#i burned my mouth shoving an entire boiled egg into it

[bittybattybunny]

Heads up gonna try to stream today!!

I’m gonna be using twitch just to see how it goes since I’ve never streamed on twitch. normally i use picarto or youtube but

picarto keeps crashing

and i just dont feel like messing with youtube today

so trying twitch

[bakubub]

In which racer!kuroo is your roommate, and seems to only like it when you treat his wounds... (word count: 1.9k)

Ngl quite proud of this one!!

Warnings: 18+, a whole lot of swearing, a whole lot of blood, innuendos and implied nsfw, reader almost vomits (NOT from pregnancy chill, I know we're all scarred but its going to be just fine) and if you're squeamish perhaps skip the scene where reader stitches his wound?

Also bit of a disclaimer: I am in NO WAY a med student and literally all of my knowledge is from movies and other fics... so if you acc know what to do in this situation this may be a torturous for you :D

All due credits go to @aikk00​ for this AMAZING fanart!!!!

I watch as my roommate enters the penthouse, once again scratched up and bleeding, covered in so much blood there is no possible way that it was all his- if it was he would not be standing.

I launch myself off the couch- where I was sitting for the past hour nervously waiting for his return- and slip my arm under his, supporting him as we inched towards the bathroom.

"I can do this by myself you know," he grumbles, his grimace revealing just how much pain he was actually in.

"Mhm, I'm sure you can. Just like you boiled that poor egg by yourself last week, hmm?" I say sarcastically, trying to keep my mind calm and clear, because oh my god it looks really bad this time...

"Oi, its not my fault it fuckin' exploded," he mutters, voice laden with pain.

"You put it in the microwave because 'the shitty water wasn't doing its job.' Of course it would explode," I say, gently seating him on the closed toilet seat and taking out my supplies that I unfortunately have become rather accustomed to using. He's made it a habit to get himself injured.

"Where's the injury?" I ask, setting down my half-empty bottle of antiseptic and box of bandages. He peels off his shirt, cringing at the pain it brought him as the fabric was stuck to the gash that went from his left pectoral down to the middle of his chest.

"Pissed off a bidder after winning a race, fucker took out a knife once he realised he couldn't beat me up," he huffs out, arrogance still lacing his tone even with sweat dripping down his brow as he leans the back of his head onto the tile wall behind him. His Adam's apple bobs down his bloodstained neck as he speaks, and I quickly look away, focusing on the injury at hand.

Not his blood soaked, but nevertheless well defined pectoral muscles, nor the abs that my hands occasionally brush up against and know how hard they really are, and definitely not the trail of black hairs that lead down, down, down...

"What's wrong, the view too hot to focus on the work at hand?" He asks suggestively, raising his pierced brow, even in this state.

I'm quick to reply, having gotten used to his flirtatious remarks from the second I moved into his penthouse, "nope can't even see the view from that massive head of yours. Not to mention your permanent bed head."

He huffs out a laugh, then proceeds to flinch from the pain it must have caused.

"Stop moving, idiot. You're going to exacerbate the cut!" I say, quickly grabbing a damp towel and beginning to clean up his abdomen, whilst simultaneously pressing another rag to his wound to stop the bleeding.

“At least you admit that there is a hot view,” he says in his low voice, gazing at me from his position.

I simply roll my eyes.

No falling in love. That was the deal we had made on the day he offered me a place to stay in exchange for my services as a maid and apparently, a nurse. I cook, clean and basically keep the house running while this moron goes out and acts like the idiot he is. In my defense, dorms are expensive as hell, and his penthouse is nearby. Plus, I don't have to pay rent. It's a win-win situation.

But the feelings stirring up inside my heart might just ruin the dynamic we have going on and simultaneously take out a whole lot of cash out of my pocket.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Once his skin isn't completely saturated in blood, and the wound has (thankfully) stopped bleeding, I add some antiseptic onto a make-up pad and begin to dab at his wound, earning winces and slight grunts from the massive man.

"The cut looks deep, Kuroo. You need to go to the hospital," I say, worry lacing my tone as my eyebrows crease and earn yet another huffing laugh.

"Do you want me to rot in prison for the rest of my life?"

I roll my eyes at his response, deliberately dabbing just a little harder which earns me a yelp and an attempted glare in my direction.

"First off, illegal street racing won't send you to prison for your entire life, just for like, half a year. Second, this wound needs stitches, and believe it or not, I'm not a fucking licensed medic. In fact, the only experience I have is with you!" I say, immediately regretting my choice of words as I wait for his remark.

"That's what she said," He says, chuckling at his own innuendo.

I sigh in frustration, pouring more antiseptic to make sure there was no chance of infection from whatever grimy ass knife stabbed him, and beginning to gently scrub the wound with a soft towel, so as to make sure there was no debris left in there.

"You're gonna have ta do it," he mutters, his hazel eyes boring into mine.

"I- I can't Kuroo, you can't possibly think-"

"Fine. I'll do it. Go get me a needle and thread," he states, struggling but nevertheless, sitting upright on the red stained toilet.

I stare at Kuroo in disbelief as he utters these words. Was he dumber than I thought? Does he have some sort of head injury too?

I examine his face and all I come up with is unnerving determination. I exhale out of my nose sharply, "fine, dammit. I'll sew your fucking wound shut."

I am extremely handy with a sewing needle and thread, used to really be into embroidery back when I had the time so...it should be fine.

He just shrugs, leaning his head back against the tiles and closing his eyes.

"Fucking asshole. Can't believe I'm saving your damn life," I mutter, leaving the bathroom to dig through my wardrobe for my sewing box and taking out a gold silk thread that I was saving for a special project.

Well, I guess that will never happen.

"Hey, I found some silk thread. It's literally known for its strength and durability in high temperatures, so it should work like a charm!" I say, walking back into the blood stained bathroom and trying to psych myself up.

He grunts in response. I sigh as I begin with mopping up the excess blood and sanitising the needle and thread before chucking on gloves.

I wipe the antiseptic over the wound once more, and examine it carefully.

Well, if his condition worsens, I can always knock him out and call an ambulance...

I decide, screw it, and thread the needle, pretending it was just another embroidery project.

It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I chant as I puncture his skin with the thin needle.

Kuroo gasps in pain, and I place a hand on his knee, telling him to suck it up and deal with it, half talking to him but also to myself.

To my surprise, he listens, stretching his head back once more and gritting his teeth.

"Don't do that, here put this in-between your teeth," I say, grabbing yet another towel and shoving it into his mouth.

He obeys as I continue to stitch. I feel my gag reflex kicking in as I think about how stitching skin feels as though I am stitching leather, it feels hard and tough while pushing the thin needle through.

Must hurt like a bitch.

Once I've completed my neat stitches down the wound, without vomiting, I tie it off as I would with any embroidery, and clean the area free of any remaining blood. After rubbing some antibacterial ointment over the gold stitches, I stick on a particularly large bandage over the wound and start tidying up.

"Thank you," Kuroo mutters, still seated on the toilet seat and practically panting for breath.

"Ah, the criminal knows his damn manners!! Now get up and get in the damn shower. You ruined my pristine bathroom!" I complain, putting the last of the materials away before walking to the door.

"Wait, I- I can't get up." I turn around and look at him incredulously as he utters his next few words, "will you... shower me?"

My eyes just about pop out of their sockets at his request. "Are you insane?! I'm not your mother, nor your wife! Call your pudding haired friend and tell him to come shower you!"

He shakes his head, a rare pleading look taking the place of his usual arrogant smirk, "Kenma's too lazy to shower himself, Y/n, please!"

I contemplated it for a moment. Sure, I've seen him naked before, accidentally of course, and so what if I have to scrub him clean. God knows he can't do it himself with that damn injury.

Fuck this shit.

"Fine, get up right now." I bark at him, leaving to change out of my blood soaked pjs into a pair of shorts and a tank.

"...I just said I can't."

---

"Ow, y/n, you're scrubbing too hard!" He complains, his exfoliating glove around my hand as I rub his toned back clean of any dead skin-cells and blood remains.

"But look how much stuff is coming off!" I say gleefully, enjoying this a little too much.

Kuroo, seated on the built-in bench in the open shower with his red boxers on, looks back to see the satisfaction dripping from my features.

"Are you secretly a sadist?" he whispers. In response, I begin to rinse off his raw back with hot water, causing him to screech like a cat.

"It burns, it burns-”

“Shut the fuck up, moron! It's 4 in the morning, you’re going to annoy our neighbours. I tried very hard to get in their good graces, and Mrs. Suzuki still doesn’t like me! She definitely thinks I’m some kind of hooker…” Kuroo laughs at this, and I can’t help but watch as his whole face brightens up from his usual emotionless expression. I find myself smiling in response.

I grab his expensive shampoo and pour some into my hands, beginning to massage it into his scalp. With wet hair, his raven strands are for once flat on his head and reach down to his defined jawline. Kuroo groans under my touch, leaning into my fingers. I snatch my hands back and pour hot water over his head.

"ARGH! Y/N!" He screams, hastily getting up and wetting me in the process.

"Ah- what are you-" I don't get to finish my question as he grabs my arm and yanks me next to him under the hot water, soaking my clothes and my hair.

"You asshole!" I screech as I reach up to pull his hair in defiance, but he only grabs my arm and hooks it around his neck, leaning down to look directly into my eyes.

Our noses brushing against one another, he mutters, "You look pretty with your hair wet and your shirt see through."

It takes me a moment to get past the compliment and to hear the perverted comment that he just uttered.

He sees my look of confusion and laughs, bends over, clutches his stomach and laughs, before bellowing in pain because of his injury.

Smiling smugly down at him as he grimaces, I force him to sit back down and continue massaging the shampoo into his hair, warning him that if he so much as moaned I would leave him in here, dripping wet and in pain.

"That's what he said," is his reply.

I smack his head in response.

Notes, interactions and reblogs are highly appreciated <3

[platypanthewriter]

The Devil Looks After His Own Ch.4

Chapters One | Two | Three

Little Steve Harrington is so lonely he tries summoning a demon with a ritual advertised on TV–but luckily, it doesn’t work, and a  buff, non-human nanny hired by his mom shows up minutes later.  Years  later, they’re best friends, and Steve still doesn’t know the truth.   For @magniloquent-raven​!

Since Steve’s mom and dad had basically stopped doing anything around the house, Steve helped Billy with things like scrubbing the bathroom, and doing laundry, and vacuuming. They listened to music very loud if Steve’s dad wasn’t working, and if he was, they played charades with each other as they worked. That meant Steve sometimes got the parmesan cheese when he wanted the Ajax cleanser, and Billy got Steve yelling and climbing up the furniture, looking for a huge cockroach rat hybrid, when all he wanted Steve to do was move so he could pick up the rug, but it was pretty funny.

“They are paying you, right,” Steve asked one day, as he and Billy laid on the floor of his room, exhausted from scrubbing the entire kitchen after Billy accidentally boiled a pan of chili over the whole stove and proceeded to drop it on the kitchen floor. Steve’s stomach growled—it’d actually smelled pretty good, for something Billy cooked, and he rolled to bury his face in Billy’s shoulder, groaning.

“...I don’t have a lot of use for money,” Billy said thoughtfully. “They’re giving me some, though, yeah.”

“Let’s order pizza,” Steve moaned, stretching. “I mean, if—can you get the money? Do you know how?”

“I have a bank account,” Billy muttered, but from the red his ears had turned, Steve suspected it hadn’t been that easy, at first.

“...do you have a card?” Steve asked, holding his fingers up in a rectangle, and Billy rolled onto his side to tickle him.

“Yes, you little jerk, I have a debit card, and I can get us pizza,” he told Steve, as he giggled and kicked the air.

“You should use it to do things you want,” Steve told him, relaxing into the hug, once he smacked Billy enough times that the tickling stopped. “Buy—things. Things you want. Or—or go somewhere.”

“Where would I wanna go without you?” Billy asked him, laughing, and Steve’s face heated.

He snaked his arms around more of Billy, and squeezed him, sighing contentedly. “...we could go together,” he mumbled. “To—to the, um, like, the water park. Or somewhere. They have slides.”

“Oooo,” Billy said, but it felt like he was laughing.

“They’re really cool,” Steve huffed, and Billy noogied his head.

“What about, like...Disneyland,” he whispered, and Steve’s heart thudded in his chest. “Or like...Hawaii? Is that a thing kids like? Go snorkeling?”

“Holy shit,” Steve muttered, because it seemed like the situation deserved a swear. “C-can you pay for that?! That’s—that’s a plane ticket, Billy—”

“Two of them,” Billy said, and Steve nodded, his heart pounding with excitement, because vacations would be completely different with Billy—Billy wouldn’t leave Steve in the hotel room all day, or expect him to just sit on a bench for hours at the mall.

“I-if you, um, if you want,” he squeaked, and Billy rolled on top of him, squishing him, and being annoying, and saying things like ‘Oh no, gross, did I roll onto a bug?’ “Get off!” Steve yelled, kicking and laughing.

“Too tired,” Billy groaned. “I’m just gonna lay here on this gross bug.”

“I’m not a bug!” Steve yelled back, cackling helplessly, until Billy finally took mercy, scooped him up, and let Steve order pizza with anything he wanted.

It turned out kinda gross, actually, because Steve had ordered everything he hadn’t tried before, but they picked off the fruit and the weird fish.  The fried eggs and sunflower seeds were actually pretty good.

“I didn’t know you were such a good cook,” Billy told him, and Steve kicked his leg, snorting a laugh, as Billy flipped through channels.

He paused on a news show, the news person holding the microphone out to a being that was mostly fire and horns. “What do you think of this talk of requiring a license from both sides to summon demons?”

“It’s ridiculous,” said the guttural voice in flames, and Billy shivered, his face weirdly blank, like he got at the beginning, when Steve ordered him around. “Expecting my people to agree not to tear anyone’s face off, or steal their soul, when they’ve been summoned and enslaved for millenia? Don’t make me laugh.”

Steve slid his hand into Billy’s as the news person interrupted. “Well, it’s supposed to end that—”

“My own son has been missing for nearly a year,” said the harsh voice, and Billy trembled again, lowering his slice of pizza to the plate. “Are you suggesting I report the summoner to the authorities, instead of punishing them for my son’s captivity myself? How would a slap on the wrist help us more?”

“...fuck,” Billy whispered, rubbing his face, and Steve squeezed his hand.

“It stands to reason that if there was oversight on who could summon demons—” the news person persisted, but the fire demon slammed a flaming appendage against the table, and ey jerked back.

“I will burn them from the bones out until their skin cracks off in lumps of char,” said the demon, “—and then I will reclaim my son,” and then the TV clicked off, and Billy was sweating and shaking, tears welling up in his eyes.

Steve dropped his pizza on his plate, sat it aside, and stood up to hug Billy, petting his hair like he was the neighbor’s cat as Billy laughed and shuddered against him. “Billy,” Steve whispered. “Are you a demon?”

“You think I’m like him?” Billy gasped out, his fists tight in Steve’s shirt. “You see him and you—you’re like—that’s Billy,” he choked off, crying, and Steve petted his hair some more, biting his lips, and trying to figure it out.

Before Billy, he’d never thought of teenagers as being just another kind of kid—they’d always seemed basically like grownups—but he was wondering more and more whether teenagers were just children who could drive. Steve wasn’t sure how he felt about that idea, it sounded kind of...bad.

“Do—did you used to summon demons,” he asked, cautiously. “Is—is that why you—is that why you’re magic—is—is—do you know a demon,” he tried, wondering what could have made Billy cry.

“Doesn’t matter,” Billy mumbled, and Steve raised his eyebrows.

“It matters,” he said, but then he felt Billy start to pull away, and hugged him tighter. “But, um. You—you don’t have to...tell me. Okay?”

“...are you serious,” Billy whispered, and Steve nodded, running his fingers through Billy’s curls. Billy sighed, squeezing him back.

“If, um, if you don’t...want to talk about it,” Steve told him, “—um, you—you don’t have to...tell me.”

“...sorry,” Billy sighed. He sounded exhausted. “I just...it’s, um. It’s sort of...safer. If you don’t know.”

“Okay,” Steve told him, wondering. Billy was right, he thought—even if he did have horns, the Billy that swung him around in the air, played LEGO, and bought him weird pizza was nothing like the fire demon that had threatened the news person, which he thought he should probably tell Billy. “You’re not like that,” he said quickly. “He was scary. He wanted to be scary. He wanted to hurt somebody. He...I know you’re not like that. I didn’t—I didn’t mean you were like that.”

Billy nodded, sighing. “I don’t want to be like that.”

“Who would,” Steve wondered, making a face. “What a jerk.”

“...yeah,” Billy said, laughing softly.

“Do you...know him...somehow?” Steve couldn’t help asking. “Is—is that why you yelled at me about demons? When you first came?”

“Demons are dangerous,” Billy bit out, “—and they will kill you. Don’t you fucking dare try that summoning shit again—”

“I wasn’t going to,” Steve said, shaking his head, and trying not to smile, because Billy’d turned to glower at him, wiping his eyes. “I mean it, I won’t—”

“You better not,” Billy growled, his mouth quirking as he slid his hand along the back of the couch to tickle Steve’s side, and Steve yelped.

“I won’t! I won’t, I promise, I won’t!” he yelled, squawking and giggling, and Billy yanked him in close for a hug.

“You’ll get eaten,” Billy said quietly, frowning like he was still worried, and Steve flicked his earring.

“I won’t do it,” he said again. “I won’t. I promise.”

“...okay,” Billy sighed, resting his face against Steve’s hair.

It started to get hot and uncomfortable in Billy’s arms—he was squeezing really tight, and they were both sweaty from cleaning, and Steve was hungry— but he waited, petting Billy’s hair until he let go on his own.

“I promise not to kidnap anyone and get eaten,” Steve muttered into Billy’s curls, sighing, and Billy started snickering, and blew a raspberry on his neck with a loud farty noise. Steve’s dad stomped out of his office and yelled at them to be quiet, and they snuck the pizza into Steve’s room, and had a picnic on the floor.

A couple weeks later, Steve and Billy were leaving the LEGO store at the mall—Steve with his head stuffed with ideas and his hands on the Jungle Raider vehicle he’d finally picked up for his Ninjago set, Billy with the new bonsai tree set, because he and Steve had decided to add it to his house—when they heard screams. Steve was still looking at the cover of the box when he registered Billy shoving him behind Billy’s back, and a woman ran by yelling “Run, get out of here, there’s a man with a gun!”

Steve froze, clutching his Ninjago set, and Billy scooped him up, and frowned back atinto the LEGO store, and then down the corridor of the mall. More people were running by, and some of them were making phone calls, which was good, Steve thought dazedly. He should have thought of that, calling 911, like in a movie.

“Kiddo,” Billy said softly, “—those sets you gave me. They really mine?”

“There’s a man with a gun,” Steve said shakily. “Billy.”

