#his eye color and ear shape changed at the end of birth by sleep because he was feeling fresh and funky and wanted a new look

[catboygirljoker]

as an example of my beef with the kh wiki:

"citation needed" well sometimes when you play a video game and you watch a cutscene you can see information with your eyeballs and you can listen to the words characters say and connect them to the things that are being shown on screen and you can think about them in your brain and look at it and think about it and then you can know things about the game youre playing

[yandere-kokeshi]

NSFW Alphabet Of Yandere Simon “Ghost” Riley

Warnings: pure filth — MINORS DNI

A/N: He’s very misrepresented in our fandom, so I wrote this realistically. Also, this is pointed at gn audience!

Edit: this is a re-upload. Fucking Tumblr took this down due to it going against its rules even though I put the correct tags (mature and sexual content) so now I'm mad. Not grammar-checked.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

— Extremely cuddly, giving you soft kisses, compassionate touches as he cleans you up, and so much praise. Simon treats you like glass afterward, laying beside you whilst tracing shapes into your lower back. He kisses every mark on your body, before asking if he can do anything – get you a cup of water, snack, or even run you a bath.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

— It’s a difficult scenario. With his gut-wrenching past and own insecurities, he doesn’t like anything about himself. He dislikes exposing his body and face, and when doing so, he has high anxiety. But in contrast, he will share the same love that you express on whatever body part of himself. If you adore his arms, Simon makes sure to flex them, wearing shirts that prominent the veins. If you love his chest, he sleeps and walks shirtless – letting you play with them. 

For you, he’s an ass man. This also includes the surrounding areas: hips, curves, and thighs. No matter what kind: slim, curvy, athletic, no hair, hair, it doesn’t matter for him. He loves staring at them when you aren’t looking, especially seeing you bending over or simply standing in front of him; he tends to put his hand in your back pocket for a reason.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

— His cum is a bit on the thicker side; with a taste of bitterness. He likes to cum outside, equally worrying about STD’s. But, if one of you wear a condom, or you’re on some form of birth control, he will gladly cum inside.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

— One time, he accidentally walked into you changing - witnessing the image of your back muscles, ass, and thighs drilled into his mind; which ended up with him jerking off for the next few days of you.

For the next week, he couldn't look you directly in the eyes, slight shame and guilt squeezing his heart.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

— He’s a virgin. He’s had zero experience, and because of his past SA, he’s equally a man with no idea of what to do; sweating profusely when he looks at your naked body. He doesn’t know when, or how to start. And with that, he often looks up on wiki’s about sex to help him visualize. 

However, Simon is a fast learner. With your guidance, patience, and him learning about what makes you scream, he finds the best ways to have your toes curl whilst your ears ring. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

— Missionary and reverse cowgirl, even if you’re male. Simon loves being able to hold you close, look you in the eyes, kiss your cheeks, and press his forehead against yours. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious at the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

— Rarely ever goofy. This is an extremely vulnerable area for him, which means he’s focusing all his attention on both of you. If you do decide to throw something out, go ahead. But don’t expect Ghost to laugh or make one back.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

— Has a patch of curly champagne-blond(ish) color (#868139), as well as a happy trail. Simon tries his best to trim it for self-comfort, but with the number of missions and how tired he is by the end of the day, it doesn’t happen as often as he’d like. 

However, hair on you? He doesn’t mind one bit of it. It’s just hair. It’s a preference for you, and it doesn’t bother him. Whatever you like, is what he’s okay with.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

— Romance is another thing that he needs to learn. A candlelit dinner, warm bubble bath, or the cliché of roses on the bed isn’t his specialty. Though, once he has you, Simon will spend some time reading about what he could do better. He wants to please you, make sure you feel important, and he’s always willing to learn new tricks. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

— Simon feels weird with porn. In contrast, he doesn’t like it. It almost feels like he’s cheating - even if he hasn’t made you fully his yet. However, he will easily give in when watching you from his phone; the house camera gives him a view of you. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Praising: He lives for praising you. Telling you that he loves you, nudging his face into your neck and moaning, “So fuckin’ pretty”. However, he thrives off of attention from you, too. It wasn’t something he was super used to hearing, so when you first tell him, “Good boy”, “You’re perfect”, and “Good job”. It sends a shiver down his spine and ensures to pleasure you harder so he can hear it often. 

Oral (on you): He loves it, needs it; heaven between your legs, groans whenever he gets a taste of you, and can’t resist grabbing handfuls of your ass to bring you impossibly closer to his mouth. It’s his own hobby, and when you gently pull at his hair or scratch at his arms, mewling at your 4th orgasm, he loses all self-control and will continue going - even if you’re overstimulated. 

Eye Contact: Although eye contact makes him uncomfortable with others, but with you, it makes him feel like he’s doing a good job and is talking to you silently. Especially if one of you is cumming at the moment. 

Tattoos: He’s embarrassed about it - but it’s something he naturally gravitates to. He always looks at it, searching it out if and when it’s covered. He loves touching it and tracing the lines, no matter the placement or the size. And Simon often massages it like a sore thumb. 

L = Location (favorite places to have intercourse)

— Your shared home. Ghost doesn’t like to expand his safe area, especially if there’s a risk of someone else seeing you. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

— You. His whole world is about his beloved spouse, and nothing more gets him happy than you. He lives up the days when he’s retired, waking up at the butt-of-dawn in the shared house, and seeing your face. That said, you turn him on so much. Even if you’re laying down on the couch, reading or scrolling through social media, his pupils become large hearts and his cock is immediately twitching. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

— Somnophilia, strict bondage, or bringing his job into the bedroom (ex. His Ghost mask, guns, knives, etc.). He’s made it very clear that it makes him uncomfortable, and he wants zero play in it. Another thing that Simon hates is being called ‘daddy’. It makes his skin crawl and nauseated.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

— One of his kinks is giving oral, so it’s no surprise that he’s always giving first. Simon could spend hours between your legs - holding your thighs apart as your nth orgasm has come forward. 

Upon receiving, Simon becomes shy. His cheeks are painted a light pink, and his moans start off quiet. But with some pushing, he releases very heightened gasps, whines, and pleasing touches. His hands head to the back of your head, and whines out loudly that ends up with him cumming a lot. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

— Contrary to popular belief, he is not a rough dom - he takes sex with gentle vanilla, and touches that are reassuring. He’s afraid of hurting you or scaring you away. 99.9% of the time, Simon is soft, passionate, and loving; taking his time to kiss every freckle, mole, scar, and bump. Lazily making love, making sure to go easy as he rests his head between the area in your shoulder and neck.

And if he accidentally hurts you, Simon immediately stops the session, helping you, and needs a minute to decompress. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

— He’s 50/50 on it. Whilst he’d prefer the real package, he also is forced to do it because of his military lifestyle. Will definitely make it up to you, a real session that’ll make you scream.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

— He’s open with experimenting – all you need to do is ask him. He’ll try it out with you and if it doesn’t work out, there’s always more. Simon is all about opening his personal space with you. Whatever you desire, he’s more than willing to please you.

But no risks. You’re his, and he is yours; nobody is seeing you. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

— From his long years of hard working as a soldier, his stamina is relatively high. He’s able to exert a fair bit of energy and still feel fine. To be honest, he’ll go until you back out – Simon can last a good two (2) rounds; each lasting a good 45 minutes. Of course, breaks are expected to happen – in which, he will use this opportunity to please you again and again, waiting till you’re ready.

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

— Doesn’t own toys, but once he saw your browser-history, he was intrigued. Simon would be okay with using some during sex; watching you cum twice as much from overstimulation with your toy. He’s fine with using vibrators, dildos, or butt plugs if you’re into that.

Though, with him, he’s a bit less to test.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

— Simon is a giver above anything else, and lives to please you. At times, he does tease – and not that he means too. Sometimes he’ll be going at with you, being too carried away with his foreplay, and thus, can accidentally edge you. 

However, if you’ve been a brat – breaking the rules he set out – he’ll make sure you’ll apologize and promise him that you won’t do it again. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

— Not the loudest, but not the quietest; in-the-between. He grunts, mumbling out words when he’s about to cum, and his hefty voice goes deeper when he enters you. Curses a lot and tends to praise you as much as he can when you two have sex after awhile. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

— Will open a window after you two have finished having sex in the house. Not only will he use this opportunity to cuddle you for a bit, but the smell and sweat cool off in the room, making it easier for him to take a nap. He’s not a big fan of the sex smell. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes ;))

— Long, thick, and slightly curved to the left. He’s 6.2; his tip is almost a peach color (#D09C9C) and his shaft is a perky white (#e6d3ba). Simon is circumcised, his head and underside are incredibly sensitive with two thick veins that travel to his tip. His balls hang hefty low.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

— Before you, it was zero – now you’re in his life – it’s a decent high libido. He’s easily aroused; anything you do can and will turn him on, regardless of the situation. Though, Simon is good at controlling his needs, and will knock it off if he sees you aren’t in the mood. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

— After sex, he’s not that tired – even if you two went more than 2 rounds. He’ll let you take a nap, or go to bed, but he naturally stays up. It’s odd, he’s paranoid most of the time and looks out around the house before falling asleep. 

—

Masterlist || Please reblog or comment instead of liking, it helps me a bunch!

© yandere-kokeshi 2023 — Do not copy, modify, edit, repost, or use my works for ASMR readings, tiktoks, or other content.

[jasmariswonderland]

The Promise in the Cradle (Silver x OC)

Hey everyone! 

This is the first of several excerpts I’m sharing of Vidaria’s overblot au, To the Shadows She Draws Near. Because book 7 is still going on (and progressing WAY differently than I expected), it might be a while before I can complete this story in full. But these dive a little deeper into Vidi’s backstory with this first one chronicling her first meeting with Silver! 

I shared this a while back when the most recent twst en update first went live on jp. But I’ve recently made a few changes so I’m sharing it again. No content warnings (yet) but you might feel a little sad for Silver and Vidaria at the end. 😭

~~~

As the royal squire announced their arrival, the princess kept her gaze to the ground. Following a few steps behind her father with the importance of this first meeting weighing heavily upon her young shoulders, akin to a thick velvet mantle. She stopped briefly and raised her eyes long enough to watch her father pay homage to the Knight of Dawn, who greeted him warmly. This land, after decades of war, had finally embraced peace, forging an alliance between humans and the fae of the Seelie court. Now with the birth of the Dawn Knight’s son, the time had come to solidify this alliance and assure peace between the humans and fae for generations to come. 

Upon her father’s command, the princess took a few steps forward and made a deep and respectful curtsey to the Dawn Knight and his fair queen. The feeling of countless pairs of onlooking eyes, both human and fae, tingled up her back. As approaching footsteps echoed around her, she kept her head lowered, nerves racing through her.

“At ease, child. Come closer.”

She briefly lifted her head, turning it to her father behind her. With a small kind, he urged her forward, silently encouraging her to approach the human king and queen - her future in laws. 

She laid her eyes upon the Dawn Knight for the first time, draped in shimmering white with hair blessed by sunlight. He exuded a regal presence similar to her father, but his eyes held a gentle warmth. This was her first encounter with any human and despite conflicting accounts, she sensed the goodness within him. As he took her hand, guiding her toward his queen sitting on her throne, her heart eased. The queen was a beautiful woman, fair haired with a similarly regal but gentle bearing. Around her neck was a striking ring, shaped like a crown with a radiant auroral gem in the center, hanging by a delicate gold chain. And in her arms rested a bundle in white silk – the precious newborn prince.

“Vidaria, such a lovely name,” Queen Leia rose and handed her baby to a waiting nursemaid who placed him back in his cradle. She knelt down next to Vidaria, kissing her cheek with genuine affection. “Lovely, but also strong. Perfectly befitting a future queen.”

Vidaria smiled, of course a kind human king would be wed to a kind human queen who guided her to the cradle where the infant prince lay. Her smile widened, he was asleep, though how anyone, human or fae, could be asleep on such a glorious and auspicious day was beyond her. Though she had to admit he was quite adorable, appearing no different from a baby fae save for his rounded little ears. Already bearing a resemblance to his parents with his tiny patch of golden hair upon his head. And hanging from his neck was a golden crown ring identical to the one worn by his mother and father. 

“Hello, little human prince,” she cooed. “I know you’re sleeping, but I’m very happy to meet you.”

With tender caution, Vidaria touched his hand and was surprised when the soft little grip encircled her finger. The prince began to open his eyes and their enchanting hue took Vidaria – the radiant color of the sky at dawn, inherited from his father. He focused his aurora gaze on Vidaria and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been aware of her presence even in his slumber. She moved her finger up and down, giggling at how he continued to hold onto it.

“How wonderful!” said the queen. “He’s already fond of you.”

Vidaria, lost in the moment, hesitated before responding. A warmth stirred within her, mingled with hope for the future. She spoke to her betrothed, her words filled with optimism.

"I hope we will be very happy together, little human prince.” As she said these words, a sweet little smile came to the infant's face, causing hers to widen as she asked, “Oh? Do you think so? Do you think we will be happy together?” 

“I’m certain you will, my dear,” Queen Leia gently tapped her shoulder to get her attention, removing the ring pendant from around her neck. “And now, with your father’s blessing, I bestow this gift.” 

Gently, she placed the pendant around Vidaria’s neck, explaining that the ring held a special magestone holding the power of three guardian fae sworn to protect the Dawn Knight and his family. And as she would soon join their family, it was only natural that she be bestowed this protection as well. 

“For the future queen of Bladevale,” she smiled. 

The ring sat perfectly at her heart and when Vidaria once again approached the prince’s cradle, their auroral magestones began to glow. The perfect symbol of the brighter path that lay ahead, not only for Vidaria and the little prince but also for their people. Sadly, little did she know, that reality would diverge from her joyful expectations. But at that moment, all Vidaria felt was the promise held in that cradle. Together, she and the little prince would forge a path toward lasting peace. And with this in mind, she believed their future marriage would be equally loving and joyous.

~~~

Diasomnia Dorm ~ Vidaria’s Room

The princess, now a young woman, stirred awake with great reluctance. Unwilling to return to reality and wishing to remain in her dreams for as long as she could. Even as she accepted the dream as being such, Vidaria’s eyes remained shut. Envisioning that day as if it were only hours ago. The ornate great hall, the kind faces of the Dawn Knight and his queen, and of course, the little human prince on whom so many had placed their hopes for the future. His sweet little face, his striking eyes, her original betrothed. 

Reality had indeed diverted from her hopes. Peace did not last and the Draconias had taken back Bladevale. The Dawn Knight and his queen had perished and it was presumed that the little prince had perished as well. And Vidaria’s crown ring, her precious betrothal gift, was lost in the chaos of the Draconia siege upon the Land of Mists. Now she lived as a political prisoner, forced to soon marry the Draconia crown prince to avoid any further bloodshed between the fae nations. Though Vidaria reconciled with her fate a long time ago, when her dreams reminded her so vividly of all she had lost, her heart couldn’t help but ache a little for what could have been in a perfect world. 

What kind of man would the little prince have become? No doubt he would be handsome like his father but would he be gentle like his mother? Would he be a warrior or a poet? Would he be scholarly or magically gifted? And would they indeed have grown to love each other and be happy as she had so dearly hoped? So many questions, so many possibilities, none of them she would ever know. 

A gentle knock mercifully pulled Vidaria away from her melancholy. “Good morning, Your Highness. Are you awake?”

The sound of Silver’s voice momentarily soothed the bittersweet sensation in her heart. Only his voice could have such an effect on her. Forcing herself to leave the comfort of her bed, Vidaria glanced over at the clock on her nightstand, realizing the limited time she had to prepare for the day. It was just as well. A long day of lessons followed by an afternoon riding in the forest with her clubmates was exactly what she needed to distract her from her darker emotions. And the emerging fancy in her heart that perhaps if the little prince had indeed survived, he would be just like her loyal Diasomnia retainer.

[frank-a-mori-son]

“Extremely detailed character sheet template”

Character Chart

Character’s full name: Frank Daniel Morrison Reason or meaning of name: The name Frank is after his Grandmother, Francesca and Daniel is his Fathers name. Character’s nickname: Killer, Frankie, “Hey asshole!”  Reason for nickname: First for obvious reasons, second also, last one is just heard enough for it to be. Birth date: February 14th 1977

Physical appearance

Age: 19 years old How old does he/she appear: he could be confused for someone down to the age of 16. Weight: 65 kg/ 130 pounds Height: 173 cm/ 5′8′’ Body build: Lithe but athletic Shape of face: Heart Shaped Eye color: Brown Glasses or contacts: None, but he’ll need it once older Skin tone: White with neutral undertone Distinguishing marks:  2 visible facial scars, beautymark under right eye Predominant features: Large neck tattoo Hair color: Brown Type of hair: Straight Hairstyle: Currently an undercut Voice: Tenor voice Overall attractiveness: He’s got rouge-ish charms, so pretty attractive Physical disabilities:  Hypermobility in his joints, unknown condition. Usual fashion of dress: Pretty casual, borderlining grunge and punk rock Favorite outfit: band tshirt, faux leather jacket and jeans Jewelry or accessories: He’d love piercings but has none, always wears some type of gloves.

Personality

Good personality traits: Resillient, loyal, brave and charismatic Bad personality traits: Bad temper, snarky, self critical Mood character is most often in: Agitated Sense of humor: Dick jokes and slap stick Character’s greatest joy in life: Making decisions for himself Character’s greatest fear: Becoming his parents Why? Due to how they ruined not only their lives, but that of an innocent child too. What single event would most throw this character’s life into complete turmoil? At this point that has already happened, making a grave mistake with unthinkable consequences...  Character is most at ease when: With people he trusts/cares about or if completely unnoticed Most ill at ease when: Overwhelmed by attention from strangers, feeling judged by peers. Enraged when: Made fun of, harrassed, hit or when someone he cares about is hurt. Depressed or sad when: Thinking of past mistakes, regrets and worrying about present/future. Priorities: Himself and those closest to him Life philosophy: Enjoy while it lasts, they or you won’t be around forever. If granted one wish, it would be: Freedom for those he cares for. Why? They do not deserve to be trapped in this realm, but he feels he does. Character’s soft spot: Quentin, Susie and dogs. Is this soft spot obvious to others? Quentin is very obvious to most Greatest strength: His will to keep fighting Greatest vulnerability or weakness: His own mental health and trauma Biggest regret: Dragging his Legion down with him Minor regret: Failing at ending himself Biggest accomplishment: Accepting his own sexuality Minor accomplishment: When he made it onto the basket ball team Past failures he/she would be embarrassed to have people know about: The one time he got himself roofied on accident Why? he was trying to impress some older kids and failed badly. Character’s darkest secret: The fact he killed someone. Does anyone else know? His Legion and Quentin knows

Goals

Drives and motivations: Motivated to keep himself and those he cares for safe in the Entity realm. Immediate goals: Spend as much time with his boyfriend as possible, get many smooches Long term goals: Somehow, find a way out of the Entity realm. How the character plans to accomplish these goals: He has no idea, but he knows he can count on Quen to help How other characters will be affected: Hopefully, it’ll be a positive effect

Past

Hometown: Calgary, Canada Type of childhood: Rough and unstable Pets: None First memory: Being locked in his bedroom, the stench of sweetened smoke coming through the door crack and loud angry shouting from below. Most important childhood memory: His Grandma coming by on Christmas morning with a gift for him Why: because it was the first time he got a gift for xmas, it was sadly also the last time he saw his Grandma. Childhood hero: He really looked up to one specific foster dad, a good man. Dream job: Veterinarian  Education: High School Dropout Religion: Christian but not practising Finances: Shaky at best, below poverty line.

Present

Current location: Ormond, Canada Currently living with: Foster dad, Clive Anderson Pets: None unless you count house flies Religion: Agnostic Occupation: Unemployed Finances: None existing. 

Family

Mother: Lorraine Beatrice Morrison Relationship with her: Strained, disconnected Father: Daniel Patrick Montgomery Relationship with him: Tense and disconnected Siblings: Step-sister, Step-brother (both Fathers side) Relationship with them: None, he doesn’t know about them. Spouse: Quentin is his boyfriend Relationship with him/her: Good! very good, they’re very much in love. Children: None Relationship with them: Nothing Other important family members: Grandparents (Mothers side) who are still alive and miss their grandson.

Favorites

Color: Red, black and green Least favorite color: Pink and yellow Music: Death metal, Rock, Punk, retro Food: He’ll eat pretty much anything, has a huge sweet tooth Literature: He’s not a fast reader, so he doesn’t read. Form of entertainment: out with friends, listening to music, exploring and sports. Expressions: “Well, fuck” and “heck!”  Mode of transportation: Other people’s cars, otherwise, his own two feet. Most prized possession: His faux leather jacket, as it’s bought with money he earned honestly. 

Habits

Hobbies: Basket ball, art and climbing Plays a musical instrument? No, but he would’ve loved to learn Plays a sport? Basket ball! How he/she would spend a rainy day: Probably at a friends house or at their usual hangouts. Spending habits: he spends very little money as he rarely has some, but he does shop lift often. Smokes: Yes Drinks: Oh yes Other drugs: Usually just weed, though he has tried a few other things once or twice. What does he/she do too much of? Getting in trouble, drinking and smoking What does he/she do too little of? Eating, sleeping, bathing, just generally taking care of himself. Extremely skilled at: Most physical activities Extremely unskilled at: Reading, writing, maths....  Nervous tics: Foot bouncing, pacing, lip biting Usual body posture: Looks relaxed, but shoulders tensed. Mannerisms: Talks with his hands a lot Peculiarities: He’s a basic bitch in secret, he likes the big ass, sugary, cllorful and extra frappes but he’ll get them in secret like they’re illegal. 

Traits

Optimist or pessimist? Pessimist, or realist as he would say. Introvert or extrovert?  Ambivert! He can go both ways, depends on situation. Daredevil or cautious? Daredevil!  Logical or emotional? A little bit of both, though most often ruled by emotion. Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat? More like Disorderly neat, he doesn’t have enough stuff to make a mess and though he doesn’t enjoy it, he’s often the one to do dishes and laundry at home. Prefers working or relaxing? He really likes relaxing, but if he’d like working if he got a job he enjoyed Confident or unsure of himself/herself? He’s faux confidence most of the time. Animal lover? Yes. Very, very much so. Especially dogs.

Self-perception

How he/she feels about himself/herself: he considers himself damaged, unworthy and incabable of love. One word the character would use to describe self: Survivor One paragraph description of how the character would describe self: Out loud he’d call himself “a badass free spirit”  What does the character consider his/her best personality trait? His ability to get up even when knocked down. What does the character consider his/her worst personality trait? His insecurity What does the character consider his/her best physical characteristic? He thinks he’s got a pretty nice bod, all things considered. What does the character consider his/her worst physical characteristic? His scarred hand, his big ears and his slight buck teeth. How does the character think others perceive him/her: As a bad boy, rebel, problem child and misfit. What would the character most like to change about himself/herself: Many things, though he really like to be taller 

Relationships with others

Opinion of other people in general: They just want something from him and they’ll leave once they’ve gotten what they wanted. Does the character hide his/her true opinions and emotions from others? Often until he trusts them, then he’ll start opening up. Person character most hates: Clive, his parents, Ghostface Best friend(s): Julie, Joey and Susie Love interest(s): Quentin Smith, but Steve is handsome too. Person character goes to for advice: Depending on what it is, Quentin or Susie Person character feels responsible for or takes care of: Susie is like a little sister to him Person character feels shy or awkward around: Jeff, it’s all very complicated Person character openly admires: Jeff, again, complicated Person character secretly admires: David. He’ll never say why. Most important person in character’s life before story starts: Nobody. After story starts: His Legion and, the light of his life, Quentin.

Snatched from here

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part Two, Chapter 1

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“What if we could stop, pause to take stock of each precious moment before it passes? Might we then see the endless forks in the road that have shaped a life? And, seeing those choices, choose another path?”

January 1997

She wakes to the feeling of his chest pressing against her back, a hand on her belly finding its way just under the hem of her pajama bottoms. She stiffens reflexively, and then wills herself to relax.

“Hey,” he whispers hotly into her ear, gaging whether she’s awake. She could feign sleep, but if she does that too often he starts to pick up on it. That is a conversation she’d rather not have again.

“Mmm,” is all she gives in response. He presses his erection into her ass and she grimaces, glad that she’s facing away from him so he can’t see.

“You fell asleep on me last night,” he says as his hand moves lower, now slipping below the hem of her panties, “Happy New Year.”

She glances at the clock; it’s 5:45. She has to leave the apartment by 7 to get to work on time so maybe this is an ideal situation; it will have to be quick. She hates herself for thinking this way, but since what happened with Mulder, she can’t seem to enjoy sex anymore. It’s perfunctory, an obligation. Somewhere in her subconscious she knows that it’s guilt that prevents her from being truly intimate with Ethan, but she only allows herself to see it as temporary, a hormonal change that won’t last. These things happen, she knows. Sex drives wax and wane. Maybe she should switch her birth control.

