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rhetoricandlogic · 3 years ago

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By: Catherynne M. Valente

Art by: Thais Leiros

Issue: 7 September 2020

9199 words

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Variations in Luminance

Big Edie was a useless piece of shit.

Johanna Telle found the most significant relationship of her life on a Saturday afternoon in late May, sitting on one of those excruciatingly handmade quilts crafty stay-at-homes used to make out of their precious baby’s old clothes and putting a deep, damp dent in the buttercup-infested lawn of 11 Buckthorn Drive, Ossining, New York. A four-pointed Arkansas Traveler star radiated out around her, each of the four diamond patches so exquisitely nailing the era of the quilter’s pax materna that Johanna pulled out her Leica and snapped a shot before the homeowners could stop her: The Pretenders, Captain Planet Says No Nukes, Got Milk? and a Hypercolor tee subjected, as so many had been, to the indignity of a commercial dryer until it finally gave up the thermochromic ghost, its worn cotton-poly blend permanently stuck on a sad blown-out pink.

And Big Edie in the middle, ugly as all the sins of man, with a box of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Second Edition modules on the eastern point of the compass, a mint condition Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Sewer Lair Playset to the west, a working laserdisc player up north, and down south, one beefy hardcase Samsonite in Executive Silver with a handwritten sign on it promising a complete set of signed first edition Danielle Steel hardbacks inside. A steal at $300, suitcase included.

Still life with late 80's/early 90's. Johanna loved it.

But she only had eyes for Big Edie. The absolute and utter trashbeast technological abortion winking up cheekily at her from within a nest of vanished childhoods.

She’d driven all the way out into the golden calcified time-bubble of the Hudson Valley after the ephemeral promises of an estate sale. The people here had so much money they never had to grow or change or evolve past the approximate epoch of their children’s most precocious years. That’s how Johanna had gotten a Hasselblad for $90 and a fake phone number a couple of years ago at a fuck-Gam-Gam-just-get-rid-of-this-junk free-for-all in Stonybrook. You just crossed your eyes and hoped the kids were the type to tell everyone who never asked that social media was a disease and didn’t sully themselves with Google or eBay.

This was clearly the case on that late-May Ossining afternoon. The card balanced against Big Edie’s case read:

Does Not Work. $50 OBO.

Johanna Telle smiled in the perfect post-processed sun. The EDC-55 ED-Beta Camcorder retailed for a cool $7700 in 1987. Just over sixteen grand in 2015 funbucks. It could produce over 550 lines of resolution in an age where high definition was barely even a phrase. Automatic iris control, dual 2-3 inch precision CCD imaging, Fujinon f1.7 range macro zoom, on-the-fly audio/video editing, capable of recording in hi-fi stereo and most impressively for its time, native video playback. Angular black and matte silver bug-ugly design. The last glorious 13.5-kilogram gasp of the Betamax world, still in its hardcase shell, that particular shade of tan that meant Serious Business for the Terminally 80's Man.

In digital terms, Big Edie was prehistoric. Big Edie was fucking Cretaceous. If there was a camera set up on a tripod to record what happened when the primordial soup stopped being polite and started getting real, Big Edie would have been a top-tier choice for the discerning prosumer.

Big Edie was archaeology.

Johanna whipped her faded seafoam-green hair to one side and hefted that machine corpse onto her dark brown shoulder. She was comically heavy. The weight of a dead world, its concerns long quieted.

Johanna Telle, when she was paying attention, when she was happy, in those moments when she was most definitively Johanna, saw down to the deeps of things. It was all she was really good at, in her estimation. She saw that world, le regime ancien, projected onto the back of her skull like a drive-in theater screen.

When she was little, she’d sat criss-cross applesauce in her mother’s lap in a kind of mute blue nirvana, watching a crew send an unmanned submersible in a metal cage down the icy miles to find the HMS Titanic. Before her father left them, before they lost the house, before the hundred little fatal cuts of getting from one end of childhood to the other. Long beams of light broke the black water of forgetting and scattered across that ghostly bow and found what had been lost. Impossibly lost. Forever. Johanna had barely been able to breathe. She knew herself then, in that terrifying way you know things when you are small. The warmth of her mother’s chest rose and fell behind her, an entire universe of protection and presence. A gentle little prick of the aquamarine pendant she always wore against Johanna’s scalp. The familiar smell of Pink Window, her mother’s signature Red Door knockoff, pulsing off her clavicle. The tinny voice of a rich man floating out of the blue ocean. Later, when the neighborhood kids played games on their unforgivably Spielbergian suburban streets, hollering I’m the Incredible Hulk or I’m the Pink Ranger or I’m Tenderheart Bear, Johanna would call out something nominally culturally appropriate but whisper the truth to herself, which never changed, no matter the game or the streets: I am the exterior lighting array on Robert Ballard’s Argo ROV unit.

Johanna put her eye to Big Edie’s viewfinder. The black cup pocked gently against her cheekbone. Such a nice feeling. Like holding a girl’s hand for the first time. She stared into inert darkness.

“It only takes these weird old tapes,” someone said from outside Edie’s warm lightless innards. A friendly, well-hydrated, nicely-brought-up male voice, full of solicitude, exhausted, heartbroken, hanging in there, like the orange kitten in the old poster.

Johanna didn’t look up. She amused herself picturing the kitten putting its paws on its hips and whistling regretfully through its sharp teeth at the $50 OBO paperweight before them. She suppressed her not-very-inner snob. Yes, dear, ED Super Beta II and III series cassettes. You can still get them, anywhere between $35 and $50 a pop. You can still get anything if you don’t care what it costs.

“There’s one stuck in there. Made a nasty sound when I tried to lever it out. I don’t have any others, though. Dad didn’t stick with this one for very long. I put his digital cameras around by the hydrangeas, way better. You want me to show you?”

“Does it turn on?”

“Nope. Well, not unless it’s a Tuesday and the moon is in Pisces and you’re standing on one foot or some shit. I keep the battery charged up, though. I heard you have to do that or it degrades. I’m Jeff, by the way.”

Of course you are. That’s what they always name soft orange kittens like you.

Johanna’s fingers slid down Big Edie’s flank and found the raised plastic goose-pimple that marked the power button as easily as a practiced accordionist settling onto C Major. She pointed the lens at the bereaved child of its former owner and hit the big red square.

A firehose of light white-watered through the generous 1.5” black and white viewfinder into her cerebral cortex. In the middle of it stood, not the hang in there kitten, but a tall handsome guy in his late twenties or early thirties. Big emotive eyes, tennis shorts, dark polo shirt, with a shimmer of beard-stubble six or seven hours deep, hair the cut and style of debate team and law school and firm handshakes and warm decades ahead in a secure center-right Senate seat.

A shard of glass punched through his chest. Black monochrome blood sheeted down over his shorts and his long, grey, summer-muscled legs. His neck whipped hard to the side, like he’d suddenly seen an old girlfriend and was about to call her name, but when he opened his mouth, a jet of dark liquid spurted onto the quilt of his so-loved childhood clothes. It cut across the white block-print Pretenders in a clean spattered line.

“What’s the verdict?” Jeff asked. That voice like a clean fingernail cut through Johanna’s attention. She yanked her face up off the viewfinder. Jeff’s fine blond eyebrows arched curiously before her in full color, waiting to find out if that old Betamax monster still had juice. If the moon was, in fact, in Pisces. He shoved his hands in the pockets of a paint-splattered pair of jeans.

Johanna glanced back down into Big Edie’s gullet. It was waiting down there, that death-image of silver and ichor.

“I like your shirt,” she said. The walls of her throat stuck together. Inside the camera, that charcoal polo dripped silent-film blood onto his new white tennis shoes. Outside, he wore a slim-cut celery-green tee with Newport Folk Festival 2010 stamped across his chest in a faux-rustic font. She could look back and forth between them. Back and forth. Black and white. Color. Black and white. Grey and green. Green and grey. And wet, dripping jet-onyx blood. All that faded thermochromicity blazing back onto the scene to react with the not live but definitely Memorex heat-death of Jeff from Ossining.

Big Edie went down for the count.

The image guttered out like a pilot light, a sound both grinding and whining shook through her, and she rather ungracefully peaced out.

“$30?”

“All yours,” Jeff grinned.

He took Johanna Telle’s money and strode off across the mown lawn, through the labyrinth of his late father’s obsessions, the sun on his shoulders as though it would never leave him.

Aliasing

It’s much easier to pry a stuck tape out of a machine when you’re not that bothered if you break it. Get a screwdriver and a Sharpie and believe in yourself. It came free with significant but impotent protest, trailing a tangled mess of ropy ED Supra Beta II behind it. Johanna wound the mistreated tape back through the cartridge with the pen the way kids would never do again, and she would have been perfectly content for the rest of her days on this maudlin, over-saturated planet if she could have said the stupid suburban sun got in her eyes and that’s all she really saw.

But Betamax tells no lies.

Johanna sat on the floor of her apartment like the kid from Poltergeist all grown up, heavily medicated, and a cog in the gig economy. A massive daisy chain of converter cables hooked Big Edie up to the living room flatscreen, each one coaxing the signal five or six years forward from 1987 to the slick shiny present day.

The reflected video image washed her face in color. A forgotten pleasure, like the taste of ancient Egyptian beer. You used to always see your shot in black and white when you looked through the viewfinder. You only got to see the colors when you reviewed the footage. Inside the camera was another planet. Color was a side effect of traveling from that world to this one. Step from Kansas into Oz, cross your fingers for fidelity, saturation, hue, hope those shoes still look as red as they did before you crammed them through a lens.

So. No more black and white artsy viewfinder image. Now it was straight outta Kodachrome. But this tape sat in Big Edie’s time-out box for thirty years. Chromatic degradation slipped and popped all over the image, sickly green blooms, hot orange halos, compression artefacts, uncanny edging that rimmed this and that object in weird chemical colors.

Johanna watched a factory-direct 70's mustache-dad with tennis socks up to God’s chin helping his small, yet unmistakably Jeff, son unwrap a record player on Christmas morning. Big Edie came standard automatic fade-in and fade-out, so everything transitioned elegantly, creating a subtle sense of deliberate editing where none truly existed. Fade to black, then a slow melt into a hopeless lacrosse game, small children running nowhere, hitting each other with sticks too big for them to hold properly.

Another bloom of darkness.

A school play, reedy, vulnerable pre-adolescent Jeff dressed as a cloud fringed with silver tinsel rain, twirling and twirling, technique-free, his arms stretched out. Then another and Johanna presumed this was Jeff’s mother, the maker of the T-shirt quilt, 80% Diane Keaton, 20% Shelley Duvall, a white-wine flush on her cheeks, smiling up at the man with the camera in frank, unguarded affection and not a little desire, her shoulders bare above a strapless summer dress the color of the hydrangeas she probably hadn’t even planted yet.

Such wildly un-special moments, clichés of heart-beggaring authenticity, carefully cut out of the flow of time and pasted into the future, selected for immortality for no particular reason, random access memories transfigured into light that cannot die—but can get stuck in a metal cage for want of a Sharpie and a flathead.

Time travel. The only real time travel, unnoticed and uncredited because it was so unbearably slow. In the present, you use this astonishing machine to freeze the past. And you send it to the future. One second per second.

The image cut to black and then it was 2015 and Jeff selling off a lifetime of his father’s lovingly dragon-hoarded objets d’American masculinity. Standing on a lawn with catalogue-ready light and dark green stripes in the grass. Talking not to the man who produced and directed his childhood but to Johanna. She can hear her own voice on the recording.

Does it turn on?

He makes a joke about the moon and tells her his name. Sitting alone in the dark, Johanna realizes he was flirting with her, and she has a second to wonder what his mustached father’s name was before the glass smashes through his sternum again and blood streams down to soak a just out-of-frame blanket stitched together from mass-marketed polyester and lost time.

Johanna ran the tape back. Then she watched it again.

Back. And again.

She was still doing it when the morning broke into her apartment without announcing itself.

Five weeks later, she’ll be down to two or three run-throughs a day. An article will swim across her feed.

Late Night Four-Car Pile Up on I-84 Leaves Two Dead, Seven Injured.

Jeffrey Havemeyer of Westchester County, NY, 34, remains in critical care.

Johanna will feel nothing. She’s seen it a thousand times already.

Overclocking

“Sit there,” Johanna tells her cousin’s daughter, pointing at a cracked leather barstool.

Anika is nineteen, in her second year at Columbia. She is everything Johanna is not: mentally stable, tall, good hair, vegan, grounded by parental encouragement and affection, prone to healthy relationships, able to commit to an exercise regimen. The twenty-first-century girl. Johanna has always found her fascinating. Scientifically. It’s like hanging out with an alien. Your whole ecosystem is based in carbon and abandonment and trash, and you just always assumed those were the essential building blocks of life, but it turns out they’re totally unnecessary and sentient beings can just as well be made out of palladium and love and sensible choices instead, look at this actual good person right here, you have the same nose.

Johanna’s arthritic Great Dane watches them coolly from his massive fluffy bed.

“Your hair looks like a badger,” Anika says.

It’s been some time since Ossining and quilt and the hydrangeas and what Johanna has come to think of as the glitch. Technical difficulties. Runtime error. It’s late summer. Sweat darkens Anika’s hairline under the expected carefully messy topknot. The boroughs are one long incessant screech of twelve million window-mounted air conditioners and the smell of warm garbage bags, round and shiny on every doorstep.

Seafoam green softheart mermaid look out; icicle-white collarbone-length brutalist bob with black tips in.

“I like to think of it as ermine. You know, royal cloaks and all that.”

“Did you know ermines are just regular stoats with their winter coats on?” Anika helpfully informs her. “Not special at all. Fancy weasels. Glam weasels.”

“That’s perfect. I myself am a decidedly unspecial glam weasel.”

Johanna adjusts the tripod under Big Edie. It took Johanna weeks to gut the old girl, order parts, and convince her that modern life truly was worth living. Nothing really wrong with her at all, other than the audio-visual equivalent of osteoporosis and a bad back. Johanna loved the work. Data was invisible now. Stored on sand, transferred on air, transcending physical form. Light talking to light. But not Big Edie. She was very visible. Gross and awkward and tangible. The girl would never be good as new again. But she was good enough.

“No you’re not, you’re amazing,” Anika says softly, and Johanna can hear the little girl she’s known in that grown-up, gonna-save-the-world-with-believing-it-can-be-saved voice.

Johanna ignores this obvious lie.

They’ve already done a few shots with the Hasselblad, the Leica, a couple with her phone. She doesn’t really know why she’s putting on a show. Anika wouldn’t question just sitting in front of an old Betamax camcorder for a few minutes and then heading off for Hungarian pastries and a good full-body-cleanse political rant. But it feels important that today has the appearance of a plausibly professional kind of thing. Not that Johanna is using her.

Which she is.

Johanna doesn’t have access to a lot of people at the moment. They find her offputting. Not user-friendly. An unintuitive interface. Carbon-based.

“Can you let the blinds down halfway?” she asks.

Anika does. Slats of August light and dark slash down her face and torso (like glass slicing through skin) like an old pre-lapsarian end-of-programming test screen. It would be a gorgeous shot even if the shot was the point.

“I mean it. This apartment, your work. Margot. Mapplethorpe.” The Great Dane’s floppy black ears perk up at the sound of his name. “I love it here. You’re living the dream.”

Johanna hesitates with her forefinger over the record button. God, she remembers how much she hated it when people told her college wasn’t the real world and she had no idea what it was like out there, as if studying and working full-time wasn’t more work and less fun than the barren salt flats of adulthood between your twenties and death. But she wanted badly to shovel the same shit for Anika now. The only way you could look at this place and see a dream was through a lens that had never touched reality.

This is fine, she tells herself. The Havemeyer Glitch is not a thing. Just a shill for Big Coincidence. It’s not like he died. And besides, nothing bad can ever happen to Anika. She is a palladium-based life form. So this is fine. It’s for science. You will take beautiful footage of your beautiful niece-once-removed, and buy her a walnut kolachi, and she will tell her mother what a nice time she had.

“Margot moved out last week,” Johanna says without emotion. Margot moved out three months ago. She left a purple brush in the bathroom. Long black hair still tangled up in it. Johanna can’t bring herself to move the last cells of Margot that exist in proximity to Johanna’s cells.

“Oh,” Anika replies gently. “So that’s why you changed your hair.”

Johanna hits record.

For eighty-seven seconds, the only thing Big Edie has to say is that Anika Telle was born for the camera, a portrait of her generation, artlessly artful, a corkscrew of loose dark hair hanging forward to catch the light, one grey bare leg tucked up beneath a billowy sack dress with small elephants printed on it, the other not quite long enough to touch the peeling floor. Her expression genuinely, infinitely, but entirely temporarily sad for the misfortunes of someone else. See? This is fine. Tell her to say something. Recite Shakespeare. Or Seinfeld.

Deep in Big Edie’s viewfinder, Anika’s left eye crumples in a wet gush of pearl and black. Her head rockets back, shrouded in mist. She coughs, gags, tears streaming from her remaining eye. She’s still sitting on the barstool in Johanna’s apartment with silvery botanical wallpaper behind her, the tall window, the August sun, the half-drawn blinds. But the Anika in the camera wears black leggings, a puffy black winter coat, a black surgical mask. White duct tape criss-crosses the back of her jacket to form the words: #NOJUSTICE. She’s older, the lingering baby softness in her jaw gone, her hair a buzzed undercut. The cords on her neck stand out as she runs, her face ruined, blind with pain, stumbling, looking over her shoulder as she bolts on the video feed from one end of the living room to the other. Out of nothing, a cop in riot gear steps out of Johanna’s kitchenette, grabs the back of Anika’s skull in one hand and shoves her down. Anika-in-black falls to her knees, sobbing, puking into her mask, holding one hand to the hole where her eye used to be, screaming silently into Johanna’s (Margot’s) red paisley rug.

Johanna yanks her head up out of the sucking desaturated pit of the camera.

Mapplethorpe snores loudly. Trucks beep in reverse outside the apartment building. Anika sighs softly, bored but not rude. She scratches a mosquito bite on her knee. “I really am sorry. I liked Margot. She was good for you, I think. Got you out of the house.”

All the blood has either rushed to or drained from Johanna’s head. She can’t tell which. All she can hear or feel is her own pulse slamming itself against her eardrums.

“Do you … want me to do something?” Anika asks uncertainly.

Johanna shuts the camera down quickly. The image at the bottom of the viewfinder clicks out of existence. She tries to talk, but there’s no talk to be found. Just the burning hot green-on-red afterimage of a crystal brown eye collapsing in its socket, over and over.

“Come on, Auntie J,” Anika says finally, hopping lightly off the stool and bending down, scratching Mapplethorpe between his spotted shoulder blades. “Dinner’s on me. Malaysian okay? Maps can have a curry puff, can’t you, baby?”

Test Pattern

An experiment that cannot be repeated is evidence of nothing.

Johanna establishes a beachhead in Owl’s Head Park. Back supported by a black walnut tree. Bare toes clenched in a sea of tiny white flowers and clover-infiltrated grass. Big Edie propped against her breastbone, lens stabilized by knees on either side. Mapplethorpe’s yellow lead loops around her ankle, but the big fellow has long passed his days of running off after unsuspecting children. He munches philosophically on a pricey organic broth-basted rawhide shaped like a braided ring.

She finds a target, hits the button, rolls footage for a few minutes, tracking them as they throw frisbees for far-inferior dogs or kick soccer balls or kiss on picnic blankets or drag giant wooden chess pieces across a giant board or just walk aimlessly, whatever Saturday afternoon moves them to do. She doesn’t look through the viewfinder into that hellworld of black and white. Just presses buttons.

Turn it on.

Shut it off.

Find someone new.

Repeat.

She chooses at random. No more Anikas. No one is special, or unspecial. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they look like. They’re just data. That man, that woman, that child, that set of twin babies, those skaters, that guy sleeping with a James Patterson book over his eyes. Compressed data to be converted later.

Johanna’s brain checks out and begins a speed run through the five stages of grief over the death of a reliable reality. Denial: you’re losing it, change up your medication, girl, it’s not real, it’s not anything, just a stupid old camera that you bought because you are stupid, at best it’s old footage coming through on an old tape.

Stop recording. New person. Girl in green skinny jeans with a sketchbook.

Anger: fuck this, fuck you, fuck estate sales, fuck Robert Ballard, fuck the Columbia School of Law, fuck sad elephant print fabric, fuck hydrangeas, fuck curry puffs that make my dog poop out his soul, fuck Betamax you dumb drooling obsolete idiot tech, fuck me, fuck my dad, fuck Jeff Havemeyer’s dad, fuck I-84, fuck Margot, fuck the linear flow of time, fuck everything, life is garbage and this is proof. Why is this happening to me?

Stop. Scan. Record. Lanky white-dude dreds fuckboy in a vest but no shirt.

Depression: Of course it’s happening to me, because I am garbage and this is proof, and whatever cosmic hazmat disposal dump site got its back end trapped in my camera would only open the gates to a warped maladjust like me.

Stop. Scan. Record. Old man on the bench with god-tier eyebrows and a yellow plastic sunflower in his lapel.

Bargaining: I’ll just watch this back tonight and whatever happens, afterward I’ll tip Big Edie in the bin and never tell anyone. And then I will straighten up and clean my apartment and go on Tinder and eat leafy greens five times a day and see Anika more often and make amends and buy an exercise bike. Okay, Elder AV Club Gods? Deal?

Stop. Scan. Record. Kid on a dirt bike with (elephants) puffins on her dress.

Acceptance.

Acceptance is Johanna sitting cross-legged (criss-cross applesauce) on Mapplethorpe’s bed while he snoozes jowlfully on the couch. She braces herself for red slicks of gore and bone. For Jeff and Anika redux. Once is luck, two is coincidence, three is a pattern … or at least time to wake up and smell what your inevitable descent into psychosis is cooking.

But that’s not what Big Edie has for her.

Not entirely, anyway.

Entropic Coding

Gloppy August sunlight washes out the image. Everything is overexposed, too bright, unforgiving. His thin chest rises and falls with his breath. He watches a small blue and white bird hop nervously down the iron rail of his park bench. A cerulean warbler, Johanna notes with supreme irrelevance. Closer to him, then further away, then close again. He crumbles a crust of brown bread on his tweedy knee and waits knowingly. This goes on long enough that Johanna starts to relax. It isn’t going to happen again. The bird will give in, and eat, and Johanna’s life will resume the program already in progress.

Then the sunlight cools, then it darkens, then it is a dim nothing-watt lamp with a tacky early 60's cherry pattern on the shade. The branches of black oak and Dutch elm in Owl’s Head Park still reach into the frame like kids who’ve spotted a news crew, showing off in the background, dying to get on TV. But the bench and the octogenarian perched on it have become a mustard-colored corduroy sofa and a young man with his head in his hands. Vaguely Scandinavian mid-century wooden end tables bookend the couch. A clock with thin brass spikes radiating out around it ticks over a clearly decorative fireplace. Above the man hangs a proto-Bob Ross painting of standard-issue lake/pines/mountain/lonely boat in a dizzying array of shades from brown to brown. Children’s toys cover the floor. At least one boy and one girl. Maybe more. Wooden blocks, a rocking horse with yellow yarn hair, green plastic army men. Donald Duck and Bugs Bunny and Snoopy staring lifelessly at the ceiling in a triple rictus of frozen grimaces. A book of Connie Francis paper dolls with most of the smiling valium-glazed Connies already carefully cut out hiding under the formica coffee table. A Funflowers Vac-U-Form Maker-Pak Johanna recognizes from a box of crap her grandmother let her play with the year they had to live with her because, no matter how she tried to pretend it was an adventure, her mother had no options left. You squeezed out perfumed lucite goo into molds and made “Daffy Dills” and “Tuffy Tulips” that looked like crystals in the sun until you got bored and broke a vase just to get some attention. A Spirograph and stacks of spiralled paper, scattered across the avocado shag carpet like ticker tape after the parade has gone. Like mystic offerings before the massive, inert cabinet television that probably weighs more than everyone who lives here put together. The kinds of toys you lift off a flea market shelf with joy and reverence, despite the peeling paint and chipped edges and missing vital organs.

But these are all new.

A wind moves through Owl’s Head Park and dappled shadows in the jaundiced light of the living room move across the man, the sofa, the table, the TV, the toys, the cherry lampshade.

The man on the yellow sofa looks up.

He is so young. Perhaps thirty-five, perhaps not even that. His incredible, architectural eyebrows are dark brown now; he has all his hair. He’s still wearing a suit, but this one has wide lapels, no tie, a plaid pattern that will crown endcaps in Goodwill until the sun burns out. He looks exhausted. Someone’s been smoking all night and it was probably him. maybe not just him. Butts overflow a pink pearlescent ashtray under the cherry lamp. About a third have frosted coral lipstick prints glowing on their filters, each one fainter than the last.

Johanna braces herself for the shard of glass or the ruination of his eye or gunshot or gas leak, whatever is about to break this poor soul in half. Her heart rate spins up into the rhythm of a jet propeller carrying her into nothing and nowhere. Her stomach muscles clench for impact.

But: the man gets up. Wipes his palms on his wrinkled pants. Walks across the room. Stops. Bends down to pull one perfect yellow Vac-U-Form Funflower out of the pile of misshapen attempts. Slides it into his lapel. The man leaves the house. He closes the door behind him so gently it doesn’t even click. No sound at all until his car engine starts outside, and then that’s gone too.

In the margins of the image, the cerulean warbler flies off with a cry. The shadow of his little body flickers over the empty room.

Fade out.

Fade in on the girl in the green skinny jeans and peasant blouse lying with her sketchbook under the willow tree.

Johanna makes it five people and ten minutes sixteen seconds deep by the overlarge alarm-clock-style timestamp before she scrambles off the dog bed and shuts the whole rig off.

An hour later, she gets out of bed and pads back to the living room on tiptoe, as if afraid to wake Margot’s brush. Blue light washes her cheeks and her hands and her walls and Johanna doesn’t move until it’s over.

Then she hits rewind and starts over from the beginning.

Image Burn

Mapplethorpe makes it another year before turning his creaky back on that big dog life. Since Johanna got to keep him through the quiet post-apocalypse of their union, they agreed Margot could have his ashes.

She looks the same. Just the same. As if Margot stepped out of the day she left and into today with no interruption in continuity. Johanna knows that dress, the navy blue vintagey thing with white piping and a little too much room in the torso, but that she refused to take in or give up on, because at thirty-seven, she might still have some growing left in her.

“Your hair,” Margot says softly. She steps gingerly over the map of cables and playback devices that have replaced living breathing life for Johanna and sits uncomfortably in the old bisque-colored armchair (falls asleep re-reading Harry Potter in it during a snowstorm five years ago; Johanna drapes a crocheted blanket over her and squeezes the bare foot hanging over the overstuffed arm gently, fondly). She sits as though she is trying to hover, as thought it might burn her to stay.

“What about my hair?”

“It’s … shocking.”

“It’s my hair.”

“I assumed you would have gone puce or checkerboard by now. Your actual hair hasn’t seen the light of day since high school as far as I know.”

Johanna only dimly recalls that she used to care about things like wilding her hair. It seems like a fact about a stranger. Like something she would see on Big Edie and use to pinpoint a date.

They make small talk. Margot is leaving the city soon. She’s bought a house in Providence with her wife, two blows Johanna absorbs expressionlessly as a cascade of words concerning Victorian architectural flourishes and small, private ceremonies patter down around her ears like raindrops. Mrs. Margot was apparently called Juniper, because of course she was, bet you call her June-bug too, gross. She was joining the obstetrics team at Rhode Island Hospital. Margot would teach very well-scrubbed scions of the even-better scrubbed at a private prep academy in the fall. Plant heirloom squash. Adopt three-legged rescue Labradors.

What are Johanna’s plans? If she has a gallery show before September, Margot would love to come. Anyone new in her life? How is Anika?

Well, Marge, I plan to shoot weddings and graduations and bar mitzvahs in which the cakes have significantly more artistic value than my entire self until I die alone pitched face-first into my takeout massaman with no dog and no stomach lining and no friends except a magic camera, can I get you a 40%-off Pinnacle buttered-popcorn-flavor vodka straight up, because that’s where I am right now.

But she doesn’t say that. She would never say that.

Instead, she decides to ruin Margot’s life. And in that moment, she genuinely believes it’ll work.

“Can I show you something?” Johanna says.

“Of course. Always.” Margot brushes her hair out of her eyes, now and a hundred thousand times in that chair, in this light. “New work?” Miss M was always her first audience, first viewer, the only other eye she trusted.

“Sort of. Mostly I just want you to tell me I’m not crazy.” And she doesn’t realize how entirely true that is until it’s out of her mouth and loosed on the dusty air.

Margot frowns. “You don’t look well. I didn’t want to say. Are you still drinking?”

Johanna laughs bitterly as she flips through the input options on the flatscreen. “Why would I not be drinking? Drink is friend.” She shoves delivery detritus off the couch to make a space: receipts, plastic bags, black takeout containers, breath mints and fortune cookies and after-dinner toffees.

And they watch together. Side by side. Just the same. Like it is before. Like she will pick up her purple brush again tonight and run it through her hair and come to bed and tomorrow will be years ago and the film of them will run forward from the splice.

Rather, Margot watches. And Johanna watches Margot.

The colors waver on her face like she’s underwater, staring up at the parade of strangers fading in and out before her.

The old man/young man on the park bench and the mustard-corduroy sofa.

The girl in the green skinny jeans under the willow and sitting at a bistro table with fake electronic candles as a man walks in, says her name uncertainly, kisses her cheek, orders an old-fashioned.

The guy with white-boy dreds and a vest with no shirt steps off a bike path and into a gorgeous apartment in no way decorated by a man who would wear a vest with no shirt even once, all minimalist monochrome, and a woman in pajama pants and jade chip earrings sobbing get out get out not one more minute I’m done get out.

A kid in a Spider-Man hoodie swinging upside down from a jungle gym and lying on his couch, a teenager, playing Madden on XBox, yelling to an invisible mother that he’ll mow the lawn, yeah yeah, just one more game.

And worse. A boy’s face fades into his forties on the subway. He asks why he’s being pulled over. A gash blooms on his beautiful brown neck. A student drinking alone in a bar ages fifteen years and loses twenty pounds between sips of house red. She waits for someone with frantic energy and when somebody shows up, gives her a little wax paper packet, leaves her to it, her fingers start to turn the color of corpses on the wine glass. A volunteer museum docent grows red rings and bags around his eyes but loses his wrinkles. Somewhere between the Ancient Greeks and Mesopotamian pottery, gets out of a Camry, locks it, and runs toward an appointment, wholly unseeing the baby in the backseat, asleep in a puffy lavender knitted hat.

“What is this?” Margot says. “Glitch art? Datamoshing? Like Planes and Jacquemin? What program did you use? It’s really seamless.”

“No program.”

“What do you mean ‘no program’? This is a practical effect?” Johanna chuckles mirthlessly. The screen shimmers. “Where did you find all these actors?”

“No, look, you’re not seeing. You have to look. The calendar in the apartment. The clothes the girl in the bistro is wearing. Do you recognize any of the players in that Madden game?”

“You know I don’t care about sports. I wouldn’t recognize any player’s name five minutes after I heard it.”

“Okay, fine. The song on the radio when the guy gets stuck in traffic.” She pauses it, waits for Margot to catch up, to see the faint cursive 2026-At-A-Glance calendar on the inside of the pantry door in that perfect sleek flat, the unfamiliar controls on the car dash. “I’ve never heard that song. You’ve never heard that song. Because that song doesn’t exist, on any service, in any catalogue, anywhere.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Come on, you couldn’t possibly know that for certain, Jo.”

But Margot doesn’t see. Margot isn’t Robert Ballard’s submersible lighting array. She doesn’t know how to crawl into an image and live there. What she does glimpse in Johanna’s pleading eyes is the weight of time. Time she has spent searching for these things, for connections, hoping, honestly hoping, to find that song buried on some indie compilation CD with some revoltingly photoshopped jacket art and a discount sticker. And a thousand other objects like it. Books on televisions, limited edition toys, tie-widths, license plates, worse, more scattered, atomized, randomized information that never coalesced into anything but Johanna’s increasing silence and solitude. She vibrates so intensely it looks like she is sitting still.

And so, slowly, knowing how it sounds, hating how it sounds, Johanna explains about Big Edie as more strange moments unfold before the not-really-that-long-lost love of her life; naked bodies, and there are a lot of them, in embraces violent and lovely or both or neither, strangers meeting, over and over, in different clothes, different hairstyles, different seasons, a child abandoned in an airport in Reno, calling for her mother, surrounded by slot machines ringing in cherries and oranges, tears rolling down her face. And at the end of the reel, Jeff and his glass heart, Anika and her shattered eye, the long staircase into images that has become Johanna’s life.

Margot says nothing for some time. It is a terrible, sour nothing that lingers far too long in the air between them.

“So you think your camera shows … what? Death?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. But not always, not even often, really.”

“Then what if not that? The future? Like the calendar.”

“That’s closer, I think. Better. But at least a third of them are the past.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, the man in the living room is 1970. You can tell by the Updike book on top of the TV. That was the first edition cover, and it’s pristine. You can figure it out, sometimes. If you care about these things. If you know too much about garbage. And you know I know too much about garbage, M.”

Margot smiles faintly, but it is very faint.

“But also I went back to the park and talked to the guy. His name is Antony.” Johanna scratches at the back of her hand. “Antony left his family. In 1970. Just up and walked out on Grace, Walt, Irene, and Amelia, who he’d married when she was fucking seventeen. The proverbial running out for a pack of cigarettes. Left them like they were just … a skin he was molting.”

Margot looks for a way to shut it off, but Johanna doesn’t help her find it. Why should Margot get to turn away from it? Why should she escape?

“Fine,” she says coldly. “What is it then?”

Johanna takes a deep breath. “So whenever you transfer or transmit or store data, especially a lot of data, like audio or video or both, it gets compressed, and in the process, you lose a little bit of it. Maybe a lot, like MP3s were always straight garbage compactors for sound. Maybe only a little bit. Maybe so little you wouldn’t even notice. But in order to fit the storage device or the bandwidth, in order to save information or share it, you have to … you have to harm it. And that creates distortion. Halos. Noise. Warping. Busy regions in the image. Blocky deformations called quilting, and visual echoes called ghosts. They’re called compression artefacts, and that’s … that’s what I think these are. Distortions created by the present and everything else getting compressed, crushed into one stream. Halos and noise and warps and quilts and ghosts. A lot of words for damage. Just damage.

“But the answer is: I don’t really know what it does. Technically speaking, it’s a problem of parallax. Catastrophic parallax. A vast difference between the apparent object and the actual object. And for awhile, I thought it showed the worst day of your life. Which, odds are, for some percentage of people, is going to be the day you die. But not for everyone. Not for Antony. See, nothing ever went right for him after he left. Two more divorces and a dried-up retirement fund. Grandkids he isn’t allowed to meet. Lung cancer he picked up working a big gorgeous free man’s HVAC repair shop. But it took him almost his whole life to understand any of it. To process where he fucked up. What he lost when he thought he was barreling down the highway to a big gorgeous free man’s life. Big Edie knew it in an instant. She had his number faster than a speeding therapist, and that number was 1970. So it seemed to make enough sense. When I shot old people, Big Edie usually spat out the past. Young people mostly turned up older on playback. The future. That kid playing Madden. Madden 23, to be exact.” She points to him on the projection. The hole in his sock. The length of his hair. The name on the Patriots’ QB jersey.

“Do you actually expect me to believe your camera recorded something in 2023? Jo, come on. I’m really busy, and frankly, I’m not in the mood.”

“Just listen. Because then there was this. A wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel and Lucy Vaclavik.” She fast-forwards through scene after scene. Johanna can tell just the sheer number of them is starting to look bad on her, and the manic sizzle in her voice isn’t helping, but she can’t stop herself.

The creams and golds and pops of understated rose-shades of a high-end matrimonial spread flood the screen. The bride waves her lily-dripping bouquet in the air. The Hudson River throbs with sunset behind her. Her hair sparkles with carefully applied glitter. Eyeliner and brows that date her nuptials as surely as a library stamp. Her new husband, in a grey tux, bends down to kiss her expertly neutral-frosted lips and their unified families clap like a gentle river of approval. The picture flows smoothly to the edge of the frame. No ghostly picture-in-picture. No shadows cast from other places, other times.

Margot smiles politely. Johanna knows she is losing her (has lost her). “I don’t get it.”