“Yeah,” Billy said, sitting him back down. “And I don’t know where he is, or what’s going on, but if you—” he bit his lip, thinking.

“Billy, can you help?” Steve hissed, wide-eyed. “Don’t get hurt—”

“Pick a set to really never play with again,” Billy said, glancing back into the mall. “You have to—to throw it away, or break it, so nobody can use it again. Can you do that?”

“I can’t break it from here,” Steve whimpered, starting to panic. “I can’t—this one’s too small and dumb, isn’t it, it was only ten dollars—” he held up the Jungle Raider vehicle, his eyes blurring with tears.

“That would work,” Billy said. “You’ve never even gotten to play with it. You can’t just buy it again, though.”

“O-okay,” Steve said, nodding. He lowered it slowly towards the ground, and then jumped and dropped it as they heard a gunshot. He stomped on it a few times. There was a crunch, he flinched, and Billy yanked him into a quick hug, kissing his cheek, and then went all... pretty.

He grew, it seemed like, even from the tall horned man he’d been when he’d come to work naked that first day, and he had muscles everywhere, and Steve tried not to giggle nervously, because Billy was naked again, and Steve could see everything.

“Go hide behind the counter, or in the back, as far back and low as you can get,” Billy told him, and Steve nodded, grabbing Billy’s hands.

“Don’t get hurt, Billy,” he whispered, trying to let go, but he’d started to cry, and he couldn’t make his fingers let go of Billy’s.

Billy yanked free to squeeze him close, but they heard another scream, and Steve pushed him away and ran into the store, trying to cry quietly. He found the nice counter person hiding behind the counter, and yanked them into the back like Billy had said, then crouched with his arms over his head like in an earthquake because he didn’t know what else to do.

The counter person had a glittery they/them pin that caught the light from the front of the store as they panted, staring over his shoulder, and Steve watched it, remembering how genius he’d thought it was back when they first started working. One of the centaur twins in his class used ey/em like their art teacher did, but the other one used fae/faer, and they were identical palominos—and Steve had been so grateful when one of them started painting faer hooves and he could get it right.

He hoped he got to see them again. He hoped Billy got to see them again, and started to cry harder, thinking about Billy dead somewhere, full of bullets. The counter person yelped as Steve started to crawl away, asking him where he was going, but Steve couldn’t help it, he scrambled out of the store, and hid under a bench in the corridor, listening.

There were a bunch of gunshots, at least five, and Steve shuddered, covering his mouth so he didn’t make a noise, but then everything went quiet. He waited, tears dripping down his cheeks, until Billy stumbled back around the corner of the corridor, leaning heavily against the wall.

There was blood, smoking as it dripped over his jewelry. Steve scrambled out with a yell and ran to him, gathering him into a hug as Billy slid down the wall to curl up with his head in Steve’s lap. “I-I’ll call 911,” Steve sobbed, wiping his tears away to try and see, and Billy shushed him.

“S’fine,” he mumbled. “S’okay, mmm...m’fixin’ it. Need...need you…”

“What,” Steve asked him, petting his flamey hair, and patting his horns nervously.

“Talk to me,” Billy breathed, with a noise like he had snot or tears in his throat, and Steve realized it was probably blood, the blood soaking into his jeans from Billy’s chest.

Steve bit his lips together to keep from making a noise as his lungs jerked with sobs. “Y-you’re gonna be okay,” he whined unconvincingly, then yelped as he realized Billy was smoking a little all over, and he felt a little smoky, too soft under Steve’s fingers on his shoulder, and not nearly heavy enough leaning against him.

“Tell me about the picture, that first night,” Billy whispered. “How’d it go. Dis-distract me.” He reached out and ran his finger through his blood on the floor, drawing some of a circle, and Steve pulled Billy’s hand back.

“Don’t move,” Billy growled, pretty certain that made things worse. He drew what he could remember—the castle, and the horse—trying not to think about the sticky chill of Billy’s blood on his fingers. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and kept drawing, as Billy asked questions like ‘Wasn’t it in a circle?’ and ‘I thought there were symbols or something.’ Steve would have stopped, but it sounded like it was helping, as Billy got heavier.

His voice sounded stronger. “...what are you drawing?” he asked, sounding like he wanted to laugh, and Steve felt a strong temptation to do something annoying, like lick his ear.

“I don’t remember the symbols!” Steve hissed, guiltily, trying not to sob. “Hearts are good,” he sniffled. “I-it’s the Eu-Eurovision logo! And I love you.”

“...yeah,” Billy whispered, staring at the picture, as Steve added some clouds, trying not to think about how much of Billy’s blood there was on the ground to draw with. “...save me with the Eurovision logo, kiddo.”

Steve sniffled hard, wiping his nose again, and used his clean hand to stroke Billy’s hair at the base of his horns.

“Tell me why you drew that,” Billy whispered, and Steve hugged him, trying not to get snot in his pretty hair. “The—the first time. That first night.”

Steve could hear sirens. “W-wanted a friend,” he whispered, his lungs juddering so he kind of gasped it.

“Wanted me?” Billy asked, whispering, and Steve nodded, hugging him tighter, and drew another circle around the one Billy had started, and wrote some stuff in there, ‘I’ and a heart and ‘Billy’, and Billy snorted a laugh, relaxing into him. He felt more solid, less like Steve’s fingers were going to press through him, and Steve dropped a kiss on his shoulder, his tears coming even faster in relief. Billy’s wound was smoking still, but he pushed himself upright—as Steve waved his hands in panic—and took a deep, slow breath, and shrank a little back into grown-up nanny Billy, in a t-shirt and jeans, still clutching at his stomach. The blood on the ground was smoking away. Billy took another slow breath, closing his eyes, and the blood on his shirt smoked away too.

Steve reached over—gently—and tugged Billy’s shirt up to see smooth unbroken skin, and wondered whether it was real. “Is—is it gone? Or are you hiding it?” he asked, around the lump in his throat, and Billy leaned in to kiss his head.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, as the sounds of shouting got closer.

“How did you get hurt,” Steve asked, rubbing his eyes again as they spilled over. “You’re magic, how—how did you get hurt, Billy, you—you promised—”

“I didn’t promise I’d never get hurt,” Billy laughed, and Steve punched his shoulder, and Billy grunted, wincing.

Steve scrambled closer, patting at him more gently. “It’s still there,” he realized, crying harder. “You’re still hurt, Billy, you’re hurt— we have to go to the hospital—”

“No, no, kiddo,” Billy laughed, gritting his teeth. “I’ll be okay. I’m just...hungry.”

“How did you get hurt,” Steve breathed again, his brain stuck on the memory of blood on the floor, and on his fingers. He clenched them, clean now, but he could still feel the stickiness.

“Well, he was human,” Billy said slowly, trying to push himself to his feet, “—and I’m not, so I was trying not to hurt him.”

“He had a gun,” Steve squeaked, stumbling to his feet to try and help Billy heave himself to his feet. “He had a gun, Billy—”

“But he’s human,” Billy said softly, glancing up with the smile he put on when he didn’t want to smile. “Like you. I can’t go around hurting humans.”

“You can if they have a gun,” Steve growled, steadying Billy as he stood, finally, staggering.

“Naaah,” Billy said, hugging his head. “You might stop and think twice about being my friend, seeing me do something like that.”

“I would not,” Steve insisted, huffing. “Not if they’re shooting at you—”

As they walked out, around the EMTs and a man in cuffs, screaming about demons, Billy flinched. Steve turned on his heel to go yell, because Billy was nice, and pretty, and he’d gotten shot, but Billy grabbed him up around the waist and kept walking, telling everyone that stopped him that they hadn’t seen anything, and they were fine.

“I hope they put him in jail forever,” Steve muttered, squirming to get down, because he was starting to get why parents got mad when they were worried. He wanted to shake Billy for not understanding he was important. Steve couldn’t stop snapping at him, either, even when he tried to be nice, stopping for a milkshake on the way home—Billy asked what kind Steve wanted, and tried to suggest vanilla when Steve paused, and then Steve went and said strawberry, just to prove him wrong, and he didn’t even like strawberry. Billy’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he drove, and Steve tried not to cry over his gross strawberry milkshake, and the remembered feeling of Billy’s blood dripping between his fingers and soaking into his jeans.

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to keep quiet about this, okay?” Billy told him, and Steve laughed, wetly, because it wasn’t like he could tell anyone anyway. Steve’s parents would have questions if Steve told them Billy had been naked.

“I won’t tell,” Steve said thickly, and Billy grinned at him, like everything was fine.

It was weird, being really, really mad at Billy. Steve wasn’t used to being so angry at somebody he loved, and it spilled out, everywhere, at his parents, his teacher, at his friends—and particularly at Billy, who glared in confusion as Steve stomped past when he offered a hug, or ignored Billy saving him a seat in the cafeteria, or refused to eat the awful food Billy cooked for dinner.

It was worse that he couldn’t even tell anyone—there was nobody he trusted enough, except Billy. It seemed so obvious, now, that Billy could be hurt— everyone could, Steve told himself, and it had been stupid to think Billy couldn’t be hurt just because he could do magic.

He wanted to scream because Billy would hurt himself to save Steve, or that he almost died, and acted like that was normal, and he yelled into his pillow until he cried.

“Don’t be pissed,” Billy hissed, yanking Steve around the back of the gym during recess, after Steve had picked Tommy first for his soccer team. “You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” Steve muttered, his eyes stinging, because being angry all the time made him want to cry all the time, which made him angrier.

“You are fine,” Billy whispered, sighing, like Steve was being a brat.

Steve figured he probably was being a brat, if Billy thought so, and kind of wished he could just say thank you, but it stuck in his throat, and he shoved Billy away.

“I protected you, you’re fine, I’ll always protect you,” Billy groaned, like Steve was stupid, and Steve pushed him again.

“What about you,” he yelled back, too loud, and started to cry again. The shouting of three classes at recess pretty much drowned him out, but it was still embarrassing. “Y-you keep saying I’m fine, what about you?!”

“I’m fine too,” Billy told him, rolling his eyes. “I healed, I’m okay, Stevie.”

“Don’t call me Stevie,” Steve said, and Billy blinked, probably because Steve had always kind of liked having nicknames, just like normal kids.

“...Steve,” Billy corrected, watching his face, and Steve realized he’d given Billy an order, and felt worse.

“Y-you keep saying it’s fine and it’s not fine,” Steve shouted at him, and Billy frowned harder. “It’s not fine if you get hurt,” Steve tried to yell, but his throat closed, and he kind of choked it out.

“It’s okay if I’m helping you,” Billy said, smiling like Steve was being funny, and Steve wanted to hit him.

“No,” he rasped out, and Billy cocked his head. “If,” Steve started, not sure how he was going to finish, “—i-if—if you keep saying—if you keep saying you don’t matter,” he forced out, swallowing hard, “—I—I’ll—”

“You’ll what,” Billy laughed, raising his eyebrows, and Steve set his jaw.

“I’ll believe you,” he threatened, lying, and Billy went still. “I—I’ll believe you. That you don’t matter. L-losing you doesn’t matter. M-my best friend doesn’t matter. If I—” he sniffled hard, wiping his face, “—if I don’t like you anymore, it won’t be so scary—”

“No,” Billy interrupted, wide-eyed, grabbing Steve’s arm. “No, no, no— Steve —”

“It’s fine if s-some—if something...happens to you! R-right?!” Steve insisted, crying too hard to pretend he wasn’t, and pushing Billy, who staggered back. “If you’re just gonna die I—” he cut off as his lungs seized at the idea of Billy dead, Billy in a pool of blood, still on the floor, Billy gone. “I-if you’re gonna die,” he started again, miserably, “I don’t wanna be your friend, I—I can’t—”

“Fucking hell,” Billy muttered, his hands twitching towards Steve, and then flinching back. “I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry, please—please don’t—”

“Wh-what if you die and it’s my fault,” Steve moaned, hiccuping sobs, and trying to wipe his face, and Billy stepped in close again, grimacing uncertainly, wiping Steve’s face with his sleeves. He smelled like smoke, a little, like he did when something scary was happening, and the laundry detergent from when Steve helped him out at the laundromat, and Billy had chased him around and tickled him on one of the dryers. “What if you’re gone,” Steve wailed.

“No, no, no, c’mon, no, no—” Billy muttered, pulling him into a hug. Steve tried to pull away again, but Billy held on, warm and strong, and Steve finally just bawled into his shoulder, sobbing so loud everybody came to look, two different teachers, and all three of the classes at recess. Steve buried his face in Billy’s shoulder, and Billy hugged his whole head as Steve’s new favorite teacher squeezed both their shoulders, and whispered that she was glad they’d made up, and then ushered everyone away, even Tommy, who looked torn between triumph and worry.

“I’m s-still mad at y-you,” Steve told Billy, gulping for air. “I-I’m so mad at you—I—I’m so mad—” he wheezed out, his breath gone from crying, and Billy squeezed him tighter.

“Sssh, ssh, ssh, I’m sorry, I was wrong, I was wrong,” he whispered, and Steve relaxed, a tiny bit, wondering if Billy got it, finally.

“You c-can’t do that again,” Steve told him, feeling a sick guilt for ordering Billy around, but pushing on, because it had to be okay to not let Billy get shot.

“I don’t think there’s probably gonna be that many shooters at the mall, kiddo,” Billy whispered back, laughing, and Steve stomped on his foot.

“You have to promise,” he hissed, and Billy laughed again, but when Steve shoved away to glare at him, Billy was crying too, his eyes red and wet. “...you promise?” Steve asked, softening a little, and reaching up to wipe Billy’s tears off his round, freckled cheeks. Billy nodded, smirking a little, and Steve frowned. “You can’t just—get hurt. Not for me.”

“Because I’m so important,” Billy said, his smile widening a little as his eyes spilled over again. “And you’d be super sad.”

“Yeah,” Steve told him, narrowing his eyes, because he wasn’t sure Billy was really getting it, yet. “I’d probably cry for— forever.”

Billy made a weird noise in his throat as he laughed, leaning in and kissing Steve on his cheek, and his ear, clumsily, and squeezing him tight again until his fingers hurt against Steve’s arms and sides, but Steve didn’t care, because he was hugging back just as hard. “I—I’ll be more...careful,” Billy mumbled, sniffling. “Since I’m...important. So you don’t have to get so scared.” He took a shaky breath, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder. “...just...because of me.”

“You’re the most important person I know,” Steve told him, his breath going shaky again. “Just—just you, you have to—you have to be okay—”

“I gotta make sure I’m okay so you’re okay,” Billy whispered, nodding a little, and Steve groaned, but it was close enough, he figured, so he sighed a ‘yeah’. “Because I’m important,” Billy said, laughing a little, like he didn’t believe it, and Steve growled into his neck.

“I’m not lying,” Steve growled.

“No, no, yeah, I know,” Billy told him, giggling, and Steve pulled back to stare at him. He was laughing and crying, pink-cheeked. “I-I know. I’m—I’m important.”

[chunhua-s]

Tendou in an enemies to lovers situation 🥺

wew chile, eye— this was longer than i originally planned and that’s due in part to me switching from writing on mobile and my bad word vomit tendencies said ✨start the cameras✨ i originally had a bit of trouble coming up with the solid plot itself while i was losing myself on concepts (nothing new :D just my regular clown shit y’know?) and my sweet goddess @bootylikepeachy was there to tickle my braincells with this “got paired together with your enemy for a class assignment” idea!! bb thank you for brainrotting with me on this, honestly 🥺💖 i dunno if i could have made a final decision if it weren’t for you and your sexy ass brain. i decided leave the ending a bit open?? one to prevent myself from going over 5k words (cause wow, i really hit the slow burn on this one) and two because i kinda like the ambiguity of their relationship after the reader comes to her turning point. since it’s an enemies to lovers type of scenario, i figured it would be better to let things kind of trickle off instead of having it all happen on the same day?? or so it doesn’t feel too rushed or force and i really hope i was successful in doing it justice. i hope you guys will have as much fun reading this as i did writing it!! let me know your thoughts, okay? and as always, thank you for reading!!

SUNSET AND MIDNIGNT ➽ SATORI TENDOU x READER

genre: fluff, slowburn

au: enemies to lovers

warnings: uhhh slowburn? word vomit, ramblings..... that’s about it

tendou is the fall from an ocean cliff. he’s the feeling of the wind sweeping past your body, of your breath disappearing from your lungs and vanishing on the whisps of a blue sky. he’s the dread that wraps around your heart like a vine, the heavy rock that drags you closer and closer to a dive you can’t remember taking. and you, with your heart racing against your ribs so hard that it scars itself with blue and purple bruises, you’re terrified. you’re terrified of heights, of blue waters that run to the deepest parts of the earth and what they don’t show to you. you’re afraid of the heat that comes from a blazing fire and the embers that fly from it on red hazes. it’s the fear of that unpredictability that keeps you away, the fear of being burned and left for dead that leaves you feeling as if you’re walking on egg shells around him.

to you, he’s a variable that you can’t ever be prepared for. a step added to a dance you’d already learned by heart, he messes up your rhythm and throws off your tempo until the melody becomes something you can’t recognize anymore. he leaves you guessing about what comes next — it’s like a game of roulette that he’d dragged you into by a thin chord, wrapped so tightly around your throat that it makes it hard for you to breathe. you hate the feeling of it, hate the way he so easily turned your world on its head and cast the familiarity of monochrome into a scenery of blinding colour. 

you’re pouting, a frown etched across your lips as you methodically stir over your pot, head cocked to the side and one hand resting akimbo on your hip. it’d been well over 30 minutes since you’d started boiling the ingredients over a low flame, and you were beginning to tire from stirring constantly; your arm ached and your shoulders were beginning to feel stiff as you tried rolling them to relieve some of the tension. frustration makes a loud groan slip from your lips as you throw your head back. normally, you’d consider yourself a patient person, yet that very same patience was beginning to run as thin as the liquid that should have been thickening by now. you couldn’t understand why it was taking so long, however. you’d done everything by the book! mixed each ingredient in the order that it’d said to, set the flame on the right level, measured everything correctly, so what was wrong?

you hear a snort come from somewhere behind you, but you don’t turn yourself to look at the red-headed male who sits comfortably atop the other side of your counter, well intent to ignoring him. you had neither the time nor the energy to entertain him right now, but your companion didn’t seem to understand that from the cold shoulder you’d been giving him ever since you two began working on your project together.

“you know you don’t have to keep stirring it, right?” tendou hums between bites of chocolate that slightly muffle his words. you don’t see the way his eyes close and his smile widens on delight for the sweet flavour that melts on his tongue. “you can leave it for about a minute before you have to check up on it again.”

you stubbornly roll your eyes, a huff coming from under your breath that disturbs the strand of hair dangling in front of your face. “that’s not what the book says.” your voice comes out evenly, though there’s nothing you do to cut the edge from your tone as you sigh immediately after. the frown on your lips only deepens with the next few seconds that pass you by.