“Sorry,” she replies, gently pushing back against him, granting permission. Maybe they can stay like this, spooning; it’s easier when she doesn’t have to look at him, to fake enjoyment and connection. When he pushes her pajama bottoms down to her knees and enters her from behind, she sighs in relief and lets it happen, her mind elsewhere.

She tries not to think about it. About a lot of things, really. About how unfulfilling her marriage to Ethan is. About whether she can do this for the rest of her life, or if things will get better. About Mulder. She has the hardest time not thinking about him.

He hasn’t tried to contact her. Each day she arrives at work and checks her email, holding out a secret hope that there will be a message from him, but there never is. Every time one of her colleagues pops in to ask her a question, she hopes that maybe there is someone there to see her, and maybe it’s him. It never is.

She fakes her orgasm flawlessly, a skill she never hoped to acquire, and then showers for work, washing away the evidence of...what? Bad sex? A loveless marriage? Except the sex isn’t bad and the marriage isn’t loveless. Something is missing, but she can’t quite say what.

Or maybe she can’t quite admit who.

She skips breakfast, kissing Ethan chastely on the lips before she heads out the door. She looks away so she doesn’t have to see the pain in his eyes, the recognition that the woman he married isn’t the one he fell in love with anymore.

The fact that she seems to bring so much pain to the men who love her is something she cannot forgive herself for.

———

Priscilla is alternately licking his cheek and biting his nose and he pushes her away gently, checking the time. His alarm didn’t go off and he’s half an hour behind schedule.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, sitting up abruptly and sending her to the floor. She lands on her feet and scurries off, alarmed by his brusqueness.

He peels off his pajama pants and turns on the shower, rushing to the kitchen to feed Priscilla and start the coffee so it will be ready when he gets out. When he realizes he’s out of filters, he abandons the effort and decides to be late for work so he can pick up coffee on the way in.

He stands under the spray of the shower and tries not to think about her. Everywhere he looks, he is reminded of the short time they spent together. His couch, where they bonded over the X files. His bed, where he touched and tasted her. His dining room, where he kissed her for the first and then last time. His doorway, where she broke his heart.

Sighing with defeat, he takes his cock in his hand and lets himself remember, chasing that brief moment of release. The thought that he may never feel about another person the way he feels about Scully makes him sick, as though his life ended before it even began. Will he still be pining away for her when he’s in his seventies? Will he marry someone else, just so he can have some semblance of a normal life, but always wish it could have been her?

Every day since the moment she walked out of his apartment he’s thought about emailing her. He has an entire folder of drafts that he’s typed up but never sent. Some of them are old-timey love letters full of flowery descriptions of the taste of her lips and the color of her hair. Some are Jane Eyre quotes and song lyrics. Some are angry, accusing her of denial and an absurd obsession with commitment. They tell her that she broke his heart, ruined his life. He’s glad he never sent those ones.

He lets out a strangled cry as he comes, doing his best to aim for the drain so he won’t have to scrub the floor of the shower again. He imagines how she felt when she was coming around his fingers, and on his tongue. He wonders if it was as good as it seemed like it was, and whether Ethan is as good at going down on her as he is.

Was. As good as he was, because it only happened once and it won’t happen again.

He dresses for work, pausing to apologize to Priscilla for being rough with her and thank her for waking him up. She is, and will be for the foreseeable future, the only woman in his life, after all. Not that he doesn’t have options; between the Gunmen and other agents at the bureau someone is trying to set him up with their lovely single friend at least weekly. He tried to go out with a couple of them but it felt unfair. Although single, he’s not available. He leaves the apartment with an empty stomach, already late for his division briefing.

Even if she won’t accept it, his heart belongs only to Scully. He’s afraid it always will.

[jay4firefic]

Give You All Our Love

First Fathers Day plus a surprise, Buck x Kelly, Shay, Darcy, ~1100 words

“What do you think,” Buck asks the baby on his hip, “Mickey Mouse or smiley faces?”

Darcy coos and smacks at his chest with her tiny, spit-covered fist, and Buck knows exactly how stupidly in love he looks when he grins down at her because Shay has taken about a million pictures of him staring at her like an idiot. If she wasn’t so fucking cute it would be easier to look away. God, he loves her. Is endlessly grateful to have her in his life. And Kelly gave that to him - Kelly and Shay - which is why Kelly’s first Fathers Day has to be perfect.

Or as perfect as anything involving an eight month old can be.

She coos again and he nods seriously. “I agree, Mickey Mouse is kind of creepy. Smiley faces it is.”

“You know she doesn’t actually have opinions yet, right?” Shay teases as he passes her the baby and turns back to pour the first pancake onto the hot griddle. A perfect smiley face, practiced countless times when babysitting the Herrmann terrors, and then a heart shape next to it. 

“Of course she has opinions!” Buck glares at her across the custom bar - thank you Matt Casey - as he drops bacon into another pan. “She started crying when Otis gave her that Mickey Mouse toy, and when we tried to watch Ben and Jerry. Obviously she agrees with me that mice are creepy.”

“Did you mean Tom and Jerry, sweetie?”

“Whatever.” Buck ducks his head, knows she can see the tips of his ears flushing anyway. “I maintain that anthropomorphic mice are creepy and Darcy agrees.”

“Only you could use anthropomorphic in a sentence but not know who Tom and Jerry are.” Shay laughs and Darcy mimics her, a bubbly little sound that never fails to make Buck join in.

They pass nearly half an hour like that, laughing softly enough not to wake the latest riser in the house and sharing all of the pancakes that turn out less than perfect. Darcy eats tiny pieces of pancake with her hands until she’s covered in syrup and Shay whisks her away for a quick wash and change while Buck assembles the breakfast tray. Pancakes and fruit and disgustingly burned bacon, just how Kelly likes it, along with a travel mug of coffee so that Darcy can’t spill it next to a bottle for her, and the first of many gifts folded carefully in the corner. It’s a #1 Dad t-shirt, generic if not for the tiny hand and foot prints covering it in a rainbow of colors. Cleaning all of the paint off of Darcy before Kelly got home and noticed had been a pain in the ass, but in Buck’s not so humble opinion the end result was worth it.

“Shay?” Buck calls as he climbs the stairs with the tray in hand. “Everything’s ready, are you?”

Laughter greets him at the top of the stairs. The door to one of the dual master bedrooms is open, the sound spilling out of it, and Buck deflates slightly. So much for surprising Kelly all together like they had planned. It’s fine though. The rest of the day - baseball and barbecue, Kelly’s favorite beer in the fridge and the handful of other gifts stashed strategically around the house - can still go off without a hitch.

Except Darcy isn’t wearing the outfit Buck and Shay had chosen for her, either - a white onesie declaring Future Firefighter Like Daddy. Instead she’s already settled in Kelly’s lap wearing something blue, and Kelly is sitting at the edge of the bed instead of lounging against the mountain of pillows for the lazy morning Buck had imagined. 

He tries and fails to school the disappointment off of his face before either of them look up, but of course Shay catches him. The fact that she smiles brightly enough to rival the sun when she does just throws him even more off balance.

“What, you thought you were the only one who could plan a surprise for Fathers day?” she asks.

“But - but the surprise is supposed to be for the father,” Buck sputters. He feels stuck in the doorway, rooted to the floor with a tray of quickly cooling food awkwardly balanced in his hands as searches for a way to get the day back on track. Before he can come up with anything Shay whisks the tray out of his grip and Kelly stands, Darcy seated on one of his arms with her back against his bare chest. Her onesie says something on it in bold white print that Buck can’t bring himself to read.

“I think your daughter wants you,” Kelly says, and he’s grinning too, though his eyes keep flickering nervously over Buck’s face.

“She’s--”

“Your daughter in every way that matters,” Shay cuts him off.

“And I think it’s about time that we made it official,” Kelly adds. Buck accepts Darcy automatically when Kelly holds her out, tucking her against his chest even though his mind is still reeling. He looks down at her, trying to collect his thoughts, and nearly chokes on his own spit when he finally reads her onesie.

Will you marry my Daddy?

When Buck looks back up Kelly is down on one need, jewelry box in hand, looking soft and sleep ruffled and nothing at all like the gruff firefighter Buck had fallen in love with years ago. The spark in his eye is the same, though, as is the gap toothed smile splitting his face in half. 

“Fuck whose name is on the birth certificate,” Kelly says. “You’re Darcy’s dad in every way that matters. We’re a family in every way that matters. And I’ve waited too damn long to make it official.”

“Hell yeah you have,” Shay mumbles behind him, phone in hand and clicking away. 

“Not helpful,” Kelly says, shooting a glare over his shoulder before turning that smile back on Buck. “Evan Buckley, will you marry me?”

Buck has imagined this proposal a hundred different ways. Had been gearing up to maybe do it himself, before Shay and Kelly had announced they were going to try to have a baby. But this? This is better than any version he could have ever come up with.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” Buck replies. He has about half a second to wonder at the fact that Kelly’s grin has somehow grown wider before Kelly is surging to his feet, taking Buck’s face in his hands, and kissing him breathless, all with Darcy carefully cradled in between them.

“Fucking finally,” Shay laughs brightly in the background, doubtless still snapping photos. “Happy Fathers Day, you dorks.”

Title from The Things We’ve Handed Down by Marc Cohn, which is totally the theme of this whole ‘verse.

[closer-stars]

Heart of Depth (3)

Member: Yeosang Genre: Action, Slice of Life, Fantasy, Fluff, a little tension. Genshin Inspired AU Word Count: 9k Requested: Sort of yeah Content: Yeosang x MC development. More world building. Food stuff. A little bit of crime stuff, some history, some art info dump, some typical genshin shenanigans. Mild Violence (aka haha WooSanSang being badasses). Allusions to death. Note: Had to cut down part 3, it’s actually a lot longer originally lol. Inazuma’s been insane content. HoD was supposed to be 5 parts but considering how lengthy the parts have become it might be longer oops. Links to be updated after 24 hours. Life update: kinda got a slightly consistent work now so been focused on that. I hope this tides everyone over until I make a better return. Network: @ateezlovenet Tag list: @barsformars @miniyeo @jeongyunhoed @yeekies @yeotlny @frankenstein852 @shinyddeonghwa @prodbyteez @yeochikin @yeocult @harubirus

Part 2

“Yeosang, you might have to skip on meeting with them today.” 

He looks up from his screen, peering at San several feet away from him. “Why?” 

The good thing about San is that he’s unfazed when Yeosang uses that tone on him. He doesn’t cower when it comes to it, besides, there’s a special voice he uses when he’s genuinely angry. “Looks like there’s something special going on in the museum’s garden at night.” San explains. He already learned the hard way to not speak in riddles to him, but there were things that were better off spoken with mind games. “Check your email, I sent you the notice.” He says, shifting his attention to other matters on his plate. 

There’s something in San’s voice that makes Yeosang want to groan. Usually, this means San’s got some sort of trick up his sleeve when some sort of misdemeanor has been happening-- though the last time San had to speak in riddles over something serious was a few thousand years back. To cut the agony short, Yeosang shifts his attention to his emails, already the email San has forwarded sits at the top. 

It’s been a recurring incident for the past few weeks now. It’s only now that the museum have found the source of the smell. There’s been a peculiar flower that only blooms at night, emitting a scent similar to lavender, despite not looking like the mentioned plant. Though no one knows what flower is, the only response the staff has at the moment was to leave it be and wait for further instructions from the board. The photos attached to the notice made it easy for San to recognize it, all the man was waiting for was for Yeosang to see the photos too. 

His demeanor changes almost immediately once it registers in his head. That’s his lover’s flower, the Neve Jewel. It’s blooming again. Truthfully, Yeosang didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He didn’t really think they would’ve kept their promise after all this time. He stares at the images. He knows that glow, the shape, the colors all too well. All that’s left is the scent, it’s been so long since he smelled those flowers, now all but a lingering feeling in his dreams. Deep blue eyes lay unmoving on his computer screen as he tries to process waves of emotions in him. San waits in his seat quietly, even if his fingers tap away into processing permits and other papers, he worries for how Yeosang would take this. “I’ll let them know that I’ll be late today.” Yeosang states,already writing a message for you. 

Did San think he’d do anything different? Not quite. Even with the change of schedules, he knows how much Yeosang looks forward to seeing you everyday. He also knows how the man will do anything for those he loves. He can’t comprehend how he’s been able to have such self-control since their passing. He would always visit the tombstone of his lover up until the earth had decided to give birth to new life. 

[ Yeosang to You ] My dear, I’m afraid I won't be able to see you until after your closing hours. 

“San, can you get me the iced cafe latte along with a slice of their strawberry cheesecake?”  He would have to wait until night falls for him to catch sight of the flowers. He has feelings for you, that much he is sure. Whether or not you are who he thinks he is, how you’ve been towards him.

“Now?” San asks, rising from his seat and about to grab his jacket. 

“That would be nice, yes.” He says as he busies himself with an email, for the changes in the schedule for today. With that settled, San’s already off to your shop. 

---------

Just as San enters your shop, he’s amazed at the booming activity. All the tables were filled with various groups of people. He wondered what was so special about today. As he approached the counter, you had just finished packing up an order for takeout. While you seem to manage just fine on your own: taking orders and making drinks, it’s definitely not an easy task. 

“Today’s bustling I see.” San says as you immediately rush over after washing your hands. 

“San!” You exclaim, a little relieved for some sense of familiarity after the hectic peak hours. He sees your shoulders drop a little and he flashes a wide smile, glad to be of some relief to you. “Yeah, I asked some of the regulars what’s going on today and it seems like they have finals week coming up so everyone’s just been so busy with their studies.” You shrug as you explain. You were done with university so that aspect of those years are long behind you now. “Anyways, the usual?” 

“Not quite? Two iced cafe lattes, one slice of chocolate mousse and one slice of the strawberry cheesecake.” You nod and after the transaction’s made, you let him wait by the far end of the counter as you get to doing the coffee. 

He leans against the counter as he waits for his purchase. As time passes by, he looks around the place, watching regular humans go about their daily stresses. From the corner of his eye, he spots a familiar insignia on someone’s laptop. The owner’s hunched over, visibly lacking sleep as they seem to try beating their deadlines. He gazes at them for some time until he turns away, not wanting to think too much about it especially in front of all these people. 

“Here’s your order. I added some cookies as well, those are on the house.” You explain upon seeing his confused expression. He flashes a bashful smile in thanks. 

“Yeosang might come by later tonight.” He states. The sight of your flustered expression makes him smirk. “Has he already asked you to be his?” His light laugh rings in your ears and he stops teasing you. 

“Wooyoung might be here instead later. I have to run a few errands today.” You relay to him to which San acknowledges to send to Yeosang. Just feels like the old days. 

He should also probably relay to Yeosang the symbol he saw earlier. 

--------

“Yeosang, we need to--” San’s words are cut short when he’s greeted by the sponsors in their office. He sets aside the food bought from your shop and greets the visitors properly, throwing out any sense of concern in his body. 

“Ah yes, Mr. Choi just came back from an errand. Mr. Choi, I would like you to meet the representatives of the Museum of Ancient Art. I’m sure you’ve talked with them through the emails?” Yeosang says, voice going a little deeper as it usually does in front of formal visitors. If they weren’t in front of him, he would’ve laughed at how Yeosang still tries his best to assert himself. An eons old god, still trying to assert himself, if Yeosang only knew how much respect and intimidation he exudes. 

San approaches the two that he has constantly talked with through their online exchanges, relieved to have faces to their names. That’s right, he remembers now. A meeting with the Museum of Ancient Art to see which collections they can exchange with and how to promote each other in their respective areas. He just hopes this meeting ends as soon as possible because he finally recognizes the insignia from earlier. 

--------

The meeting lasts for two hours. Thankfully, it was a meeting that wasn’t the type that could’ve just been over email. The four of them rise from their seats, delighted to have finished a fruitful meeting on time. After San walks them out of the building, he hurries back in, and already Yeosang’s eating his slice of cake with his coffee. 

“We have no other meeting after that right?” San says as he brings his share to his table, leaning against his seat after such a tiring discussion-- not even a museum tour for students had worn him out that much. 

“None, so we will be here until after closing to check on the discussed flower.” Yeosang after sipping his coffee. “There was something you wanted to tell me, yes?” 

This gets San back into business mode, stern lines on his face as he faces Yeosang who busies himself with his cake. “Yeah, I saw someone in their shop, with the same insignia as the one that did a break in a few weeks back.” 

Yeosang’s eyes are on his coffee and half eaten cake as he listens to San’s encounter. This doesn’t feel right. Once he catches a glimpse of the flower, he’ll rush over to your shop. “I’ll drop by their shop afterwards.” He simply says. 

San takes the chance to look at his companion carefully. Behind the calm eyes already a storm rages, there’s tension in his neck and arms. If he’s right, then it’s only a matter of time. 

“We’ll discuss this at my place after tonight’s activities.” He simply ends the conversation there, taking another bite of his cake. 

“We’re still visiting their shop after?” It was a bit of a surprise for San to hear Yeosang wanting to go out of his way. Then again, why was San even surprised by anything anymore. This is Yeosang, he’s talking to. Also, with what San saw, archons know just how much turmoil there is inside Yeosang.

“If it’s possible, yes.” Yeosang closes his eyes as he drinks his latte. That’s enough for San to know to leave Yeosang to the privacy of his thoughts. Now all that’s left to do is wait until closing time. 

As San looks away from him, he shifts his view to his computer, then to his phone. It’s a little odd that you haven’t replied to his messages. Despite his calm facade, he’s stressed. If his assumptions are right, you’re being targeted, for reasons that are yet unknown to him. 

[ Yeosang to Wooyoung ] Are you working in the shop right now? 

[ Wooyoung to Yeosang ] on my way to the shop! Need me to prepare an order for you guys?

He stops for a moment, wondering the proper wording to make sure Wooyoung doesn’t panic as much as he is right now. 

[ Yeosang to Wooyoung ] Maybe later should San and I make it after today’s itinerary. I was simply wondering since they haven’t replied to me today. 

He stares at his phone screen for another moment. 

[ Yeosang to Wooyoung ] We’ll let you know. 

He has thirty more minutes before the museum is deserted. For now, he’ll make the most out of his cake. He’s not quite sure anymore if peace will last long from now on. 

--------

San takes the lead tonight. He asks one of the security guards to direct him and Yeosang to where in the garden was this strange flower located. Yeosang follows the male a few steps behind. His hands hidden in the pockets of his coat, he doesn’t want anyone to see just how tense he was. 

“It was spotted in this area, sir. The smell leads you to the plant.” The security guard informs them as he gestures to the general area.

San nods, taking note of his advice, already he catches a waft of the scent. He doesn’t need to look at Yeosang to know how on edge he was. “We can manage on our own from here. Thanks.” San promises, as he dismisses the guard, to return to his duty. As the security guard leaves the two alone, he glances at Yeosang. “Do you want to be alone?” The archon shakes his head. He sniffs the air for a moment. The scent takes him back to the memories of eons past. Simpler times, he assumes. 

From there, the two of them follow the scent. It’s a sharp contrast from all the turpentine and antique materials they’ve been exposed to since the museum was built. In today’s standards, the Neve Jewel would remind the regular people of an untouched field in the mountains. Though it is similar to lavender, it is still something that would even make those who love the said herb doubt that it is lavender that they’re smelling. 

From there, they see a faint glow against the dim lighting in the garden. A soft glow of cool blues bounce onto the ground from where the flower resides. San sits by the bench across the flower as Yeosang approaches the plant. 

It’s just like how he remembers it, just like the painting he showed you. It’s still the same after all these years. Yeosang hears nothing but the rush of blood in his ears. He’s too scared to touch the flower, fearing that it would be reduced to nothing-- that this would just be a sick dream his mind conjured. 

“It’s real, Yeosang.” San says softly, as he watches his friend gaze at the flower in disbelief. 

Yeosang snaps out of his thoughts and stands up. “I think I got all the proof I need.” He says softly. He stretches his legs, now reaching his full height. “Let’s go visit the shop.” 

--------

Yeosang parks his car a few steps away from your shop. The warm glow from the lights lets him hope that you’re still inside. He and San enter the shop, only to be greeted by Wooyoung mopping up the floor. “Oh, thought the two of you wouldn’t come. Want the usual?” He asks, the surprised look on their faces doesn’t slip by him. “Looking for Popsicle?'' Wooyoung asks, leaning his hand against the top of the mop.

“Popsicle..” San repeats, thoroughly confused but Yeosang catches his reference fairly quickly. 

“Didn’t think you’d give them that nickname.” He muses, already handing his card to Wooyoung who is already making his way to the counter. 

“Man, they call me Sparky, it’s even.” Wooyoung counters. He didn’t really think he’d reveal himself like that but alas, it’s been done. 

“Creative nicknames.” San comments, amusement in his tone. 

“Happens to the best of us.” With that, Wooyoung busies himself whipping up their orders. “Popsicle left early for personal errands and to try out some personal recipes, to see if they can add it to the seasonal menu.” He explains above the whirring of the coffee machine. “Also, apparently it was a busy day so they weren’t able to reply to any of our messages.”

Yeosang, unaware of some of the changes, inevitably trips against a potted plant. From the sudden cold feeling against his leg, Wooyoung probably had watered this just a few minutes ago. His resigned sigh catches San’s attention and notices his trousers have been, quite literally, soiled. “Uhhh, Wooyoung?” San calls out, a little concerned for the cleanliness of his peer’s outfit and the shop’s. 

“What-- Oh.” Wooyoung sees the mess and Yeosang says nothing but an apologetic bow. “I can clean it up once it dries up. Cleaning up wet soil just makes a bigger mess.” He points out. Unfortunately for him, this means staying in the shop longer when he can be in his bed, underneath his comfy blankets. 

“I can be of assistance.” The archon speaks up. San looks at his friend in alarm, hoping that he won’t give away what he really is but he pays him no heed. Wooyoung eyes him in confusion. 

With a flick of his wrist, his watch extends into a double ended scythes, his reflexes this time faster than earlier. He dips the edge of the blade against the spilled mud then against his pants, making sure to not nick at the fabric. The water from the damp dirt envelops the blade quickly, turning from an opaque brown color to clear and clean water. 

He lifts one end of the scythe from his pants and tips into the pot, the water dripping in as carefully as possible. Once successful, he taps the end of the scythe’s pole against the ground and immediately returns to a watch. 

Wooyoung watches the entire scene, speechless and confused by the entire spectacle-- though more of the fact Yeosang knows how to wield a scythe. “Does San know how to use a weapon too?” This wasn’t what he was supposed to ask but it will do for now.

“Just a sword staff.” San returns in equal nonchalance as Yeosang, in hopes that it wouldn’t make Wooyoung lose his mind. Instead though, Wooyoung lets out a low whistle, impressed at the two’s experience of handling rare weapons-- well he assumed they were rare. For he went with a great sword while you were something along the lines of a mage. To be honest, you didn’t really know how to describe your choice either. 

“Okay but, Yeosang, your pants are dirty and you used the blade against the fabric. Aren’t they expensive?” Wooyoung’s not entirely sure at this point of how to remedy the situation, one foot already at the direction of the broom to clean up the now dried soil. He’s not entirely shocked that Yeosang knows how to deal with water, his hydro vision hangs by his waist. He was more shocked with the scythe and the possibly damaged clothes. How he did that so willingly, maybe it’s the perk of being rich. 

Yeosang waves his hand dismissively about his concern. “Nothing to worry about. I know someone who can clean this without sacrificing the quality. To ease your wary heart, I barely touched the blade against the pant leg. It’s still perfectly fine.” 

Of course, he’d know someone. The rich always do. 

“What brand are you even wearing?” 

“Cucinelli.” 

With that mentioned, Wooyoung stands up and leaves the two for a moment. The abrupt exit leaves the two surprised and concerned. He returns with a broom in hand, cleaning up the soil and putting it back into the pot. The brand name alone tells him everything he needs to know about how much the pants were. “Is it really that expensive?” Yeosang asks, a little surprised by Wooyoung’s sudden lack of response. 

He doesn’t answer for a moment. “It’s enough to cover rent for a few months yeah.” 

This makes the archon ponder for a moment. Truly there were things that he forgets from time to time about the differences in the lives of humans. 

---------

For the next hour the two of them fill in Wooyoung on what has happened in their day, when all of a sudden Yeosang perks up in alarm. 

