchful gaze.

"This is far from me being mean." He growls at you, allowing his instincts to take over for just a second, "So I advise you don't do that again." The stern look on his face makes his presence feel even more oppressing than usual.

It's like he's speaking the words directly into your ears. His voice bounces off the walls in your head, heated and demanding as a spark of his magic runs over your sensitive skin. It's a tingly feeling that makes your heart stutter, more intimate than anything you've ever felt. He shares just a fraction of his arousal with you through the link between your magic and his and suddenly you're crying and convulsing on top of the flowers, the heat between your legs akin to flowing magma.

The world around you loses focus. There's no more questions, no more doubts, you don't need to know anything about him, you just want him to touch you while you moan and gasp and whimper his name. It feels like you're on the verge of shattering and when Mira caresses you with his magic one more time, your stomach squeezes and releases, the dam in your abdomen breaks and blinding white flashes in front of your vision. You're left boneless and dazed and shivering, the shock from climaxing so hard and so abruptly leaving you speechless as you gasp and try to catch your breath.

...Holy shit. You catch his eyes and notice the subtle way he’s panting, sweat coating his forehead as he stares at every twitch of your body with intense rapture. Mira looks almost famished, desperation written all over his face. He looks like he’s in pain.

"I'm trying to be gentle, daelin." He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to keep the pieces of his disintegrating self-control together. Your scent is everywhere. The light spice in the air threatens to render Malleus insane and he has to momentarily block you out to keep himself from turning into his half-draconic form.

No no no, he can't do that to you. Not now. Not during your first time. He wants to cherish and protect you. He won't let his feral instincts get in the way of this precious moment…

"...I know."

Malleus opens his eyes. A small, tired smile greets him. Your face is sweaty and flushed, like that one time he took you deep into the woods.

"I trust you, Mira."

Love washes over him like high tide across a deserted shore, filling every crack on his eroded heart, replacing the pitch-black ink that constantly threatens to swallow him.

You trust him. Of course you do. You love him. You are his and he is yours. Forever, like you promised him.

"... I'll make you feel good." He sounds oddly resolute as he looks at you, his pupils large on a background of gentle flames. He kind of looks like a happy cat and you can't help but giggle. He's still as awkwardly sweet as the scrawny boy in your memories.

"You already did."

He snorts, "I'll make you feel better."

You let out a surprised gasp when he slips your shorts off of you and lowers his face right between your legs. You hear him take a deep breath and then he's exhaling right against your engorged dick. Your legs tremble in response and Mira chuckles. You don't need to look at him to know he's smiling that closed-eye smile you like so much.

Your excitement flares back to life as his tongue traces a slow line from the base to the head. The split in his tongue feels… weird, but it's also strangely erotic, and you can't help but moan shamelessly as he teases your urethra. Then he runs his tongue flat over your glans and suddenly you can't bear to look at him anymore. Your eyes squeeze shut as little earthquakes shake you from head to toe, your hips going numb as he draws slow circles around the sensitive head.

"Which one feels better?" He has the nerve to ask you even as you convulse under him.

"The tip…" he greedily sucks on your glans and your head falls back, precum dripping out of you like a fucking river and coating his face in a lucid sheen of arousal, "Or the base?" He drags his tongue down the shaft and gently sucks on your ballsack and you nearly lose your mind, your hands tangling in his raven hair and gripping his horns for comfort. Mira gasps loudly against you, claws digging into your legs from the shock of the sudden stimulation, but you don't even notice it, lost as you are on the edge of your release. He brings a hand to your shaft and starts pumping, coating his fingers in precum and saliva as he continues to suck on your glans hungrily.

Your dick throbs desperately with the need to shoot your semen all over Mira's face. Everything feels wet and hot and stars, his tongue is lapping up everything you have to give him. It's like he's desperate not to let even a single drop go to waste…

"Mira!" You cry out in a broken voice, trying to grind your dick up into his eager mouth, "Mira—I'm going to—"

He suddenly lets go of one of your legs. The boneless limb falls over his shoulder, your soft thigh caressing the side of his soaked face. He doesn't grace you with a warning before one of his wet fingers plunges into your asshole, the tight passage clenching in shock at the sudden intrusion.

Your moans increase in volume. You trash under him as if you want to get away. This is almost too much. It's scary. He pumps his index finger in and out of you, smearing saliva all over your walls, then he presses that sensitive button inside you and suddenly the bliss is debilitating. He carefully stretches your cute little hole until he can push another finger in. Your back arches as another orgasm crashes over you, scalding hot and earth-shattering and too fucking vivid for this to be just a dream.

You completely miss the dazed expression on Mira's face when your cum fills his mouth, the dark jade of his eyes fading into a glassy mint. 

You're so out of it as you slump back against the roses that you almost don't hear him when he speaks again.

"This scent is—addicting—" his chest heaves and he looks almost intoxicated, "I feel like I'm getting drunk on you..." semen drips off his chin but he clearly doesn't mind. Not when he starts wiping the thick liquid off with a hand before bringing it to his mouth, swallowing as much of it as he can. It's strange how he looks like an animal and a prince at the same time. An otherworldly creature of indescribable beauty, even as he eagerly eats your essence off his face.

“(y/n), I can’t take it anymore…” He breathes frantically, finally allowing himself some sort of relief as he takes his erection out of his pants. His dick is so hard it fucking hurts. He really wanted to take things slow for your sake, but he only ended up edging himself to the point of almost going into a rut.

He lets his hot member fall against your stomach. He’s fucking huge, you stare with wide eyes at the point where his length ends across your abdomen. 

"It… it won't fit…" You mumble, even as your inexperienced asshole clenches with traitorous want.

"Not this time, probably not." Mira cradles your little body in his arms, "I'd have to train you for it to fit. Stretch you out until your insides have my imprint." He runs a hand down his face in a quick, agitated movement. Every single cell in his body is fighting against the urge to ravish you. His muscles hurt from tightening so violently and Malleus has to force himself to count to ten to keep from showing his cock inside you at once. 

“It’s… fine. I won’t hurt you.” He promises, searching your face for your approval as he lines himself against your entrance. He’s been alive for centuries and yet his heart has never beaten so fast. His hawk-like eyes are focused on you and you alone, burning the image of you laying helpless under him inside his corneas. 

Then you nod up at him, looking so cute as you try to put on a brave face that Malleus almost cums right then and there. The head of his dick slowly pushes inside you. Your head lulls back and Mira's hands shake violently.

It's so big. Your vision goes out of focus as your hole clenches around him greedily despite the pain. Stars, it's stretching you so well. He tried to prepare you for this and yet he still has to push to enter you because you're so fucking tight. Your legs shake uncontrollably, the feeling of being so thoroughly filled wiping out every thought in your head.

He finally touches the deepest place inside you, his large cock still not completely inside, and you both go completely still. The only sounds that break the humid silence are your loud gasps and his feeble ones, mixing together in a cacophony of absolute amazement as you two take in the surreal feeling of finally being connected.

Mira is inside you. You completely forget that this is a dream, that sentence repeating inside your head over and over again.

"...Small." He mutters. You look at him and your heart almost collapses at the tender expression on his face. You think his pupils might have turned into little hearts, a light blush dusting his pale cheeks as sweat drips off his hair and chin.

"So small." He makes a show of hovering over you completely and suddenly the sky disappears. There's only him. Above you and around you and inside you. You're face to face with his chest, and as you lean your head back, trying to catch his eyes, you see that he has to tuck his chin against his neck to look back at you. 

…

...

Fuck. Your heart lodges in your throat and your hole clenches around him, coaxing a surprised moan from both your lips.

"(y/n)..." your name sounds heavenly when he says it like that. On a quiet, vulnerable gasp.

"I… I'm going to start moving now, okay?" 

You can't speak, so you give him another frantic nod, squeezing your eyes shut. You're not prepared for how good it feels when he pulls back. His veins scrape against you, the stretching becomes almost unbearable and you're left moaning long and loud in a way that makes Malleus sweat. If you could see him now, you'd notice he looks almost shy, like the first time you kissed his cheek. 

He's almost out of you when he decides to thrust back in, scattering stars across your stomach with a single, gentle motion. Every nerve ending tingles with pleasure. Sweet nonsense falls from your lips and Malleus has to grit his teeth and dig his clawed fingers into the ground in order to cling to the last remains of his thinning patience. His fangs hurt with the primal urge to mark you.

"My (y/n)—" He eases into a steady rhythm, pushing what he can of his shaft inside you and rubbing your abused prostate with every thrust of his powerful hips. Sweat pours down his face, his hair sticks to his chin and his tongue swipes the salt off his lips, "My sweet boy—my cute little Deerlet—" His waist snaps back into your smaller one in short strokes, his movements growing more and more frenzied as tight, magma hot pleasure builds inside him. The obscene sounds that fill the air turn him on so much he's now full-blown moaning. His beautiful voice calls your name shamelessly, desperately, like you could disappear from under him at any given moment.

"I love you—you're mine—" He growls placing a large hand under your ass as he pounds into you, keeping your hips locked to his, loving the way your dick bounces against his stomach, “Say that you’re mine."

The order resonates inside your head. You're not even offended that he's using his magic to intimidate you. You can barely cling to your consciousness at this point.

"I am—I'm—yours, Mira!" You don't even know which way is up anymore, but you know that what you're saying is true. You belong to him. Your best friend. The love of your life.

"Malleus." He corrects you through gritted teeth, then he stops moving entirely, ignoring your disappointed cries as he desperately tries to resist the pull your body has on him, "Say I'm yours, Malleus." 

"I'm yours, Malleus." His real name becomes a moan in your mouth and Malleus finally snaps. There's no more gentle, just a carnal urgency and a need that has waited centuries to be satisfied. He pulls his hips back and then slams into you and fuck, you should be screaming by now but you can't, there's not enough air as you bounce over the flowers and sob, clinging to him like he's your lifeline.

The loud "Fuck!" that leaves his mouth pushes you over the edge, the word unexpected but so fucking sexy coming from his graceful mouth. You clench down around him, delirious as stars explode behind your vision, and drag him right over the edge with you. 

Malleus holds you so close to him you feel like you might melt into each other as he releases pulse after shuddering pulse of his essence into you.

He cums so much. You can feel his hot semen fill you up and then spill out like it's a waterfall. He's not letting go of you, his face hidden in your hair as he recovers from the star-shattering pleasure of finally, finally being one with you.

"I love you." He mutters, voice breaking.

...

He's crying. That lone thought destroys something inside you and you start feverishly kissing his jaw, his cheek, his neck, anything you can reach as you try to soothe him.