“and that book was released in 2015.”

it’s invasive in its arrival, the question of why that spits on bitterness and undiluted anger. why were you so unlucky to have been paired up with the one person you couldn’t bear to be around? he was everything that dug under your skin, the symbol of chaos in a place where you’d rather solace and routine. he stands on the opposite end of the colour spectrum; where your life molds with deep purples and blues of a dark midnight, he’s the flaming oranges and reds of a burning sunset. your worlds meet on a collision, a burst of light that would consume entire dimensions and leave nothing but bones and ashes in its wake. 

there’s a pettiness in your hatred for him, a one-sided scorn that bears its fangs on dark poisons that trip like ink. it tells its tale of irrationality in your law of reason, and, you consider, perhaps that was why you hated tendou. perhaps it was the way his voice could so easily insight the burning taste of anger and annoyance on the back of your tongue, where it forms on a large ball that stops inside your throat and makes it hard to breathe without feeling as if you would implode. it’s something you can’t understand, but you despise the feeling it leaves you with when your eyes meet his.

hot, as if you’d been cast into the open arms of hell. 

“well,” you force behind gritted teeth, hearing the noise of them grinding in the back of your head. “i’m gonna stick to what the book says until it gets revised.” 

there’s absolutely no reason for you to be so insistent on something that’s clearly not working, you know that. you’re sure tendou is thinking the same, if the long, drawn out sigh he lets out is anything to go by. it isn’t difficult to imagine his expression, lips pursed together, brows furrowed as his narrowed eyes burn holes into your skin. you’re not sure what exactly is pushing you to be so stubborn, but you blindly let it control your thoughts; you run on impulse and immature decisions that have no place in your life. 

a silence blends with the sounds of your bubbling pot when he doesn’t respond, insighting an urge to glance around and see why he’d suddenly stopped talking that you force away from your mind. the quiet would give you some semblance of peace, you consider decisively: if he’s decided he would no longer disturb you with pointless musings, then what reason would you have to complain?

there’s a touch on your shoulder that causes your heart to latch inside your throat and rushes on uneven beats of a two-second fright that has you freezing on yourself. on instinct, your body turns to meet red eyes and a bemused grin as tendou’s fingers wrap around your wrist, catching the hand that held the mixing spatula you’d been using in your pot. “relax, will you?” he murmurs, a chuckle on his breath — the taste of his mint breath clouds your mind like a ghostly fragrance — as he pries the instrument from between your clenched fist. with narrowed eyes and your guard put up on a weak barrier, you watch closely as he gently sets the spatula against the counter before he finally releases your arm; it falls lifelessly to your side while the feeling of being burned slowly spreads across your skin. “just trust me on this.” 

there’s a hidden promise on his voice, a teasing grin that pulls at his lips and leaves your curiosity ignited on hesitance and uncertainty. you glance at your still bubbling pot, though your gaze isn’t allowed to linger for long as tendou shoves his face into your line of sight with a light chime of “ah-ah-ah.” it was as if he was scolding a child, the thought quickly comes and goes before you can dwell on it — there’s not much chance for you to think about it when tendou’s steering you to your island counter by your shoulders. “sit down for a sec, alright?”

a scowl forms on your lips as he shoves you down into a seat, and you open your mouth to protest when you’re suddenly pacified by the sweet taste on your tongue. slowly, you begin chewing, letting the confusion you feel be washed away by the quickly melting chocolate that fills you with a sense of appreciation. 

“better?”

it’s reluctant, but you give the red haired boy a nod and a small smile, all which he returns with his familiar grin. “i set a timer for one minute,” he informs you, lifting his phone screen to show the seconds counting down from 50. his actions are carefree and relaxed, with his arm resting on the edge of the chair and one of his legs folded beneath him, red hair tousled and flopping over his forehead just like he wears it on campus. he’s attractive, you won’t deny, though you wouldn’t let yourself ever say it out loud. helplessly, you sigh, your shoulders dropping to release the tension from standing for so long and you lift a hand to sheepishly run over your neck as you avoid his gaze.

“fine…”

tendou’s smile widens as soon as you relent, a pleased hum leaves him as he further leans back into the chair. “so,” he begins on a cheerful tone, and your eyes curiously watch him as he opens conversation. “what’re your plans after you finish the course?”

a short moment passes you by where you glance away from him, eyes drifting to the pot on your worry. was it really okay to leave it alone? “uh,” you mutter out on your distracted tone before you center yourself. you take a deep breath and let it out on a soft puff that has your cheeks pushing out slightly before you give your answer. “i wanna open up a coffeeshop.” 

“oh?” when you meet tendou’s gaze, there’s a spark of interest in them, a sheen of gold that lights vermillion red on the afternoon sun. it causes you to become self-conscious suddenly, your hands tangle together in your lap as you avert your eyes almost as quickly as they’d met his. 

“yeah,” you affirm softly. “i’ve always thought that it’d be nice, you know? and i’d be able to relax in a place like that.” 

another hum comes from the man next to you, a low sound that dwells on pondering as he takes in your response. “you do seem like the kind of person who would work in a coffeeshop.” he muses, and his word leaves your mind on pause as the alarm goes off, the soft ringing of a song you don’t know disrupting your thoughts and prompting you to stand up. however, there’s a hand on your shoulder that hurriedly pushes you down before you’re at your full height. “no,no—” tendou urges you, “i’ll do it, you just sit there and rest.” 

you’re not given the chance to argue as he breezily saunters over to your stove, reaching for the spatula while humming that same song from his alarm. it’s not one you’ve heard before, and it’s another thing that leaves you curious as you watch him stir over the bubbling liquid. you notice the way he holds his hand at a weird angle that leaves his elbow jutting out, the way his tall frame has to hunch as if to see the contents better. doesn’t he wear glasses? you’re lost on the thought as you try and recall whether or not you’d seen him wear a pair before. when he turns back to you, his smile is wide and triumphant, a show of all teeth as he moves himself to the side and just barely tilts the pot with his free hand. “would’ja look at that?” he sings, a telling smugness to his tone as he looks at you. you have to lean over the island counter to see the white liquid has thickened considerably more than when you’d been stirring it. “told you to just let it sit for a while and it’d do it’s own thing!”

unable to help the smile that spreads across your lips, you huff and wave a hand across your face in dismissal, harmlessly rolling your eyes at him. “alright, no need to rub it in now,” you chide as he replaces the pot and skips over to your side, large steps that have him swinging his arms back and forth like an excited child. there’s no hiding the glee in his expression when he sits down again and immediately turns to face you, as if he was waiting for you to admit something. and maybe that’s what he was waiting for, but you’re still stubborn when it comes to him, so you only turn your eyes away from him and cross your arms with a false pout. “just set the timer again, will you?” you grumble, and you’re rewarded with laughter that rang as pure and innocent as the sound of trickling water. it leaves you stunned for a moment, echoes in your mind and finds a home inside your chest so that it plays back for you to hear. it’s a beautiful sound, you think; there’s a part of you that wants to hear more. it horrifies you. 

“what about you?” you shake your head as you lean your elbows on top of the counter top, eyes focused on your fingers wrapping around one another rather than to meet vermillion red. the cool feeling of the marble does very little to ease the warmth coursing beneath your skin. “what’re your plans after finishing the course?”

tendou’s laughter dies down like the wind comes to a pause, where the leaves stop rustling on an easy rest as he sighs long and full, his chest rising with the action as he leans backward ever so slightly. “i was thinking of making chocolate,” he tells, tilting his head and lending his gaze to the scenery outside your window. it gives you the courage to look back at him, at the sight of his figure bathed in sunlight where the gold bounces off his skin like a gem. with his expression set on pensive and his eyes bearing a wandering glint, he looks nearly ethereal inside your kitchen, a picture of immortality that you’ve never bothered to look at before now. he glows under a melting light, the picture of him robs you of air and leaves you gasping, desperate for your blood to start flowing the way it had before. 

it’s when his eyes find yours that you relearn how to breathe.

his gaze is half-lidded, touched by a visual of content that makes him look at peace, nearly drowsy as his hand supports the weight of his head. the smile on his lips is slight, the kind that quirks the corners of your lips and tells you a story of effortless charm. 

“is there any particular reason?” you hate that your voice comes out weak, that it breaks on it’s departure and tumbles out of your lips like white feathers flutter from the sky. the onslaught of emotion leaves you reeling, your center of gravity cast from your body and you struggle to find your footing over uneven ground, all while he watches you, red eyes picking you apart and leaving bear to him the parts of yourself you’ve never seen. a boyish smile settles over his lips as he turns his head to fully face you, leaning forward ever so slightly, but it’s enough so that you’re once again able to taste peppermint on his breath. it washes over your skin like an autumn wind, leaves a chill that reminds you of the first signs of snow on the throws of a mid-summer’s heat.

“not really,” he confesses with a shrug, carefree and unbothered while he leaves you as the perfect image of flustered. his voice is low, like a whisper. it’s hushed, and you’re able to hear something of a sigh on his words that leaves you to wonder about the way the sunlight reflects off of pools of red, how the golden hue makes them appear like the butterscotch candies you’d snack on between classes. “i just… like sweet things.”

“oh.” 

you’re reminded of the taste of caramel when you think of tendou. it comes as a surprise when you take the first bite into a chocolate bar, an unexpected drop of golden sweetness that makes you pause for, if only, just a second to properly let its flavour spread across your tongue. he’s the warmth of sunset that embraces your body, the feeling of the waves that brush against your toes, the sand that fills with water and wraps around your feet. you’re left on the shoreline to watch in awe as flames of orange and red dance on the ocean’s surface, where the blazes and embers of a passion unimaginable to your midnight moon leave traces of ethereal gold in its wake. 

there’s a sudden thought that invades your mind, slow like molasses and just as bittersweet; you want to sink beneath those burning waters, to let them cover you from head to toe and consume all that you are. until your heart learns his melody and your body falls to his tune.

there’s a part of you that yearns after satori tendou, and the realization if it scares you. 

you’re the first to look away when the timer sounds once more, your face burns and you purse your lips together while your hands tangle together on your lap. beside you, tendou arises wordlessly to saunter over to the pot, humming once more to the tune that continues to play from his phone. it doesn’t sound like a typical alarm, and it leaves you intrigued by it’s upbeat melody.  “what song is that?” you curse the way your voice breaks, clearing your throat and hoping that he didn’t pick up on it. why were you suddenly becoming such a mess? 

tendou answers you a bit distractedly while he tilts the pot from side to side, his head cocked in contemplation and his expression pensive. “it’s called circus,” he glances at you from over his shoulder and uses his free hand to gesture you forward before reaching for the pair of yellow, sunflower-themed muffins you left to sit close-by. “bring the chocolate for me, would’ja?” you meet him just as he’s moving your pot to sit on your counter, the plate of chopped up chocolate bits in your hand while he moves to the side to let you dump them into the mixture. “i found it on this playlist from youtube and i kinda got obsessed with it.” 

you take in his words over the light-hearted melody that plays from his phone, enjoying the sound of it before it cuts off and sets to snooze since tendou hadn’t turned it off. it leaves you wanting to hear more, and you wish it would have played on for a little bit longer as you set the plate to the side. “can i look it up?” you ask; the thought that it was silly to ask for his permission rings in your head before you can stop it, and you feel your face heating up when he looks up from mixing the chocolate to you, his eyes alight with amusement and his smile teasing. 

“go ahead,” he chuckles, giving his attention back to the pot after casually waving a hand in the air. “mind bringing me the setting tray?”

it doesn’t take you too long to open up the youtube app, your fingers typing in the name of the song before you pause and glance over to your partner. “is it the one by showmore?”

“yup!”

soon, the familiar intro bleeds into your kitchen space, filling up the absence of conversation between you and tendou as he bobs his head along to its sound. you’re left to lean against the counter, your hands folded beneath you while he pours out your chocolate mixture into the little cube shapes in the tray. what you feel is a comfort, a type of quiet happiness that calms your breath on the sound of drums and the piano that blends with the singer’s voice. “it sounds nice,” you mutter quietly, unable to help the way your head nods in time to the melody. 

tendou shoots you an excited smile. “it does, right?? i’ve been listening to it nonstop ever since i found it.” his enthusiasm draws a laugh from you, a grin stretches across your face as you watch him sway side to side. it’s an adorable picture of him dancing and smiling so brightly, and when he looks up at you with excitement in his eyes, you feel your heart skip a beat. 

“wanna dance?”

“huh?”

the question catches you off guard, leaves you to stare wide-eyed at his back as he pops the tray into the freezer before turning back to face you. his grin widens and becomes almost teasing when he sees your stunned expression. “c’mere!” he urges you with an eagerness, his hand waving you over.

“tendou, i—” you avert your gaze, feeling your skin warm up once more as you murmur your answer. “i can’t dance…” 

he makes his way over to you in a sequence of movements you can’t hope to describe — it’s almost like a prance, where his steps are exaggerated and his shoulders lift up in a kind of rocking motion while he’s snapping his fingers to the beat. “that’s fine!” he grins at you just as he reaches out for your hand, pulls you to your feet and coaxes you from behind your island counter. “i can’t either!” 

for a moment, you’re caught between amused and hopelessly confused while the man before you lifts your arms like wet spaghetti, letting him swing them between your bodies as if you were a puppet, and he the puppeteer. he’s beaming at you so widely that it’s almost ridiculous, but he seems so vivid and joyous while he maneuvers your limbs, and it causes broad laughter to bubble up from your chest as your body doubles over. it’s a pure, weightless type of laughter that leaves you, like the chiming of bells on the summer wind. it echoes over the music, and when tendou joins in with you, there arises between you both a new kind of song, whose story is found at the evening time when the world holds her breath. it’s a harmony that’s carefree, like the fall from an ocean cliff, like the breath that vanishes from your lungs and cries on laughter beneath the blue sky. it’s the feeling of your fears melting, and when your body finally plunges between those fireset waves, you’re wondering why you were scared in the first place. 

“that’s it!!” the excitement in tendou’s voice is infectious, his smile as bright as the sun itself when your fingers intertwine with his and your body finally moves on its own. here begins a dance between you two where he pulls you in closer, and when you pull away, your hands remain intertwined. an irresistible force that you can’t help being drawn to, that spins you around his fingers and wraps you in his arms, all while eyes of the sweetest sunset promise you gold on your midnight sky. the feeling inside your chest is warm, sets through your body like a quiet buzz and it leaves you wanting more, so that the yearning you feel would only ever be satisfied by him.

your hand in his feels like a slow burning flame, and as the both of you are laughing with a song you create with each other, you realize that you’re no longer afraid of its heat.

taglist: @aiiishiiiteru @bootylikepeachy @tsumue @waitforitillwritemywayout @mixxfi @shnnn

send an ask to be added or removed!! (also pls lemme know if i’m forgetting anyone? i think i got you all but just in case)

[banashee]

Part 2/2 of Tony setting the kitchen on fire for @hopelessly-me :D ♥

Enjoy ♥

...Honey, it’s still fucking frozen.

 One day, Clint finally caves.

 “Tony. You know I love you, but       please     - let me show you how to cook. I can’t take it anymore.” he tells him over ice cold dinner. The archer pokes a piece of meat with his fork to prove his point.

 Tony nods slowly, but he also says,

 “Last time it was burned. So now I cooked it for less time.”

 Clint blinks at him, knocking on his plate with the meat, which results in a solid noise.

 “...Honey, it’s still fucking frozen.”

 “...Okay, yeah.” Tony sighs, shoving the plate away from himself.

 “Sorry, I know the last few months of my cooking haven’t been pleasant. At least I didn’t burn the house down yet.” he adds, with a small smile to lighten the mood, but it is clear he is not happy with his results.

 “The alarm didn’t go off in a while, that’s progress, right?” Clint shoots back a lopsided smile, before he continues,

 “Honestly though, I don’t mean to be condescending because that’s probably how I sound, and I’m really sorry for that, but… I know you’re trying, and I know you don’t like help with things… In general, and I get that. But don’t you think that it would be better in the long run?”

 Their hands meet over the table, warm and solid as they squeeze and hold on, thumbs caressing each other. Clint and Tony have been home to one another for a long time now, and they know with a bone deep certainty that they can talk about things without making a personal vendetta of it, no matter how small or big the issue is. It’s just not how they work - what they have is easy going and it always has been.

 A casual friendship with benefits quickly turned into more, and after months of pining and awkwardness, they finally got a move on and figured out their feelings for each other. That talk had been halting and even more awkward than the weeks before, but it led to mutual three-word-sentences and a future full of happiness.

 Tony smiles, squeezing the other man’s hand as he asks,

 “So, you don’t mind having to show me basic shit like cooking eggs without burning them to a crisp?”

 “No, of course not. I love you and I love cooking - there really is no downside here if you ask me.”

 “Alright, then. Thanks, Babe.” Tony leans forward for a kiss, which Clint is all too happy to give him. The cold dinner on the table is almost forgotten in the next few minutes, but as it turns out, it is the perfect opportunity to start.

 “Okay, so, let’s put this back into the pan and crank the heat up. You want this to be warm and cooked through entirely. Then you - Tony… Please put down the salt shaker.”

 “I have salt and I am not afraid to use it!”

 “Yes I know, and that’s a problem! No, go away with that!” Laughing, the two of them tackle each other through the kitchen, until they end up pushed against the counter, foreheads touching and giggling like lovesick teenagers.

 “Will you give up on any harsh decisions regarding the salt?” Clint asks, in a mock-serious tone that is actually a pretty good impression of what Phil Coulson sounds like, and Tony grins at him, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

 “I      am     small and salty. Never.” he tries to snatch back the salt shaker, attempting to distract Clint with more makeout opportunities. He leans in, pulling Tony close with one arm and holding the salt shaker up over his head with the other - it’s a dick move, but it works. His boyfriends sputtering at the offensive act only makes Clint  laugh more, but they need to flip the meat in the pan before their dinner burns once again, so their bickering is interrupted.

 A little while later, their dinner is actually warm and not only edible, but really, really good at that. Tony is still surprised that they managed to save it, especially since there have been instances where this would have been simply impossible. But then again, he is lucky enough to have a partner who knows how to save messed up food, given there is a way left to salvage it in the first place.

 “What’s the worst that ever happened to you while cooking?” Tony casually asks another night, while he is chopping vegetables into accurate cubes - they’re making stir fry, and the task at hand is easy and repetitive enough to chat away. Besides, he is used to handiwork, so this is totally doable.

 Clint shoots him a knowing, amused look.

 “...I almost set my kitchen in the SHIELD bunk on fire. It was like three in the morning and I couldn’t sleep, so I wanted to make a dessert with flambé bananas. Well, let’s just say it didn’t go as planned and my neighbours fucking hated my guts for setting off the fire alarm in the middle of the night… That was about 15 years ago, and goddammit, some people      still    bring it up.”

 Tony laughs, loudly.

 “Well, thank fuck you know what you’re doing now - imagine the two of us being Fire Hazards together, the tower would have burned to the ground ages ago. Imagine SHIELD on our asses for it. Or worse, Cap.”