Yeosang looks around, can never be too careful after all. “Did you see anyone with a symbol that depicts three intertwined knots?” Wooyoung just gives him a perplexed look. WIth the amount of people Wooyoung sees on the daily, it was rare that any of them would stand out to him. It was easier to spot people who stand out in a studio than in a coffee shop. 

“Huh? Maybe our Popsicle did but I don’t remember seeing anything like that, why?” 

This time, he wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or not. The things the two have talked about, especially in the art scene, doesn't faze him anymore. For all he knows, the insignia they’re asking about is an anonymous artist they want to work with.

San shakes his head. “Just a hunch about something. One of these days, we can tell you but for now, we need to go home. It’s late.” San reminds them as he glances at the time. 

By now, Wooyoung was already finished cleaning everything up. The paper and plastic packaging for their orders were in their hands and it’s on them to throw it. His reasoning? He already worked hard to keep this place clean and he’s stayed beyond work hours to wait for them just like you’d always do. 

Now that the lights were closed and the doors were locked with ample protection by Wooyoung, San looks around and sees an odd being a few feet away. “Yeosang.” He murmurs softly, eyes flitting towards the direction he needs to face. The amulet in his pocket feels a little heavier.

Across the street stood the members from the Abyss Order, their eyes glinting in the dark with a plan that would put Wooyoung in danger should they not act quickly. “Wooyoung, I need you to get in the car now. I’ll drive you home.” Yeosang orders, tryinggnn his best not to sound on edge to not scare the guy. Usually, he and San can take care of these members without anyone around them becoming collateral damage. He’s not sure either if Wooyoung has his sword with him. 

 “What? Nah, it’s okay. I can just walk or get a taxi.” Wooyoung reassures, standing up twirling the keys in his fingers. 

“Wooyoung, it’s an ord--” Before Yeosang could complete his sentence, San already has his sword staff up, creating a sturdy shield to block out the bullets that were fired at them. The boom and the lack of sound from impact makes Wooyoung look over immediately. San’s weapon stands at a roughly twelve feet tall pole alone, add the sword and it could have been eighteen feet in length. The human’s not quite sure as to how that happened but questions might be better put for later. 

“Ah shit.” Your friend mutters, unclasping his bracelet and already it shifts into a greatsword, taking up a length of six feet easily. “I don’t know what they are but they are not damaging this shop.” What’s scarier: these unknown threats or you screaming? 

He manages to block a few of the projectiles coming their way,much to the shock of the two immortals. “Got any plan? Preferably something that makes sure this shop is unscathed?” Wooyoung growls, returning the projectiles, with much more strength towards the perpetrators. This time, the heated projectiles combined with his element, exploding upon impact. His vision glows a sharp purple as he continues to use his element. 

Yeosang looks around, trying to figure out a plan. “Watch my back” He simply says. Immediately, San shifts to take his usual position behind the archon. Wooyoung on the other hand, still throws damage against the strange figures. “Wooyoung, keep exposing them to electricity.” 

The human grunts in acknowledgement, slightly frustrated that he can’t move around freely as he has to make sure the shop takes no damage. San jumps into action,using the bladed end of his staff to take out what seems to be a burly figure wielding an electro hammer who was lunging straight towards Yeosang. It doesn’t take much to know that the figure’s near gone with how hard it staggers back from the impact. 

Yeosang spins his scythe, and the blades start to get enveloped by water. As he swings his scythe, blades of water hone in on the figures, knocking them back upon impact and damaging their own weapons. This gives enough time for San to push forward and drive his staff down onto them: pinning them against a sudden burst of wind currents. The pressure making it hard for them to wriggle out of, yet they twitch insistently from the exposure to electricity and water. “Leave if you want to see another day.” Yeosang warns in a strange voice. Wooyoung’s not sure if his goosebumps are from the static on his sword or from the change in Yeosang’s attitude. 

The men-- from what Wooyoung can only presume, submit to his order, speaking of promises to not return to the area and other words that he can only assume were pleas of mercy. 

“Whoever sent you here, tell them of my regards.” Yeosang growls. He doesn’t need to lean forward to look them in the eye. From where he stands, waves of his power come off him slowly. Something in Wooyoung runs cold when he sees his eyes and the tips of his hair glow an intense blue-- a blue that reminds him of the deepest trenches in the ocean, as he restrains their movements even further with water. 

When the promises are made, San makes sure to look each perpetrator in the eye, memorizing their faces and features for the future. They can never tell when the tide changes. The male then loosens his restraints on the men, despite the blood and bruises they have he lets them go. Though personally, he would’ve sliced them into ribbons for coming into this part of the neighborhood. 

Once the three have scrambled away from them, Yeosang heaves a sigh. It’s been a little too long since he had tapped into his archaic abilities. He carefully switches his scythe back into a watch, clasping it around his wrist. Once it’s snug around his wrist, he checks the time. Past midnight. What a tiring day. San heaves a tired groan, tapping the end of his staff against the ground and it becomes a weaved ring on his pointer again. The archon walks to his car, unfortunately with a few dents and scratches. It will be a matter to be taken cared of for another day, for now: safety.

“Get in the car.” He has already put up a protective layer of water against your shop, making sure that any damage against your shop would be minimized. The three figures have already retreated but to leave Wooyoung alone would be a death wish. Wooyoung scratches his thumb against the base of his sword and it turns immediately into his bracelet. He makes sure everything else is clear then hops into the car, swinging the door shut as Yeosang steps on the gas. 

“Who were they?” Wooyoung exclaims as he falls back into his seat with an exhausted whine. His clothes were definitely a mess and the adrenaline’s starting to wear off “Shit, Popsicle.” He worries for your safety, especially after tonight’s run-in. He’s not sure if you’ll be able to fend for yourself on your own. 

“San will take care of them. It’s too dangerous for us to go get them right now.” He promises yet the edge in his voice doesn’t leave. He knows who they were but why they were there is what’s making him grip the steering wheel harder than he should. “Yeosang.” San’s voice immediately reminds him to breathe. “To answer your question, the ones we fought earlier are from the Abyss Order. They haven’t been making their presence known in years.” 

“So why now?” 

“We don’t know.” San replies in place for Yeosang. “That’s why we asked if you saw a three intertwined knot insignia earlier because I saw something when I went in during their shift.” The rest of the drive is quiet. The car slows down to an acceptable speed to avoid any road blocks along the way. 

“You’re staying the night in my place for now.” Yeosang explains much to Wooyoung’s shock. “It’s not safe for you to go back yet. Not until tomorrow morning at least. San will pick them up. He knows his ways around the roads here.” He continues, as he slowly parks his car in the complex’s parking lot. 

Wooyoung explains to San where the two of you live and San already has a mental image of it. “Any landmark?”

“A convenience store right next to a grandmother’s ramen shop.” 

“Okay, I’ll see you guys later.” San then jumps out of the car and onto the scaffoldings of the buildings.

Wait, this is where Yeosang stays? Wooyoung looks around the area: the cars look timeless, expensive as well. On the ground seems to be the numbers of the respective owner’s place. He shuts off the engine and unlocks the doors. “Tell them to bring what they need for the next few hours. I have a lot to explain.” 

---------

That’s how Wooyoung ended up staying in Yeosang’s place for the night. Yeosang cooks up a simple pasta for them, knowing that even San will sleep over for the night. Wooyoung offered to help but Yeosang had been stubborn enough to make him sit down and drink his tea after updating you with what had happened. 

The needed conversation had to happen with you around so to kill time, both men decided to know the other a little more beyond the coffee shop and art museum. 

“... I basically got my vision after realizing what I wanted to do with my life.” Wooyoung explains. It happened after having a conversation with you in high school. “We were fighting about whether or not I should try for the competition despite my injuries..” Go figure. He went all in for it, of course with your help to keep him grounded but it would seldom work as he tunnel visioned into his goal. The difference between your two favoured medium is in the longevity of the works. He accepted that dancing is one of the shortest living works. Three minutes on stage is different from three minutes through a screen. Yet, there he was wanting to make his name known for years to come despite the short lifespan of dance. “It was when I told little Ice Cube about it that my vision formed in my pocket.” 

“I did get my name out there, once we started studying in university.” He continues. “I rose up the dance crew quickly. Things are always different in real life as compared to recorded performances, yet there’s always something beyond as they would say.” He shrugs, trying his best to not sound like he’s bragging. “Now here I am, teaching some idols choreography while teaching passionate dancers in a studio with a part time in your shop.”

This makes Yeosang mull for a bit. He’s met the Electro Archon, with Wooyoung’s story it did fall in line with the Archon’s belief and virtue: to go beyond what Time can limit. It took a few thousand years to remind the mentioned Archon of their humanity though. Fortunately, they have thus the influx of electro users in the succeeding years. He wonders then, when did you get yours? The archon does not want to pry yet curiosity pesters his mind. “I’m assuming that they have gotten their vision prior to yours then?” 

The mortal looks at him with wide eyes. “They never told you how they got the cryo vision huh?” Wooyoung notes as he takes his time to study Yeosang’s place.. Yeosang busies himself by making himself a cup of tea, while Wooyoung an americano. He knows his skills in creating coffee would be sub-par compared to yours but for now, it will do for him. 

“I’m afraid not, though I am aware of the similarities of the lives led by cryo users.” Yeosang returns as he hands the mug to the other male. Each Archon hands a human or an adepti with a vision, usually done when the subject of interest has reached a point in their life that exhibits values worthy of their attention. For the Pyro archon, it would be due to the passion one carries despite all odds. For Yeosang, the hydro vision is gifted when the human exhibits the desire to better themselves. The Cryo archon was an oddball even after the changes, for those who receive the cryo vision are those who have gone through a certain loss that changes them in the long run. As if to help them survive what the world has done to them.

What did you lose? 

Wooyoung eyes the coffee in his hands with worry. Your story is not his story to share, but he can share parts of it from his eyes. “They started living with my family at a young age.” He starts. “It took them awhile to warm up to the family but no one forced the lil Popsicle to be happy.” The dazed wary look you would give his parents pained him even until now. “Despite that, they’ve been deadly protective of our parents and brothers. You were always willing to fight any one that tried to bully me or any of our other classmates.” He says with a soft laugh. Yeosang listens intently, the mere image of you, a small child, willing to protect those who were suffering, it would’ve been a sight to see. Wooyoung takes a careful sip, making sure to not burn his tongue. “Their family was known for their ventures in history, usually through art and any written records.” Wooyoung adds, looking up at the male across from him. There’s something in him that tells him that Yeosang isn’t any regular vision holder. “Can I ask something?” 

The question surprises the archon slightly but he gestures for Wooyoung to continue. He supposes that not everything can be told from another pair of eyes, best to be told by someone who has seen it all. 

“You’re not a regular human are you?” Wooyoung’s question makes him chuckle. 

“What made you ask?” Yeosang starts, eyeing the human with curiosity. 

“For starters, no one’s hair glows at the tips.” Wooyoung points out, tipping his head towards the fringe that frames his face. “Nor should the eyes” he adds, referring to the run in earlier. He doesn’t add the words Yeosang spoke of, thinking it could be twisted easily into his favor. “Also, this amount of money cannot be amassed in such a short year unless you’re from a rich family.” In the back of his mind, he was already making a plan of how to escape and warn you should this become a worst case scenario. He was about to list more before Yeosang cracks up. 

“Well, yes. You are correct. I am not.. A human entirely.” Though he does plan to live like one after this. 

“But you’re not.. An adepti either then? You don’t look like Ganyu.” Wooyoung points out. At least that removes the possibility of him being associated with the bad guys. What memories that name brings him. It’s been a long time since he’s heard from Ganyu. The last he’s seen her, she could pass off as a woman in her early fourties if it weren’t for the ruby horns that curled upwards from her head. Maybe he should pay her a visit in the near future. 

“An adepti can take on a form like Ganyu yes, but there are also adepti that can take on the forms of animals or look like regular humans. My dear friend San, is an adepti as well.” Yeosang counters calmly as he sips his tea. “Now, I trust their judgement, you are a trustworthy human, especially to have the electro vision. Dear Wooyoung,” he starts. The ways of proving that he was the archon without annihilating an entire area is usually limited for a human’s mind can be picky. He lets his eyes turn into wide saucers, too wide to be considered human, and for his skin acquires scales like that of a dragon. Wooyoung’s reaction tells him enough and he reverts himself back to that of a human. 

“You’re the hydro archon.” Wooyoung sputters out. 

“That is correct.” Yeosang nods calmly.

“Can I swear?” 

“Carry on.” 

“Holy shit.”

--------

The way San entered your apartment as well was enough to scare you for the next three days or so. He doesn’t tell you much, even in the safety of your own home. Only a “Let’s go. We’ll explain somewhere safer.” By then, you already had your things ready and kept everything in place. Your vision is securely strapped around your waist while your Regalia is on your wrist. 

You arrive in one piece thanks to San. He had you running through small roads and hidden spots around the city, to avoid prying eyes and wandering ears from seeing the two of you. 

At first glance, you assume that this was another regular apartment complex that maybe you staying at home was the better option. But when you enter the lobby, the smell alone tells you this more than a regular building. There’s a receptionist with three guards around the place, the pristine interiors softened by the warm lighting. You feel out of place in your regular sweats and hoodie, San on the other hand might be in a worse position. A wrinkled jacket, dress shirt that’s been dirty with his tie loosened, his shoes lost their luster and his hair was in slight disarray. A rare sight indeed. 

“Let’s go. They won’t mind you anyways as long as you’re with me.” San reassures you, sensing your discomfort when the staff pass a glance at you. He walks with you to the elevator and once the two of you are in the small box, he heaves a sigh of relief and exhaustion, leaning against the wall for some sense of support. 

“What exactly happened, San?” You ask. The concern in your voice makes him look over at you and for a moment, he thought he saw the previous archon in you. No wonder Yeosang’s been hung up about you. Yet, once he comes to his senses, it’s just the same you. A regular human who carries the cryo vision, yet he could also see why Yeosang would like you regardless of your potential history. 

The rising elevator makes your ears pop, thankfully you manage to hear him say, “We’ll talk about it in Yeosang’s place. Wooyoung’s there as well.” He repeats. There’s no hint of unperceived danger in his voice yet it puts you on the edge. 

The lift rings, notifying them of their arrival. He gestures for you to walk ahead of him, mostly out of your own safety to make sure nothing comes running at you from behind. “2411” The man behind you says, and so you look for the number. It’s deep into the hallway when you finally see his place. San takes the chance to knock on the door thrice, and without missing a beat, it’s Wooyoung that greets the two of you-- slightly worse for wear but nothing you can’t fix. 

He sighs in relief, seeing you in one piece along with San and he lets the two of you in. “I brought your stuff.” You say, handing his duffle bag to him and he manages to let out a sound of relief.

“Yeosang! I’ll go ahead and shower!” He calls out, leaving you and San alone with him. The way Wooyoung has become so casual and comfortable with him doesn’t surprise you anymore. 

San takes up the stool Wooyoung left, you sitting next to him as you try to make sense of his apartment. The wide view of the skyline from wall to wall in the living room was enough to make your head swim with a fear of heights. The colors were on the whites and browns with the occasional accent of black. His kitchen didn’t really help quell your curiosity of just how rich he was. It’s only now that Wooyoung’s words were settling into your head. He’s rich and if your guess is right, he’s probably part of the 0.5% of society. There is no way he can pay for the upkeep of this apartment easily unless he was part of that aspect of society. 

Your eyes return to him as he serves the two of you some of the pasta he had made earlier. “Eat while it’s still hot.” He says for now. San doesn’t mind your questioning gaze on his friend but Yeosang tries not to cave in. Not yet. “I will explain everything once everyone’s cleaned up. It will be a long night for you and Wooyoung especially.” He leaves no room for arguments, and it takes a moment for the archon to realize that he’s using his business voice again. He rubs the back of his neck, albeit uncharacteristic of him as he tried to assert his calm nature just moments ago. “I will take a shower for now, don’t rush your meal for tonight.” Thus leaving the two of you on your own. 

---------

The water runs hot against his skin but the temperature doesn't faze him, steam has already coated the mirrors and the glass tiles. He just stares blankly at the murky rivulets that run down his body and to the drain. Questions still ring in his head as to what could’ve happened, why did it happen, and what had happened. You’d think an aged archon such as he could see the answers easily, yet there’s one thing he can never get right. Humans and their “sense” of logic, the claimed hardest to sway yet here he is wondering why things went the way they did with the adrenaline from the battle wearing off as the hot water relaxes his muscles. 

What was in the store that the Abyss Order thought was of importance? Was it you? 

As much as he loves being with water, he hates how it would remind him of many memories he tries to push away they still come back. Ironic really how water always is in motion, yet he can’t seem to just move on from what has happened years back. He snaps out of his thoughts and finishes washing up for the night, his dirty clothes tossed into the hamper as he changes into his sleep wear for the night. 

One day, the memories won’t hurt anymore. For now, he lets them hurt until the pain ebbs away. He lets himself mourn the pain for a few moments before coming back to reality. He can’t let himself mourn more than needed, there are things he needs to attend to first. 

When he comes back to the kitchen, it’s Wooyoung who is now keeping you company and from the looks of things, he was filling you in on what had happened to the best of his ability. 

“Really,” you sigh, drying your plate as you eye him with concern. “Thank goodness, you had your bracelet on you today. Let me check you for injuries.” You chastise him, not taking a no for an answer as you give his body a quick scan. 

“Ice cube, I think you should be checking on San and Yeosang-- Ow!” He yelps, when he feels your hand press on his shoulder. 

“Did you handle your sword the wrong way again?” You ask, spreading a thin layer of ice on his skin, akin to a muscle relaxant strip. 

The way you know him so well makes him pout. “Maybe..” He mutters, he waits for an earful that never comes. Instead, your attention shifted to Yeosang who has been watching the two of you bicker for what could’ve been this entire time. 

“Oh hey, Yeosang. I was telling them what had happened earlier, well at least the ones I understand.” He changed his seat so that Yeosang could sit next to you. 

Little shit. 

“You didn’t have to clean up.” He says, thanking Wooyoung for the seat. He doesn’t stop you though, you were practically finished with the job anyways. 

“It’s fine. It’s the least I can do. San went to clean himself up a few minutes ago.” You take your seat after cleaning up the dishes, you don’t miss the chance to shoot Wooyoung a glare at his motive though. 

“Then he’ll most likely return in ten minutes. Wooyoung, what have you told them thus far? Just so San and I can fill them in on any questions they might have.” 

“Mostly the fight, what the guys looked like, and your weapons.” He says, a little too enthusiastically thus causing the two of you to look at him with raised eyebrows. “What? It’s not everyday you see a double ended scythe and a sword staff three times taller than San.” 

“I heard that.” A pointed voice comes out from behind the. It was San, fresh out of the shower with an empty look of annoyance on his face. 

“Well, now that we’re here. I suppose we can get started.” 

The four of you take comfort in the living room as this could be a very long discussion. Well, to be specific, it’s only San that manages to find comfort on the couch, lounging on one side like a lazy cat while you and Wooyoung are still in shock over the quality of the place alone. The two of you sit carefully on the couch, Yeosang decides to sit across the two of you. The archon already seems burdened, wondering how else to go about this. 

“For starters,” San suggests. “I think it would be a good idea to tell you that I saw someone at your shop with the insignia on their laptop. It’s safe to guess that they’re part of the Abyss Order.” 

You look at him in confusion. The name rings faint bells but not quite what you were looking for. “The what?” You ask, shifting your glance to Yeosang. The immortals wonder if they saw a spark of fear flash before your eyes as you try to make sense of the situation. 

“The Abyss Order, my dear, they’re a long running organization. They started from wanting to topple Celestia, to wanting to take down the Archons.” It was the simplest way Yeosang could put it. The complete run down of history could take longer than a night and he doubts you and Wooyoung could take so much information within a short period of time. “Their insignia has changed over time. They work in the shadows, feeding opposing ideas to humans in subtle ways that reach the communal consciousness.” There have been certain forms of media that have come out that romanticize questionable lifestyles and choices, that only a handful can tell the Abyss had a hand in them.

“So why were they at my shop? I’m just a regular human trying to make ends meet and make my dreams come true” You say. 

“Regular my butt. Ice Cube, we have visions, I don’t really think we’re regular.” Wooyoung snorts. He has a point, vision carriers weren’t that common. “But that is a good question.” He says after a jab to his side thanks to you. 

Yeosang cups his chin in thought. “My guess is because of San and I.” He returns calmly. “Well, to be exact, me.” 

Wooyoung’s head starts to work into overdrive. “Wait, right.” He cuts his own words off, groaning into his hands. San starts to find his own nails interesting as the conversation shifts to this. Unfortunately you were still unable to make sense out of everything. How could you, your night went from San telling you to pack up, to running through unknown streets, to seeing the three of them in a slightly worse for wear situation to a multimillion apartment.

“Can someone please explain?” You plead, your patience running thin. You don’t like being kept in the dark. You don’t like the familiar feeling of frustration and powerless feeling it brings. 

“My dear, I don’t know how else to say this but I, Kang Yeosang, am the Hydro Archon.” As he reveals this, his eyes glow into the colors of the ocean, with his pupils widening more than normal,  streaks of ice blue against a deeper blue green hue. If you look any closer, you might be able to see hints of white, just like sea foam in his eyes. His skin forms patches of scales on his forearms, but the metamorphosis stops there. He’d rather not turn into full form and cause property damage. “I’ve been the one responsible for giving Hydro visions for as long as I can remember.” He manages to rasp out, his voice now rather hoarse due to the partial transformation.  

Your eyes grow wide, somehow this makes sense and at the same time it doesn’t. This explains his extensive knowledge of history yet at the same time, it’s a struggle to wrap your mind around the mere fact you’ve been catching feelings for an immortal being. Of all beings to fall for, it had to be the Archon. It couldn’t have been someone like Wooyoung but then again, do you really want that?

“He wields a double scythe by the way.” Wooyoung comments under his breath. That part, you can take in stride, your best friend handles a great sword while you used something akin to a floating orb. 

“But wait, you said initially, this Abyss Order’s targets were you and San. Is San an Archon too?” You ask. If he was the Anemo Archon, you might have to cut this discussion short-- it’s been a hectic and eventful day.

“I was offered, but I turned it down.” San says with a shrug. “I prefer just being something like a guardian of a region rather than overseeing the entire world.” He doesn’t continue the story and instead stretches his body out like a cat lazing under the sun.

Yeosang slowly transforms back into that of a regular human. “That’s as far as my guess goes, that I’m the primary target. Anything else is unfortunately beyond my knowledge.” He hasn’t kept in contact with the other archons either so it’s anyone’s guess at this point.

“So what now?” You ask. “I really can’t just stay at my shop 24/7. Wooyoung can’t either, besides the shop, he works at a dance studio too, remember?” 

Yeosang stays silent for a while, thinking through possible remedies for the time being. “Would an additional hand suffice?” 

“I’m not hiring you or San into my shop. I don’t think the salary I can give either of you could compare to the salary in an art museum.” 

“Oh no, not me. The art museum needs San and I to continue running.” He shakes his head. It was a lovely idea though, a nice change from the constant stress of files and intensive care. “I know someone who might be able to help, he’s just like San.” San looks over at Yeosang with a raised brow, raising his head from his arm to get a better view of his friend. 

“I mean, if he’s a friend of yours and is aware that I can’t give a salary as high as you can then I don’t think I can turn down the offer.” 

“Then it’s settled then. I’ll contact Hongjoong tonight to give him the details. If things go as planned, he will be able to meet you tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Oh right, Yeosang put up some sort of protective barrier for the night that spans until early afternoon I think? So more time for us to rest and catch up on sleep.” Wooyoung explains upon seeing your panicked face at the ‘tomorrow afternoon’ part. “So I guess, that’s it for tonight?” Wooyoung asks in a hopeful tone, trying to stifle a yawn with his hands. 

The immortals remember the limitations of humans and thus decide to end the discussion here. “Yes, we can continue this some other time. For the sake of your safety, feel free to come to the art museum. I’ll let the staff know of you to let you through easily. For now, it is better for the two of you to get some rest.” 

San sends him a look, realizing that he had omitted a certain topic out of the discussion. At the mention of rest, you start to feel the exhaustion seep into your bones. Your eyes feel heavy now as Wooyoung’s yawn reminds you of how eventful the day was for both of you. “I’ll lead them to their room.” San offers, much to Yeosang’s relief as he couldn’t handle what San might want to discuss once the two were off to rest. 

Yeosang switches the lights off, bathing the room in darkness and night lights once more. The hallway was dimly lit, making sure that none of his visitors bumped themselves to their slumber. He asks himself why he veered away from the topic of you being a potential interest by the Abyss Order. He wasn’t happy with the answer but it’s the only one he’s got.

He doesn’t want history to repeat itself, yet he knows that those who don’t know it are doomed to repeat it. Even with these worries, he can’t get himself to look at the amulet that rests by his bed side.