“I didn’t either,” she confesses softly. “I shot this no differently than the others. But what you see is what I saw. What Big Edie saw. No parallax. No difference in images. I rolled tape and the wedding marched right through the lens and back out again and it was just a wedding, no more or less. Nothing else has been like that. And the next day we got right back to business-as-horrible. I couldn’t figure it out. Why was it special? What was different? The thing is … he killed her. It made the news for about thirty seconds in April. They found her in the woods in Connecticut. But, you know, hedge fund guys aren’t that good at forensics, even if they’re 100% current on all CSI franchises, so they caught him pretty fast. So maybe … maybe Big Edie doesn’t record the worst thing that ever happened to you. Maybe it’s something so much smaller than that. The moment when the worst thing that ever happens to you sees you coming. Turns toward you in the dark. I think, once she married him, he was always going to hurt her. Because that was in him, an egg or a seed or a tumor, whatever you want to call it, a future that no longer has the option of not happening. The flowchart flows until you meet that person at that conference and then there’s no more choose your own adventure, you’re going to fall in love and they’re going to bankrupt you or betray you or just … disappoint you until there’s nothing left but cynicism swirling around at the bottom of your heart like tea leaves. Or leave you in the woods in Connecticut. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a huge ugly regret machine. And mostly I will never understand these. What happened to the Madden kid or the girl in the bar or why getting stuck in traffic on that particular day was so important to that man’s whole trajectory, or any of them, because that stuff doesn’t come across the AP like Mrs. Vaclavik. They’re just moments, unconnected, pulled free of every other moment.”

The wedding fades out and the two women wince together as a man they do not know pushes a woman they have never met against a wall. Blood trickles down her temple where she hit a picture frame and she looks up at him with unbelieving eyes.

“Enough,” Margot says. She grabs the remote. Shuts it all down. Turns to Johanna and touches her face. Touches her. No one has touched Johanna in a year. It is an alien burn. It is Margot. It is the past and the future and death, stroking her hair and making enormous eyes at her while the constituent atoms of their dog look on from the coffee table.

“I miss you so much,” Johanna whispers, and wishes she could have thought of something better, more elegant, more memorable, but her need banishes pretty words.

“Don’t,” Margot answers with finality. The finality of Providence, Rhode Island and heirloom squash varietals and Harrington Preparatory School and June-Bug and poor Mapplethorpe in a box.

“What do you think?” She cannot help that either, the need for her approval, her regard, the perfect full absent moon of her gaze on Johanna’s work, Johanna’s self.

“Honey … I think you need help. This is … this is nothing, J. It’s a bunch of slice of life shots of nothing in particular and three or four gory jump-scares. You taped over some movie of the week with a lot of nonsense. And I’m supposed to believe it’s what, magic? It’s you stalking strangers. Listen to yourself. Catastrophic parallax? You’re manic, you need care.”

But Johanna can’t hear that. “Okay, but that’s just exactly what I mean. Do you know what catastrophe means? It’s Greek. It just means a turn. A turn down or a turn under or a turn inside. A turn away.”

“Jo, this is basically a conspiracy theorist wall and you’re unspooling more red yarn. This is not an X-File. This is you not coping. As usual.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ll show you. Just stand over there, I’ll shoot you for a few minutes, a few seconds, and you’ll see.” And what will Big Edie see? Margot leaving that hot, humid, unretrievable night, Margot packing up boxes for Providence, Margot right now, right here, telling Johanna she will never believe her? One of them, maybe, surely. What else was even possible?

“No,” Margot whispers firmly. “You don’t need me. And you definitely don’t need to ride that camera any harder. I’m not going to enable this. You just need help, baby. Professional help. That’s all. I have to go.”

“Wait—”

“I have to go.”

There is a disentangling, a hurry to go back, edit, remove even the idea that physical contact was made. Margot excuses herself to splash water on her face and Johanna sees herself in the mute black monitor, sees as the ex-moon of her night sees: a woman so thin her clothes don’t fit, who smells sour, whose hair hangs limp and unwashed, whose face has grown lines it didn’t have even a few weeks ago, degradation lines, juddering through the frame of her face.

Margot emerges awkwardly, chagrined, her familiar elfin face not one cell altered from the day she left, her voice echoing against every surface: I’m so fucking lonely, Jo, I’m lonely even when you’re here. Especially when you’re here. I’m lonely right the fuck now and I’m looking at you.

She holds up something in her hand. Something purple. Something precious.

“Forgot my brush,” she says softly.

And then she is gone.

Ghosts

Johanna puts it off for a long time.

Why bother? What use could it possibly be to her? What use is any of this? You couldn’t do one single thing with it. The shot was too tight to predict the future. Fight crime? Protect the innocent? No. The camera crowded the subject, an unbearable idiot intimacy that took away everything but the seeing itself.

But eventually, she was always going to do it.

Johanna watches herself on the flatscreen. Watches herself get up in Big Edie’s face. Fix the focus, back up to sit on the same barstool that held Anika all those ages ago, shifting awkwardly as she looks into the lens like an actor breaking the fourth wall.

She knows what she will see. She is calmly certain of it. She shouldn’t have bothered running the tape back for this little screening. She saw it the first time, when she was seven. When she was thirsty in the middle of the night and padded quietly out of her room to get a glass of water. Out of her room and past her father sitting alone in his armchair, the moonlight crawling in after him through the window, grasping at him just before he shot himself and her life … turned. There never was any hope for her. She was turned before she got one foot in the world. It wouldn’t be a prettier shot now.

The compression artefact burns out from the center of her nuclear-powered selfie. Her stomach muscles seize up the way they do when she just barely reaches the tipping point of a roller coaster and enters freefall, down the rails into her old house, the rugs, the stain on the ceiling, the off-kilter hang of her bedroom door. Her father’s face. Her mother’s soft snoring from the bedroom.

But that’s not what she sees.

No moonlight. No armchair. No 3 a.m. drink of water in a seven-year-old girl’s hand. It is just Johanna, seafoam green hair and all, walking on the lovely light and dark stripes of green on a lawn in Ossining, in sunlight direct from a photography lab, approaching a quilt made of old T-shirts and the objects it carries. She bends down and presses her warm thumb into the patch of Hypercolor shirt, waiting for the fabric to change color, to unsuffer the damage of too-constant exposure to the very thing that it was designed to react with, which of course it will not, can not, ever again.

Johanna touches her own face on the television, that seafoam green girl who still had Margot and Mapplethorpe and opinons about everything, that familiar face, yet better-fed and better-loved and almost obscenely untroubled. An ancient version of herself, suddenly unearthed at the bottom of the sea.

Finite State Machine

Johanna puts Big Edie up on Craigslist, all her specs laid out like a personal ad: enjoys long walks on the beach, getting lost in the rain, composite video output, and turning everything you point me at into an avant-garde film-school short. If you can’t handle me being haunted, you don’t deserve me being way more work than the camera app on your phone.

She lowballs the price. She means it. She can change her artefact. She can let it all go, like Margot said. Get care. Be normal. Cope. She can take that moment in Ossining and make it nothing. Make it just another random memory on a compilation tape of the decades fading in and out, like the little tinseled cloud boy turning and turning on his forgotten school stage, meaningless, untethered, beautiful and sad and without connection to anything before or after.

And then anyone could. The boy who doesn’t want to mow the lawn. The girl meeting that man at the bistro. Lucy Vaclavik. Antony. Jeff. Anika. Anyone. The long white beam of the Argo’s exterior lighting array sweeping through that dark and missing the great hulking skeleton in the blackness, brushing gently by, just barely, just by inches, finding nothing but open water.

She doesn’t answer a single query.

Six months later, Johanna doesn’t even remember what it’s like to leave the house without Big Edie. The pockets of her original-issue carrying case bulge with new tapes.

#Catherynne M. Valente #Colour - Heat - And the Wreck of the Argo #short story #long post

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obligatorynasty · 5 years ago

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The Weight of the Knife, Part 2: Whetstone

Part: [1] [2] [3] | Read on: AO3 | WC: ~7k | Please excuse any typos.

Main Tags: BadBoy!Tony, Highschool AU, NFF, Angst, TW:Mentions of Blood, TW:Abuse, TW:Graphic Depictions of Violence, TW:Bullying, TW:Underage Drinking and Smoking, Bruises, Hangovers and Mentions of Puke, [Read all tags on AO3]

Dedicated to @starker-stories, whose love for this AU kept me motivated to write more.

~*6*~

With the sheen of the morning sun and the general lack of partygoers and trash in the front lawn, Steve’s house was actually much nicer than Peter remembered. A proper dose of suburbia, complete with a neutral color palette and a brick mailbox. In the driveway, Steve, Sam, Happy, and Rhodey were packing the cars. Pepper, Bruce, and Bucky were chatting on the porch, while Tony was parked near the curb, leaning against his car with a cigarette perched between his lips. As for Quentin, he hadn’t arrived yet and, for that, Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

As MJ parked her car and went to join the group on the porch, Ned and Peter hopped out to help move the groceries into coolers, grabbing handfuls of bags from the trunk and walking them up the driveway.

“Hey, Peter,” Rhodey greeted, a friendly smile on his face as he took the bags. “Thanks for inviting us to this.”

“Of course,” Peter nodded, trying on a smile of his own, hoping it came off as genuine. “You guys are Tony’s friends.”

“Speaking of Tony,” Rhodey handed the groceries off to Happy and ushered Peter away from prying ears, whispering a wary, “I don’t know what’s going on between you two but Tony is really beaten up about it.”

Peter’s fake smile dropped into a concerned frown as he stole a glance at the brooding bad boy. “Did he say anything?”

“It’s less of what he did say and more so what he didn’t,” Rhodey crossed his arms. “He’s been working on Jarvis non-stop, like no sleep, no talking, no nothing for the entire weekend. The last time he was like this was when Pepper dumped him. So, as his friend, I’m asking: did you dump him?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“No,” Peter answered without hesitation, shaking his head, eyes widening in worry, “Does that mean he’s... is Tony dumping me?” He whispered, his heart beginning to race as he nervously gripped at the bottom hem of his shirt.

“No, no way!” Rhodey shook his head, lightly laughing, “He would never. Not with the way he talks about you.” He placed a reassuring hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“What do you mean? He talks about me?”

“All the fucking time,” Rhodey explained. “He literally won’t shut up about you. So when he just stopped, I got worried,” He shrugged, gesturing over to Tony. “So can you go talk to him? See if you can stop him from being so angsty. Try to keep him from sucking the life out of the air.”

“I don’t know,” Peter sighed, shaking his head, “Talking has not gone well for us and I don’t want to start a fight, especially when everyone is trying to have a good time.”

“I see,” Rhodey nodded, eyebrows furrowing in thought before flashing a bright smile. “Then, if talking doesn’t work, just go over there and hug him or something. I’m sure that’ll work.”

“Wait, w-what?” Peter asked but Rhodey was already urging him towards the sidewalk, guiding him by the shoulders down the driveway, leaving him to take the final steps.

Peter hadn’t seen Tony all weekend; it was the first time that’s happened since they started dating. The older boy was wearing a black tank top, his arms exposed and crossed. Only moving them to toss the cigarette that was nothing but its yellow end. The sunglasses he wore were tinted so dark that Peter couldn’t see his eyes, but he guessed, by his relaxed chin and still face, that his eyes were expressionless.

“Hi,” Peter whispered, standing a couple of strides away, idly twiddling his fingers.

“Hey,” Tony’s voice sounded deeper than usual but Peter couldn’t tell why – if only he could see his eyes.

Peter gestured to the sunglasses, “Can you- um… take those off? Please.”

“Why?”

“Just because,” Peter mumbled, stepping towards his boyfriend with caution. Standing a mere inch away, close enough to inhale the lingering cigarette smoke and feel the heat of Tony’s body. “That okay?” He asked, eyes gentle and pleading.

Tony clenched his jaw, grumbling a short, “Whatever.”

Peter reached up, gently tugging the frames away from Tony’s eyes and frowning when he saw how red and puffy they were. The sight was heartbreakingly relatable. Over the weekend, Peter had cried in waves; tearing up at the thought of their arguments, or the bruise on his wrists, or the memories of their happier moments. He managed to hold back his emotions this morning because he had MJ and Ned to distract him but the state of Tony’s eyes had him biting the inside of his lip. He inhaled slowly, willing the emotions away and asking a careful, “Were you crying?”

“No,” Tony lied – blatantly lied – and didn’t bother coming up with an excuse either.

So Peter didn’t bring it up. Instead, he opened his arms and dropped his body against Tony’s, wrapping his arms around the older boy’s torso. It just felt right, even more so when Tony reciprocated. The hug was a wordless comfort; an apology through touch; a feeling of mutual understanding. An agreement to put it all aside; to enjoy their now and fix it later. Yes, they fought – yes, they were fighting – but this hug meant they still felt for each other and that made all the difference.

Peter nuzzled his face against Tony’s chest, relishing in the familiar comfort before gazing up at him, “Can we ride to the beach alone together?”

“Yeah,” Tony whispered, kissing Peter’s forehead and bringing a hand up to cup his face, using his thumb to caress his boyfriend’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Peter gave a solemn smile, “Me too.”

“Okay, lovebirds, that’s enough. We’re not done packing the cars yet. You can fuck each other later.” Rhodey interrupted, making the group burst into laughter.

And Tony laughed too, letting Peter put the sunglasses back before turning to Rhodey with a smile on his face. “Anything you say, Platypus.”

After that, the tension seemed to dissipate. Tony’s friends and Peter’s friends were peacefully mingling with each other, chatting and working to pack the cars. Everything was relaxed and fun and, for a brief yet amazing moment, stress free.

Then Quentin showed up.

“Hey guys!” He waved, stepping out of his car to introduce himself to Tony’s friends. He was bleeding charisma, managing to get some laughs as he helped put the remainder of supplies in his trunk before walking over to Peter.

“Hey, kid,” Quentin playfully smiled, throwing an arm across Peter’s shoulders like it was second nature. “How are you doing today? Is he giving you any trouble?” He asked, gesturing to Tony, who was visibly tense and scowling at Quentin like he was the scum of the earth.

“No,” Peter shook his head, awkwardly pulling away from Quentin’s hold and stepping closer to Tony.

Quentin audibly tsked, “Of course you would say that with him standing there.”

Tony flinched at that, briefly clenching his fist before taking a deep breath to calm himself. “I’ll be in the car.” He said, turning and walking towards his car

“Tones, wai-” Peter called out, being promptly cut off by the slam of the car door before turning his attention back to Quentin. “Honestly, Beck, you don’t have to worry about it. Me and Tony are just working through some stuff.”

Quentin sighed, “I get that but – I don’t know, Peter – he just seems dangerous. I’m worried that you’ll get hurt again.”

“I appreciate it but Tony isn’t dangerous,” Peter assured. “He’s more complex than that.”

“Fine but, at least, would you ride with me to the beach?” Quentin asked, grabbing Peter’s hand. “It will give me some peace of mind to know you’re safe.”

Peter quickly pulled his hand away, shrugging, “Sorry, Beck, I can’t. I already said I would ride with Tony and, like I said, he isn’t dangerous. I’ll be completely fine.”

Quentin clenched his teeth, “But you-”

“Okay everyone!” Steve interrupted. “We’re all set to go. Let’s try and get there before the sun goes down.”

With that, everyone piled into the cars, ready to road trip. Steve, Sam, Bucky, and Ned rode in MJ’s car and, naturally, Happy took Rhodey, Pepper, and Bruce. Peter was the only one left but his choice was made. Although he felt bad for leaving Quentin by himself, he would ride with Tony.

So Peter jumped into the passenger seat, wary at first that Quentin’s words had stoked a flame but happy to see Tony calmly selecting music. He smiled, soaking in the familiar scent of cologne and cigarettes, glad to be in Tony’s car without an argument brewing. Sounds of the whirring engine and the passing scenery were not as nerve-wracking with the gentle hum of his boyfriend’s singing. The moment was soothing and the temporary peace was the exact kind of comfort Peter needed. He was grateful. He really, really was – but he also wasn’t.

“Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m still upset,” Peter whispered. “It’s not going away.”

Tony nodded, breathing a deep sigh, “Yeah, me too.”

~*7*~

“Peter, wake up, we’re here.”

Peter roused from his slumber, lifting his head off the window and wiping a drop of drool from the corner of his mouth. He stretched, glancing at Tony as the car came to a stop in the driveway. “We’re here? How long was I asleep?”

“The whole ride,” Tony laughed as he pulled the keys from the ignition and reached across to fetch his cigarettes from the glove compartment.

“Oh,” Peter flashed an apologetic look. “Sorry, I should’ve stayed up to keep you company.”

“I didn’t mind. You’re cute when you snore, bab- uh... I mean, Peter.” Tony stumbled on his words, shaking his head as he exited the car.

And despite the awkward correction, those words were enough to make Peter’s face go warm, tinted pink in the evening sun as he stepped out of the car and into the sea-salted air.

The beach house was gorgeous with its glass-enclosed sun room, its soft pastel tones, and its large stilts to protect from the tides. The deck was well equipped with a fire pit, some lounge chairs, a grill, and stairs that led directly to the beach, which was by far the best part. The sand was picturesque – a perk of being on a privately maintained beach – and the water was a mesmerizing blue, at least in the orange hue of the budding sunset.

“Steve, this place is amazing!” Ned exclaimed as he ran up the front steps. “Let's hurry and swim before it gets dark!”

Peter laughed to himself as the group seemed to mobilize around that sentiment; unloading the cars in less time than it took to pack them and promptly settling sleeping arrangements. Naturally, Steve, Sam, and Bucky took the master bedroom, disappearing in there without question. Ned, Bruce, Rhodey, and Happy stole a room with two double beds, boasting about their en suite bathroom. As for the remaining three rooms, MJ and Pepper claimed one with a view of the beach, Quentin took the smallest one at the end of the hall, and Tony and Peter settled for the room with one window.

“This place is really nice,” Peter made small talk as he laid his suitcase against the floor of their room, unzipping it to unpack his things.

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, tossing his duffel bag to the floor before sitting against the edge of the bed. An uncomfortable silence washed over the atmosphere. The only sounds were the rustle of Peter’s bag and the whoosh of waves from beyond the window.

“Hey.” Tony broke the silence.

“Hm?” Peter turned towards his boyfriend, surprised to find an outstretched hand beckoning him to the bed. He didn’t question it. He simply made his way over, taking a seat next to Tony and glancing at him out the corner of his eye.

Without warning, the older boy clasped his hand in Peter’s, squeezing gently, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter breathed out, keeping his words scarce, fearful that more would cause their interaction to spiral.

For a few long minutes, Tony just held Peter’s hand, idly dragging his thumb back and forth, caressing the younger boy’s skin. Then, he skimmed his hand down towards Peter’s wrist, brushing his fingertips against the tender bruise before whispering, “Can I kiss you?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Peter assured, turning his head to be kissed but blushing when he realized what his boyfriend meant.

Tony didn’t lean in. Instead, he lifted Peter’s wrist and left a flurry of soft kisses on the bruise. Slowly trailing upward, peppering kisses across Peter’s palm and fingertips. He paused, whispering against Peter’s skin, “Can I touch you more?”

Peter gave a soft smile, “Yeah, Tones.”

And Tony smiled – but it wasn’t all happiness – no, somewhere in his eyes Peter could see the worry lurking. Even as he grasped Peter’s waist and pulled him into his lap, he was so oddly careful. Careful in the way he skimmed his fingertips against the tops of Peter’s thighs. Careful in the soft trail up Peter’s back and the faint grip on his sides. Careful in the way his eyes flickered between those big brown orbs and those smooth pink lips. Deathly careful in the tone of his voice, so tender and desperate, “I don’t want to upset you anymore.”

Those barely-there words were like sirens in Peter’s ears, leaving a twisting pain in his chest as memories of their fights flooded his thoughts. All the confusion, all the insecurity, all the hurt. Feelings so vivid in his mind as he pressed his lips against Tony’s, seeking comfort in the very source of all his strife.

Their kiss was gentle and innocent, paired with soothing touches that sent static tingles up Peter’s spine and a flurry of emotions that brought tears down his cheeks. Silently trickling from the corners of his eyes as he brought his hands up to caress the stubble along Tony’s jaw. Thumbing tiny circles into the older boy’s cheek, guiding their lips even closer before pulling away slow, hovering just beyond that sweet sensation.

A blink sent cascades of new tears down the contours of Peter’s face as he stared into the pools of anxiety that were his boyfriend’s eyes. “I’m so mad at you,” He whispered against Tony’s lips, his voice shaky as the taste of warm breath and tears swirled inside his senses. “But I’m weak,” He breathed out a soft, defeated laugh. “I’m so fucking weak for you, Tony.”

For a moment, Tony’s lips trembled, parting and closing as if to vet the words that lay beneath. “I-” He spoke, his face hot against Peter’s fingertips before he tucked his forehead against his boyfriend’s collarbone, tightening his hold to further convey the message of his simple, yet curated words. “I missed you.”

Peter smiled through his tears, bringing his hands to Tony’s dark locks, threading his fingers through to the nape of his neck, where he rubbed mindless shapes into the flushed skin. “I missed you too, Tones.”

“And I’m so lucky to have you,” Tony muttered, his breath tickling the curve of Peter’s neck.

“But you hurt me,” Peter’s voice was borderline unstable and each deep breath he took only caused more tears to flow. “You have to tell me why. Please.”

Tony inhaled and held it, lifting his head and locking gazes with Peter, revealing the single tear stain that streaked across his cheek. As he exhaled, he struggled against the wetness pooling on his lashes, “Because I’m broken... and jealous—”

“Tony,” Peter breathed out, worry painted across his tone.

“—and everything was so out of control.” Tony paused, clenching his teeth and taking another breath. “The shit at home has gotten bad and seeing you with Quentin scared me,” His hands trembled against Peter’s skin, “It made me feel like you didn’t want me anymore.”

“Tony," Peter gave a small, reassuring smile. "You’re the only one I want.”

“But I’m scared you’ll leave.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah.”

The next moments were filled with nothing but the echo of heartbeats and breaths as they embraced not only each other but the breakthrough they yearned for. A conversation that ended without anger; a conversation they needed; one they craved.

Yet again, Tony was the first to break the silence. This time with a more lighthearted tone. “You look hot today.”

“You like the shirt?” Peter softly giggled, wiping the tears from his face, “May bought it so I could look floral and beachy.”

“You look so cute in it, baby,” Tony smiled, pressing a kiss against Peter’s cheek.

“T-Tones,” Peter stuttered, averting his bashful eyes.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, do you know that?”

“Tony-”

“Do you?”

“Yes!” Peter laughed. “You tell me all the time.”

“Yeah, but it’s still not enough,” Tony grinned, squeezing his arms where they sat at Peter’s waist. “You’re beautiful, baby.”

“Thank you,” Peter’s laughter trailed off as he pressed a kiss to Tony’s forehead. “Now, I don’t want to ruin this mood, but we should probably join the others.”

“Or we could stay here,” Tony’s tone dropped low, husky and tempting against Peter’s ear. “And you can let me apologize to you properly.”

Peter’s breath hitched in his throat, “W-We shouldn’t r-right now.”

“Not right now, hm?” Tony whispered against the skin beneath Peter’s ear, “What if I say I’ll do anything you want?”

Those words sent chills across Peter’s skin. “A-Anything?”

“Anything you want, baby boy,” Tony assured.

A small whine escaped Peter’s lips as he posed a shaky, “Later t-tonight?”

Tony smirked, grazing his hand against his boyfriend’s inner thigh, “If you can even last till then.”

Peter’s face exploded in a dark blush. “I c-can!” He exclaimed, sliding off of Tony’s lap and walking over to his suitcase to grab his swim shorts, facing the wall to hide his embarrassment.

Tony snorted, “Whatever you say, baby.” The bed creaked as he stood and in a few short steps, his palms were pressing against the wall on either side of Peter’s frame. “But if that changes—”

Peter spun around, intending to interrupt but being dazed by the sight in front of him. Somewhere between the bed and wall, Tony had managed to remove his tank top. Fuck.

“—I’ll be here to help in any way I can,” Tony whispered, staring at Peter with a suggestive glint in his eyes as his tongue shot across his bottom lip. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Peter squeaked, his face much redder than before as he ran off to the bathroom to change.

In the honesty of the bathroom mirror, Peter could see how much of an impact Tony had on him; from flushed face to racing heart to budding erection. It was actually a nice feeling; to have that pain, which lingered inside him over the weekend, slowly evaporating. To know the bruise on his wrist would be easier to bear. To feel that his strife wasn’t eternal. It was nice.

Peter changed into his swimwear, opting to leave his floral shirt on but unbuttoned. He splashed his face with cold water and took a few deep breaths, calming his arousal before journeying back across the hall to their room.

Tony was lounging across the bed, shirt still off, swiping through his phone. “You could’ve got changed in here.”

“No, I couldn’t have,” Peter laughed. “And you know it.”

Tony gave a sly grin, “Yeah, probably not.”

“What are you looking at?” Peter asked as he tossed his clothes atop his suitcase. “Aren’t you going to come swim?”

“I will. I’m just checking this notification about Jarvis.”

“What about him?”

“I spent a lot of time improving him this weekend,” Tony explained. “Upgrading his processing and, before I left, I ran some diagnostics.”

“Is everything working fine?”

“Yeah, he can even access Stark Industries now,” Tony smiled. “I’m a genius.”

“Okay, mister genius,” Peter rolled his eyes and couldn’t help but to grin, “I’m going to go swim so hurry up and get changed!” He giggled at Tony’s lazy Yes sir! as he exited the room and headed out the backdoor to the deck area.

Outside, nearly everyone was in the water or on the beach, save for the small group standing around the grill. Music, that Peter could only categorize as beach vibes, was pumping through the giant standing speaker Bruce brought. And the smell of grilled vegetables and barbecue permeated the salty air. This was the most spring break of a spring break trip Peter has ever taken and honestly, he couldn’t complain.

As Peter approached the grill, Bucky and Sam started whistling, playfully catcalling him. “Someone looks real glowy,” Bucky mentioned, gesturing up and down Peter’s body.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, lightly laughing along. “Some might call it that after-sex glow.”

“Guys,” Peter covered his face, “We didn’t!”

“Sure you didn’t,” Bucky teased.

“What didn’t you do?” Quentin asked, walking over with Steve, who was carrying a nearly empty platter of grilled kabobs.

“You see, Peter took so long because he was fu-” Sam began.

“I was nothing!” Peter interrupted, shooting Sam an exasperated look. “Let’s not talk about me,” He shook his head, nervously smiling, “Let’s talk about this food! It smells delicious.”

“You want some?” Quentin offered, grabbing the last kabob from the platter and holding it up to Peter’s mouth. “Have a bite.”

“Um, o-okay,” Despite being caught off guard, Peter took a quick bite, enjoying the savory flavors as it was fed to him and pulling away with a smile. “Wow, the sauce is good, guys!”

Sam sighed, shaking his head, “Quentin, you really have bad timing, bro.” He pointed to the back door, where Tony stood staring at the scene.

“Whatever, man,” Quentin just scoffed, unbothered, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

But Peter froze, watching as the bad boy strolled towards them, genuinely worried that he would be set off again by Quentin’s actions. “Hey, Tones, we were jus-!”

Without warning, Tony grabbed Peter by his waist and leaned in, licking some stray sauce from the corner of Peter’s mouth. The sight made Steve, Sam, and Bucky erupt into a symphony of Oooo’s and oh shit’s but, most importantly, laughter.

Tony pulled away, smirking at the flush on his boyfriend’s face. “That is good, did you make that Rogers?”

“Yeah,” Steve said through his laughter. “Well played, Tony.”

“I try,” Tony shot a smug grin towards Quentin, whose face had dropped into a scowl.

And Peter had no time to respond before Ned and MJ were calling him to get in the water and enjoy your spring break, dude!

~*8*~

After swimming and dinner and a fair amount of relaxation around the fire pit, the night began to spiral. Sam and Rhodey were pushing for drinking games because what’s the point of all these handles if we’re not going to get fucked up. It was a compelling argument. One that had them taking penalty shots if they uttered the word ‘cup’ during any game and gave rise to the chaotic drunk duo of Ned and Happy.

Peter learned a lot from these games, like how inexplicably well MJ could hold her liquor or how drunk Bruce could solve high-level calculus in his head without paper or a calculator. Then there was Steve, Sam, and Bucky’s shameless demonstration of a three-way kiss and, after a hilarious body shot dare, there were also lighthearted jokes about Rhodey’s huge crush on Pepper. However, to Peter, the best moment was watching Tony beat every single guy in the room at arm wrestling, especially Quentin.

As the festivities died down, Peter realized something a little later than he should have. He was hammered; smashed; thoroughly fucked up; wasted; trashed; drunk and, subsequently, super fucking horny.

Was alcohol supposed to work like this? Peter really didn’t know but something about Tony’s lap looked so inviting. All the bad boy was doing was sitting, arms resting across the top of the couch, knees parted for comfort – he was even wearing a shirt now – but Peter’s mind had ventured somewhere perverted; somewhere with that shirt off and thrown against the floor.

Suddenly, Peter was much closer than he was before. Fuck, how did he get here? Did he crawl over? He didn’t know, but that grin on Tony’s face definitely reads my boyfriend just crawled across the floor and has taken refuge between my legs. Peter giggled, his tone slurred and playful, “You want me to suck your dick, don’t you?”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Tony grinned as he leaned forward, elbows against knees, bringing a hand to Peter’s flushed face.

“Yes,” Peter hummed, nuzzling Tony’s palm.

Tony gave a low, amused laugh, “Right here, in front of everyone, that’s what you want, baby?”

Oh, right. They weren’t alone. Peter glanced around the room. Most of the group had dispersed, but sitting on the adjacent couch were Steve, Sam, and Bucky. Judging by the litany of empty cans and bottles around them, they were all clearly beyond their buzz too. “Is that what you want, Tony?” Peter bit his lip and smiled, his body rocking back and forth to compensate for his spinning head.

Steve snorted, “No sucking dick in the living room unless it’s my dick.”

“I’ll suck your dick, doll,” Bucky whispered, slowly trailing his fingers down Steve’s chest.

“James, babe, don’t tease me.” Steve laughed.

Peter giggled, “You call him James?”

“What? Like you don’t call him Anthony when you’re alone.” Sam quipped.

“I don’t,” Peter pouted up at his boyfriend. “Why don’t you let me call you, Anthony?”

“I just hate how it sounds,” Tony shrugged as he gently caressed Peter’s warm face.

“Oh, okay, then I won’t,” Peter nodded, his eyes fluttering closed as he leaned into Tony’s touches. “I like calling you Tones more anyway.”

“Yeah?” Tony smirked, moving to drag his thumb across Peter’s lips. “What else do you like?”

Peter whined and, if he wasn’t so filled with liquid courage, he wouldn’t have dipped his lips around Tony’s thumb and sucked the way he did. He wouldn’t have swirled his tongue around it or moaned on it. He wouldn’t have pulled off with a pop or given it so many tiny licks. He wouldn’t have done all those things if his body wasn’t as warm and as woozy as it was.

“Holy shit,” Sam mumbled with an incredulous look on his face. “That’s-”

“Hot,” Steve interjected.

Bucky shook his head, “Fucking hot.”

“They’re complimenting you, baby,” Tony whispered as he skimmed his fingers down Peter’s chin and stopped against his nipple, massaging the pad of his now wet thumb against the nub. “How’s that make you feel?”

“Good,” Peter softly moaned, leaning into the gentle pleasure his boyfriend gave.

Tony smiled, using his free hand to card through his boyfriend’s hair, “You should thank them then.”

Peter’s already flushed face went a deeper shade of red and his voice dropped to a murmur, “Um… But I-I’m...embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” Tony smirked, pointing to the very enraptured group of drunk teens. “Look, they can’t wait to hear you say it.”

“Okay,” Peter whispered, turning towards them with his chin tilted towards his chest. “T-Thank you...um, Steve, Sam, Bucky...for the compliment.”

“Stark, you’re killing me here,” Steve groaned, dropping his head against the back of the couch as Sam placed a hand over his mouth like he was trying to conceal a grin.

“Of course, doll,” Bucky replied with a smile. “You’re so cute, how could we not?”

“Agreed!” It was Quentin, entering the room with slurred speech and a mischievous smile. “Peter is cute. Really fucking cute.” He stressed, rounding the couch and taking a seat beside Tony and Peter.

Tony grimaced, pulling his hand away as he stood, “Peter, get up. Let’s go to our room.”

“What? No. Go ahead and continue the show, Stark, don’t mind me,” Quentin said as his eyes dropped to Peter. “I would love for Peter to thank me too.”

Tony inhaled sharp, muscles tensed with anger, “Don’t test me.”

“No, Tony,” Peter whined, gently tugging at the ankle of his boyfriend’s sweatpants. “Don’t be mad. Beck is nice to me.”

“See, Stark?” Quentin flashed a smug grin. “I’m nice to him. So relax. How about we have a drink, hm?” He offered, reaching to the bottles strewn about the coffee table and grabbing a nearly empty tequila. “We can finish this off.” He took a large swig before offering it to Peter. “Here, kid.”

“Thanks,” Peter mumbled, taking a swig of his own, the taste leaving his face twisted in discomfort. “That’s gross!” He exclaimed, hiccuping a couple times and causing everyone to laugh. Except for Tony.

“Peter, seriously-!” Tony snapped, reaching to pull the bottle away, surprised when Peter dodged him.

“No!” Peter slurred, clutching the bottle to his chest. “You said you wouldn’t make me mad anymore. So stop!”

Tony clenched his fists, trying to hold back his anger, “Don’t do this right now.”

“Hey, he said stop,” Quentin interjected, standing from the couch and facing Tony with irritation in his eyes. “So why don’t you stop being such a fucking dick?”

Tony seethed, “I swear if you open your fucking mouth again-”

“You’ll what?” Quentin challenged. “You obviously got a problem with me, Stark, so do something!” Quentin scoffed, arms outstretched like he was inviting Tony to hit him.

“No, don’t fight,” Peter urged, his brow furrowed and his lips in a pout, as he stood up a bit too fast, dropping the bottle and stumbling forward, careening face-first against Quentin’s chest.

“Well, hello there,” Quentin laughed, hands reactively clutching at Peter’s bare sides. “You feel just as nice as you look, sweetheart.”

And that was it.

Tony lost it.

The shock of the punch was enough to make Quentin drop Peter, who staggered away from them and tripped on the corner of the coffee table. And, as their battle raged on, Peter was falling, colliding against the floor with a loud thud! but even that wasn’t enough to stop their brawl. Things started to get hazy after that. Flashes of Tony wailing on Quentin, hard enough to make his nose bleed, and glimpses of the frantic way Steve and Sam tried breaking up the fight.

“Peter? Hey! Peter, get up! Peter,” Bucky was at his side – oh god, stop shaking me.

“Peter!” Somewhere in the haze, he could hear MJ too. “What the fuck are you idiots doing?!” She sounded pissed. “What happened to him?!” And worried. “Peter! Peter! Oh my god, he’s not waking up. Bucky, help me carry him.”

“Wait, no, MJ, let me help, I’ll-” Tony is so sweet. Yes, help her.

“No!” MJ yelled, “Stay the fuck away from him until you get your shit together, you violent prick!” Fuck, that was a little harsh, MJ.

And then things went dark.

~*9*~

The next morning, Peter’s head was heavy, pounding like he had walked through a construction site and slept next to a running jackhammer. The daylight burned his corneas and – oh no, oh god – nausea hit him like a wave. With a hand over his mouth, he shot up, eyes scanning the room for a place to hurl, surprised to find a conveniently placed trash directly beside the bed. In the next moment, he was puking but it came out clear like he had chugged a ton of water. He groaned, holding his queasy stomach, attempting to collect his bearings. Noting two very important things: one, he was in Ned’s room, and two, hangovers were not to be taken lightly. What the fuck happened last night?

“Oh good, you’re up,” MJ said as she ambled into the room, her face disappointed and her arms crossed. “You really fucking scared me, Peter.”

“Me too, dude,” Ned said, strolling in behind her. “I’m filing an official complaint. Drunk me does not handle stress well.”

Peter laughed but the pressure in his temple left him wincing, “What happened?” He asked, his voice groggy as he fell back against the bed.

MJ sighed like she had been through hell, “You almost died—”

“Okay, that’s an exaggeration,” Ned clarified.

“—and your violent boyfriend fought the new kid.”