Don't cry don't cry don't cry—

You feel him starting to fade in your arms. You can feel yourself starting to fade.

Nonononono— Maker, please—

He pulls away from you and you finally see his face. 

He looks lost. His dark lashes are wet with tears, his mouth is curved in a confused frown and that's when you realize that he loves you so much, but he doesn't know how to process the feeling. He's like a panicked child and you are fading. And he’s always going to remember this moment, but you won’t.

You scream out his name, his real name.

…

And then you wake up, sobbing all over yourself, unable to remember. 

Epel tries his best to comfort you, but you don't stop crying for a long time.

___

Life goes on.

You have a part-time job at a beach bar, on the coastline that extends about 60 miles away from the village.

Epel hates that you have to travel so far when you could just help him out at the farm like you usually do, but you’ll be attending NRC coming September, and you want to save some pocket money for you and Epel to spend on all the cool city stuff you can’t find in your hole of a town.

Beau likes to walk you to the bus stop. Epel would too, but you won’t let him waste his time on you when he has his own work to take care of. Your lamb companion stops following you when the dirt road opens to the fields, getting distracted by the dandelions sprinkled at the edges of the village. 

"See you later, Beau." You chuckle, knowing he will go back to the farm as soon as he gets bored. Beau ignores you and munches away.

The bus stop isn't far, a lone plastic port on a background of sunflowers. As per usual you're the only one here, but the occasional horse and buggy passes by, and the farmers who live in the nearby granges all greet you with cheerful smiles on their faces. They all know where you're headed and wish you a good day at work. You really can't keep anything to yourself in such a small community.

The commute to the beach takes almost an hour. The road zig-zags and then straightens towards the coastline. You're almost tempted to doze off, but finding your way to the beach if you miss your stop is going to be a pain in the ass, so you force yourself to stay awake, keeping your eyes on the picturesque horizon and daydreaming about your mysterious man with the emerald eyes.

You always think about him when you’re riding this bus.

…

You should probably stop being so obsessed with him.

___

The sun is almost in the middle of the sky when you get to the beach bar, and as per usual, it's a crowded mess. This is the infernal hour, and not only because it's hot as sin.

There's people everywhere, craving drinks and food before they go lay down on their beach towels for the rest of the day, their flip-flops leaving sand in every corner of the bar that you'll be sweeping for an eternity. Screaming children run this and that way like they're high on vitamin gummies. Their melting popsicles leave a sticky trail on the ground. They step on it and spread liquid sugar everywhere.

…

Why do you work here again? 

…

Because the pay is good, and your coworker is cute.

Said coworker perks up when he sees you. His ears give an excited wiggle (Maker, he's adorable) and he shoots you a smirk that shows his little fangs, "Ah, kitten! Always a sight for sore eyes." He hisses a 'kishishishi' that you've learned to recognize as his laughter, his closed eyes looking like little half-moons.

"Now move your bum and go change. I need my sla—coworker to serve some tables outside.”

Figures. His lazy ass hates leaving the coolness of the bar to handle the customers sitting outside.

“Is that how you ask for favors, Ruggie?~" You tease him as you step behind the counter and head for the changing rooms in the back.

"I'd smooch ya as a treat but snoggin's not allowed in front of the children." He gives you a cheeky smile. One of the moms around the bar throws him a glare, but he shamelessly ignores it. 

You shake your head and grin to yourself. At least you have him around to make this job a little more bearable.

___

“I am dying.” You groan and rest your head on the counter, the coolness of the wood soothing your flushed face, “Why did I take this job anyway? I don't need the money! I can just live off the land with my lamb companion and eat apple jam for the rest of my days."

Ruggie snorts next to you. He finishes cleaning a beer glass and places it back on the decorative shelf behind you, “Says the one who only works half a shift.”

You turn your head to look at him, cheek smushed against the counter. Rush hour is finally over, but god, you're in pieces. Waiting tables is not as easy as it sounds, and dealing with entitled moms on vacation is a torture worse than stepping on two Legos at the same time.

The sun is starting to set. The blue sky fades into a gentle orange above the deep indigo of the calm sea. Your shift is almost over, but Ruggie will have to stay here for a while longer.

"I'm not a masochist like you." Your eyes follow him as he wipes, cleans, moves, washes and dries plates and glasses at half the speed it takes you to do it. He's like a super cleaning pro.

"Ye gotta work if you want ta eat." He pops open a can of peach tea, then pours it in a glass filled with ice.

"It's not masochism, it's the law of the Savannah." He places the glass right in front of your face. You lift your head off the counter and wrap your hands around the cold beverage as he shoots you a mischievous look. He waits for you to take a sip before adding: "But it's nice ta know you're so interested in my sexual preferences."

You choke.

He laughs that kishishishi sound.

As you wipe your mouth with your wrist and send him a half-assed glare, a familiar sparkle sizzles the air between you.

You bask in the sudden heat for a second, watching as Ruggie's blue-gray eyes trace a slow path down your body.

This kind of flirting is… not uncommon between the two of you, but it never really leads to anything, if only because you're both stuck manning the bar and you can't really leave the place unattended.

But something you can't help but wonder… would he act on it if you two were alone and away from trying eyes? Would you act on it? Ruggie is very cute… and witty and funny and reliable...

Regardless of your feelings on the matter, his casual teasing makes you feel like the hottest person on this beach, so you don't discourage it. You take another sip of tea, sighing through your nose at how pleasant the cold beverage feels when it runs down your throat.

...

"Uh…" Ruggie suddenly looks away, his cheek tinged the lightest shade of pink, "You may uh… want to take that shirt off, kitten."

...

What?

You look at him like he's grown another head.

"Excuse me?" You must have sounded more outraged than you feel, because your voice sends Ruggie into an embarrassed panic.

"N-not like that! It's just…! You've been sweating a lot and your shirt's gone transparent! I can see everythin' from here— I mean, what if a perverted old man walks in and sees you like that?"

You look down at your white shirt. It wasn't visible while you were wearing your green apron, but you can indeed see the outline of your nipples peek out from under the wet fabric, and you figure your wet back looks the same. Oops.

"Ah shit, sorry I didn't notice." You stand up and Ruggie turns his head away at the speed of light.

"No no… s'fine I have— a jacket you can wear while you walk home if ya need it."

Your lips quirk in a grateful smile as you head for the changing room, "Thank you! You're the best, Ruggie!"

"Yeah, yeah…" he breathes, quietly rubbing his temples as soon as you're out of the room.

___

Left alone in an empty beach bar, Ruggie barely resists the urge to slam his head against the counter. His shoulders are burning like he's been marked like cattle, and all he wants to do is to walk into the ocean until the waves swallow him completely. Maybe the abhorrent heat that singes his skin would fucking disappear then. And if not, at least the cold water would kill his boner.

This happens every fucking time. Every fucking time. He should be smarter than this, and yet he always falls for the same tricks, and the worst part is that he's tricking himself. Ruggie knows that flirting with you is akin to showing burning coals in his abdomen. He gets so fucking excited his entire body starts tingling with electricity, which is not the ideal state to be when you're at work.

And yet he still does it anyway.

Maybe he really is a masochist.

And maybe he should actually bend you over this counter and finally get rid of the frustration that's been building up inside him for the past two months.

And oh God, you're going to the same school as him in September. You're going to be prancing around in your little uniform, calling him 'senpai' and shit and he's going to have to go through his heat while being tortured like that.

Ruggie pours himself a glass of ice-cold water and downs it in one gulp.

Yeah, he's fucked. 

___

"Epel! Carry me!~" You cling to your friend, Grandma and Grandpa chuckling at your antics from the sofa and the armchair respectively.

Having finished washing the dishes, Epel wipes his hands on a dishcloth and pushes you away with his elbow, "No thanks. I'm tired too ya know."

This is not the first time you've done this song and dance. With how little you've been sleeping lately, you're always looking for excuses to be carried around by Epel. Your legs feel like jello, you are not walking all the way to the barn tonight. Just changing into your pajamas has been hard enough.

"Yeah, but you slept like a rock all night!" You hug him from behind and rest your lips against his shoulder, giving him an unimpressed look from over his shoulder, "I woke up to you drooling all over my shirt multiple times."

Epel flushes the color of the fruit he's named after and mumbles something unintelligible. He waves goodnight to his grandparents and so do you, then he struggles towards the front door, pretty much having to drag you across the hallway.

"If you're this tired then why don't ya just quit the beach job already?"

The two of you step outside, greeted by the loud crying of the cicadas. There's not a cloud above you, the stars clearly visible in the inky blue of the night.

"I can't do that. Ruggie needs me."

Epel scoffs. It's the exact same sound he made when he saw you come home wearing your coworker's jacket. 

"Why don't ya go ask yer darlin' Ruggie to carry ya then?" His accent gets more jumbled as his irritation grows. Still, for all his fussing, Epel bends down and waits for you to climb on his shoulders. 

You do so happily, nuzzling into him like a spoiled cat.

A pair of emerald eyes flashes behind your eyelids, but you shrug it off.

"Sorry but I'm too drunk to go back to the beach to ask him."

"Only you can get drunk after two glasses of apple cider." Epel smirks, ignoring you when you hit his arm and start whining again.

__

You lay down onto Epel's checkered blanket like a starfish.

"Where am I supposed ta sleep? On the ground?" Epel turns the lantern off, then lights the incense to keep away mosquitoes and other bugs and places it on the windowsill.

He turns towards you with his hands on his hips, watching as you lay in your shared nest without a care in the world, and sighs. So spoiled.

"You can sleep on top of me, I don't care."

Epel almost chokes on his saliva.

You laugh at his flustered face. It almost looks like he's angry, eyes wide and an outraged blush on his cheeks.

You open your arms for him, "Come on! It's not like we won't end up in this position in the morning anyway."

It’s true. Epel often rolls on top of you in his sleep, and nothing you do ever seems to shake him off or wake him up. You figure you can just get right to it, since he apparently loves resting his head on your chest while he snores.

Your friend closes the distance between you with three hesitant steps. "... You're such a moron, seriously." He mumbles, kneeling between your legs and then draping himself over you, careful not to crush you with his weight. He smells like apples, as always. His cotton pajamas and his fluffy hair make him the perfect cuddle buddy. You sigh contently into his hair and wrap your arms tighter around his back.

It’s quiet for a bit. Epel’s weight is strangely comforting over you. The sound of his steady breaths is a familiar lullaby, and you quickly find yourself floating in that comfy, tingly space between sleep and wake.

…

“Do you do this with Ruggie too?” 

Epel mutters so quietly you almost don’t hear him. He doesn’t say it accusingly just… like he’s sulking.