--------

Something inside you starts turning. “San, do you remember what the symbol looks like?” You ask carefully, voice barely above a whisper. For Wooyoung’s sake, you didn’t want him to hear this conversation. 

His eyes glance at you after watching Wooyoung flop over the bed. It’s only now that you notice the green streaks in his eyes. “Of course, something wrong?” 

“Can you draw it and send it to me over chat?” You don’t answer his question. “Also, do you have any injuries?” Until you have some sort of confirmation, you won’t divulge any information to him. 

San raises his knee as an answer. “Scraped myself when I had to pin the Abyss members down but nothing too worrisome.” 

“Can I at least fix it? I wasn’t able to ask Yeosang either of his injuries.” San remembers that you were more adept at healing, you can still pack a punch but you preferred to stay at the back. For both of your peace, he enters the room and lets you check on his injuries. 

At least the wound has been cleaned but it’s still very fresh. “This isn’t just a scrape, San.” There’s something in your tone that makes San shrink back like a child. Wooyoung peeks over, your concern catching his attention. 

“That looks pretty bad.” Wooyoung comments much to San’s embarrassment. Never did the guardian expect a human to chide him like a parent-- not even Yeosang did that. 

“It’s not that--” San’s words are cut off by the jolt in temperature. The sharp cold stings against his wound-- maybe he didn’t disinfect it enough. He hears you murmur words of what he can only assume were spells. The intense drop in temperature made his leg stiffen from the sensation, but it was gone as quick as it happened. The guardian looks at his legs and already it was new skin, as if the wounds never even happened and he had just decided to do an exfoliation. “Makes me wonder how you’d be in a fight.” He muses his thanks, running his fingers gently against his healed knee. 

“Please don’t. I might just be the type to cry while fighting.” You plead, much to Wooyoung’s amusement. 

The immortal chuckles at the image, for the most part it is endearing but he tries not to wear down the light conversation with the more realistic thoughts in his head. San stands up and heads towards the door. “Good night you two, the next few days might be a little hectic for the four of us.”

Part 4

[eury--dice]

glitter and tree branches

happy (belated) holidehs, @singtomeinstead​! thank you so much for your wonderful prompts and your even more wonderful dedication to this beautiful @sincerely-us gift exchange. hope your 2021 is off to a good start <3

(ao3 link in the notes!)

It all starts in Ellison Park.

Maybe that is the one thing, across any universe, that stays the same - that cannot change. No matter how you slice their story, it all starts in Ellison Park. Whether that beginning is a fall from a tree, a single form illuminated against the endless expanse of pink morning sky, or -

This.

It all starts in Ellison Park, 2006, when four families tangentially decide a trip to the park is the perfect spring activity, bundle up their five-year-olds and head off.

The Murphy’s arrive early. Larry guides the car over gravel until stopping, Connor and Zoe’s cheers from the backseat audible to everyone outside. Larry and Cynthia share a tight grin over their excitement, eyes pulled taut from lack of sleep.

“Ice cream!” Zoe shouts, eyes catching on the closed Dell’s lemonade cart just outside the gate. Connor is already chanting “le-mon-ade,” albeit much quieter than his sister. Cynthia raises a hand to massage over her eyes.

“It’s 11 am,” Larry points out. “No ice cream yet, sweetheart.”

“No!” They wail in perfect synchrony, only to promptly forget about sweets as soon as they’re unbuckled from the car and tearing off to the park. Cynthia sighs, gesturing for Larry to follow them while she gets what they need for the day.

Six-year-old Evan Hansen is decidedly a morning person. He has been a morning person since the day of his birth, and he will be one for the rest of his life. So while kids his age nod off against their parent’s shoulders on park benches and in their booster seats, he presses his nose against the window of the car and lets his breath fog it up even though he knows his father will scold him for the messiness later. As soon as they step into the park Evan’s vision tunnels into everything around him, sheer joy taking over as he pulls his hand from his mother’s and takes off towards the nearest tree.

“Evan!” she yelps, momentarily distracted from her argument with Mark. Since Evan normally never darts away from her, she’s caught off guard by his sudden energy, her heart rate skyrocketing with Mark’s words intangible in her ears. But Evan pays her no heed; he just runs, his parent’s arguing fading into the background for the first time he can remember. He stops at one of the trees, laying a palm against it and closing his eyes. Through his fingertips, it’s like he is rooted to the ground; like he himself is steady, consistent, and ready to provide comfort.

Heidi stops in her tracks once she can see that he’s safe, turning to Mark with an “are you seeing this?” expression, but he staunchly refuses to return her gaze.

Jared Kleinman is distinctly not a morning person, much to his friend’s dismay. Their parents always joked about it when they were little more than babies sharing naps in the Kleinman’s living room; Evan fussing at the first sign of light while Jared took more than a fair bit of commotion to so much as stir. So the Kleinman’s amble into the park a little after the Hansen’s, a still sleepy Jared leaning between his moms like a tiny labored soldier. He perks up on hearing Heidi’s voice, attuned to trouble as always, but his mom tightens her grip on his shoulder before he can run forward.

“Plenty of time for that,” she said in an undertone. “I don’t want you bonking your head because you’re sleepy.”

“I won’t,” Jared insists, offended at the mere notion he could mess something up.

His mother studies his eyes for a moment before relenting. “All right. Go see your friend.”

Jared takes off at once, a direct beeline to Evan - so direct that he doesn’t see the child-shaped obstacle in his path, immediately bonking heads and falling back onto his butt on the pavement, two glasses clattering noises filling his ears. “Oh my god,” he hears his other mom groan.

“You should be more careful,” a voice says, little-kid saccharine but mature beyond its years. “You’re Jared, right?”

“Alana! Are you okay?” a man calls at the same time Jared’s mom calls, “I told you!”

Jared hadn’t expected to see Alana Beck from his kindergarten class there, but he did all the same.

“Are you okay?” She says before he can respond. “My head hurts a bit. Does yours?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jared says. “A bit.” He reaches blindly for the first pair of glasses he can vaguely see, but when he puts them on his vision explodes and contorts.

“Are these yours?” they say at the same time, so Jared guesses she must have picked up his. They swap, and Jared frowns at a long scratch in his right lense before putting them back on.

“That’s why you need to look where you’re going,” Alana says, noting his frown. “My grandma says people get hurt when they’re not aware of their surroundings.”

“I guess.” Jared feels a little stunned into silence, even as their parents come over to check them. But finally, he manages to say “Do you want to come play with me and Evan?”

Alana scrunches up her nose, her glasses following. “Evan Hansen?”

“Yeah.”

She thinks on it for a moment, then throws a look to someone who must be her younger sister. “Okay,” she says, and that’s that.

The three unite by Evan’s tree, though Evan is a squirrel so he climbs nearly all the way up while Jared and Alana watch. Alana talks enough for all three of them, jabbering on about her family and what she misses from school now that they’re older, and that seems to ease Evan’s discomfort around a new person. He’s content to climb while they carry the conversation.

All three of their heads turn at the sound of a sudden splash followed by the shouts of two dismayed children. Jared laughs reflexively at the sight of horror on their nearly-identical faces, freckles elongated with their widening mouths. Evan drops down nimbly from the tree almost at once.

“Dad!” the boy calls, hands flying to his short curls to tug, and after a moment they recognize him as another classmate - Connor Murphy, in a different section, known to dominate the monkey bars at recess. “Why’d you throw it in the lake?”

“Emergency landing,” a man with graying hair replies, a little ways off from where Evan’s parents had settled. “Sorry, Con.”

While a few of their parents chuckle, neither of the kids appears sated; in fact, both look close to tears. The three by the tree exchange a look.

“Should we?” Alana says, and Evan nods, Jared already setting off towards the lake.

“What was it?” he asks loudly, once they near the two who lean over the surface of the lake longingly.

Zoe, who he only knew through Connor’s sharing time about his family, shot him a watery glare. “A airplane,” she bites out.

“An airplane,” Alana corrects, though she quiets when she’s on the receiving end of Zoe’s glare.

“We don’t have an airplane,” Evan says, looking between Alana and Jared for confirmation. “But, um…you can play with us?”

The two stare at each other for a beat, still working back tears, before they sigh.

“Not even one airplane?” Connor asks.

“Not even one.”

“My sister might have one,” Alana puts in. “I can ask?”

Connor eyes them warily for a beat before sighing again. “Fine. Zoe?”

“I guess so,” she says, voice small.

Friends acquired…apparently.

***

Most of the time, Zoe wishes she and Connor are real twins.

They feel enough like it - given that they almost always just played with each other - and even looked enough like it, if random people in the supermarket’s judgment could be trusted. People sometimes said they were Irish twins, which Zoe never quite understood, even after Cynthia sat her on the couch and explained the concept to her. Being Irish twins is fine and all, even though only their dad was even a little Irish (thanks, Murphy surname). But it isn’t as good as being a real twin, sharing the birthday she so desperately wants, sharing the grade above her own.

Instead, she’s stuck, out of the loop and behind. Alana comes over in the lunchroom on the days where she can, seemingly only willing to break the rules that keep her separated from everyone else due to grade. Zoe gets quite used to the sight of Alana beelining across the cafeteria, her star-patterned lunchbox unzipped and held to her chest as she weaves around students and faculty alike with a grace that Zoe assumes comes from dance. And she gets used to Alana parking herself right across from her, unzipping a small ziplock bag of baby carrots around the surprised looks of elementary school underclassmen, and saying something along the lines of “did Mrs. Gould teach you about magnets today?” And Zoe takes the offered baby carrot, puts away the felt-tip pen she’s been doodling with, and smiles.

She drags the other three over one day, though Connor’s lips set in annoyance over having to babysit his little sister and Evan’s set in something that looks closer to anxiety, casting anxious glances over to the faculty presiding over the lunchroom. Jared simply throws her an amused smile, squeezing between her and her friend from class and cutting Zoe off with a loud “Howdy!” before she can apologize for his behavior. Evan takes the unoccupied space on her right, his fingers messing with the clasp of his lunchbox. His eyes jump across the faculty members even as Alana and Connor sit across from her. She’s so used to seeing both of them across from her that it takes a moment for her to remember how different they usually are. Alana only ever looks like this, separated by a grainy plastic table and fluorescent lights, but normally she sees Connor under their warm kitchen lights and the honey-colored wood of their kitchen table.

“You don’t have to come over here,” she says quietly, words muffled into the collar of her sweater.

Alana just smiles and launches their normal lunch routine, this time with the added chatter from Connor and Jared, before Evan’s face shifts and Zoe lifts her eyes to see a faculty member appear just behind Alana.

“Aren’t you all at the wrong table?” They say, and the five scatter as quickly as they can, hoping to avoid docked recess as punishment. On the playground, Evan bites the corner of his nail nervously and Connor refuses to look in Zoe’s direction, staring instead towards the faculty hovering by the fences.

So much for trying to spend time together.

Out of school, though - out of school is equal for everyone, regardless of grade. No time to share, no privacy for their conversations, no good locations for their games.

“We should have a secret hiding spot,” Alana declares later that same day. Even from her position hunched under the bunk bed she shares with her younger sister, her voice carries such a sure tone that no one could even disagree.

“Should we all join you?” Jared quips. Connor responds by smacking him lightly on the shoulder.

“Not in my house,” Alana says, and for some reason, Zoe expects an eye roll or something of the sort, but she’s Alana so of course there’s only confidence and surety. “Do you really want my dads hearing everything?”

“We don’t have secrets,” Evan points out from his spot on the floor between Jared and Zoe. His sleeve brushes against Zoe’s when he fidgets, his hands moving his shoulders.

“We could,” Jared says. “How else are we going to steal all the Jell-O from the cafeteria?”

“I think you’re the only person who actually likes that Jell-o,” Zoe says, before immediately regretting it. The words slip through her teeth, liketh thad dell-o, rounded and off compared to all of her friends. Evan’s arm brushes against hers again.

“Of all the criminal plots, Jared,” Connor agrees.

“It’s gross,” Evan adds in an undertone, and Zoe is pretty sure she’s the only one who can hear it.

“But it would be a secret!”

“We’re not going to do that,” Alana says; words getting caught in a sigh. “But wouldn’t it be nice to talk without-”

As if on queue, her younger sister bursts into the room, catapulting herself onto the top bunk with a frightening speed. Evan falls into Jared as she hurtles over them, and Connor jumps practically a foot in the air.

With a comical precision, almost like something actually out of a comic in the paper that Larry loved to hand them on Sunday’s so they could “learn to read a newspaper,” they turn to look at Alana.

“Like I said,” she says, assuming her teacher voice.

“…Well, where?” Jared finally replies. “Our houses don’t work too well.”

“Outside?” Evan suggests hopefully. “Maybe the park?”

“It’s too cold, and our parents can’t always drive us there,” Alana says. “But maybe…hm…

At once, Connor and Zoe’s heads swivel towards each other.

“We have a place,” Connor says slowly, reading understanding on Zoe’s face. “Or…we will.”

Larry has passions that ebb and flow just like Cynthia, and for once Zoe is certain she and her brother are thinking of the same thing; the influx of wood he’d been purchasing recently, the power tools they heard whenever he was off work, the constant questions over whether they wanted to help.

A week later, the five stand in the Murphy’s backyard. Cynthia and Larry observe at a distance, their faces careful as they watch the kid’s reactions but obvious joy in the lines of Larry’s tiny smile.

“Oh my God,” Jared breathes. “Is it real?”

“No, dummy,” Connor says, voice filled with a pompousness that Zoe hates. “We bought a treehouse decal and spent all night getting it up there just to play tricks on you.”

“Don’t be mean, Connor,” Zoe says with the snobbiness she knows he hates. He sticks his tongue out at her in return.

Evan steps forward first, laying his palm against the tree trunk and staring up with a reverence Zoe never expected. He smiles gently, the light brushing his cheeks like burnished bronze, and Zoe looks away with a smile similar to her father’s.

“Well, let’s go,” Connor says, and Evan must take his words as invitation, because he forgoes the ladder and chooses instead to scale the tree limbs until worming his way in through the “window” of the treehouse. Zoe heard something like a fond laugh behind her, most likely her mother’s doing, before she raced off to the tree herself. She did opt for the ladder, however. Connor follows Evan’s dramatics, and Alana and Jared are close on Zoe’s heels.

“Woah,” she hears Alana breathe, and, well. Woah was right.

The treehouse isn’t very large, but to a bunch of elementary students it certainly feels like it. The smell of fresh pine assaults her nose, dust still floating around and tickling her eyelashes. The late fall light streams in through the slats and windows, leaving a gold-washed tint around the treehouse and all of her friends.

Connor wanders over to a small platform, and she follows, letting her other friends scatter about the room, chattering idly about the treehouse. Zoe leans her head on Connor’s shoulder, but just as she does Connor nudges Zoe with his elbow. Uncaring to her yelp, he asks “Do you have the thread in your room?”

“Thread?” She repeats, as it takes her brain a moment to catch up. “Ohh. Yeah. I think so.”

“Want to go grab it?”

“Why?”

He motions to his wrist and then to the group as a whole.

“Whyyyy me?” She says, the y drawing out into a whine in a true younger sibling move.

All the same, she’s on her way back up the treehouse with a tub of bracelet thread tucked under her arm five minutes later. Maneuvering up the ladder with it tucked under her arm proved to be a bit of a challenge, but nothing Zoe Murphy can’t handle. She does throw it through the window before her, though, which (by Connor’s horrified yelp) isn’t the brightest move. When she reenters, Connor is already gathering up thread and shaking dust out of it.

“Oh, yes,” Jared says, surging forward and grabbing a green and purple thread from Connor’s hands. He sits heavily on the ground, immediately beginning a complicated braid without any prompting. He looks up at their surprised faces a moment later. “What? I learned at camp this summer.”

“Did you learn, Evan?” Alana asks, likely remembering they went to the same camp.

Evan looks away, one hand reaching to pick at an imperfection in the wooden wall. He shrugs. “‘M not very good,” he says, and Zoe can’t help but remember the snatches of conversation she remembers overhearing accidentally from her parents - she had to drive down and couldn’t handle it and maybe talking to the school counselor came to mind.

She crosses to him without thinking, grabbing his hand. “I’ll teach you,” she blurts without thinking. Connor hands her her favorite colors without prompting, and Zoe begins a tri-color braid that’s probably more complicated than Evan needs, but he catches on easily enough after a few minutes, twisting the blue and purple and pink together into something beautiful.

They pass their first hours in the treehouse like that, singularly focused like only little kids can be, and when Zoe’s parents bring up pizza and Sprite they pause only to admire their fine work. Several bracelets adorn each of their wrists, each twisted by someone else and infused with why Jared jokingly called the power of love. And the sun sets on them all together, smearing grease across their faces and throwing loose bits of thread across their haven in the sky, and Zoe smiles.

***

It was nearing dinnertime, far too cold and far too quiet to be in a treehouse.

Connor and Zoe took to hanging around the treehouse even when their friends weren’t there, much preferring it to their former hiding places within the house. As the winter wore on and the days grew shorter, so did Murphy tempers, and cabin fever mixed in only made enclosed spaces more liable to combust. So, with the treehouse available, Zoe tended to grab Connor and the ukelele she’d just begun learning to play and sneaking out the sliding door into their backyard. That particular evening, the layer of fluffy snow that had just fallen masked their escape and allowed them entrance to the treehouse and cushioned any residual noise left from the kitchen. They still were bundled up, however, their parkas and hats pulled tight. Both had forgone gloves, however; Zoe felt her fingers stiffen and slip on her ukelele strings, while Connor seemed unperturbed by the cold while he sketched in his brand-new sketchbook. Save for her muffled ukelele noises and the faint rustling of small creatures in the snow and Connor’s pencil etching against paper, all was still.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to bring string instruments into the cold,” Connor said, breaking the silence. Zoe responded by strumming an e minor chord more aggressively.

They fell back into their rhythm, and Connor started to hum along to her strumming just as the pinks and purples broke through gray winter sky.

“We have a project,” a voice declared. startling both of them out of their individual reveries. Alana’s head popped up in the treehouse window, a giant pom-pom hat perched precariously over the intricate braided bun Zoe could remember seeing at school that day.

“Jesus Christ, Alana,” Connor said, sounding very much like a kid who was trying his hardest to get a handle on cussing and sounding cool. “How did you get here?”

Alana blinked, righting the large box she held in her hands. “Your parents said you were here.”

Connor stilled abruptly, while Zoe’s foot started bouncing. “You talked to them?”

“Yeah,” she said, and as if she knew their next question - likely because she did, from years of experience - “They seemed like they were calming down.”

“Good,” Zoe said quietly.

Impervious to the Murphy siblings’ shifted expressions, Alana dropped the metal box to the floor and followed it, dropping to the frosty pine boards like there was nothing else she’d rather do. “Anyway, we’re making a time capsule!”

“We are?” Zoe said, feeling amusement creeping into the edges of her voice.

“Yes. You’ll thank me in ten years.”

Zoe and Connor shared a look. Connor cut off the awkward silence that suddenly descended. “The ground is frozen. How are we going to bury it?”

Alana grinned over the lid. “My dads were talking about the thaw later this week.”

“No snow?” added a new voice. Evan popped up barely a moment later, likely having taken a wild path up the tree rather than using the ladder like anyone else, even when ice coated to every nook and cranny of the bark. “Already?”

“Apparently,” Zoe replied.

“Won’t it get all covered in mud?” Jared added, and Zoe spun her head around to look at Alana, fixing her with a sharp look.

“Did you invite everyone over to our house?”

Alana shrugged. “This is important. And there isn’t that much mud if you dig deep enough, Jared.”

“Again - why?” Connor interrupted.

“Because she says so, and it’s a kick-ass idea,” Jared said.

“Didn’t expect you to latch onto sentimentality, Kleinman,” Zoe muttered, startling a laugh out of him.

Alana pulled a binder free from the backpack she’d slung to the ground. “C’mon - what do you want to add?”

“Cheerios,” Jared said at once, earning a scowl out of Alana.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, Jared-”

“He’ll shut up,” Evan rushed to cut him off. “So not food items?”

“More sentimental, I think,” Connor said.

“Exactly.”

Under Alana’s direction, they did just that. After a successful thaw later in the week Zoe took a shovel from the garage and helped them dig and re-bury dirt in the Murphy’s backyard, marked by a small stake Connor painted with acrylics from their mom’s craft supply.

“Now we wait,” Alana said.

***

Somewhere along the line, things get… tense.

Zoe reads the self-help books and watches the videos her teachers play on VHS tapes during their “health” classes. They all describe the same thing, a switch flipping with no warning once elementary school draws to a close and sixth grade begins. Admittedly, she watches them a year later than everyone else, forever cursed to be a year behind. But she knows it’s coming all the same - fault lines crackling out through the earth and darting between their feet, setting them all adrift on different paths, thunder drowning out their words where there used to be laughter.

Nothing could have prepared her for the actual occurrence, though.

The treehouse really is their de facto hangout spot, given the Murphy’s lasé-faire attitude towards where their children were and the complete privacy it afforded. With their newly-acquired Jazz Band extracurricular, Zoe and Jared always arrive late, normally to the sight of Evan and Alana reading and Connor drawing or some other combination of their group’s preferred activities. But when they climb the ladder to the treehouse that day, the air is…stilted, like Zoe has grown to expect inside the house. That kind of expectant anger, like you know something is going to go wrong but aren’t sure what it is yet.

Evan sits, his eyes darting between Alana and Connor and over to Jared and Zoe as they walk in like he can sense a disaster brewing. Jared flounces over to Connor, sprawling, earning himself a glare.

“Can I help you, Kleinman?”

He nods to the sketchbook in Connor’s hands. “Might want to clean up those lines.”

It only gets worse from there - cutting barbs thrown this way and that, all ready to strike and hit. Nothing too bad, at least not until Connor says get the fuck out of my house and Jared says at least I have other people who will take me and Alana says honestly can’t you two even try to act mature and Zoe hears herself say at least we’re not miserable all the time before she realizes that’s - patently false. And one by one, they storm away, hopping down with practiced agility they no longer have reason to use.

And there Zoe sits. Shutting down, like she always does.

***

Connor felt like he was suffocating.

Everything was aggressively there-every word spoken grating his ears, every shadow a little too dark and every light a little too bright, every glance so heavy it weighed on his chest. He felt uneven and on edge, like one loud noise would send him spiraling off of a cliff and bursting into tears.

“Zoe,” he’d said, coming up behind her as she stood at the counter. Maybe if he’d looked he would have seen how her shoulders tensed as soon as she heard his voice. Maybe if he’d listened he would’ve heard how Zoe’s breath hitched and how she quickly ran a hand over her face. Maybe if he’d paid attention he would’ve noticed how her hands clenched around her mug and she steeled herself. Maybe the glint of pain and fear and loneliness nestled deep within her eyes before she put her shields up as she turned around would’ve stood out to him. But he couldn’t even handle analyzing himself, and there was no hope for understanding Zoe.

“What?” She said, and even in his funk he noticed how her words appeared differently than normal. Maybe, if he’d taken a moment to think, he would have identified the source-fatigue, cutting through each letter. There was none of the venom they’d grown used to hurling at each other and pretending it didn’t burn once it touched skin. She sounded tired.

He rubbed the edge of his sweatshirt sleeve with us thumb, trying to pull an excuse out of nowhere. In reality, he just needed something to anchor him to Earth, but he couldn’t say that to her. “Could you paint my nails?” He bit out, risking cutting his gaze up to her face. Her eyes had widened slightly since he last looked at her, eyebrows lifted silently with them. She pulled her bottom lip between her front teeth, and she looked down and away, foot tapping some unfamiliar rhythm against the tiled floor. Silence hung between them, dark and heavy, nearly drowning out the tap tap taptap tap of her foot. He looked back up towards her, not quite meeting her eyes, perhaps a bit more expectancy in his gaze than he would have liked.

She shook her head slightly, ring finger tapping against the side of her mug. “Why?” She said, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“Why am I asking…?”

“Yeah,” She said, same fatigue in her voice. “Why are you asking me? When this is the first time you’ve talked to me in…what, four months without being forced to?”

Connor shrugged a little, taken aback by this reaction. A soft, incredulous laugh built in Zoe’s throat.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, voice choked. “I don’t understand. You’ve broken down my door twice. I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Why would you want me to…”

“I don’t know,” Connor said, voice uneven. Zoe shook her head again.

She stared evenly at him, and maybe if he’d been paying better attention he would have noticed the thin sheen of tears in her eyes as he raised his eyes to meet hers. “What color?”

“What?”

“Nail polish. If I painted your nails. What color would it be?”

Connor resumed rubbing his sleeve. “Black.”