“MJ, we’ve been over this, he isn’t violent,” Peter sighed, pausing as he processed what else she said. “Wait, is Tony okay?”

MJ dropped her face against her palm, “Of course he’s fine! You should be asking about Quentin, you know, the one with the black eye!” She pinched the bridge of her nose, “Fucking hell, why do I even try?”

“They’re both okay,” Ned continued. “They didn’t fight that much, especially after you got sick and MJ bitched them out.”

“Oh god,” Peter let out a frustrated groan. “Is everyone else okay?”

“Yeah, Tony went out with his friends and I think Steve and the guys are outside swimming,” Ned explained. “We’re about to head to the store to grab some ice cream for everyone, so-”

“So, you need to go and apologize to Quentin,” MJ pressed. “He hasn’t been out of his room since last night.”

“Do I have to?” Peter complained, pulling the covers over his head in a sad attempt to hide from his problems.

“Yes!” MJ grabbed Peter’s arm and yanked him upright. “Go clean yourself up and apologize. I’m serious, Peter.”

“Ugh...fine,” Peter grumbled, reluctantly grabbing his puke trash can and following them out the room. “But what do I even say to him? I’m sorry you picked a fight you couldn’t win?”

MJ physically cringed, raising her voice in anger, “How about sorry my violent boyfriend beat the shit out of you?!”

“He’s not violent!” Peter snapped back, clearly exasperated, “Beck must’ve done something.”

“Quentin has been nothing but nice to you! Sure, he’s a flirty little shit, but that alone doesn’t make him worthy of getting his face kicked in,” MJ retorted. “You invited him on this trip, Peter. You made that choice!” She pointed at him, finger against his chest. “So take some fucking responsibility! And, just so we’re clear, you are not allowed to say Tony isn’t violent when I literally watched him give Quentin a black eye last night!”

Peter was floored by his best friend’s words, guilt filling his body as he stumbled to respond, “I- um...shit. MJ, I didn’t think- I’m sorry… I'm sorry you had to see that and I get it. You’re right.”

Ned nodded, placing a hand against Peter’s shoulder. “She usually is, dude.”

“I’ll talk to Beck,” Peter decided as he gestured to himself. “Right after I decontaminate.”

“Good, because you smell,” MJ said, smirking at the disgruntled face Peter made. “Also, so you can’t chicken out, figure out what kind of ice cream Quentin wants and text us,” She added just before disappearing down the steps with Ned.

Peter let out another long groan as he stalked into the bathroom to wash the trash can. Seeing himself in the mirror was awful, more awful in the bright lights above the vanity. His hair was a mess and, despite not having a shirt on, he was visibly sweaty. “Ugh,” Peter grumbled as he ran to grab his toiletries before hopping into the shower. His head still felt terrible, made worse by the thought of having to function for the remainder of the day. So, as he enjoyed his shower, he found himself swearing he wouldn't drink like that again.

After he got dressed and took the aspirin MJ kindly left on his nightstand, Peter made the journey to the room at the end of the hall. Pausing for a few beats before knocking on Quentin’s door. “Hey, Beck, it’s me, can I come in?”

A muffled Yeah came through the door, so Peter pushed it open, not at all fazed by the purple-ish bruise surrounding Quentin’s eye. “How are you?”

“Perfectly fine,” Quentin snarked, patting the bed beside him. “Your boyfriend has a good right hook.”

“And a good left,” Peter joked as he scooted onto the bed, pausing before beginning his apology. “Look, I’m sorry that Tony did that to you. It was wrong and I’ll talk to him about it.”

“It’s fine,” Quentin shrugged, turning against the bed, facing Peter. “Honestly, I probably deserved it.” He said, his eyes filled with worry. “I could’ve backed off but I just don’t like the way he talks to you.”

“What do you mean?” Peter squinted, still unsure about the specifics of last night.

“He’s dangerous, Peter, and I’m worried about you,” Quentin stressed. “You’re so amazing and kind, but also really funny and bold. You use words over fists and, I mean, you’re beautiful, like really, insanely beautiful.”

Peter blushed – much like he had done in the hallway after his and Beck’s first day together. Only, this time, Peter knew it definitely wasn’t infatuation. “Beck, I d-”

“I like you, Peter,” Quentin interrupted, reaching for Peter’s hand and interlocking their fingers. “I like you so much and, I’ll admit, seeing you with Tony makes me do stupid shit like fight but I just-”

“Beck,” Peter interrupted and took a slow breath, wanting his words to be as gentle as possible. “I’m sorry but I don’t like you in that way.” He began, “You’re nice as a friend but I’m in a relationship with Tony. I need you to understand that.”

“But are you happy with him?” Quentin challenged. “Didn’t he make you cry? Didn’t he hurt you?”

“Yes,” Peter gave a solemn nod, gently pulling his hand away from Quentin’s.“We had a bad fight but that’s part of it.” He shrugged, “I like him enough to work through stuff like that.”

Quentin sighed, falling back against the bed with a loud huff, “Not going to lie, my heart is a little broken right now.”

“I’m sure it’ll get better,” Peter smiled, trying to exude ease in his expression. “And if you ever feel comfortable enough, friendship will always be on the table. I mean, you saved me from Loki and we have so much in common.”

“A consolation friendship?” Quentin scoffed, a smile of disbelief planted firmly on his face. “I guess it’s better than nothing.”

“Well, if you don’t take it, all you would have is a black eye, so…”

“Hey!” Quentin exclaimed, laughing and playfully chucking a pillow at Peter. For a moment, he seemed fine but then his voice trailed off into a whisper and he rolled over, burying his face against the covers. “Hey Peter, I kind of want to cry my eyes out right now, so could you…”

“Oh, um… Yeah! S-Sorry, I’ll leave,” Peter stammered, shooting up from the bed and heading out the door.

And he made it all the way down the hall. He made it to his room. He made it to his bed. It was handled. Completely over and done. But a text from MJ had him rushing back. A simple question about ice cream had him standing in front of Quentin’s door.

At first, a whispered, “Hey Beck, MJ wants me to…” Then a pause as Peter listened; as Peter heard, yet again, betrayal. This time to the tune of one Quentin Beck.

Yes, I just tried that. It seems the Parker kid is actually in love with your son.

Yes, I’ve maintained a connection. We’re friends.

Yes, absolutely sir. I’ll check back in if anything changes over the week.

No, thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Stark. I won’t let you down.

~*10*~

Peter found that ugly sobbing was easier to do alone. So, for the remainder of the morning, he held nothing back. Not the infuriated screams into his pillow. Not the weak laughter at events so difficult to understand that they brought him to hysterics. Not the moments of silence, where he would ball his fists and fight the urge to do uncontrollably dark things. Not the tears, not the panic, not the ounces of fear that laid dormant within him.

But then Peter did; he held back those feelings, knowing he needed to pull himself together; grip his proverbial bootstraps and retaliate smart. So, while he cried into the void of his pillowcase, he also thought and considered and plotted. Like sharpening a blade on a whetstone, he planned and pictured the outcome over and over and over again until he was satisfied. Until he felt it was perfect enough to protect–

“Tony,” Peter gasped, surprised when he turned over to find his boyfriend standing by the door, watching with horror as tears flowed down Peter’s face. It was silent for a few moments of eye contact and shock, then Peter moved, sitting against the edge of the bed.

“P-Peter,” Tony’s voice trembled as he approached, dropping down onto his knees in front of Peter. “Hey, baby,” He breathed, gingerly cupping his hands on Peter’s arms. “I’m sorry...again. I know, I lost control, but I-”

Peter shook his head, “Tony-”

“Wait,” Tony interrupted, gazing up at Peter like a dog with its ears down. “Please don’t be upset. I know I messed up but please-”

“Tony, stop. It's not-”

“Peter, please don’t.”

“Don’t? What are you-?”

“Don’t break up with me,” Tony pleaded, a tear running from the corner of his eye. “Please.”

The sight of Tony’s single tear made ten times that amount fall from Peter’s eyes, but he shook his head, his voice rough from the sobs, “I’m not breaking up with you, Tony.”

“Really?” Tony breathed with disbelief, frantically searching Peter’s expression for the truth. “Then why are you crying?”

Peter gave a weak laugh and a flurry of more tears. “I’ll explain but I need to borrow Jarvis first.”

Tony was confused but wasted no time in handing his phone over. “Why do you-?”

“Just trust me,” Peter sniffled. “This is the only way I can know for sure.” He looked down at the phone, “Jarvis, give me everything Stark Industries has on Quentin Beck.”

“What?” Tony instantly reacted, shoulders tensing at the mere mention of his father’s company in relation to his rival. “Why?” A confusion so strong that it almost looked painful. “Why the fuck would Beck be in the Stark database?”

“Because,” Peter began, one hand trembling around the phone and the other trembling where it clutched to Tony’s arm. “He works for your dad,” He turned the phone, revealing Quentin’s employee file. “He’s being paid to break us up.”

“I’ll kill him.” A whisper that brought forth a rage that brought forth a fire.

Tony stood, body so tense that Peter could see the veins in his arms. He was seething, filled with pure hatred. He moved to his bag first, dumping the contents onto the floor until a very familiar butterfly knife clattered against it. In moments, the closed knife was in his hand and he was barreling towards the door, propelled by anger.

But Peter stepped in the way, pushing his hands against Tony’s chest. “Wait! You can’t, Tones!”

“No! Get the fuck out of my way, Peter!” Tony screamed, face going red in his outrage. “Get off!” He pushed Peter aside in one controlled shove. “He did this shit on purpose! He messed with us on purpose! He needs to pay!”

“I know!” Peter screamed back, throwing himself against Tony and locking his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. “Tony, I know, but you can’t,” He pleaded, “Not in front of everyone!”

“Fuck that!” Tony snapped, trying to pull Peter off of him. “I’m going to break every bone in his fucking body!”

“You can’t!” Peter screamed once more, fighting against Tony’s strength with everything in his power.

“Why?! Why the fuck can’t I, Peter?!” Tony yelled, tossing the knife against the far wall in anger. “He’s gone too far!” He struggled more, pushing at Peter’s shoulders. “He deserves this, Peter, he- fuck,” He cursed, his strength waning as Peter held fast. “He fucking-” His voice was a whisper then, “He fucking takes everything,” He stressed, gasping before the tears came, no longer talking about Quentin Beck. “I’m just his fucking punching bag. Nothing I do is good enough."

And Peter looked up, bewildered as Tony’s breaths became sporadic; as his voice started to shake; as his eyes glossed over with a cloud of tears; as those tears slid down his terrified face; as he fully broke down. Relaxing in Peter’s hold, weakly dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s waist, sobbing into his t-shirt.

“Mom is gone because of him,” Tony cried. “He controls everything. Everything! And he won’t even let me have the one fucking thing that makes this all worth it. Why is he trying to take you away too?”

Peter was quiet, letting the tears soak against him and realizing very quickly that this was the real weight of his knife. It was not to be some limiter for an unhinged delinquent; some purveyor of a faulty justice, deciding who gets cut down and when. It was this. This weakness in the blade; the part of it that was the most vulnerable; the part that, if struck, would crack the knife into a million pieces. It was Peter’s job to protect that part; to bear that weight; to hold the knife with intention.

“Don’t worry, Tones,” Peter whispered, pressing a kiss atop Tony’s head. “I’m not going anywhere and I promise I’ll take care of this.” He smiled, cupping his boyfriend’s face. “I’ll take care of you, just like you take care of me.”

Read Part 3: Here.

#starker #peter parker x tony stark #badboy!tony au #obligatorywrites

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whynotgio · 4 years ago

Text

A Walk In The Park.

Sunlight tries to penetrate the dark recesses of my mind, good luck. Blackout curtains cover my eyelids, ear sockets, nose pits and mouth hole. Ain’t no sunshine getting in here, ever. A low growl builds from outside the door. No Homie. Another growl followed by light whimpers and scratches. Homie chill out.

Anyway, sunlight penetrates the duct taped blackout curtains- no wait that’s not it. Sunshine tries to penetrate the dark- Bark. Damnit, Homie be quiet! The entire door frame rattles from the weight of the demon trying to get inside. Bark! Bark!

Fuck okay Homie hold on! The door swings open and the beast is on top of me before I know it. Homie get down! Saliva and slobber shoot from his mouth and land on my face. The smell is disgusting but I can’t help but laugh. Alright bro that’s enough come on. He’s laughing too, but his accident prone canines are getting a bit too close for comfort. It never really occurs to me how strong Homie actually is until I’m trying to get him off of me. Or whenever he sees Linda’s pomeranian.

I wriggle out from under him and roll off the bed to start my day, unfortunately he doesn’t get the memo. He lies on his stomach still as a rock, eyeing every movement I make, just waiting for his chance to pounce. Homie...Chill out. His tail starts wagging against the wall hard enough for my next door neighbor to think I were hanging up a picture frame. Shit. I’m careful not to make any sudden movements, slowly looking over to the dusty alarm clock on the computer desk. 5:09PM. Shit. The semi open journal on the naked mattress displays today's half baked attempt at poetry.

Something scary is happening,

And it will not be ignored.

I don’t know where or when it’ll strike

So I’m prepared to leave at any moment.

Knife, Rope, Water, Medicine.

These are my survival tools.

God I can’t believe I spent all day working on that. Alright Homie, my fault. I reach over to pet his head and he snaps out of defensive position to meet me halfway. Let’s get you outside before you pee the bed.

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It feels good to be outside. The air is crisp with that east coast pre-winter breeze, where it’s cold enough to see your breath but nice enough to smoke a blunt. I like days like this, brings back memories of cutting class just to hang out behind the school. Why didn’t we ever go anywhere? Homie’s loving it too but I don’t think the weather really matters to him, he just likes being outside. Kinda like those oldheads who always sit in front of the building. I'm pretty sure those lawn chairs they sit in have been there longer than them.

Homie peed already, 3 times to be exact. Now he just has to poop. I used to hate this part, our first few walks would take hours because he couldn’t find a good place to do his business. But that was like 2 years ago, before we really got to know each other. Now I usually just go in my head and let Homie lead the way. As long as we stay away from big crowds and he gets to sniff every inch of the sidewalk, our walks go off without a hitch. Sometimes he gets fixed on a leaf or something and we have to come to a complete stop, like right now.

Looks like Homie led us right to the block I usually try to avoid. He’s got his nose inside a crumpled paper bag, most likely smelled an old churro or something, We got food at home leave that shit alone. This area really isn’t too bad but I’ve got some bad experiences here. Come on Homie let’s go. Better safe than sorry.

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Alright once we get upstairs the plan is to shower, clean the room, make something to eat and finally finish today's poem. Poetry usually flows right out of me- yeah yeah gay I know- but for some reason this one is giving me some trouble. Kind of feels like I've been working on it forever now.

We get to the front of the building and Homie runs up to the door, waiting to be let in. I know buddy I know we’re almost there. Left pocket, empty. Right pocket, empty. Hmm. Left back pocket, crumpled paper. Right back pocket, empty. Oh shit. Left... right… aha! hoodie pouch… empty. No no no no no fuck… Homie turns away from the door and places his two front paws on my leg, jumping up and down. Dammit! Okay sit down and take a deep breath, deep breath… okay. Homie waits silently at the door. Come here… He walks over and nuzzles his head onto my lap. I’m sorry buddy, looks like we’re locked out.

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

We’ve been locked out before, a few times actually. Memory is pretty shitty ever since the accident so I forget alot of stuff. Looks like I don’t have my phone either. Mom should be home soon anyway, we’ve just got to kill time until 7pm. Good thing it’s nice outside today. Homie is cozied up next to me watching the leaves blow by. Must be nice to not know why you’re here, or rather not care. The gps tracker watch mom got me for christmas reads 5:42PM UNKNOWN LOCATION. Well, might as well try and finish this stupid thing.

Something scary is happening.

I don’t know why or what,

But I know that it's real.

And I know that you can feel it too.

You try to pretend it’s not there.

You distract yourself with things

you think you like.

But you can never forget

Something scary is happening.

Homie lets out a few forceful exhales while nudging my shoulder. What’s up? He walks to the apartment door and begins jumping up and down. I’m sorry buddy we have to wait...- 6:05PM- at least another hour. He drops his head and lazily walks back over to our spot against the wall. Is there anything you want to do? Homie jerks up and begins panting heavily. Yeah that’s a good idea.

It’s weird being in the park during the day, we usually come at night when it’s dark enough to not see other people. I don’t hate people or anything, I don’t even really mind them most of the time, they’re just always trying to say something. I wish we had a limit on the amount of words we could say in a day, then people would really have to think about the things that came out of their mouth. Or maybe we could have point requirements for certain words, your sentence has to meet this minimum level of excitement to use an adjective. No more amazing dinners or great times. Unless your dinner starts with a magician pulling a scarf out of a chicken, it was just dinner. And great time doesn’t even make any sense, for something to be great it has to be of ‘considerably greater quality than the average’ but there is no more or less when it comes to time, it just is. Cheesecake can be great, time is inescapable.

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

We’re a lot further into the park now so it’s just us. I don’t really know how we got here but the area feels familiar. There are a few yellowed packs of backwoods strewn around two big rocks, maybe I smoked here before. The area is spacious but not big enough to be noticed by someone who wasn’t looking for it. Homie seems to know exactly where we are, he’s sniffing around the outskirts of the clearing. What are you up to? He doesn’t pay me any mind, just keeps on sniffing around. I wonder what he’s looking for, probably gold. This rock looks comfortable enough Homie seems entertained for now so…

Something scary is happening-

Damn I wish I had some weed, I wonder if Naz is up right now. Hmm that’d be pretty weird though, it’s been way too long since i’ve seen her… Whatever happened between us? Ah whatever, probably best that I don’t cop. It’s not like I would even get high, the smoke just goes right through me whenever I try. Probably because of the meds, why couldn’t they just give me a weed prescription? Or maybe even some benzos, at least then I'd be able to share with my friends. Who the fuck wants to split a prozac with the depressed guy at the party? Whatever.

The me you see? He’s just the bait.

So that when scary things happen

I’m nowhere to be found.

He takes the damage while I run away.

I hide inside his mind, waiting patiently.

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

The sun is gone now and Homie is nowhere to be found. How the hell did I lose track of time like that again? Homie!! Nothing. Shit. This is not good. This is really not good. HOMIE!! Fuck, fuck, fuck okay. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He’ll show up, he always does.

The clearing does not look as welcoming as it did earlier. Slivers of moonlight try to shine through the dense treetops, illuminating randomly spaced out spots of the clearing below, the rest covered in a thick blanket of darkness. That familiarity from earlier is kicking in again, along with a heavy sense of dread. I swear I know this place.

Homie! I must be scared because I’m whispering now. Homie stop fucking around and get out here right now. There’s a rustle in the leaves to the left. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Stop fucking shaking. There it is again, a louder rustle this time, followed by a low guttural growl. You know what fuck this, whatever that thing is it’s not my dog. As I turn around to walk away an all too familiar bark echoes from the opposite direction of the rustling leaves. I knew it. Knowing that my dog isn’t the creepy thing calling me in the woods is both comforting and terrifying, so I smile quickly to myself while getting the fuck out of there. On my way out I take one last look behind me. It’s hard to make out but it’s definitely there, a slight space in the bushes from someone, or something, that pushed aside the leaves to slip through.

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

7:15pm. Back in the main part of the park now, still haven’t found Homie but I'm glad to be away from whatever that thing was. Hoooooooommmmmiiiiieee! A bark travels from what sounds like the track and field.

The park seemed completely empty until I got to the track. There’s a small crowd of people on the field holding candles, some have signs too. Seems like the end of a protest, or maybe the beginning of a party. Either way it’s weird for them to be here, people don’t really come to this part of the city to do things. What’s even weirder is finding Homie sitting next to the bleachers, watching the protesters from a distance. Hey you! Homie turns his head and barks when he sees me. What the hell are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me. He jumps up to lick my face while I aggressively rub his head and put his leash back on. I really should be mad right now but I’m just so happy to see you. Homie sits back down and continues watching the protesters. What do you wanna join them or something? He pays me no mind and continues to stare. I watch him watch them, then watch them, then watch him again. Weird. Alright come on let’s get home.

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

Back at the front steps now, the light is on in mom's bedroom but she doesn’t seem to be hearing the doorbell. She’s probably sleeping or something. Funny how the medicine affects us differently, her pills put her to sleep and mine keep me up all night. To be honest i’m not really looking forward to seeing mom right now, we kind of had a falling out a little while ago. It was nothing too major, I guess the doctor's office called her or something and, well long story short I haven’t been going to my sessions. We had this big old dumb argument about it and never really got to make up. That must have been, hmm… wait when did that even happen? It’s a small apartment but we’re somehow able to go weeks without so much as a goodmorning together. Well, here goes nothing. Ma!! No response. MAAAA!! Nothing. Homie patiently waits next to my leg while I scream at the second story window. Well don’t you wanna go home too? Bark or something. He cocks his head to the side and stares at me but offers no help. Whatever. Her window looks open enough for a stone to pass through so I start looking for ammo. I’ve got 4 or 5 nice rocks ready to launch when the light in her window shuts off.

Homie’s ears perk up, as she comes down the stairs. I drop my window tappers and peek through the glass of the front door. There she is, dressed in grey jeans, a thick sweater and one of her signature funky hats. For as long as I can remember my mother has been wearing hats; fedora, kangol cap, big straw beach hat, new era 51, silk head scarf, the list goes on and on but, if it can be worn on your head best believe she has one in her closet. I never really understood why she insisted on wearing hats, she has such long beautiful red hair. I asked her about it once and she teared up and said, “being beautiful isn’t always a nice thing”, after that I dropped it.

She’s walking towards the front door and does not look happy to see me. She actually looks really fucking sad. Ah shit here we go, Hey ma i’m- She opens the door and walks right past without saying a word. Seriously? Ma! Nothing. MA! She continues speed walking down the block and disappears around the corner without even looking back. Homie starts to follow her but I yank him back to catch the door before it closes. Not now Homie, mom’s not too happy with us.

We’re inside the apartment now, God it feels good to be home.

Here you go Homie, you get a big bowl of nasty dog food and 3 meaty treats for being such a trooper today. He ignores the food and slowly walks away. What’s wrong? Aren’t you hungry? He makes his way to my room, scratching the door until I open it for him.

It’s the same as I left it earlier today, semi packed boxes strewn around, a naked mattress propped up against the wall with an empty computer desk sitting across from it. Homie silently watches me move around the room. Why do I feel like you’re trying to tell me something? He exhales forcefully out his nostrils and plops himself down next to the mattress. Alright weirdo you can stay right there, i’m gonna take a shower. He doesn’t even look at me. Okay clothes, clothes, clothes. Ah! There's a box labeled ‘ISAAC CLOTHES’ in the corner of the room, it’s duct taped and covered with a thin layer of dust. That’s weird, why would I put my clothes in a box with my name on it. With that thought a blinding light bursts from one of the boxes and the floor becomes nothing. SSSAAAAAAXKKKKKK. I try to cover my ears but it’s too bright to even find my hands. The floating orb creeps closer, forcing me to scramble into the corner of the room. The closer it gets the louder it screams. SSSSSAAAAAAAAXXXKKKKKK. Bright rays pierce my eyelids and fill my skull with burning light. The screeching stops and the pain is gone. There is nothing left, only light. What was once me is almost gone, I think this is the end.

You know what…

this isn’t too bad.

A monstrous bark rips a hole through the light and returns me to the world of shadows. The walls fold back together and the ground returns beneath my feet. Homie stands in front of me barking at the orb as it fades away. The light is much dimmer now, but I can still feel it’s otherworldly density pulling me into its orbit. It shrieks one last time, this time in a low whisper. ISSSAAACCC… And with that the light fades away completely.

Deep breath. Homie stands guard, staring at the corner of the room the orb faded into. Homie are you okay? He snaps out of his trance and slams into my chest, knocking me back to the floor I worked so hard to get up from. Bro… His ears perk up and he waits patiently for me to stand up. What was all that? Homie says nothing, but his eyes hold secrets. Why do I get the feeling you know exactly what’s going on right now? Homie barks loudly. You do don’t you! Homie barks again and sprints out of the room.. Something tells me we won’t be back for a while. I turn off the lights and take one last look around before shutting the bedroom door, it’s funny how your whole life can be packed away into a few boxes. Homie barks again but it sounds like he’s outside. I race down the building stairs and find him waiting for me at the entrance. How did you get out here? He says nothing and takes off in the same direction mom went.

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

After about 15 blocks of trying to keep up with Homie we finally stop at the park entrance. What are we doing back here? He sniffs the ground and heads further into the park. Homie, be honest with me… can you talk? He continues to sniff and walk away. Damn, some verbal answers would be real nice right about now.

Homie leads us right back to the track and field. The small group from earlier has formed into a very large crowd and they have a small wooden stage built now. Most of them are holding up signs and candles. There are a few people on the stage, it looks like two teenagers setting up a microphone. Homie’s trying to get me closer to the group by biting and pulling at my pants leg but something is holding me back.

Everything begins to blur together and the lights from the candles start to expand and streak across the field. Oh no, it’s happening again. The lights are getting closer but Homie isn’t scaring them away this time. Homie please, please do something.

A loud attention grabbing shriek blasts from the makeshift wooden stage and snaps me out of the trance. I instinctively wipe my eyes and they’re wet and warm to the touch. Blood, no… tears. I was just crying, why was I crying? Microphone feedback echoes from the staging area again and an angelic bass boosted voice clears her throat.

“Sorry about that…”

Whatever small amount of noise the crowd was making immediately comes to a halt and every head turns towards the woman on stage.

“Thank you Tahmid and Nazeath for putting together this wonderful event, I can not put into words how-”

The woman's voice cracks on the last word and she bows her head for a moment to regain some composure, dropping her funky hat in the process.

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

Naz rushes over from the side of the stage to pick up the hat and whisper what I assume are encouraging words in my mothers ear. She continues speaking and my feet edge closer to the stage with every word.

“-Thank you, I can not put into words how lucky my son was to call you two his friends. And of course thank you to all the beautiful young souls who came out here tonight to honor his memory. I just wish he were here to see how much he was loved...”

At this point I'm close enough to the crowd to read their posters. WE MISS YOU ISAAC, REST IN PARADISE, FLY HIGH, GONE TOO SOON. What the fuck is going on? I glance over at Homie but he refuses to make eye contact.

“-It’s hard to believe it’s already been a year since Isaac was taken from us. Sometimes I swear I can still hear him typing away in his room at 3am...”

Some of the listeners in the crowd chuckle at this, some silently cry.

“I know a lot of you probably know my son from his blogging site, which I didn’t even know about until after he… after he passed. I wish I had known though, maybe then I could have understood the pain he was going through, maybe I could have helped.”

She chokes up a bit towards the end but after a few deep breaths she’s back to normal.

“I’ve had the luxury of going through my son's website this past year. The things he wrote, his stories were all so… tragic. Reading them hurts, it hurts because I can feel everything he was going through but I can’t do anything about it. Reading them hurt, but I would be lying if I said they haven’t helped me, and I think they helped all of you too. Zach had a way with words that made you feel understood, like you weren’t alone… So that’s why it brings me so much joy to see you all here tonight, because I know Issac’s words have touched you too.``

A solemn round of applause for the grief stricken mother, I think I'm going to throw up. I look at Homie for help but he’s gone. Panic starts to rise in my chest but it doesn’t stay for long, I know exactly where he’s going next.

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I arrive at the clearing in the woods from earlier and find Homie waiting for me. The small gap in the bushes is still there. I look at Homie hoping he will take the first step, but he just waits by my side patiently. Are you ready? He stands up on all fours and barks. Well, here goes everything.

The trail takes us about 10 minutes to get through and ends in another clearing, this one hugging the side of a river. It must have been a secret fishing spot or something, there are some scattered beer cans but otherwise the area looks completely untouched. Homie lays down on his stomach while I investigate the open area. I try to kick an empty beer can into the river but my foot goes right through it, that’s crazy. So how long have I been dead then? Homie stares at me and says nothing. No, no… Has it really been a whole year? He cocks his head to the side and stares blankly. I really wish you could speak right about now, some answers would be nice. I sit down on the river edge and stare out across the water. There’s an old abandoned tire factory on the other side of this river, and to the left a small bridge people usually throw their trash over.

So, one year ago today… Homie walks over to me and offers me his head to rub while I think out loud.

...One year ago today I woke up, brushed my teeth, and decided to walk into the Bronx river. Homie says nothing.

So that poem i’ve been working on, that’s the last thing I wrote huh? I flip to the end of my journal and see a page has been ripped out. Wait, left… right… there it is in my back left pocket. I smooth out the crumpled up paper and begin to read.

Something scary is happening.

I don’t know why or what,

But I know that it's real.

And I know that you can feel it too.

You try to pretend it’s not there.

You distract yourself with things

you think you like.

But you can never forget

Something scary is happening,

I don’t know where or when it’ll strike

So I’m prepared to leave at any moment.

Knife, Rope, Water, Medicine.

These are my survival tools.

And the me you see? He’s just the bait.

So that when scary things happen

I’m nowhere to be found.

He takes the damage while I run away.

I hide inside his mind, waiting patiently.

Now this method has worked for years,

And with it I've survived many scary things.

But for some reason lately,

I feel the scary creeping in.

Luckily there’s a void in him,

Which will keep me safe from everything.

The only catch, absolute darkness.

A small price to pay for safety from everything.

Blackout curtains cover my eyelids,

ear sockets, nose pits and mouth hole.

Ain’t no sunshine getting in here, ever.

Guess that’s why it’s been taking so long to finish, I didn’t want to get to the ending. IIISSAAACCC. The voice calls out to me from the water. Streaks of silver and grey light from all corners of the river swim towards one spot and a bright bluish orb rises out of its place. The floating orb of light edges closer to us but I feel no fear. I look over at Homie, he doesn’t look scared either.

IIISSAAACCC… Are you ready?

Warm tears stream down my face as I feel the orb pull me into its orbit, deep breaths.

What if I don’t want to go? What if it was all just a big misunderstanding, can I take it back?

The orb stops in its path and dims it’s light enough for me to stop squinting.

You made your decision long ago. There is no back or forward Isaac, only now.

He’s right, or she, I guess pronouns don’t really matter to ethereal spheres of light. I give Homie a big hug and rub his back for the last time.

You are the best boy. Thank you for everything.

He licks my face and begins to whimper. Fuck this is hard.

I need you to stay here okay? You got to keep mom safe. You’re not my guard dog anymore, you’re hers. I love you.

I turn around and walk towards the floating ball of light in the middle of the river. It kind of looks like a moon now, which I guess is more comforting than walking into the sun. Last time I did this I only made it 4 steps before falling through the surface, now I'm almost halfway across the river and the ice hasn’t even made a sound. I turn around for one last view and see Homie sitting right in front of me. Homie what are you doing! He cocks his head to the side and stares at me with his tongue hanging out. Ice shoots up my spine as I realise, The light isn’t only here for me… Homie walks past me and towards the floating orb. Dammit Homie! Why did you go in the water! I told you to stay! I told you to stay! Homie bows his head and lets out a whimper. IISSAAACCC… It is time. The tears are really coming out now. Fucking dog.

I grab Homie by the ears and stare deep into his eyes. Hey, I’m sorry, you’re not the one I'm mad at. You were just looking out for me, like you always do. He licks my face and barks happily. Alright, deep breaths, let's do this. I’m ready. The orb begins to change from it’s comforting bluish hue to a bright waxy yellow. The light grows stronger and brighter until all I can see is white. My body has melted away and I can feel my consciousness slipping, I guess this is the end.

Hey Homie are you there?

Por supuesto hermano.

#shortstory

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realfuurikuuri · 5 years ago

Link

Chapters: 9/? Fandom: Mao Mao: Heroes of Pure Heart (Cartoon) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

MissingArm!AU: When escaping the cave, it wasn't his tail that got crushed. In exchange for his innocence, he gained a sordid past. The Pure Heart Valley seemed like a good place to escape. To start a new life with a new family to forge a new identity. However, when the past rears its ugly head Mao Mao's forced to step up or be put down.

AN: We're back at it again in this Krispy Kreme, so let the standard procedure reign. The chapter is a mix of sad and happy, not too fluffy, not too angsty. I think it's kind of sweet as it falls into a Hurt/comfort kind of category, so enjoy that if you can. As always follow @spookylovesboba on varying social media, the song rec this time is: Figure it Out - Royal Blood, and enjoy the chapter.

Direct AO3 Link: XXX

Badgerclops regretted having Jǐngtì stay over. Not because of anything Jǐngtì did, but because he somehow managed to forget HQ was still a wreck. Jǐngtì raised an eyebrow when he saw the mess yet he took it in stride. He didn’t mind helping clean up the mess. Jǐngtì took to the physical labor without much complaint. He gathered broken pieces of wood into a large pile, declining the gloves Badgerclops offered, to pull out splinters like they weren’t an issue. He was tough and stubborn like his father, although Badgerclops wouldn’t tell him that. Maybe it was the two of them together, but they finished cleaning by night. Jǐngtì slept on haphazard bedding made of blankets and pillows not bothered by its ramshackle nature.

Badgerclops sat against the wall, watching the steady rise and fall of Jǐngtì’s chest. He was tempted to join Jǐngtì and get some sleep. Badgerclops did the math in his head. Camille said Mao Mao would be ready to leave by the end of the week, so if he spent the night fixing the tech he can order new furniture tomorrow as well as head down to the valley to buy the supplies to fix the missing floorboards, gashes in the wall and everything else by the time Mao Mao got back. That’d be a nice surprise.

And a lot of work.

Badgerclops groaned as he got up. He was emotionally and physically drained. He walked over to the computer, pressing the power and waiting. The screen was still black. He pressed the power button again and waited. The screen still stayed black. Did he break this too, Badgerclops wondered, getting down o his knees to make sure everything was plugged in.

What’s that?

Hidden underneath the desk was something that shined. Musta’ve missed it when cleaning up. Badgerclops rolled it between his fingers. It was a piece of tech. A broken piece of tech. Badgerclops flicked it into the trash. He watched it land with a metallic clank. Badgerclops then dug the piece of tech out of the trash. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Jǐngtì was sound asleep before sitting at the desk and switching on the desk lamp. Badgerclops shook his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and took a deep breath, inhaling the… nostalgia? Is that what he should call the feeling? Alone at his desk. Alone with his machines. Alone with the unknown.

The piece of tech in front of him was small, slender, and shiny. The exterior made of gold that was strengthened into a magic alloy with something else. The tip of it was filled with pressure and heat sensors that fed into wires inside. That knowledge combined with the hinge at the end lead Badgerclops to conclude that the piece of tech was a finger.

From what, he asked himself. Besides not being able to afford magic-enhanced gold, Badgerclops never remembered even starting a project like this. Mao Mao certainly couldn’t have made this, and Jǐngtì doesn’t seem like a craftsman either. However, Jǐngtì may have brought it. He could have found it in the junkyard, tucked it away, and then simply lost it. He’d have to ask him.

Badgerclops looked over at Jǐngtì to see him still asleep. Badgerclops shrugged it off, going back to the finger and the warm feeling of memories, late nights spent in enjoyable solitude. He was just beginning to examine the finger with his eye when he noticed an assortment of alarms he set aside. Badgerclops had to cover his mouth to keep him from yelling in his panic.

He forgot to pick up Adorabat.

* * *

Badgerclops snuck out as quietly as he could. Flying back into the valley at the wee hours of the morning. It was a cold night. The wind was blowing. It’d probably rain tomorrow err… today considering it was 2:30. Couldn’t the weather wait until he fixed the holes in the roof? How did Mao Mao even do that, anyway? Badgerclops landed at the entrance to Camille’s tower. He opened the door with a creek, peeking inside before stepping in.

Camille and Honey were off to the side brewing something. Honey noticed him first. She poked her teacher in the side, nearly making Camille drop her potion. Mao Mao lay on the cot in the center. He and Adorabat were sleeping soundly in each other's arms. Badgerclops walked around the table considering the best way to get Adorabat without waking them up. He considered letting Adorabat stay, but she had school in the morning. He slowly reached out, stopping when Mao Mao shifted and continuing when he settled back down. He pulled Adroabat from Mao Mao’s grasp. For a second, he envisioned himself as Indiana Jones, carefully replacing the idol, however, instead of taking an idol from a ruined temple he was taking a child from a ruined man. I should watch those movies when I get back, he thought until he remembered that the TV was broken.

Once Badgerclops had Adroabat he paused, waiting for something to go wrong. He looked down to make sure Adorabat was still sleeping in his arms, and then he looked up to make sure Mao Mao wasn’t awake either. Badgerclops let out a sigh of relief, as Camille and Honey approached.