“... What?” Any semblance of sleep disappears from your mind as you catch his dejected tone of voice, “You mean like hugging?— Of course not.” You bring a hand to his hair and scratch his skull like you know he likes it, and you feel him relax in your arms.

…

…

“Have you ever kissed him?”

Okay, now you’re definitely wide awake.

You look down at him, trying to catch his expression, “Epel, what are you talking about?”

He raises his head and pins you down with a demanding, silvery gaze. You sigh and lay your head back down, closing your eyes as you think of the best way to answer him.

“I haven’t kissed him.” You open your eyes and catch Epel’s expression shift just a little. He tries to keep an impassive front, but you can tell he’s relieved, “But I’ve never kissed you either.” You could maybe understand the cuddle comparison, since Epel is your designated snuggle friend, but who you kiss or don’t kiss shouldn’t matter to him.

Right?

“... Do you want to?” 

Your breath catches in your throat. Everything seems to still around you. Your heartbeat speeds up as you look into Epel's eyes. You know he's pretty manly despite his soft features, but he's never been so… forward before. You two have always been like siblings, so you really didn't think Epel felt that way about you. Maybe he's just joking?

… He's not. His eyes dart to your lips and darken, like there's a thunderstorm inside his gaze. Soft blue turns to rainy gray.

Do you want to?

…

"Yes." You think Epel stops breathing, but you don't have time to think about it because he's suddenly leaning towards you, stopping only when his lips are a few centimetres away from yours.

His labored breaths fan your lips and send a flurry of tingles down your abdomen…

___

❥ How do you handle this situation with Epel?

⟶ Lay back and let Epel take the lead. You deserve this after being teased in your dreams by your mystery man and teased in real life by your hyena coworker. Besides, you kind of want to see what your stubborn Epel is capable of in bed... (sub!deerlet content)

⟶ Touch him, claim him, make him beg for the next kiss. With the way he’s always clinging to you, you suspect this is what Epel has always wanted anyway. (dom!deerlet content)

vote here     |      what is this?

❥ taglist: @mirrorsandpacts @stormweaver13 @bobaryn @justsomepersons @mokkeguts @maiieus @trashmomarcya @dat-bi-bitch @lem-thebeast @mythrule @hfhgjgji @zzz-sleeplessy-soft-xxx @anicious @kae-draws-sometimes @cogitover @sammy6667 @shrimp-heads @twistedmintcandy @gyghii @akelois @maknae-lenna @chiefcashgianthero @carasketch @mayorkoopbob @linseyz @gardenondreams @andromeda-gay @equus-meretrix @the-king-of-blue @spacebabesupernova @kagicannotsee @doraconia @hello-starlight @yandere-romanticaa @skyboo @uwu-dreams @kay8675 @meltyans @drawbud @msyaoigodkanna @roseinbloom02 @hoodiedevil @ikemenisruiningme @miiluka @hello-selene94 @moondustinhislungs @nosochek-3o @epher-posts @monoshii-wasu @rosavine @bitch-let-me-die @raychel @pumpkiethepie @hypmicluvbot @theallpowerfulrosami @mmquinno @mayunnaise21 @ruvelise @roaringyouth​ 

[poorreputation]

That Being Said, So Get This

A Supernatural-Buzzfeed: Unsolved Crossover! All part of the @cocklesdestielfiction Cockles-Destiel Crazy Crossover Challenge! (and @verobatto-angelxhunter)

To read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960567

Wordcount: 6390

Ship: Destiel

Rating: Teen and up

Any kind of warnings: canon-typical violence. If you watch either show, you should be fine. Also, lots of in-jokes. Maybe too many in-jokes.

Also: contains SPN S14 Spoilers

Summary: 

What happens when Buzzfeed: Unsolved and Supernatural are set in the same universe! Ryan Bergara, the believer. Shane Madej, the skeptic. The Winchester Brothers- serial killers? And whatever happened to James Novak?

Story below the cut!

  Ryan Bergara waits for the sound engineer's cue, then begins reading aloud from his script, "In June of 2008, James 'Jimmy' Novak disappeared, leaving behind wife Amelia and daughter Claire. Just a few years later, in 2010, Amelia vanishes, as well. Jimmy is reported to have been spotted a handful of times since then, but what could have lead a loving father and husband to vanishing from the face of the earth? And what prompted his wife to join him?"

  A pause, a second reading of the same paragraph, and then Ryan continues, "The Novaks were known for their devout faith and regular church attendances. According to close friends and family, Jimmy became a zealot in the months leading up to his disappearance, saying that he'd gained the ability to 'talk to Angels'. It's said this put a great strain on his and Amelia's marriage. But, is this what caused him to leave? Did he even leave under his own will?"

  More details are fleshed out, more takes are made, until Ryan reaches his favorite part of every Unsolved episode, "That being said, let's get to the theories. Our first theory builds off of Jimmy's known fanaticism. That he had become convinced he could talk to, and become a vessel for, Angels, and so left his family to fulfill his mission to god. This, however, does not explain what happened to Amelia, or why she disappeared so long after her husband.

  "Our second theory is more far-fetched, and comes mostly from the internet rumor-mill. Over the years, there's been alleged sightings of Jimmy Novak, not only nationally, but internationally, as well. He's most controversially been claimed to have been spotted with infamous serial killers, Sam and Dean Winchester. Coupled with this is the idea that Jimmy and Dean are romantically connected, which people cite as to why Jimmy left his family in the first place, and that Amelia didn't disappear while looking for Jimmy, but was, in fact, killed by Dean. And, for the record, I think this is horseshit."

  Ryan looks up to see the sound engineer silently howling with laughter, which puts a dumb grin on his own face, "But wait, it gets worse!"

  Clearing his throat, and fighting to keep a straight face, Ryan continues, "Our third and final theory is that Jimmy and Amelia weren't running towards anything, but away from someone. That someone? Their 10 year old daughter Claire, who some, as in the internet, claim is a Demon-" Ryan breaks off his sentence, laughing so hard he gives himself the hiccups, "This is gonna be our worst episode, ever."

3 WEEKS LATER

  Ryan Bergara and Shane Madej step out of one of two rental vans, as the rest of the crew starts to unpack. Shane, the taller of the two hosts, stretches his arms, "God, it's good to get out."

Ryan doesn't respond, looking on at the location for that week's episode. His stomach aches just from the sight of it.

 "You all right there?" Shane asks, "Breakfast making a reappearance?"

 "Nah, just." Ryan shakes his head, "The cases with murder always get me. So fucking creepy."

 "Yup." Shane claps his shoulder, leading the way to the front door.

 The house is a single story home, very modern, less than ten years old. Only one family had lived in it, and now it's vacant. The lawn is trimmed, as it's the least the city can do, but the walls, windows and porch are filthy. Items deliberately thrown at the windows are dry and caked on, and Ryan can just picture kids in costumes throwing eggs at the house on Halloween, probably on a dare.

 Shane fishes out the keys from his pocket, waits for their cameraman to give them the thumbs-up, and unlocks the door. Motioning for Ryan to go first, Shane gives a cheeky bow.

 "Alright, whatever." Ryan mutters.

 Everyone filed in, lighting tested and cleared, Ryan begins. He walks into the living room, Shane just a pace behind, and soaks in the scene. The furniture is gone, a light fixture and a bookshelf are all that remain. trying to recall the grisly crime scene photos, Ryan waves hand where the couch should have been. "In August of 2011, Marianne Wyatt and her three boys sat in this area, as someone came up behind them, and shot them, one after the other. They'd been bound, unable to escape, and-" Ryan blinks, nausea overwhelming him, "And a few days later, the father, Marianne's husband, Phil, was found dead. His death ruled a suicide, no note was ever found. Police couldn't prove it, but the theory was that Phil killed his family, and then himself. No one knows why."

 "Neighbors on either side said they heard nothing?" Shane says, prompting Ryan out of his daze.

 "Heard no screams, no shots. Police couldn't even pinpoint the wife and kids' time of death." Ryan nods, "I think I need some water."

 The cameraman shoots some B-roll as Ryan sits, one of the producers handing him a water bottle. "thanks." Ryan nods, as he takes a swallow.

 There's rumbling outside, followed by one of the crew commenting, "whoa, look at that ride!"

 "Sweet car." the boom operator quips.

 Shane looks out the window, "Eh, too obnoxious for my tastes."

 "That's a '67 Chevy Impala." the first crew member replies, "You have no taste."

 Several people, including Shane, laugh at this, and leaves Ryan with an odd sense of deja-vu. Maybe if the room would stop spinning, he could figure out what it is.

 With Ryan looking so sick, the rest of the crew agree to break for the day. Shane drives Ryan to a gas station to get the sickly man some medicine and a Sprite to calm his stomach. Feeling much better, Ryan stays back for a bit to check out the souvenirs the store has to offer, "We could get a hat, or maybe something small like a shot glass."

 "Or, we can get gas station nachos!" Shane grins, his smile only getting broader as Ryan pales at the thought, "And here I thought you were a hardened pro, Ryan Bergara."

 "It might just be food poisoning." Ryan replies, thumbing through some key chains. A car pulls into the lot, loudly announcing its presence, and Ryan has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, "What's it with people around here and their shitty mufflers?"

 "Oh, that's not very fair." Shane replies, the sarcasm lightly sprinkling his words, "I mean- look! -it's the same car from earlier. You shouldn't make such generalizations."

 Ryan peers up as they start walking towards the cashier, as the black, classic car comes to a stop, the engine cutting off a second later. Ryan's eyes widen, as he remembers where he's seen this car before. He shakes his head, willing his heart to slow down. As Shane pays for their stuff, Ryan can't resist the urge to try and catch a glimpse of the car's owner. Just to reassure himself, nothing more. However, by the time Shane's ready to leave, the driver of the Impala has already gotten back in the car.

 The ride back to the hotel is quiet, save for the radio tuned into some local station. It's a sports station, and Ryan feels it's a nice gesture Shane put it on for him, but Ryan just can't concentrate. He can feel Shane glance his way every now and then, and as he pulls into the hotel parking lot, "Hey, if you're really feeling that bad, I'm sure we can find an Urgent Care, around here."

 Ryan shakes his head, "It's not that."

 "What's on your mind?"

 Ryan stares out the window as Shane parks the rental, "Reading up on all of these cases, it makes ya kinda paranoid after a while."

 Shane laughs, "You don't have to be so serious about it."

 "No, really. The car we saw earlier? It reminds me of the episode we filmed a few weeks back. The Novaks, remember?"

 "I don't recall the devout Christian couple driving a muscle car."

 "Right." Ryan nods, "I'm an idiot, I didn't include it in the script, but it's the car Dean Winchester's known to drive."