She bit her lip again, the edges of her mouth curling into a bitter smile, words sounding just as bitter. “Damn. I’m out of black.”

The edge of Connor’s mouth twitched even as he felt something sink inside of him. “I see,” he said, a touch harder than the previous words had been.

Zoe shrugged, hand still wrapped around her mug, as she pushed her hip against the side of the counter to launch herself away from it. “That’s that, I guess.”

“I guess so,” Connor responded, voice hollow.

Maybe, if he’d looked up instead of locking his gaze on the floor, he’d have seen the tense hold of Zoe’s shoulders, the moment of faltering before she continued walking.

“I guess so,” she repeated faintly, all edges gone form her voice and tiredness abundant.

Connor squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, she was completely gone from the kitchen. He gazed around for a moment, letting the view of the kitchen wash around him.

Oh, how the mighty fall.

***

Zoe is desperately glad she and Connor are only Irish twins.

Distance - distance is what she needs more than ever. She’d hated it, that chasm between her and everyone else, but of course she couldn’t have known just how wide that chasm could get. Would get, with time and urging and their circle falling apart under the right amount of pressure.

The right amount of pressure, she thinks, poised to flee on her kitchen chair, leg bouncing and heart coiled, for Connor to come home. He does, of course, sullen and tired, but in front of her eyes all the same. It’s only been a year since they reached critical mass in the treehouse, but the shift in all of them came quickly and without mercy. Alana buries herself in more work than Zoe had ever thought possible, always hurrying away whenever Zoe tries to get a word in edgewise. Jared just darts his eyes around like a caged animal, calculations churning behind his eyes as though searching for his best way forward. Evan she still sees somewhat regularly, making sure that her parents still drive him home and letting him crash on their couch when Heidi works too late, but she’s seen him retreat into himself too often to think he’s okay. And Connor…

“What are you doing up?” he whispers, the sound traveling across their kitchen table.

“Waiting for you,” she responds in a similar hiss, snapping her laptop shut.

“You should’ve just gone to bed, Mom’s gonna be pissed if she sees the li-”

“When she sees her son walk through the door at-” she lifts her phone dramatically, searching for the little time symbol. “1:12 in the morning?”

“Well she won’t see it if you just go to sleep-”

“What are you even doing?” she says in a normal tone, though she recoils and presses a hand over her mouth when Connor’s eyes widen in warning. She and Connor freeze with their hands stifling their breathing, trying to hear any shifts from their parents upstairs with their identical eyes wide. After a beat of nothing but the house shifting in the wind, she lowers her hands, swiping up her laptop with the one closest to the table. “You don’t need to be out this late, Con.”

His eyes flash over to her, then back up to the ceiling. “You don’t need to stay up for me.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll just stop worrying, I’ll just go to bed and dream sweet dreams when you’re doing hell knows what-”

“I didn’t ask you to fucking worry about me!” He cuts out. “I don’t need your pity, Zoe!”

She balts, shakes her head, feels her braids sliding against the material of her jazz band sweatshirt. “Pity?” she repeats.

Connor holds his jaw, looking away.

“Pity,” she says, then laughs a single time, too loud, but she’s past the point of caring. “I don’t know where you got pity from in the last fourteen years, Connor, but none of it is coming from me, that’s for sure.” She brushed past him. “Fine. You don’t deserve my worry anyway. I’ll tell mom in the morning if you’re so insistent.”

Connor’s footsteps hurry after her, until his fingers wrap around her wrist. She jerks it away as soon as he makes contact, “Don’t. Please.”

“You want me to stop worrying?” she says lowly, dangerously. “Fine. Then I’ll make sure you can’t do anything that worries me. See how you fucking like that.”

It was like a switch flipped in Connor, like as soon as their group fell apart so did he, growing more liable to shut down and ramp up at once. But he just leaves her grasping at straws always, never able to say anything right.

Middle school bleeds into high school, the chasm and pressure growing between them, small disagreements exploding into screams and something valuable shattering. Doors they’d never closed before close with racorous clangs, and Zoe grows tired of sleeping outside of them and waiting for him to open them up.

You don’t need to worry about me, he’d said, and she can’t ever stop, really, but she can ignore him until the worry clawed at her a little less urgently.

Try as she might, she couldn’t just forget all those years, especially when she saw reminders of them all around school - flashes of Jared’s shirts, an edge of Alana’s backpack, a flicker of Evan’s eyes. She still goes to the treehouse, sometimes, but mostly she keeps to her room, her guitar, the things she knows.

Her phone buzzes one night, and when she sees Evan Hansen flash across her screen she picks it up without a moment’s thought.

“Hello?”

“Zoe?” Evan says, voice breathy in her ear.

There’s a beat. “Yeah,” she finally says. “You okay?”

“I’m - yeah, um, I’m fine, it’s all - uh, my mom is pulling a night shift.”

“Oh?” She says, barely a hum.

“Yeah. She - look, this is, um, really dumb, I know, but can I - can I stay at yours? Tonight? I know it’s been, um, less than ideal, I can just-”

“Yeah,” she says, again without thinking. She squeezes her eyes shut, forces enthusiasm into her voice. “Yeah. ‘Course, Ev. I’ll - you need me to pick you up?”

“What? Um - no, I’m - I’m at the park, actually, walking is…fine.”

Her eyebrows pull closer together. “It’s late.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Really.”

Ten minutes later, Evan is on their front porch. Cynthia greets him with a warm smile, and Zoe leans against the doorway of the guest room while he sets himself up.

“Are you okay, Evan?” She hears herself ask.

His head jerks up quickly, locking eyes with her. “I-I’m fine.”

Zoe shakes her head, letting out a but of air through her nose. “What’s up, then?”

His hands still over his backpack, and he looks just past her head to the hallway. “I couldn’t be alone in that house.”

She hesitates for a moment, nods, looks to the corner of the room. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

Her eyes snap back over to him. “What?”

“Do you - have you been alone, Zoe, through all of this?”

She snorts. “Good as.”

“But never actually-”

“Loneliness isn’t always distance,” she spits out. “But if it was you’d be all set, given how much you run away from all of us.”

Time slows to a crawl; Evan lets his hands fall to his sides, eyes wide and searching on hers.

“I’m,” she begins, the word getting stuck in her throat. She looks towards her feet. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, but before he can say anything she says “I’ll drive you in tomorrow” and is gone, set off down the hallway.

The next morning she gets to her car early, knowing, somehow, he’ll climb in with enough time to get there. And he does so wordlessly.

Somewhere, on the way to school, he murmurs, “I’m sorry for pulling away.”

She taps her index finger against the wheel, looking out towards the road rather than him. The scene is desolate, still early-morning and deserted with the yellowing pools of light from streetlights that have yet to switch off. “Yeah, me too.”

Every day, he swings by her house - a long walk, making his day longer, but he’s always been an early bird - to get a ride to school. Connor joins them occasionally, but mostly he arrives by his own means that Zoe isn’t too interested in learning. He talks to Jared, little by little, and she sees Connor and Alana in the library and Jared and Alana with their heads bowed together at lunch. She finds a picture of them in the treehouse and texts it to them as a group, and things feel a little closer to okay.

After high school, things start to calm down, like an inflamed cut that needs to be soothed. She and Connor stand in each other’s doorways until they have the courage to walk inside, and their newly-reinstated group chat keeps a steady flow of bad memes and musical theater jokes. It’s easier to breathe when she’s at school, easier to move and be. She’s used to being alone in a house full of people; being alone in a city of lonely people is close enough that the transition is almost nothing.

She misses everyone, though. Evan texts her pictures of the trees back home and around the community college, and Connor snaps Jared and Alana when they’re around. She’s the only one who left, this time around. Removed by physical distance rather than a measly year.

She gets home for winter break halfway through December, and an unusually warm one at that. Connor follows her up to her room, watching her unpack likely half in an attempt to give her some privacy from their parents.

“You seen Evan yet?” He asks at some point, once he’s grown bored of watching her fold clothes.

“No, not yet,” she replies with saccharine sweetness.

“You should,” he mocks in a similar tone of voice.

“I will.”

Their ridiculous miming comes to a halt when she withdraws a rattling bag from her backpack and throws it onto her bed. Connor dives forward, grabbing at it. “Is this-did you just throw nail polish?” He demands.

She looks him dead in the eye and does the same with her other bag.

“Dishonor on you,” he mutters, already unzipping it and rifliging through the colors with a clink each time. “Want me to do your nails? They’re looking…” he trails off, eyes dipping to her unpainted and bitten nails, worn down by her guitar strings.

“I could say the same to you,” she says. “Stones and glass houses, dear brother.”

“Point taken.”

They take the time to paint each other’s nails after dinner, sitting on their living room couch. Connor opts for a dark blue instead of his gala black, and chooses gold glitter for the upcoming holidays for Zoe.

“Please don’t get nail polish on the couch, Zoe,” her mother says as she passes by to go to the kitchen, and she and Connor lock eyes. He rolls his; she smiles tightly.

“You’d think she say it to me, given that I live here,” Connor whispers.

Her phone bzzs in her pocket, and instinctively she reaches for it, noting the way the golden glitter glints against the denim of her jeans.

Evan Hansen: gonna leave mom’s for a walk, you tied up?

She feels the corners of her lips twitch involuntarily. Yes, please. Ready in 10?

“I’m gonna take a walk,” she announces loudly enough her parents should be able to hear it from the next room. “It’s just Evan,” she adds in an undertone to Connor. “Want to come along?”

“Nope. Have fun, though, I guess.”

“So enthusiastic.”

Evan is waiting outside, bundled up in a scarf and parka. His eyes pinch at the edges like they always do when he’s tired; she surges forward and slides her arms around his neck, colliding with him softly so he lets out an oomph. She feels a kiss pressed to the top of her head a moment later.

“Hey,” she says, muffled into his coat. “You’re overdressed.”

“You’re underdressed.”

“Fleece is never wrong.”

“…I suppose you’re right?” And then, with some trepidation, “oh no. Not again.”

“I’m always right,” she says lightly, throwing him a smile so he knows it’s a joke. She reaches for his hand, tugging him forward lightly. “Heidi‘s doing well?”

“Well as always, yeah. Your family?”

“All…fine,” she says. “Just, y’know…stressed.”

“Mhm,” Evan hums, and she can tell he’s trying to say something, so she just squeezes his hand lightly and falls silent.

“Dad wanted me to go h–to Colorado,” Evan blurts. “For Christmas.”

She pauses a little at that, tugging his hand closer. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He swallows gently, watching the sky with a ferocity she can barely remember him having. She sees the stars shine in his deep brown eyes, though they seem a little too starry to be reflection alone. He blinks rapidly. “Mom encouraged me,” he adds, “but I–Zoe, I couldn’t.”

“I don’t blame you,” she says, letting out a jet of breath. “I wouldn’t be able to either.” She lets her eyes drift upward and pulls him a little bit closer to her, wrapping her free hand around his arm. “Can’t,” she amends, all breath.

“He still doesn’t care,” Evan says, almost to himself. “He knows what I fucking celebrate, and he still doesn’t–care.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a dick,” Zoe says before immediately wishing she could take it back. That kind of bluntness helps her and Connor, but never Evan.

But Evan surprises her all the same. “You’re not wrong.”

A laugh bursts from her chest, and after a moment Evan joins her, albeit hesitantly. “Like I said,” she repeats, “never am.”

Evan’s ghand remains chilly in hers, despite his best attempts to keep warm with his jacket; she brings his hand over to hold it in both of hers, wincing a little as his cold fingers meet hers.

“How are you so cold all the time?” she murmurs, massaging over his knuckles with one hand.

“How is it for you?” He asks suddenly, his brain taking him in a whole new direction. Zoe isn’t phased by the topic change.

“It’s…like it always is,” she admits, her voice low. She pulls Evan’s hands closer to her heart, trying to convince herself it’s just to warm him up. “Better with Con, I guess. But it’s still…” she swallows roughly. “I feel like I can’t…breathe, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Evan says quietly. “It can be hard.” He frees his hand, only to wrap it around her shoulders. She steals his other hand as soon as they get situated in a good walking pace.

Almost nothing about Evan is calm, but he’s calming all the same. He’s all Zoe can think of as they turn in front of Ellison State Park.

Evan stills, and Zoe keeps walking forward for a moment, accidentally tugging at their conjoined hands. She looks back at him immediately, tone filling with concern. “Everything okay?”

“Is that…” he mutters, before surging forward and pulling her rather than the other way around. “Alana! Jared!” He calls, uncharacteristically loud. And sure enough, in the distance, she can see Alana and Jared leaned over something just inside the bronzed gates of Ellison Park.

“Evan!” Jared calls, only to immediately get shushed by an old couple taking a walk around the park.

They hurry across the street, waving wildly to the single car that seems perplexed by their crossing, and Alana passes something to Jared before pulling them both into a too-tight hug that reminds Zoe of her mother.

When they pull away, she ruffles Zoe’s hair like she’s a little kid again. “There’s our city girl.”

“You should’ve joined me!” Zoe protests, already moving over to Jared to hug him.

Jared looks like he might shy away for a second, but he relents only a second later, a hug almost as tight as Alana’s. Zoe’s pulled away by a pressure at her leg, something soft poking through the tears and a panting noise. When she looks down, the downy face of a dog stares back up at her, tail wagging and tongue hanging out. Without thinking, she drops to the ground, offering him a hand as she balances on one knee. He nearly knocks her over a moment later when he bounds forward to lick her cheek and request pets. She looks back up at the obvious joy on Alana’s face.

“You adopted a dog??” She asks, remembering the powerpoint Alana made in middle school trying to convince her parents.

“Yes! We just got him this weekend and he’s already the best boy.”

The golden glint of a collar tag catches her eye. “Archibald? Well, aren’t you just a joy, Archie!”

“He doesn’t like Archie” Alana says a bit curtly, mid-coaxing the dog back towards her. She flips a few braids that had escaped her ponytail over her shoulder just in time for the dog to make a grab for them. She grins down at him before looking back up towards Zoe. “Is Connor around? I haven’t seen him in a bit.”

“Yeah,” Zoe says. “Here, I can…” She pulls out her phone to tell Connor to join them, making a silly face when the dog makes a u-turn to lick her cheek.

Connor Murphy: are you and hansen bein gross

Zoe: alana and jared are here dork

Connor: with archibald?

Zoe: how. how did you know this

Connor: lana and i have a snap streak of 150k. keep up

Zoe: side note do you know why she named her dog after an elderly british man

Zoe: and won’t let me call him archie

Connor: says archie’s a dumb name and she “thinks its refined”

Zoe: lmao k

“Connor should be by soon,” she relays, smiling back down at the dog. He takes a particular liking to her; she can’t quite get used to it. “You’re a good baby, aren’t you?”

Something occurs to her all of the sudden, and she pulls her phone back out.

Zoe: WAIT are you still by the house

Connor: just leaving why

Zoe: …yknow that old time capsule?

Connor: are you going to ask me to dig it up in mid december while you’re hanging out with our old friends so i can bring it to the park

Zoe: yes

Connor: you were put on this earth to test me

Connor: be there in 15

“He’s bringing something,” she adds, and ignores their curious looks in favor of the dog.

When Connor’s shape finally appears, it’s carrying a bag rather than a box. “It was shot,” he explains in an undertone once he gets close enough for Zoe to hear. He reaches out a hand and lands a spare pat to Archibald’s head. “Had to improvise.”

“Hey, Connor!” Alana says, almost too cheery. Connor raises a hand, plopping the bag in the middle of their circle but out of Archibald’s reach.

“We don’t want your weird sex stuff, Connor,” Jared says, and Zoe shoots him a glare.

“It’s the time capsule, actually, but thanks for the input,” Connor says before Zoe can speak.

A beat passes, no noise but Archibald’s panting.

“Oh,” Alana says after a moment. “Your parents let you keep that?”

“They didn’t know,” Zoe and Connor deadpan at the same time. Jared stifles something that sounds like a cough but is probably closer to a laugh.

Zoe looks at Evan and reaches out to lace their fingers together again. He looks around the group, studying each person’s face. “Should we…”

Jared reaches forward and overturns the bag.

Glitter is the first thing Zoe sees; she hears Evan hiss “shit” as it explodes everywhere over the grass. It’s green, which makes that portion of grass look unnaturally healthy and shiny. Jared looks up; some had reached his glasses lenses, as he was the one to set the glitter loose.

“Alright,” he says. “Who put the glitter in?”

Alana grimaces and holds Archibald back from the pile of glitter. “I’m pretty sure that was you, Jared.”

“…Oh.”

Zoe leans forward, picking through the cacophony of items and silently handing them out. A few purple, pink, and blue friendship bracelets find their way throughout the group, and Connor even puts one on to a joke from Zoe about stealing the bi colors. Jared reclaims a few of the Connor has to make a quick grab for a few sheets of paper in the wind that turn out to be filled with his sketches. Zoe picks up a purple ukulele pick, feeling it slide between her calloused fingertips. She hands Evan an outdated pamphlet from Ellison State Park about their rangers program to Jared’s exclamation of “That’s what you put in??” and throws a few ballet ribbons and a small journal in Alana’s direction.

Jared’s makes her pause, and he takes advantage of the lull to surge forward and snatch the object from her hands. The silicone abides easily. “So that’s where I put my iPod!”

“Why did we let you do this?” Zoe says. “Why did your parents?”

“I’m gonna be honest,” Jared admits, examining it for quality. He looks up and around their assembled group. “I forgot about it immediately after burying it.”

Alana laughs first, and then she sets everyone else off, a group of college-age kids giggling over a pile of glitter and their childhood treasures in the park where everything began. Evan falls into Zoe’s side, unable to curb his laughter; she buries her own in the top of his head, his curls tickling her cheeks and making her laughs worse. And as they get dirty looks from everyone around them, the night only feels like another beginning.

[mandoinevarro]

Cara’s Restless Week

Words: 4k

Rating: E

Warnings: Smut, vaginal intercourse, masturbation, voyeurism, choking, cuckolding? Not sure :/ 

a/n: I’m once again ignoring baby yoda. He’s at a sleepover at Omera’s, also he and all children go deaf at night, don’t worry about them. 

Cara Dune can’t sleep.

The night is still and warm, and the steady rhythm of drizzle batting against the roof of her shelter would’ve been enough to lull her to sleep under any other circumstances. Even the crickets outside seem to have fallen into a uniform, soothing symphony.

And yet, Cara can’t sleep.

She’s no stranger to restless nights—Maker, she’s no stranger to restless weeks, but she never thought she’d have bedtime troubles inside a comfortable bungalow in Sorgan, days after they’ve driven away the threats to the peaceful community. She tosses and turns on her cot, presses a straw pillow against her face, tries counting blurgs, but it’s no use. No matter what Cara does, she can’t stop hearing the choked moans coming from the cabin next to hers. She kicks the covers away and stumps around in circles inside her cramped hut.

It’s not like it came as a surprise to her.  

She suspected something was brewing under the surface from the first day she met the Mandalorian. Settling things with him was easy enough after they learnt that no, he didn’t have a fob on her, and no she wasn’t after a green baby growing wings out of his head. She smiled when the pretty woman feeding broth to said kid giggled at her description.

Cara’s first impression of you was pleasant enough; you smiled easily and contributed every now and then with your own sharp observations, not to mention how much the shock trooper liked the feeling between her legs every time your breasts bounced with each hearty laugh. She even thought of making a move, but stopped the lewd come-on from tumbling past her teeth once she noticed the way your gaze followed your Mandalorian’s every move. Inside some buried corner in the back of her mind, Cara recognized the look. If not something deeper (because softer passions are hard to nurture in this harsh galaxy), it was—at the very least—a look of profound longing. And, although those gentle sentiments had abandoned Cara somewhere in the blur of her past, she’d lived enough to know that glimpse in your pupils whenever he’d get too close to you was there to stay.

The drizzle turns into rain. Instead of drowning them, the loud pebbling clatter of fat droplets only gives the mewls a vibration and solidity that they lacked before. She steps out of the lodge, hoping the pouring water will clear her mind and send her back to bed. But—like if you were purposefully working to lengthen her insomnia— as soon as her head pokes out, the whimpers that hit her are noisier and clearer, and she immediately goes back inside. She sits on a stool, impatiently grabs at her trimmed hair, searches her warrior’s brain for a solution.

She kept her distance that afternoon and thought she’d never see either of you again, and hadn’t at all expected the leather hand that dropped a pouch of credits at her feet in the dark Sorgan woods.

A little action and some pocket money were a good bargain, so Cara took the job. She promised herself, though, to keep her cravings for you at bay. It wasn’t very hard at first. Everyone in the community spent weeks doing little but prepare for the impending attack of the raiders. Cara and the Mandalorian trained the villagers, planned the defense strategy, went over the plan over and over again, helped dig ditches, and neither of them had much time to think about you.

It wasn’t until after their victory—after the Imperial AT-ST was destroyed and, with it, the invaders’ oppressive grip on the fishing village—that they both allowed themselves to occupy their heads on something—or rather, someone—a lot more pleasant.

By that point, Cara had gotten pretty good at reading Mando’s body language. Gestures that she’d once thought were signs of indifference or trained stoicism picked up completely different meanings. She remarked how his spine would relax and he’d lose a few inches whenever he’d see his son playing with the village’s children. She took note of the way his helmet would tilt to the side and his modulated voice would drag a little at the end on the rare occasion he made a joke. She was next to him on the afternoon his dark visor fixated on you when, in front of a particularly orange sunset, the last beams of light melted over your glowing figure, painting your skin and hair with changing colors. She definitely didn’t miss the sore sigh that fractured at the sight before it even left the helmet.

Cara cements her legs on the ground for stability and cracks her knuckles once, twice, until the joints go mushy and they stop clicking.

She can tell you’re trying to hush your sounds as best as you can. She can tell because every time a notably loud whine defies your restraint, it is instantly muffled by a hand or some other utensil you’ve learned you need after your long nights of pleasure.

It’s been going on for a couple of days now, and Cara is starting to find it fucking insufferable. She honestly doesn’t know what’s worse: the sleepless nights or the mornings that follow. For the uninitiated, your morning greetings and seemingly innocent small talk would be polite, but unremarkable. Cara, though, knows better. She’s there for every conspiring smile, every brush of his gloves against your hips. She even catches some of the furtive whispers and caresses you exchange sometimes, when you think nobody’s looking. How you blush when he crowds you with his superior stature; how he sneaks out of your tent at dawn.

And, it’s not like Cara is jealous of Mando. Although you’re nice and easy to talk to, she knows that her feelings for you are purely physical, and she’s spent enough time around you both to know that whatever is going on between you two had been ballooning for a pretty long time until it inevitably burst. If anything, she’s relieved that, after such a torturous period of mutual pining, you’ve finally found an outlet for your affection. She’s happy for her friends. But she can’t fucking sleep.

The relentless moaning starts bending the humid air into clearer shapes. You’re talking to each other. Against all her instincts, Cara drops to the floor in all fours and crawls closer to barrier of her lodging. She presses her ear to the scratchy wall. The sounds are swallowed, and she only makes out an attuned voice that says, “…wanted…from…first day…”

What she can hear loud and clear is a wet, squelching noise that goes to the beat of the dropping rain. The warrior feels like an anvil drops on her chest and slumps on the floor.

If she’s being honest, it’s not even the lack of rest that’s really bothering her—although it does contribute to her daily grumpiness. The reason she finds it unbearable to sit through the rich sounds of your consummated lust night after night is that she knows exactly what she’s missing.

Because she’s been to almost every system and fought every fight. She’s witnessed the destruction of planets and their birth. She’s slept on empty deserts, under the watchful eye of their celestial vault. She’s cheated death. But there’s nothing, absolutely nothing she’s found on her long voyages across the galaxy that compares to the electric current that shocks her nerve endings when someone’s flesh presses against hers. Nothing like having someone strip down bare and let her learn them, inside and out.

So, Cara sits and listens, sits and listens, sits and listens…, until—stubborn, willful woman that she is—she decides that enough is enough.

She stands and struts outside with heavy steps like she’s battlebound, lets the rain—now a storm—drench her skin and underclothes, lets her boots sink in mud. She stops at the entrance of your tent, where the cries are loudest and barely concealed by the rainfall. Her plan is to come in quickly, averting her gaze, and sternly tell you two to keep it down or find another place to fuck. She pushes the flap of the entrance open.

Neither of you see her. How could you, when your nude back is facing her, and Mando, on his underarmor and beneath you, has his helmet thrown back against the floor, probably staring directly at the way your breasts bob gently with your leisurely up-and-down movements.

Cara stays at the entrance, partially hidden by the shadows that the oil lamp beside you can’t reach. She really does try to move. She wills her legs to step forward and make her presence known, but a wave of heat hits her hard when she sees the low, orange light embrace your lower back and drop to your ass with your languid movements. She tells her head to turn around, but her limbs have rebelled against her and remain frozen in front of the show.