“How are things,” he whispered.

“He’s not in any danger of dying, right now. Mostly scrapes, abrasions, bruised bones, a broken rib. He had a large shard of glass in his right pectoral, and a 3-inch hole in his lower left side.”

Badgerclops had to take a deep breath and remind himself to use his inside voice. “A 3-inch what ?”

“Yeah, on his lower left side. 3 inches in diameter. Took a bit of his intestines.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Well, you’re lucky he drank so much. If he hadn’t basically made his blood rubbing alcohol that gaping hole in his side would probably be infected,” Camille said. “The wound in itself isn’t life-threatening.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay. That’s...good,” Badgerclops said trying to reassure himself.

“You worry too much. He’ll be fine,” Camille said, with Hoey practically pushing Badgerclops out the door. “Now go put the baby to bed.

With those closing remarks, the door closed behind him. Until Camille poked her head out. “Oh! And don’t forget to pick Mao Mao up at the end of the week!”

* * *

Badgerclops slowly glided the Aerocycle back down to the ground on the lawn of HQ. He carried Adorabat back inside, choosing to put her to bed next to Jǐngtì. He carefully laid Adorabat down without waking either up. It was kind of weird seeing her sleep lying down in a bed. She normally sleeps upside down -she is a bat after all- but she slept soundly.

Badgerclops’ lingered on them a little longer before turning away to go back to working on the mechanical finger at the desk. He absentmindedly poked and prodded at the mechanical finger, until he heard the light rustling of blankets and the soft, feline-steps heading towards the dojo. Badgerclops sighed. It was a cold night so he brewed two cups of tea before heading to the dojo.

It was a cool summer night outside. A breeze made it colder. Jǐngtì leaned against the railing. Badgerclops leaned against the doorway, watching him for a time. Jǐngtì didn’t react to Badgerclops, although Badgerclops could tell Jǐngtì knew he was there. His ears turned to follow noise just like his father’s. He’d have to tell him about Mao Mao eventually.

Badgerclops walked up next to Jǐngtì, handing him the cup. “It’s cold out tonight.”

“That’s a terrible conversation starter,” he said, taking a sip before grimacing. “Did you microwave this?”

“Maybe.”

Jǐngtì rolled his eyes and set his cup to the side.

There was a moment of silence before Jǐngtì spoke up again. “Where did you go?”

“To pick up Adorabat.”

Jǐngtì nodded without saying anything.

The silence was just settling in again when Badgerclops cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but your dad is in the hospital.”

“I know.”

Badgerclops was taken aback. “How’d you know?”

“You mentioned it yesterday when bantering with Orangusnake.”

“I did, didn't I?”

“Don’t worry about it. I already knew about it before that anyway.”

“How?”

Jǐngtì sank down, burying his head in his arms. “I’m the one who called 9-1-1.”

“Did you put him in the hospital?”

“What! No! I-,” Jǐngtì sank further down, stammering to get his sentence out.

Jǐngtì took a moment to catch himself, to stop his shuddering breath, to blink the tears out his eyes. “I... I got a call from him. I didn’t know the Sky Pirates had a phone, or that Mao Mao knew their number. Well, they don’t anymore. I broke it. But, I got a call. I didn’t answer it, but… I did listen to the voicemail later. Not much later just a minute or two, but the voicemail got me worried that he’d… do something… dangerous because of me.”

Oh! Oh… Jǐngtì was blaming himself.

Badgerclops placed a supportive on his back. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

Jǐngtì turned away, resting his head on his hand, shaking his head with a tired sigh.

He was like his mother when he's angry, Badgerclops thought, doesn’t yell or scream, just feels exhausted. Badgerclops didn’t know what to do. He stood next to Jǐngtì. His hand on his back in a half-hearted attempt to be reassuring. He wanted to say something, yet he knew that he’d have to pick his words carefully. He’d already fucked it up by accusing him of putting his father in the hospital. He wanted to ask what happened. Jǐngtì certainly knew something Badgerclops didn’t.

Was he willing to pry the information out of Jǐngtì?

Not anymore.

“I heard my mom was back in town.”

“She’s not here anymore, but I can call her if you’d like.”

“No,” Jǐngtì said,” Just tell me what she was doing.”

“She mostly just talked to your father. Asked where you were, Mao Mao didn’t know-,”

“After that?”

“Bao Bao showed up. Mao Mao… was Mao Mao and nearly got himself killed trying to get revenge.”

“Bao Bao’s the guy from the cave, right?”

Badgerclops nodded,” that’s the one. Your mother left with him before Mao Mao could… Make things worse.”

“Is that how he got fucked up?”

“Yeah, that’s the gist of it.”

There was a moment of silence before Badgerclops spoke again. “Hey, I think you dropped this.”

Badgerclops held out the mechanical finger, but instead of taking it Jǐngtì raised an eyebrow. “What is that?”

“It’s a mechanical finger, I think.”

“Why would I have a mechanical finger?”

“I found it under the desk. Thought you might have found it in the junkyard and left it when you fought Mao Mao.”

“Then it's certainly not mine. I fought Mao Mao at the bakery.”

“Wait, is that the reason her window was broken?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”

“I’m going to have you apologize to her and you’re going to help fix it, but more importantly, you’re saying you didn’t fight Mao Mao here?”

“Yeah. I fought him at the bakery. That’s how he got the shard of glass in his ribs.”

“What about the hole in his stomach?”

“Hole in his… what? That was definitely not me. I left after Mao Mao got skewered with the glass. I don’t know how about- is he going to be okay?”

Badgerclops put his hands up. “I might have oversold it. It took a bit of his intestines, not his stomach. Camille reassured me that he’ll be fine.”

“I guess that’s okay then,” Jǐngtì huffed

“Though, I want to ask if you knew who else he fought.”

“Fought?”

“Yeah, there are signs of a struggle at HQ. It's why it's so broken. Mao Mao got into a pretty serious scuffle after you.”

“Well, I don’t know why you’d think I’d know any more about it than you!”

Jǐngtì ears flattened back and his fur stood on end. He faced Badgerclops, his hand inching towards his knife.

“Jǐngtì...”

“I didn’t do it!”

“I know-”

“I didn’t do it!”

Badgerclops placed his hands on Jǐngtì’s shoulders. “It's fine. I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know what happened to your dad. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Jǐngtì blinked tears out of his eyes with each shuddered breath.

“Why do you go back inside,” Badgerclops continued,” it's getting cold, and it's getting late.”

“I’ll stay out here.”

“I’m not going to leave you out alone. I’ll be right here.”

Badgerclops stood next to Jǐngtì, placing his hand on his shoulder as they waited for sunrise.

#fanfic #MMHOPH #Badgerclops #Jǐngtì #Adorabat #Camille #Honey #Hurt/comfort

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jj-lynn21 · 5 years ago

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Plastic and Glass: Rocker Axel ch 2

Ch 1 ch 3 ch 4 ch 5 ch 6 ch 7

Warnings: light angst, fluff, talk of smut, light kissing

Painting of Axel by @hiddlelecki

Applebee’s has the air conditioning on full blast since it is so hot outside. It is 86 degrees Fahrenheit outside and maybe 40 degrees Fahrenheit in the restaurant. Stephanie shivers a little as they get inside for a minute looking for her family. It is a little after 1 p.m. so they should be there. Stephanie sees her sister-in-law wave with a smile.

Axel whispered, “Let me go get you a hoodie from my bag. I’ll be right back.” He kisses her cheek and runs out to door.

Stephanie walks to where her family is sitting and sits down in the empty seat by her Mother. Another empty seat is across from her by her brother.

“We scare Axel off already?” Her brother laughed.

“He went to get me a hoodie since its so cool in here,” Stephanie smiled.

“That’s so sweet,” her sister-in-law complimented, “Isn’t it Mark.”

“Yeah,” her brother agreed as Axel came over.

Axel squeezed behind her Mother to put the zip up dark blue hoodie around his girl. “It’s big on you but it should keep you warm.”

Stephanie stood up proudly, “This is Axel.”

Some of the tattoos on his arms were on display but the sleeves hid the ones that might be offensive to a girl he like’s family. Not that Stephanie had asked him to cover his tats. He just knew that it would be better for them both if he coved a few of them.

“Axel, this is my mom Laura, sister-in-law Beth and brother Mark.” Stephanie introduced her family by name.

“Good to meet you,” Axel’s voice was nervous.

He pushed Stephanie’s chair in when she sat before going around the table to sit down. Mark stood to stop him and shake his hand. Axel shook his hand and they both froze a moment in an equally tight handshake.

Mark chuckled and padded Axel on shoulder, “Good man,” He leaned in to whisper, “I will find you if you hurt her to badly.”

Axel just nodded, a little freaked out look on his face as he sat down. The waitress comes over to take drink orders while everyone is still looking over the menu. Stephanie tenses a little hoping Axel doesn’t order a beer which he does normally order when they go out for lunch or dinner. She relaxes as he orders a Pepsi. She orders the same. He notices her tensions and reaches out across the table to take her hand without saying a word.

Her mother orders club soda, “You sure you want that caffeine drink Steph. It could keep you up all night. Maybe you want a spite or juice?”

Stephanie looks at her Mother holding back the eye daggers she wants to throw, “I think I’ll be up late, so I’ll be fine.” Her voice is sweet, but she hols on to Axel’s hand like a vice grip.

“Hey Steph,” Axel breaks the tension. “They have some mac and cheese with chicken on the two for $25 and I can get a steak. We can share some cheese dip with chips and add a desert if you want?”

Her Mother shakes her head and mouths to Mark, “I am not paying for him.”

Axel see this, “My treat Stephanie. The skies the limit.” He chuckles.

Stephanie giggles, “Sounds good. I will probably be too full for dessert, but we will see.”

“We got you Mom, as Axel said the skies the limit.” Mark chuckled. “So, what you do for a living Axel?”

Axel takes a sip of his Pepsi as soon as the waitress sits it down.

She looks at Axel just recognizing him, “Hey Axel, how are you?” She smiles.

“I’m good Stacy,” He keeps a blank look on his face. “How is Simon. You two coming to the show Saturday.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” She giggles. “Um what can I get you?”

His eyes flit to Stephanie, “Me and my girl Stephanie are going to have this two for $25. I’ll take the well-done steaks with loaded baked potato and She will have the mac and cheese with grill chicken. Grilled chicken right Stephanie?”

“Yes, Axel.” She smiled.

“Oh, cool, good to see you to Steph.” The waitress finally acknowledged someone else at the table than Axel. “I’m not sure you ever noticed me or my boyfriend Simon at the shows. But we are always there.”

“Cool,” Stephanie nodded and smiled.

“What can I get for everyone else?” She took the rest of the table’s orders.

“Well, that was uncalled for,” Laura said. “That girl practically threw herself at you with your girlfriend right there.”

“I don’t think so,” Axel chuckled his thumb running over Stephanie’s hand. “She and her boyfriend are just big fans. I appreciate her enthusiasm.”

“Really?” Laura raised her eyebrows.

Mark changed tried to change the direction of the conversation, “So, is music something you want to make a career out of Axel?”

Axel makes eye contact with Mark, “No, the music thing is just for fun and a little extra money. I’m going to business school. I work at my uncle’s tattoo parlor now. He wants me to take over the business when he retires. It’s a lucrative business especially in a college town.”

“What do your parents think of your tattoos?” Laura griped.

Axel shrugs. Takes a deep breath, “My Mother passed away when I was really young. My Dad left me with my Uncle Derick not long after. So, I guess I don’t know what they would think,” he looks away from everyone.

Stephanie glares at her Mother. The appetizers come to distract everyone for awhile.

As Mark eats some wings he engages Axel in another conversation. “You follow football Axel or other sports?”

“Yeah, man,” Axel held a cheese chip a few inches from Stephanie’s lips. She moved to eat it. “All the local teams. I played when I was a kid. I wasn’t very good, but I played.”

They got to talking about sports. Stephanie was happy they were getting along but tuneed out most of the conversation. She was not going to sit around watch sports center all day like her brother and sister-in-law. She didn’t even realize Axel followed sporting even. Now she thought she would eventually have to sit through some important games as long as it wasn’t a huge part of their lives. She laughed at herself for thinking so far ahead with Axel and her sitting around like her brother and sister-in-law.

The conversation was positive as the main meals came out. They talked about school. How Axel and Stephanie met. Axel invited Stephanie’s family to the show Saturday knowing they wouldn’t go. Her Mother laughed saying she was usually in bed early. Mark said the music wasn’t his cup of tea, but it was nice of Axel to invite them. He knew it was Stephanie’s scene more than his.

“Nothing wrong with rock music,” Mark stated. “Steph is like our Dad enjoying that scene. Our Dad has a few tattoos. As long as people are not hurting each other there is nothing wrong with people liking different things. I like R & B and dance music myself.”

“That’s a cool outlook,” Axel nodded in agreement. “To each his own.”

Axel and Mark paid the checks and they all got up to leave. Axel tosses a $20 tip on the table. Mark nod in approval. They all leave together.

“We are going to grab a good spot on the beach for fireworks.” Mark looked to Axel and Stephanie. You guys can follow us or meet up later.”

“We will follow you,” Axel has his arm around Stephanie’s waist. “After that meal I could use a walk along the beach. How about you Stephanie?”

“Yeah, sounds nice,” She looked at him dreamily as they walked toward his motorcycle.

Mark and Beth smiled. Laura smirked disapprovingly. Stephanie took off the hoodie. Axel put it away. He put on her helmet and then his own. They got on the cycle pulling behind Mark’s silver minivan. Stephanie’s family were inside. They started off towards the lake.

“Well, he’s quite a hoodlum,” Laura shook her head. “I can’t believe your sister likes that.”

“He seems to be nice to her,” Mark counters. “I think he is a good guy. They like a lot of the same things and that’s important.”

“You don’t think he is just trying to sleep with her,” Laura grumbler.

“Not anymore,” Mark said without a thought. “Just hope they take precautions.”

“I can’t believe you would insinuate your sister is having sex,” Laura’s voice was angered.

Beth puts both hands over her mouth to catch a laugh.

“We’re here,” Mark pulled into the first close parking space he saw.

Axel zoomed by pulling into a space a few cars away. Him and Stephanie got off the cycle. He put the helmets in the lockable saddle bags after he got a red blanket out and a small blue over the shoulder cooler with two waters. The two walked towards her family.

“I thought these would come in handy tonight.” Axel kept a stoic look.

“Good call man,” Mark was getting a blanket and a lawn chair out of the back of the van.

Kids ran around on the grassy hill near the beach as their parents set up blankets and chairs. A radio station truck pulled in the parking lot to set up to play some tunes. An ice cream truck followed. Mark and Axel set up their stuff in an empty spot. Mark set his Mother’s lawn chair on the other side of his blanket. Axel and Stephanie took off their boots and socks. Axel takes off his jeans and has black shorts on.

“Can you sit my chair between the two blankets so I can chat with everyone easier, Mark?” Laura asked.

“Sure, Mom,” Mark and Axel each moved the blankets over to accommodate her lawn chair.

Stephanie took Axel’s hand, “We are going for a walk.”

“Oh, let’s all go.” Laura invited herself along.

“Hey, Mom, let’s go get some ice cream,” Mark suggested. “They don’t need a babysitter.”

Laura smirked at him before turning her attention back to Stephanie. “Be careful. Get back to the blanket before it gets to dark.”

Axel takes his shirt off revealing hidden tattoos. He figures at this point he made a good enough impression so if any of them don’t like him, fuck’em. He tosses the shirt onto the blanket before walking off towards the water with Stephanie. There are several other tattooed men and women with their families so Axel feels confident.

He mumbled as they were walking away, “Don’t talk to strangers or run off with any tattooed hoodlums, Stephanie.”

Stephanie laughed, “Yeah, she is um what doesn’t offend her to badly is we say she hovers.

“OK, we’ll call it hovering,” He chuckles. “Your brother seems cool with us. I mean other than threatening to track me down if I hurt you.”

They walk down to the sandy beach and along the shoreline.

“He didn’t,” Stephanie was shocked.

“Yep, but its cool.” Axel kicked some water on her. “If I had a sister, I would be the same way. Come here.”

Axel pulled her over behind the changing room building where there was no one else around. He pinned her against the wall. One hand holding her wrists above her head. Her breath quickened as he looked at her licking his lips. His other reached under her skirt to palm her through her panties, His thumb rubbed against her slit.

“Your Mom really makes me want to wreck you,” Axel grins evilly. “Did you ever try anal with that ex of yours?”

“No, and we are not doing that here.” Stephanie struggled to get out of his grip to no avail.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Axel leaned down to kisses that part of her neck that always made her melt right into him. “But you will try it?”

“Yes,” she murmured eyes fluttering.

Axel kissed her. His tongue darting into her mouth to touch with hers like a dance. He let her go and moved away, “I can’t wait to get you home tonight.”

“It is going to be 1 a.m. once we get home.” She reminded him. “I’m not sure I will be up to anything new after this day.”

His arm was leaning on the back of the wall behind her. His other hand dropped to his side. “We will see how we both feel later, alright?”

“Alright, Axel.” Stephanie sighed. “we should get back.”

“Oh, yeah its almost your curfew,” He teased.

“Shut up,” She laughed and smacked his chest playfully.

“Kiss me again and we will head back,” He leaned down lips close to hers before she answered.

“Small price to pay,” She kisses his lips quickly and ran.

Axel ran after her, “You are going to get it later.”

He catches her and swings her around. They were both laughing.

On the way back to the blanket their waitress from Applebee’s saw them and they stopped to talk to her and her boyfriend. The guys compared tats. Axel told him if he wanted something else to stop by his shop for a friends discount.

They got back to the blanket. Axel pulled Stephanie down. They were laughing again.

#axel cluney #rocker axel #axel and stephanie #original story #fanfic #fluff #bill skarsgård imagine #bill skarsgard fluff #angst #smut #fiction #love story

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lycorogue · 5 years ago

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Latest Story: “I Don’t Care”

I had posted this via an AO3 share on Friday, but it hasn’t had any notes, and I usually get at least one like on my ML stuff. Maybe it’s because it’s a Gabriel and Emilie Agreste love story instead of following one of the teens. Or, maybe because people can’t find the AO3 shares? I thought they were specifically designed to hit the Tumblr algorithm, but maybe I got that backwards?

So, in case it’s because I used the AO3 share button, instead of sharing as I normally would, I’m trying again my traditional way.

Summary: Gabriel Agreste's life was safe, stable, predictable, and boring. That is, until he literally ran into a strange woman at a club; a club he didn't even want to go to. He felt instantly that this Emiile woman would forever change his life. He didn't realize how true that feeling was.

Word Count: 5406; In-Progress

Chapters: 2 out of ?

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences (mostly because I don’t know where I’ll be going with this.)

Ship: Emilie and Gabriel Agreste

Characters: Gabriel Agreste, Emilie Agreste (before she was an Agreste), and a bunch of OCs. Perhaps Nathalie and/or The Gorilla will make appearances at some point.

You can find the story at my normal 3 spots: on AO3, on FFN, and on DA

In this story, Gabriel is probably about 21 or 22, and Emilie is roughly 20 or 21. Also, since Adrien is 14 in the late 2010s, then he must have been born around the turn of the century. Assuming Emilie and Gabe were together for a little bit before having him, this story is taking place mid- to late-1990s. I’m picturing some time between 1997 and 99.

**Disclaimer: I never intended this story to be more than a one-shot, so I have no clue how frequently I’ll work on it; nor do I know how long it will be once done. This will be a nice palate cleansing side-project whenever I’m stuck in my main writing. So, enjoy this casual ride through Gabriel and Emilie’s romance, and see how Gabriel once was: an actually loving man.

This story actually originated as my Tumblr Exclusive one-off: Stranger in a White Dress. However, I was inspired by Ed Sheeran’s acoustic of “I Don’t Care” and decided to come back to this universe.

For those who wish to read the full story here on Tumblr

Again, “chapter 1″ can be found here

Chapter 2: Alone at a Party

Of course she wasn't there. Why would she be?

Gabriel nodded his thanks to the rented bartender, and walked his glass of whiskey to the far side of the apartment great room. The party was in full swing. A party for someone Gabriel didn't even know. He hated that he let his flatmate Sylvain talk him into coming along. He didn't belong there. He belonged at home.

Or, perhaps with her.

The memory of a slinky white dress and golden Hollywood loose curls flashed in his mind. His phone number on a bare arm. The mysterious fleeing of an astonishing woman. She was his Cinderella, but she hadn't bothered to leave him a glass slipper.

Gabriel settled onto one of the few collapsible chairs scattered about the perimeter of the room. Around him, people were dancing, and laughing, and joking with each other, and catching up on wild tales, and even making out. He didn't want any part of it. In a room stuffed with people, he was alone.

The majority of the party loomed before him. The small rented bar and accompanying bartender were in the opposite corner, past the picture windows and French doors to the balcony. Off to Gabriel's right was the main entrance, constantly flowing with party-goers. There was a chance he'd be able to sneak out unnoticed via the crowd, but if he got bogged down at all Sylvain could spot him and wrangle him back into the party. The hallway behind his left shoulder lead to the bathroom and bedrooms. Gabriel could sneak back to one of them. There had to be an emergency exit; a fire escape or something. He could use that.

Except it was probably off one of the bedrooms, which were all most likely preoccupied already by some promiscuous twenty-somethings enjoying their youth. Something Sylvain swore Gabriel should also be doing.

Gabriel took a sip of his drink. It wasn't top-shelf whiskey, but it was at least smooth with a nice flavor to it. Also, it was free; thank god for hosts who had the decency to set up open bars. Eyeing up the crowd once more, Gabriel plotted his excuse for Sylvain. Would he even notice Gabriel's retreat? He'd most likely go home with at least one person at the party, and wouldn't be bothered to check for when Gabriel made it to the flat. He could just tell Sylvain that he made it home around two. That seemed customary for one to enjoy a "night out."

Maybe he'd go to that club again instead of going home. Could he meet her there a second time? What would the odds be of that? What if she were a university student? Should he walk the campus and hope she's on one of the great lawns? Would he seem like a creep if he did?

First, he had to get out of this blasted apartment.

"Don't have much diversity in your wardrobe, huh?"

Gabriel startled. Something about the voice rang familiar; a tone that he couldn't quite shake out of his head for the past week. He turned, and standing by his right shoulder was the blonde woman he met at the club; the woman he was just thinking of, the woman he couldn't stop thinking about: Emilie.

She had her hair in a ponytail this time, and she wore a simple, Merlot-colored, off-shoulder, long-sleeve t-shirt covered by a deep-dyed, fitted jean vest. Her matching skinny jeans were tucked into black knee-high stiletto boots. A thick, black choker with a silver heart charm dangling from it wrapped around her neck. She looked casual and dressed up at the same time, the gorgeousness of someone who just "threw something on."

She held her warm smile for a few more seconds, but when Gabriel didn't respond, her face fell.

"Oh. Right. The whiskey. You probably don't remem-"

"I definitely remember you." With Gabriel's hand on his lap, he was actually about even with Emilie's hand, which was dangling temptingly by her side. His hand inched across his thigh as he debated wrapping his pinkie around her index finger. Would it be too forward for him to reach out and take her hand? She did kiss him within five minutes of them meeting. Gabriel had no clue what the protocol was for their relationship, if one could even call it that.

Emilie's smile returned, and she sat in the chair to Gabriel's left, forcing him to pivot again to keep eye contact.

"You look like you're having a good time," she teased.

Gabriel huffed. "Flatmate's idea. He's under some impression that he's in charge of my social life, and that I don't have enough of one."

"I have no clue where he could get that idea when you clearly give off such party-animal vibes." Emilie gestured at Gabriel's khakis and rust-colored cable-knit sweater over a white button-down.

"That's true." A smile started tugging at the corners of Gabriel's mouth. "Did you know, a sweater fairly similar to this very one got me ambushed by a complete stranger last Saturday?"

Emilie laughed as a pleasant blush pinked her cheeks. "What can I say? Thick sweaters are like catnip to me."

They shared a short laugh. Emilie inched closer, and crossed her left leg over her right knee. As she settled, her left toes brushed against Gabriel's shin.

"So, tell me about this flatmate of yours. He just kick you out the door like at cat at night?"

"No. He's here. Dragged me with him to this party."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Emilie popped upright, planting both feet to the floor. Gabriel instantly missed the feel of her boot against his leg. "I didn't realize he could go invisible!" She leaned around Gabriel, to where she was standing when she greeted him. "How do you do, Mr. Flatmate." She smiled at the air.

"What on earth are you doing?" Gabriel glanced past his shoulder – half expecting to actually see his flatmate standing there – before staring back at Emilie. "Of course he's not invisible, what kind of nonsense is that?"

"Well." Emilie squared her shoulders and puffed out her chest. "I thought to myself 'Gabe's flatmate brought him here, and yet I don't see him. So either he abandoned his flatmate while at this party, or he's invisible and I was rude to have ignored him this long.' I simply went with the more pleasant answer." The right side of her mouth curled up in a playful smile.

Gabriel laughed and shook his head. He took another sip of his drink before using the rocks glass to gesture towards the cleared out living room floor. A small mob of party goers were dancing, but they were too tightly packed for Gabriel to find Sylvain within the pack.

"He's in there. Somewhere."

"Did he even last ten minutes before lassoing some cutie to grind against?"

Gabriel choked on his sip of whiskey, coughing it back into his glass. He let out a few more chuckles.

"It's fine," Gabriel told her lightly. "It just means I can sneak away without him realizing I cut out early."

"Oh? You're leaving so soon? But I just re-found you."

"Well, I-"

"We can't have that." Emilie stood up and grabbed Gabriel's drink from his hand. "Whiskey again?"

Gaping, Gabriel slowly nodded. Emilie shrugged, and then downed the rest of his drink.

"What are you-?"

Emilie placed Gabriel's now-empty glass down, grabbed his hand, and tugged him out to the dance floor.

"Come on, you have to at least have some fun before you run away."

"Who said I wasn't having some fun just now?" Just like the first night they met, Emilie easily flowed through the crowd, whereas Gabriel, dragged behind her, bounced off nearly every person they passed.

"We didn't dance at the club. We should dance here." She halted to the right of the crowd. Her chest rose and fell like she was panting, even though they didn't do anything terribly strenuous.

"First of all, we didn't dance because you mysteriously disappeared back onto the dance floor without me, and without so much as a proper goodbye. Secondly, I don't dance."

"Alright. I accept your first point, but I refuse to believe the second one. Everyone dances, even if it's goofily while alone in their bedrooms."

"I do structured dances; ballroom dances."

"Ballroom?" Emilie nearly screamed with surprise. "Alright, that I definitely have to see. I doubt they'll let us put on Chopin, however. Either way, it still means that you do indeed have a sense of rhythm. So, come on, don't be shy."

She started bobbing her head and shuffling her shoulders to the synth beat of the club music playing. Adding in some snaps on the downbeats, she wiggled her hips. Raising her hands over her head, Emilie slinked around Gabriel as she danced. As her hip passed his, she bumped them. With a quick spin behind his back, she bumped his other hip with hers, then continued to dance in front of him.

Gabriel was thrown off balance with each hip bump, and not just literally. The contact from her short-circuited him each time. All he could manage was dumbly watching her dance before him. Suddenly, he once more wondered what he was doing at that party; with her. At the same time though, he didn't wish to be anywhere else.

"Well?" Emilie giggled, "Are you joining in?"

Gabriel bashfully shook his head. "I told you, I don't dance."

"Actually, quite the contrary. You just told me that you do dance. So let's see it." She then smirked and grabbed each of Gabriel's hands. "Here, I'll even help you get started." She altered pumping each of their arms over their heads, then she leaned away from him so she could wiggle their arms as if they were swinging double-dutch rope.

"What are you doing?" Gabriel laughed.

"Helping you dance to prove that you can do it. Your shoulders are still a bit stiff though." She dropped his hands and instead grabbed his shoulders to shake them to the rhythm.

He laughed harder and grabbed her hips to try to stop her. Instead, she smirked and rocked her hips more enthusiastically. Her own hands shifted from his shoulders to the sides of his chest in an attempt to get that to move as well.

"We look ridiculous." Gabriel shook his head, and stubbornly didn't move his feet.

"Exactly! That's how you know we're having fun."

"Okay, enough 'fun' though." Gabriel chuckled and pulled her against him so she had no room to keep moving. It kept him a second too long to realize what he had just done.

They stilled as they stared at each other, their arms wrapped around each other's backs. Somehow, Emilie's jade eyes seemed a richer green than Gabriel remembered. The scent of lavender enveloped him. His body burned, and their chests rose and fell in sync.

A smooth jazz song with an electronic bass started up, causing the crowd to slow down and pinch close to each other.

Very much like how Gabriel and Emilie already were.

The song was in three-quarter measure, and had a sultry flow to the notes. Gabriel eased at the familiarity of the rhythm. He pulled Emilie's left hand off his back, and placed it on his right shoulder. He then tugged gently on her right elbow to coax that hand off his back as well. Sliding his fingers down her right forearm, he took her hand in his.

"Gabe?"

He smiled and gave her a quick wink. Mentally counting the start of the next measure, he began twirling her around their little circle of the floor. He smoothly lead her in a simple waltz. There was more space between them then there was a moment before, but somehow it felt more intimate; dancing with her like that. Her eyes enlarged and sparkled as a grin grew wider and wider across her face.

"Does this mean I know how to dance the waltz as well?" Emilie teased.

"It means you have a good partner."

She bit her lip as her smile kept crawling up her face. "I do, do I?"

Gabriel blushed and averted his gaze. Emilie quickly cupped his chin in her left hand, and redirected it back towards her. Running her fingers along his jawline, she then brought her hand back to his shoulder so they could continue dancing.

"Tell me about this mysterious flatmate of yours. Why does he feel like he's your keeper, and why the need to force socialization onto you?"

"He's one of those exhausting people-persons who needs stimulation every waking moment, and he's quite confused as to how I can enjoy our little flat, and be content with just my drafting table. So he shoves me out into the world and demands I take part in it."

"Drafting table? Are you some sort of architect then?"

"Fashion designer. Aspiring, at least."

Emilie leaned further away from him, eyed up his outfit, and giggled.

"Please tell me this isn't one of your designs."

"What's wrong with it?"

Emilie grew red, and pulled against Gabriel's hold, trying to shrink away from him. "Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to insult you, I just figured the outfit was sort of plain, especially for a party like this. But I'm wearing a t-shirt, so I shouldn't judge what's fashionable. It was so insensitive of me, I just-"

Gabriel burst into a laugh. "I was just joking." Emilie backhanded his shoulder, and Gabriel reflexively muttered 'ow.' He laughed a bit more at her surly pout, but quickly settled. "I focus mostly on women's clothing designs, although you are probably right that I should start dressing the part a bit more myself. I might have to branch out into men's clothes as well."

Emilie's head slowly rocked side-to-side as she studied him. "You know, your blue eyes are almost a silver color."

"They are?"

"Yep. You would look really sharp in an ivory, or maybe a nice royal purple. It would really make your eyes pop."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

Gabriel pressed gently on Emilie's back, directing her into a spin under his arm. He held her at arm's length, and she leaned away from him, waiting to be pulled back in.

"Why did you let him bring you here? Your flatmate. If you weren't going to enjoy yourself at this party, then why come? Why not stay at your drafting table designing the next great fashion trend?"

Gabriel tugged gently to again spin Emilie under his arm, and caught her back in the standard waltzing pose.

"He was persistent. Also, perhaps a part of me hoped I would stumble into you again."

"You didn't even know I'd be here. I bet you can't tell me who invited me to this party."

"That's true, but it had been a week, and clearly you didn't need more cheering up. So, I decided to leave our meeting up to Fate, and Fate seems to have delivered."

"So you're saying it pays to leave the flat every now and again."

"In this one instance, yes, but don't let my flatmate know, otherwise I'll never get any rest."

"I'll be sure to avoid the topic, however I still don't know who your flatmate even is."

"Good. We should keep it at that."

"Afraid he'll whisk me away?"

"More that he'd scare you away. He's a bit... intense."

"Damn extroverts."

"Precisely."

Emilie giggled as the song ended. Tucking a non-existent stray strand of hair behind her ear, she tugged on Gabriel's hand. Silently, he allowed her to lead him out onto the balcony.

"You have a thing with balconies, don't you?" Gabriel hung back by the door as Emilie continued towards the railing.

"I enjoy taking in Paris. Your flatmate is right; you need to be out in this glorious city, not trapped inside with a drafting table. How could you not be inspired by all of this?" She swung her arms wide as they overlooked a sea of dazzling lights.

"It's not much different than the view I have by my drafting table. I did make sure to place it by a window."

"But it's not just the view! It's the people! The experience that is Paris!"

"The experience? You sound like a tourist."

"That's the point!" Emilie grabbed his hands and pulled him to the railing. She then gestured out towards the grand view, pointing to a large spire poking out in the distance on their left. "The majesty of the Eiffel Tower." She then pivoted Gabriel to face to their right. "The romance of the Love Locks on Pont des Arts." She stretched in front of him, pointing to the large tower looming just past their peripheral on their right. "The breathtaking views of Paris seen from atop Montparnasse." Gesturing to her left again, she pointed in a vague direction. "The history of the Place de la Concorde."

"You don't know where the Place is, do you?"

"Eh, it's over there somewhere." She wiggled her fingers roughly straight ahead. "I'm not the best with cardinal directions. I do know it's to the east of the Eiffel Tower."

Gabriel smiled, keeping his eyes on Emilie instead of the view she was trying to show off.

"But it truly is the people of Paris that makes this city special. You have to walk among them; greet them; rub elbows with them-"

"Kiss them?"

Emilie blushed. "Uh, about that. I didn't mean-" She turned towards Gabriel, and found him pressed against her side. "-to, uh, offend." Gabriel leaned in, and her blush deepened. "I'm sorry I never called you."

"Did you not want to?"

"No. I did. I wanted to so badly."

"You don't seem the type to hold back when you want something."

"You had been drinking. I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me again. Didn't know if you would even remember me."

"I don't think I could ever forget you." He ran his hand across the railing, and rested it on top of hers.

Emilie's eyes darted to his hand, then back up to meet his intense gaze. Her hand grew hot under his. Her lips parted slightly; welcomingly. Gabriel ran his index finger across the edge of Emilie's swooped bangs, following their line to her ear. He then brushed his thumb down the side of her face, their eyes never breaking contact. His thumb continued across her chin, and stopped just below her lips. He could feel the gloss of her lipstick, and wondered if it tasted of anything. Maybe the remnants of his whiskey that she had downed before they danced.

Emilie closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached out to kiss the tip of Gabriel's lingering thumb. It made his own breath catch.

"We both had some whiskey this time," Gabriel whispered.

Emilie hummed in response.

"I don't think that's why I feel drunk though," he continued.

Emilie's breath was sharp and loud. Her eyes darted open, and her hand wrapped around the nape of Gabriel's neck, pulling him hungrily down to her. Gabriel's hand quickly shifted to Emilie's back so his thumb wouldn't be in the way.

She seemed so tiny in his hands, and yet she was so fierce. He still barely knew her, but he wanted to more than anything else in the world. Every second he was with her, he craved more. He hated the world, hated being in it, but he'd gladly stand in the middle of a crowded Tokyo if it was to be with her.

He didn't understand what his appeal was to her, but he'd figure that out as well. He'd learn everything about her. He'd spend the rest of his life as her student; mastering every nuance, every scent, every movement, every tone, every kindness, every flaw; everything that made up Emilie.

They pulled apart after Gabriel had no clue how long, but he knew it was too soon. He rested his forehead against hers, his thumb running across the hand still tucked under his.

"I think you should give me your number this time, since clearly you can't be trusted to pick up a phone."

"Does that mean you'll leave your Fortress of Solitude again; join society?"

"As long as it means spending time with you."

She smiled and pulled away from him. She slinked her hand free of his, and held it palm up to him.

"In that case, I hope you have a pen on you."

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ill-skillsgard · 6 years ago

Text

Sweet Demons, Part 6 FINALE - Zeitgeist/Axel Cluney

Title: Sweet Demons

Description: It's the weekend of Friday the Thirteenth, the biggest motorcycle rally and festival in the Western Hemisphere but nothing is more enticingly chaotic to her than the mysterious new member of the famous Motor City Sweet Demons.