 Slowly, he shakes his head. No one wants to see Steve’s “I am very disappointed in you”-face if they can help it. To be fair, when it doesn’t come to cooking, and more like, battles or developing weapons, the two of them combined are still a fire hazard. But that’s different, really.

 Clint, however, stops chopping with his knife mid air, head crooked to the side as he gently lowers it onto the cutting board. Then, he asks, completely straight faced,

 “...Did I ever tell you that Fury has backup-plans, just in case the two of us should be going rogue?”

 Putting down his knife as well, Tony fixes his partner in a suspicious stare. Despite everything, this is news to him, and he is about 90% sure that at least on this occasion, Clint isn’t fucking with him. Also, this is totally something he’d expect Fury to do. The man is paranoid, and Tony definitely wouldn’t put such a thing past him.

 “Wait what? No, you didn’t. Spill.”

 With a laugh, Clint tells him,

 “Ever since Nat went undercover as your PA and it was clear that both of us would be part of the Avengers, Fury put protocols in place - covered a lot of hypothetical situations, actually, it was quite funny to read. I think the short version is he knows both of us and our, dare I say, slightly chaotic tendencies…”

 With a snort of laughter, Tony collapses against the counter. This is putting it lightly and they both know it, but he enjoys hearing the story.

 Clint continues,

 “Technically I’m not supposed to know that, but Tasha told me about it. She laughed for like, 10 minutes straight. Me, too, by the way.”

 “I bet - heh, sorry i can’t” it takes a bit for Tony to calm down enough to say,

 “I bet he put a lot more protocols in place ever since he got wind of us being an item. Honestly I’d love to see that list.”

 The corners of his mouth are still twitching, and he wipes amused tears out of his eyes as he keeps cackling away.

 “Oh hey, we should do a dramatic reading of that form!” he says then, and Clint is laughing too hard to answer, but he nods, vegetables forgotten on the counter for several minutes.

 He only barely manages to stop Lucky from stealing the chicken right off of the counter, which only makes him laugh harder as he tries to hold his dog back by the collar. Once again, Lucky looks like he is judging his humans - even his one remaining eye is pretty expressive.  

 Once they have calmed down a bit, they continue. Tony is about to put the vegetables into the frying pan, but Clint stops him.

 “Wait. Put in the onions and garlic first, let them get glassy and then add the rest of it in. One after the other. Hardest stuff first, softest last. That way you have everything cooked through without having some parts mushy in the end.” he explains, which is met with a surprised noise from his boyfriend.

 “Huh, that makes sense. Cooking       is     logical, after all.” Tony says, as if that’s news to him - truth be told, it probably is.

 “Of course it’s logical. What did you think?” Clint asks, even though he already knows the answer.

 “Magic? I don’t fucking know” Tony shrugs, but he looks very much satisfied. Even more so once everything is done. The stir fry turned out perfect, and the pasta only boiled over once - the kitchen is a mess, but the food is amazing, so it comes to no surprise that one after one, the other Avengers show up in the kitchen like a bunch of hungry sharks. Food always brings them together, especially if the delicious smells are wafting through the tower.

 Apart from the obvious - having to eat, having to help out and later on, hating the SHIELD cafeteria with a burning passion - this is why Clint learned how to cook in the first place. Food brings people together, brings in company.

 As someone who spent most of his life either lonely or socially awkward or both, Clint learned early on that if he feeds people, they will stick around - at least for a bit.  It is a long standing habit, and although he genuinely loves cooking and baking, because it’s fun and relaxing, the people aspect is a big motivation as well.

 Feeding people keeps them around and Clint recognizes that this might be a little sad. But he can’t deny that he likes doing it, one of the reasons being that, making food for someone shows that you care. As much as his social skills suck sometimes, Clint likes to take care of the people around him, especially loved ones.

 Lucky for him, there is almost always someone around, here in the tower, to enjoy whatever he spent the day cooking or baking. Especially if either Steve or Thor are home, he knows nothing will stay untouched for long. While those two will eat anything and everything that isn’t nailed down, Clint knows that Tony is usually a bit of a picky eater, but he will try everything Clint makes, because he knows from experience that it’s always good. He does have a bit of a sweet tooth though. Bruce on the other hand prefers savory things, which is why he himself is cooking a lot of spicy, indian food, but he will also happily go to town on a loaf of bread fresh out of the oven.

 Natasha, much like Phil and Pepper whenever they’re around, has a huge sweet tooth - whenever there are cookies or cake or anything else, she is the first to creep into the kitchen. Oftentimes, she steals balls of cookie dough and bowls with batter remaining in them. It gets even worse when Phil is around, because the two of them will team up to get all the sweet things - It’s highly classified, but you can totally buy Agent Coulson with sweet things.

 Clint knows all of this, especially since he’s known Phil and Nat for many many years. Therefore, he counts in whatever they are likely going to steal whenever he is baking - he’s known their systematic approach for ages now, but he doesn’t mind it. Not at all.

 Later that same night, Clint is sprawled out in bed, legs tangled with Tony’s and one arm wrapped around him. His head is pillowed on the other man's shoulder, face pressed into his favourite spot - the crook of Tony’s neck.  Restless fingers are lightly scratching his scalp, and the even breathing of his dog by their feet are almost lulling him to sleep. His other hand is lazily tracing invisible patterns on Tony’s back, fingers creeping under his shirt and against warm, smooth skin. The happy hum he gets in response causes small vibrations to travel through his entire body, even when he can’t hear it.

 They drift off to sleep like this, and when they are in the kitchen the next morning, Clint asks, as Tony keeps an suspicious eye on the scrambled eggs,

 “Do you want to bake bread with me later? We can use it tomorrow for french toast.”

 “...I’ll have to touch wet dough, do I?”

 “...Ideally, yes. But it’s fun, I promise. Careful, your eggs.” he adds, and Tony jumps to flip them - just in time - no harm done. He lets out a sigh of relief.  As it turns out, having someone close to help him get a hang of this really helps. Besides, Clint is a good teacher, and the whole love thing helps a lot. Just spending time together, really - and the compliments from their other teammates for last night’s dinner for example. All of it makes him want to keep going.

 “Okay, let’s do it” Tony says, and the happy smile on his boyfriend's face is more than enough motivation to say “yes” again the next time he asks if he wants to bake.

 As it turns out, baking is a whole different thing than cooking, which takes him by surprise. Especially since he needs to be a lot more accurate for this, while with cooking, there is at least a little bit of freestyling allowed. With baking? Not so much.

 “It’s sticky. Ew. Babe, why? Why did you do this to me?” Tony complains, making a face as he holds up his hands that are covered in admittedly clingy bread dough - he’s not quite sure he actually likes doing this.

 “It needs more flour - hold on.” Clint scrapes off as much dough from his hands as he can, carefully grabs the paper bag with two fingers and sprinkles a little bit more flour in both mixing bowls.

 “Try again, it should work itself out. If it cleans out the bowl we’re good.”

 “You said this was fun… Oh hey, that’s actually better now!” Tony exclaims in surprise, relieved that his bread dough isn’t nearly as sticky anymore - now, he can knead it with his hands without thinking of hacking them off right after. Truth be told, he is starting to see the fun part of this whole thing now.

 “See? You’re doing great by the way.” Clint tells him, a warm and happy feeling spreading out in his chest. He is incredibly happy to be able to have this - to have Tony by his side in the first place. Words can’t express how much he loves this man, and he hopes that Tony knows nonetheless.

 “I’ve got a pretty good teacher - you should meet him some time. He’s got amazing arms and an even better ass.” Tony is grinning over at Clint, absolutely not checking out those very much appreciated body parts while he does so. They have been together for quite some time, but the attraction to one another has not died down - not at all.

 “Oh, does he now?”

 “Very much so.”

 Cheesy flirting and easy banter is what they do best, and by the time their dough is covered and resting, Clint and Tony disappear upstairs and into the bedroom. They lose their clothes on the way, leaving a trail through the entire apartment until they fall into bed, wrapped tightly around one another and laughing in between kisses and wandering hands.

 There is plenty of time to pass until the bread is ready to be baked, after all.

*+~

Prompt 10: Teaching

[tempesthound]

I tilt my body to the side as I move my motorcycle between the dead cars on the highway; the wind hits the top half of my face, making my eyes water a little. I have to slow my bike to a stop as I got to the highest point on this stretch of road. I could see just what I had come to: a traffic jam. Pulling my hood off my head, I take a drink from my canteen, swishing the stale water around in my mouth before swallowing. It had been a month tops since humanity’s extinction event, and looking around, you would think it had been years. I look inside the car beside me; a corpse laid forward, its head on the steering wheel. It had smashed into the front end of the vehicle. I guessed this lady must have broken her neck upon impact. Pulling my scarf over my nose, I grab my hunting knife and open the door, dragging the lady out. I gagged a little as I searched her body, then the inside of the car. A box of pop tarts under the driver’s seat bless whoever is listening. Popping the trunk, I find a knitted blanket, some chapstick, a backpack with some girl products, which is always an excellent find. I check a few more cars and find a few things before I siphon some gas into my bike. It gave me a few minutes to think about it before.

“Ali, be careful. I heard about some strange attacks happening lately; why don’t you extend your brake a little, tell these attacks to cool down,” Sam says as she touches my arm with a concerned look in her eyes. I sigh, and roll my eyes as I lean on the hood of my car. “I will be fine. My dad didn’t spend years and hours training me just for me to fail at stopping some attacker. Also, I worked too hard to get into this college not to go; I’ll be fine, and it’s just four days from here. If it gets crazy, I’ll come back out to this middle of Nowhere town.”

I should have stayed looking back now; it wasn’t even three weeks later that the world went to hell; I had been making my way back to my hometown. My entire life, I had made jokes about being ‘Zombie apocalypse ready,’ so when I saw the signs, I emptied my bank account on supplies. Water purifiers, battery packs, a few MRE rations, first aid kits, things like that. Then I got in my car and drove, staying off the highways. I headed for the backwoods, but first, I had to go through Missouri. There I lost my car but gained my bike, which I hated for the exposure but loved the gas I saved using it. I heard about the safe zone in Atlanta. Did I believe in it? No. Shaking my head, I cap off my small gas can and strap it down in the saddlebag that I had on the side of my bike, putting everything else in my bag. I get on my bike and start it up. I look around before I take off-putting in one headphone. I start my music, something I had because of several battery packs that were my veritable treasures to keep my phone working for as long as possible.

I slowly drove up to what looks like it was once a camping zone. I parked my bike against a tree. I cover it in the tattered blanket. Then I climbed the tree, wrapping a rope around myself to keep myself from falling out. “Best place to sleep for tonight,” I say as I bunker down, wrapping my arms around myself along with a heavy hoodie for warmth.

Nights like this always made me think back to the good times, times before the dead were ripping into every living creature.

I turn on the news it was, talking about violent attacks worldwide for the past few days. The attacks didn’t sound like they were going to let up soon.

As the news on the riots ended, I shake my head; this was like the start of a cliché horror movie. People broke into Walmarts, riots in food stores, people stalking up on guns and the needed ammo.

“Uncle Jhonny is laughing in his grave now,” I say to my mom, who is humming away in the kitchen, my youngest brother Luke, on her hip like the monkey he was. “Alice!” my mother lightly scolds me. “He called it; he said we would kill ourselves before anything else” I look at the photo of a fiery red-haired male with a smile stretched cheek to cheek as he holds a golden-haired girl with matching green eyes. That was one of the good days when cancer hadn’t eaten away at his bones and taken his mind. “You remind me of him; all his crazy theories filled your head, Rabit” I turn to face the angelic voice of my mother, her little monkey fast asleep in her arms, a smile on her face as she called me that.

Looking back now, it was days like this that I would miss the simple days, days at home with Luke and Mom. Days when my only trouble was school and work; Now I had to worry about walkers and, worst of all, those who survived.

I lean my head back against the tree; I ignore the tears running down my dirty face. Once clean, pale, freckled skin now always smeared with dirt and sweat. The golden blonde hair my mother loved a greasy mess. No, I knew tonight the demons in my mind would keep me awake.

Faster move, don’t stop, don’t look back, when someone is chasing you, you never look back, it raises the risk of you tripping over something in front of you. The words of my trained military father fill my head. My lungs cry out for air, my legs are all but jelly under me, but I can’t risk stopping now. They are too close. The screeches and groans of the man-eaters chasing me are enough to push me past the limits of my weak body. Days of rationing, my food, and water have left me malnourished. So I force myself until the air I’m taking in no longer reaches my brain or muscles. The branches of trees cut at my exposed skin as I push them out of my way, growing dizzier. I jump over a fallen log and stumble as I reach the other side, my legs finally giving out on me.

The once faint sounds of the walking dead now all too close, The dead woman trips over the log falling on top of me, its jaws snapping at me, its grotesque graying skin falling off in places, hollow eyes stare at me, dried pieces of something in its teeth. Reaching for the hunting knife in my boot, I use one hand to hold it by its throat as my hand easily slips through the decaying flesh above me. I turn my head and, using all the force I can, slamming my knife through the temple of the thing’s head, the spray of black blood that hits my cheek and chest is thick and smells worse than rotten eggs. This dead thing that was once alive woman falls like the dead weight she is. I pull myself from under her and lean against the log. The other dead seem to have forgotten me or too far behind for my exhausted body to care.

I don’t know how long I sat there, slowly letting my body catch up to my mind, letting it rest. I had run over five miles of unknown terrain on a body that hasn’t eaten or drank anything in three days. I sat there staring at the dead thing. It had the burned body of a woman. Half her face is gone. It was missing some hair, and it smelled of rotten pork, which made my stomach grumble in emptiness. I pull my bag and look in it. I had a protein bar half-eaten and half a water bottle with boiled river water in it. “Yummy,” I say half heartily.

The woman she probably hadn’t turned over three weeks ago, maybe four. I shake my head and stand my legs, only wobble a little before they decide to work with me instead of against me. My lungs no longer feel like they will jump out of my chest, and my throat doesn’t feel like it’s bleeding. I finish my water, shoving the bottle in my bag—no need to add litter to the decaying world.

Keeping my eyes and ears open as I’m walking munching on the protein bar, it wasn’t more than maybe half an hour when I hear the men’s voices, the sounds of their heavy footfalls and wolf whistles that fill the air in a dangerous song. I stop moving the sound of my feet on the dry leaves on the ground go silent, but the others take a moment, dropping my bar. My movements are quick reaching for the pistole that I had in a hostler on my hip. I pull it out, cock it, and keep walking. Spotting one man, then another, I can hear one more before I pick up my pace, and I sprint. That’s when the chorus of cheers and the chase truly began.

The men are faster than the bitters are they can think and plan when I zig, they zag, I dance through the woods, monitoring the two men at my sides, not daring to slow down, I’m coming up to an opening in the trees, no place to hide, no safety. It’s a battleground. As I break through the woods, I feel two arms grab me wrapping in me in a menacing hug.

I slam my foot down and throw my head and elbows back. I hear the satisfying crunch and groan of an injured man.

“Bitch” The unknown man says as I jump forward, the gun pointed at the man’s head.

“Back off, I know how to use this,” I growl out. I keep backing away from the man, his buddies showing up, their weapons raised. They all looked like the stereotype of an inbreed hilly billy, ratty matted, unwashed hair, and overalls. One even had a potbelly, the man who grabbed me had smelled like he never washed even before the downfall of humanity., none of them had guns. Still, three against one isn’t in my favor, no matter the training, not when my body wasn’t at its peak.

“Three against one honey, come with us nice and quiet, and maybe just maybe you get out of this alive” Lie, I won’t survive what they have planned for me, my body might survive, but my mind won’t. I pull the trigger and shoot the man who grabbed me.I can’t hesitate not when my life is on the line.

“MATTIE, You killed my brother!” Pot-belly yelled he came at me first, and I shot him in his chest twice with two quick pulls of the trigger. I had three bullets left with Potbelly down. I quickly aim at the other one. He came at me at once. Brown hair sticking to his sweaty skin, his arms spread out wide. I brace myself for the hit from him. He takes me to the ground, my gun falling from my hands and away from the us.

He hits my sides and face as I struggle under his weight; I bring my knee up between his legs as he grabs at my leather jacket, pulling at it, trying to tear it off my body; just as my knee reaches his third leg, he holds my hair. Pulling it as he groans, I claw at his face as he slams his fist on my face again. When I scream, he hits my head into the ground. I use my arm to feel around for my knife, my finger brush against the smooth metal at my thigh; he holds my arm down, stopping my movements; I squirm myself under the man as he feels up my body pulling at my thin tee shirt. I bring my head up and slam it against his face. I feel the blood run down my forehead. He falls backward, and groans as my fingers hook around the hilt of the hunting knife. I jump on top of him and slam the blade into the man’s face three times; I bring it down until he stops moving bright red blood, sprays against my face covering my hands and chest, my jacket hangs loosely off my shoulder, my white shirt torn and bloody. I’m still on top of the dead man when I hear a whistle.

“Well, damn, look at these boys” The voice was cocky, and as I turn, I can see why he was tall with a thick beard and messy black hair, a leather jacket hung with grace off his shoulders, a baseball bat with barbed wire wrapped around it like a Christmas tree lights in his left hand. He screamed Alpha male; he was dangerous. The five men behind him didn’t intimidate me as much as he did and the guns they all held.

“Take one step closer. I fucking dare you” I spit out a mix of my blood my victims and slowly stand adrenaline coursing through my veins, my blood knife held in my hand.

“Now wait a damn minute, we’re not here to hurt you, Doll,” Alpha male said as I move away from my bloody victim, picking up the gun not a few inches away from where I shot Potbelly, who was groaning and moving again. I slam my booted foot down on his head over and over, cursing him to hell.

“Then I can leave you and your men, stay there, bury your friends here, and I will go. They would be alive if they didn’t try to kidnap and then rape me.” I feel my adrenaline high slowly coming down; my body suddenly feels very heavy after killing the last attacker I need to get out of here. I walk away from the bodies. My gun still pointed at the Alpha man and his team.

“Names Negan Doll and those sad sacks of shit ain’t my men Number one rule to run with me, no rape,” Alpha man or rather Negan says.

“Then you’re not here because I just brutely beat and shot your men,” I say, lowering my weapon and taking a deep breath, the entire ordeal finally catching up to my brain. I have just been violated, it hasn’t even been a month since the world ended, and people were already taking and killing people. I had just killed someone. I killed three someone’s

“No, in fact, I like a woman who can handle herself,” Negan said his men, relaxing at the sight that I had lowered my gun on their boss. Negan takes this as a sign to walk closer to me. He was a good foot taller than me and huge muscles, no fat on his body covered in denim and leather. Almond brown eyes and a dimple smirk.

“God, Doll, you’re a mess; how about you come with my men and me? We have a nice little house not too far from here. You can wash up, relax, have something to eat. No one will hurt you as long as you’re with me.”