 "So? It's a 'classic car', I'm sure a ton of people drive it."

 "But it was in front of the Wyatt house, earlier."

 Shane gives a single shrug, "Maybe it's a fan. There was a data breach, last week. Someone could've leaked the location of this week's episode."

  Ryan has to admit to himself, Shane's reasoning does make him feel better, "You're probably right."

  Dean steers the Impala into the motel parking lot, as Sam sits next to him, reading from his phone, "Marianne Wyatt and her kids are buried together at Eternal Rest Cemetery. Phil, however, was cremated."

  "But, a man is reported to be seen in the house?" Dean asks.

  "That's right." Sam confirms.

  "Some personal items of Phil's still there?"

  Castiel speaks up from the backseat, "House was empty when we searched it earlier, save for some signs of 'squatters'." he answers, using air-quotes, "Have we considered the possibility of the spirit not being Phil Wyatt?"

  "No one else has lived in the house, let alone died here." Sam says.

  "What if Phil's suicide was staged?" Castiel poses, "The wife and children are killed, the husband's taken hostage for insurance. Something goes wrong, Phil is murdered, and it's staged as a suicide."

  "There wasn't any physical evidence tying Phil to the murders." Dean agrees, "Could've been a set-up. It'd also make sense why he'd be a vengeful spirit."

  "Again, we don't know it's Phil, or what's tying him, there." Sam sighs, "It feels like we're going in circles."

  "If not Phil Wyatt, then what? The killer?" Dean asks, "Unless the guy died in the house, why would he be stuck?"

  Castiel thinks, "Maybe the real killer has something from this crime. Kept it one his person, even in death."

  "So, the 'real' killer's stuck in someone else's house?" Dean shakes his head, "This shit's giving me a migraine, god."

  Entering the motel, Sam gets to work researching any possible leads on the Wyatt murders, as Dean hops in the shower, and Castiel is left standing in the middle of the room. After a minute of tense silence, Sam takes the bait, "What's wrong, Cas?"

  "The beds look disgusting." Castiel practically spits, not in harsh judgement, but genuine concern. Sam looks over at what he's talking about, and sees the usual grimy, cheap motel pillows and comforters. Both beds have old, faded stains, and minute tears. Sam figures Castiel being without powers makes him more sensitive to cleanliness, or lack thereof, more than as an Angel.

  "Don't know what you want me to do about it." Sam sighs, "I'm sure they're just old."

  "I think I want to sleep out in the Impala." Castiel mutters.

  Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes, "Ask Dean for the keys when he gets out, then."

  Castiel resorts to standing awkwardly in the corner, as Sam does his best to just research the Wyatt murders. By the time Dean returns to the main room, back in his old, sweaty clothes, making the shower seem entirely pointless, Sam stumbles upon some interesting information.

  "Hey. So, get this," Sam calls the other two men over, "There was this leak at the Buzzfeed headquarters, some of it revealing the Unsolved guys' sites for the new season."

  Castiel stares blankly at him. Dean sees this and goes, "It's a couple of assholes on the web who mess with ghosts and Demons. Sam, being the serial killer fanboy he is, is obsessed with their true crime series."

  "I'm not a fanboy."

  Dean mutters to Castiel, "Yes he is."

  "The reason I bring it up," Sam presses, "is because this week, they're covering the Wyatt murders."

  Dean pauses, "Wait, that camera crew we saw earlier-?"

  "Looks like it's Buzzfeed."

  Castiel leans over, peering at the computer screen, "The- the disappearance of the Novaks?"

  Sam and Dean turn, and confirm Castiel’s observation, "Oh, my God."

  "I mean," Dean starts, "There's more than one Novak out there, you know?"

  "From Pontiac, Illinois?" Sam asks.

  Dean frowns, "Well, I guess that means you can't meet your idols, Sammy."

  Sam scoffs at this, "They're probably gone by now, anyway. They never stay in a location for longer than a day."

  "Let's use caution when going back, regardless." Castiel says, turning to Dean, "May I stay in the Impala, tonight?"

  Dean, flustered and blushing, replies, "What's wrong with in here? Afraid to share the bed? I was gonna make Sam sleep on the floor, anyway."

  Sam feels a part of his soul wither away from the second-hand embarrassment.

  "This room is filthy, and I don't want to stay here." Castiel answers.

  "That's just character." Dean mumbles, taking out his keys, "Fine. Whatever."

  After Castiel shuts the front door, Sam braces himself for Dean's inevitable angsty tantrum, "He didn't have to be so rude. We stay in places like this all the time! Sure, none of these rooms come with a third bed, so maybe he was afraid to bunk with one of us, especially you." Dean points at Sam, "You kick in your sleep. In fact, I was just gonna make you sleep on the floor, with you being the youngest and everything."

  Sam wonders how close the nearest liquor store is.

  At midnight, Dean can't help himself but to check on Castiel. He needs a good excuse though, so he grabs the remainder of the six pack, all that Sam didn't drink, and heads out into the dimly lit parking lot.

  Dean can tell from some distance away that Cas is still awake. The Impala's interior is alight, and as Dean nears he can see Cas in the backseat holding up a book. Reaching the car, Dean knocks on the window, then lifts the cans of beer when Castiel glances up. Castiel moves to unlock the door, and without invitation Dean scoots in, ignoring how close-quarters the situation is, and offers Castiel a drink. Dean's so preoccupied with not brushing up against Castiel in any way, that he forgets to actually say anything.

  "Did you need something?" Castiel asks, opening the can with a pop.

  Dean, suffering from a brain-fart, "Just, uhm, checking in."

  The awkward silence is so palpable, Dean feels like he's about to choke, "So, this place can get pretty uncomfortable. Did you, er, want a pillow? Or something? Blanket?" he says, sweating profusely.

  Castiel points to the front seat, "I already have a pillow, thank you."

  Dean gives a high-pitched hum, and, with little to add, exits the car.

  Back in the motel, "I think Cas is upset." Dean says as he closes the door, "He doesn't want to be in the same room as m- us," he looks up at Sam, who's doing his best to ignore his older brother at the moment, "You think he's still mad about the whole 'you're dead to me' thing?"

  Sam rolls his eyes, "Gee, what could ever give you that impression."

  "I was just being angry!" Dean starts to pace, right as Sam's head starts to pound, "I yell at you sometimes, and you know I don't mean it!"

  "I've known you for 36 years, I think I've picked up on that." Sam deadpans, "Maybe, and here's a novel concept, you tell Cas that yourself?"

  "I don't know, I think you-"

  "No." Sam presses, "I'm not gonna be the messenger between you guys. You want to patch things up with Cas, do it yourself."

  In the morning, after a full night of not resolving their issues, Castiel returns to the motel from a coffee run. Wordlessly passing around three cups, the group huddles around Sam as he gets ready to show them his recent findings.

  Ryan and Shane return to the Wyatt house first thing in the morning, the crew waiting for them out front. Working off of nothing but coffee and toast, Ryan's ready for take two. They enter the house, set up their equipment just like the day before, and get situated.

  "There's one suspect, outside of Phil Wyatt himself, police posit committed these crimes" Ryan says, "And since the guy's dead, it'll remain as speculation."

  "Victor Myers was the personal assistant to a business mogul." Sam begins, "He traveled frequently, mainly within the United States. Occasionally, he would go into the next town over, pick a target, and kill them. The longer he did this, the bolder he got."

  Ryan says, "Victor started off killing one, then two people at a time. After a couple of years, he found his rhythm in killing families and making it look like a break-in." he looks around the vacant living room, a chill going down his spine.

  "He wrote about some of his kills," Sam continues, "but it's suspected he took many more lives, around 30, at least. He died of a stroke, four years ago. Police only knew of the murders after searching his home and DNA evidence. The deaths of the Wyatts are thought to be connected to Myers, judging by Victor's whereabouts at the time and the nature of the kills, but obviously the police can't pursue it."

  "So, we're dealing with the ghost of a serial killer?" Dean asks.

  "Serial killers are known to keep 'trophies' of their victims." Castiel adds, "It could be what's tying him to the house."

  Sam's eyes widen, as he lifts up the laptop for everyone else to see, "Maybe not."

  Castiel tilts his head to the side, "The events began before Victor's death?"

  "So," Dean asks, "Who's haunting?"

  "The thought of Victor Myers being behind these killings seems like a no-brainer," Ryan says, "but it doesn't have everyone convinced. Personally, I think the cops here know it's the truth, but don't want to go through the trouble of proving Myers did it."

  "Wouldn't be the first time." Shane nods in agreement, "Too much paperwork."

  After filming, the cast and crew pack their things, and get ready to leave the Wyatt house, and the small suburban town, for the last time. Ryan can't help but breathe a sigh of relief; the suffocating feelings he'd had the day before weren't as strong, now, but they were still incredibly unpleasant. At the threshold of the once occupied home, he turns back to the empty rooms that echoed their steps and voices, "If there's a Victor around here, you can kindly fuck off."

  Shane shrugs his bag higher up on his shoulder, "The camera's are off, buddy. No idea what you're trying to prove."

  "That there's a thick and toxic presence in the house?" Ryan asks, shutting the door behind him, "One that we'll never have to deal with again?"

  Shane groans, "It's True Crime season, Ryan. The one season where you and I are on the same page. And you have to make it about your spooky stories."

  "Most murders have some whisper of the supernatural to them." Ryan replies, "I just don't always bring it up. This time I did. So, there."

  Shane shakes his head, "What an active imagination you have."

  Dean methodically checks all of their weapons, handing each item one-by-one to Sam for packing. Their gear, stored in two duffels, is almost ready to go, Sam zipping up the first bag and readying the second. Castiel does a once-over of their motel room, as after they're done with the Wyatt house, they're heading straight out of town; all three men agreed, with the extra attention on them from those 'paranormal investigators' from Buzzfeed, it wouldn't be smart to linger.

  An hour later, Dean gathers everyone around, "We'll park the Impala a block from the house, walk the rest of the way. Someone spots the car, they won't automatically know where we are. Ready?" a nod from Sam and Castiel, "Right, let's go."

  Flight not until mid-morning, the crew decide to treat themselves to some drinks at the local bar. A couple of rounds in, Shane returns from the bathroom and says to the group, "Hey, guys, I forgot to leave the key at the house. Can one of y'all drop me off?"

  Ryan, who's only had one beer, raises his hand, "Got ya covered."

  A minute later, both men are back in the rental, driving down that familiar street. Ryan pulls up to the curb, front passenger's door lined up with the sidewalk leading to the house. Shane steps out, then looks back at Ryan, "Aren't you coming?"

  Ryan blinks, "Why would I?"