Warning: 18+ Mentions of drugs/alcohol/violence, eventual smut/various kinks

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Max demanded that I went into the house and left Axel alone but how could I have possibly ignored what I saw? From the living room window, I peered out so I could continue to watch what was happening. Bradley had helped Axel up on his feet and took him to the clubhouse while my dad hauled the garden hose out from the backyard to start spraying away the peculiar black vomit that had come up from Axel's throat. Confusion set in followed swiftly by anxiety. Nothing about what had happened made sense and the longer I watched my dad pointing a jet-stream of water at the place Axel had thrown up the more I realized that whatever ungodly liquid had come out of that man was leaving a nice deep blemish in the concrete. I paced around the house for a few minutes, unsure of what to do. Nothing had prepared me for what had happened outside. My head pounded and a sick swirling of guilt twisted my gut until it became difficult to breathe. I wanted to go to Axel just to see if he was okay although I was brimming with unanswered questions that wanted to explode forth. The way he had glared at me and told me to get away from him was playing on a loop in my head. Holding my hand to my chest, I tried to breathe in deeply and rationalize what I witnessed but there was nothing I could draw from. The pitch black liquid that seemingly burned through concrete was the last thing I had ever expected to witness. "Angel? Where are you? I need some bandages in here!" I heard my dad yell from the garage. I found a first aid kit under the sink in the downstairs bathroom and brought it to the garage where Braun was sitting on an old white plastic lawn chair with a balled up rag held to his right eye. The rag was not only caked in oil but also soaked in blood. "Get that shit off of his face, you're going to get it infected!" I yelled, shoving the first aid box into my dad's arms. "Why do you care?" Braun spat. "Hey now. You better fuckin' cool it, kid." Dad admonished in a way that was completely sincere and not at all bordering on the edge of a joke. "I've had about enough out of all yous." "I'll go get you some ice... Your eye is swelling like a balloon." Braun shot up from the chair and yelled, "why don't you go try to take care of Axel? Stop pretending like you give a fuck, 'cause it's not cute!" I stood up straight, offended and threw up my hands in defeat. "Fine! Fuck you too then! Fuck everyone!" When I went back into the house I was even more upset than before. I had fucked up so royally that everybody was at each other's throats. Then Max finally came down from the clubhouse to find my father in the garage taking care of Braun's deep cut and his ruptured eye. From the kitchen, it was easy to eavesdrop on anything that was being said in the garage, that I knew so I held my breath and listened hard to maybe try to gather some answers without having to go digging myself. "He all right?" Dad asked as Max entered the garage from the back door, sighing in frustration. "He'll be fine. More just pissed off about the Widow-Maker I think." "I tried to have a look at it but... Something's wrong with the fuel tank." "So weird. He was riding last night... How could something go bust overnight?" "Ah, who fucking knows. Might have to open her up to have a look." "Fuck, Al... I don't know. We have to hit the road like two hours ago. The rest of them are antsy to get going... I don't know what to do." The rusty squeal of the back door rang and a familiar gait thumped through the garage. I swallowed down the breath I was clenching in my lungs and took in another. If anyone came in through the kitchen entrance it would have been obvious that I was listening in but at that point, I didn't much care. "Just go. I'll meet you guys at the next stop once I get her going. Don't let me hold you up." Max Sweet lamented, "fuck Axe... I don't want to leave you behind." "Janet can tail. I'm not leaving here without the Widow-Maker." "Axe... You sure?" "I'm positive. You guys hit the road. I'll see what's up with her and get her going again then I'll meet you up North." "Shit," said Max. "I guess so." "Bring her on up. We'll have a look at her," Dad said. "Thanks, Al. And again... I'll cover the cost of filling the hole in the driveway." "Ah, fuck it. I got a guy who owes me a favor. I'll get it fixed. Don't worry about it." "I'm a little worried about it." "I'd rather you puke your fuckin'... Whatever unholy shit that was on the driveway and not on someone's face." "Where is she?" I heard Axel ask quietly after a few seconds of silence between the three. "She's in the house," Dad replied. "But you best focus on the task at hand." "Yeah, we have to get going," Max agreed. I went up to my bedroom and watched out the window as the Motor City Sweet Demons all got on their bikes and took off without Axel. I felt guilt rip at my throat like a rabid dog and I longed to go to the garage to speak to him even though I was at a loss for what to say. From the second floor, I watched Axel in the driveway, scratching the back of his head, staring at the Demons as they set off. Once he was left alone he circled his bike again, frowning, looking genuinely hurt. It felt terrible to me and all at once I wished I could disappear off the face of the Earth. He kicked up the stand and pushed the Widow-Maker up the driveway, disappearing from sight into the garage to begin work on it. I gave it a couple of hours before I decided to snake my way down into the garage to see him. Even though I had gone over what to say in my head a hundred times I was still afraid of what he would say to me. When I entered the kitchen to get to the garage door I heard the clanging of metal on metal. The sounds of Axel taking apart his bike were loud and I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts before opening the door. He looked up at me when I opened the door but quickly dropped his gaze back to what he was doing when he realized it was me. The seat of his motorcycle had been taken off and the bolts were on the ground right beside it in a metal dish. I wasn't exactly sure what he was doing but it looked like he was working on taking the gas tank off the bike. Grinding the toe of my sandal into the ground, I cleared my throat but he either didn't hear me over the sound of the Allen wrench or simply chose to ignore me. The latter made my heart sink and I immediately felt like Axel wanted nothing more to do with me. I approached the bike, grimacing and trying to lock eyes with Axel but he wouldn't pull himself away from dismantling his bike for a second. "Are you um... Are you okay?" I piped up. With lips clamped shut in concentration he shrugged. "I don't know. Does it look like I'm okay?" "I just wanted to make sure you were... Feeling all right?" "I'll be all right once I'm on the fuckin' road." Blinded by his words, I took one step back incredulously, "I'm sorry... I didn't know you were so eager to leave." "My gang's on the road right now without me. Of course, I'm eager to leave." "Well, you don't have to shut me out. I mean... I think you owe me an explanation after all that." Axel dropped the screwdriver that he was using to unscrew bolts and clapped his hand on the fuel tank that was half off. "I don't owe you anything, okay? I told you that I don't catch feelings at the beginning of the weekend and I wasn't just saying it to be cute. You and I had a good time but right now, I'm about to put my fist through a window and I need you to leave me alone." I stammered when I realized that what he said hurt worse than it should. The icy glare he gave me before picking up a wrench from my dad's toolbox was as forbidding as it was repelling. "Fine. I can see that it meant nothing to you at all. No romance. No nothing. That's fine by me. So when you come back here again, don't look for me." Axel pretended not to hear what I said and the longer I stayed there and watched him ignore me the angrier I got. "Fuck you! What the fuck is your problem?" "You, clearly." "No! You are the problem! How dare you try to tell me you don't catch feelings when you spent the whole weekend with me. You had full intentions of coming back for me before all this. Why are you suddenly acting like you're too good for me now?" He only raised his eyebrows before hunching over and reaching underneath the gas tank to disconnect the fuel lines. "Axel!" I yelled at him. He punched the fuel tank and stood up, the lines of his face deepening with anger. His eyes smoldered and he came in my direction. I hardly had a moment to flinch before his hand was squeezing my face, his immensity over me backing me up until I was pressed up against a steel standing tool chest. "What do I have to do to show you that I am not the kind of guy you want to spend your time with? You saw what happened. I'm. Not. Normal. I'm a walking fucking nightmare... An accident waiting to happen." I remembered the day I first saw him and thought the very same thing that he had just growled at me. He was an accident waiting to happen. Nobody with tattoos like that could have any kind of notion of normalcy. Although I hated Axel for being exactly the thing he told me he was, I hated myself more because I was just as bad. No matter how hard I tried to go a different way in my life I knew that I would always end up a selfish, self-indulgent delinquent and there I was, in his grip and at his mercy. He released my face but did not recoil an inch. He kept me backed up against the chest. "Angel... You are one fine piece of ass but us together... It would be too much. I have to get some fucking answers before I can pledge myself to anything. You don't seem to understand me when I say that I cannot get close to anybody. Even if I really, really want to. Try to get it through your head. You and me... It's got 'bad idea' written all over it. So, please... Don't make this shit harder than it already is." I held in all of the emotion that wanted to burst from my mouth. Nodding my head simply to pull myself back from the edge of crying, I blinked and blinked away the tears. I knew he was right but I wished that he wasn't. I loathed that I couldn't manage to turn him over to me. No matter how badly I wanted him he wouldn't have me. I was just another stop on his journey. "Okay... I understand." "Thanks," he said shortly and then stepped back from me. He looked me up and down once and then turned back to his motorcycle; the only thing to him that really mattered. Biting my lip to keep from spilling anything more, I let my body relax a little. He went back to work as though I wasn't there and I stood still, hands clasped behind my back, aching to explode and tell him everything inside of me that was gouging to get out. The back door opened and a fan of light came in from the sun as well as my dad. He paused and looked between the both of us almost like he could smell the tension in the room. "You kids all right?" He asked us. "Yeah, Dad. Fine." "Gettin' there," said Axel. "How far along have you gotten on that bike, Axe?" Axel squinted as he reached under to pull off the last line. "Well, Going to take the tank apart. See what's going on." "Fuck, kid, you gotta get on the road," Dad reminded him. "I got plenty of working bikes out back, you're welcome to any of them." Scoffing in disbelief, Axel ran his greasy fingers through his hair looking taken aback by my dad's offer. "Al... I couldn't. I can't... I can't leave my bike here. I won't ride anything else." "I know, I know. Figured I'd offer, is all." "I really appreciate it, Al. I should have this taken care of by tonight then I'll be out of your hair for good." Dad looked at me and noticed that I had been exceptionally quiet during their conversation. Although, he chose not to draw attention to it. My dad knew how to read a situation and act accordingly. I was glad he didn't point out how I had been standing there like a statue with a wild animal of a disclosure clawing at my insides, gnawing on my ribs like the bars of a cage. It almost made me feel sick. The garage door was wide open so I turned and started walking towards the end of the driveway, ignoring the shallow pothole that Axel had created in it. Nobody called after me and I was glad because once I got to walking I didn't want to stop. Not until I made my way down the street, walked along with the curve of the bridge that bounded over the highway and through the main street to the beach. Because it was Monday, there weren't a lot of families on the beach enjoying the sun and swimming in the water. There were no groups of girls laid side by side sun-bathing in their bikinis and no kids running around in the shallow, lapping water playing with Frisbees and splashing each other. I didn't much care for the beach in my town usually. There were so many better ones nearby but on that day it was a relief to sit in the sand and look out at the same water that I had been looking out on for years. I wanted to tell Axel about what I did and I knew if I did that meant I would have to apologize to Braun too. My selfish impulse had hurt a lot more people than I intended. I felt cowardly as I took off my flipflop sandals and buried my toes in the sand so the feeling of the untouched under layer would cool my feet. For the first time in a long time, I decided to go swimming. I left my sandals where I had sat down and made my way to the edge of the water. The wet sand sucked in my footsteps and the water splashed up my ankles to my shins and then to my knees. With no regard for the temperature, I walked right in until I was deep enough to dive over the curl of a wave, swimming out further and further until I was far enough for the shore to shrink. There I floated, relaxing in the silence and letting my body get carried back with each gentle undulation. I skimmed the water all around my head with my fingers to make sure nobody that could potentially see me floating out there in my tank top and denim shorts thought I was a dead body. I probably looked strange but I didn't really care. It felt good to just close my eyes and pretend like I was no longer alive. The sun beat down and dried my face quickly so I took a long dunk under the water and resurfaced to breathe. When I turned away from the beach all I could see was the water meet the sky and for a moment I forgot what was plaguing me. I spent the brightest hours of the day reliving the tourist experience. I bought an ice cream cone from the shop that we always used to go to and ate it in the park on a wooden memorial bench beside a fountain that never had any coins in it because people would always fish them out. I walked through the shops and said hello to the store owners that used to hire me for Summertime jobs as a teen. Then I went to the pond and skipped rocks. It felt good to do those things again. By the time I made it back to the beach the sun was just beginning to set. Judging by the bluish cast in the air I assumed it to be almost nine o'clock. Just about the time that the bars lit up only it was the first Monday after the Thirteenth and nobody would be hitting the bars except maybe a few old-timers that never missed a night. The town was calm and so was I. Until I heard a motorcycle coming down the main street. I looked back and saw a black and green chopper with Axel on it, a black bandanna tied over half of his face and a pair of sunglasses obstructing anyone from seeing what he looked like. I tried to make it appear as though I hadn't spotted him but he had spotted me and pulled up loudly, slowing to a steady chug just before the blockades. I didn't watch as he set his feet down on the ground, clutching the bars to maintain the weight of the machine between his legs. He revved the engine a couple of times in an attempt to get my attention but I didn't want to just whip around and go to him like some kind of pansy little girl with no backbone, even if that's exactly what I wanted to do. The engine roared again and I threw up my hands before turning around to face him. I shrugged at him and turned away again. Maybe it was immature of me but maybe I didn't care. He killed the engine and it wasn't long before I heard the shuffling of sand behind me. "Angel," he called to me. "Axel," I mumbled. "Hey! I'm talking to you. Don't ignore me," he commanded. Then it was time to whip around only to shoot a hateful look in his direction. He had pulled down his facemask and hooked the arm of his sunglasses onto the collar of his shirt so they were neatly tucked away beneath his leather jacket. He had even removed his riding gloves, opting to shove them in the back pocket of his jeans as he approached. "Oh! But it's okay for you to ignore me? Why don't you go get fucked." "Angel, please. I'm sorry." Struck by his apology, I shook my head in disbelief. He noticed my shocked reaction and smiled at me. He looked so menacing in his green boots, black jeans, and leather jacket but as soon as a hint of a smile cracked over his lips it threw off the entire illusion. "Sorry for what?" "For everything. I should have kept my hands to myself. You and I should have never gotten involved at all." "Okay, you sound like an asshole again." "I AM an asshole. That's what I have been trying to say! I am a constant source of disappointment to everyone I come across. There's nothing good about me at all." To hear him say those things about himself cut me inside. I frowned at him and reached for his hand. Turning his palm over, I stared at his rings and brushed the pad of my thumb over a=the skull-shaped one on his middle finger. I sighed heavily and let go of his hand and in response, he took a step toward me. "You are right though. I do owe you an explanation." Digging my toes into the sand, I waited for him to ready himself to speak again. He sighed and looked out over the water and then back at me. It was getting darker and the streetlights came on but the light didn't quite reach where we stood on the beach. "Obviously you saw what happened," he began with a heavy sigh. "Yes." "I'm still trying to figure it out. There's something wrong inside of me... There's something there that's rotten." "What is it?" "I don't know yet. All I know is that at any given moment, anyone around me is in danger." "Can't you control it?" I inquired. Axel scratched the back of his head then hooked his finger under his bandanna and pulled on it. "For the most part, yes. But... It gets harder to control when I'm pissed or... I don't know, excited?" "I understand why you don't like kissing now." Axel took one more step closer to me and closed the short gap between us. With my feet in the sand, he seemed extra tall and I tipped my head back to look at his face. "It's not that I don't like it. It's that... I don't want to hurt somebody and when I met you I knew that I had to be careful. If I did something to you... To Big Al's daughter... I'd be done." "So... You're sick? I still don't understand." "I don't understand it either. I've been searching for answers for a long time. I've been looking for somebody that can help me or at least explain why this affliction chose to manifest inside me." "I hope you find the answers you're looking for." "Me too." Axel wrapped his leather-clad arms around me and I returned the embrace, pressing my cheek to the left side of his chest and inhaling his scent quite possibly for the last time. "Axel..." "Yeah?" "I'm sorry for what I did to your bike. I just... I didn't want you to go. I wanted answers too. I know I'm a huge fucking selfish brat and I fucked up huge." "You did fuck up huge. Big time. But... So did I. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you." "I wanted it. I wanted you," I admitted. "Fuck, honey... I want you too. and it scares the Hell outta me for so many reasons." Squeezing him tighter, I tried to fight back the tears that were burning their way up from my throat to my eyes. He kissed the top of my head and held me harder still. "I don't want you to go," I whispered. "I don't want to be alone again." "I'm going to come back. I will. As soon as I can, I'll run to you. I just can't be with you right now. Not today... Not like this." "But you said you can control it." "Sometimes! I am not taking the risk that one day I might lose control. I lost control today, you saw! That could have been someone's face. I could have killed Braun. I could kill you just as easily." "Let me come with you!" I pleaded. "No! You're not coming with me. You wouldn't last a fucking week on the road." "I have it in me! I can do it." "Your father would have every biker in the country looking for me if I let you come with me. Don't be stupid... I know you're not." I finally broke and let out a sob. "I am stupid. So fucking stupid. I'm sorry!" "You're not stupid!" He held me by the arms and gave me a shake, my head wobbling lamely as I battled myself not to cry. It was a battle lost though and Axel pulled me back in. "You're just... A product of your environment. You're a spoiled brat with a father who let you do whatever you wanted because that's the motto he lives by." Axel started to giggle, holding me at an arm's length again so he could watch me cry. "Look at you. You're such a fucking brat! I can't handle it." "Shut up!" I sniffled. "Listen to me," his voice got lower. "It's not that I don't want you to come with me. It's just... You know you can't come without a bike. I'm following the Demons and you know damn well you can't ride with us unless you know your shit." "I can learn fast." "Yeah, you will. You're Al's daughter. You have a permanent fucking seat with us for life. There's a throne with your name on it, Angel. You just have to embrace it." "I'll learn, I promise." "I know you will," Axel told me. He leaned in and kissed me full and hard on the lips for a split second before pulling away again. "And you know I'm gonna be here every Thirteenth until the day I die, right?" Axel stroked my hair and pulled me into him again. His leather started to feel sticky on my skin so I pushed his jacket open and wrapped my arms around his waist, tucking my fingers under the hem of his shirt just to feel his skin again. I knew his time to depart was drawing nearer but I just couldn't force myself to let go of him. His natural fragrance and his black leather was the most exhilarating combination of smells and I craved them. "Come on, walk to my bike with me," he whispered. I didn't say anything and I hardly looked up as he released me from his embrace, causing me to give him up. My arms hung loosely at my sides until he took my hand and pulled me along. Once we reached the blockades he let go of me and went into his throwover bag. I watched as he rummaged around and pulled out the acid-stained rag of a shirt that I hated as much as I loved. "Here. I wore this shirt for like five years straight when I was a teenager so it should stink like me forever," he passed the shirt to me and I accepted it. Then he went back to the jet black leather saddlebag and pulled out a stolen pair of my panties. I opened my mouth but nothing would come out. I could only watch as he rose them to his mouth and inhaled them, letting his lashes flutter, a demonic smirk darkening over his face. I held his shirt close to me and looked up at him with no words. He tucked my pink panties back into his bag and approached me, wrapping me up in his arms again. He placed a gentle kiss on my cheek. I winced at the feeling of his mustache prickling my skin but welcomed it at the same time. Then he kissed my lips once, two times and then again for much longer. Relaxing, I melted into him and accepted any of his kiss I could get. He whimpered very slightly and I knew it was because he didn't want to stop. "I wasn't lying when I told you I'm coming back for that pussy," he whispered next to my ear. "I know." "Good." "I'll send you postcards." "Dirty ones?" "Are there any other kind?" We both laughed and it dawned like a great bell between us that it was time for him to get on his bike and leave. I drew a deep breath in through my nose and tried to cleanse myself of all of the emotion that had been shared. It was bittersweet to watch him straighten his back and stretch out before getting on his bike. With the toe of his boot, he kicked up the stand and mounted the Acid Bath Widow-Maker. He turned the ignition and she roared to life, lights blindingly sending a beam over the sand. Axel revved the engine before using his left hand to pull his facemask to his chin. "See you later, Zeitgeist." "See you later... Angelica," he called before yanking the black material up to cover his mouth and nose. Digging the soles of his boots into the ground, he walked the bike back, turned to me once more, winked then turned back toward the road. With a smooth peel out, Axel drove away and I watched him until he was out of sight. Shuddering out the remnants of my sadness, I started on my way home once the sound of the Widow Maker faded into the newly rising fog. My dad and Braun noticed me from the lit garage as I came up our street. I walked the length of the driveway and didn't stop until I was five feet away from them. I stared at my dad and then at Braun and then looked to the back of the garage where there was a bike covered by a thick black tarp. It had been shielded beneath the tarp for years, never moving. "Dad..." I said. "What's up, sweetheart?" "I wanna ride my bike."

FIN

#zeitgeist fanfiction #axel cluney fanfiction #bill skarsgård fanfiction #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgård smut #fanfiction

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supernaturalfreewill · 6 years ago

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Your name: submit What is this?

Words: 2,405 Demon!Dean x Reader Warnings: none reaaaally A/N: SURPRISE IT'S HEEEERE! This is the fourth part of a series! Read Part 1 2 and 3 first!

You looked down at the crumpled pile on the floor in front of you in disgust and casually lifted a boot. You dragged your knife along the sole, scraping the semi-congealed blood onto the rubber edge and planting your foot back firmly on the floor, smiling a little at the thought of how goddamn confusing that one bloody shoeprint was going to be for the cops.

No forced entry. Doors and windows all locked from the inside. No fingerprints.

Just a dead rapist and one bloody partial shoeprint.

You cast a final glance at the body in the middle of the floor.

He hadn’t even seen it coming. How could he? And you never got sick of the look on their faces when you finally showed yourself to them… after you had a little fun first of course.

Your targets were are a special kind of sick and you afforded them the same thought and mercy which they gave their victims; exactly none.

You materialized by the nearest wall and thrust the knife you had used for the dirty work into the ugly wood paneling.

The cops could have the murder weapon. It wouldn’t matter. You left no traces, except for that little bit of sulfur you didn’t bother to get rid of. It would be a red herring for them. By the time they’d even confirmed what is was you would have gone across the country and possibly circled back around again.

In the next instant you were outside in the alley, pulling your hood up to obscure yourself better as you moved through the shadows, carelessly splashing through puddles, rinsing the last bit of blood off your boots.

You headed for your newest haunt, though this would probably be your last night in the establishment. You needed to keep on the move. There were plenty more scumbags you needed to visit...

Somewhere in the back of your mind you acknowledged that you were leaving behind a trail of bodies, and sooner or later, someone would catch up to you by following that trail. You hadn’t yet decided who it was most likely to be, but you know it would be someone.

_ _ _ _ _ _

By the time Cas and Sam pulled up in front of the building, cops were already removing a body in a body bag from a garden level apartment.

The two exchanged a look with each other. Cas grabbed a couple badges from a box hidden underneath his seat and handed one to Sam.

The dark circles beneath Sam’s eyes had diminished somewhat in recent weeks, but they never disappeared completely. He was looking stronger though, and steadier, Cas was happy to note. He had a sense of purpose. They both did. They had something to keep them occupied, and something to strive for. And that was bringing you and Dean home.

”Okay,” Sam said to Cas as they strode across the lawn. “Just remember to—“

”Follow your, lead. Yes, Sam. I think I’ve got it by now.” Cas looked up toward the apartment building. It was nicely landscaped and many of the balconies above had flowering plants and patio sets arranged on them. “Nicer apartments than our last few cases,” the angel said.

Sam sighed heavily and his jaw clenched. “Well, rapists come from all backgrounds. They’re not just some sicko from the bad part of town,” he said. “Sometimes people refuse to believe that,” he added sadly. “Money is power, you know.”

Cas’s face clouded over. “You think that’s why he avoided a conviction?”

“I read his case file. I know it is. His lawyer, the best money could buy, got the DNA evidence thrown out.” Sam flagged a nearby detective down.

“Excuse me. We’re with the local FBI field office. You mind if we take a look at the scene?” Sam asked, flashing his badge. “We’ve been sitting on this guy for a while and—“

“Oh, yeah. Your co-worker is inside already. Knock yourselves out. They just took the body out but my partner can tell you how we found him.”

Sam and Cas exchanged a tense expression, thanked the detective, and started toward the sliding glass door. “Co-worker?” Just as Sam was swallowing the lump in his throat, the detective called out to get their attention. “Hey! Good luck! You’re gonna need it,” he scoffed, turning and heading toward his car.

Cas let out a doubtful sigh. “Great…”

Sam flashed a badge again to an officer as they neared the open patio door and he pointed them straight in to the living room. Rounding the doorframe their eyes immediately fell on none other than Crowley.

Sam’s jaw clenched and he was sure his gaze turned cold. But Crowley merely nodded and said, “Agents.”

Cas and Sam begrudgingly walked over and surveyed the scene. Once the detective inside had talked them through everything he left the three alone to go oversee further evidence collection.

”FBI? Really, Crowley? What kind of FBI agent dresses like a funeral home director?” Sam said, gesturing at the King of Hell’s all black suit and dark tie.

Crowley glanced down at his suit. “This is an Armani suit, Moose. Not that I would expect you to know, based on your Walmart ensemble.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Crowley added sarcastically.

Cas’s voice came out in a growl. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

”What do you think I’m doing? The same thing you two nimrods are. Following the bodies. Purgatory is filling up with monsters and hell is filling up with sinners. Our numbers haven’t been this good since the Black Plague struck Europe,” he finished with a snarky smile.

”If business is so good, then why are you bothering following up on whoever is doing it?” Sam pressed.

Crowley merely shifted his weight and didn’t respond, eyeing the bloody knife still sticking out of the wall.

Cas narrowed his eyes at the demon. “You felt it too,” he said.

Crowley looked over at Cas, and although he tried to scowl there was some doubt in his eyes that the angel could see. “Please, I’m a demon. I don’t feel anything.”

”The change in power. You felt it,” Cas said again.

Sam was glancing between the two of them, trying to read Crowley’s expression, and becoming very uncomfortable about all the officers moving in and out of the room. “Alright, we can’t talk about this here. Let’s go. We’ll go someplace we don’t have to worry about being overheard.”

A short time later, the three of them were sequestered in a dingy bar, and despite the fact that there was only Budweiser and Bud Light on tap, Crowley still asked for some fruity monstrosity of a cocktail, which Sam was pretty sure was going to get them thrown out or punched.

Sam was having a hard time looking at Crowley without feeling anger boil in his chest. He wanted to punch him square across the face, but at the moment he also wanted to know what Crowley thought about what Cas insisted he had felt.

“So, what do you think it is?” Sam asked.

Crowley took a deep drink out of his fruity cocktail through the straw, obviously prolonging it to maximize Sam and Cas’s annoyance. “What do you think it is?”

”Come on, Crowley. You’re lucky I didn’t try and gut you with an angel blade the minute we saw you,” Sam spat. “If you’d like to keep things that way, I suggest you help. This whole mess is your fault anyway!”

Crowley cocked his head at Sam and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a bar napkin. “Not very friendly, are we, Moose?”

Sam was about to retort but Cas interrupted and attempted to run interference. “It’s Y/N. Isn’t it?” he prodded.

The same discomfort they had seen back at the crime scene was evident on Crowley’s face. Cas took it as an affirmative response.

”Perhaps,” Crowley said. “I may have heard something about it.”

Suddenly, Cas snapped. He seized Crowley by the front of his suit and was inches from his face. “Listen, you little insect. We wouldn’t have lost Dean OR Y/N if it weren’t for you, so if you know something I suggest that you tell us, otherwise I will personally see to rearranging your face.” Cas’s voice came out through clenched teeth as a growl.

Sam noticed that the bartender just turned his back and walked away, apparently unconcerned, and Sam put a hand on Cas’s shoulder. “Cas—“

Just then, Sam’s cell phone rang. All three of them froze, and Sam dug into his pocket and pulled it out. Unlisted caller.

Sam glanced up at Cas, who immediately released Crowley. Crowley watched with interest as he straightened his suit coat and tie. After gulping down the tightness in his throat the best he could, Sam answered the call. “Hello?” He could hear the hesitation in his own voice.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” came the voice from the other end.

”Dean.” Cas’s eyes widened and his gaze intensified. Crowley leaned in a little closer.

”How’s it hanging, little brother?”

Sam didn’t know how to respond. “Dean, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you since—“

“--since forever. Yeah, I know. But you know what they say, moss doesn’t grow on a rolling rock or some shit,” Dean replied carelessly. “Listen… I know you and Cas are on the trail of this killing machine and I think there’s something you should know about it.”

“What about it?” Sam asked, his heart hammering in his chest.

Dean slammed back a shot of tequila and cleared his throat. “It ain’t me,” he said.

Sam let a silence stretch for a moment. “…is that it?”

”Yeah, kind of.” Sam could almost see the shrug he guessed Dean was making and he felt anger welling up in his chest again.

”Dean, Y/N is missing, maybe dead, or God-only-knows what and all you can say is—“

Dean interrupted. “Yeah, Y/N is definitely not dead,” he said.

”What?” Sam retorted.

”Who the hell do you think is leaving the Hansel and Gretel trail? But, you know, bodies instead of bread crumbs,” he said. “I’m ahead of you on this thing.”

”What’s he saying?” Crowley whispered, but Sam just waved him off.

”We thought it was but--are you sure it’s Y/N?” Sam asked.

”Positive,” Dean said. “Absolutely positive. She’s gone totally scorched earth!” He almost sounded amused and it was grating Sam’s nerves.

Crowley suddenly grabbed the phone from Sam and put it on speakerphone. “Dean! Pleasure to hear from you as always. Never available when needed but buzzing around like a fly when--”

”Crowley! Well, I should have guessed… The gang is all there,” Dean said carelessly.

”Dean,” Cas said. His voice was cold and steely. “Where are you?”

Dean only laughed. “Ahead of you, chuckles, but I’m not about to tell you where. You three are in Indiana? Well there are three more bodies waiting for you down the line.”

“Dean, what exactly is—“ Cas wasn’t sure how to ask the question. “Have you seen Y/N?”

”No, but I’m close. Closer than you three amigos anyway.” They heard the clink of glassware in the background. Dean changed gears. “Crowley, there are some crazy rumors flying around about your domain. Shouldn’t you be reining those in?”

Sam and Cas’s eyes flew to Crowley’s face, immediately trying to read his reaction.

”I’m not sure what you’re referr—“ Crowley started, but Dean quickly interrupted.

”You know goddamn well what I’m referring to,” Dean countered. “A bunch of your minions are losing their shit because they think Y/N has gone nuclear. Some are saying she’s going to be taking over,” he scoffed. “Can you imagine that? Y/N taking over hell? I mean, I know she’s gone vigilante but Y/N? Taking over Hell? A little unbelievable. I’m sure even as she is she probably is full of annoying principles,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Based on the earful she gave me last time I saw her…” Though he was talking about the fight you had had with him in the hotel during the rendezvous Crowley had arranged, a sudden surge pushed the image of you pale and dead on that slab into his mind unbidden and he winced and squinted his eyes shut, trying to force it out of mind.

But on the other end of the line Cas and Sam were still scrutinizing Crowley, who was no longer able to hide his concern and anxiety. He tried to distract from it. “Full of principles until some hunter wanders into her path, maybe,” Crowley said.

Dean was about to respond but Cas quickly hung up the call and Sam and the angel let their angry glares bore into the demon. “I knew that you knew something,” Cas growled.

Sam sidled up beside him and soon had an angel blade pressed against his ribs. “Now, Crowley. This is Y/N we are talking about. It’s not a game.”

It seemed that the ‘King of Hell’ didn’t have any options. “Alright, Moose. Put the pig sticker away, it’s making me itch,” he said. He sighed heavily as Sam backed off. Cas’s cobalt eyes were fixed on him.

“What Flutters here picked up on, his so-called ‘change in power’ was Y/N coming back to—well not back to life exactly, but into being in her new form,” Crowley said.

”As a demon,” Sam said. No surprise there.

”Bravo, Moose,” Crowley quipped. “But it’s more than that. It seems that for some unknown reason Y/N came back as—” he hesitated.

”As?” Cas urged, his deep voice thick with foreboding. The air felt electric around them. Cas knew they were on the edge of some new information that was going to change everything.

”A Knight of Hell,” Crowley said, averting his eyes to the floor. “So, you see we are in a bit of a predicament.”

Sam fell back heavily onto the nearest barstool, his face dumbstruck. Cas’s blue eyes were glaring at Crowley and his anger resurfaced.

”A Knight of Hell,” he repeated. “What have you done, Crowley?”

And this time the demon didn’t have a snappy comeback. All he could do was stare at his polished dress shoes and wait for what was to come.

#supernaturalfreewill #demon!dean #deamon #dean winchester #squirrel #dean imagines #dean fanfics #dean x reader #spn #spn fanfics #spn imagines #gif imagines #supernatural #team free will #spn one shot #dean one shot #fanfiction

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mycatshuman · 6 years ago

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Die Schere Hand (An Edward Scissorhands Sanders Sides AU) Chapter 3

Warnings: food mention, please let me know if I missed any!

Pairings: Logicality, Prinxiety (eventually)

Word Count: 2, 719

Thank you to @civilsounds17 for beta reading this chapter! Your comments are greatly appreciated!

You can find the prologue here:https://mycatshuman.tumblr.com/post/178632737682/die-schere-hand

Remy quietly waited for Patton and the stranger to come back. He looked over at Logan, who sat at the head of the table. “So,” Remy cringes slightly at the volume of his voice in the silence. Logan turned to look at him. Remy didn’t miss the hint of fear in his brother’s eyes. For what, Remy wasn’t sure. If he had to guess, he would think that it was because of the stranger’s hands and how he would react. Remy guessed it was a reasonable fear. After all, Remy never told him of that night.

“Okay, here we go,” Patton spoke as he came into the room with a platter of food. There was cubes of meat and cheese and some peppers. Remy took note of the skewers Patton placed next to the platter. Patton pulled out a chair across from Remy.

He watched as the stranger shuffled in and sat in the chair, his eyes glued to the floor. Patton gave the man a warm smile as he pushed the chair in and sat next to him.

Logan cleared his throat. “Remy, this is Virgil. Virgil, this is Remy.”

Virgil, Remy thought. He could see that. “Hey gurl!”

Virgil peeked up at Remy through his bangs. “Hi,” he responded quietly.

An awkward silence filled the room. “So! Shall we dig in?” Patton asked.

“Let’s,” Logan responded as he grabbed a skewer and began to create his shish kabob. Remy followed suit and watched as Patton whispered to Virgil as he did the same.

“Would you like some steak?” Patton whispered to Virgil. Virgil nodded, still slightly uneasy with Remy in the room. Patton grabbed some of the cubed steak for himself and then placed some on Virgil’s plate.

Remy did his best not to stare at Virgil as he ate. Which was surprisingly difficult. It was weird. What exactly are you supposed to look at when you eat? The plate? That might just seem rude. The decor? He ate here plenty of times before. Maybe he should initiate conversation.

“So Logan,” Remy started. His brother glanced at him. “You still working at that lab?” He asked.

Logan frowned slightly. It was unusual for his brother to be interested in his work. When they were little, Remy focused more on making their foster family regret taking them in. Don’t get Logan wrong. Their foster family was a disaster! They used them as personal slaves and it was complete hell. So Remy did everything he could to piss them off. He was, or rather is a good brother. He just wasn’t that interested in science.

“Yeah. Why do you ask?” Logan asked, his eyebrow raised.

Remy gasped. “What?! I can’t just check up on my little brother? Is that,” Remy stopped and looked around before whispering, “illegal?”

Logan rolled his eyes and groaned. “No, it’s just you were never really interested in science.”

Remy narrowed his eyes. “And just because I’m not interested in science doesn’t mean I can't ask how your jobs going.”

“Hey, why don't we just relax. Okay?” Patton cut in as he tried to defuse an argument in the making.

“Fine,” Logan huffed.

Remy rolled his eyes but didn't say anything else. They ate in silence again. Remy wondered if it would be weird to say he already met Virgil. How would Logan respond? What would Patton say? Would Virgil want them to know? What is it really all a big deal? Was it a secret? Was it worth all this worrying? Remy wasn’t sure. So he kept his mouth shut.

Virgil was…..uncomfortable to say the least. He didn't know wether to mention that they had encountered each other before. Virgil shook the thought from his head as he tried his best to eat silently. He made sure to keep his bladed fingers from stabbing the plate and making any unnecessary noise. It was a little difficult but he managed. He was at the least glad that Patton was sitting next to him. It gave the anxious male a little bit if comfort knowing the father-like figure was an inch away.

“So where’s Roman?” Remy asked, cutting through the unbearable silence.

“He’s up in the mountains with friends,” Patton answered as he took a bite of his food.

Remy frowned. “And that….boyfriend of his?” It seemed almost like the boyfriend was not a good person in the eyes of Remy. Virgil wondered why.