Defeated, she stands in the gloom. The mythic warrior Carasynthia Dune helplessly stares at the lovers, pathetically wet and overcome with the desire to simply witness.

A part of her doesn’t care about the morality of it. Not when she sees your trembling thighs rock particularly hard over the Mandalorian, which draws a strangled sob from you and a low grumble from him, both of which can probably be heard three huts over. He quickly lifts one of the gloved hands holding your hips and presses it against your gaping mouth, like he wasn’t the one who moaned the loudest. Still, his grip does nothing to hide the obscene sound of your cunt taking his veins and ridges inside, your juices blending with his.

She’s entranced by the way your fists are clamped on his undershirt and whines seem to knot in your throat as he brings a hand to your back drawing soothing circles. You’re both so laughably bad at keeping quiet.

I could stay here, she thinks after a moment, here in the dark, where they won’t see me.

The hair on the nape of the neck stands up.

You look so elated, doing your best to pleasure each other. Neither of you speak, but you seem to be communicating through grunts, erotic movements, and caresses that carry more meaning than Cara could decipher. It looks like you’re confessing something unspeakable to each other.

Cara whimpers. It’s only a tiny syllable, but it apparently draws the Mandalorian’s attention, because the helmet rolls to side and focuses on the spot where shadows camouflage her. She freezes.

He grabs your thighs tightly and groans, “Fuck—C-cara?”

You immediately stop moving and remove your hands from his chest in indignation. “What?”

“N-no, no. I mean…” He points towards the general area where she’s hiding. Your upper body follows his finger.

Cara hasn’t blushed from embarrassment in years, so she’s confused when she feels blood stab at her cheeks. For a fleeting moment, she thinks that if she’s just very quiet and stays very still, you’ll go back to your motions and wave off the feeling that someone’s watching. It’s stupid and Cara knows it. Cursing herself, she steps out of the shadows, slickness sticking to her inner thighs with the shifting of her legs.

Her voice is dusty when she speaks, looking down at the floor like a child caught awake after bedtime. “I…I’m sorry I just—” The rain outside rings in her ears. She cracks her knuckles nervously and shifts her weight from leg to leg, thinking of a way to get out of it. “You were being too fucking loud. Stars, I’m sure they can hear you in Nevarro. You’ll have bounty hunters find you in no time if you keep this shit up.” Her words and tone are aggressive, but her eyes tell a different story, as they remain fixated on your heaving chest.

Neither of you move. Between the partial darkness and the helmet, she can’t really bring herself to try to read what Mando’s thinking. You, on the other hand, just look confused…and then, when you draw a line from the woman’s gaze to your naked chest, something else crosses your features. Not anger, not shame—something soft. Compassion, maybe?

Cara doesn’t stay to find out. She drags her feet across the floor to see herself out, as you turn to Mando and seem to tell him something in that secret, silent language of yours. He squeezes your thighs. Her name on your airy voice makes her stop.

“Cara,” you start, “w-would you—um—would you like to stay?”

The mercenary is sure she’s starting to hallucinate shit in an attempt to keep some of her dignity, until she indulges in one final look back and sees you with your arm extended, inviting her to join you.

She doesn’t notice when her legs come to life and drag her towards the couple, nor when her joints bend and sink to your level, kneeling and petrified. It’s only when your fingers brush her inner wrist and she pulls it back instinctively that she comes back to her senses.

Mando’s thumbs are drawing circles below your breasts. “Give her time.”

“You can touch me,” you tell the statue in front of you, but quickly add, “if you want. Or you can—” the bounty hunter must be cramping under your weight, because he repositions his hips, which makes him grunt and cuts you off, “—or you can only watch if you prefer. It’s okay.”

With a smile, you turn your attention back to the man trapped between your legs and resume your grinding. Whether you do it to put up a show for your guest, she’s not sure, but your rocking is stronger this time around, making sure you sink to the hilt and then pull almost completely out, before falling back down. Cara’s holding her breath. Maker, why is she acting like a fucking virgin? Her hands roll into fists when you throw your head back and pull a lustful wail from your insides.

Mando isn’t doing any better when he locks his fingers firmly on the curve of your ass and pants out, “You—you really enjoy the extra attention, don’t—don’t you?”

You exhale through your mouth with a smile and turn to stare straight into Cara’s eyes. “Maybe I d-do.”

It’s the playful glint your eyes and the way you sigh out the last word that make Cara think that a challenge was masked behind the simple statement. It snaps her back into reality.

Okay, then.

While your hunter caresses your backside, two strong hands grab your ribs and lift you a few inches, before bringing you down hard on the girthy phallus that splits you open. You and Mando both cry out at the suddenness of the satisfaction that burns a hole in your insides.

“Maybe Mando stands for your attitude,” Cara tells you as she pinches your right nipple and her face gets close to the other one, “but I don’t.” She traps your left breast in her hot mouth and nibbles at the peak. The Mandalorian—still trapped under—tries thrusting harder, and you grind down faster, short, high whimpers leaving your reddened lips.  In the back of Cara’s mind, she feels bad for their generous Sorgan hosts, because there’s no way the whole village hasn’t woken up for the noise. The storm rages more violently, but—somehow—the thunder outside serves as a vessel for your frenzied moans and amplifies them.

Mando grabs two handfuls of your lower cheeks and pushes you further towards his chest, which forces Cara to lean back on her elbows.  In the new position, your tits slap around her face and, even though she tries to pull them to her mouth, your whole body is being manhandled too swiftly by the Mandalorian for her to get a hold of you.

Annoyed, Cara places a heavy open palm on your sternum and pushes you back. “Fuck, keep still.” You lean back with no resistance, too limp with pleasure to put up a fight. She climbs back on you and sucks bruises on your collarbone, until her gaze falls on the union where the base of Mando’s sex ends and yours begins. She sees the creamy cum piling down there and—although she can’t tell which one of you is responsible for it—she scoops some with her fingers and uses it to massage it up and down your tense clit.

The muscles of your face cramp and your usual lovely expression contorts into a desperate frown. Her fingers collect more moisture and move faster against your bud, earning her a low purr, but it’s Mando’s head that turns to face her.

“Don’t s-stop,” he forces out, “y-you—th-that…’s m-making her t-tight.” He lets a shaky gasp out through the modulator. “You’re making her s-so fuck-fucking tight.” His member pushes against the snugness of your cunt as he tries to bury himself as deeply as your swollen walls will let him.

Cara complies and pulls the hood of your clit up. The direct pressure makes you jump and lose your balance, but the man below you catches your arms and holds you steady over him. You’re a mess, trembling and sobbing at the ceiling, so the Mandalorian lets go of one of your arms and brings his gloved palm to the back of your neck, working it so that you’re looking down at him. His hips are shaking with anticipation, but he still slows down and his thumb circles the soft skin of your neck. Cara lifts her attention from your soaked folds when she notices you’ve both stopped moving.

If her sleepless nights are any indication, you’ve only been having sex for about a week, but the way he holds you and calms you down tugs at something uncomfortable in Cara. It’s like he has you memorized already. He knows exactly how to touch you and how much you can take. He knows—much to his own detriment—when to stop.

Your breathing falls back to its normal pace and you’re starting to move again when she removes her fingers. You both groan in protest, but Cara just leans back out of the reach of the lamp’s flame and watches your bodies bathe in warm light. Panting, she sees you hold on to each other and comes to terms with the fact that she doesn’t belong wedged between your bodies, where you share something unknown to her. The realization isn’t as devastating as she thought it would be, and she figures it’s better to leave your carnal diversions between you two.

A helmet and a face stare expectantly, much like Rebel troops once focused on her awaiting orders.

Still, she muses with a light grin, that doesn’t mean I can’t teach them anything.

She scoots closer to your cot, and stops where only half of her body is covered in light. Surprisingly, Mando doesn’t pull away when she grabs his hand and guides it towards your upper body.

“You two really have a volume problem,” she quips as she beckons you closer and wraps his hand around your delicate neck. She signals the hunter to squeeze, but he turns to you first in a wordless question. You nod, and Cara’s fingers leave his when he clasps them on the sides of your neck. You sigh.

She then takes your hand and guides it to the base of your lover’s manhood. You mimic the squeeze on your neck. Mando gasps.

The former Rebel leader pulls back to admire her work and—once she’s satisfies with it—leans back on her elbows and slithers a hand inside her pants. The couple is still fixed in position, waiting for an instruction.

“Go ahead,” Cara allows, as she pushes her underwear to the side and mixes the leftover cum on her fingers with her own.

She can tell you’re already exhausted, but you still make an effort to lift your dripping pussy and bear down until your lips hit your palm. She sees your knuckles go white as they clutch harder around Mando’s base. He does the same to your neck, still testing and careful. It’s not until a potentially loud whine threatens to leave you that he intuitively squeezes harder to stop it from touching the damp air. The stronger hold on you makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. It doesn’t take either of you very long to fall into a frantic and vulgar pace, much different from the leisurely one you were working with at the start of the night.

Cara knows you’re teased and tired of waiting and doesn’t expect you to last much longer, so she skips any foreplay with herself and goes straight for her own sensitive button, swiping it with a roughness that she didn’t dare apply on yours. The sensation makes her her legs shake. She goes harder. Within seconds, she’s breathless, just as desperate as you two to reach her release.

“Fuck—fuck her harder,” she orders the Mandalorian when a calloused finger draws quick circles around her clit.

You’re basically bouncing on him now, but the disciplined man still manages to obey. His grip on your neck turns to steel, as he clasps his free fingers on the fat of your backside and slams you down to meet his thrusts. Your mouth gapes open and, if not for the gloved fingers around you, Cara’s sure your screams would make the walls tremble. The lamp—almost out of oil—shines on the plump tears of satisfaction that slide down your cheeks and fall on your partner’s shirt.

Finally, an invisible force seems to shove you forwards into Mando’s chest. You’re still convulsing on top of him when he brings both hands to your lower back to fuck himself into you with all the stamina left in his system. Unfortunately, there’s nobody to grasp his throat when it spits out a long groan. Cara sees his arousal seep out of you.

She gives you a moment to breathe, then stands and rounds the collapsed bodies, kneeling in front of your legs. She taps your thigh, hoping you haven’t passed out yet.

“Open your legs for me, sweetheart. Let me see.” But you don’t respond, so Mando uses his remaining energy to push your legs apart for Cara’s enjoyment. His hands drop with a stump on your back, and she’s startled by the raucous snores that leave the helmet.

She shakes her head and mumbles to herself, “Maker, they can’t even sleep quietly.”

Her digits go back inside her underwear while she absorbs the way your pussy flutters and twitches around nothing, dripping with your cum and your beau’s seed. The sight and her fingers are enough to summon a strong but quiet orgasm from her. Her walls are still clenching and she’s trying to control her breathing when the oil lamp finally dies out.

Once again, Cara Dune is engulfed in darkness. This time around, though, her eyes have learned to adjust to it; she can make out the outline of your conjoined bodies. Tasting her fingers, she stands and walks to the exit.

Her arm is lifting the cloth that acts as a door when she glances back over her shoulder. You’re sleeping noisily, but peacefully, lost in each other. She wonders if she could ever allow herself to be that vulnerable with someone else.

Someday, she reflects, someday.

Outside the tent, Cara’s surprised she’s not met with a monsoon. She didn’t even notice when the rain stopped. She shrugs and continues on her short way to her hut, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep.

The sun is coming up on the horizon.

[hermionetickledthedragon]

They’d Still Be Draco And Hermione...

-Them waking up beside each other in a loving embrace and Hermione annoying Draco to death by opening the drapes

-Hermione ranting for hours for things Draco doesn’t give two shits about but he’d still listen to every damn word

-Hermione always telling him that this was very sweet of him to which Draco always replies ‘Malfoys are not sweet’

-Hermione introducing him to muggle hot chocolate which Draco would love but never admit

-although Hermione notices him nicking muggle money from her purse every Friday before he left for work

-Hermione introducing Draco to her friends who’d be wary of him at first but eventually would give in with him

-This especially includes Harry and Draco who’d never admit that they had grown a bit attached to each other and Draco having a queer relationship with Ginny that only the both of them would understand.

-Draco introducing her to his friends who looked at her like she was a lab rat

-Pansy asking questions out of pure disbelief and Blaise and Theo making the most obscene sex jokes that would make a prostitute blush

-after few weeks of wary glances  Pansy shows up at her doorstep with a disheveled Daphne Greengrass and declares that if she wanted to continue to date Draco she’d just HAVE to go shopping.

-The dinner with the Big Malfoys ended up with a crying Hermione on her bed wailing out “She hates me” and a soothing Draco telling her that “she loved you” which surprisingly was true

-Lucius was another story though

-The meet up with Grangers was Hermione trying not to burst out laughing while Draco pretended to know who Mako Vunipola was

-It was also the night Draco realized that handling Hermione was not the only difficult task in this relationship

-The 6 months, 1st relationship anniversary, and Valentine's day were spent by them getting thrown out of every restaurant for indulging in “adulterated activities in front of an immature audience”

-They fought. A LOT, there was a lot of Draco leaving the room while Hermione continued to scream at him and Hermione yelling at him for leaving in the middle of a fight because it showed he was just waiting for the relationship to end

-There was a time where they broke up every 2 months but regardless of the breakups, even the breakups which were real; they stayed together because there existed no one else for them

-They like to pretend they don’t care what people say but there exist nights when Hermione wakes up in the middle of the night to find Draco gazing out the window with an expression on his face that breaks her heart and which reminds her how much broken her Draco was.

-Some nights Draco wakes up to find drops of tears on Hermione’s reddened cheeks which makes him want to murder every person who’s ever hurt her but feels a pang of guilt when he realized that he is included in that list.

-But every ounce of sadness goes away when he proposes to her and she accepts then declines then finally accepts. Every tear shed was worth it when he sees her in that cream colored wedding gown, every relationship lost was worth it when she saw the way he looked at her while she walked down the aisle.

-The honeymoon was amazing sex, on the beach, in the hotel room, in the Jacuzzi, in the public bathrooms of Venice, in shady diners including strawberries, peaches, chocolate sauce, ice creams, and handcuffs

-Hermione getting pissed at Draco for calling her a swot in front of the tour guide and Draco making it up to her in the most delicious way possible.

-They didn’t go to a restaurant for their first marriage anniversary due to it not working out for them

-instead, them starting a tradition that would remain always, which was; staying at home and try to cook dinner for 3 hours then ordering in Chinese food because no house-elves

-followed by them ignoring the Chinese food and delving into other food items.

-The first pregnancy declaration was received by an 'Oh crap' by the oh-so eloquent Draco Malfoy for which he received a smack on his head

-after 9 months of Draco getting woken up in the middle of the night for odd cravings, Blaise and Theo receiving a giant hex in their 'no-go regions', Lucius and Draco being scared to death of the violent witch, Ginny fighting to keep the middle name of the kid Ginny if it’s a girl (they decided not to know), and Pansy picking out the cutest outfits for a baby, Draco secretly reading parenting books at night, Hermione gave birth to the cutest-ever blonde haired boy with brown eyes, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.

-The next two years were Draco trying to stop Hermione from gouging Blaise and Theo’s eyes out for trying to show 2-year-old PlayWitch magazines, Lucius reading Pureblood history to a sleeping baby, Draco telling Hermione that there was no way in hell he was going to change diapers, Hermione getting emotional every time Draco looked at Scorpius with pride because he looked so much like him, Blaise and Theo being sour for not being named Godfathers and Pansy being sour for not being the godmother.

-Scorpius calling Draco mum and Hermione dad for 6 months straight was a time which was reminded to their friends and family to be never mentioned again, EVER

-Hermione telling Draco on their 6th wedding anniversary that she was pregnant again

-Draco staring at her followed by Hermione telling him “yes, you can say ‘oh, crap’”, and Draco declaring again a not-so eloquent oh crap

-Them finding out it's a girl and Draco being extra determined this time and already thinking of the ways he’s going to keep guys away from her because of course, she’s going to be the most beautiful human alive

-Theo, Blaise, and Pansy dropping little hints that if they were not the Godparents this time someone would have hell to pay

-Harry and Ron teasing Draco about how difficult girls can be and Draco punching Harry and Ron

-Lucius staying away from Hermione COMPLETELY

-Ginny already assuming that the middle name was going to be Ginny

-Draco talking to Hermione’s pregnant belly when Hermione would nap thinking she would not notice.

-Hermione giving birth to a grey-eyed, straight-blond haired gorgeous girl with a heart-shaped face- Lyra Ophelia Malfoy who, if possible, looked even more like Draco than Scorpius, much to Hermione’s annoyance

- but the heart-shaped face and intelligent eyes were enough to call her Hermione’s daughter.

-The next 2 decades being spent by Scorpius and Lyra getting spoiled by everyone in the Wizarding World

-Narcissa teaching Lyra and Scorpius about the most beautiful flowers ever

-Scorpius not letting Lyra near the Potters boys because Scorpius turned out to be more protective than Draco

-Scorpius and Lyra reminding their parents that silencing spells existed and Draco and Hermione innocently dismissing them by saying they didn’t what the two were talking about

-Lyra getting annoyed to death by the protective clan that consisted of Uncle Theo, Uncle Blaise, Dad, and Scorpius

-Scorpius grinning proudly to be the self-proclaimed favorite cousin of Pansy Parkinson and Ginny Weasley, which to admit was kind of true

-Even after all the years, Draco would still steal muggle money from Hermione. Hermione would still rant his ears off. They would still be the hot-topic of the Slytherin betting pool which their two children would join too. They’d still spend their anniversaries on the kitchen table. Hermione would still annoy Draco and Draco would still be stubborn as a mule because even at the age of 50 or 60 or even after death, they’d still be Draco and Hermione.

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Impending Paternity

Word Count: 3900+ (oneshot) [AO3]

Genre: Humor/Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Peter B. Parker/Mary Jane Watson

Characters: Peter B. Parker, Mary Jane Watson, Spider-Man Noir, Peter Porker, Gwen Stacy, Peni Parker, Miles Morales

Summary: The closer the birth of his first child gets, the more Peter’s old fears of fatherhood resurface. Fortunately for him, he now has universes of parenting advice to call on and prepare him.

Written for the @dimension-zine.

~0~

Waking up in a cold sweat wasn’t something at all new to Peter B. Parker. That didn’t make it any less unpleasant.

What was new to him was registering the feeling of MJ’s arms around his waist as they slept, the flat press of her chin by his shoulders. Once again, they shared a bed: small, but more than enough room for them to lay pressed up against each other, legs entwined, skin on skin. It was almost enough for Peter to forget what had caused him to sleep more restlessly than he had in a very, very long time.

Even in the dark of the bedroom, the damn pregnancy test is staring directly at him from the mesh metal wastebasket, with its solid pink eye. He’d stared down monsters, mobsters, and maniacs of all sorts without blinking, and yet this damn near ignites his old “curl up in the shower and hide” instinct. MJ’s stomach doesn’t show any signs of change yet, doesn’t feel any different against his back...But there’s going to be a tiny person in there very soon. A person that he helped create. A person that he’ll have responsibility to.

MJ can’t stop smiling about it — this is what she’s wanted for a long time — and her joy is very nearly infectious. Peter had agreed to this, of course he had. It was time for him to quit hiding away from the fears that he couldn’t dodge or punch away so easily. But still, he isn’t sure if he can say he’s wholeheartedly looking forward to it, and still be telling the truth.

He’s never had younger siblings or cousins. He has long since lost Uncle Ben and Aunt May (knowing that other versions of them exist, even meeting them, doesn’t erase the sting). MJ hasn’t said a word to her own parents in years, and Peter has never had any problem saying flat out how unhelpful he’s sure they’d be anyway. So he has nobody to fall back on if he has questions or confusions or fears — aside from MJ, and while he loves her and trusts her judgment in all things, he can anticipate there may be times when an uninvolved third party will be invaluable. 

All of a sudden, Peter freezes, eyes going wide. He has the sudden impulse to jump out of bed that always used to come with a brilliant idea, which he feels are too few and far between nowadays. Obviously he can’t do that now, at fuck o’clock in the morning with his wife’s arms securely around him. It’ll have to wait until the morning, but oh, he can’t wait to explain to her over breakfast what he’s planning to do when he grabs enough free time over the next few months. She still hasn’t heard everything he’s had to tell about his little dimension-hopping adventure...

~0~

“So!” Spider-Man Noir slams this finished egg cream down on the table just as fiercely as he has the past eight glasses. “You’re finally becoming a daddy!”

“How...are you doing that through your mask?” Peter asks hesitantly, sipping on his one half empty glass of the drink. 

“I remember my childhood fondly,” Noir goes on as if Peter hadn’t spoken, gazing nostalgically out his window. He had wanted to take Peter bar-hopping, initially, but a guy walking around all in color attracted too much attention on the streets, and they had agreed that Noir’s apartment would be best for a private conversation. “Don’t remember my own mother or father, but my Aunt May says that she and my Ma used to trade parenting tips out of pamphlets when I was just a grub.”

Peter perks up slightly. “What kind of tips?”

“Well! First one’s for your future mama...Ah, how’s your place looking?”

Peter blinks. “It’s...fine. Better than living alone, no offense to you, but — ”

“No, no, you don’t get it. Is it all pretty?”

“Huh? Pretty?”

“Somethin’ Ma and Aunt May picked up from my granny,” Noir explains. “If a mama with an unborn baby sees ugly things, that ugly beams itself into her brain and straight down into her womb, and gets right into your baby. So you gotta be sure to keep her around pretty things to look at, you see? You want a nice kid, don’tcha?”

“Uh...Y-Yeah! I sure do!” he says, trying to keep disappointment off his face. Noir talks with absolute conviction in his beliefs, but what Peter had forgotten was that these were the beliefs of 1933. Even earlier, if he’s getting this stuff from older relatives. None of it’s going to do his twenty-first century self any good.

So the first chance he gets, Peter slurps down the last of his egg cream (surprisingly tasty, he’ll have to look up a modern recipe to compare sometime) and leaps up from his chair, sauntering back over towards an opening portal. “Thanks so much, Noir, but I gotta run! No telling when I can catch the next portal, y’know?”

Noir waves, unperturbed, pouring another drink. “Stock up on lard! You got to give baby’s first bath with it, get all that scum off ‘em!”

“Sure! Lard! No problem!” Peter calls over his shoulder, nearly diving into the portal.

~0~

Though Ham assures him that the natives find him much stranger and more unsettling than he finds them, Peter never quite gets used to being a real guy in a cartoon world. The lurid colors hurt his eyes, things move too fast and sound is constantly blaring, and for some reason he’s very, very suspicious about the contents of those hot dogs. But the veggie wraps are surprisingly good, and he chows down with one hand while typing at breakneck speed with the other. 

“Hot dog, you’re fast enough to kick some butt at the Daily Beagle!” Ham bounces up and pats his head happily. “Granted, we’re more story-ey than sciencey over there, but you get the point! That file-hunting stuff’s really not giving you any trouble?”

“Nope,” says Peter through a mouthful of tomato and lettuce. MJ’s newly emerging cravings were much less of a pain than either of them had expected: they consisted mostly of something rich stuffed into something bread, and he wished he could bring something from here back for her. “The rules are pretty different from the re -- uh, from my dimension, but surprisingly easy to memorize. I should be able to retrieve what you’re looking for in...maybe two minutes?” 

“Faaaaan-tastic!” 

“Can you keep them busy that much longer?”

“Sure can!” As he speaks, Ham is already whipping a comically large wrench out of his pocket and hurling it at the helmeted boar goons trying to break through the barricaded door. “Take that, you @#$%^&*!”

Peter still isn’t sure how Ham manages to make those sounds instead of swearing, but no matter. As far as he’s concerned, no questions equals smooth sailing. 

Well...of course he does have one. 

“Hey, Ham, this might be a weird thing to ask, but...what would you call ‘good parenting?’”

“Huh, I’m not sure. My parents passed before I was hatched, but Mom made sure her sac was settled in a nice place! My web was in May Porker’s lab for months before I transformed! Good thing, too, I was coming up on the tail end of my lifespan!”

“Oh...Y-Yeah, real good thing,” Peter stammers, fingers momentarily freezing on the keys as he processes that whole spider-turned-pig thing one more time. He’s privately quite glad that he’s never seen what’s under Ham’s mask. 

“I consider myself real lucky, actually!” Ham laughs. There’s a crash, and the metal door starts to squeal off its hinges, the enemy scrabbling to all get through the cracks at once. Ham promptly yanks out a machine gun and lets fly at them. Peter chokes down a laugh at the toy rat-a-tat-a-tat noises it makes. “Aunt May’s the best aunt a Spider-Ham could ask for! Bakes a mean apple pie, talks my ears off about her tech, supports me in all my endeavors. And you know, I can barely even see the bite scar anymore!”