  "Make sure I get to the door safely. For goodness' sake, Ryan, if I can't drive myself, what makes you think I can walk straight."

  "Bullshit, you just want me to go near that house."

  Shane's face splits into a wide grin, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Get it over with." Ryan says, climbing out of the car.

  With more than a little swagger to his step, Shane leads the way. Both men, however, stop in their tracks as a crashing sound is heard, coming from within the house.

  Ryan doesn't dare blink, "What-?"

  One of the lights turns on. Ryan recognizes it as being the bedroom window.

  "Well." Shane says, "Leave a door unlocked for a few hours, and this is what happens." Ryan doesn't miss the note of unease in the other man's voice. Unbelievably, Shane continues to walk towards the front door.

  "What are you doing?!" Ryan hisses.

  "Well, we should probably kick them out." Shane explains, as if it were obvious.

  "No, we call the cops."

  "You do that, then."

  Ryan pulls out his phone as Shane foolishly enters the house. Before Ryan can pull up the keypad, he hears Shane exclaim, "Holy shit!"

  Ryan can't help it, "What's wrong?" Not waiting for an answer, feet with a mind of their own, Ryan walks through the darkened doorway.

  More crashes are coming from one of the other rooms, people yelling, grunting, as Ryan turns on his phone's light. All along the walls of the living room are pentagrams, the smell of spray-paint permeating the air, making Ryan dizzy. He can feel his hands start to shake, and he thinks he's gonna puke.

  Shane turns to him, pale in the light, "We should leave."

  The bedroom door shakes, the voices on the other side increasing in volume until-

  -silence.

  Simultaneously, the front door slams shut as the one to the bedroom swings open, bouncing off the wall and sending small chunks of plaster flying. It takes a moment for Ryan's eyes and mind to come to the same conclusion, that within the room, standing around the body of a man, crumpled on the floor, are three men. It takes a second longer for Ryan to realize who these men are.

  The eyes of infamous killers Sam and Dean Winchester, and missing person James Novak, stare back at them.

  Shane runs to the front door, trying for the lock. The door wiggles and shakes against the frame, and Ryan can tell it's not budging. "Come on, COME ON!" Shane grunts.

  "That's not gonna work." Dean Winchester, the shorter of the brothers, says, "Bastard is keeping that, and all the other doors, shut. We're on lock-down."

  "How did you do that?" Ryan chokes out, impressed with himself that he can say anything at all.

  "Let us out." Shane rejoins Ryan, standing side-by-side.

  Dean grimly laughs, "Would if I could. Last thing I want is for a couple of vloggers getting in the way."

  "We were just returning a key." Ryan doesn't know what else to do, what to say.

  The tallest of the trio, Sam, comes walking towards Ryan and Shane, hands held out in submission, a container of table-salt in his right, "I'm not gonna hurt you, but we need to get you guys in a safe place."

  Shane isn't so convinced, "And what's 'safe', exactly?"

  "Within a ring of salt." Sam answers.

  "Oh, god." Shane groans, "Don't tell me- you're dealing with Demons?"

  Ryan turns to his friend, "Why would you suggest that? What is wrong with you?!"

  "Um, yeah." Sam grimaces, "I realize that's gonna be... a bit of a problem..."

  Ryan can already begin to feel his heart race, palms sweating and legs becoming like lead, "No, this can't be real."

  "We don't have time for this." James Novak says, and the sheer fact he's in the room, saying anything at all, brings Ryan that much closer to a panic attack. He doesn't even flinch when Novak uses a gun, Ryan has no clue what kind, to direct where he and Shane should go.

  At the appearance of the weapon, Shane's tune changes, "You know what? Fine. Demons are real, where do you want us to stand?"

  This snaps Ryan out of it, "Wait, so it takes spending five minutes with serial killers to convince you, but I can't?!"

  "They have guns, Ryan. They could sell me a piece of the moon and I'd write them a check."

  Ignoring the banter, Sam pours a circle of salt around the two men, "No matter what happens, stay in this circle."

  "Who are you people?" Ryan asks, feeling unusually brave.

  "Not what you think." Sam replies.

  "We're Hunters." Dean states, chin up in pride.

  "Hunters of what?" Shane asks.

  "Monsters, ghosts, Demons." James Novak replies.

  "And how'd you get involved?" Ryan asks Novak, "Where's your wife?"

  Novak tilts his head, "The Djinn Queen?"

  "They were doing a video on Jimmy, remember?" Dean says.

  Ryan pales, "You- you saw the leak?"

  "That you spoke of the Novaks, yes." not-Novak answers.

  Annoyed, Shane goes, "If you're not James Novak, who are you?"

  "Castiel. I'm- was, an Angel."

  "Was." Shane nods, "So, not anymore?"

  Castiel shakes his head.

  "Meaning," Shane continues, "There's no way to prove with, say, magic tricks, your claims?"

  "Stop needling the serial killers." Ryan hisses.

  "You mean monster hunters." Shane sarcastically corrects.

  "I'm sorry about my friend." Ryan announces, "He's kind of a dick."

  "You don't say." Dean deadpans.

  "Hey, is it true," Shane starts, "that you and Columbo over there are knockin' boots?"

  Castiel stares down at his shoes, while Dean goes red and Sam sucks in a breath, trying not to laugh.

  "You're insane." Ryan says to the air, unable to look at Shane.

  "Might as well find out." Shane shrugs.

  "Dean," says Castiel, "I apologize if, at any time during the evening, I've stepped on your toes."

  Dean looks to age five years in as many seconds, "No problem, Cas."

  "And that man, in there?" Shane asks, "He's just sleeping, right?"

  "He was dead before he hit the ground." Castiel responds, "We never know for sure, when there’s a Demon present."

  This information makes Shane falter, if only a little, "And why do only we need to be in the salt circle?"

  Dean and Sam pull down their shirt collars, revealing pentagrams tattooed in black ink, just above their hearts. Castiel lifts up the hem of his shirt, revealing several lines of text written in a foreign language. "We're good. And unless one of y'all's a tattoo artist… ?" Dean says.

  "No." Shane relents, "You still can't prove it, but whatever."

  "You are exhausting." Ryan says.

  "I'm thorough."

  "Shut up, Shane."

  "That's enough!" Dean barks, "We're dealing with a fucking Demon, now act like it." he glares at his two companions. As the trio resumes their work, Shane and Ryan are left in silence.

  "You gonna try your phone?" Shane mutters.

  "No, they've got guns." Ryan responds, "I think they can draw faster than I can dial."

  After a few minutes of tense silence, Shane pats Ryan's arm, getting his attention. Turning to him, Ryan mouths 'What?' while following Shane's gaze. Down the hall, leading all the way to the back of the house, is the only other door leading outside.

  It's open.

  Glancing at one another, the intent is understood; at least one of them can make it out. Knowing Shane's got the longer legs, Ryan figures he'll have a better chance, so he prods at Shane's back, encouraging him to make a break for it.

  Shane sprints for the door, and is at the other end of the hallway by the time the Winchesters or Castiel notice. Ryan doesn't see the trio's reactions, though, focusing on whether or not his friend escapes.

  Shane opens the door wider, gets one foot on the first concrete step-

  Cold air fills the room, enveloping every inch of Ryan's skin. The room grows darker, like someone's dimming down the lights. Every breath he inhales is freezing, and every exhale the same temperature. It's like Ryan's overcome with a sudden fever, left weak and in a cold sweat. Arms and legs locked in place, he can feel his heart slow...

  "RYAN!"

  Dean looks from one idiot to the other; the tall one that tried to leave the house, in what was obviously a trap set up by the Demon, and the second, shorter one that was in the broken salt circle, currently having a long stream of black smoke rush into his throat.

  The Demon's found a new body.

  "RYAN!" Shane shouts, and for all his smart-ass quips, the tall one wasn't that sharp. Perfect opportunity to get the fuck out and leave things to the pros, but he's gone and pissed that away. Dean feels his lip twitch into a smirk, realizing he'd do the same if it was his family. Hand closing around the Angel blade, his smile falters.

  Ryan collapses to the ground, still as stone. Sam intercepts Shane, who tries to rush to his friend's side. "What did you do?!" Shane yells.

  "Stay back!" Castiel shouts, charging forward with more salt. Dean's stomach jumps with worry at the sight of Castiel going in on his own. Old habits of being an Angel, thinking himself indestructible. Dean begins reciting the exorcism, his Latin clunky, as always. Smoke begins to spill from the corners of Ryan's mouth as Castiel approaches.

  A hand suddenly lashes out, striking Castiel with such ferocity it throws the man clean across the room. Dean continues the exorcism, mind on autopilot, as he looks to see if Castiel is still in the fight. The former Angel knocked out cold, Dean turns his head just in time to see Ryan's hand extend out towards him.

  "I'm tired of playing with you." the Demon smirks a toothy grim, causing Ryan's brown eyes to flash to black.

  Dean feels his feet lift from the floor, and in a blur of speed, his body be thrown up against the ceiling. Pinned here, and momentarily stunned, Dean tries in vain to continue the exorcism.

  "Shut up." the Demon hisses.

  Dean's voice dies away. He can only watch as Sam tries to take the Demon on.

  Angel blade in hand, Sam goes in, and Dean can tell Sam isn't looking for a kill shot. Swipes, stabs and arcs to distract, but none fatal. Maybe he's hoping for Castiel to wake, maybe he hopes the Demon can't concentrate on more than one Hunter at a time. It's not a bad strategy.

  One slice too close to Ryan's neck makes Shane rush forward, spin Sam around, and snatch the blade from Sam's stunned hand. "What are you doing-?"

  Both men are sent crashing to the floor, as the Demon steps out of the remains of the salt circle. Cracking knuckles and stretching arms, Ryan's lips curve into a smile, as Dean realizes what's coming next:

  Villain monologue.

  "Winchesters, your reputations proceed you." Ryan walks over to Castiel, who's starting to stir, "Here I am, with my humble, little set-up, and here you are, sticking your noses where they don't belong." He presses a boot against Castiel's neck, pinning him to the wall, "Don't you have bigger fish to fry? A God to fight?"

  Castiel gasps for breath, and Dean struggles to free his arms, legs, willing any muscle to move.

  "I'm a nobody." the Demon laughs, "I should be dead, right now. You all have lost your touch."

  Shane slowly starts to rise from the floor, trying not to get the Demon's attention.

  Ryan's head snaps in Shane's direction, "Shane! Buddy! How ya been?" with a hard kick to Castiel's head, Ryan begins to calmly walk over.

  Shane tries for the door, and it looks like Sam was right; it's unlocked, and the Demon can't focus on more than a few things at a time.