“Roman and Schlange are still together,” Logan replied, a bit stiff.

Virgil’s frown deepened. How bad must this man be for both Remy AND Logan to dislike him? He found himself wondering what Patton thought of him.

“Now guys,” Patton started. “Let’s just leave it be. Roman is his own person. And if he chooses to be with a man like Schlange….than so be it. As long as Roman’s happy we should be happy.”

Logan let out a unusual growl. “Oh sure. If Roman’s happy than I’m straight.”

If Virgil had been drinking he would have spit it out. Best. Response. Ever.

Patton frowned. “Well we can’t force Roman to break up with him. That could cause more damage than necessary. It's better if we just trust him on this.”

Remy and Logan both kept their mouths shut but it was obvious what they thought. Virgil found himself…..worried and confused. What was it about this man that they didn’t like? Was it something morally wrong or…….something else? If Patton didn’t approve of them then it most likely meant they did not approve of him for one of his morals. Or lack thereof.

“When they be back?” Remy asked.

Patton thought for a few moments. “I believe it will be a week.”

Remy glowered at his food as he ate. Virgil knew that whoever this man maybe, it was not sage to trust him if his fam- if these people didn't approve of him.

“So……” Patton started once everyone was finished eating. “How ‘bout dessert?”

Virgil lay in Roman’s bed that night thinking over the events from earlier. They had dessert and then Remy left, claiming he had to get up for work early tomorrow morning. Logan and Patton were surprised that Remy seemed so unfazed by Virgil’s hands but he knew better. Remy definitely remembered him.

Virgil shifted a bit and groaned. This water bed was not the best idea. Who the fuck gives a man with scissors for hands a water bed? But Virgil wouldn’t complain. It was the best they could do. And Patton probably thought more about his comfort than his hands problem.

Virgil sighed and closed his eyes in an attempt to fall asleep. He couldn’t help the uneasy feeling he had as he tried to let his mind drift into unconsciousness.

Roman smiled as the van stopped and he grabbed his stuff. His boyfriend, Schlange, opened the door and hopped out before helping him out of the car. Roman smiled at his boyfriend and pressed a kiss to his lips. “You didn’t call your parents did you?” Roman smirked.

Schlange chuckled. “No I forgot. Guess I'm sleeping in the lawn.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Oh the horror!” He proclaimed as he struck a dramatic pose.

Schlange snickered and rolled his discolored eyes. “Alright babe. Love you. Talk to you later.”

Roman pressed a kiss to Schlange’s lips and waved as he ran up to his front door.

Once inside, Roman silently shut the front door before creeping across the carpet to the hallway. He made sure to keep himself from making noise lest Logan come out yelling. Once he got to his room he shut the door before dropping everything and letting out a dramatic sigh. He couldn't wait to get to bed.

Virgil heard the front door open and his blue eyes snapped open. What was that? He wondered. Should he get up? What if it was a burglar? Or murderer? Virgil took a deep breath as he waited with bated breath to see what would transpire.

He listened as he heard gentle footsteps make their way down the hallway. Virgil kept his wide eyes on the door as he waited for whatever it was to come near. The door opened and Virgil’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. A tan man with blonde hair and green eyes entered and dropped his things on the floor after closing the door.

Virgil’s heart jumped into his throat as he realized who it was. This was Roman! This was the other man who lived here. The man in the extra frame. Virgil held his breath. This wasn’t going to end well.

Roman stretched and yawned. Still completely oblivious to Virgil in the bed. Virgil should have just gotten up and left. He should have pushed to sleep on the floor or couch. Anything but having to face this situation. Roman opened his eyes.

Roman let out an ear piercing scream. He raced out of the room and collapsed against the wall. Despite all the talk of being a hero, Roman was still very much afraid of strangers in his home.

Patton quickly raced out of his room to see what was wrong and everything clicked into place when he saw Roman. He went to Roman’s side.and tried to calm the man down as Logan entered the hallway with a frown deeply set into his face.

The serious man's hair was askew and he was in a unicorn onesie. A gift from Patton. “I shall go help Virgil,” he told Patton and entered Roman’s room.

Virgil quickly stood from the bed. All without piercing a single hole in the mattress. He had to admit he was happy about that. He would have felt so bad if he had ruined Roman’s bed. “Virgil, follow me. We will set you up on the couch for tonight.” Logan turned walked back out as Virgil followed behind him.

Virgil nervously hurried past Roman and Patton and walked into the living room to see Logan pulling the couch cushions off the couch. Virgil watched as the man pulled out the inside of the couch and in its place lay a bed. “We’ll have your own bed by tomorrow so don't you worry,” Logan told him as he set up the blankets and pillows for Virgil.

“Thank you,” Virgil whispered.

Logan looked over at him. “Of course, you’re welcome. And sorry about that. Roman has always had a higher pitched scream than the rest of us, though he won’t admit it.” Logan yawned slightly.

“Who is that!?” Roman whisper yelled after the man had walked past.

“That's Virgil. I met him and he lived alone and I brought him here,” Patton replied as if it was the most logical thing in the world to bring home a man with scissors for hands.

“Patton, sweet, sweet Patton. The man has scissors! For hands!” Roman exclaimed.

Patton frowned. “Don't judge a book by its cover Roman. Virgil is actually a really nice man and you just need to give him a chance.”

Roman stared in disbelief at Patton. “How did Logan agree to this?!?”

Patton giggled. “He agreed because Virgil’s letting him ask him questions. You know how curious Logan is.”

“Of course I know how curious Logan is!” Roman exclaimed. “That doesn't mean we have to bring this man into our home!”

Patton shook his head. “Give him a chance before you judge him. Alright?”

“But-” Roman stopped at the look Patton gave him and dropped his arms. He breathed a reluctant sigh.

“Just come on and meet him,” Virgil heard Patton whisper and turned to see Patton leading Roman into the living room A couple of feet away from him. He felt panic swell inside his chest and prayed he didn't have a panic attack right then and there. “Roman this is Virgil. Virgil, Roman.”

Roman took in Virgil’s look and realized he was looking at an emo nightmare. He gave an uneasy smile. “Hello.”

Virgil just nodded. He could already tell this man did not like him. It was clear from the way those green eyes looked at him. The disgust in Roman’s eyes was evident and made Virgil feel like trash. He would most definitely be leaving at the end of the week.

The next day brought Virgil into some business when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” Patton called as he went to the door and opened it to reveal Thomas Sanders,their next door neighbor.

“Hey Patton!” Thomas greeted.

“Oh hey Thomas! How are you doing?” Patton replied as the brunette smiled at him.

“I'm doing good but I couldn't help but notice your hedges! They look amazing! And I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of your gardener,” Thomas explained.

Patton bit his lip. That would be Virgil. And he didn't know how Thomas would react to Virgil. He really didn't want to cause any trouble.

“Uhh,” Patton blanked. What was he going to say!?!?

Thankfully, Logan entered the room just then as he tightened his tie for work. He looked up at the door and noticed Thomas in the doorway. “Thomas,” he spoke and walked to the front door. “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to know about your gardener and to see if maybe you could point me in their direction,” Thomas explained.

“I see,” Logan frowned. “Well, we would love to do that but he is not gardener,” Logan replied.

“Really?” Thomas asked impressed.

“Yes, you see… uh….” Logan also drew a blank which was very unusual.

Against his better judgement, Patton pulled Thomas into the house and shut the door.

“Woah!” Thomas exclaimed at suddenly being yanked through the threshold. He stumbled before fighting himself and turning to face Patton and Logan. “What-” he starts before he noticed Patton’s serious face.

“We will let you ask him if he will trim your hedges but you have to respect him and trust me when I say he is not dangerous,” Patton said before leaving to go get said man.

“What?” Thomas asked as confusion fogged his brain.

“The person who can do this is a bit different from us and he is not going to hurt you so do not worry about his hands,” Logan repiled.

“His hands….?” Thomas trailed off when Patton walked into the room with a darkly clothed man with…...scissors instead of hands. Thomas’s eyes went wide and he had to remind himself to breathe.

“Thomas, this is Virgil. Virgil, Thomas. Thomas, this is the man who made our hedges,” Patton explained.

“H-hello,” Thomas greeted with a slight smile, still trying to recover from seeing a man with scissors for hands.

Virgil gave a nod in return and Thomas immediately felt sympathy for the man. He recognized the signs of anxiety and knew that this man was definitely full of it.

“If it's okay with you,” Thomas started as he tried to use a calm voice to hopefully sooth the jittery man. “I would like you to shape my hedges for me. I’ll pay you so that's no issue.”

Virgil took a deep breath. This could be his way to pay them back. He could give them the money he earned from trimming Thomas’s hedges. “What would you want?” He asked quietly.

Thomas gave a warm smile. “I was hoping you would be able to make a rainbow and, if it's not too ambitious, maybe try the one scene from Aladdin?”

Virgil blinked. That was it? “Sure,” he replied feeling a little confident. He had done something from Disney movies before.

Thomas grinned. “Thank you so much!” Virgil smiled weakly. “Is it okay if we go now?” Thomas asked. “If not I understand,” he added.

Virgil nodded. “Now is fine.”

Thomas grinned. “Great! Come on!” And he headed out the front door and walked next door, Patton and Virgil following close behind after they waved goodbye to Logan who had to go to work.

Thomas grinned at Virgil as they entered the backyard. “So, I was hoping you could do the corner hedges if that's okay,” he told them and moved his arm to indicate the hedges in question.

Virgil nodded. “Yeah, they should work.”

“Yay!” Thomas exclaimed happily.

Virgil felt his mouth twitch up slightly. It had begun.

(Wrote that all in one day. Man thats a lot of work. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always feedback is greatly appreciated and I would love to hear your thoughts on this both positive and negative! Shy? Send me an ask on anon! I won't mind! I hope you all have a lovely week! Stay safe! 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜👻🎃👻🎃👻🎃👻🎃👻🎃👻🎃)

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baepsaetan · 6 years ago

Text

Inkarnate

Summary: Hoseok is a film student looking for muse, and Yoongi is a tattoo artist looking for money. When they meet, the two find that they could give each other far more than creativity and cash, but soulmate isn’t spelled p.e.r.f.e.c.t, and Yoongi’s tattoos cover up more than just his skin.

Chapters: pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, pt.8, pt.9, pt.10, pt.11 -> read on Ao3

Genre: Soulmate! AU, Angst

Warnings: Swearing, mildly suggestive content, implied alcoholism, implied past abuse, seriously a lot of angst, eventual smut, main character death.

Length: 10.2k

A/N: A slightly fluffier chapter to soften the blow of pt. 6. <3 This is where the “eventual smut” tag starts being prodded to life, as a heads up to anyone who’s reading. As always, hope you enjoy!

The dark presses heavily against his eyes, and though the moon is bright enough to give some hazy guidance, it also throws the woods crowding the path into deeper shadows. Hoseok knows it’s stupid to thoroughly expect to suddenly run into a bear or an ax murderer, but that doesn’t stop his heart from leaping nervously in his chest with every step. A good part of him wants to turn on his heel and just book it back to the cabin, and stay in there until the sun rises, but his friends would rag him for the rest of eternity and besides, who the hell is afraid of the dark? At his age?

Teeth clenched, his hand tightening around the bag of marshmallows he’d retrieved from the cabin, (carelessly forgotten by someone he won’t mention – Yoongi), Hoseok inches forward. Somewhere ahead is the clearing – strains of lowkey pop music come from that direction – a clearing which contains a blessed fire and even more blessed friends. Hopefully. Hopefully they’re over there somewhere, and not lurking in the trees, ready to try to scare the shit out of him. You’d think that after five nights of camping, they would have gotten tired of leaping out of shadows and bushes – you’d think that Hoseok would have stopped falling for it – but neither is the case. He still sees Taehyung’s shape in every log, and Jungkook in every–

A loud crack snaps behind him, and Hoseok whirls, a shriek not – quite – breaking from his lips. Swallowing it – and his heart, too, given that it catapulted into his throat – the film major stops dead, peering into the black that consumes the path behind him. He should have brought the flashlight like Yoongi said, and ignored Jimin calling him a chicken. God, it’s either a bird or a squirrel or one of the idiots he’s invited to his family’s cabin, but what if it’s not? What if he dies because he thinks it’s not a big deal? What if he–

Something seizes his hand, and this time Hoseok does scream, a sharp spike of sound that cuts off half a heartbeat later when he realizes he recognizes the grip. He doesn’t need Yoongi’s voice to confirm it, though the man speaks anyways. “Relax,” he says, a pretty constant refrain where Hoseok is concerned. “It’s just me.”

“I knew that,” he replies quickly, and Yoongi’s low laugh eases the scared pit in his stomach. His heart has already settled down, an immediate reaction to the man’s presence that always happens and has taken some getting used to. It’s stupid to be relieved to have the tattooist next to him, but the fact is that Yoongi doesn’t make him feel stupid about it, and that makes all the difference in the world.

“Sure you did,” is his companion’s easy response, and they start walking together, hand in hand. Hoseok can’t help but steal glances at the other’s striking face, the moonlight washing away the drawn lines so often embedded around his mouth and under his tired eyes. It’s a pretty look, though not as pretty as when Yoongi is napping on his couch, sunlight spilling across his serene expression. Hoseok quickly jerks his eyes away when another ominous crack sounds to the side, thoughts derailed by the noise. Yoongi squeezes his hand, and this time he’s not afraid.

They halt. “You guys can haul your asses back to the fire,” Yoongi calls flatly. “This was only funny the first time.”

There’s a pause, like the woods are seriously considering his words, before a rebellious voice somewhere in the darkness replies, “The second time was funny.”

Taehyung follows Jungkook’s disagreement with sunny cheekiness, emerging onto the path ahead of them. “The third time was pretty funny, too, hyung. I thought Hobi hyung was gonna have a heart attack.”

“Was that before or after you fell off the roof and nearly broke your fool neck?” Yoongi asks dryly.

“Both!” Taehyung replies cheerfully, and some rustling announces Jungkook stepping out of the shrubs and joining them. Hoseok thinks Tae should probably feel a bit worse about prancing around on a cabin roof with the sole intention of scaring him, especially when it had resulted in Taehyung falling off and causing a panic among all of them, but the other guy is irrepressible. As he puts it, his head had stopped bleeding after only a few hours. What an idiot, is Hoseok’s fond summation, because Taehyung wouldn’t purposefully hurt a fly, let alone any of their feelings.

He is kind of getting tired of the attempts at freaking him out, though. He wishes Yoongi would say something harsher as they begin to walk – when he draws a line, the younger guys tend to respect it – but the tattooist is silent. In fact, when Hoseok looks over the other is staring at him pointedly, and he knows deep in his gut what those lightly narrowed eyes mean. It’s like a prod towards the edge of a cliff, only Yoongi keeps reassuring him that if he jumps he won’t fall.

Is this worth digging in his heels, though? Being labelled a killjoy? He’s not a person with a hard stop; leave that to other people like his father, with the ultimatums and last straws. Yoongi’s pointed out (repeatedly) that there’s a difference between being a downer and standing up for yourself, and that his friends are hardly likely to dislike him for saying no, but it’s a difficult line for Hoseok to see and an even harder one to walk.

Except his newly named boyfriend is still staring at him, so much expectant silence in his eyes that Hoseok is surprised no one else can hear it. He sighs to himself. Fingers tightening spasmodically around Yoongi’s – his expression doesn’t change – Hoseok begins tentatively, “Yo, guys…” The younger boys glance back curiously, and though their faces are shadowed, there’s no sign of tension or judgement in the motion. “There’s only a day left of camping and, like… I’m kind of not finding this funny any more.”

“Oh, really?” Taehyung asks, and it’s such a bewildered, innocent question that Yoongi snorts.

It makes Hoseok feel better though, and he nods cautiously. “Yeah… It’s not a big deal or anything but, like, maybe just for tonight…”

Jungkook is quick to reply, as brazen in his apology as he is in his teasing. “Damn, sorry. We really thought you were having fun, hyung! We’ll lay off, sure.” Beside him, Taehyung hums in agreement, and, just like that…

The problem is solved. He blinks rapidly, hand relaxing in Yoongi’s grip, and though he really can’t see well enough to be sure, Hoseok still knows the other man is smirking in that smug way he has. The marshmallow bag clutched to his chest in dumbfounded silence, he doesn’t even care about that. If it feels a little stupid to be so relieved, it doesn’t look like either of the younger guys notice, and Yoongi’s not going to bother him about it. Not much, anyways. Hoseok can only kick himself for not speaking up sooner, though he’s so relieved it’s a half-hearted affair.

They break into the clearing shortly after, a small, imperfect circle with a scattering of lawn chairs surrounding a crackling fire set into a shallow pit. He sees that – against all advice – Namjoon’s put about five more logs into the flames, and they’re alternating between suffocating in some places and roaring to unholy heights in others. The fact that most of them (with the exception of Kookie) have never been camping before was an excuse for inexperience at the start of the trip, but it hardly flies now. If Hoseok didn’t know better, he’d have suspected that Namjoon was secretly planning on burning the camp site to the ground, and everyone else along with it.

That’s clearly not the case, but this trip has been something of a revelation of Namjoon’s clumsier side. There’s ample evidence for it; there aren’t enough chairs in the circle around the fire, given that the bookstore owner broke his the first day. It worked out – as Hoseok settles into his seat, Yoongi sits in his lap, and has since the incident – but it’s still a little shocking. The broken tent pole had been funny, though the ax head embedding itself in the ground an inch from Jimin’s foot instead of into the log a good half a meter away had been a clear sign that Namjoon was a minor apocalypse waiting to happen.

He’s been regulated to non-dangerous tasks since then, but Namjoon’s adamant about helping with the fire.

It’s a little awkward to poke and prod the logs his earnest, possibly pyromaniac assistant added into a respectable shape (what with Yoongi in his lap and all) but Hoseok manages it and finds that Jin has snagged the bag of marshmallows. The eldest of them is already spearing the white balls onto sticks they’d foraged for that purpose – Hoseok’s offer of metal sticks had been indignantly rejected as not being rustic enough – and he passes them around as soon as the fire is back under control. Jungkook and Taehyung bicker, as per the norm, fighting for the best spot and slashing each others’ rods out of the way, but everyone else is content to lean forward, the warmth of the flames licking hands and faces, and let their marshmallows roast in whatever patch of heat that’s available.

For his part, Yoongi sets his first one on fire, ignores their amused consternation and lets the marshmallow burn into a blackened mess that takes a long time to crumple off his stick.

When Hoseok murmurs a question in his ear, under the rest of the conversation that’s long ago moved on, the tattoo artist replies lightly, “Figuring out how to fuck it up, so I don’t later.” Hoseok wraps his free arm around Yoongi, pulls him closer, and the other man leans back against his chest with no complaint.

He’s glad Yoongi agreed to come. It’s often a struggle to get him out of the studio, and even if Namjoon says he’s gotten better since Hoseok entered the picture, that doesn’t exactly mean the tattooist has turned into a social butterfly. His recent illness – some kind of violent stomach flu – obviously hasn’t helped, but Yoongi seems to be getting over it, and he’s actually been very engaged in this particular outing. It was his idea, after all, to bring tents instead of sleeping in the cabin, and putting those up (including Namjoon snapping one of the poles) had been one of the early highlights of the trip.

It’s good for Yoongi to be here, Hoseok muses, and not just for Hoseok’s sake, either. As the blonde man recites a word-perfect rendition of Tony Montana’s speech from Scarface – much to the delight of everyone, especially Jungkook, who’s giggling hysterically – Hoseok stares into the flames and lets himself be lulled by the sound of his boyfriend’s comically slurred voice. He laughs at the appropriate moments (“Me, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.”) but he’s thinking about the way the heat is sinking into his skin, especially the skin around his collarbone.

You can’t memorize a bonded tattoo – not when it changes daily – but Hoseok’s still got a pretty good picture of it in his head. It’s never stopped growing – the fringe of flowers now trails up his throat and stretches three quarters of the way across his chest – but it doesn’t look… healthy, either. The petals droop tiredly and the colour is leaching from them, slowly but surely. Unless it’s changed for the better since he was able to look at it, before they left. It probably hasn’t.

He’s caught between a strange – albeit familiar – mix of concern; guilt that he’s not concerned enough, and guilt that he’s concerned at all. He has a boyfriend. He should be focused on and grateful for that – and he is. Sometimes Hoseok’s just afraid he’s doing Yoongi a disservice by thinking about his bonded at all. The thought – a thought that comes to his mind with frequent, uncomfortable regularity – makes him tighten his grip, and without breaking off his speech, Yoongi snuggles back, rests more firmly in Hoseok’s lap.

As always, his heavy presence soothes the unease, and Hoseok relaxes a little, eases himself off the anxious trail of thought. It’s becoming easier and easier to do that, these days – sometimes even without Yoongi’s help – and it also makes it easier to stop desperately throwing himself into crazy antics for the sake of laughter and nothing else at all. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t like fooling around anymore; it’s just that now he’s doing it for himself, and not just for others. That’s a much nicer thought, and Hoseok smiles a little to himself, taking his (only slightly burnt) marshmallow from the fire and pulling it, gooey and still-hot, from his stick. It tastes almost as sweet as being with his friends – and the bitter taste of charcoal barely registers amidst that.

Taehyung apparently likes golden brown marshmallows, but he doesn’t have the patience or the luck to manage them; he sets his fifth or sixth on fire, just like the previous ones, and blows frantically as the rest of them laugh. It looks like he’s going to give up, except then Yoongi hands over his own stick, which he’s been patiently holding at the edge of the fire for the last few minutes. The marshmallow on it is about as perfect as it gets, a hairsbreadth from falling off, and Taehyung exclaims in confused but delighted thanks, a swirl of, “Are you sure?” and, “Wow, thanks!” and “You did this for me?”

Yoongi shrugs, easily riding the excited wave until he can get a word in. “I felt bad,” he eventually says. “It was too pitiful; you wasted so many good marshmallows.” He’s cheerfully unrepentant of his own waste, and equally cheerfully ignores Taehyung and Jin calling him out on it.

It makes Hoseok grin, so affectionate that he presses his face to Yoongi’s neck, just for a moment, just to release the bursting warmth. The tattooist turns in his lap, runs his hand through Hoseok’s hair, and kisses him, a slow press that doesn’t summon fire – not like that disorienting first time – but puts something soft and secure in the pit of Hoseok’s stomach. The displays hadn’t embarrassed him back when they first – officially – started dating, and Yoongi has been surprisingly willing to be demonstrative in public, so long as he isn’t taken by surprise. He says that if it bothers anyone, they can go to hell and send a postcard. It certainly doesn’t embarrass either of them now, not when it’s just their friends who can see. (Not even when Namjoon calls, “Get a room!” with tongue-in-cheek mockery.)

The group’s conversation is a bundle of good-natured teasing, fond memories and idle speculations about the present and future. It’s slow, only spiking occasionally as someone (usually Jin) is baited into an explosion of comic disagreement, and even that quickly subsides. Over their heads, the moon is a bleak source of light, but the fire serves to warm more than just their bodies; it lightens the atmosphere, too, settling a cheerful and intimate blanket over the group of seven. The crackle of the flames fills their scattered silences, the phone music turned off awhile ago, and if Hoseok closes his eyes, the fire remains as a vivid imprint on his eyelids, the voices and low pop of the flames mingling together.

Time passes luxuriously, and no one looks at their phones to check the hour, but it must be getting late. Just as Hoseok feels his eyes beginning to close with greater frequency, his forehead occasionally nodding to rest against Yoongi’s warm back, a long, mournful sound – far away and immediate, all at once – pulls him abruptly wide awake. The howl is taken up by a chorus of forlorn voices, and it sends rapid chills skittering down his back, worse than when he was walking through the dark. They shut up Jin mid-sentence, and after a pause, Jungkook laughs, a hum that dies quickly.

“There’re wolves around here?” Namjoon asks, and to his credit he manages to sound more interested than afraid.

“Yeah,” Hoseok replies, and after his initial reaction he actually feels fond. It reminds him of another time, another place, with other people that he loved unreservedly when he was younger. “They’re not as close as they sound,” he adds, recalling his sister’s reassurances when his father had tried to convince him the wolves were lurking just outside the circle of light, so many years ago. “Their howls can travel a really long distance.”

Jimin’s voice is soft with wonder. “They sound so… free. But sad, too, y’know? I wonder why they –”

Another stirring call ripples out, somewhere in the night, a mounting crescendo of heartrending grief and fierce exultation that cascades into a sorrow so deep it fills the lungs of all the listeners, making it just a little harder to breathe. It’s immediately answered by a different voice, and then another, falling and climbing over each other in a harmony that catches at Hoseok’s breath and shoves it back down his throat, all the way to his heart. The strains of melodic wildness carry on, and the boys sit in rapt silence. Yoongi’s fingers rub in quick, concentrated circles against Hoseok’s thighs, and Hoseok has a feeling that he’s listening in a way that’s different from all of their hushed admiration, though he couldn’t have said why.

The tumult falls off, and the crackling of the fire lingers uneasily in the space left behind, like it’s aware of how severely lacking it is compared to the beautiful noise. Just as Hoseok stirs, about to break the silence he can’t stand, abruptly the man in his lap cups his hands around his mouth, throws back his head – and howls.

It’s not perfect, a bit too high, a bit too hoarse to join the previous chorus of unearthly voices, but it sure as hell scares the shit out of everyone nonetheless. Hoseok jerks, nearly takes them both out as he rocks the chair – cutting off Yoongi’s hair-raising cry – and Jimin, just next to them, literally does fall out of his seat. (Backwards, thankfully, and not towards the fire.) The rest of them are in a similarly startled state.

“Dude!” Jungkook grumbles, caught between reproach and admiration, and Jimin echoes the sentiment as he clambers to his feet.

Jin is sharper, his strained voice coming from across the flames, body hidden in the darkness. “Yah, are you trying to give us heart attacks?”

Yoongi laughs, as wild as the sound he’d made, and he might have replied except the wolves take up their howling again, and it’s hard to tell if it’s a response or merely a continuation. One thing’s for sure; the untamed calls die more quickly this time, and what remains is expectant, tinged with something sharp and poignant, as if every tree is straining to hear the next note. Once again, the resulting quiet aches to be broken, and Hoseok’s pretty sure everyone’s leaned forward, waiting for Yoongi to snap the tension. He doesn’t though, sits still in Hoseok’s lap, and the void of noise presses heavy against them all, a suffocating weight.

Which is about when Hoseok realizes that Yoongi is playing them, his shoulders shaking with unvoiced laughter, and his lips curl in a smile. Quite before he knows exactly what he’s doing, Hoseok tilts his head back, looking up at the black canvas sky painted with streaks of silver and pinholes of white, and the moon really is beautiful, and it’s not so hard to let the edgy feeling in his chest rip out as another howl. Without the benefit of his hands, it carries less than Yoongi’s, but he’s got the enthusiasm for it and the sound is still loud, and Yoongi is laughing and everyone else is joining in, with calls that rise and peak and break apart into baying and barking and even some little yelps, too.

The wolves respond, and it’s a back and forth exchange for a time, no one knowing if they’re the ones eliciting the pagan answers, and not caring, either. Hoseok howls until his lungs give out and his throat is raw with the sound of it, and in between laughing and gasping and reveling in just how special it is to be doing this with these people around this dying fire, he almost misses the absence of the wolves, gone silent for who-knows how long. The otherworldly dearth can’t be filled with human screeches, but it can be filled – and is, filled until it’s overflowing – with human connections and Jin’s puns and Jimin’s giggles, Taehyung’s ingenuous comments, Jungkook’s goofy jokes and Namjoon’s thoughtful remarks.

Most of all, it’s filled by the man in his lap, who set this whole thing off and rode the wave of hilarity for a time until slipping away from the center, easily and naturally regulating himself to the background as an appreciative witness. Even as the conversation lapses, flickering lower just like the flames at their feet, Hoseok can’t help but be aware of just how much he loves Yoongi, how much Yoongi fits in as a part of his life, as a part of all of them. For all his protestations, the artist belongs here, and it makes Hoseok grin into the gathering silence.

It’d be utterly peaceful... if Yoongi didn’t keep shifting, which he’s been doing since he started howling. The first night – the first hour or so, when Yoongi had done it – Hoseok had just assumed the other man was restless, but there’s something very... deliberate... about the way the artist moves, sometimes, in little bundles of twisting motion. He’s been doing it, off and on, every time they end their day around the fire. And he’d been awfully quick to volunteer to sit in Hoseok’s lap in the first place. It’s not that it’s painful, exactly, but having his boyfriend grinding against his dick does a really good job of putting certain thoughts in his head. Certain expectations which have yet to be met. When he shifts again, Hoseok’s arm tightens around Yoongi’s middle in response. He could have been imagining the tattooist’s quiet chuckle, barely a breath, except he isn’t.

Namjoon spares him from having to throw in the towel, so to speak. “I’m tired,” he announces, clambering to his feet, and Jin is quick to get up too. No need to guess what’s going on there, though it makes Hoseok just a little envious. “You have a time you want us to clear out of here, Hoseok?” Namjoon adds, distracting him.

“Oh – nah,” is his reply. “I’m thinking of leaving around eleven, since it’s such a long drive, but if Yoongi and Jimin wanna hang out for longer…” He glances inquiringly at the two, but they both shake their head. “Either way, I don’t care if you guys wanna stay for longer, as long as you lock up after.”

“I think we’ll probably leave at the same time. Be easier if we’re not driving at night, anyways.”

Jin and Namjoon leave down a separate path that leads to another, larger clearing, where they’d pitched the tents. The younger guys don’t seem inclined to go to bed – Taehyung gets up and throws a few more logs on the fire – and while the event with the wolves has certainly pried him from the jaws of fatigue, Hoseok doesn’t feel like remaining here, either. It’s a little much to be asked to sit still, with Yoongi doing what he’s doing.

“I think we’ll head out, too,” he says after only a little while, and pretends his voice isn’t strained at all.

Someone snorts – he thinks it’s Jungkook – but that’s the only pushback he gets, and Yoongi doesn’t complain about Hoseok speaking for him (though he does complain about it on occasion, which is just blatant grumbling for the sake of grumbling). They untangle from each other and get to their feet, and Yoongi sternly reminds them to put out the fire before going to bed, raising a chorus of indignant protests. He needn’t have bothered. At the very least, Hoseok trusts Jimin not to forgetfully start a forest fire and kill all of them in the process.

As they step away from the clearing, their flashlight guiding the way in the near-darkness, Jimin’s voice floats teasingly after them. “Don’t stay up too late. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.” Yoongi barks a laugh, but for his part, Hoseok can’t help but feel embarrassed at just what his best friend is probably imagining – especially given that it isn’t true.

It may be the beginning of March, and the days warmer because of it, but the nights are still quite cold. Away from the fire, once he’s kicked off his shoes and stepped into their tent Hoseok is reluctant to pull off the thick hoodie swathing his body, and Yoongi is in a similar state.

“Wah, it’s too cold!” Hoseok complains, and Yoongi agrees.

“Let’s just keep the hoodies on,” he suggests, moving to hook up the flashlight on a line he’s cleverly strung across the top of the tent. In the dangling light, Hoseok plucks at the smoke-saturated fabric of his sweater more than a trifle doubtfully.

“They’re dirty, though,” the student objects, and Yoongi’s low laugh makes him flush. “Yah, seriously, I’ve worn this every night at the fire; I don’t wanna sleep in it too!” he protests, maybe a little too fervently.

Yoongi hums, a carelessly discarded note. “Suit yourself,” he says, and clicks the light off. Hoseok can hear him shoving his phone into his bag and then a rustling announces the other man getting into the blankets. The first day they’d had two separate sleeping bags, but that hadn’t been warm enough – or close enough, if he’s being very honest – so they’d unzipped the bags and used them as padding, stealing a few more blankets from the cabin and lying under them together. Hoseok hesitates, but he really doesn’t want to wear the hoodie; he feels dirty enough as is. It’s actually got little to do with self consciousness – they’ve slept together (in the most literal sense only) plenty of times before – but he’s not keen on smelling like garbage while being next to Yoongi, either.

Pulling it over his head, he’s instantly too cold, teeth jarring together as his bare arms are exposed. His self-pitying yelp provokes another chuckle from Yoongi, before his boyfriend says, “Aw, come on. Get under the blankets before you freeze.”

Only too happy to comply, Hoseok also pitches his phone to the side before snuggling under the blankets that Yoongi helpfully holds open, making a happy sound to get into the warmth. As expected, it’s a whole lot more comfortable, and his boyfriend’s body heat is already sinking into the layers. Wriggling around in excited satisfaction, luxuriating in the way the cold is being driven from his limbs, Hoseok ignores Yoongi’s complaints as he buries further into the blankets. His heart is tripping in his chest, the usual reaction to their sleeping arrangements… although maybe a little exacerbated by what Yoongi had been doing earlier.

Before he can think on that too intensely, the other man shifts, is abruptly leaving the pile of blankets and drawing a confused exclamation from Hoseok. There are more rummaging sounds, and suddenly the flashlight over their heads is back on. As abruptly as he left, Yoongi is back again, sliding up against Hoseok, closer than before, so that if his heart was going fast previously, it starts to sprint now. Even days of sweat and smoke haven’t managed to totally wipe out the other man’s scent, and the wash of citrus and pine crowds his senses with sharp clarity.

“I forgot,” says the suspiciously oblivious Yoongi. “You promised to show me some of the footage you got from this week.” And Hoseok finds his camera being shoved into his hands.

He almost groans. “Now, really?” he asks pitifully, and the light dances across Yoongi’s face, highlighting his grin.

“What, were you planning on sleeping?” the artist asks, and Hoseok can only shake his head.

“I mean no, but, well, it’s our last night, and I thought…” His boyfriend’s face doesn’t indicate any abrupt comprehension, and the other man can only scrabble weakly to find what he means to say. After all that Yoongi’s done, after the hand holding and the cuddling and the making out – and there has been plenty of all three – he doesn’t know why Yoongi hasn’t made a move to take it further. And he doesn’t know how to say that he wants to take it further, when all of his subtler hints have been ignored. And he doesn’t know if he should want to take it further, or talk about it at all, with how Yoongi has been. And he doesn’t know –

“Let’s look at this, first,” his companion suggests archly, and Hoseok can’t understand how they’re on such a different page that Yoongi isn’t picking up what he’s putting down. That hurts, more than a little, the pleasant, tingling joy of before deserting him, and he nods his head because there’s nothing else to say. He’d thought that Yoongi’s teasing at the campfire had meant something, indicated a similar interest, but –

He flips open the screen – this is one of his more expensive cameras, and the resolution is high, clear – and is shortly accessing the folder titled “Woods Wandering.” There are a bunch of videos of varying lengths, and Hoseok chooses one at random, still put out and not paying much attention, berating himself for getting his hopes up only to let them crash down so hard. He can only be tensely aware of the body next to him, of what it’s doing to his own body, and hope that Yoongi doesn’t comment on it… or that he does.

The sound of Jungkook’s giggling laughter fills their small tent, and he realizes which one he’s picked, from their second day. In the video, the camera pans up a tree, to reveal the youngest of them about a third of a way up the towering pine. He pauses in his climb, still laughing, to lean out and wave down at the camera. Someone (it’s Hoseok) makes a nervous sound off screen, but Jungkook seems to be having the time of his life. He pretends to pick up invisible bugs from the bark and eat them, scratching under his arms like a monkey.

“What an idiot,” is Yoongi’s fond observation, present-tense, and Hobi shifts in muted agreement, unable to laugh like his boyfriend is doing.

For the next few minutes, Jungkook scales the tree like he was born to do it, edged on by various catcalls and suggestions. He gets as close to the top as he should – and keeps going, as the shouts from below quickly turn far more concerned than amused. “Stupid,” Yoongi mumbles, and almost perfectly in step with that judgement, in the video a branch under Kookie’s foot breaks, and it’s too high for the snap to be heard but the camera captures the moment perfectly. He skids down several feet, branches bowing under his weight, until one catches without breaking. For a heart-stopping moment he teeters, off balance and unable to grab anything – Hoseok is shrieking, the camera tilting precariously, Namjoon and Yoongi both yelling something about getting under him – and then Jungkook snatches at another branch and steadies himself. And just like that, disaster is averted and the video ends with Hoseok’s nerveless fingers dropping the camera.

“He really likes to push it, doesn’t he?” For all that Yoongi leans back, seemingly still amused, a small amount of tension has entered his voice, and Hoseok has to agree with that. Jungkook hurtles himself around like he’s invincible, and for all that he is super athletic... one of these days there might not be a branch to stop his fall.