Peter chokes on tomato. “The what?”

“Oh, Aunt May was the radioactive pig that turned me into Spider-Ham in the first place! My memories are slightly muddled around that time, but oh well! Doesn’t matter! Though neither of us had any idea it would do that, soooo...maybe just be extra careful about where your teeth go?”

Peter huffs, right-clicking the elusive file he’s found and downloading it to Ham’s flash drive, which is unsettlingly shaped like a bacon strip. “Yeah. Great advice. Don’t bite my kid. Next you’ll be telling me to keep my window open for the delivery stork to fly in with ‘em.”

“Well, sure, that’s just common courtesy! If ya really want to be nice, you give your stork a nice big tip!”

Peter swallows a groan from the deepest depths of his being, along with the last of the wrap.

~0~

“Six months and I still can’t believe you’re going to be a dad!” Gwen shouts, gracefully backflipping over another laser beam. “Like an actual dad!” 

“Almost seven, actually! And yep! Can’t believe it either!” Peter answers somewhat breathlessly, through his own leaping and punching of the armored thugs rushing in through the legs of the gun-toting robots. “Any ideas for names? Because MJ and I are way out!”

He hears Peni’s thoughtful humming through the speakers of her newest prototype: SP//dr, Mark Three. “Hmm...I don’t know much about historical naming conventions, but I also don’t think they’ve changed very much...Chief Stacy, what do you think?”

Safeguarded inside SP//dr’s cockpit from the onslaught targeting him and remaining remarkably calm about it, George Stacy considers it. “Hm. My daughter’s name is Gwendolyn. I’ve always thought that was the nicest name.”

Peter smirks under his mask, and gently elbows Gwen as she passes him. “Whaddaya think, Spider-Woman?”

He physically feels Gwen rolling her eyes. “It’s fine. Why don’t you just name him after you?”

“There’s millions of me! Maybe more! And besides we don’t even know if it’s a him, yet!”

“What about Ben? Or Benjamin?” Peni suggests. “To honor your uncle!”

“Oh, come on! Doesn’t anybody have an original idea!”

Gwen wrenches a robot head off and lobs it straight into a goon’s chest. “You know what, those will probably be a little easier to come by after we finish getting shot at!”

“Agreed, ma’am,” Chief Stacy says. “Excellent throw, by the way. Hey, Man-Spider, machine gunner at three o’clock!”

No matter how short and no matter how many people fight beside him, Peter’s various battles always seem to last forever as they happen, but the memory of them only lasts a blink of an eye. So it’s slightly dizzying when just a couple hours after the attack has been dealt with, Chief Stacy secured, and a plan for Gwen to hunt down whoever had ordered it outlined, the three of them are sitting on the roof of a skyscraper, eating cheeseburgers while the sun rises before them.

“I can’t even imagine eating a burger with pickles on it,” Gwen says. “You’re really telling me that’s the common thing instead of chili peppers where you’re from?”

“Yep,” Peter confirms, washing a large, hot bite down with a quarter of his soda. “I mean, I’ve had jalapeño burgers before, but they’re like a specialty thing.”

“We eat pickles on our burgers, too, but they’re all deep fried,” Peni puts in. “Crunchy.”

Gwen laughs, the breeze blowing her hair back. After hearing the story of how she’d acquired her undercut, Peter always finds it funny that she’d gone ahead and kept it after all. “So weird.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says. “Entirely unrelated, if you need any more help with your dad, you just let me know.”

“And me!” Peni adds, SP//dr waving a leg in agreement. 

“Thanks, guys.”

“Hey...Speaking of dads...” Peter pauses a moment to think before continuing, “What would you call your dads’ best qualities? Like, as a dad?”

“You’re looking for advice again?”

“A little template would be nice, sure!”

“All right, then...” Peni taps a French fry on the burger box. “I always loved how smart and loving my dad was, and that he had faith in me to continue his work when he was gone. Dad always believing in me helped me to believe in myself, when I might not have otherwise.”

Gwen nods. “I feel pretty similar about my dad. He doesn’t know about me being Spider-Woman, and he doesn’t really get the whole rock band thing. But he makes sure I know that he loves me no matter what, and that he’ll support me in whatever I decide to do. Provided I’m not, like, becoming a supervillain or anything, but I’m doing the opposite of that, so...”

Peter feels the urge to start taking notes. “Sounds good, sounds good, and...don’t take this the wrong way, but is there anything they do, as dads, that makes you not like them sometimes?”

Peni giggles. “Of course there was! I didn’t like when he’d work late and not get home on time, or when he’d make me stop reading comics and go to bed, or something like that. I’d get annoyed with him, but I still loved him.”

“My dad kind of runs the house like he does the police station,” Gwen adds. “He can be super strict, a bit like Miles’ dad. Ironclad rules and curfews for me and my brother, endless lectures when we break them. If I were a normal girl, it’d be pretty stifling, but since I have this life that I have to keep secret from him...it can be really hard sometimes.”

“Yeah, I...I can see that. I don’t really know if I should keep who I am secret from my kid, though. Would it keep them safe, or...just make them resent me? Or both?”

Gwen sighs. “There’s really no right answer, I don’t think.”

“You’re worried about being perfect.” Peni pats his shoulder. “But you don’t need to be. Just use your best judgment.”

Peter looks glumly at the street below. “I wish that was something I trusted.”

~0~

There’s a hollowness inside his chest. 

The only light on the wide, empty street are from the street lamps, ghastly white against the pitch black. He moves as if underwater: swinging, roundhousing, throwing his barely-pulled punches. His heart is pounding, but the rest of him and the world feels numb. Cold sweat soaks the inside of his mask, and heavy dread washes over his skin. 

Peter’s fighting shadows, human-shaped pillars of darkness. His strikes go right through them, when he can reach. But everything they land on him feels like being pummeled by a cannonball, and he’s not sure how long he can endure it. 

The end comes out of nowhere. One spectral arm flashes up, there’s a glint of silver, and a soundless explosion that makes the whole world ripple. It hits his chest like a tidal wave, slams him into the concrete. He can’t get up again. In the world of muted, swimming colors, the gushing of blood from his shot-open heart is sickeningly vivid. 

“DAD!”

Everything in him jolts. He lifts his spinning head to see a kid sprinting towards him, as fast as they can but not fast enough to reach him. He can’t tell how old the kid is, or whether they’re a boy or girl. But he recognizes MJ’s bright red hair and blue eyes, and his own expression of utter, gut-wrenching horror and heartbreak. 

“DA-A-A-D!”

He tries to say he’ll be okay and coughs up blood instead. His rib-punctured lungs won’t let him speak. Panic engulfs him: his death is going to be burned into his kid’s eyes forever and there’s nothing he can do, nothing he can do, nothing, nothing, nothing —

“Peter! Peter, wake up, it’s okay!”

The darkness is blue, striped by the thin gold light through their bedroom blinds. His eyes fly open and he grabs for his bare chest: intact, bloodless. It’s soft and safe around him but he still can’t catch his breath. MJ is awkwardly rolling over in bed to stroke his hair and try to hug him. 

“Peter, you’re okay. You were dreaming. Just dreaming...”

She’s no stranger to dealing with him like this, and the guilt stabs deeper. “I...s-sorry, I...”

“Deep breaths. Slow breaths. I’m here.”

“I won’t be,” he chokes out.

“Peter — ?”

“I-I dreamed that someone shot me, killed me, r-right in front of our kid. It...God, it terrified them, ruined them for life, I could feel it, and it was all my fault!”

He rolls over to look at her face, to anchor him to the real world. He half-expects to see irritation in her eyes at his weakness. Instead there’s love and sympathy. 

“It wasn’t your fault. It was just a dream. That doesn’t mean it will happen.”

“It happened to every parent I ever had. It happened to me. What if I do that to my kid? I can’t — I don’t — ”

Trembling, Peter places his hands on MJ’s belly. Their kid, determined to make sure that their mom sleeps as little as possible, kicks a drumbeat against his palms. They don’t know what fear, pain, or loss is yet. How can he be the one to bring it into their life?

“I’m not running away again,” he assures MJ, as her fingers run through his hair. 

“I know you won’t. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave our kid. I never did. I want to be there for you for the rest of my life,” Peter forces out through his tightening throat. “B-But that choice could end up not being mine, after all of this. The things I do, the people I fight, I could die anytime! I’d leave you again. Both of you.”

MJ cups his cheek, leans in to kiss his forehead. “I can’t tell you that nothing bad will happen, Peter. But I can tell you you’re not alone. Like, I worry about the same thing happening to me that happened to my mom. Dying before our baby can even remember me.”

Peter’s heart lurches; he’d forgotten about that. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t —“

She cuts him off with another kiss. “We’re both afraid, Peter. Your job is probably the most dangerous one out there, but you don’t have to go through this alone. All we can do is what every parent has to do: our best.”

“What if my best isn’t good enough? What if I fail, and they hate me?”

“It’ll be more than enough for the people who love you. Always.” MJ smiles. “And they would never hate you. I never could, no matter what.”

Tears slip down his cheeks. He wants to tell her thank you, but he can’t seem to speak, only hug her as close as he can.

~0~

He has one place left to visit. Something he hasn’t been able to face until month nine.

Aside from this world’s MJ, Miles is the most common visitor to Perfect Peter’s grave. After the first time, he’s never surprised to see Peter B. here too. 

“Hey,” he says as Peter walks up, morning dew soaking his sneakers. “How’s it going? Is MJ doing okay?”

Peter nods. “Her due date’s in two weeks. All smooth sailing so far as the doctors say.”

“Awesome.” Miles half-smiles. “So...you had a question for me?”

“Yeah. I just need...one more hope boost before this thing really gets started. Feel free to tell me to kick rocks back to my own dimension if you don’t want to talk about it, but...” He gestures to the gravestone. “This Peter. Your uncle. What was it like to lose them, because of their line of work? I’ve made my life so damn risky, am I doing something wrong bringing a baby into it with me?”

Miles is silent for a long time. “I don’t have a solid yes or no to that. I...I’ll always wish things were different for them both. That there was something I could have done to save them. If I let myself think about it too hard, or too long, I’ll lose myself in it.”

Peter winces. But then Miles goes on.

“I’ve just got to tell myself, what happened, happened. Can’t change the past. The best thing I can do, for them and for me, is keep moving forward. I miss them like crazy and I wish they were still around, I always will. But more than anything, I remember the lessons that they taught me. That they were good men, that they cared about me. It’s the same with you and your uncle, right?”

“I...I do remember him that way. Yeah. But I was going into college when Uncle Ben died. I wasn’t...just a kid. I chose this life, MJ chose to stay with me, our kid didn’t ask for this kind of life.”

Miles shrugs. “I worry about my dad every day. He’s worked a dangerous job in a dangerous city since before I was born. I don’t hold it against him, because I know why he does it. I’m one of the people he’s trying to protect, after all.”

“Yeah, but — ”

“Peter. Come on.” Miles turns to look at him then, with a knowing smile. “You don’t know all of what you’re doing. No one does. What matters is that you’re a good man, and that’s what’ll be most important to your kids, whatever happens: that their dad loves them and would do anything for them.”

Peter feels the same rush of pride and affection for him that he had back at the reactor, along with a sense of security around his heart. He’s surprised to find himself laughing. “You’re the best, kid, you know that?”

Miles’ grin broadens cheekily. “Oh, I know. I try.”

He wraps an arm around Miles’ shoulders and pulls him in for a hug. “Yeah, just keep trying, future godfather.”

It takes a second for the word to hit Miles, and then he spins around to stare at him with huge eyes. “I — their godfather?! Me?”

Peter laughs. “No one out there’d be better than you. Only the best for my kid.”

~0~

After the twenty-seven most stressful hours of their lives, Mira Penelope Watson-Parker emerges into the world with a long, indignant screech. 

Illuminated in the noon sun, in the soft yellow hospital room, both his wife and daughter look like angels in Peter’s eyes. He doesn’t even care that he’s about to cry. “You did amazing, hon.”

MJ grins. “Helps to have a husband whose hands I could squeeze as hard as I needed. C’mere and hold her. I’m sure she wants to meet her dad.”

Peter tries so very hard not to tremble as MJ passes their blanket-wrapped daughter into his arms. He’s never felt anything so delicate in his life. 

“She’s...so tiny,” is all he can manage.

Mira’s hair is her mother’s bright red, just like in his dream. But the dark hazel eyes staring curiously up at him are all his own. 

Peter smiles at her, cradling her close. He really would do anything for her, he knows that already.

“Hey, sweetheart. Hey. Dad’s here.”

[thudthud]

the hunger of colonization

I transport the account of colonizer on my skin, The karma of my ancestors, a vicious quantity left by the need to win Every mis step taken is another memory within my brain My ancestors did nought for creation… in fact they were quite vain There is nothing I can do about altering the past All I can do is put in sufficient exertion to make the change of energy last My grandpa used to say, “ There are good Indians and bad”* HOWEVER, It was on their backs that I’ve received everything I’ve ever had.

Whenever these words were spoken I would shut my ears off from it pretend I was in my happy place and acquit them from all judgment. I know now that doing that wasn’t the right decision That I should have made standing with my friends my one and only mission. The speeches they expressed around me never rested well in my stomach I could see all the privilege I’ve been provided from it. You may look at me…. and ask what backs behind me I see.

I see Grandmas and Aunts. Uncles and Dads. Babies, friends and some very injured lads. I see their home and land being given to people because of the color of skin they had. I know what it feels like to have your home ripped from you. To only be able to look at a distance as your home is used without you. Being told you were never welcome in the first place That you need to leave so someone ‘better’ can take your space. The words that left my mouth much were, “WHAT HAVE I DONE WRONG?” “DID I NOT TRY TO TO EVERYTHING YOU ASKED, HAVE I NOT BEEN STRONG?”

When I opted to make my life about making things better, I ungracefully untied knots that had always been together. Knots within myself and the people around me. Knots within the very constructs of society. a lot of those knots never parted whatsoever, A lot of the people thought their remarks were quite clever. They really weren’t clever in the slightest. A lot of their views were incredibly rightest. The year right now is twenty one years past the millennium, I still have aunts that worked and slapped kids in gymnasiums. They hide under their veils and hoards of cloth. Sitting around tables together to scoff I know this to be true because I’ve seen it with my own eyes, Resting over tables and telling each other lies.

The color of your skin should not dictate your worth. Certain things should not be a guarantee from birth. The path forward is curvy and long The start of it wasn’t marked with the bang of the gong For a lot of us this will be our lifelong matter I really hope that at some point we can all work together.

My skin is pale and white. but please understand I am still trying to do what is right. There is no way in the world I could ever fully comprehend, Id like to help with anything to try and make amends Saying sorry does nothing at all, It’s the actions that go with them that allow a person to stand tall. If you filled a room with my family you’d see Half of them are bending backwards screaming like Banshee’s Their screams fill the room with darkness and hate. Their ideas and opinions have become stagnate. Its time now to hear the voices of those who were hurt For me and my people to help them burn down the church.

This system was built on all of their blood and sweat changing from residential schools to foster homes with very little and yet Many middle fingers are still raised high Justin Trudeau are we allowed to ask why? Why was there an “Indian problem”** to be fixed? Why is there so much internal trauma that’s so deep and all mixed? People in these positions of power doing the same over again despite the people getting louder

If the ancient Greeks travelled here to see democracy in action they’d cry kneel to the ground and Throw their hands to the sky “Why doesn’t everyone have a voice” “We invented democracy so people would have a real choice” If I had a child in the world today, I would be so wary of the words people use around and say. How big a deal it is to raise our babies into Earth Warriors, never knowing pain and only being filled with wonder. Full disclosure? I have no idea what I am doing all I know is I need to get behind what is brewing. This us and them has gone on forever you’d think after a few hundred years we would have gotten much better.

I read columbus’s*** journals in my first year of university, A book wrapped in hate and providing much clarity. “These people are beautiful” he wrote in his journal “They would make excellent slaves” he said and I hurled This journal entry has impacted the lives of you and me These journal entries shaped our entire society.

At one point in time, I was racist and all of my views were undeniably baseless. I some times remember those views in the back of my mind how can people who speak those thoughts ever think they are kind? We need to tell people to stop spewing inappropriate garbage Stop looking at all these people as targets and listening to their knowledge There’s a man in my town who stands on a box with a mic His speakers being over used with too much force and might Babies and kids walk past him with their mothers. Hearing from him that God hates their sisters and brothers. Freedom of speech only goes to far Human rights need to not be seen as bizarre I come from the settlers of this land coming here being promised something very grand When I walk on the sidewalk people clear the space for me If only they knew for them id take a knee. I am starting to understand what it can feel like to be hyper aware of your skin. To not feel totally comfortable in any space that you are in. I have friends who are both one and the other. Getting blamed by both communities for not being another The internal struggle they wake up daily with is something we need to start understanding. That being part of both communities should be something rewarding.

I used to be a day camp counselor, getting to work with amazing kids every summer. One week a child came in my care, being sent with a rap sheet I was hyper aware. The week started just like any other, telling the kids the rules and to get along with one another. He sat separate from most of the children, asking every ten minutes to go to the washroom. After the second day I pulled him aside to just talk we ended up on the forest path outside and walked The child was going to the washroom you see To wash his hands it was not to pee. “I do it every ten minutes, because out of all the kids I am certainly the dirtiest” He showed me his beautifully tanned skin and he sighed feeling like all of himself was something to hide. Tears filled my eyes and started to fall, I didn’t think anything I had to say would have any pull at all. this sweet baby in front of me was hurting so much it was a crime To make an innocent child believe they are covered in slime. “Baby boy I am going to tell you this once and very clear, there is nothing wrong with your skin at all my dear. You are a child unlike any other, being blamed for the anger and called a great bother. I see you my child I see you so clear You are so beautiful this breaks my heart and fills it with fear I worry that someone else is going to say something like this to you and that you will try to mend the cracks yourself with nasty unfit views. When you stand in the pond out back of the center, the tadpoles come to you like you’re an energy center. The bees fly around you with so much glee, I know no other person who has bees sleep on their knees” We really need to get into everyone’s minds that being racist isn’t cool and all of that knowledge hand off starts within our schools If I had been educated properly maybe getting thrown into it wouldn’t be so bewildering That colonization hasn’t done much good for the world, its sent us all spinning. When I was growing up I was told there are three sides to every story. That the truth was hidden somewhere in the middle of all the hate and swearing. I think if we all just sat down and centered with the earth once a day. We would all pay more mind to what these people say. *This sentence isn’t appropriate and is incredibly wrong. I loved my Grandpa very much but his views weren’t right.

**Duncan Campell Scott said this in parliament quite a few years before Hitler announced that Germany “Has to fix the Jew problem” This is genocidal speech.

***we do not capitalize the names of those who do not matter.

By Thudthud

[wishingon-astar]

Bronte’s introduction.

ORIGINS & FAMILY

Full Name: Bronte Elizabeth Logan

Reason for name: Her dad’s fave author

Nickname(s) and how they got them: Bron and because it’s her name shortened

Date of Birth: January 4th

Age: 37

Gender: Cis woman

Place of birth: San Antonio, TX

Places lived since: Only there but now lakeview

Social Class: Middle

Siblings: Unknown sister

Relationship with family (close? estranged?): Mostly close, they have their moments.

Children of his/her own?: A two year old called Trixie

If so, relationship with child's mother/father?: Father is out of the picture, one night stand.

Age he/she became a parent: 35

PHYSICAL

Height: 5′4

Race: White

Nationality: American

Face Shape: Heart

Distinguishing Facial Features: DIMPLES

Hair Color: Brown

Usual Hair Style: Straight and down or up in a ponytail

Eye Color: Green

Complexion: Perfection

Disabilities (physical or mental, including mental illnesses): None

Health (usually sick? or very resilient? allergies?): She is very resilient 

What do they consider their best feature?: Her smile

Worst they’ve ever been injured (what, how did it happen)?: Tore giving birth

Ticklish: Yes, but don’t tickle her she’ll flip her shit

APPEARANCE

Style of dress/typical outfit(s): Very smart most of the time

Typical style of shoes: Loves a heel

Glasses? Contacts?: Sometimes

Personal Hygiene: The very best

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: Ears pierced but that is all

What does their voice sound like?: Raspy

Style of speech (loud, mumbler, articulate, etc.): She is incredibly articulate and well spoken

Accent?: A bit of a texas twang

Unique mannerisms/physical habits: She talks with her hands

Left handed or right?: Left

What does their writing look like?: Neat and concise 

Do they work out/exercise?: Yes, sometimes

BELIEFS & INTELLECT

Level of self esteem: Relatively high

Known Languages: English and french

Zodiac: Capricorn

Happiest memory: Hearing her daughter say mama for the first time

Life philosophy: Live like you’ll die tomorrow

Religious stance: Atheist

Political stance: Democrat

Pet peeves: So many, too many

Sense of humor: None, she has no sense of humour whatsoever

How do they deal with stress? She smokes

What do they do when upset? Smokes and cries with a good book

What about angry? Gets stompy and slams doors

Level of comfort with technology: So-so

Believe in the supernatural: Nope

Believe in an afterlife: No

Believe in happy endings: Maybe

How do they want to be remembered?: For being a good person

How do they feel about asking for help? She isn’t keen

Optimist or pessimist: Optimist

Extrovert or introvert: Extrovert

Leader or follower: Leader

Makes decisions based mostly on emotions, or on logic?: Logic

Cautious or daring: A bit of both

Spontaneous or planner: Planner

Thinker or doer? Doer

Organized or messy: Organised

Worrier or carefree: A bit in between

Artistic?: No

Mathematical?: Yes

SEX & INTIMACY

Current marital/relationship/sexual status: Single and divorced

Sexual orientation: Questioning

What is their “type” in regards to looks in a partner? Someone nice and someone who is a good role model for her daughter

Views on sex (one night stands, promiscuity, etc): She is all for it

Level of sexual experience: Not bad

Do they have any unfulfilled sexual fantasies?: Yes

Love or Lust: Love

Ever been in love?: Yes

Do they fall in love easily?: No

Do they take relationships seriously?: Yes

Believe in true love or soul mates? Not really

Thoughts on public displays of affection?: No thank you

How do they flirt: She doesn’t

VOCATION

Level of education: Higher

Profession: School pricipal

Describe their work space: Neat but chaotic

Past occupations: Math teacher

Passions: Teaching, maths

Attitude towards current job: Meh

Attitude towards current coworkers, bosses, employees: She hasn’t met them properly yet

Which is more important ��� money or doing something they love?: Doing something she loves

SECRETS

Phobias: Death, spiders, snakes, heights

Life goals: Have another kid or two

Biggest regret: Not finding out about her sister sooner

Police/Criminal/Legal record (Crimes committed? If so, were they caught? charged?): None

What he/she most wants to change about his/her current life?: She wishes she had a solid family unit for Trixie

What he/she most wants to change about his/her physical appearance?: Nothing

LIKES & DISLIKES

Favorite color: Yellow

Coffee or tea?: Coffee

Crunchy or smooth peanut butter?: Smooth

Do they like music? What kind?: A bit of everything really

Favorite type of weather: She likes it when its a little overcast but still warm

Favorite form of entertainment: Reading

How do they feel about traveling?: She isn’t keen

What sort of gifts do they like? Books

DRUGS & ALCOHOL

Thoughts on drugs and alcohol: She is a strictly zero tolerance on drugs but alcohol is okay

Do they smoke? If so, do they want to quit?: She smokes when she is stressed, she would like to quit

Age of first cigarette: Sixteen

Age when they first got drunk: Twenty one

Do they drink on regular basis: None

What type of alcohol do they prefer: Wine or Gin

DETAILS

Most important/defining event in life to date: Having Trixie

Sleeping habits: She’s a very light sleeper and doesn’t get a lot of it

Typical Saturday night: Movies with Trixie

Most used word or phrase?: Damn

What is home like (messy, neat, sparse): Very neat if you ignore all the moving boxes

Pets?: If not, do they want any?: No thank you

One word to best describe them: Strict

What makes them laugh?: Not a lot

Any special holiday traditions?: Her and Trixie always have matching jammies

Can they hold their breath for a long time?: Nope

Do they know how to swim? Yes

Can they cook (if so, how well and do they enjoy it)?: She cooks all of her meals from scratch and she enjoys it

Ideal vacation: Paris or somewhere in Italy

[ezrinsprose-edda]

The Sound of the Great Prose Edda

1. Erst was the age when nothing was: nor sand nor sea, nor chilling stream waves; Earth was not found, nor Ether-Heaven, -

A Yawning Gap, but grass was none (Sturluson 16).