I tilt my head up and look at the unknown man. He pulls out a scarf from his jacket, and cautiously he raises his hand to clean the blood off my face.

“Your one badass woman just kicked a bitter’s head in, took down three shit heads all by yourself, got me all tingly in all the right places” Is he flittering with me right now? Negan is wiping blood human blood off my face and flirting with me, and he’s not scared of me at all. He finished wiping off all that could be when he offers me his hand.

“Come on, Doll, let me take care of you.”

Negan was my savior that day, and we filled the days that followed with flirty words and sarcastic comebacks. We fought but grew closer. He never treated me like I was fragile, never made me stay back when the Bitters came. I was a warrior in his eyes, and he treated me like a queen.

“Never hide from me, Alice, you are a warrior, you are a survivor, a badass built for this world, never forget that”

Then that day happened, the day that the world reminded me that nothing in the apocalypse is safe; nothing is forever.

We had grown in number more men, and the youngest one was 17. I was no longer the youngest in the group, and we moved on from the small farmhouse to just being on the road. We had stopped for the day one scout had spotted a mall that appeared not to have gotten raided. The cars were waiting for their owners to come back to them< I was apprehensive about going into the mall if the vehicles were still there, then where were the people or bitters.

“Don’t worry, Ali-cat, Lucille will watch out for you,” Negan said. I glared at the six-foot-one man.

“I’m not scared, just worried you can’t be too careful, Bossman,” I say, poking his chest; he grabs my hand and kisses it.

“No need to worry, Doll, this will be easy in and out.”

If only that were true, if he had just listened to me, we would still be together.

When we got in, it was quiet, and Negan made it known that he was right; the mall was safe. We were laughing and grinning, going in and out of stores gathering supplies. His men kept a respectful distance behind us. Negan takes my hand and pulls me into an open Forever 21, where Negan is pulling out dresses and heels. I roll my eyes and look around, my eyes falling on a perfect gift for him.

“Hey, look what I found,” I say as I hold up a red scarf as Negan holds out a black choker with a golden letter ‘N’ hanging from the middle.

“I found you something as well,” He says as we swap gifts, “Help me put it on,” I feel his warm hands brush my golden blond hair over my shoulder, slipping the black felt choker over my neck clasping it in place.

We walk around just a little more when we hear the tell groans and moans of the dead outside one door of the indoor theater; we look at each other and head back to the group. I drop Negan’s hand as I see one of the younger guys; Gary reaches for the theater room’s main doors. “DOn’t,” I yell just as he opens the doors; it was too late. He pulled both doors open; the swarm of Biters that came out was overwhelming. We didn’t stand a chance. All we could do was scatter. I feel Negans rough hand grab for mine, but then the dead get between us. It wrenched Negan from me. The sounds of our men’s guns overran the mall, firing shots and the screams of those who were ripped and torn apart. I see Negan’s beloved bat coming down on the heads of the monsters and the men who were too late to be spared as he and the inner circle of men make their way out. “ALICE!” his voice calls out as I pull my knife from the skull of another Bitter “NEGAN, I’LL FIND YOU, I SWEAR,” I call out as I push myself to the main door shooting three more bitters in the head.

“STAY ALIVE DOLL” I hear his voice one last time before I make my way out the fire door of the mall. Stay alive; that was his final order to me: stay alive for Negan for my savior. I make my way to the woods, one hand reaching to touch the necklace at my throat. The sounds of the dead following me as I found myself back at the beginning alone and chased by the deceased.

[dastardlydandelion]

g isn’t for gun (edited)

 ao3 link 

content warnings: child abuse, blood, injury, character death

Billy’s back is against the wall in the garage, shelves of Susan’s gardening supples pressing painfully into his spine, taste of his father’s hand lingering in his mouth. The salty hint of the sweat from his open palm, the waxy residue of the polish he’d been using to clean his guns. They’re still here on the workbench, he was interrupted by a call from the school. Billy’s in trouble for truancy again. He’s skipped one too many days and he’s in trouble, and he can still taste the hand of his furious father as it balls into a fist and punches him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His father’s knuckles plow into his stomach  a second time and he could hate himself for the whiny-wimp-bitch noise punted from his throat.

“Do you like making me look like a jackass?” Neil demands. “I think you think you do!”

Billy raises his head and finds his mouth go dry at the thunderous, dangerous look on his father’s face. Any comebacks he had dissolve in his throat and he. He can’t.

“Leave my brother alone!”

Billy looks past his father. There’s Max in the middle of the garage, lily white complexion budding rose red with a roaring anger too big for her body. She’s petite as is and appears even more so in her baggy skater clothes of choice. Her fists are balled too, held up like she actually wants to hit something. That scares him for her sake, for what Billy dreads will happen if she actually dares to throw a tantrum in front of an already irate Neil.

“This doesn’t concern you, Maxine,” his father states clearly and coldly without even turning around.

“Get outta here,” Billy snaps in agreement, glowering pointed daggers.

Because he can picture it in detail so vivid it’s nauseating. Max’s throat in the crook of Neil’s elbow. Eyes flooding with tears as the pressure goes taut. Max coughing and coughing when Dad finally releases, if she isn’t out cold like Billy is sometimes, on the really bad days. Billy returns his attention to his fuming father. Max takes a couple steps back. That's going to be the end of her involvement. Good.

In a distant way Billy admires Max’s grit and yeah, okay, maybe it feels good that she gives a shit about him, but Billy’s private sentiments don’t compare to his fear. His stepsister needs to fuck off for her own safety. He looks back to his father, meeting and holding his gaze with steel. Billy prepares himself for more yelling, then the unmistakeable cock of a gun has them both freezing.

“I said leave him alone!” Max screeches like a falcon, M1911 stretched out in front of her, bluebell eyes burning in defiance.

Now Neil does whip around and for a moment he hesitates, just as taken aback as Billy. His mouth screws open and then his face hardens.

“I said get outta here!” Billy shouts so loud it rips his throat. Max is one goddamn gutsy firecracker and he’d be impressed by the act of rebellion if it wasn’t bound to get them both killed.

Max’s blazing eyes flicker over the blood at the corner of Billy’s mouth and she holds her ground. “No! I’m sick of living like we’re in a prison! I'm sick of living like we have to ask him permission just to fucking breathe!”

“Maxine, you put that down right now or you’re going to be in a world of trouble,” Neil warns, dark and seething.

She responds by pointing it at his head. Neil growls, lurching right toward her. Billy suddenly finds the ability to move. Quick as a viper, he darts in between them, pushing back against his father. For a moment he isn’t entirely sure exactly who he is protecting and then he realizes it’s both of them.

Billy is protecting Max in case she misses. He’s protecting Neil in case she doesn’t.

“Calm down, Dad! She’s fourteen, she doesn’t know what she’s doing!”

“That’s exactly why she needs to put it down!” Neil snarls right in his ear.

“Get outta here, Max!” Billy shouts for the second time, grinding his jaw as he struggles to restrain his infuriated father.

“You ungrateful little brat!“ Neil roars.

“Move, Billy!” Max shouts, finger on the trigger.

And Billy does move but not quite of his own accord. Neil swings an elbow and the next thing he knows, pain bursts through his face. Billy sees stars as his cheek radiates white-hot hurt. Stunned, his grip slips. He stumbles and hurriedly scrambles back between his father and his stepsister, pushing at him again daring to imagine the fight going in his favor, if only he could take Neil on the floor. Before Billy can go forward with the slapdash plan in his head, there’s a noise not particularly unlike a firecracker on the fourth of July. It almost matches the stars as they recede from his vision.

Neil drains pale and suddenly stops resisting. Billy looks back over his shoulder at his stepsister, actually sees the orange flare from the muzzle as she fires again. Giving a startled cry, Max swaggers sideways, arms jolting with the recoil she was all too clearly unprepared for. As far as Billy knows, this is Max’s first time shooting a gun and that one’s definitely too much for her. It’s Max’s first time shooting a gun she isn’t ready for and Billy— Billy realizes her aim, her accuracy, well, without any practice, it’s—

“It was an accident!” Max yips behind him, frantic, nearly as shrill as Susan in her distress. “Shit! Holy shit, Billy, you’re bleeding!”

Billy is struck with the realization of just how shoddy Max’s accuracy is as his efforts to restrain Neil turn into efforts to hold onto him so he doesn’t fall— so he can steady himself and remain upright. Neil doesn’t even push him away. He’s gone strangely silent, ghost white as Billy fists into the collar of his navy blue button-up.

“Yeah,” Billy mutters, vaguely annoyed as he blinks down at the egg sized exit wound cascading crimson into his favorite white muscle tank. The bullet tore right through the thin strap of the sleeve and the pristine white fabric thirstily soaks up all the blood that just keeps pouring. “You shot me.”

No way he’s salvaging this shirt. Strangely, it’s the shirt he’s more concerned about. It doesn’t hurt like Billy thinks it should. He feels like he got stung by a wasp. He watches connecting canals course down his arm, a small scale rain shower of ruby falling from his fingertips and pattering to the concrete. He just watches, numb, flabbergasted, not hurting like he believes he’s supposed to.

“Maxine, go open the truck passenger’s seat.” Neil commands, steely and stern but somehow the boiling rage of mere moments before receding to a different kind of exigency. “Now, hurry up!”

And for all her defiance just as recent, her palatable hate for their shared monster, Max immediately obeys. She slams her palm against the button to open the automatic garage door and limbo bends herself under the aluminum as soon as she can. Darts off, soles of her sneakers swiftly slapping the cement.

“Can I let go of you for a sec?” Neil urges. “Get you a towel?”

“Uh…no. No, sir.” Billy shakes his head. He thinks he’ll fall. He really does. His head is swimming and the bones in his legs are suddenly squishy as gelatin. He also doesn’t actually trust Neil not to go after Max.

“Come on, you can stand by yourself for a second,” Neil argues. “It’s just your shoulder, be a man.”

Against his better judgement, Billy lets Neil let go. The garage door is open now. Billy stares down the driveway and watches Max fling open the passenger door with the hand that isn’t holding the gun. She’s still holding it. Billy doesn’t understand why she’s still holding it but then Neil’s pressing a towel against his shoulder and now— now it does hurt, throbbing all the way to his back with the horrible and just plain bizarre sensation of something grinding like peppercorns beneath his torn flesh. Billy clamps his jaws around the scream in his throat.

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Neil repeats with every step he shepherds Billy toward the truck. “You’re alright, we’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m really fucking bleeding,” Billy remarks and he’s not sure if he’s arguing or not, if he’s being contrary or simply making an observation.

Max is still there, wild eyed, M1911 foreboding and menacing and awkwardly large in her trembling hand.

“Put that back right now, Maxine,” Neil growls, practically shoving Billy in the passenger’s seat because apparently he’s not moving fast enough by himself. “Put that back and go to your room until your mother comes home!”  

Max takes a long look at Neil. Her eyes seem to shake in their sockets.

“I’m sorry, Billy!” she yelps and just like that, she spins on her heel and takes off down the block. As she pistons she picks up speed, legs pumping hard, arms swinging at her sides. She’s running away again. She’s run away before. Twice. This is the third time. Three strikes and she’s out. Billy’s stomach sinks with the dread.

Max is doing everything she shouldn’t be doing and he isn’t going to be able to protect her from the backlash. Not like this. Not this time.

“Maxine! Goddamn it!” Neil shakes a fist after her but makes no move to pursue. He’s still very pale. It makes the flecks of Billy’s blood on his face stand out that much more.

“I’m bleeding,” Billy reminds him and maybe that’s not what he’s supposed to say, not the tough thing to say, not the macho thing to say.

“Dad, there’s blood everywhere,” he continues and he’s trying to be calm. His voice is level and he tries not to sound like he wants to cry even though he kind of does and if he does, Neil’s going to taunt him all the way to the ER for being a pussy-baby-wimp-bitch-loser.

But Billy can’t lift his arm and there’s blood all over. His shirt is ruined and it’s in his jeans now, the towel in his hand has already soaked to the point of uselessness. His head is spinning and he’s terrified of what Neil is going to do to Max. Horrified at the prospect of being unable to do anything about it.

He doesn’t really get along with Susan but Max being spared the full force of Neil’s wrath is one of the few unspoken understandings that exists between them. But Billy isn’t going to be able to hold up his end of the bargain like this, he doesn’t think, or— or maybe. Maybe he can if he redirects Neil’s anger now. If he takes this opportunity to really get under his skin. It’s all that there’s left to do.

“This is all your fault,” Billy accuses when his father finally slides into the driver’s seat.

“Say again?” Neil seems distracted more than taken aback, clumsily fumbling with the keys.

“It’s your fault,” Billy repeats. “Max is just a kid, she didn’t know what she was doing.”

“Horse shit,” Neil growls. “You bet your ass that little brat knew exactly what she wanted to do.”

“Still your fault,” Billy challenges. “She’s right, we can’t even fucking breathe without your permission. You try to control everything…one of us was gonna do this eventually. If not Max then me. Or hell, maybe even Susan would’ve went Linda Couch on your ass.”

“Jesus H. Christ, I always knew you were an ungrateful son of a bitch, but to say something that disrespectful? After everything I’ve done for you, you'd say something like that?” Neil finally jams the key in the ignition, blinking like he’s dazed before he angrily starts the truck. He gives himself a shake as he guns it into the street, tires squealing. Houses blur past and turn into trees.

“Yeah, everything you’ve ever done for me,” Billy sneers. “Beat up my mom—“

“Hey, that whore slung her pussy every which way the wind blows! Hell, for all I know, you’re not even mine!”

“Oh, I’m yours, all right.” Billy rolls his eyes. He’s feeling woozy and his hands are wet and he’s kind of scared now, but not as scared of bleeding as he is scared of what Neil will do to Max if her fails to secure his father’s ire now. She’s in trouble either way, but Billy hopes he at least has a chance to mitigate the pain that’ll come her way if he can get Neil seeing red in his direction.

“Let’s keep going down the list of all the wonderful things you’ve done for me that I should be oh-so grateful for. Let's see, you broke my shit whenever I struck out at Little League practice—“

“You improve under pressure, Billy. That’s just who you are.”

“Broke my actual leg once, do you remember that? Back when I had my paper route?”

“…that was an accident...”

“Pfft. Barely.”

“You were kissing another man’s wife! What I did wasn’t half as bad as what he would’ve done if he’d been the one to catch you.”

Billy just rolls his eyes again. He could go on but Neil beats him to it.

“I fed you, I clothed you, I kept a roof over your head!”

“Right.” Billy huffs hotly, blinking as he lifts the towel to take a peek at his shoulder. “So like, the bare minimum.”

“Don’t get smart with me. You don’t have the faintest idea what it takes to be a parent. What it takes to be a fath—“ Neil breaks off, violently hacking into his hand.

Billy gapes at the saucer of red when Neil’s hand retracts from his mouth, the beads glistening in his facial hair.

“Whoa,” Billy gasps in realization. “Max shot you.”

“…yes.” Neil wipes his palm off on his jeans, shifts his eyes back to the road as he bitterly continues, “It’s a bullet, Billy, it had to go somewhere when it tore outta you. Bullets don’t pop like bubble soap.”

“Holy shit.” Billy has no idea how he didn’t notice. His father’s shirt is darker than his, but still. “Wait, should you be driving?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been shot, William.” Neil keeps his eyes ahead but he’s so pale he’s almost translucent and a foreboding feeling grows deep in the pit of Billy’s stomach.

“Oh, Jesus, not that again.” Billy cackles wildly and it hurts, it sends torturous throbs all down his arms and across his trunk. His ribs stick into him like he's made of mashed potatoes and he cackles maniacally anyway. “You and your stupid wounded warrior bullshit—“

“Don’t you dare insult my service!” Neil forms a fist and Billy knows he’s going to get hit but then his father’s coughing into the curled fingers instead and it sounds wet and he shouldn’t be driving. No way in hell should Neil be driving, they shouldn’t be on the road, this empty road with nothing but trees on either side as the seats soak up their blood.

“I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if you had a hundred purple hearts,” Billy taunts scornfully and he’s never, ever dared to say anything like this at all actually, but if he doesn’t now, he never will and he’s feeling as vindictive as he ever has. His heart is suddenly as light as his head. Above all, he finally feels free and isn't his freedom what Neil supposedly sacrificed for?

Fighting for his freedom, that generously noble thing Neil did that supposedly grants him this unalienable right to pull rank above everybody else?

“You're an asshole, Dad. And I bet you cling to that military bravado because you enjoyed shooting people. Wrap it up in all the red, white, and blue you want, you bastard. I see you, I know who you really are. You’re just some asshole who likes yourself best when you’re hurting other people.”

And even though he’s still coughing and there’s red spurting through his fingers, his father’s eyes meet his and Billy realizes he’s actually hurt him. For the first time in his life, possibly, he’s actually gotten in a dig that had an effect, made a profound impact. For the first time the pain in Neil’s eyes matches his own and Billy revels in it right until the moment they swerve off the road.

Metal crunches like stomping on a beer can. Billy pitches forward, seatbelt biting into him hard, wounded shoulder jarred as his teeth rattle. It happens so fast, the cacophony, the heart-pounding moment of impact.

The moment is. Then Neil is not.

Suddenly the truck’s in a ditch and Neil is undeniably dead, slumped forward in the seat. The horn blares continuously, uninterrupted and earsplitting under the slack weight of his forehead. Billy reaches over and clumsily pulls him off of it just to make it stop. The way Neil’s head lolls creeps him out and makes him want to puke at the same time.

“Yeah, you’re dead alright, you bastard,” he mumbles.

He closes the lids of his father’s blank eyes with a sweep of the hand and swallows against the sight of his own blood smearing across his face. He’s still bleeding. He’s probably dying too. What a fucking crapshoot.

Billy feels cheated. Action heroes on the big screen never die when they get shot in the shoulder. It’s always a flesh wound. But Billy supposes he’s never been the heroic type anyway.

His heart hammers, chest tightening as he realizes he’s graduated from frightened to flat-out fucking terrified. He’s bleeding all over and his injury throbs with a diabolical vengeance. He could be dying. For a moment he thinks maybe he’ll hold his dad’s hand because he’s dead now, and he can’t swat him off, and then Billy realizes how goddamn stupid that is.

“You’re an asshole and I’m not gonna die with you,” he mutters, shifting in his seat, getting his good hand on the door. He gets it open and half-hops-half-falls out of the truck.

Hitting the ground sends a torrent of torment ripping through his shoulder and Billy lets himself scream. Pulls himself up anyway, stumbles to the side of the road with his hand clamped over the bloody egg hole in his flesh, painful sensation of peppercorns grinding together beneath the meat. He wonders if he should just keep walking…if he can keep walking.

Billy’s definitely dizzy now and he feels like he might fall over again because he’s pretty unsteady, uncoordinated. It’s a little harder to breathe than it was a few minutes ago, he thinks. It’s like he can’t catch his breath and maybe that means he’s panicking even though he’s trying not to panic, panicking won’t help and Neil is dead. Neil is dead?