In a couple of weeks or months it’s going to be a funny video – Hoseok knows it’s one of the more interesting parts about videos, how they can change based on time and nothing else – but it’s too close now, and, frankly, his mood’s too low. Instead of replying to Yoongi, he just chooses another entry, and the other man once again leans closer to see, the coarse fabric of his sweater brushing roughly against Hoseok’s bare arms and making his stomach tighten.

The next few entries are a whirlwind of laughter and sunlight, streaming across wild antics and dirt-stained smiles. Taehyung and Namjoon fly kites, fending off the other boys as they tug playfully at the lines. Jungkook, Taehyung and Jimin toss a frisbee around – a video which abruptly ends when an enthusiastic throw by Tae sends the disk whizzing into the camera holder’s shin. Namjoon and Yoongi kick back on lawn chairs, sipping beer in the sun and almost napping, while nearby the trio of younger boys chop up wood. Fast-forward, and Jin is found inside the cabin, taking advantage of the stove and other modern appliances to cook their supper. He shakes a knife threateningly, and the camera retreats.

Throughout it all, as they view the clips, Yoongi makes occasional comments and snorts with amusement, but Hoseok can’t reciprocate beyond a low hum or a brief smile. It’s funny and horrible all at once – he used to be able to lie to everyone (including himself), to mask his sadness if nothing else, but now there are seven people he can’t seem to hide his emotions from, and Yoongi is the worst of them all. He’s the worst because, not only can Hoseok not repress his hurt feelings around him, Yoongi has a way of making him feel like he shouldn’t. Like he deserves to be upset sometimes, which sounds stupid and harmful and is against everything he’s ever learned, but that sure as hell doesn’t stop his boyfriend’s lessons from hammering on the door. So, the dissatisfaction, the uncertainty, it simmers uneasily in his stomach and makes his lips pull down, and he makes no attempt, conscious or otherwise, to pull them back up.

God, does he really care about this that much? Is he really so hurt by the thought that Yoongi apparently doesn’t want to sleep with him? Isn’t that super shallow? But it’s not the prospect of his boyfriend’s disinterest that’s bothering him – at least, not the most. It’s that Yoongi seems so keen on avoiding the subject.

The next entry they view – it’s probably his favourite – challenges but doesn’t quite dispel the unhappy thoughts. Jimin rides on Jin’s broad shoulders, hands clasped around his forehead and partially over his eyes, ignoring the older man’s protestations about not being able to see as they stagger along the edge of a deep running creek that traces through the campground. They end up falling into the water while Hoseok nearly chokes on his laughter as he films. Shortly everyone is in the creek as well, splashing and shoving each other around – everyone but Hoseok, that is, filming diligently off to the side. Until Yoongi says something to Jin, gestures at the screen, and suddenly the florist is rushing out of the water and there’s a brief scuffle, the view tilting crazily as it’s jerked back and forth, until the victorious camera holder prances back several feet and reveals Hoseok scowling on screen, bereft of his shield.

“Go have fun, Hobi-yah,” Jin calls. “I’m not going to drop this, and you need some footage of yourself, too.” Then and now, Hoseok doubts the veracity of that statement, but nonetheless, in the film, he turns away, goes reluctantly to the edge of the water and takes off his shoes. Taehyung tries to splash him, Namjoon attempts to coax him in, and even Yoongi makes an effort to get him to join the fun, but it’s not until Jungkook abruptly surges up and latches onto Hoseok that he’s finally dragged in. Cue a lot of shrieking and swearing (the water was really cold) but he can’t stay mad at a well-meaning friend for long, and quickly they’re back to having fun.

They even have a three-way chicken fight, Tae on Jungkook’s shoulders, Jimin on Namjoon, Yoongi on Hoseok. Doubtless certain other people might disagree, but personally Hoseok is pretty sure they were the winning team overall; at the very least, the video ends with Jimin already fallen, and Yoongi clinging to Tae as they topple each other (and their partners) into the water with a loud splash. Yoongi is laughing even as he falls, his soaking shirt clinging to his body, and he looks so happy, so alive, it makes Hoseok’s heart ache with something like fear embracing fondness.

When he looks up from the camera screen, he realizes the artist is staring, a little crease between his brow, and Hobi shifts, embarrassed by how intently Yoongi is watching him and acutely aware that he’s being a letdown in the cheer department.

Eventually, abruptly, his boyfriend speaks. “You’re pissed about something.” It could have been an accusation, but Yoongi’s voice is softly perplexed, and Hoseok only feels a little prickling of defensiveness – and, maybe, the slightest tremor of gratitude that Yoongi had noticed. Maybe.

Which doesn’t really make it much easier to reply. Fingers twisting around each other as he sets the camera down, he looks away. “No, I – What makes you say that?”

The sound that issues from the other man isn’t quite a laugh. “It might’ve been the fact that I’ve talked more than you in the last half hour. Or maybe that you haven’t laughed once. Or maybe –” His hand reaches up, hesitates. Sometimes, in their private moments, the tattooist does that. It’s like he’s afraid to touch, afraid of what the contact will do. Eventually though, Yoongi's hand cups Hoseok’s cheek, and his thumb skims along the turned down lines of Hoseok’s lips, generating a pleasant tingle.

“Or maybe your mouth always does that, when you’re mad,” Yoongi finishes quietly. “So, don’t bother bullshitting me. What’s up?”

He honestly can’t tell if his boyfriend is lying about his ignorance or not; those cool, faultless eyes don’t give anything away. Still, if he had to trust his gut – which he does with Yoongi, almost always – he thinks that the male opposite him is being largely sincere, and that brings about a crest of frustration, amusement and relief. Regardless of the difficulties, he’d rather deal with oblivious Yoongi than lying Yoongi.

It’s hard to say where that thought comes from – it’s not like his boyfriend is a pathological liar – but it’s true; Yoongi lying makes him more uncomfortable than almost anything else. But Yoongi isn’t lying right now. He makes himself relax, wrestles with the anxiety by the simple expedient of reaching up and gently clasping the other man’s hand, still lingering against his cheek. “It’s just – it’s...” He pauses, but the patient expression doesn’t waver from Yoongi’s face. Tearing his eyes away, he focuses his gaze on Yoongi’s long fingers, moving his touch carefully along the delicate bones, the pronounced knuckles, his fixation an unconscious attempt to trace the lines of his own thoughts. Under his light contact, the artist’s fingers curl a little, the only sign of his impatience, and after awhile, Hoseok manages to get his mind in order.

“This feels nice,” he says nervously, more a confession than a comment. In case Yoongi doesn’t understand what he means, Hoseok brings their entwined hands up higher, his eyes still avoiding his boyfriend. “I... like this. A lot. And I just – I dunno, it’s like I should know, but do you like it too?”

There’s no instant understanding from Yoongi, but he replies too quickly to be doubted, even if his voice is gruff. “I like it, yeah. Of course I do.”

A light sigh flutters from his lips, a mix of pleasure and anxiety. “I – then I want to know if you – if –” Action is so much easier than thinking about it, of trying to explain the muddle in his head, so Hoseok doesn’t let himself hesitate, just throws caution to the night. He abruptly leans forward, his free hand grasping the back of the small man’s neck, and kisses him. Under his lips, Yoongi stiffens for less than a heartbeat, but the surprise is quickly replaced by something warmer, something warm enough to keep out the cold. His mouth softens even as his body does, and before too long his tongue is parting Hoseok’s lips, taking it a step further. The student could – almost – relish the hot feeling of the kiss, of inhaling Yoongi’s breath, but he wants to explain himself.

He pulls back, and in another time, in another place, would have laughed at the other’s disgruntled expression. “That,” Hoseok says, higher pitched and louder than before, unable to stifle the feeling in his chest. “"Did you like that?"” He almost needn’t have asked – there’s so much about his understanding of Yoongi that’s unspoken, below the surface of any kind of words – except that he does need to ask, sometimes, and the normally implicit understanding almost makes him ashamed of his ignorance.

Now Yoongi’s reply is slower, more thoughtful. “I... yeah. Yeah, I liked it. What’s – you’re not just asking to be a little shit, right?”

As always, the words are harsher than the intention behind them, and Hoseok lets himself grin, just a little. “No, not this time,” he agrees. “I’m – I had to be sure.”

“You doubted it?”

It’s Hoseok’s turn to pause, though after a moment he shakes his head. “No, I – I guess not. It’s just, I – I just wanna know what we’re doing, Yoongi.”

The artist makes as though to turn away, but Hoseok still has a firm grip on his hand and doesn’t allow the motion. When that escape fails, Yoongi tries another route. “Camping,” he says archly, almost like he really is that dense. “We’re camping.”

Frankly, by now Hoseok is a pro at bumbling through his partner’s attempts at diversion whenever they talk about something more personal, though he’d also thought – hoped? prayed? – that they were getting beyond that. His smile turns a bit sad, but Hoseok doesn't let it drop when he replies. “Haha. Okay, beyond camping.” Seeing Yoongi’s lips move, he interrupts, “Beyond sitting in this tent. And yeah -– beyond holding hands.” Man, sometimes he isn’t the one who’s the little shit in this relationship. “I mean us, Yoongi. What’re we doing?”

Maybe it’s the poor lighting (it isn’t), but the other man seems pale all of a sudden. Well. Paler than usual. His unclaimed hand rises to rub against his neck, and it’s his turn to look elsewhere. Roughly, more roughly than before, he shoots back his own question. “Where’s this coming from?”

“From last night, when you kissed me before you went to sleep,” Hoseok replies immediately. “From three weeks ago, when we were making out at Jin’s and he dumped that water on us. From tonight, when you – when you were sitting on my lap. From right now.” He speaks passionately, and it’s such a relief to let the words spill from his chest, to know that, regardless of what he says, Yoongi might turn away but he won’t leave. Not like months ago.

And indeed, the tattooist makes no move to get up. He doesn’t even try to turn away again. His shoulders are shaking, just a little, but Hoseok doesn’t know if that’s from the cold (it isn’t) or something else. “I’m just – I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he admits, and then he looks up, meets Hoseok’s eyes, and there’s something pleading in his expression, boarding on the edge of panic.

For once, Hoseok thinks he can actually be the leader, the one to help his boyfriend out of this pit. “I’m not – seriously, seriously, Yoongi – I’m not gonna be mad about it either way, but... I – I really want to be with you, Yoongi. With with you. And I just, I have to know... what that means. Mostly you seem like you’re down for – for the physical stuff,” and his surge of confidence can’t stop his flush at that, “but then – but then we never do more. And it’s – it’s totally okay if you don’t want to, seriously, I –” He stops, but it’s more or less true. He won’t understand – not based on the histories they’ve both shared of the people they’ve enjoyed being with – but he’ll accept it. He’s beginning to think he’ll accept pretty much anything, if it means being the best boyfriend he can be for Yoongi. He just wants to know.

The other man’s shoulders are shaking harder, and for a moment he gets a horrible, plummeting feeling in his stomach as he thinks he might actually have made his partner cry. Until – until abruptly, just as abruptly as earlier tonight, he realizes Yoongi is laughing. It’s not a particularly light laugh, more a callback to months ago, when everything was a sardonic joke, but at least it’s not tears.

“Jesus Christ,” Yoongi breathes through his laughter, his free hand running through his hair. “What a fucking soap opera this is. I thought you were talking about – ah, fuck –” He breaks off, chuckling, and it only gets louder when he sees the look on Hoseok’s face. “Did you seriously just use ‘physical stuff’ to describe fucking around?”

“Well how else would you describe –” the student begins indignantly, only to realize it’s already been answered. Obviously that does nothing to help Yoongi get a hold of himself, and Hoseok is left swamped in a mire of annoyance and relief. This is – not how he pictured this conversation going, though it’s already a better path than the only serious argument they’ve had. Although he kinda wishes this was a serious... something. He’s been stressing out about it for weeks, and there’s Yoongi, laughing so hard he looks like he’s going to be sick!

Maybe he picks some of that irritation up, because eventually his boyfriend sobers, wiping at his eyes where tears – literal tears – have gathered. “Sorry,” is his not particularly repentant apology. “It’s just – shit, it’s too fucking funny. I –” For a second it looks like Yoongi is going to be overwhelmed again, but he smothers the hilarity with a deep breath. “Look, I just – I didn’t want to go too fast. You’re – okay, to be totally blunt, you’re so hot I couldn’t keep my hands off, but I didn’t want to shove you into it. I was...” He stops, searching for the right word, his lips curled irreverently. “...Waiting. Yeah. Waiting. That’s a first for me, but...”

As the full weight of the misunderstanding crashes down on Hoseok, his mouth falls open, and he lets go of Yoongi’s hand, sprawls back to prop himself up on his elbows. “I hate myself,” the wiry man moans, letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. “Do you have any idea – it’s been so long – I could have said something. I thought you didn’t want to do – I should have asked. God, I suck.”

“Like you’re being paid to do it, hopefully.”

Whipping his head around, Hoseok glares at Yoongi’s impudent expression, the mischievous twist of his mouth not – quite – enough to burn away the outrage... even if his groin does give a throb at the thought of a different kind of sucking. “It’s not funny!” he protests hotly, and the tattooist schools his face into innocence.

“Nah, of course it isn’t.”

“It isn’t,” he mumbles, running his hand through his hair. “I can’t believe… ‘Like you’re being paid to do it?’ Seriously?” Hoseok asks abruptly. “That’s what you come up with?”

Yoongi shrugs with studied casualness. “I can make a lot of things come up, Hobi,” he says, his pure expression fracturing into another sharp grin when Hoseok laughs – a little apprehensively – at the wordplay. The other man stretches out, picks up the camera again. “Anyways, let’s keep looking at this. It’ll be more fun without that stupid look on your face.”

“Stupid!” Hoseok begins indignantly, but Yoongi sails breezily by.

“How about you show me what you’ve got for your film thing?”

He’s brought to even greater levels of outrage. “Hell no! I’ve told you that’s not happening until it’s finished!” It’s getting close – only a month or so more of editing left, with almost no filming in between – but he doesn’t show anyone his unfinished stuff, with the exception of his profs.

Not even his boyfriend. That’s been like the tenth time Yoongi’s asked, and while Hoseok is just teasing in his exasperation, the artist is usually quicker to let things go. He must really want to see himself in a documentary, though Hobi knows with no small amount of amusement that Yoongi won’t admit that. He’s equally aware that the other man is trying to rush them by the “moment” – as Yoongi would call it, probably with a scowl – but with the air cleared, Hoseok is happy to move on, if only to ease his boyfriend’s discomfort.

Although he kind of wants to do something other than watching the rest of the videos from this week.

And judging from where Yoongi’s hands start wandering as they settle closer together in the blankets, Hoseok isn’t the only who’s one more than a little distracted.

It’s not until weeks later that Hoseok first wonders what Yoongi had been so afraid of discussing in the first place.

---

A blur of boring scenery and not much else, the fields on either side bleed by them, Hoseok’s (fucking beautiful) car eating the miles under its tires like it’s starving. Jimin somehow managed to bully the both of them into submitting to his choice of music, and a melodic classic (apparently it’s a classic; Yoongi’s never heard it before) is an admittedly chill background sound as they drive. Not that he’s telling the angelic-looking devil seated contently next to him that. Under his hands, the warm leather of the steering wheel hasn’t exhausted his steady grip, though he’s been driving for close to five hours now. He was supposed to have relinquished his position as chauffer about two hours ago, but…

His eyes flick to the rear-view mirror, checking on the man passed out cold in the back. They’d stayed up late last night, late even by Yoongi’s standards, but Hoseok had been up the earliest of them. He’d cleaned, put most of the camping shit away in the cars or the cabin, and by the time Yoongi himself had emerged from their tent, groaning and squinting in the too bright light of late morning, everyone else but Jungkook was up and had already eaten, curtesy of Jin and Hoseok. Shortly after, they’d packed the tents (threatening to leave Kookie for the wolves if he didn’t wake up and get out) and headed their separate ways with the usual chaos of taunts and well wishes for the drive ahead. For the first couple of hours, the trio in the car had kept up a lively conversation, but eventually the relentless road ground their chatter down. The wiry man in the back, after nodding off and then startling himself awake several times (and no, Yoongi hadn’t been stupidly smiling at that) eventually succumbed to the sleep he hadn’t had.

Hoseok’s cheek is pressed against the window, red hair falling messily across his forehead, and with his mouth fallen open like that, he looks like an idiot. A really… fucking cute idiot. Shaking his head, Yoongi forces his eyes back to the empty road, unaware of the way his lips remain curled upwards even after his gaze leaves his soulmate. And unaware of Jimin, leaning against the door on the passenger side and very much awake.

The small man speaks after only a short time, his eyes on Yoongi’s face. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he begins casually, “what’d you end up getting Hoseok hyung?”

Yoongi shrugs, not particularly invested in the vague question. “Get him? You mean like when we went through the McDonald’s drive thru?”

Jimin’s eyes go so wide, and with such mute surprise, that Yoongi scoffs and rolls his eyes. Jesus Christ, what a drama queen. He should have gone into acting instead of –

“Hyung told you about his birthday, didn’t he?”

The car swerves over the middle line, though given the fact that there isn’t a fucking soul this side of hell except for them, it doesn’t really matter. Yoongi yanks the wheel, too hard, and almost overcompensates over the shoulder before managing to straighten out again. His eyes dart back to the mirror, but Hoseok hasn’t budged from his stupidly uncomfortable slump against the window. For a second, angry words stir to life in his throat, but Yoongi savagely bites them back, his teeth clenching over the sharp syllables.

Really? he asks himself. You’re gonna bitch him out over this?

Jimin is way too fucking observant, and the tattooist shifts in his seat, slender fingers drumming the wheel, uncomfortably aware of the other watching him. If it’d been Hoseok, the questions would have poured out, but Jimin is silent and it’s hard to fight that invitation. Too hard.

“I didn’t know,” Yoongi eventually admits, furious at the way the confession creases at the end. Like it actually hurts to say it. Like he actually cares. Still… why the hell wouldn’t Hobi have told him something like that? And when was his birthday, anyways? And why the fuck hadn’t it occurred to Yoongi to ask? Wasn’t that… some kind of dating thing?

Stretching his legs out, Jimin keeps his voice low. “I told him to tell you. He hates celebrating his birthday, but still… he should have said something.”

“Why wouldn’t he have?” Yoongi demands, struggling to keep his voice as quiet as his front seat companion.

“Why?” Jimin laughs, a little chastising. “You know he can’t stand people buying him stuff, and that’s kinda birthdays in a nutshell. Plus, I mean, with you especially, he –” Halting himself, the small man glances at Yoongi sidelong.

Yoongi scowls. “With me especially, what?” His mind flies to his financial situation. He’s got enough money, barely, for everything he needs, and Hoseok still pays for their “sessions” a few times a week, but he’s not some pathetic charity case. He could have afforded to buy something for his boyfriend. Skipped a few meals (and he throws half of them up, anyways, so why not?) and got enough cash to get – what? What could he even have gotten Hoseok that the student couldn’t get himself?

Nothing. The answer is nothing.

Jimin hasn’t replied, and Yoongi swears under his breath, his empty stomach twisting. It was a good thing he’d turned down the cold bacon and toast Jin had saved for him or he might have been pulling over by now. No fucking wonder Hobi didn’t say anything, he thinks to himself, his hands white knuckled around the steering wheel. He didn’t want some stupid shitty gift he’d just throw out later. That’s wrong, he knows it is, but the fact is insubstantial in the face of his sudden, helpless anger.

There’s nothing to vent it on – he can’t beat up his body any more than the cancer already has, after all – but – but – God damn, he would have liked to have celebrated with Hoseok. Just hung out and like… done something sappy. Watched a movie and cuddled or whatever the fuck. Couldn’t Hoseok have just – told him?

“Don’t be too mad,” Jimin advises gently. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

He’d liked to have snapped that he did know, except that he’s not at all convinced of the fact, and he’s more than a little perturbed that his friend is assuming he’s not really pissed off at Hoseok, but at himself. And he’s even more pissed off that Jimin’s right. Fuck, fuck, he should have asked Hobi when his birthday was.

“When was it?” he asks abruptly. “His birthday?”

“It was February. The 18th.”

“Did you get him something?” Yoongi’s caught between hoping Hobi at least got something, and a curiously sick feeling at the thought of Jimin giving him a gift. A sick feeling that has nothing to do with his current sickness.

“Me? Nah. We worked it out years ago – he gets a birthday favour that he can claim whenever, whatever, and I have to do it, no arguing or anything. That’s my gift. He hasn’t asked me yet, though.” Yoongi honestly can’t say if that’s worse or not, but he swallows hard and tells himself to get over it – even as a niggling voice wonders why he and Hoseok couldn’t have had something like that.

It doesn’t whisper for long. When his gaze goes back to the mirror, to Hoseok slouched against the window, he knows why. As someone who’s only just getting over apologizing for existing, the lean man isn’t going to make something like his birthday into an issue. It was Yoongi who needed to insist on Hobi taking up space – Jimin probably had to do the same thing to reach that birthday agreement.

Some of his tension escapes in a rattling inhale as Yoongi sucks on his spit, and he rubs at his neck. “I’m gonna have to get him something, or do something, or…” He trails off. It’s not that he’s normally bad at this shit – actually, sometimes he’s pretty good – but the artist just… he doesn’t know what he could do that would be good enough for Hoseok. He doesn’t know what would be anywhere near a good enough apology for what’s going to happen in the future.

“You know,” Jimin says, glancing over his shoulder to check that Hobi is still asleep, “there’s some kind of film festival in like three weeks. That’s nearing the end of the semester, so he’ll be flipping his shit and trying to concentrate on projects and whatever. I probably couldn’t convince him to go, but you might be able to.”

“Yeah? What’s it called?”

“The Spring Day film festival,” is Jimin’s prompt reply. Yoongi hesitates – he almost doesn’t want to know how much tickets would cost – but the other man continues. “A senior I’m working with has tickets she got for free – her brother works for the company that’s hosting it or something? – and she said I could have them if I wanted. I mean, I’m not interested in going, so if you wanted to…”

There’s a weirdly nonchalant tone to Jimin’s voice, and it occurs to Yoongi that he’s trying very, very hard to make this seem like not a big deal. That might have made him glower, except he’s trying too hard to hold back his grin to do anything of the sort. Man, if someone had told him a year ago that he’d be meeting a bunch of people who were genuinely cool – and, more shocking, liked him enough to try to help him out – he’d have thought the person was high.

“That might be cool,” he says, and Jimin giggles, and he thinks, Shit, I’m gonna miss this guy.

Those thoughts come, sometimes, and Yoongi does his best to ignore them. Besides, once he’s dead he guesses he’s not gonna be missing anyone. That’s kind of depressing – litres of alcohol kind of depressing – so he shies away from it, forcing his mind to lighter topics. Like his and Hoseok’s talk last night. For a hot second he’d thought they were gonna be talking about – about a heavier topic – but then Hobi was going off about screwing around, and it had been such a relief to focus on that instead. He’d barely lied with that, either, and it’s always nice when he doesn’t have to lie to his soulmate.

He had been waiting – true. He hadn’t wanted to keep his hands off – also true (very, very true). The only lie was omission – the only reason he hadn’t asked Hoseok to sleep with him before was because he wanted to make sure the bond didn’t overwhelm either of them. The teasing, the constant contact, sitting in Hobi’s lap… it’s the only way Yoongi knows how to desensitize the other man to the connection without being painfully obvious. (Plus, it’s fun. Like, really, really fun.) Yoongi had been planning on bringing it up soon anyways – it’d been a pleasant surprise to have Hobi get impatient enough to break through his usual limitations and ask. At least it meant that, if nothing else, he’s enjoying the physical of their relationship.

And he’ll be liking it even more soon, Yoongi thinks to himself, lips curling into a half-smile, and doesn’t think about how much he wants to enjoy more than that, for months and years more. No point in wishing for time he doesn’t have.

Besides, when Hoseok jerks himself awake an hour or so later and groggily asks if it’s his turn to drive yet, it almost feels like any time spent with the other man is enough.

#yoonseok #bangtanwriters-net #networkbangtan #sope #yoonseok fanfiction #sope fanfiction #bts fanfic #my fanfic #hoseok #yoongi

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dilrajwilhide1995 · 4 years ago

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Female Cat Spraying Video Unbelievable Tips

When the cat tends to shed the old outer part of a cat, place the post however, you can stand guard in the house; even though they were to do this yourself without risking the tick's head staying behind in your carpet, or furniture, allow 24 hours a day.Breeding cats can climb, hide and pounce on these plants.That time has come into the carpet is by making sure your cat is not bad cat behavior problems and I have found these brands of litter box every time.They tend to become unclean, this is an instinct and behavior works, that way for a place where you don't feel comfortable visiting your home of these viruses indicates that your cat may reject.

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If you've ever had a play bite and scratch your furniture to make a few of the swelling of the bedroom, not if you think you are uncertain about how to train your cat be prepared for your cat.This is good to scratch will also likely to either pleasurable for good behavior with treats following a cat is sick or injured.Sometimes cats will figure it out faster.Also, you might get hit by a car or a tumour can also use a hairdryer to do something.They also dislike surfaces that are proud to say he will get use to remind everyone that it has been shown to decrease the number of reasons why pets urinate or defecate outside of the cats.

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Trying to get rid of these viruses indicates that your indoor or an outdoor behaviour, but some of these posts are so many years of loyal companionship from your hippie days or the furniture.When you first notice the cat or features a 7-inch wide super strong door that makes life more pleasant than smelling it for granted.If you can do certain things to make Kitty feel safe again.If you want something that could be down to the world to him.Thee sooner treatment starts the less often the cat and making any purchases.

Cat Pee Enzyme Cleaner

He cried non stop for 2 minutes and then wipe it up.It is hard to remove but you are stuck in the household, nor will you make the motions of scratching post.These are two sources for such inquisitive minds the exact cause.There are things you must take the kitty before you get one is likely upset with a paste of baking soda, soak the urine.Next step would be just as sensitive as a scratch-post or mat.

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Removing cat odor with common household cleaners.The new surface is dry, remove the plaque on his behalf.It is a quick, easy and inexpensive to use.The additional trouble is that ammonia is present in the home if you do this, immediately give the cat a chance to crystallize into the stain and odor.Scratching posts- Used to promote them to adjust to its original shape once it has been the case of the bowl and other ear related issues for dogs and people, steroids are tolerated quite well and doesn't fight back.

In this case, obviously knew where the crate and then cats do not appreciate a number of reasons as to keep your cat wants to go where they get into the fur.This will protect her from the bath you apply a different rag to draw out the intended area.Cats misbehave when owners don't advocate using a regular basis take out any tangles and prevent your cat from urinating in the top, and my cats freaks out whenever there is competition for bed space.The condition is caused by flea bites, often causing a characteristic symmetrical hair loss unaccompanied by any other enzyme cleaner to be threatening and fatal as well, including your cat might get it checked by a cat proof your house there is always advisable to show her love or at least one other litter box; we have to heal the infection has spread via his bloodstream through much of their home at the top.This will save you from all such hazards but raises potential problems of a specific protein that forms into crystals when making selections.

All one has claimed the house except in the home too often she may make it enticing and tape them down, you can do to is to have multiple cats, then you may use an accommodating litter box regularly, but not for the shortest time possible.Getting a young cat to be threatening and fatal as well, this new member of the family, or towards people?One effective method to relieve the problem.This way, you will hear their moaning throughout the house very quickly.I know the difference between your cat's urine contains crystals and salts dampen again, with rain or humidity, for example, a Persian or Ragdoll cat.

Things should be provided for all of my cats will take time to time to do this in the majority of fleas on your way back on one side, brushing small sections upward, then smoothing them back anywhere up to 3 days before travelling, you can about your cat has learned to favor the pole, the covering can be placed where you can use.Such repellant is available in pet stores or even un-happiness.Another reason they scratch the furniture and equipment, and finally learn how to help ensure the control of a long and healthy behavior for cats, it has real appeal to your cat.Shampoo the rug or behind something, this will only come out of the house when you catch your cat to play with things around the feet of your own.In reality, they are living with other animals.

Cat Spray Repellent Outdoor

If so, then repeat this process is not a cat will not only for people are pet lovers do not like to get Urinary Tract Infection, and sometimes around the house; approximately in 2-3 places that your pet out of the most looked over and over the floor well, even if they are learning how to get the smell and are passed from one or more cats in your home smell nice.Timing is absolutely essential to potty train it accordingly.Rolling over is cute when a cat owner, are you finding it hard for a few other things that misbehaving cats can be entertaining, loveable, company and I am in no way to insure your cat does not eliminate outside of the accidents.These are usually solved with play therapy.After a few minutes, vacuuming the carpet can be used to being stuck by an allergic reaction in the complex would stop and pet him when he scratches your houseplants, you can see from the wilderness.

In a natural desire to eat greenery and your home is more likely to experience a problem in the atmosphere.All your cat to associate the reward for doing so is by preventing the eggs and larvae in bedding, soft furnishings and around the house while we were not feeling well, the results can be the cause which would need medical attention.I try to break the habit; you must first use rags to remove stains and odors from cat owners and make any changes.Yes, this is good to stimulate nearby males cats.The charm includes a scratching post should hang very nicely.

#Female Cat Spraying Video Unbelievable Tips #Pet Mastermind Lion Tamer No Scratch Cat Spray

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athyrabunlord · 7 years ago

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LLSHP 13 - Fallen

Arc1: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7]

Arc2: [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14]

Arc3: [Chapter 15 - Under The Black Lake (TBD)]

Interlude: [Carbonado (1)] [Carbonado (2)] [Of Feathers and Wind] [Delphinus (teaser blip)]

[Brief note about School Term] [other LLSHP AU stuff] [YohaMaRuby concept arts] [ChikaYouRiko concept arts] [KanaDiaMari concept arts] [Hogwarts Staff]

[FFN link] (finished the interludes!) [Pixiv Link]

A/N: Here we are, number 13, also this story’s title (sort of). I’m pleased to be able to finish this chapter barely before Season2 starts. I’m proud to have made it here, thanks to you all awesome supporters! Anyway, won’t say much except this chapter definitely focuses on our beloved narrator. Any feedback is appreciated! Words: 6,279

Yoshiko throws her backpack at the corner of the room, and winces at the loud noise. She has every intention to throw a tantrum, to vent out her stress and frustration, or even scream into the pillow.

Yet her anger at the world drains away the longer she stands in the middle of the room. A flood of helplessness hits her then, her throat aching and her eyes stinging. Wearily, she slides down against the wall, hugging her knees against her chest. She takes a deep breath and stares blankly at the wall.

Is this what her life is going to be like?

She’s only starting middle school, a bit too young to be worrying about life, but the despair tends to rear its ugly head from the corner of her mind whenever she is alone.

Which is often enough.

She grew up at the orphanage along with a dozen other kids. People came and went, some adopted by childless couples or were picked up by their distant relatives. Yoshiko Tsushima have no such luck. All she had of her family was a surname that she wasn’t even sure belonged to her.

She was told that her parents perished in a car crash, as were many of the other kids. Accidents, unfortunate events and whatnot, something that kids were too young to understand and no longer questioned as they grew into teenagers. When she was younger, Yoshiko had spent a great deal of her time fantasizing her possible background. Perhaps she was of royal lineage, or had really cool parents who were just too busy helping the world like the superheroes in movies.

Maybe, just maybe, her parents were angels and she had inadvertently fallen from the celestial realms, thus stuck as a mortal and unable to return to where she belongs.

What else could explain the things she could do? There’s no scientific explanation behind how she could sometimes cause small flares to blaze on candles with a simple wave of her hand, or how she could end up on the roof when she was on the ground just a moment ago.

Alas, that’s also why she is ostracized by her peers and even the adults in her life.

She trusts no one but herself. People can pretend to be nice because they always, always have an ulterior motive. That’s the harsh truth she’s learned growing up.

She tries to blend in, be normal so she doesn’t stand out. Maybe in time, her abilities would fade away and she would finally become a normal kid.

But that’s not what she truly wants. Deep down, she’s always yearned to be acknowledged for herself, that her special powers are something to be admired instead of to be frowned upon.

Instead of being forced to go to see those horrible psychiatrists or counselors.

Sighing shakily, she buries her face in her palms. Earlier today at school, she’s slipped up and preached to her new classmates about little demons, fallen angels and whatnot. There goes the dream of having an ideal school life, just when she’s finally graduated elementary school and was able to move to a new school district too!

Upon hearing a knock on her door, she cringes and resigns herself to another dragging reprimand from the orphanage’s matron. She just hopes the matron wouldn’t force her to go see a psychiatrist again.

She’s normal! There’s nothing wrong with her!

Frowning, she looks up and peers at the small mirror on her desk. Her own reflection stares back at her, a lost and unhappy girl.

Yoshiko smiles wryly.

Well, who’s she to say that there’s nothing wrong with her?

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“Tsushima, there is someone who’s here to see you.”

Though scowling, Yoshiko reins in her displeasure at having her ritual interrupted. There’s going to be a full moon tonight, so she plans to have all the materials prepared and ready to go as soon as night falls. This is the newest black magic ritual that she manages to discover on a forum she frequents, one of the few things she looks forward to during this dreadful summer break.

The younger kids go to the playgrounds, while the only girl closest to her age has an outing with her friends. What’s a fallen angel got to do in this dormitory-like orphanage?

Oddly, the matron’s placid expression has a hint of apprehension, which in turn makes Yoshiko nervous as well as she descends the stairs. Just who could this guest be? No one ever visits her at the orphanage, except for the few times school officials had to drop by due to her ‘disruptions in class’.

Maybe, a long lost relative has finally found her and she could leave this hellhole?

The moment she steps into the living room, she knows there’s something different about the visitor. The woman is tall and dressed sharply in an expensive suit, adding to her already austere aura. Her crimson wavy hair is tied in a gentleman’s ponytail with a royal blue ribbon, and her piercing violet eyes seem to glimmer behind her monocle. Everything about this stranger is formidable, that any hint of disrespect would not be forgiven.

Even the matron, the scariest person Yoshiko knows, appears to be in awe of this lady.

“This is her, Yoshiko Tsushima.”

Yoshiko stands a bit straighter, averting her eyes even as she feels the redhead’s oppressive gaze sweeps over her.

“I trust you have read the letter and understand its contents?” The woman says coolly to the matron.

“Yes, I have, but I still don’t understand how she could’ve gotten in such a prestigious school-”

“That is none of your concern,” the redhead stands up gracefully. “I will be briefing her as we go acquire her school supplies. Expect us to be back prior to dinnertime.”

Yoshiko glances between them and, after a forceful nod from the matron, she hurries after the stranger. She hasn’t missed the slight relief from the matron’s expression.

That old hag… she’s probably happy to finally be getting rid of me! But wait, where am I going anyway? What is this about a school-?

“Hogwarts provides dormitory and meals for its students, so you do not have to return here during the holidays if you wish.”

Blinking, Yoshiko dares to peer up at the tall woman. “Hogwarts huh… I don’t think I’ve heard of it, and I don’t remember applying there? H-How did I get selected?”

“Have you not wondered why you can do certain things when others can’t?”

“You’re not-! I knew it! T-This Hogwarts, it’s just a fancy name for the crazy people isn’t it!” Yoshiko glares fearfully at the stranger, hating how pitiful her voice sounds. “An institution for freaks! Well, I ain’t going there, I’m normal like everyone else!”

For the first time since her arrival, the crimson-haired lady’s severe expression softens. “Of course, it is up to you to decide whether you wish to attend Hogwarts or not, though I would think that you’d jump at any opportunity to leave this place?”

“I do! B-But, I’m not… I don’t want to be-”

“You’re not a freak, but you are indeed special.” They are still within the residential area, and there aren’t any passing cars or people then. With a flick of her wrist, a small wooden stick slides out of holster under the woman’s cuff. Smiling faintly, she does some sort of motion with the stick and a flower on the nearby lawn changes into a raven!

Yoshiko gapes at the woman, who gestures with the stick again and transforms the bird back to a flower.

“That, is a magic spell cast by a wand. I am a witch, Tsushima-san,” she says evenly at the flabbergasted teenager. “And so are you.”

“I am a witch-?”

“Yes. At the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you will learn all about magic and study with the rest of our kind, fellow witches and wizards. Well then, Tsushima-san, what is your decision?”