  With that, Dean frees his arm, can move his lips. He starts the exorcism from the top.

  "WHAT DID I SAY." the Demon bellows, waving his hand towards Dean, again. This time, Dean's throat closes up.

  Sam continues the exorcism from his place on the ground.

  Ryan waves his hand again, throwing Sam into the room with the man's corpse.

  Castiel, blood pouring out of his mouth, picks up the chant where Sam left off. The Demon is so distracted, Dean's able to get free. Bracing himself, Dean falls to the floor, and, after a few shaky seconds, joins Castiel.

  Teeth clenched, veins pulsing, Ryan yells, "ENOUGH!" sending both men staggering back, falling to the ground, and then pressed up against the wall.

  The front door bursts open. Dean cannot, for the life of him, believe that the tall idiot's back.

  "Hey! Dumbass!" Shane calls.

  The Demon turns to look at him.

  Dean, thinking he's seen it all, and can't be surprised anymore, tonight, feels his jaw drop.

  "Do you want to di-" Ryan starts, just before Shane douses him with a water gun.

  The screams coming from Ryan are simply inhuman. Smoke rises from his skin, as he covers his face. The air, already pungent with sulfur, becomes insufferable.

  Sam staggers from the back room, finishing the exorcism.

  A rush of smoke exits through Ryan's mouth, the pained scream still echoing off of the walls. And then-

  -silence.

  Shane considers the squirt gun in his hand, then looks back up at the trio of Hunters staring at him. "It's- it's filled with holy water." he gestures to an unconscious Ryan, "His idea."

  "So, you're really monster hunters?" Shane asks, wincing at the alcohol being applied to his scraped knees. They were the worst of the gashes on him, sustained when the Demon threw Sam on top of him.

  "Yes." Sam replies, taking a bandage from the Impala's first aid kit. Shane had gotten Ryan, who was still out, in the rental car, and parked that just behind the Chevy. Everyone is now taking a breather before parting ways.

  "So, not serial killers?"

  "No."

  Shane pauses, "Sorry, about taking your knife. I just didn't want you stabbing my friend."

  "You ended up saving all of us, so I think we're square." Sam looks over to the open trunk lid, behind which Dean and Castiel were securing the corpse the Demon had initially possessed.

  "Ryan's gonna be unbearable when he wakes, you know." Shane says, "'Ooh! Demons are real! We don't have it on camera, but it happened!'"

  "Will you keep doing the show?" Sam asks, trying not to sound too eager.

  "Probably. Ryan'll want to catch lightning in a bottle twice, but never do another Demon location, again."

  "You sound disappointed."

  Shane shrugs, "It's fun seeing him scared."

  Sam shakes his head.

  "So," Shane begins, "You watch the show."

  "... maybe."

  "How many of the places we visit are actually haunted?"

  Sam thinks, "Most were, but we, or other Hunters we know, cleared 'em."

  "Huh."

  After saying their goodbyes, and with the understanding that no one would believe Ryan and Shane if they tried to profit off of their Demon encounter, the two groups part ways. The Hunter trio climb back into the Impala, but not before Dean throws Sam the keys.

  "I'm spent." Dean explains, "You take over for a while." Dean also opens the back door for Castiel, but only when he thinks Sam isn't watching. Dean crawls in after him, and does everything he can to not meet Sam's eyes in the mirror.

  It's a half hour later, when on the highway, heading towards the Bunker, that Dean tries to make amends.

  "Cas-" Dean starts, voice just above a whisper.

  Castiel grabs his hand, both are dried and crusted with blood, "I'm sorry." he mouths, "For everything."

  "No." Dean fails to keep the break out of his voice, "I'm sorry. You're family, Cas. Nothing's gonna change that."

  Castiel looks away, and Dean knows from personal experience what he's trying to hide.

  "I miss Jack." Comes Castiel's broken sob.

  Dean squeezes his hand, "I know. I do, too. I should've done more."

  "We should have." Castiel corrects.

  They sit together in a bittersweet silence. The car interior is dark, the rumbling of the road beneath their feet thunderous, and Sam's eyes on the road. Dean and Castiel are in their own little world.

  "I love you." the words spill from Dean's mouth before he can stop them, and funny enough, he doesn't regret it, or treat it like a mistake. It's been years in the making, really. And when Castiel looks back at him, eyes wide with wonder, and more than a little red from fatigue, Dean just brings their joined hands up to his lips, and gives the back of Castiel's palm a gentle kiss. Castiel leans in, meeting Dean forehead-to-forehead, "I love you, too."

  Shane's pulling up to the hotel parking lot when Ryan finally wakes.

  "Ugh, god." Ryan rubs at his eyes, "What a fuckin' nightmare."

  Shane puts the car in park, turning off the engine, "What do ya mean, buddy?"

  Ryan looks over at Shane, then around the rest of the car, "Wait, didn't we go by the Wyatt house, and drop off some keys?"

  "Yep."

  "And I was driving."

  "Uh-huh."

  Ryan blinks, "Did I hit my head or something?"

  "No, we met up with serial killers Sam and Dean Winchester, along with missing person James Novak, and took on a Demon. You got possessed."

  Ryan's face screws up in disbelief, "Very funny, asshat."

  "No!" Shane insists, "It really happened."

  "Bullshit."

  "Then, what was your nightmare about?"

   "Getting chased by a rabid Paddington." Ryan replies, his eyes glazed over in a haunted stare.

   Shane throws his hands up, "Fine, we’ll go with that."

________________________________________________________________

  Thank you!! For reading!! ♥♥♥

[authorgirl1111]

Demigod’s Grief Ch. 4

Thalia

Thalia had begged Artemis, to at least let her see her brother’s funeral. Artemis had been hesitant, but Thalia had refused to back down. Insisted that she would leave anyway, with or without Artemis’s permission.

She had fully expected Artemis to take away her gifts. To tell her that if she left, Artemis would no longer consider her a huntress.

At that moment Thalia no longer cared.

But Artemis allowed her to leave the hunt. Allowed her to go see her brother’s funeral. Artemis had given her a few provisions, including a couple of beads that would allow her to be transported back to the hunt when she was ready to rejoin them.

Artemis had insisted that she take one of the hunters with her. That she would need someone there. Thalia hadn’t cared, so Artemis sent Iphigenia with her, one of the more levelheaded hunters.

Artemis smiled at her sadly before waving her hand, and Thalia and Iphigenia were transported to Camp Jupiter.

---        

Thalia blinked as she appeared just outside Camp Jupiter. Iphigenia looked at her, waiting for Thalia to make the first move.

For a moment Thalia couldn’t move. Afraid of what she would find, when she asked to see her brother.

She looked at Iphigenia, dead dad, killed by her mom, then her brother killed her mother. Who was then hunted by furies for killing his mother?

Iphigenia’s brother had been told to kill his mother by Apollo as well.

Was there anything Apollo did, that didn’t make anyone’s life worse?

That hardened her resolved and she took a step, she had been Told that Apollo was escorting her brother, she needed to see him, to… talk to him.

Thalia stalked forward, Iphigenia following her.

Guards rushed her, Thalia’s hands sparked with electricity, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Calm Down” Iphigenia insisted. “This is how we get locked away, not how we get them to let you see your brother.”

Thalia took a deep breath, and the electricity on her hands went away. “I am Thalia grace, sister Jason Grace former Preator of the twelfth legion”

Some of the guards lowered their weapons, others kept the raised. “We shall take you to the Praetor”

Thalia nodded when some of the male guards tried to grab her, she hissed. “I am a hunter of Diana, don’t touch me.” Iphigenia nodded beside her. The guards immediately let her go, but she kept walking beside her.

“Praetor,” The Guards said when the entered the room. Reyna was sitting on her throne, two dogs made of gold and silver were sitting alert at her heals, and in front of her was Apollo and Meg.

“You!” Thalia cried. “What do you think you're doing here? Do you think you have the right, to handle my brother’s body after you got him killed?”

“Thalia-” Apollo tried. But Thalia’s fingers were already starting to spark.

“You should have left him alone,” Thalia said. “He was happy. He was finally away from all this danger, and you just tossed him, back in. Do you even care? Of course, you don’t, you gods never change.”

Meg stalked forward, but Apollo placed a hand on her and shook his head Apollo didn’t say anything. He turned to Reyna, “Should I leave you to speak with Jason’s sister?”

Reyna’s eyes flicked to her, before turning back to Apollo, “We’ll talk later.” Apollo nodded once before he and his little master walked out leaving Thalia, Iphigenia and Reyna alone.

Thalia turned to Reyna. “I would like to see my brother.” She said.

Reyna paused for a moment before she nodded. “Of course.”

She stood and walked away. “He mentioned you on occasion,” Reyna said. “He never really forgot you.”

Thalia smiled a little. It was the first smile she had given in days.

Reyna walked down to the funeral home, where Jason’s body was kept, lying in wait. She stepped forward and opened the door.

Thalia entered the building and found a man flipping through a magazine at a desk. He looked up and saw Reyna.

“She wishes to see Jason,” Reyna said her head jerking in Thalia’s direction.

Thalia took a deep breath, Iphigenia put a hand on her shoulder.

The man nodded and stood, he took out his keys and lead them to another room. This room was kept colder. There was a figure lying down ahead and Thalia almost felt her throat close.

She ran ahead and stared down.

He was resting in a coffin a dark toga was wrapped around him. His hair was brushed back, glasses framed his face. Thalia looked at him and clasped his hand. “I miss you, little brother,” Thalia said tears rolling down her cheeks.

Thalia looked back at Reyna, and back at her younger brother. She could still see the scar on his lip from when he bit the stapler.

He had always been braver than her. He was the one who could fly. Not her, who was too scared of heights to try.

She broke down crying. “I’m sorry. I should have been there. I’m so sorry.” Thalia clasped his hand tightly. “Maybe if I had been there, I could have prevented this stopped Apollo from making you go,” Thalia said. “I’m so sorry.”

Neither Iphigenia nor Reyna said anything. Thalia wasn’t entirely sure if they were even still there.

She kissed her brother’s cheek. “I’m so sorry” She whispered.

---            

She met Apollo again as she was leaving the building. He was avoiding her gaze; she clutched his arm. “No,” She told him. “You don’t get to see him.”

Reyna stepped in. “Thalia, maybe you should- “

Thalia shook her head. “You said I had a say. I don’t want him anywhere near Jason.”

Iphigenia coughed. “maybe you should- “

Apollo nodded once. “if that is your wish,” He said before he turned and walked away.

---            

Thalia stayed, looking over the plans for the funeral, while Apollo was off with Reyna doing whatever he had roped her into. Iphigenia occasionally gave some advice but for the funeral but all in all, she stayed quiet.