Yeah, Neil’s dead. Billy won’t die with him. He refuses. He at least needs to get away from the truck. If he’s gong to die, it’s going to be at least twenty feet away from his good for nothing, piece of shit father who just got exactly what he deserved. Fuck you, Dad, fuck you and your pretend patriotic freedom fighter bullshit.

Billy prides himself on knowing he hurt him. That their last conversation was one where he was the one to render Neil speechless. The lingering satisfaction gives Billy a boost he uses to push on a bit further. He’s swaying like a porch swing before he sinks to his knees in the grass.

Maybe he just needs a break. He’ll take a break. Catch his breath and then he’ll get up again and…

And walk to town?

Check himself into the ER?

Shit, he’s fucked. Billy is so, so fucked, and the pendulum swings and he’s freaking out again and trying to get up and he never ever should’ve let himself sink, he should’ve known better than to let himself go down because it’s so much harder to get up this time.

Billy wonders about Max. He wonders if she still has Neil’s gun, if she’s still running around with her finger on the trigger. He wonders if she knows she killed Neil. Wonders if she knows she killed Billy because she did, didn’t she?

He can’t get up.

He blames Neil more. Yeah, he blames Neil more. One of them was always going to do something, right?

Billy understands, of course he does, how many times had he thought about doing that himself? How many times had he brought the muzzle to his own mouth and jammed it against his teeth not to die, he didn’t (doesn’t!) want to die, just to get away from Neil.

He’s still thinking about Max when there are headlights and people here, people he knows, Nancy Wheeler and her smoking hot mom. Billy blinks at them blearily, wondering if they’re real. When they begin to pull him up, his ruined shoulder screams and the musky scent of Karen’s perfume wafts over his nose, and it’s all too vivid to be a dream.

“What happened?” Nancy asks, Karen asks. Alarmed. More than once.

“My dad’s dead but it’s not her fault,” Billy explains.

They must know this, if anything, they must know this. If he’s going to die in the backseat, Nancy pressing Karen’s hastily stripped leg warmers to his entrance and exit wounds, then it must be known that he doesn’t blame Max. Because if Billy doesn’t blame Max, then maybe the law won’t blame her either. Maybe somebody already called the cops because sure, some of their neighbors are geriatric and deaf as all hell, but there were two gunshots and a redheaded girl taking off like a bat outta hell with a gun in her hand, and none of it was inconspicuous.

“He made her do it,” Billy emphasizes.

Karen’s pushing the pedal to the metal and burning rubber like a NASCAR champion and god, if Billy didn’t want to roll around with her before— if he survives this, he’s definitely taking her to a motel —but that’s not the point. It’s Neil’s fault. He practically did make her do it. Force her hand because he was just like that and the pressure of living under him just did things to you, Billy knew better than anyone.

“He made her do it, it’s not her fault.”

“We got it,” Nancy promises, voice weirdly jittery considering she doesn’t particularly care for him at school. “We got it, okay? Maybe stop talking and just breathe?”

“Bossy,” Billy mutters.

It is getting harder to breathe. It’s like he can’t hold onto the oxygen long enough before it’s whooshing right out again. Billy doesn’t understand why. He isn’t shot in the chest, it’s his shoulder, just his stupid shoulder, it shouldn’t be screwing up his ability to breathe.

Only maybe being shot isn’t why he can’t breathe, maybe being scared is why he can’t breathe. Because he’s panicking, right? He’s panicking, remember?

Maybe he’s outright having a panic attack. He’s had them before. He tries to drown the memory of them down with whatever he can get his hands on, really. But now he is undeniably scared. Neil is dead and Billy is still fucking scared of what’s going to happen to Max. She has blood on her hands now and they’re not going to let her off the hook for something like that just because she’s a kid, are they?

It’s mostly Neil’s fault but it’s kind of Billy’s fault too.

Max picked up the gun because Neil was going at him. And Neil was going at him because Billy skipped school. But it’s not like following Neil’s rules was ever a guarantee anyway. Fuck it. Sometimes it helped, sure, but sometimes it didn’t do a damn thing, how the hell was Billy ever supposed to know the difference?

Nancy’s speaking to her mother with something urgent in her voice. Billy looks at her hands. Stares at the glaze of red staining her skin up to the wrists as she presses down desperately hard on the sodden leg warmer bundled over his shoulder.  He wishes someone would turn the heat on. It’s starting to get cold, which is weird, because the weather is warm and balmy today.

He feels himself drifting by the time they’re at the ER. He’s only rudimentarily aware of the transfer from the Wheelers’ car to the stretcher. His own legs quaking under his weight and other hands on him. He makes it onto the thing with help and then there’s a shit ton of people in his face. They’re mostly yakking at each other and not him, but there are a few questions fired in his direction.

Billy manages his name and phone number and repeats as much of the story he’s sticking to as he can. It wasn’t Max’s fault. Neil made her do it.

More or less, that’s the truth.

* * * 

Billy feels weird. Surreal and vaguely nauseous. The lady in scrubs is so short, she’s perhaps not even five feet. Stocky and rounded with pudge next to Susan who stands nearly six and lithe— not in the least because Neil always rode her ass about staying a trim, presentable trophy wife —it’s sort of like staring at a shetland pony beside a hanoverian horse. Billy doesn’t mean to say this out loud, but he thinks he does because after the thought concludes, Scrubs scowls and Susan pinches the bridge of her nose.

“I know equines,” he mumbles. “My mom took me to the fair…”

He remembers it. That big barn with metal box fans and a rainbow of ribbons next to the horse’s names on the stalls. Mom holding his hand steady and making sure he kept his fingers flat so they wouldn’t get chomped by the velvety lips seeking treats in his palm. He remembers the warm scents of hey and alfalfa swirling together, wafting up his nose, the horses’ tails like paintbrushes swatting at insects fluttering by.

“Billy, I know you’re groggy, but can you focus for me?” Susan asks, lowering her hand. “Please?”

Billy blinks at her, shrugs his shoulders— tries to, anyway. It prompts a spike of pain through the left and well, of course it does. He got shot. That’s right, Max shot him. Wow. He wets his lips with his tongue and glances down, tracing languid fingertips over the thick bandaging.

“Feels kinda heavy…” Billy wonders how many layers there are for it to feel this heavy, just how much gauze and batting separate his fingertips from his wounds.

“You had surgery, hon,” Scrubs explains gently. “We had to repair an arterial bleed and the bullet broke your scapula.”

“My spatula,” Billy agrees hazily, attempting to blow a low whistle that comes out as more of a rasp. “Whoa…shit, surgery? S’it serious?”

In theory, being shot sounds kind of badass. Neil always talked like a badass when he showed his scars off. But Billy’s stomach is sinking, worry already resurfacing from the murky lake of his mind.

“It could’ve been much worse.” Scrubs gives him a pat on his good shoulder Billy thinks is supposed to be reassuring. Her hands are unpleasantly clammy and he blinks dazed eyes against the touch.

“Billy, where is Maxine?” Susan prompts, worriedly nibbling her lip.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Billy defends, vehement. “She didn’t mean to. Neil…”

Neil’s dead.

That’s right, Neil is dead. Billy snapped at him. And then he died. And a few things happened in between that. He shouldn’t have been driving. Why didn’t he just call an ambulance instead?

“…it’s his fault.”

“But where did she go?” Susan asks, each word spoken slow, voice a mix of fear and frustration. “It’s been hours and she still hasn’t come home.”

“Hours?” Billy echoes, blinking rapidly. “What?”

Doesn’t feel like hours. Maybe like, one hour tops since he’s been here. They asked him questions. They gave him an oxygen mask he tried to fight off until he realized how much better it made breathing. He was cold. It wasn’t Max’s fault.

“Ma’am,” Scrubs interrupts. “Your son isn’t—“

“She’s not my mother,” Billy declares at the same time Susan corrects, “S-Stepson.”

They stare at each other for a moment and Susan anxiously rubs her hands together.

“Do you have any idea where Max went, Billy?” she pleads. “This is very important.”

“No…but it’s not her fault. She owes me a new shirt…but she didn’t mean it. Neil was scaring her, Max just…” Billy trails off, worried about saying too much. Who knows who’s listening.

Susan sighs softly and glances away, visibly uncomfortable.

“I’ll help you look for her,” he decides.  

It’ll be much better if he and Susan find Max before she gets picked up by a cop.

“Oh, um…don’t worry about it.” Susan shakes her head. “The Wheelers brought you in, I know she goes to school with their boy, um…I suppose I’ll start there.”

“I’ll help you,” Billy insists because he was there, so his input is going to be key in keeping Max out of trouble.

“That’s not necessary.” She gives him a dubious look.

“You don’t think I can?” Billy challenges. “Psh. M’not a wimp, Susan, s’just my…my spatula? Gimme five minutes and I’ll be good to go.”

He just needs to find his shoes, or something. New shirt. Shirt and shoes. No shirt, no shoes, no service.

“Alright then, Billy,” Susan concedes to him, never was much for arguing. Shares a look with Scrubs and runs a hand through her hair. “You take your five minutes. I’ll pull the car around.”

Billy bobs his head, glad for her cooperation. He’s out and around more than Susan is, he has a better mental map of the town and where Max hangs out. Not only is it better for Billy to find Max because he was there, but Susan is bound to find her faster with his geographical guidance. Billy might be a little banged up but he’s not some useless coma patient. Max needs him to help find her and say whatever he can to keep her free. Max freed them from Neil and Billy is going to make sure free is how she stays, that one snap decision she made scared won’t end in their household prison exchanged for a brick-and-mortar one.

Billy waits until Susan leaves the room to close his eyes. He isn’t going to sleep. He definitely isn’t. He swears to himself he won’t. He just needs a moment to collect himself. Only a minute or two, just to get his bearings…

[kyber-kisses]

Too Soon (part.12)

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: spoilers for 15x04, the usual angst, cursing, spn level gore

Summary: A reality without you in it? That’s not a world Dean wants to live in. y/n tries to ease some of the tension between her and Dean.

Red.

That’s all he could see. It wasn’t just the flashing emergency lights of the bunker- it was the anger and fire he felt boiling in every nerve and cell of his body. the feeling practically wrapped around him like a blanket.

Happiness never lasted too long. Not in this life. But he never expected it to go like this. So terribly, terribly wrong.

Adjusting his rolled up sleeves and adjusting his tactical vest, he stalked down the hallway, hand white knuckling the pistol gripped between his fingers. This was a mission, and he had to finish it.

Another screech from down the hallway sent his feet moving forward faster, his hunter 6th sense kicking into full gear. The moment the demon came into view He stalked forward, using his reflexes to grab onto its wrists and twisting, successfully forcing it to the ground. As he did, he could see another demon rounding the corner. Without hesitation he aimed and fired, still holding the first one down.

When the body hit the tile, he twisted his first opponents arm once again, listening to the crack of bone as he threw him against the wall. Not hesitating once, he threw a punch, sending the demon towards the ground. He aimed again, and fired.

One bullet.

Two bullets.

Three bullets.

His anger had him emptying an entire cartridge into its skull. Bullet after bullet. Watching as the life flickered out of its face. Reaching into the vest strapped to his chest, he loaded a new cartridge into his gun, continuing his way down the hallway.

Dean Winchester took down demon after demon as he stalked through the bunker, searching for one thing and one thing only.

His brother.

In the short time span the body count within the building grew. Half of them were monsters and demons and the other half were people on his side. He had just lost Benny in the process and that just became another name on a very long list of people he couldn't save. He failed to protect.

After what felt like an eternity, he stepped into the war room, eyes scanning the piles of bodies around him. How did it come to this?

As if on cue the man himself stepped out into view, wiping the blood off his hands with smirk.

“Sam.”

The words came out slowly, Dean taking even slower steps as he neared his brother- or what used to be his brother. Gun still raised, he locked eyed with the executioner.

Sam Winchester smiled, looking down the steps towards the figure of his brother. “Dean, don’t try to stop me. You should know that, especially after Sioux Falls.”

“What you did to them. . .” Dean took another step forward, eyes burning. “What you did to Bobby, Jody- what you did to Y/N.” His voice cracked as your name left his lips.

Every time he closed his eyes. Every time he blinked all he could see was your mangled and bloodied corpse. It was painted into the insides of his eyelids. He couldn’t shake it. Your cold, dead eyes. Your still chest. a limp, pale hand. every feature seemed to pop out in his mind.

“They tried to stop me.” Sam stated, his face going sour with disgust. “And I will not be stopped.” He continued, taking a single step forward as he did.

“You killed the love of my life--. My best friend.” Dean swallowed, failing to notice he had dropped his weapon in defeat. “My wife.” He ended with a deep sigh, looking up to his brother with an even more pained expression.

Dean Winchester was a shell of the man he once was- and it was all due to his brother. His baby brother.

“Sammy, listen to me, this is the demons blood. You gotta fight it.” He urged desperately. As he did, Dean let his thumb trace over his wedding band- a tick he had developed to keep him calm. “Please.”

Sam smiled again, his grin wicked and unfriendly as he bore down on his brother. “Now why would I want to do that?” With a quick flick of his head, Sam got rid of the last remaining piece of his past.

Dean Winchesters neck snapped, his body crumpling to the floor.

Going down the remainder of the steps, Sam passed the body of his older brother, only pausing for a second to look down at him.

“Tell Y/N I say hello when you see her.”

And with that he stalked forward, leaving all parts of his past behind.

*. *. *. *. *.

It had been almost two weeks since your outburst with Dean. The atmosphere inside the bunker was tense. The three of you were each dealing with somewhat different problems. Sam spent most of the time locked away in his room, Dean was either drinking or just going on drives by himself. You on the other hand- well you found yourself wandering the halls of the bunker deep in your own thoughts or you were seated at a table in the library reading. Anything to distract you from the tension.

You still talked to Dean- even if it was just to ask a question or you were passing each other in the hallway. There was somewhat of an awkwardness between the both of you. Each time you acknowledged each other it was almost like neither of you knew what to do to make it comfortable.

Dean understood all too well that he had hurt you, and he felt terrible because of it. He wanted to apologize more than anything, make everything go back to how it used to be- he just didn’t know how to. His blood still boiled when he thought of Cas. Hell, he couldn’t even bring himself to utter his name. He knew he shouldn’t be acting like this, but that was how he worked - that was how he had always worked.

It was early in the morning when you had your usual bump in with Dean as you stepped into the kitchen. The two of you maneuvering around each other in silence as you both poured your coffee. You could have easily just left the room once you were done, but instead you found yourself stopping in your tracks.

“Dean?” You quietly questioned, turning back around to look at the older Winchester. “Can I talk to you?”

The was a pause, Dean slowly looking over the rim of his mug as he lowered it from his lips. “Uh, sure.” His voice almost coming out in a whisper as he leaned back against the counter.

You took a deep breath, eyes darting down to look at the dark liquid in your mug. “Well, um- first of all; I don’t want you to think I’m apologizing for yelling at you a few weeks ago. I don’t think I’m ever gonna apologize for that. “ you stated quickly, fingers tightening around the mug as you did.

There was silence again, you half expected him to fight back, justifying his reasons for why he acted the way that he did- but there was none. He took another sip of his coffee, setting it down on the counter next to him. He ran a hand down his face,for some reason finding it hard to look it you.

“But I am sorry for isolating myself from you- and from Sam these past few weeks. Our family is already fractured, I shouldn’t have done that.” You breathed, shaking your head quickly. You were going to continue but Dean stopped you, putting a hand up in the air.

“Woah, woah, woah, No Y/N.  don’t say that. We all had an equal part to play in that. It’s not your fault. Don’t apologize.” He shook his head, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He could see you were beating yourself up about it. He knew the look all too well from his own experiences. He let out a sigh, crossing the kitchen in a few strides. Once close enough he reached out to grasp your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not your fault.” He repeated, eyes locking with your own.

You nodded, giving his hand a squeeze as well. The two of you going silent as you looked into each others eyes. It was a good amount of time before Deans eyes darted away awkwardly, turning to walk back to the counter.

“I was gonna make breakfast. You want some?”

“Uh, yeah sure.” A small smile taking up your features as you watched him. “ You need any help?”

“Nah, I’m all good.” He shrugged, pulling out a pan before venturing to the fridge. A part of you felt dissapointed that he didn’t want your help. The two of you used to make breakfast together all the time. Singing terribly off key to music on the radio while you did. Sometimes even loud enough to wake up Sam.

Smiling at the memory you made your way over to the kitchen table, sliding into one of the chairs and nursing your cup of coffee. Now that the two of you had had somewhat of a conversation you realized how much you missed talking to him. Yes, you were still mad at him for making Cas leave, but he was still your partner in crime. You helped keep each other grounded.

you just hoped that your words were enough to get Dean in the right frame of mind again. You needed him to understand- more than anything. You had a gut feeling that this fight against God had only just begun, and if you were correct, everyone needed to be on the same page.

Twenty minutes later, Dean was sliding a plate of bacon and eggs across the table towards you before taking a seat himself. “Cooked the eggs in bacon grease. Just how we like em.” He shot you a smile before shoving a forkful into his mouth.

“You know me so well Winchester.” You sighed, pulling the plate closer and grabbing a fork.

“Damn right I do.” He mumbled, eyes falling on you for a moment before moving to the door. “Heya, Sammy.”

Whipping your head around, you watched as Sam made his way into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes. You gave him a small smile as he slid into the vacant seat next to you. You could see his eyes darting between you and his brother suspiciously.

“Here have some veggie bacon.” Dean slid another plate across the table. While Sam shot his brother a confused glare you were sending him more of a scolding glare, knowing full well that it wasn’t veggie bacon.

“What?”

“You’ve been asking for it.” Dean countered, biting into his own piece of bacon.

“Yeah, but every time I do, you say- and I’m quoting I don’t want any of that hippie, grass eater crap in the meat mans kitchen.” Sam finished slowly, his brain clearly still trying to wrap around the whole thing.

Upon hearing what Sam had just said your own brain had a disconnect, making you inhale coffee down the wrong pipe, proceeding to make you cough midway through your sip of coffee. Both brothers turning their heads to give you a worried glance.

“And for what it’s worth, you gotta stop calling yourself the Meat Man.” Sam continued, throwing a slightly disturbed look at his brother. “It doesn’t mean what you think it means.” He stated, raising his eyebrows.

You were trying desperately to suppress your laughter, keeping your coffee mug held up to your lips in a half assed attempt to hide it.

of course Dean would call himself the Meat Man.

Dean let out a light breath, somewhere between a huff and a laugh, a short period of silence settling right after. “Uh, yeah it does.” He countered.

Don’t laugh Y/N. Don’t laugh.

“Anyways it’s not that bad, give it a shot.”

Sam shook his head with a smile, “no- I’m good.” With that he was pulling out a book, trying to get away from the attention on him.