What do you see? It is the endless black void, the absence of existence. In the beginning, there was the Yawning Void, otherwise known as the Ginnungagap in Old Norse. The song chosen for the start of the film is light and airy, yet empty as it has no lyrics. Only the sound of synth music and white noise fills your ears as you stare into the nothingness.

White Noiz - Akira Yamaoka

2. Out of the Ice-waves issued venom-drops, waxing until a giant was; Thence all our kindred come all together, -

So it is they are savage forever (Sturluson 18).

The foul race of Rime-Giants are born of venom and ice. Disdained by the gods, they are evil creatures. Now so powerful in their brute strength and numbers, their chaos will soon come to an end. The song chosen for the birth of the giants may sound as if it were from the perspective of the giants themselves as the chorus says, 'You see I cannot be forsaken because I am not the only one. We walk amongst you feeding, must we hide from everyone?' They gloat in their newfound power and use it to wreak havoc.

Forsaken - David Draiman

3. Untold ages ere earth was shapen, then was Bergelmir born; That first I recall -

How the famous wise giant on the deck of the ship was laid down (Sturluson 19).

The sons of the first man Borr slay Ymir the giant. Similar to the following song's title, Ymir's blood drowns the entire race of the Rime-Giants. The flood's only survivor is Begelmir, who boards a boat with his wife and continues the bloodline of the Rime-Giants. However, Ymir's violent death becomes the birth of a new universe. The following song's chorus is 'Bleed me an ocean, let me lie beneath the sky.' Just as Ymir lost his mortal form, his corpse becomes the foundation for the earth and heavens like the song's lyrics: 'I was sexless in clouds again, I was chasing a cold, cold wind. I've become bored with flesh and bone again.'

Bleed Me an Ocean - Acid Bath

4. Of Ymir's flesh, the earth was fashioned, of his sweat the sea; crags of his bones, trees of his hair -

And of his skull the sky (Sturluson 21).

The sons of Borr fashion Ymir's corpse into the earth, his skin into the land, and his skull into the heavens. As evil as the giant was in life, he still serves a purpose for the greater good in death. The earth and sky are now his monument, like in the following lyrics: 'Who felt entitled to hold a place on the earth as a grave for their remains. But no monument for me, please I am not one of them. I didn't need it in life, I won't need it in death. Kiss my ashes goodbye.' This song includes many shifts of tone and speed throughout its 11-minute runtime, from sullen and pessimistic to more hopeful. Ymir's downfall to the creation of the universe has similar tonal shifts.

Kiss My Ashes (Goodbye) - Woods of Ypres

5. How does he govern the course

Of the sun or of the moon? (Sturluson 23)

The children of Mundilfari, Mani and Sol (Moon and Sun) are put into the heavens by the gods. Though they may seem contradicting, they lead the sun and moon across the sky with their chariots. Mani determines the moon's waxing and waning. Sol bestows her warmth on the earth. However, the brother and sister hasten their pace and live in fear of the wolves who vow to seize them one day. On that day, it would mark the beginning of the end, the beginning of Ragnarok. The song chosen for the introduction of Mani and Sol is a tranquil acoustic song with a gentle rhythm that emulates the softness of the sun and moon's light. The artist speaks of the morning sun as a saving grace as well as the anxiety of feeling watched or followed for many years: 'I'd see the light in the shade of the morning sun, my morning sun is the drug that brings me near to the childhood I lost replaced by fear.' There is a darker tonal shift later in the song that parallels the siblings' fear of the wolves and their impending doom: 'That's the price that we all pay, our valued destiny comes to nothing.'

True Faith - Lotte Kestner

6. The moon's taker in troll's likeness. He is filled with flesh of fey men. Reddens the gods' seats with ruddy blood-gouts;

Swart becomes sunshine in summers after (Sturluson 24).

The wolves who prey upon Sol and Mani are Skoll and Hati Hróðvitnisson. Skoll wishes to overpower Sol, and Hati runs after Mani. The wolves were born of an old troll-woman in the forest of Ironwood. The strongest of the wolf race is Moon-Hound, who vows to devour the moon and rain blood upon the heavens. On that day, the sun will lose her light and the roaring winds will be ceaseless. The following song focuses on the predatory pact between the cruel Skoll and Hati as they pursue Sol and Mani until the end of time: 'We fought the daylight, any battle, any war, the call for blood worth dying for. We prayed for twilight, side by side, we stood as pack.'

Where the Wild Wolves Have Gone - Powerwolf

7. The gods made a bridge from heaven and earth

Called Bifröst (Sturluson 24).

There is a bridge that connects heaven and earth called Bifröst. It is made of the strongest material of magical craftsmanship and is multi-colored like a rainbow. However, as seemingly indestructible as the bridge may be, it is destined to be destroyed by the sons of Múspell when they trample Bifröst with their devastating mighty horses. The following song focuses on the bridge's colorful build and the pathway into paradise: 'Take me to the sun, I feel I'm chasing rainbows. Now into your lonely paradise! Are we just dreaming in the city that never sleeps? 'Cause I can't be seeing what my eyes tell me.'

Chasing Rainbows - Bring Me the Horizon

8. What did Allfather then do

When Asgard was made? (Sturluson 25)

Asgard, or Ásgarðr in Old Norse, is the dwelling place of the Norse gods. Allfather allowed the gods to gather and hold counsel there. The town where they dwell is called Ida-field. The house they built is called Gladsheim, and it is entirely made of gold. The house of the goddesses is called Vingólf. In this land, all is made of gold. Here, the gods are seated in their thrones and grant judgement to all. The song chosen for the introduction of the renowned gods is the equally legendary song "Stairway to Heaven," where the lyrics speak of a beautiful place in the heavens where an alluring woman resides, resembling the beauty and light of a goddess. The lyrics say: 'There walks a lady we all know who shines white light and wants to show how everything still turns to gold.'

Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin

9. Then strode all the mighty to the seats of judgement, the gods most holy, and together held counsel -

Who should of dwarves shape the peoples (Sturluson 26).

After establishing their town and council, dwarves begin form underneath the earth like 'maggots in the flesh' (Sturluson 26). The gods decreed that the dwarves will be 'shaped in man's likeness.' From Ymir's flesh, the dwarves were created from maggots of the earth to intelligent humanlike beings. The dwarves now assist and build weapons for the gods, hailed for the brute strength and warrior skills. For the introduction of the mighty dwarves, the song chosen is a heavier rhythm with a faster pace and overpowering guitars and vocals. The following lyrics have to do with the dwarves' perspective of being given new life and owing their lives to the gods that pulled them from the earth as maggots, now in man's image: 'We are the new diabolic, we are the bitter bucolic. If I have to give my life, you can have it, we are the pulse of the maggots!'

Pulse of the Maggots - Slipknot

10. The Ash is greatest of all trees and best:

Its limbs spread out over all the world and stand above heaven (Sturluson 27).

Regarded as 'the holy place of the gods,' the Ash of Yggdrasil is the tree of life (Sturluson 27). Its roots reach different parts of the Nordic universe, such as the land of the Rime-Giants, Niflheim, and Æsir. The Ash is the origin of the universe's wisdom, knowledge, and life force. The following song has a gentle, hopeful tune with a fully orchestrated band and choir-like singing. The lyrics speak of knowing all of the past, present, and future and inner-workings of the world but being unable to change them: 'All the balances are clear. Now that our time is here. In our perfect present tense, through our wide rose tinted lens, when the words have all been spent, will we still have learnt it?'

Season Song - Blue States

11. All know I, Odin, where the eye thou hiddest,

In the wide-renowned well of Mímir (Sturluson 27).

It is fabled that underneath the root that leads to the land of the Rime-Giants is the legendary Mímir's Well. The well and its keeper Mímir hold the universe's wisdom and knowledge. The Norse god Odin craved this wisdom, but it would be given to him not without a sacrifice. He gave up his eye to drink from the well. It is a tale of forbidden wisdom. With all this newfound knowledge, Odin may have felt overwhelmed by this drastic change in his power: 'I watched a change in you. It's like you never had wings. Now, you feel so alive, I've watched you change.'

Change (In the House of Flies) - Deftones

12. He convulses so violently that the whole earth shakes – it is what is known as an earthquake.

He will lie bound there until Ragnarök (Sturluson).

The God of Mischief Loki is taken into a cave and tied underneath a large poisonous serpent for his crimes. The snake drips his venom onto Loki's face, causing the earthquakes whenever he writhes in pain. He will bound to the cave until the beginning of the Norse apocalypse Ragnarök. Ragnarök, or the 'Doom of the Gods' in Old Norse, is a series of battles that take place between demons, gods, and giants. This is the end of reign of the gods and the life of man on earth. Gods will die like mortals and the sky will vanish. With it, the sun and stars will be swallowed by darkness and the earth will plunge into the sea. From this destruction, will come a new age. A new earth will be born from the despair. The day that the wolves Skoll and Hati catch Mani and Sol will mark the beginning of Ragnarök. The blood of the sun and moon will stain the sky and the hungry wolves will rejoice in their killing. The final song that concludes this film is a haunting dark industrial melody with dooming lyrics. As if it were from the perspective of the wolves themselves as threatening towards Mani and Sol: 'You're still up in the air and loving your wings. What's gonna happen when you come down?'

Clown - Switchblade Symphony

[mostlycompetentwriter]

Treasure- Epilogue

M/F Pairing: Y/N x Kim Hongjoong (Ateez)

Genre: Fantasy AU; Pirate AU

Warnings: None, but lots of sweet fluff! 

Summary: The things we love always come back to us in the end...

Tag List:  @ pastel-crystals @ purpleprincesslea @ x-lilyofthevalley-x @ baekxhwa @ bootysand @ suju-hit-me-like-a-wreckingball @ yunderfullthings @ dreamshopesforward @ kiara-reighns @ fivesecondsofsarang @ speedilyunadulteratedcandy @ sansugar @ xxhzxqhxx @ erica-kay @ teeztheflag @jacksonbbygal @ small-frye

I always kept a careful watch, ensuring that he was safe as he crawled across the smooth sand. Despite the fact that he had recently started walking, my son still prefers the safety of his arms and legs when it came to propelling himself along the beach. It was somewhat amusing, knowing that he grew increasingly frustrated when he attempted to walk only to fall and let out a stubborn cry in defiance.

He had his father’s spirit; not to mention, his eyes and shapely nose as if the universe was conspiring to remind me just how much I missed Hongjoong. Nevertheless, I took my responsibilities as a new mother seriously. For example, shortly after his birth, Sarah and I worked tirelessly to build him a new bedroom and sew together an array of clothes that he would inevitably grow too big to wear. I was determined to give my son the best life possible, especially since we were both waiting for a set of familiar sails to breach the horizon.

 “Mommy,” he called now, holding up a seashell for my eyes. “What about this one?”

“It’s lovely,” I told him, smiling at his pleased reaction.

My son was profoundly interested in collecting as many seashells as his small arms could carry, bringing them into his room to crowd the windowsill. I didn’t have the heart to tell him to leave the shells behind on the shore, so I allowed him to collect to his heart’s content.

“We’ll go inside soon,” I said, noting how the sky had grown darker.

“Okay,” he agreed, perfectly amiable and it made me wonder who I needed to thank for giving me such a good son. Because he was incredibly obedient, quiet on most nights after spending the day exploring the island. He never protested when we had to go back inside, and I was proud that he displayed an easygoing temperament.

I was always grateful, and I made sure to let him know every evening.

Later on, after I ensured that my son was settled down for the night in his bed, I found myself alone in the living room with Hongjoong’s box waiting in my lap. At this point, it had become a routine, allowing me an opportunity to pretend that I was actually talking to the man who had given me his heart before sailing away. “He’s such a good boy,” I spoke now. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

I released a tired sigh, noticing the distant rumble of thunder inviting a summer storm to the island. It would mean extra work for me and Sarah in the morning because the winds often grew too wild for the trees to manage. We would be forced to pick up stray branches since my son decided he liked to run around without the safety of his shoes.

“Please come back,” I whispered, glancing outside for one last moment before returning to my bedroom to succumb to another restless sleep.

The next morning, Sarah and I spent hours cleaning the beach, but we kept in good spirits by singing along to songs we both knew. In the meantime, I occasionally checked on my son who was busy playing with his bucket and shovel, digging into the sand with loud giggles. It was a good means to keep his attention occupied while his caretakers busied themselves with maintenance.

The evening was approaching again when we were finished with our chores, settling down around the table to enjoy a meal that Sarah had been polite enough to cook. “What do we say?” I asked my son.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he managed over a mouthful of vegetables.

Sarah grinned. “You’re welcome.”

He was content, digging back into his food while I pushed my carrots around on my plate. “Have they ever been gone this long before?”

Sarah froze from across the table. “It always varies.”

I nodded. “I just want him to be here.”

“I know,” Sarah agreed sympathetically. “I miss Mingi too, but they made a promise to both of us, and I don’t think we have to worry about them breaking it.”

“He’s growing up,” I said, turning my gaze to the side. “I don’t want him to miss anymore.”

“We can’t worry about those things,” Sarah insisted. “I expect their return very soon.”

It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but I still accepted her words. I had no other choice. 

“Can we go back to the beach, mommy?”

“Sure, if you finish more of your food,” I said, smirking when my son immediately started eating even faster than before.

But he managed to eat everything, impatiently standing by the door while I secured a loose sweater around my shoulders. There was a faint chill in the air that I had come to experience after a passing storm. Of course, my son stubbornly refused to wear extra layers and I placated him since I wasn’t in the mood to argue.

Thereafter, we made our way to the beach and it didn’t take long for him to grow enchanted with the seashells that had washed up on shore from the storm. I smiled fondly, forcing my hands deeper into my pockets. There was still a faint line of sunshine breaking the sky, and I briefly closed my eyes to enjoy the fading light.

In these moments, I could use my imagination to pretend that I was somewhere else...perhaps on a ship out at sea with the wind at my back. I’d stand on the main deck, gazing out into the vast expanse of the neverending ocean. Hongjoong would be there too, whispering promises into my ear while his fingers smoothed down the side of my arms...

“Mommy! What’s that?”

The vision was gone and my eyes opened immediately, glancing down at my son before following his gaze out across the ocean. My breath hitched in my throat, tears stinging the corners of my eyes when I recognized the familiar pattern of the sails. I took a deep breath, reaching down for my son’s shoulder to hold it firmly. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out very soon.”

There have been moments in my life where I felt like everything was changing right before my very eyes. For example, when I was first taken from my home island, I could sense the change pulsing along with the rush of adrenaline. It was the first time I met Hongjoong and, despite the initial fear I felt looking into the Captain’s eyes, I could no longer experience the same emotion.

Hongjoong was a shadow now, a silhouette with his back turned to the setting sun, but I could still recognize him. His strawberry hair glowed like a halo, vibrant and elegant in ways I had dreamed about on multiple occasions. He grew closer with measured steps, and my heart beat faster and faster as the distance between us was eliminated.

Finally, he was there for my eyes to greedily remember, perfectly handsome with his familiar smirk. “Hello, love.”

I swallowed hard, breaking our intense gaze, before reaching around me to usher out my son who had taken to hiding behind his mother. “I think there’s someone you should meet.”

Hongjoong knelt down on one knee so that the two could meet at eye-level for the first time. “Who is this?”

“He’s your son,” I whispered, watching as Hongjoong’s expression shifted to one of complete awe.

“Is this why you were so eager for me to return?” Hongjoong teased and I blushed as I recounted all those nights whispering for him in the silence of our small cottage.

Hongjoong reached into his pocket, pulling out a watch that he held out for my son to take. “It’s very nice to meet you. This once belonged to my father, so it only makes sense for you to have it now.”

My son’s eyes grew wide as he accepted the gift. “Thank you.”

Hongjoong smiled, standing taller as he appraised the two of us. “It looks like we have a lot to catch up on.”

I nodded, admiring the deep color of his eyes. “How long are you staying?”

“Does it matter?” Hongjoong asked, reaching out for my hand. “This time, I’m not leaving without you.”

I barely held myself together as I allowed him to pull me into his arms, relishing in the familiar sensation of Hongjoong. But this time, there was someone else we needed to consider, and I had a feeling I was in store for one more glorious adventure.

[dorkyungsoowrites]

Fatal Ties: The Ending

As promised, here's the plot bullet-points for the rest of this story so no one is left to wonder. When we left off, the Boss had just been shot at and was going to try figuring out who the mole was, who the perps were, and how to stop them while still going through with the wedding. I hadn't plotted out anything in detail, but here's the things I knew I wanted to put in. Oh, and a flashback that would reveal how the Boss became the Boss.

Message gets to the Boss to meet with mysterious people who shot at them. The fact there's no demands is fishy, but they go.

They have Kyungsoo hidden away ready to shoot if the meeting goes south. The person who shows up? The Boss' sister. *queue flashback*

(In the edits I was doing the pov changed and the bakery was instead a greenhouse cause I liked the idea that deep down this mafia boss just wanted a quiet life with their plants. So just to avoid confusion this is told from 3rd person pov, and it is indeed showing the day the Boss used a coup against their own father, but it was actually their sister who killed him, and they sent her away under the guise of protection. In truth the Boss pinned the murder on the sister and took over the business.)

They were standing in a vast, gleaming greenhouse awash with sunlight. Two rows of various plants and flowers grew on tables, leaves dancing in their warm glow. Two people stood in the center as they spoke alone. One of them carried an overwhelming sense of authority and sharpness. Wearing a pressed black suit and severe eyes. The other, with broad shoulders, looked right at home beside them.

There was something odd about the image, however. The emotions of the moment eclipsed details; softening and flooding out the edges with blotted blurs. The surroundings bent toward the two figures slightly, revolving around them, existing by extension.

A bright and fierce feeling consumed them. It beckoned they straighten their back. It filled them with elation and confidence.

The breeze sung, warmth and sweetness tickling their nose with a few wisps of hair. Distant concussions rang in their ears. That of hand-made rhythms and automatic syncopation like a crackling symphony. Fingers flinched by their hip, joints aching to grasp long awaited vindication.

A smile slid into place on the one with broad shoulders. Something older and deeper than amusement. It had the appearance of affection, but it was dangerous; too sunken and tight. "This is my kingdom," he said. "None of this would exist without me. Some delusional little girl won't change that."

"A kingdom is more than one person," they remarked, a sneer curling their upper lip. "You're not thinking."

"Am I now?" he marveled, teeth flashing. "You've spent your whole life trying to make me proud. Now you're going to give everything up for some petty cash?"

"Someone is."

"We could do that," he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Or you could stay here while I go clean up the mess inside, and every time you lay down in the bed I bought, under the roof I earned, you'll rest peacefully, remembering when you chose to walk away."

"Just like some mindless, obedient bitch, right? Why would I go back to that?"

"Some paths are less traveled for a reason."

The air stretched, a tethered tension consuming the room. It seeped into their chest. The words agonized and twisted their thoughts into turmoil, but more than that, it galvanized their wounds. Defenses dissolved into truth. Their face went eerily blank, poised for one direction or the other. Weighing the words against their knowledge. On the cusp of their vision, a shape came with the wind that made the leaves tremble.

Clasping metal, their hand raised, and a gunshot shattered the air. Three heartbeats, then a dull thud and a crack. The sound resonated throughout the new space created; striking the emptiness from their gaze. As they looked down at the man collapsed on the concrete their eyes blazed. Watching him attempt in vain to put pressure over the hole in his chest, mouth gaping open and shut with no utterance. The bullet had hit just under his clavicle.

The color was ripped from his face. As seconds passed his brows set into a hard line, glowering up at what must have been just shapes and bright lights. Slipping into shock and the blissful numbness.

And their veins were white hot. Seething scars lurked in the tremor of their hands. Their knees hit concrete, fingers twirling the barrel of the gun into their palm, and rammed the blunt end down onto his forehead.

A fissure opened in his flesh. Hazed hatred in hard eyes and harder hands, his bloodied fist cloyed upward. Treachery painted their neck, warm and slick, and their insides revolted.

They brought the corner of the grip down once more, grunting with the force of it. That time a wet crackle was heard, tissue and marrow and matter opening like a rift in the earth. His eyes dimmed and shut. Fingers fell limp. Then they brought the gun to his face again, and again, and again. Beating, breaking until all the scars were his and retribution stained their very self, pooling around their knees.

They were left with shivering leaves and limbs, metal clattering to concrete. For a few moments, they thought they could feel everything. Beneath, the ground itself breathed with them. The immeasurable magnitude of their actions soaked the air; acid in their lungs. Stinging, shallow flexes damming their thoughts. The image of his bloodied skull battered and branded into their memory; proof he would no longer torment.

"We have to go." A set of shoes stepped in to view. Welcomed into the washed-out greenhouse; making it sharper.

Their gun was picked up. Then a gentle hand rested on their arm. The light straightened and the emotions drained; a hollowness haunting their eyes.

"Come on," the voice urged softly. "I'll take you out of here for a bit. What's that place you always talk about going to? The one in the mountains. We'll lay low there for a bit, and when we come back everything will be like it should. They know what to do."

It was a trusted sound, the promise of better circumstances. It had to be, coming from the one who had been bound for so long; now unbound and free to bind. The vindication was theirs to share. So they swallowed the bile and butterflies, and took the hand on their arm. Bundled in familiar security, warm with such flattering certainty. There would be no leaving the stranger path.

This little exchange (starting with the sister speaking) during the reunion that would confirm what happened in the flashback:

"At least I killed him on purpose. You're a glorified accountant. Dad would've squashed your guts like an ant. If I'm appalled with what you've become, he's rolling over in his grave."

"As long as he stays there then I don't fucking care."

The meeting basically just confirms all the "who's" and "why's" but not the "how". Sister who wants the business for herself, therefore stopping the truce by getting revenge on the Boss is top on her list.

Some more reconnecting, tied together by a homophobic dad. Then this schpeel by the sister as well for more context.

"I was cursed from birth, just like you. The daughter of a mafioso. There's a mark on my head always. Police want to lock me up, criminals want to use me to prove themselves to their own shitbeat dads, regular people are scared shitless they'll be arrested just for talking to me. You weren't protecting me! You threw me to the wolves! My own sibling..."

"The world took everything from me! Don-"

"No! You did that! You took everything, killing anyone who didn't agree with your grand vision!"

Hadn't decided how the Boss would get out of the meeting, but basically the tension would build cause now you realize the Boss hasn't done much actual killing themselves. But the sister? She' killed her family before; what's stopping her from doing it again now?

More bonding with Baekhyun. Teaching him things. Maybe try and get him to kill someone to prove himself, but he can't go through with it.

Boss is in the greenhouse the morning of the wedding, but Baekhyun is also there, and with a gun to his head, kneeling. Boss of course then pulls their gun on the person threatening their fiancé which is the sister. Then maybe this interaction (starting with the sister speaking.)

"Look at you, so proud to kill me. About to be the big boss who saves the day. Protecting everyone with this fucking contract and this ridiculous fucking sham wedding. You think this'll make things right? Just like killing our fucking dad and throwing me out was right because you "saved" the business? Because you were "protecting" me? There's no redemption for someone like you. No happy, fairytale retirement ending. I'll just be another body you leave behind. Go on, finish me. Send my body to Junmyeon and scatter me to the wind, but it won't change what you are."

Lots of twisted emotions, Boss on the verge of tears.

"...I miss my old sister."

"Of course you do," the Boss replied. "They were much more trusting and naive. Easier to kill."

"What happened to your ruthless energy? You used to have real ambition for this company. Now you want to play cottage lesbian with this dipshit?" A pause. "I'm tired of this bluff. Kyungsoo?"

Kyungsoo appears and restrains the Boss, taking their gun away and maybe holding a knife to their throat, voice in their ear.

"Be a good kitten and shut your mouth, huh? You had your chance." He turns to the sister. "Trade you for the dipshit."

Sister laughs. "He's all yours, love."

Kyungsoo was the mole. Twisty, yes? The irony being the Boss was worried Baekhyun was the honeypot, when Kyungsoo had been all along. Well, from when he actually started sleeping with them. He tried to get the Boss to change their ways, and when they didn't, the sister gave up and and gave in to vengeance.

As Kyungsoo trades, Baekhyun steals a gun from Kyungsoo's holster, presses it to his chest, and pulls the trigger. His first kill.

The Boss uses the distraction to kill their sister. Their final violent act. Both of them standing amidst the blood.

The truce is made, the Boss gets married, and both their souls are now corrupted and damned.

Hadn't totally decided, but if I were to lean toward a happier ending then the Boss would've raised up one of the others (probably Jongdae) to be the new boss, and they'd prove their sister wrong by retiring with Baekhyun to a small house with a garden. Well, they weren't totally happy after everything they'd been through, but they were content.