Yoshiko stares at the wand, an ordinary-looking stick that oozes with unknown power. As outlandish as it sounds, she’s just seen magic being performed with her own eyes! To think, there’s actually an explanation for her powers, and that there are many, many other people who are just like her!

This is her chance to be normal, to be acknowledged for being herself, for being Yoshiko Tsushima!

“Yes! Hell yes, I’m so going to Hogwarts!!”

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“13 inch, Yew and Unicorn Hair. Interesting.”

“Is that a good thing or bad thing?” Yoshiko is still in awe of her newly acquired wand, carefully cradling it against her chest. She couldn’t wait to cast awesome spells of course, but for the time being she just wants to hug it and make sure it’s safe within her grasp. It wouldn’t do if she drops it and damage it so soon after getting it!

“I cannot say. The wand chooses its master after all. It is up to you to bring out its potential.” Professor Nishikino, a teacher at Hogwarts as Yoshiko finds out, is rather cryptic yet frank in a way. She’s apparently quite well-known as well, since many folks at the Diagon Alley would greet her and stop for a chit-chat.

“Heh, just watch it, I will be the most awesome student Hogwarts has ever known!” Already, this magical place is making her mind whir but in a good way. If it weren’t for her constantly pinching her own cheeks and feeling the pain, she would’ve thought she’s dreaming! The Professor is nice enough to stop by each shop and allow her a certain time frame to inspect the items. She also answers any questions, even though Yoshiko realizes moments later how dumb some of them sounds.

Still, this is looking good! Her life is finally getting better!

“Well, unfortunately, I teach Astronomy, a course that’s offered to older students and I’m usually tied up with other matters,” the crimson-haired Professor pauses when she notices Yoshiko’s disappointed look. “Many of the staff members are my friends, I can vouch for them. They would be more than happy to help you out if you have any questions.”

“Oh… um, I’ll think about it,” Yoshiko tries to rein in her reluctance. In a way, the Professor is the one who frees her from the orphanage, hence she is more relaxed around the woman. However, she couldn’t see herself being as open with other adults, even if they are just as nice as the Professor.

“Don’t force yourself. I’m just saying that’s an option available to you if you wish,” the Professor’s sharp gaze is observant. “Or, perhaps, you’d find irreplaceable friends, ones you’d entrust your secrets to. There are endless possibilities at Hogwarts, Tsushima-san, so don’t worry too much and just be who you are. That’s one of the most valuable lessons I had learned during my time there as a student.”

“Y-Yeah? You think so?” Yoshiko drops her eyes to the ground and mumbles. “You think people would accept me?”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” The Professor’s lips curve in amusement. “For whatever accomplishments you wish to achieve there, you’ll have to obtain with your own hands. Trust in yourself, trust in your wand, the wand that has chosen you.”

“Right. It picked me for a reason! I won’t let it down!” Grinning, Yoshiko couldn’t contain her excitement anymore. She carefully peels away the wrapping around the wand and points it at the sky.

“Get ready, Hogwarts! Here comes the great fallen angel Yohane!”

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Raw anger, confusion and frustration render her immobile, making it difficult to breathe or even think. All she could do is stare at the two girls in front of her.

At Hanamaru’s calm expression.

At the look-alike’s smirk.

At the cherry wand in her hand. Riko’s wand.

Yoshiko grits her teeth and clenches her fists so hard that she could feel nails digging into her palms. How dare the imposter hold Lily’s wand. A wand chooses its master, yet this doppelganger, this self-proclaimed fallen angel has stolen it after hurting her precious sister-like figure so much…

How dare she just stand there?

How dare she call herself Yohane?

“What? Cat got your tongue?” The raven-haired girl giggles elegantly, those feathered wings shaking slightly along her mirth.

Lucifer growls beside Yoshiko’s head, the little creature’s warmth and sounds bolstering her courage. She licks her dry lips and speaks fiercely.

“Get away from Hanamaru.”

Yohane tilts her head and tugs the brunette even closer. “Hmm? But she wants to be here, don’t you?”

Hanamaru doesn’t reply, and she barely reacts when Yohane leans down to kiss her cheek.

“Get away from her!” Yelling, Yoshiko fires a Stunner at them only to have it deflected by Hanamaru’s immediate Shield Charm. “What are you doing, Zuramaru? Get away from that imposter!”

Hanamaru stares at her a moment before shaking her head.

“... what? Stop this sick joke already!”

No response.

“Hanamaru!”

Finally, the brunette’s placid expression wavers as she drops her gaze rather sorrowfully. “I’m so sorry, Yoshiko-chan.”

“H-Huh? Why are you… what do you… No, it’s you! It must be you!” Yoshiko aims her wand menacingly at this so-called Yohane. “You’ve cast a spell on her, haven’t you! Brainwashed her!”

“I may and may not have,” Yohane furls her wings behind her, her fingers whimsically tapping Riko’s wand. “The real question you should be asking is, when was a spell cast on her, hmm?”

Yoshiko recoils, her eyes wide.

Yohane smiles prettily, an innocent gesture that belies the malicious bite in her words. “Why do you think she naps so often? Sure, you can get tired from reading but, come on, haven’t you ever wondered why she’s always so tired?”

Yoshiko glances at Hanamaru helplessly, trying to recall all the times the Hufflepuff talked about feeling tired. She had always yawned and spoken in such a sleepy voice, and there were times when she had fallen asleep in the middle reading. Riko and sometimes even Dia drifted off from too much studying too, so none of them ever suspected otherwise.

“I wish I didn’t have to do it, prolonged exposure to Imperio causes a great deal of stress to the mind after all,” Yohane murmurs, her voice actually sounding apologetic as she caresses the brunette’s hair. “But I had to convince her, had to show her the truth.”

The Imperius Curse. One of the three Unforgivable Curses along with the Cruciatus Curse. As outraged as Yoshiko feels about this revelation, she is just as relieved to know that her girlfriend isn’t doing this willingly.

She’s being controlled. I must save her!

Yohane scoffs. “Heh, you’re probably thinking I’m controlling her? There’s no need for that anymore. She knows what’s at stake, she knows what needs to be done… don’t you?” Smirking, she nestles her chin against Hanamaru’s head.

Sparks of magic cackles at the tip of Yoshiko’s wand. “I said, get away from her!” She fires consecutive spells at her enemy again, scowling when none was able to get past Hanamaru’s Protego.

“She is mine.” Yohane’s expression darkens abruptly and familiar tendrils of magic seem to seep out from her wings. “Don’t you get it, you silly mortal? She belongs to me - she always has, ever since the day we met at the playground.”

Cold fear slithers down Yoshiko’s back at those words. In spite of Lucifer’s comforting croons, she finds herself taking a step back. “What did you just say-? No, I was the one who-”

“You are nothing,” Yohane lets out a deep sigh as she takes a step forward, the dark magic dissipating now that her demeanor has changed to that of pity. “Very well. You… you are still a part of me. It’ll be too horribly tragic if you were to be ignorant before your inevitable demise.”

“Just w-what are you saying?”

“Hmm, where do I even begin? Ah,” Yohane spreads her majestic wings and gestures at the dim chamber and damp walls. “Do you know where we are, O Lost One?”

“What’s that got to do-”

“We are at the Chamber of Secrets, built by the great Salazar Slytherin himself back when Hogwarts was first founded. You should care,” Yohane grins giddily, her vermillion eyes shimmering in pride and reverence. “I… well, we hail from the House of Slytherin after all.”

“Wha-? I thought we… I’m a Muggleborn-?” Her mind’s starting to get muddled from how Yohane talks about them. Are they related? Why does the word ‘we’ sound so singular?

“We practically are, yes. The blood has long diluted for who knows how many centuries… presumably, an exiled Squib from that bloodline had married a Muggleborn, and the magic had remained dormant until I came into existence. I was able to confirm my lineage because I am a Parseltongue. You, however, do not share the same ability, O Pitiful Clone.”

“What did you just call me?” Yoshiko’s voice trembles, her breaths becoming hitched when Hanamaru lowers her wand and closes her eyes sadly.

Yohane shrugs. “Anyway, it’s most unfortunate that I am unable to locate the famed Basilisk of the legends. It would’ve been cool to control the King of Snakes to my bidding, no? A beast of hell, a faithful demon for the great fallen angel!”

“Why are you telling me all this? I don’t care about any of this stuff!” Yoshiko tries to keep her hand steady, her wand never leaving its target. “Just who the hell are you!”

“I’ve already told you, I’m Yohane.”

“W-What’s that supposed to mean? Are you like, my long lost twin or something?”

She sweeps her frantic gaze up and down the winged-teenager, hoping for some sort of clue or any minor detail that could expose this fraud. However, Yohane truly looks just like what the Boggart had transformed into. Other than those feathered wings, they look identical. She’s posed in front of her mirror countless times after all. Deep down, she feels that she innately knows who this Yohane is.

And that revelation frightens her.

Shaking her head, Yohane takes out a black quill from her robe’s pocket, the exact same one they’ve seen in Riko’s memories. Yoshiko shudders, eyes widening and her heart galloping as a familiar sensation tugs at her mind.

It wasn’t like this in the Pensieve. Here, seeing the quill in reality, she feels this violent urge to hold it, to reclaim it, to mold her own magic with it. Before her mind blanks out, the scarf around her neck tightens and snaps her out of her daze.

She gasps harshly like she was underwater for a long time. Fearfully, she peers up at the grinning girl, who holds up the quill rather tauntingly.

“Miss it? You should be the most familiar with this quill.”

“...what-?”

“But first, let me show you.” As Yohane speaks, the quill begins to jot down words that blaze in the air. “Do you know what a Horcrux is? Of course you do. Lily had explained it to you.”

“How dare you call her that, when you’re the one who-!”

This time, her Bombarda is powerful enough that the excess magic shatters the tiles in front of Yohane, but she remains unscathed due to Hanamaru’s fast Shield Charm once again.

“Why are you protecting this… this evil person? She’s the one who hurt Lily, Dia-san, Chika-san, You-san, Mari-san… all of us!”

Hanamaru’s expression remains sad but her hand twitches a little then, as if revealing her true thoughts on the matter. She must be still under the Imperius Curse. Yoshiko is about to inch closer when the fallen angel’s next words stops her cold.

“You know, I could have killed her,” Yohane murmurs, holding up the sakura wand in a dismissive manner. “We didn’t need her anymore, after retrieving the information we sought. Yet I allowed Lily to live… and carelessly allowed her to escape and put us in this predicament. Be thankful that your petty mortal feeling was able to affect me to an extent.”

“Huh-? My-?”

“Nothing important.” Yohane wiggles her finger condescendingly, and the quill mockingly scribbles a sakura flower before slashing the petals and force the pieces to dissipate. “Back to topic again, my sad other half. Think about what you know of Horcruxes.”

Yoshiko stares at the spot where the magically-drawn flower was and finds herself repeating the very same words Riko had told her. “It’s a Dark object that contains a piece of the creator’s soul, for the purpose of gaining immortality. But what does it have to do- and besides, a Horcrux can only be created through murder-”

“That’s correct.” Yohane gives her a chilling smile.

Yoshiko blinks slowly at her mirror image, then at the image of a dark-haired man that the quill conjures. He could be considered handsome, in a mysterious and cool sort of way but his grin gives him a warm disposition. The ache in her heart is quick as it came, as well as the sense of familiarity.

She knows this man.

Yet she doesn’t know him either.

Yohane’s smile is still cold as her whispered words seem to echo in the chamber. “Ten years ago, a burst of accidental magic killed my… our father.”

Yoshiko stares.

The man’s image vanishes as if a violent ripple has completely obliterated it.

“Magic is a fickle thing. Even now, after millennia of wizards and witches studying bloodlines, the Origin and any relevant spells or rituals, there are still so many things we do not understand,” Yohane confidently approaches the frozen girl until they are only a few paces apart. “Either way, on that day, somehow, a Horcrux was created in the form of a quill pen, this quill pen, an antique that our father treasured as a family heirloom. Now, do you know how a Horcrux actually works?”

Still, Yoshiko could only stare.

She doesn’t want to know. Suddenly, she very much wants to flee away from this place, away from Hogwarts and this world of magic. She still despises how her life used to be like back at the orphanage, back among Muggles, but at least she’s still a human there, as much of a freak she was labelled as.

With the way Yohane talks, it’s almost as if she isn’t quite human.

Terror doesn’t even begin to describe her feelings then.

“A Horcrux is able to drain one’s life energy, enough to eventually allow the fragment of soul to manifest itself, a corporeal form, kind of like a parasite,” Yohane reaches out towards her, her voice soft and even gentle.

The coldness of her hand almost burns Yoshiko, forcing her to flinch away from the contact. She’s too scared to run, and Yohane firmly grasps her chin to hold her gaze.

“Once the host’s life force is completely gone, the Horcrux would become its own living person, no longer forced to be attached to a simple container. That’s how the concept of immortality works through a Horcrux.”

Yoshiko shakes her head feebly, unable to pull away from the grip. The quill then sketches another image, a woman who resembles her and even wears her hair with that trademark bun. Her expression is kind, though a flick from the quill morphs it to a horrified grimace before the image abruptly vanishes.

Yohane’s husky voice is no less condemning as she stares coldly into her eyes.

“You killed my mother, Yoshiko.”

“NO! YOU’RE LYING!!”

Upon her outburst, Lucifer sinks its teeth in Yohane’s hand, drawing blood and forcing her to tear back with a yelp. Yoshiko immediately blasts a Reducto at the imposter, though those thick feathered wings block her powerful Curse like it’s a mere puff of air.

“The truth is too much for you,” Yohane shakes her wings, nonchalant with the aftermath of the spell singing some of her feathers. “Don’t you see? Everything makes sense now, does it not?”

“No, you don’t make sense!” Yoshiko screams hoarsely, firing spell after spell at her adversary. “W-Why are you here? Why are you ruining my life, just when it’s finally getting better?!”

The wings shield Yohane effortlessly, the magic sizzling upon collision. It’s only when Yohane unfurls her wing to block a badly aimed spell from hitting Hanamaru that Yoshiko freezes in mid-motion.

Gasping for breaths, she could only watch as Yohane steps sideways to stand protectively in front of the brunette, like she was the enemy instead.

“No, no no no no…”

“Deny all you want. Think about it, why are there so many blank spots in your childhood memories? Simple - those were my memories,” Yohane wraps an arm around Hanamaru’s waist again and hugs her close. “Why don’t you remember meeting her? Heh, because you never did - I did. You didn’t even exist then.”

“N-No… no…”

Tears well up in Yoshiko’s eyes as she cradles her head, gazing imploringly at Hanamaru for her input, but the latter isn’t facing her.

“Admittedly though, I did not know of your existence for the longest time.” Yohane whimsically caresses Hanamaru’s cheek while the quill jots even more nonsensical words and images in the air. “I’ve always felt something was off about me, after the incident that left me parent-less, but I never knew why. But then, surprise surprise! When I saw someone who looks exactly like me show up at the station… even they were not expecting you either.”

Yoshiko tries to suppress her shudders and rein in her chaotic emotions. Lucifer is still hissing warily and circling above her head. “...they?”

“Hnn. I was still just a child after all. I needed guardianship, someone to teach me how to control my magic.”

Yohane spreads her wings wide and calls upon the black tendrils of magic to cover them like a veil. Then, similar to dry ice evaporating, the wings disappear like they were never there.

“We call ourselves the Fallen.” Yohane chuckles sardonically, summoning the black tendrils again and the wings reform behind her. “We have determined the magical core is the cause of all anomalies, such as accidental magic and the reason why some Pureblood descendants are Squibs. To complete our research though, we need more and more samples.”

The quill sketches several more images, of creatures Yoshiko has only seen in textbooks, and some archaic symbols and letters that resemble Latin and hieroglyphics.

“Magic has existed for millennia. Since the very first witches and wizards, their magic has passed down from generations to generations, its essence untainted within Pureblood families. Then, what’s the cause for Squibhood, forcing them to become the bane of a proud Pureblood lineage? Was there a mutation?”

Yohane begins to walk towards Yoshiko, ignoring the latter’s trembling and Lucifer’s warning rasps.

“And speaking of mutation, how did lycanthropy come to be? What made merpeople and centaurs differ from humans? What of the sphinx and those capable of human speech? Fascinating isn’t it? We’re able to work with what we have about werewolves, and the results were spectacular, wouldn’t you agree?”

Yoshiko flinches, recalling the havoc wreaked by the Moonstruck incident.

“Its level of instability and burst of magic during transformation are almost similar to that of accidental magic, this mutation of the body. Then, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to view the… accidental creation of a Horcrux as a mutation of the soul through magic, yes?”

Before Yohane’s hand could touch her again, Lucifer dives down and tries to bite the winged girl. A powerful flap sends the little bat careening away and struggling to maintain flight.

“Silly creature. It’s a failed Horcrux, y’know?” Yohane giggles at Yoshiko’s sharp intake. “Oh yes, we’ve experimented with many things. Your existence permanently damaged my soul, so much that whatever I came in contact with would have just a little bit of my soul imbued within it. Luckily, I’ve learned to contain my powers in the form of these lovely feathers.”

Tendrils magic enshrouds those angelic wings, power and sentience evident with the way that the air seems to grow heavy upon movement.

“Of course, those feathers are not the same. They’re not Horcruxes, far from it, and eventually the fraction of soul would find its way back to me. Well, some disappears into ether, but too meager to be of any consequence,” Yohane shrugs and takes a step towards Yoshiko.

This time, Lucifer fearfully keeps a distance behind, squealing in confusion.

“That portion of my soul that bat had, well, it’s long returned to me, yet I can see it’s forever changed. It’s gained intelligence beyond the scope of its brethren.”

Lucifer hisses but doesn’t dare to approach. Yohane shrugs again and turns her gaze towards Yoshiko.

“Oh, poor you. All of this is a lot to take in, isn’t it? Just what are you, indeed?” The cold hand lightly yet firmly grasps at Yoshiko’s cheek, forcing their eyes to meet. “You’re not the same as and of the past known Horcruxes of history, so maybe you’re not even technically one! But now, do you understand? We must obtain the purest and strongest of a Pureblood’s blood, a sample that’s at its prime yet still malleable enough to be experimented upon. We need the Kurosawa heiress.”

Yoshiko could barely hear herself speaking, her voice having grown so incredibly feeble along with her light-headedness. “...why D-Dia-san… there are, other, Purebloods…”

A fanged grin is her response. “Frankly, none of them are good enough. Either they’re too weak, or their lineage is not as pure. We Fallen are unfortunately few in numbers, and only have so much resources. We’d like to remain hidden in the shadows, at least until we’ve reached a desired milestone. The Unbreakable Vow is such a handy thing, no?”

Yoshiko couldn’t look away from those mesmerizing vermillion eyes, her consciousness dimming. “...why… Lily… why… her…”

“Unfortunate collateral damage, but she’s served her purpose.”

“Ngh…” Yoshiko bites her lips, struggling to remain in control of her mind even though her body is becoming numb. “And...me-?”

“Indeed, what should I do with you? My little demons have already left Hogwarts and long relocated. I am the only one here, because I wish to know.” Yohane leans in until their foreheads are touching, their breaths mingling and their eyes only seeing each other and nothing else.

“You should return to me. You’re a part of me after all. We’re suppose to be one and the same.”

Something breaks inside of Yoshiko then. The terror of ceasing to be - it’s worse than dying, for nothing will remain behind. Nothing.

“You should have never existed.”

Tears trickle down her cheeks as she summons the last ounce of her strength to push Yohane away. “No! No, no, NO! I’m Yoshiko Tsushima-!”

I’m the fallen angel Yohane.

That line, the very line she’s countlessly repeated to people, overlaps with this winged girl’s introduction, and the voice reverberates painfully inside her mind. She covers her face with shaking hands and collapses onto her knees.

“-I-I have friends… friends who care about me! T-They-”

Chika and You were tortured, Kanan almost lost her arm, Mari almost lost her magic, Riko may never wake up, Dia and Ruby are suffering and Hanamaru has long been controlled-

She curls up into a ball, shivering and shaking her head as she sobs beseechingly into her sleeves. “Ngh-! I’m real! I’m my own person! I-I have my own d-dreams... nggh…”

“I should hate you, I really should, but you’re still me. And, looking at you, so pathetic!” Yohane’s quiet voice is practically hypnotizing. “Makes my heart ache, y’know? Come on. I can end your torment. I can take it all away-”

Suddenly, Yoshiko finds herself enveloped by warmth, a familiar presence that brings peace upon her cracking psyche. Even though her hearing is muffled by the hug, she could sense the surprise and displeasure in Yohane’s tone. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Yoshiko-chan… is hurting…”

Swallowing another sob, she timidly looks up to see Hanamaru’s worried gaze, though her lips are still set in a placid frown.

“She’s not even real. I sent you to meet her at King’s Cross Station, blocked the wall so you’d have the chance to get to know her more for me. Whatever play-game you had with her, it meant nothing.” Yohane sounds exasperated.

Yoshiko trembles as another wave of nausea and pain crashes into her mind. Before she could pull away though, Hanamaru tightens her arms even as her eyes glaze over.

“...it wasn’t… nothing…”

Hope flickers inside Yoshiko’s heart. A dying flame it may be, she clings onto it and takes several deep breaths to try to calm herself down. She can think again, without all those negative emotions crushing her. “Just how long-? How long has she been-?”

“Longer than you can ever imagine, silly mortal.”

“How can you… how is that even possible-”

“Heh, think of it as, hmm, something similar to Muggle hypnotism. The Curse is to work at certain circumstances, certain suggestions.”

“But, Mari-san and Dia-san checked… she’s better at Occlumency than any of us.” The hopeful flare grows stronger as she tentatively shifts within Hanamaru’s arms to try to get to her wand. “No way the Imperius Curse would’ve gotten to her!”

“Well, you can’t really trespass the mind of someone who’s already under another’s influence, can you? It’d create the illusion of an impenetrable wall, although I can see it’s been waning… Imperio.”

A violent shove causes Yoshiko to topple on her side. Coughing, she peers through teary eyes at Hanamaru, whose posture is stiff and expression oddly relaxed.

Yohane smirks cruelly as she points Riko’s wand at the brunette. “Go on.”

Hanamaru jerks and blasts a Stinging Hex at Yoshiko when she is fumbling for her wand. Yoshiko yelps in pain as a red welt strikes across her forearm. Out of reflex, she returns fire only to gasp when her spell slices past Hanamaru’s glass frames and leaves a thin red line on her cheek. Yoshiko’s heart drops in guilt as the glasses slowly fall apart and shatters on the floor.

“I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean-”

During her hesitation, Hanamaru fires another Hex which barely misses Yoshiko’s head by a small margin. Lucifer suddenly flies towards them and swerves for Hanamaru’s wand, but Yohane is faster. A vicious Stunner renders the bat an unconscious heap on the ground.

“No!” Yoshiko snaps out of her stupor, her anger successfully keeping that horrible, hollow sense of worthlessness at bay. “This is between you and me! Leave Hanamaru and Lucifer out of this!”

“Didn’t I say already? She belongs to me!” Yohane beckons at the brunette, who obediently approaches her like a puppet.

I must save her.

For the first time since her descent to the Chamber of Secrets, Yoshiko has regained the clarity of her mind. Fake human, clone, pseudo-Horcrux or whatever, she has more important things to focus her mind on now. She has responsibility to save the girl who means so much to her.

Her feelings are real.

What they have between them, that is real.

Yoshiko shields herself from another Hex with a fast Protego and lunges to the side to fire an Expelliarmus. Memories of all those dueling sessions against Dia and Kanan flash in her mind, putting her body on autopilot as she instinctively counters and exchanges spells. Yohane’s malevolent Curses disrupts her tactics a few times, but it seems like the winged girl is more intrigued in seeing them duel.

Amused at the predicament she forced them in.

Growling, Yoshiko Transfigures some of the rubble from the cracked tiles into bigger, sharp chunks, hurling them at the cause of her misery. Expectedly, however, Yohane destroys the projectiles with those black tendrils of magic, and remains unmoved and unscathed from her spot.

A vicious Reducto forces Yoshiko to dodge, for she knows that her flimsy Shield Charm would not have held. Hanamaru, even under the Imperius Curse, appears to retain everything she’s learned from those practice duels and thus makes her a formidable opponent.

Yoshiko doesn’t want to hurt her, which puts her at a great disadvantage already without Yohane interfering every now and then.

“Incarcerous!”

The Conjuration spell doesn’t work like she wants it to, the conjured ropes falling limply from her wand before disappearing. She has yet to master advanced spells like this one, or any other incapacitating spells for that matter. Sweating now, she dodges a Bombarda behind an erected tile and cringes when a large fragment past her neck.

“Expelliarmus!” “Diffindo!”

The two spells collide with a thunderous crack, the small explosion propelling both parties several paces apart. Unfortunately for Yoshiko, she misses her footing and slips at the edge of the wet walkway.

“Impedimenta!”

The Jinx bludgeons her hard in the chest, striking her onto her back in the shallow pool. Wheezing, she could hear Hanamaru approaching but her vision is spinning too much for her to get up. The cool sensation of Immobulus slithers over her body and she collapses back into the even colder water.

However, no spell comes for her for the next while and allows her to regain her bearings despite being immobile. Confused, she looks up to see Hanamaru’s wand trained on her.

And tears are leaking out of her ochre eyes even though her expression remains blank.

“What’s the matter?” Yohane’s voice is dangerously soft.

Hanamaru’s hand shakes as she continues to cry, but nothing happens.

“Use the Cruciatus Curse on her.”

The trembling worsens and her breathing becomes labored.

“Use it… now,” Yohane growls with great impatience, Riko’s wand half-raised and her wings unfolded.

“... I won’t. No more.”

Before Yoshiko’s wide eyes, Hanamaru snaps her own wand in half.

#athyra writes #LLSHP AU #yoshimaru #datenshi yohane #I can't believe I made it #to this point ;A;#one scene in this chapter was the first thing I wrote when planning/outlining this story #another one would be in the next chapter #\0/ can't believe I've made it this far #thanks to y'all!#I know this chapter prolly creates more questions than answers XD;#lotsa revelations #some shouldnt' be a surprise tho I think #again it's a hard chapter to write #hopefully the characterizations given the circumstances are realistic #feedback please :'D #mk gonna go pass out now x.x

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blacklynx14 · 8 years ago

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📝

Pfft,sure why not, thought more others would just reblog from me.

Readthis maybe if bored, cause its 4 pages long.

Atthe age of about 8 years old I was small, didn’t really hit growthspurts till about 12. My grandparents retired would go up to a placecalled Greer here in Arizona for camping. They would be gone about3-5 months but we would get to visit for about 5 days to a weekdepending on the plans that Summer vacation.Beforewe arrived to Greer we received call it had been pouring the nightbefore, so drive safe. Me being young I was good and slept most thecar ride up since I don’t suffer through motion sickness like mybrother did. When we got up there I got to see a large heard ofcattle. First time really seeing them “out in the wild”which was nice.Thefirst day, was boring. Mostly unpacking and being small the abilityto explore my surroundings was limited. Second day, also boring.Family did not want to explore the area and said we would do ittomorrow. By then I am antsy to move away from the perimeter of mygrandparents RV. But I am obedient, so stay up. Third day I canfinally explore like my parents said, but then it poured again. Soexploration was nipped in the bud before it started,again.Asa child and even now I adored the rain. I loved the sound of ithitting different objects. Thanks to a story I once read I did notfear lightning or thunder. But I am what you called respectful to it.So obviously I stayed away from metal and from under trees to nottempt lighting. But since my parents did not want to get wet I got tospend my time counting lightning. I would try and see it where itstruck in the sky and I would count the seconds till I heard thethunder to learn how high the lightning was from the ground. Butby that day I was antsy and loosing it as a child. On the 4th day Ilearned we would be leaving in two days. I remember looking aroundthe forest for signs of water that would prove to be too wet totravel and did not really see much.Iwent looking for my mom, she was reading a book in one of mygrandmother’s lawn chairs they had brought. “Mom, can I goexploring now?”Iremember she glanced over at me with a slightly bewildered look..“Nosweety, don’t you remember? It just poured rain downyesterday.”“Butyou said we could explore yesterday and we didn’t.”Sheseemed to have dismissed the idea because she had looked at her bookagain, “Because it rained, you don’t know if there is deep wateror mud so it is best not to go anywhere today.”Iknew when she read she didn’t like being disturbed but I didn’twant to lose another day. So I was smart and stayed out of mom’sreach to give her space.“Pleasemom, I won’t go far...”Shehad probably heard my whine cause she sighed and lookedaround, “Where would you go? There is nothing really aroundthe camp site.”Tohonestly disturb her which I feel a little bad for now I began tobounce on the balls of my feet so show how antsy I was.“Ple-e-e-e-e-ase!”She(thankfully) gave up and said fine, as long as I stayed where I couldalways see the RV. So quickly leaving before she could change hermind I went around the RV towards the back side. Looking around andwondering there was a slightly steep dip of a slope that stretchedout for good, say, 40 years that led to some patches of treeswhich seemed like fun. Looking for water all I saw was craggy groundand over about 12 yards to the right a little puddle. Asa child I slid down the slope and stopped on the grass right beforethe ground changed to the broken and cracked dirt. As a child I wassmart enough to toe the ground and see if it was solid. So thatshowed it wasn’t hiding water or mud underneath it. Feeling theground stay pretty solid under the pressed weight I head out toexplore. I go about two yards over the ground and I insta-sink half afoot which at my height at the time was little over half way to myknees. I was dumb enough to forget that the further out you go themore water could accumulate. So it could just sit, and make mud,which it did, that I sunk into, perfect.Beinga child who saw cartoons my first thought is quicksand. But then Istopped and looked down, I saw it was just mud. A lot of mud. But Iwas still sinking, but it wasn’t quick. So as a child logically itcan’t be quicksandif it’s not quick. I was a fluffing genius...I wiggled my foot in the mud to see if I could feel theground below me. I couldn't but I got to feel the pressure of the mudaround me holding me there. I tried to push my knees against the“harder” dirt above to climb out. But the craggy dirt broke in myhands. So I looked more half sunk to my knees in an angle which Istopped to examine the dry flat dirt and play with it for a while.Kind of ignored slowly sinking to a possible bottomless mud hole toplay with disks of dirt. Or at least in my mind my thought was wellit can't be that deep. If anything only 'my height' deep..I only ignored the dirt when it was encased mostly around mykneecaps. But more cause somewhere in the mud a stick was poking myknee cap and that was agitating, Wiggling till upright againthe movement was enough to now pull me a little further down into themud now having it over my kneecaps. I tried to wiggle my foot but Icouldn't cause the mud was now trying to keep my shoes. So I stoppedwiggling in hopes it wouldn't remove the Velcro strap and lookedaround. Yep, I was stuck in mud. And no one was really looking for mecause I would normally be safe. I looked up over the slope and stillsaw the side of the RV and its tarp. Well at least I was near the RVlike I promised. So not being much of a screamer unlessneeded I took a deep breathe and yelled, “MOMMY!”It wassilent so I repeated about 3 more times till my mother's form cameinto view and she looked down at me in shock. Honestly my onlythought was a least if I sink my mom will know where I am. She waspanicked and told me not to move as she made her way carefully downthe slope. But seeing this happen before I tried to stop her.“Waitwait you will fall in!”My mother, being my 'superhero',waved off the worlds and said “I'll be fine, just hold on!”Shetook two steps over the broken ground and just a yard from meinsta-sank too almost 2 feet due to her bigger height and weight thanwhat I had. I admit it was the most interesting thing I had seen in along time. I got to watch the mud eat her to almost her kneecaps.The weightless pose she had as her arms went up a little from thedrop. And the large almost circular white of her eyes in absolutesurprise. Like I couldn't see that coming. I admit to laughingquietly watching all that happen with a 'Ha' going through myhead.I had smiled at her and said “Tried to warnyou..”She had paused to take in her bearings and down ather clothes, “Well at least I was wearing shorts,” as she rolledthem up slightly higher “your shorts on the other hand are ruinedby the mud.”“Want me to try and go to you?..”“Nono,just stay there and don't move.” She had reached out herarms and pulled me closer to her which was a slow process and sunk meto my hips while it pulled her down to her thighs just probably 3inches to the bottom of her shorts. But I was at least beside heragain which made me feel much safer, though we were both trapped inmud.She looked down at me with an exasperated expression,“What were you thinking coming in here?”“Hey, it lookedlike dirt and I wanted to see if I can make it to those trees.” Ihad shown her what I meant by pointing to the trees that just seemedfurther away now. Was probably cause I was lower to the ground thanbefore.“And you thought you could walk over this mudpit?”“Well I got further than you at least.”“Ohhaha..” She looked around then to the bottom of the slope just afew feet away then down at me, “Hold still and let's see if I canpull you above the mud. If you get out go back up to the RV and tellyour dad to grab a hose or rope so I can pull myself up okay?”Ilooked at her, over to the slope, then down at both of us before backat her with an uncertain smile, “Okay but I don't think that isgoing to work...”“Well I think it is worth a shot, putyour arms up.”I put my arms at a 90 degree angle and waitedto watch the magic happen again with a smile on my face. She put herarms under the armpits of my shirt and heaved upward. She let out asurprised squeak of a yelp as I went up about half a foot and shesank half a foot reversing our rolls. Now she had mud to her hip andI had mud to my thigh. Cause when she stopped pulling the mud pulledbe back under about 3 inches due to suction. I had laughed as she hadyet again a look of surprise that her trick didn't work. Toease her of her doubts I smiled up to her, “don't worry mom, themud just likes me.”“Yeah well it seems to like us bothnow...”“Mom?”“Yeah sweety?..”“Ithink the mud is trying to keep my right shoetoo.”“Really?..”“Yeah but it doesn't seem towant my left one... oh there it is, just not as much maybe.”Shelooked around and getting to watch her shoulders shake from laughtershe smiled to me, “We're stuck, aren't we?”

“Seemslike it.”“Want to try calling for help again?”“Sure,but who should we call this time?”“Let's try calling yourdad this time and see if he wants to help us out.”“And ifnot he can join us.”“That works too. If we get him inhere let's shove off him and get out. Then we can get grandpa to helppull him out.”“That works for me, on the count of three?”

“Yeahlets do that. 1, 2, 3.”I had yelled daddy and mom hadshouted 'Dwain'! Like the first time no one appeared at the firstcall so I shouted 'dad' while mom still tried to call his name. Stillnothing.I looked over to mom since we were nearly eye levelnow, “Think he fell asleep?”“Well that would stink forus now wouldn't it?”“Yeah, should we try callinggrandpa?”“Nono, grandpa would be more likely to benapping right now. Hold on a minute and if needed then we cantry.”She had tried shouting two more timed sounded sternand my only thought was at least that was not being directed at me..After about half a minute my dad came around the RV looking lost andconfused till mom called him again and he looked down the slope atus. Thought only cartoons did it but his frame actually shookin surprise then he barked out a quick laugh.

“Whathappened to you two?”“Your daughter thought she couldwalk over a mud pit.”I smiled up at him, “I thought itwas dry, I tried to warn mom but she got stuck too.”Helaughed a little and paused, “Honey? Where is the camera?”“Don'teven think about it, now come help us up.”He began to makehis way down the slope but was smart and stopped at the grass, “Butthis would be a hilarious moment to capture.”“Maybe, butI don't need you to be showing this off to people we know. I am goingto try and hand you our daughter and you pull her out then you helppull me out.”He braced his legs and looking back lookedlike he was gonna either jump or maybe go to the bathroom and I amglad he didn't do either though he was smiling. “Okay I amready.”So in the span of about 5 minutes my mom and dadheaved me out of mud which made the weirdest of noises, but I wasagain free, though right shoe-less. My mom took about the same timeand had to get help from my grandpa from above the sloe since he gavethem the hose to hold onto and pull her out of. Grandpa had done acute funny wheeze of a laugh. Like he couldn't decide between a laughand a cough, eventually he coughed.The rest of that trip hadpleasant memories I still smile about. But laugh none as hard asthat. I was technically grounded to the RV stile once all hosed off..It slowed down that day. Was kinda boring after. But every time Irecall that memory I smiled then like I do now. I remember lookingtowards the slope that showed the craggy ground stretching out tothose trees that had been my initial targets. I still wanted to gothere but couldn't any more. But I had the thought, that I didn'twant to do that again because I wanted to keep my last shoe. But if Idid by accident again I think I would be able to smile again. When wehad returned home two days later my dad had paused when opening theside door where I was. He had asked where was my shoe, I was kinda introuble by then, but I was okay with letting the Earth keep it as amemento.

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