You could see The cogs in Deans head moving, processing. He knew Sam wasn’t doing well. You expected him to say something about it but he didn’t. You studied Deans features with a small frown. He looked tired. He looked so so tired. Seeing him like this broke your heart all over again.

“Well, anyways I think I found us a case.” Dean tried, flipping the computer around to face you and Sam. “In the last month there has been over a few dozen cattle mutilations in Beaver dale, Iowa.” Trying to busy himself, Dean slid out of his seat, grabbing his coffee cup and silently gesturing for you to hand yours over as well so he could refill it.

“So? It could be a mountain lion.” Sam countered, shrugging as he kept his eyes on the pages of his book.

“Well, three days ago the body of a girl was found. Sounds like our sort of thing. We should go check it out.” Dean returned to the table, handing you back your now full cup of coffee, giving you a small wink as he passed it over. Quickly thanking him, you brought it to your lips again, attempting to hide the faint blush crawling up your face.

“I’m down. I need to get back into the game anyway. Apparently I’ve become rusty with my skills.” You confessed, mind bouncing back to when you were thrown around like a rag doll by a vengeful spirit.

With a little persuasion the younger Winchester finally agreed. You and Sam staying seated at the table as Dean walked out of the room, leaving to go pack. As he did you failed to notice Sam reaching for the bacon. It was too late to warn him as he bit into the piece. You watched with a grimace as he spit it back onto the plate.

“Dean! This is real bacon!”

Deans figure quickly appeared in the doorway again. “You’re damn right it is!” He thrust a finger out to point at Sam, his other hand still gripping his coffee. He then used his thumb to point back at himself, still very serious. “Meat Man!”

You and Sam sat in confusion, staring at the doorway Dean had disappeared through. There was silence for a good minute as you tried to come up with words.

“Why- why is your brother so goddamn weird?” You questioned. Sam let out a huff, shaking his head.

“I honestly don’t know. I stopped trying to figure that out years ago.” A smirk crossed his features as he looked over at you, seeing a wide smile on your face.

You loved Dean. It was incredibly easy to see. Hell, anyone could see it if they had functioning eyes. Sam was grateful that you were back. Dean needed something good in his life, and this was it.

Taglist:

@my-proof-is-you​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​ @iluvyewman-blog​ @familybusinesswritingbro​ @a-crowd-of-newsies​ @a-dorky-book-keeper​ @heyyy-hey-babyyy​ @orphiceseum​ @greenarrowhead​ @thevelvetseries​ @carryon-doctor-lock @jxackles​ @ryansgirl5509​ @misspygmypie​

[aithrauniverse]

Chapter 19-Astra

As the others worked to revive Laila, I backed away to somewhere far, far away from the beast, keeping my eyes trained on the fire opal on its face, and thickening the monster’s light-cage.

The beast roared and plunged into the shield, but it was thrown back with such great force that it landed inches away from the other side of the shield – and that was saying a lot, considering how HUGE I’d made that shield. Hm. Perhaps I should’ve made it less spacious.

Despite that disappointment, the beast still ran straight at the shield again, only to be slammed onto its rear end again.

And it kept the pattern going – run, crash, BANG!

“Got you,” I whispered, “you’re STUBBORN!”

And if I was right, this beast would never give up until it succeeded in doing something the exact way it was going about doing it.

A plan started to form in my head – and a slow smile spread across my face – until I realised what I had to do to execute it.

“Oh, crap.” I breathed, suddenly feeling a million times smaller.

Endra’s face – the sallow, pale face she’d worn in the chamber beneath the hydra’s egg – flickered before my eyes. And she’d rattled those massive chains and said – she'd said - “and now – this is where I remain, cursed never to see the sun rise again.”

“NO!” I bellowed, my breaths coming in short, quick gasps.

I didn’t care what it would take to get that tiny opal on its face. As long as it died – as long as my friends got out of here safely to rescue Endra – even if I... died, it would be worth it.

With that cheerful thought, I scrambled over to the others. “Get far, far away from here – carry Laila, or something. Don’t - don’t go anywhere near me – it won’t be safe. And stay AWAY from the beast. If anything happens-” my voice closed off, and I had to choke the next few words out, “ - leave without me. Just go and free Endra.”

When Aithne and Evan immediately opened their mouths to argue, I held a hand out to shush them. Grasping Aithne’s hand, I looked her straight in the eye. “Please - you know how much Endra helped us. Promise me – promise me, she’ll see the sun again. Don’t - don’t let evil steal another of our loved ones.”

Aithne froze, and I knew she was thinking about her father. I nodded, squeezing her hand tighter. “It’s horrible. But that’s just how some things are. Just please let me do this one last thing, for Endra. And – and Almoria.”

The beast gave another mighty roar, and Aithne snapped out of her daze. She pulled away, and began to scoop Laila’s head up. “We’ll take care of it. Now go... and good luck.” she paused, seeming desperate as she whispered, “Is there really nothing we can do to help?” 

“Yes - help me by staying out of this, please. Only I can do this.” 

I turned to Evan. “Take care of them both.” He nodded warily, slung his quiver of bows back across his back, and turned to pick Laila’s legs up. They ran off into a clearing, and I got to my feet, trying to ignore the crazy way my legs were trembling as I watched the beast get hurled back from the shield once more.

Closing my eyes – allowing myself one final, calming breath, I spun my arm around, and a shield of purple light closed around me, followed by an indigo one, then a blue one, then a green one, a yellow one, an orange one, and a final red one.

Perhaps the full spectrum would protect me enough to be able to see Endra again.

I unfolded my wings and took off into the sky, stopping when I was hovering just above the dragon’s purple shield. Putting two fingers into my mouth, I gave a sharp, piercing whistle, enough to make the beast finally look up.

I forced myself to meet its glowing red eyes, fighting to keep my mind clear as it blew a huge tongue of flame out.

“That’s right... come for me... you know you want to...” I murmured, watching as the beast’s eyes flashed between its own violet shield and the rainbow of colours I was encased in.

At last, its gaze stopped on me, and my heart seemed to stop along with it. I held my breath as it bent its scaly legs, roaring as it poised to jump. With one mighty screech that didn’t seem to match its hulking mass, it leaped up, fire burning in its eyes...

And slammed into its own shield, which threw it back onto the ground in a heap of flailing limbs.

It howled, scrambling to its feet, eyes flashing with malice as blinding, searing flames escaped from its shivering nostrils. This fire was different – it was so, so scorching that I felt like my entire body was on fire, even though I had SEVEN shields to protect me from the heat.

I screamed, thrashing in mid-air as I fought to add more shields, my skin stinging and boiling.

Then, suddenly, as quickly as it had come, the heat disappeared, leaving a cold chill in its place. I clamped my mouth shut, and spun around. I found Laila sitting up with Aithne and Evan supporting her, far away from the beast and I, and she had her hands spread out. It clicked – she must have teleported an icy gust from the Antarctic straight into my shield. Or somewhere cold – for all I knew, she might have teleported it from the fridge in her house.

Giving her a grateful thumbs-up, I turned back to the beast, whose flames had disappeared. It was eyeing me once again, and I saw the fury and obstinacy in its eyes as it spread its wings and lunged for me once more, even as the shield slammed it back onto the ground.

Steeling myself, I raised my arms, and the beast’s shield dissipated into the air.

It must have realised too, for it gave a roar of glee and thrust its body straight for me – the entire hefty mass of scales it was – and I squeezed my eyes shut, a few terrified tears leaking from them as I curled myself up into a ball.

When the beast struck my arsenal of shields, they vibrated so violently that I was sure they would crack under the strain – but then everything stilled, and the only sound was an agonized wail from the beast.

I forced my eyes open, panting as I watched the beast stumble to its feet again, and slammed into the shields again.

And again,

And again.

My shields held strong, and they shook less and less each time the beast collided with them. Clearly, the beast’s initial ability to talk – and think – had disappeared, leaving behind a savage, mindless shell.

Too bad it hadn’t lost its powers as well – with each collision, it screeched and hissed out a bunch of flames that made me insanely grateful for Laila’s cold breezes.  

After the beast had crashed into the shields two more times, I finally realised, smacking myself, that we needed to get this over before the equinox. I looked down at my watch – ten minutes left.

Which meant it was time for me to complete the plan – do the one final thing that might – or might NOT – end this all.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I lifted the first shield – the purple shield – and the beast slammed its weight onto the indigo shield, which still held fast, despite losing its companion.

It felt like everything had disappeared – like I was watching everything before me as a high-resolution movie, and it was at the part right before the climax, where all the tension was building, up, and up, and up...

One by one, I let go of my trusty shields, and the beast ricocheted off the shield behind each dome of light I removed.

Until, at last, I was left with the final shield, glowing an eerie red just like the eyes of the beast.

With a menacing wail, the dragon spread its wings and took off, circling above where I hovered, the opal on its forehead glinting in the light of the fiery breath that it expelled.

Somewhere far off in the distance, I heard Aithne scream, “Don’t do it, Astra!” She must have caught on to my plan. The girl had a pretty big brain - but she’d always seemed unwilling to make good use of it.

Evan’s panicked voice pierced the night, “There must be something else – don't unravel the shield- “ he scrambled to his feet, reaching for his bow and arrows.

Before the three shadowy figures behind me could move, I snapped my fingers, and a ball of light knocked Evan back as another dome of purple light slammed into place over the three of them.

The three of them hammered against the shield, but it didn’t budge. Their pleas got louder and more desperate, but I closed my eyes, letting their voices fade to nothing more than a hum in the background. Satisfied, I turned my gaze back to the beast.

It wasn’t looking at me, however – the purple glow of Aithne, Laila and Evan’s shield had distracted it from me, and now it was focused on them.

The dragon drew itself up to its full height, and let loose a ground-shaking roar as it pivoted to face the violet dome.

“NO!” I screamed, searching frantically for something to lure its attention back.

Ignoring me, the beast started to charge towards the others.

I reached into my pocket, and plucked a petal from the lotus Aithne had given me, shoving it into my mouth. It tasted HORRIBLE – like bitter medicine plus vomit and your dear old granny’s daily vitamins. But as I choked it down, my mind seemed to take over, and it was through pure instinct that I swirled my right arm in a circle.

A dome of fire appeared, and fell into place over the beast.

The beast yowled in pain as it smashed into the fire, and rolled over, bellowing murderously when it saw its cage of flames.

Its eyes met mine, and when I took the flames away, it ignored Aithne, Laila and Evan - who were still screaming at me -, slowly turning to face me instead, clearly wanting vengeance.

“Come and get your revenge... You know you want it... I’m here...” I whispered.

Forcing myself to keep my eyes open, I watched as it spread its wings and headed for where I hovered with my red shield.

Slowly at first... then faster, and faster, and, a few meters away from me, its mouth curled into a smirk.

I clenched my fists, staring at its fiery opal of power closed in, waiting for the perfect timing to strike.

Finally, right before its gigantic head crashed into the light, I unraveled my fists, and the red light disappeared. I hurled myself onto its forehead, my eyes fixated on one thing only: the opal.

Reaching out a hand, I felt myself slam into a rock-hard, BOILING mass of scales, but I ignored the pain, my fingers grasping for the round stone. Once they found it - the icy cold surface cooling the blisters on my hand, I gripped the opal and pulled, and it snapped off the dragon’s forehead in a flurry of red sparks.  

Relief coursed through me – but it was quickly replaced by shock as the opal exploded right in my palm, while at the same time the dragon collapsed to the ground with a wail that sounded like a deflating balloon.

Within milliseconds, the shimmering opal changed from a harmless little gemstone into a hissing, smoking, burning mess that scorched my hand, causing even more angry red welts to pop up.

Shrieking, I flung it away, but another huge pile of flames burst up from it before it landed on the ground, and a shock wave knocked me away from the crumbling dragon.

I crashed head-first feet away from the purple glow of Aithne, Laila and Evan’s shield, the rough gravelly surface of the ground being the last thing I felt before the screaming and hissing all around me faded to nothing but darkness.

[claudelethtangled]

Chapter 7 - The Golden Deer // [Ao3 link]

When they threw open the door, the warm light of the Golden Deer inn engulfed them—followed shortly by the residents. Byleth took an instinctive step back as every person on the main floor rushed towards them, and Claude’s attempt to reassure her was cut off when he was affectionately tackled. Stuck in a headlock that he knew better than to fight, he tried to signal to Byleth that all was well and hoped she knew what he meant.

“Claude’s back!” Leonie yelled, for whose benefit Claude didn’t know since everyone had already seen him. She grinned when he performed an exaggerated wince at her shout, and dragged him the rest of the way inside.

Her red hair had gotten so long since the last time Claude has seen her that it was gathered off to the side in a ponytail. She’d gotten taller too, and she gleefully ruffled his hair once she let him go so the rest of the inn could get at him. They too were all visibly older since he had seen them last, and Claude had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat as they gathered round with smiles and cheers.

Raphael scooped him up into a bear hug that lesser men had died from, and Claude’s ribs creaked before he managed to free an arm and shove Raphael away just enough to breathe. With his lungs taken care of, he submitted to being affectionately crushed and called out greetings as the others laughed at him. Ignatz was trying to be polite about it, but all three girls were openly giggling over the fact that Claude’s boots were a foot off the ground; not that he’d ever accuse Leonie of giggling to her face.

Her caution having turned to curiosity, Byleth closely watched the entire exchange from where she was still standing by the door. Her grip on the sword had loosened and her head was tilted slightly to one side. When Raphael finally put Claude down, the blond noticed her gaze and turned to her with a grin.

“You want a hug too, miss?” He asked in his always too-loud voice, arms outstretched.

Byleth looked at Raphael, considered, and then—to Claude’s great surprise—nodded. Raphael gallantly let her keep her boots on the ground when she came forward, pulling her into his barrel chest for the relatively gentle embrace he reserved for his sister and Lysithea. Claude was pretty sure Byleth still got the air knocked out of her though, if her quiet huff of breath was anything to go by.

When Raphael let her go she stepped back towards Claude, but her stoney expression was soft around the edges as she glanced around the inn. She waved a hand in a vague gesture, and Claude leaned closer to hear her over the sound of the inn.

“Who…who are they?” Byleth finally asked him, her cheeks tinged pink.

“They’re the finest the kingdom has to offer,” Claude said more honestly than he intended, the lump coming back up in his throat. He quickly coughed a couple times, putting his hands on Byleth’s shoulders and moving her in front of him before anything else slipped from his mouth.

“Time for some belated introductions!” He called out.

“About time!” Hilda said, bouncing up from her chair to reach out a hand to Byleth. “Don’t mind Claude’s awful manners, he’s incorrigible. I’m Hilda, what’s your name?

“It’s—”

“—Far too long for such a short stay,” Claude cut in smoothly, hoping he showed no outward sign of the fact that his heart had just slammed into his chest, “I prefer to call her Sunshine, myself.”

Byleth seemed not to mind the nickname he’d given her, for which Claude was ever grateful. She simply nodded in agreement with his statement as Hilda pouted. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Lysithea frowning at them with narrowed eyes though, and he had to stifle the urge to look guiltily at the sword. Had the wrapping slipped? There was a reason why the white-haired girl was his chess partner. If anyone could guess who Byleth might be…

“You’re unbelievable Claude,” Lysithea complained, stamping her foot and nearly causing him to fall over with relief. “You give this woman a gallant nickname like that yet insist on calling me a kid?”

“But Sunshine is such an apt observation!” Ignatz lit up like the natural occurrence in question, leaning forward to inspect Byleth’s face. “Your skin is practically luminous somehow, and your eyes are so bright! Would you let me paint you? Just a sketch at least—”

“Ignatz!” Hilda shoved the young man away in horror that was only slightly exaggerated. “You do not just ask a strange woman if you can paint her, you sound like a creep!”

“Don’t worry, Iggy just likes painting! You can paint me and my muscles instead if Sunshine says no,” Raphael laughed, as Ignatz turned a deep shade of red and stammered out apologies.

The girls were still tsk-tsking over Ignatz’s comment as they assured Byleth that the boys were really just harmless idiots, and Claude was trying to placate Lysithea when a peevish voice drawled out from an upstairs railing and caused half the people gathered to turn towards it.

“I can tell from the ruckus that a certain someone of ill-repute someone must be back.”

Back ramrod straight, Lorenz looked down at Claude with a frown as pointed as his pale face as he tucked a silk rose into his lapel. His glare focused on the state of Claude’s tunic, fussily readjusting his own immaculate clothing as he posed at the rail. But Lorenz visibly deflated—to Claude’s amusement—when Hilda rolled her eyes, and his dignity took a further hit when Lysithea snorted.

“Oh, give it up Lorenz,” Leonie said, flapping a hand dismissively at him as the final blow that had his shoulders practically slumping. “Come down and meet the new girl.”

“By the Goddess, if I must.”

Something about the comment caught Byleth’s interest, her eyes flicking to Lorenz as her mouth opened, and Claude was relieved when Hilda unintentionally cut her off by loudly clearing her throat. Everyone stopped their friendly arguing yet again, Ignatz physically covering Raphael’s mouth to stifle whatever comment was almost made. Hands propped on her hips and scowling at the now-mostly-silent inn, Hilda scolded them thoroughly on behalf of their “new girl”.

“Ahem! Now that everyone is done being too energetic, I think it’s time for proper introductions, don’t you? The poor thing has no idea who anyone is but me!”

“You’re absolutely right, Hilda.” Lysithea sighed and offered her hand to Byleth. “I’m Lysithea, and I’m the mature one. Don’t let anything Claude tells you convince you otherwise, regardless of my age!”

The others crowded around to offer their own names and contradict each other’s claims, cheerfully offering various hospitalities on behalf of the Golden Deer. By the time Claude managed to extract her, Byleth’s cheeks were pink enough that Claude wondered if they were going to stay that way permanently. She sighed in evident relief when he pulled her into the relative quiet of the kitchen though, and sank into a chair as he began to rifle through the cupboards.

“Raphael is setting you up in the room next to mine, or he will once they’re all done arguing in there” Claude called out, head in the cold storage box. “How about a snack while we wait? I can’t even remember the last time I ate today.”

“Yes.” Byleth was looking at the doorway to the main area when Claude turned, her expression unreadable once again. “Are they always like that?”

“Depends what you mean by ‘that’.” Claude started cutting slices from a loaf of bread after he set a pan on the stove. “Loud? Definitely. Friendly? Usually. You might have got a different welcome if you didn’t come in with me but I wouldn’t put money on it.”

Claude could almost feel Byleth’s gaze switch from the doorway to his back, and he fought to keep from visibly tensing up. If she was searching for something, he wasn’t going to volunteer an answer he hadn’t planned on. So he continued cooking as if he hadn’t noticed her watching, glancing over his shoulder to smile at her as he cracked eggs into the sizzling pan. But Byleth didn’t respond beyond a slight tilt of her head, so Claude shook his and focused on not burning himself.