The next she heard; Apollo was in the infirmary. Reyna was fine as far as she knew. Maybe scarred.

Thalia hadn’t honestly cared, the only reason she left her plans was out of idle curiosity.

Apollo was lying down, his eyes were closed, bandages covered every inch of his body. The only part of him that wasn’t covered was his chest, where a giant scar rested just beside his heart. Meg was sitting up in a bed next to his, she glared at Thalia as she walked in.

Thalia looked at it confused. “Where did he get that?”

“He doesn’t want you to know,” Meg said. “Leave him alone!”

Thalia backed away. “Kind master aren’t you.”

Meg threw one of her rings at her. It transformed mid throw into a sword, Thalia ducked just before it hit her face. “What is-”

“Leave!” Meg cried.

Thalia hesitated for a minute, but Meg threw another ring at her Thalia ducked away and left before meg could toss something else.

---

“I don’t understand why she’s so protective.”

Iphigenia shrugged. “Same reason we’re so protective of Artemis?”

“Artemis didn’t send people to their deaths.” Iphigenia turned to stare at Thalia,  her dark eyes calculating.

She remembered Iphigenia’s family. Father dead, killed by the mother, mother killed by my brother on the orders of Apollo.

She clenched her fist. “You must hate Apollo too.”

Iphigenia shook her head. “No, I’d have to hate Artemis too.”

Thalia turned to Iphigenia.

Iphigenia smiled a little. “Artemis asked for my father to sacrifice me, so she would allow them to go to war. In the last moment she saved my life, but the damage was done, my mother refused to believe that I was alive, and she plotted my father’s death, killed him, and yes, Apollo sent Orestes to kill my mother, but he also protected Orestes from the Furies when they attacked him for that act. And it all started with Artemis asking my father to sacrifice me.”

Thalia hadn’t remembered that part of the myth.  

“How can you forgive her?”

Iphigenia shook her head.  “I chose too, I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life angry. And she did save my life, she did regret her actions, she told me herself.”

Thalia sighed. “I just can’t.”

Iphigenia nodded. “I understand. Just maybe hear what he has to say before you decide you hate him forever”

---            

Meg refused to leave, but something told Thalia that she needed to talk to Apollo, ask him about the scar.

“I need to talk to Apollo,” Thalia said.

Meg shook her head. “leave him alone” Meg said.

“I just want to ask him about his scar.”

“He stabbed himself in the chest to help Jason and me, what’s there to ask?” Meg said. “Are you going to mock him, because his plan failed, it already hurts him, leave him alone.”

Thalia’s looked at Meg. “What?”

“Caligula needed his essence to become the new sun god, in an attempt to bargain, Apollo threatened to kill himself so Caligula couldn’t get what he wanted. Caligula refused, he stabbed himself, Medea ran to fix him, her concentration broke and Jason broke free of the venti controlling him.”

Thalia's eyes went to the infirmary. “What?”

Meg turned away. “So please. Leave him alone. He’s been through enough.”

Thalia paused. “tell, tell Apollo he can come to the funeral, and that, that I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Meg didn’t say anything.

---        

The Funeral went by quickly. Lots of crying, lots of music. Thalia had been asked if she wanted his body cremated or buried. Thalia had asked for a cremation, ashes could be moved more easily if they were in an urn, and Thalia was unsure if she wanted his remains to stay in Camp Jupiter.”

They burned his body and collected his body in an urn. The presented it to Thalia who held it tightly.  

Apollo hovered in the back. When the funeral ended, he turned and left.

Thalia wanted to go after him, talk to him but what do you say after realizing you were wrong?

---        

She held the urn in her hands and stared up at the sky.

So, Apollo was braver than she thought. She couldn’t’; t believe she had had him so wrong before. Apollo? Artemis’s annoying younger brother, was about as selfless as they come? Her brother would have been so disgusted with her if she found out how she treated Apollo.

That was assuming Meg wasn’t lying of course. But something told her that Meg was being honest.

She saw Apollo ahead, apparently, the next prophecy had a stipulation of being around June, so Apollo had a bit of time off before needing to leave. He spent most of that time in the training grounds, practicing his sword fighting, and archery.

Thalia hesitated, then walked forward.

“Hey”

Apollo paused and turned glancing at her warily. “Yes?” He asked.

She paused and thought about it. She wanted to confront him about what he had done on Caligula’s ship, but she found herself incapable.

She licked her lips. “Can you fly?”

Apollo looked at her shock. “What?”

“Can, could you fly… back when you were immortal, without transforming into a bird, or a fly, or something.”

Apollo scrunched his face as though trying to remember. “I think so?”

“Think?”

Apollo looked away. “My memory hasn’t quite been the best since I was turned human.”

Thalia nodded. Apollo stared at her for a moment.

“Why?”

Thalia shrugged. “I’ve never tried it, never thought I could, then my brother revealed to me he could fly, and… I- well I- “

“It’s a mixture of faith, belief, and trust in yourself and letting yourself fall,” Apollo said. “You have to control the winds around you, and concentrate or else you’ll fall, and since your mortal, probably die”

Thalia nodded. “Thank you.”

---        

Thalia had given Iphigenia one of the beads and told her to go back to Artemis. When Iphigenia argued Thalia had said that she was better, and but had still wanted to spend some time away from the hunt. Iphigenia had nodded, had promised to explain everything to Artemis before breaking the beads.

Thalia practiced and practiced and practiced. Before it had just been a way to speak to Apollo, but now… now it felt like something she should try. A way to keep her closer to Jason.

Apollo helped, or tried, he couldn’t remember much, but what he did was helpful.

After a couple of weeks, Thalia became impatient, so she climbed a hill and looked over the city, it was high up. She could feel her heart beating so fast. She hated heights, she tried hard to avoid them, hadn’t been up so high since the quest to find Artemis years ago.

She closed her eyes and felt the wind whip around her. Stepped back and jumped.

Later she would say it was the greatest feeling in her life. 

A/N So... yeah, hope you all like it. I did take a little from roman funerary practices. The crying women, the music, Jason wearing a dark toga. That kind of stuff. I hope I remembered it all. 

Thalia kissing him is something I got from wikipedia. The closest living relative gave the deceased a kiss and closed his eyes, but Jason’s eyes were already closed. So... (Also got the ‘dark toga’ from their too.)

Everything else i got from here

[darks-ink]

Disinterred CH.7

Chapter 7: Our Lives Would’ve Only Just Begun

“Well, as I said last time, you can’t pretend to be alive forever, no matter how well you can blend in. But, you haven’t caused any problems, and haven’t raised any suspicions so far. You pointed out, last time, that you felt you were too young to be dead yet. So, we’re willing to settle on a compromise of sorts.”

(the full summary, previous chapters, author notes, content warning, and the links to AO3 and FFnet can be found here)

The police station loomed over Danny, a haunting reminder of how his life had changed. It was here that everything had gone wrong, that people had finally figured out that he was a ghost. Or, well. Close enough to one, anyway.

And now he was back, so they could “figure out what to do next”, as detective Payton had put it.

He hoped, sincerely, that he could get through this discussion without having to reveal that he was only half ghost. He wanted to continue his life, as far as that was possible. If they tried to send him away, or keep him away from human society, he would have to tell them about his dual nature.

But that was risky. Sure, they might be fine with it. Or they might call the GIW, have him taken as a study subject and science experiment.

That wasn’t something he wanted to risk, so he hoped that they would continue to treat him as a human. Humanely, at least.

Danny stiffened minutely as a hand landed on his shoulders, but immediately relaxed again as he recognized the grip as his dad’s. The man shot him a reassuring smile.

And so Danny took a deep breath, straightened himself out in a fairly hopeless attempt at gripping the courage he held as Phantom, and entered the police station. His parents and Jazz trailed after him.

The woman at the desk raised a doubtful eyebrow at him when he asked to speak with detective Payton about the case with the dead teenager, but informed the detective regardless. Moments later, Payton himself appeared, a pleased smile on his face when he saw Danny together with the rest of his family, and waved them in.

They entered the same conference room that Danny had been in with Sam and Tucker, just the day before, where the rest of Payton’s team were waiting. Officer Carver had a dubious expression on her face, but it softened when she saw Danny.

The group took a few moments to settle down. Payton stood by the head on the table, and Danny and his family sat down on the opposite side of the police.

“So, I see that you’ve managed to…” he paused, clearly casting for the right words to use, “to resolve the issues that came up during our last meeting. Is everything alright between the four of you now?”

Danny opened his mouth to answer, but his mother gripped his shoulder and answered while he was distracted. “Yes. We… acted before we knew the whole situation. But thankfully Jazz managed to get through our thick heads, and Danny…” she trailed off, uncertainly.

Danny, in answer, patted her hand. “And I know they meant well. It’s all fine now, but thank you, detective Payton, officer Carver.” He nodded at both of them, and Carver smiled in clear relief.

“I’m glad to hear so. I assume you’re here to discuss the future, then?” Payton asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Danny confirmed. “Last time, you mentioned that you wanted to tell my parents, and then we would discuss my future plans. Obviously, telling my parents didn’t quite work out as planned.” He shrugged. “But we’re here now. So, what’s next?”

“Well, as I said last time, you can’t pretend to be alive forever, no matter how well you can blend in.” Danny felt panic start bubbling up, and it must’ve shown on his face, because Payton was quick to continue. “But, you haven’t caused any problems, and haven’t raised any suspicions so far. You pointed out, last time, that you felt you were too young to be dead yet. So, we’re willing to settle on a compromise of sorts.”

Jazz hummed, a hint of suspicion in the sound. “What kind of compromise?”

Payton raised an eyebrow at her interjection, but apparently recognized her protective behavior from the interviews, as he quickly settled back in a more neutral expression. “We will hold off on officially announcing the victim as Daniel Fenton until he graduates from high school. We will still go through the case, of course, and finish up the paperwork and such. But the public won’t know anything about the victim until after your graduation.”

“Yeah, right.” Danny snorted. “The public is already wild with rumors and such, especially the school. Even if you don’t tell anyone anything, they might still figure it out.” He shrugged then, settling further back in his chair. “But I guess that sounds alright.”

“Are there any further details to this… deal? Anything Danny is, or is not, allowed to do?” Maddie pressed.

“He has to put genuine effort in graduating, of course. He can’t just put it off so we won’t declare him dead.” Payton stopped as Danny squawked in indignation, but he was quickly quietened by Jazz. Satisfied that he wouldn’t get interrupted again, Payton continued.

“And he can’t get a job. The job market is already rough, especially for teenagers with no experience. We don’t need ghosts stealing jobs from living teenagers who might genuinely need the money.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “And I guess I don’t need money because I don’t have to pay for food, or something along those lines?” Then he sighed, slumping in on himself. “But I guess I see your point.”

“What about after graduation?” Jazz asked, leaning forward. “You’ll declare him dead, but what is Danny supposed to do at that point? Will he still be allowed to attend college, or get a job at FentonWorks, or something? Or will he only be allowed to haunt around as an ordinary ghost all day?”

Detective Payton snorted, a somewhat incredulous expression his face. “If he can get himself accepted into college despite being dead, I see no reason to stop him from furthering his education. As for getting a job at FentonWorks...” He shrugged. “Well, you’ll have to either figure out a way to pay him when he’s legally dead, or you can figure out an alternative form of payment among yourselves. I don’t particularly care.”

Danny frowned, considering his options. “So I can continue doing what I’ve always done until graduation, and then I’m free to do whatever? As long as, y’know, the officials don’t mind me being legally dead?”

“Yes, Mr. Fenton. As long as you don’t terrorize the city as most ghosts are fond of doing, you’re free to continue your high school education. After graduation, we would like to talk with you again to figure out your future plans.”

Danny nodded. “Yeah, that sounds fair. I guess I’m okay with all of that, especially considering the alternatives.”

“Of course, you’ll still have to talk with your school. We’ve already contacted them to let them know about the situation, to make sure they were okay with having a ghost as a student, but you still need to talk with them to… make the final arrangements.”

“Ugh,” Danny groaned. “And let me guess, that needs to happen right now?”

“That would be best, yes.” Payton’s words were emotionless, but the twinkle of amusement in his eyes was unmistakable.

Danny sighed, but pushed himself out of his chair. “Fine, let’s get that over with as well, then.”

“Wait, hang on.” Doctor Beckett waved him back into his seat again. “There’s something else we need to discuss.”

“Like what?” Danny asked as he sat down again. He cocked an eyebrow at the woman, and saw his parents and Jazz frown in confusion as well.

The doctor set a rather unimpressed stare on him. “Like the body down in the morgue, perhaps?”

Danny flushed in embarrassment, shoulders crawling upwards. “Oh. Right. Um. I don’t particularly care about it.” He turned to look at his parents, grimacing a little. “What, uh. What do you guys wanna do with it?”

His parents looked like they were caught off-guard rather badly. Jazz wasn’t faring much better.

“I… suppose we can’t bury it,” his mom eventually managed, still looking rather uncomfortable with the topic. “We can’t risk anybody coming across it before Danny’s… death… is common knowledge.”

“So…” Danny cleared his throat. “Cremation, then? I mean, the body is already mostly burnt anyway, right?”

“That’s pretty morbid, kid,” Carver muttered. Danny only offered her a shrug in return.

Payton stood up, laying his hands on the table in front of him. “We’ll take care of the paperwork, then. The four of you should get going.”

“Right.” Danny stood up, frowning a little. He wasn’t looking forward to another meeting about how he different he was now.

“Well, Mr. Fenton, I must admit that this is quite a... unique situation.”

Principal Ishiyama’s gaze was inspecting and calculating, but not as cold as Danny had expected. Mr. Lancer, sitting right next to her, wore a far more neutral expression.

She sighed, finally taking her eyes off of Danny, who sagged in relief. His parents were right behind him, offering their support, but there was only so much comfort they could bring.

“I will say that we’ve never had a ghost as a student, and we’ve never considered it either. We’ve already accepted your continued attendance, of course. But we will have to make arrangement for your… skills.”

Danny frowned, a flicker of annoyance finding its way through his trepidation. “Why? I haven’t used them to hurt anyone before. And you’ve never attempted to discourage other students from using their ‘skills’, as you called them. In fact, the faculty gladly ignores the bullying done by the members of the football team, as long as they continue to play well.”

“Regardless, Mr. Fenton, surely you can’t deny that you pose a greater danger to other students than members of the football team?” Principal Ishiyama narrowed her eyes at him, and Danny gladly returned the glare.

“Sure, I could. But I don’t. Despite Dash’s constant bullying, shoving me into my locker, and who knows what else he’s done in the past two years.” Danny rolled his eyes, taking his gaze off of the principal again. “If anything, Dash and the other jocks have caused far more pain and trouble than I have.”

“Wait, hold on,” Maddie interrupted, turning to look at Danny. “Are you telling me that these past two years you’ve been getting bullied, and you didn’t even tell anyone?”

Danny blushed, drawing his shoulders up to his ears. “I-” Then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes. I’ve tried telling the teachers, in the beginning, but they never did anything because,” he turned to look Mr. Lancer right in the eye, “they’re ‘star footballers’ and thus ‘exempt from scorn’.” He made sure to sound as scornful as he felt, the quoted words sharp.

This, apparently, awakened Maddie’s strongest maternal instincts, and she glared down Mr. Lancer with a look that would probably bring Pariah Dark to his knees. She kept it up for what felt like an eternity, as everyone else sat in silence, glad that they weren’t the target of Maddie’s fury.

“And you’re telling me-” Maddie said, as she finally took her eyes off of Lancer to look at Danny. “- that all this time, you could have fought back, but you didn’t.”

Danny shrugged, still rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I pulled a prank or two on him. But I stopped doing that a while ago too, and I never did anything as bad as what he does to me.”

Maddie kept her eyes locked on him for a little longer, apparently trying to decide if he was telling the truth. Eventually she was satisfied, as she turned to set her gaze on principal Ishiyama. “So, as you can see, we don’t need to do anything to stop Danny from using his ‘special gifts’ in the school. Besides, if you’re afraid of him going malevolent and hurting another student, well,” she shrugged, “I’m sure Phantom will stop him, no?”

Mr. Lancer frowned but clearly didn’t dare to speak up after Maddie’s earlier fury. Principal Ishiyama had no such qualms. “I thought the two of you were against Phantom?”

“Turns out we were wrong about him!” Jack boomed, jumping into the conversation. “We were going off of unfortunate events and biased observations. But Danny-boy introduced us, and now we’ve been able to determine that Phantom is trying to do the right thing after all!”

“Really?” Lancer cast a studying look at Danny, who frowned at him. “He knows Phantom well enough to introduce you?”

Danny, still frowning, rolled his eyes and slumped further into his chair. “I mean, yeah. Phantom kind of protects the town from ghosts, so he needs to keep an eye on every ghost in town. Plus, ghost containment devices like the Fenton Thermos don’t just spontaneously appear in the Ghost Zone, you know?”

Principal Ishiyama cleared her throat, drawing the attention back to her. “Well, as interesting as this is, we’re going off topic. I suppose that you and your family raise an excellent point about the misuse of your abilities. However, if you misuse them in any way, shape, or form in this school, be it to prank other students, to bully others, or to cheat, we will discuss this again.”

She shifted, folding her hands in her lap. “Which brings me to my second point. For almost your entire high school career, your grades have been extremely poor. But in middle school, and even at the start of freshman year, your grades were excellent, as we’ve come to expect from your family.” She scrunched her eyebrows together, clearly grappling for the right words to say. “We now know that your grades dipped when- after your… accident. Which leads us to wonder… Mr. Fenton, is it possible that becoming a ghost has had an impact on your… ability to do school work?”

“Are you seriously implying that becoming a ghost has made me less intelligent?” Danny glared at her, indignation rising high. He could feel the cold burning sensation of ectoplasm bubbling up, and he knew his eyes must’ve been glowing by now, but he didn’t care enough to stop them from doing so.

Ishiyama was clearly startled by the display, however, and quickly put up her hands as if to calm him. “No, no, nothing of the sort, Mr. Fenton.” Danny allowed himself to calm a little, the glow leaving his eyes again. The principal clearly took this as a sign to continue. “There are all kinds of ways that this could’ve impacted your… ability to do well in school. Perhaps you’re more easily distracted now, or maybe it’s harder to retain information…” she was clearly casting for more ideas, trying to calm Danny down further.

“Daniel,” Mr. Lancer interrupted. “She didn’t mean to make any insinuations about your intelligence levels. But you’ve gone through a potentially traumatic experience, and one that has altered the way your body, and possibly your mind, works. And you can’t deny that both your attendance levels and your grades have dropped. We just want to know if your accident is, in fact, related to this, and if we can help in any way.”

“I… suppose it kind of is?” Danny said, uncertainly. Yes, his struggles with school were linked to his accident, but not because he had become a ghost, but because he fought them. But he couldn’t tell them that. Maybe, though… Maybe he could twist the truth a little.

“I just...” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, finally relenting from his glaring. “I just kind of… need to leave sometimes? When everything, uh...”

“When everything becomes too much,” Jazz cut in, laying her hands on Danny’s shoulders in a clear sign of support. “Danny, as a ghost, is more sensitive to emotional disturbances. And as you might imagine, high schools are full of turbulent emotions, which can act distracting or become too overwhelming.” She spoke with an air of certainty, a feeling of professionalism and knowledge exuding from her. Danny couldn’t thank her enough for everything she did to save his ass.

His mom had clearly caught on to what Jazz was going for, as she nodded along. “Yes, exactly. Even in the house or the library, where Danny might work on his homework, sudden heavy emotions can be distracting or keep him from completing his work. I’m afraid that nothing can be done to help against it, besides being more lenient.”

Principal Ishiyama hummed, thoughtfully. “I suppose we can be a little more lenient on Mr. Fenton, if he can prove that he is trying. I will not let this develop into some shoddy excuse for him to get out of punishment.”

“So if I promise to try my best you’ll go easy on me?” Danny quirked a questioning eyebrow at the two faculty members.

Mr. Lancer sighed. “Well, we’ll try, at least. We can’t be too obvious about it, unless you want the entire school to figure it out.”

Yeah, Danny definitely didn’t want that to happen. He nodded eagerly.

“Sounds good. So when the break ends I can just go back to how things were? But the teachers will be a little easier on me?”

“Yes, Mr. Fenton. And as long as you continue as you’ve been doing for the past 2 years, you’ll be free to stay until graduation.” Ishiyama’s voice was flat with exhaustion, and quite honestly, Danny’s couldn’t blame her. The whole day had been exhausting for him as well, and he could imagine that dealing with an easily-angered teenager with ghost powers wasn’t easy either. Although he still wasn’t convinced that she hadn’t meant the earlier insinuation that ghosts were less intelligent than humans.

“Is that everything that we needed to discuss, then?” Maddie had clearly run out of patience as well. Her earlier anger over the bullying thing was probably still lingering. The principal nodded, and waved them out of her office.

Oh, shoot. He was going to have to talk about the bullying as well, wasn’t he?

Couldn’t this day just end already?