When he handed her the toast, topped with tomato slices and a fried egg, Byleth took it almost mechanically. Her eyes dropped to her plate in vacant deference, and she stuffed the edge of the bread into her mouth without even looking at it; as if eating were a chore to be endured, rather than something to be enjoyed.

Then, as Claude watched with consternation, she froze. Her cheeks turned the faint pink it had been in the main room again, throat bobbing as she hastily swallowed the bite she had taken before she broke into a coughing fit. She covered her mouth with both hands, the sword dropping under the table. But she waved him back when he rose from his seat, so he sat back down and waited.

“So…are you all right?” He ventured to ask after a minute, once he was reasonably sure she wasn’t about to choke and have her adventure outside the monastery be very short-lived.

“Mm.” Byleth nodded, and sipped from the goblet of water Claude had poured for her. “I…It was unexpected.”

“What was? The egg?”

“Yes. It was so different from what Mother used to make.” She shrugged, took another bite, and chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. “More…flavoured.”

“Flavoured?” Claude almost choked on his own bite of his snack, trying not to laugh and spray food everywhere. “I barely seasoned this! If you think this is flavoured, I should take you to my hometown someday. They have some truly tasty dishes.”

“They do?”

“Absolutely. In fact, come here a minute.”

Before long, the kitchen was in a state of disarray that was going to get Claude scolded within an inch of his life as he pulled out his stashes of herbs and spices for Byleth. He got her to smell and taste them as he described the food they would be used with, rattling on about how much more could be done in the kitchen than boiling or baking. Not even a taste of dried pepper dampened Byleth’s interest. The candles burned low as Claude talked long into the rest of the night, and even when his stock of tales burned as low as the light did, Byleth’s green eyes never left his face.

…Maybe he’d get her over the border after all.

[willow-salix]

Random bit of fun that popped into my head. Grandma Tracy + Selene + cooking sherry =

Selene checked the recipe again and nodded to Grandma. It couldn't be that hard could it, to be all domesticated and shit? She had many manly men that she had to cook for, not that she went in for all the "a woman's place is in the kitchen" stereotypes,  but she did think it was important that they came home to something better than their Grandmother's cooking attempts after a tough rescue, and this one looked like it would be a nightmare mission. 

She could cook most things, basic and homely she called it, having learnt baking from her Nan, although she did like to challenge herself now and then.

She had decided in her infinite wisdom that if she was capable of making simple dishes like lasagna, chilli's, soups, burgers, pizza's pancakes, breakfasts and the like, coupled with the fact that she was actually good at baking, she could manage to help Grandma in her mission. It shouldn't be that hard to make their boys some lovely fresh donuts, something they all loved.  Yep, that was a plan! 

Grandma Tracy had wandered back and forth while Selene was assembling the ingredients, flour, salt, yeast, eggs, milk and melted butter and insisted on helping, trying to add her own selections to the mix which Selene gently vetoed, hiding them in the microwave. It would be fine, with her overseeing the proceedings Grandma couldn't get into too much trouble, could she? 

Selene directed Grandma as they slowly added the wet ingredients into a big mixing bowl, one at a time until they made a relatively smooth mixture, then Grandma added that little by little to the flour, Selene mixing with her hands until they had a rough dough. 

She dribbled some oil onto the worktop, dumped out the bowl and began to knead the slop, gradually feeling it grow thicker and less gloopy, more springy. Damn this was hard work!

"Let me have a try, you youngsters don't know the meaning of hard work."

Selene stepped aside to let Grandma T take her turn, but within a minute the older lady was huffing as bad as Selene was. 

They tag teamed back and forth for a few minutes but her fingers were cramping and she was sure that she had inhaled so much flour she'd be sneezing bread rolls.  She went to wipe her forehead but her hands were so greasy with the oil she gave in. She didn't want to resort to cheating, but needs must. 

She whispered a little chant under her breath when Grandma made her excuses to go to the bathroom and watched as the dough kneaded itself, plumping up and down and flipping itself over as she washed her hands and settled down with a can of cherry coke. The dough flopped itself back into its bowl after a few more minutes and she covered it over and placed it on the windowsill to rise for an hour.  

And she promptly forgot about it, wandering off with Grandma to catch up on "The bold and the beautiful" a TV show that Grandma watched religiously and that had become Selene's guilty pleasure whenever she was on the island. 

Upon returning to the kitchen after learning that Chico was Marion's secret son and that Charlie's amnesia was fake, they found the bowl overflowing and the dough creeping its way towards the floor.

"Stupid magic kneading!" Selene dived at the dough, nudging Armstrong out for the way just as he tried to bat at it with his paw. "No! Bad cat. Leave it!" 

She cradled it in her arms like it was a baby, a big, messy, yeasty baby that was determined to get the fuck out of dodge. She balanced on one leg as she tried to hold it up with her knee, kneeing it like she was playing keepy uppy with a football. 

"Grandma, get a bowl! A big one!" She gave it a big push upwards as Grandma shoved a huge bowl under it, catching the evil, still growing blob. 

"What's wrong with it?" Grandma asked as she poked at it with her finger, diving back when it looked like it would consume her whole hand. 

"Nothings wrong with it, I'm sure it'll be fine."

Against her better judgement, and Selene wasn't known to be entirely sane at the best of times, she grabbed the biggest saucepan they had and filled it with oil, setting it on the stove to boil. Should only take a few minutes....  

She watched as the oil began to bubble and smoke,  knowing it was about as hot as it would get. Witches didn't like boiling oil, call her silly but that had always been something to avoid in the olden days, which was probably why she had taken the few minutes to kit herself out in a huge apron, Scott's spare bike helmet and a pair of Virgil's thick work gloves. Couldn't be too careful. 

She dug her hands into the dough, hitting it with her elbow when it looked like it might try to be the one to eat her before they cooked it. "No! Down! Bad dough!" 

She was sure it would be fine once it was cooked,  witches made everything a bit more lively, the boys could attest to that.

"Watch out Grandma, don't get too close." 

She scooped out a handful and rolled it into a ball then holding it at arm's length, dropped it in the oil like it was a hand grenade. Boom, the oil jumped up to meet her and she stepped back with a squeak of shock. Not good. Nope nope so much nope. Not doing that again. 

"Oh don't worry, it always does that when I cook too," Grandma shrugged as she crossed to the fridge to get herself a drink. "Keep going, it'll be fine."

After rolling another ball, which she caught before it rolled off the counter and across the floor yelling  'cry freedom', she sourced a pair of BBQ tongs to hold it with and dropped it carefully in the oil. 

"That seemed to work," Grandma encouraged. "Keep doing that."

Ball after ball followed and her roll, grab and drop operation was going so well she completely forgot that the oil was actually cooking the damn things. 

"Uh…little too brown maybe…" she fished them out and dumped them into a bowl lined with kitchen towel. She poked them, were they OK? 

"They'll be fine with some powdered sugar on them," Grandma proclaimed wisely, although Selene wasn't too sure. "Do the rest, that's nowhere near enough to feed my boys."

Grandma supervised as Selene slowly worked her way through the dough mass, which seemed to have lost its determination now she had effectively scooped half of it away, though it was still making a strange wheezing noise as it attempted to grow some more. She'd soon put a stop to that! She quickly rolled and tossed more balls into the oil, having perfected her drop and duck technique.  Paranoid that she'd burn the next lot she got them out earlier...Perhaps a little too early, as they stuck to her tongs as she slapped them into the bowl. 

"Damn it."

"Jelly will fix them, " Grandma nodded sagely, "Jelly fixes everything."

Selene threw the last of the balls, now looking slightly less ball like and more like lumps of dough that she was too fucked off with to fix, and began to search the cupboards for something to insert the jam inside the balls. 

She located a turkey baster that Parker had insisted they needed to cook a decent Christmas dinner, and that Alan had secretly been using to squirt the Gordon with. Selene had filled it with whisky that one time and used it to fire at Scott from opposite ends of the couch in an attempt to reach each others mouths. She grinned at the memory.

As if reading her mind- maybe she was a witch too- Grandma vanished and reappeared with half a bottle of cooking sherry. 

"Would you like a little taste? I find it helps me relax sometimes when I'm cooking, you're too tense."

Well, that might explain a few of Grandma's more adventurous dishes. 

Selene looked at the bottle, she could actually do with a little of that right now. She held out her coke can and Grandma poured a healthy splash into the remains of her coke.

"Don't tell John," Selene warned as she gulped down some of the drink for strength as she faced the fried dough balls she was supposed to fix. 

She grabbed a pot of smooth jam out of the cupboard and sucked some up into the baster -not that easy to do it turned out- and holding one of the cooked balls she stabbed it with the end of the rubber syringe. It went right through.  

"Shit!" 

She tried again, splitting another one. 

"Fuck!" 

"Language, Selene!" 

"Sorry, Grandma."

"Let me try," Sally managed to get the tip in one and squirted a generous amount into the donut. But didn't count on the force of her squeezing making the donut shoot off the end and fly across the room to smack Armie in the eye.

"Fuck!" 

"Grandma!" Selene was shocked, but had the terrible urge to giggle. 

Sorry," Grandma apologised, both to Selene and the cat, trying again.

                                    ***

The bowl was a jammy,  powdered sugar covered, slightly oily mess and Selene was on her third can of sherry and coke and honestly, she no longer really gave a shit. 

Who's stupid idea had this been? It was the thought that counted right? 

Grandma had given up over an hour ago and gone to bed, knowing the boys would be heading home soon and Selene desperately needed a shower. She had jam in her hair, sugar sticking to her hands and she'd lost the will to live. 

She plonked the bowl in the middle of the kitchen counter. 

"Sexy spaceman of mine," she texted, "sorry they look like shit…yeah, can't really explain what happened there…but I'll be naked in bed if that helps." She snapped a picture to go with it and called it good, promising to clean up in the morning. 

And she wound her way on slightly unsteady feet,  up the stairs and into the bathroom to shower off the remains of her one and only attempt to cook something you could buy easier,  promising herself a trip to Krispy Kreme in the very near future, and flopped on the bed wrapped in nothing but a towel. 

                                       ***

"John?" Gordon stared at the text that had popped up on all their comms less than 30 seconds ago. 

"I don't even know."

Their brother's long suffering, defeated tone just made the whole thing even funnier. 

"Think you had better get down here, bro," Virgil chuckled. "We'll be home in five."

"Yeah, that's probably wise," Scott added. 

Even EOS seemed to find the whole situation amusing, which in itself was a little bit worrying, as John rode the elevator down to the island. 

Alan and Gordon were staring at the bowl as if it might explode any minute. John spotted the empty sherry bottle in the sink and sighed. 

"Grandma got the sherry out." 

"That's not good," Scott agreed as he too entered the war zone, formerly known as the kitchen, his eyes taking in the precariously piled bowls, the flour that coated every surface, the oil patch that Alan almost slipped in and the grease splattered stove top, the pan of oil sitting abandoned. His bike helmet was on one of the stools and one of Virgil's gloves peeked out from the bottom bowl of the stack, though it was so covered in dough you could barely tell what it was. 

Virgil brought up the rear, his nose wrinkling at the slightly smokey, oily smell that hung in the air. 

"Dare you to eat one," Gordon nudged Alan. 

"Hell no! John should, it's his girlfriend that made them."

"Fiancée," John automatically corrected, poking gingerly at the contents of the bowl. "And no, I don't think so."

"Scott, you're the brave one, you like to take a risk now and then, you do it."

"Like the rescue wasn't risky enough? No way. Virg, you try, it's like modern art, appreciate it."

"Nope, I like my taste buds where they are, Gordo, you do it, it was your idea."

Gordon paled as he looked into the bowl. "All of us?" he asked hopefully. 

The boys exchanged glances and then one by one they all reached into the bowl, their competitive streak unable to resist, selecting the least offensive looking offerings. 

"On three?" Scott confirmed. "One…two…three!"

As one they all tossed their donuts into their mouths, chewing madly, their faces contorting into identical grimaces of horror and disgust. 

Alan raced to the trash can, opening his mouth to let the offending evil drop out of his mouth. 

"Urghh, it was raw inside," he shuddered. 

Gordon followed suit, spitting his out. "Mines burnt."

Virgil managed to swallow his. "Mine was all sugar which pretty much hid everything."

Scott had a dribble of jelly running down his chin to drip onto his uniform, his mouth hanging open as if he didn't dare close it again. Virgil handed him a paper towel and he grateful spat out the offensive food.

"My God, that was foul."

They all looked at John, who was still chewing his dough ball, now matter how much he worked it, it never got any smaller. In the end he too gave up and spat it into the trash. "It was like trying to eat a rubber ball."

Virgil tossed the remains into the trash to spare Kayo and Brains the same horror. "At least they tried."

Too tired to actually be bothered with real food, Scott handed round some bowls and Virgil grabbed a box of cereal and some milk.

They all ate quickly, eating in companionable silence, standing up, leaning against various cupboards and furniture, knowing if they sat down they would likely never get up again.

"Damn!" John moved suddenly, breaking the silence of the room, dumping his half eaten cereal in the sink.

"What's wrong?" Scott frowned, instantly worried.

"I just remembered the rest of her message," he was already running towards the stairs, "I've got a naked woman waiting for me."

Alan shuddered, gagging on his mouthful of cereal. "I did not need to know that."

[sweetheartjeongguk]

ramen & company

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: ponyo au, fluff, tiny angst (ponyo!hobi is a sensitive bean)

rating: pg

warning(s): mild mention of sickness, slight misunderstandings

word count: 2.7k+

summary: in which hoseok has a plan of revenge, but it doesn’t work out in the way he hoped it would.  

a/n: wow! it’s been what feels like forever! as an apology, here’s a cute hoseok piece to add to the studio ghibli au list! i barely edited this, so oops if there’s any mistakes.

also, disclaimer: i love park jimin and would gladly let him steal my ramen. 

masterlist | studio ghibli masterlist

In Hoseok’s defense, when he snatched your cell phone in the middle of the night to call your best friend Taehyung at 3 in the morning to tell him of his genius plan, Taehyung was all for it. 

As in he mumbled something unintelligible and Hoseok, being ever-so fluent in slurred Taehyung speech, translated “Hhgggh” into “Yeah, totally! Go for it!” 

That morning when you ask him why there was an outgoing call to Taehyung in your phone log, Hoseok simply shrugs and says “Maybe you did what humans call “buttock dialing”. 

Sure, when he asked the mailman for his advice, the mailman just shook his head and muttered under his breath about not being paid enough, followed by a very strange word that he’s never heard before. When he asked you for its definition, you cover his mouth with your hand and threaten him with a bar of soap. 

Hoseok shoves his face into his crossed arms, cheeks chubbing up as his lips draw into a cute pout. He wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for you and stupid Park Jimin. 

Park Jimin with the cool leather jacket, Park Jimin with the swoopy hair and cute smile. Park Jimin with the early morning coffees and breakfast burritos. 

Worst of all, Park Jimin with the at-home ramen dates. 

With Hoseok’s ramen. Hoseok’s.

If his citrus-colored hair could burn even brighter from jealousy (disguised as Shin ramen-fueled anger), it would compete in first place with the surface of the sun. You have barely noticed his grumpy behavior all week, being too busy with work and He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named - you still think Hoseok’s talking about Voldemort, having overheard him speaking to himself in his room. It’s a miracle that you still haven’t been bothered by his incessant scoffing and stomping about his room.

Hoseok hasn’t been part of your life for that long, having taken residence in your shoddy house on the beach for three months. But the months that he’s been in your life has been some of the happiest you’ve ever had. You’d never expected that a tiny orange guppy washed up on the shore inside a mason jar would transform into the bright ball of energy living in your guest room. 

When you introduce him to people, you never know quite what to say. How would they react if you told them the truth about him being a “magic fish”? You’ve decided that you’ll just deal with the strange looks and hushed whispers about your “scandalous endeavours in the bedroom” and “penchant for living with strange men”. 

Martha from Accounting really does not know how to whisper quietly. 

Regardless of the stares and backhanded comments from your coworkers and family members, Hoseok’s completely and utterly in love with human life. Living sheltered in his underwater home by his father, he’s been adamant about trying everything all at once. You’ve tried to calmly remind to take one day at a time, but the sweet pout on his face is enough to shut your mouth and simply go with the flow. 

“Y/N, are you coming home early today?” Hoseok peeks his head around the doorframe into your bedroom where you’re getting ready for work. He tries not to flush too hard at the appearance of you in your silk bathrobe daintily applying cream and makeup to your skin. 

“Hmm, I might be. I’ll have to see first if I’m still on with Jimin for this thing later.” You answer absentmindedly, oblivious to the growing grimace on Hoseok’s face. “He asked for some ramen earlier before we head out to the skating rink so I might grab some packages for him before I head out again later.” 

“You hate skating.” 

You turn your head to look at Hoseok who’s busied himself with staring at the ground with a sudden interest. You shrug your shoulders. “I’ve never tried before.” 

“Yes, you have.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “When?”

“Remember when you told me that you tried when you were a kid and you said that you didn’t like it because you fell down and nearly broke your ankle?” Hoseok rushes out in one breath. Your eyes widen - you completely forgot about that.

“Oh wow, I completely forgot.” You laugh awkwardly. “I guess that I just threw that out of the window when Jimin asked me. But still doesn’t mean that I’m still not interested in trying again. After all, I was just eight when it happened.” 

“Well…” Hoseok stops himself before he could utter out his true feelings. “I hope...you have fun then.” 

You want to smile and thank the boy, but he’s already turning away and rushing down to his bedroom. You wince when you hear the door slam shut a little too roughly. 

“Just a bad day...I hope.” You mumble to yourself. You really hope so. 

Hoseok’s still in his room when you begin to make your way downstairs for work. You settle for a quiet knock on his door with a muffled message of “I’ll see you later.” It’s quiet inside, but you can hear his little feet across the wooden floor and a tiny knock from the other side. 

You can’t help but smile at the sound. Behind the door, so does Hoseok. 

The orange-haired boy watches sadly as your car pulls out of the driveway and onto the asphalt, disappearing into the distance behind the cluster of trees lining the road. Deep down, in the most selfish parts of Hoseok’s being, he wishes that you’d just turn back home and spend the rest of the day with him. Maybe your boss won’t need you for the entire day and instead send you home for an early vacation. Maybe (more like hopefully) Park Jimin will cancel on your “date” and you’d have to share the ramen with him instead! 

A comforting warmth blossoms inside his chest as he remembers the first time he tried ramen. It had been the second night of him staying at your house, and he still wasn’t accustomed to a human body. His limbs were too long on the small twin sized bed you provided him, and his stomach growled every two seconds after failing to be satisfied with the bland meal options you had in your fridge. 

Luckily, you had one last option left - two packets of ramen left in the back of your pantry, thankfully still early before its expiration date. He watched in awe as you cooked the noodles in the boiling pot of water, adding eggs and bits of ham into the broth. Hoseok had been too overly excited about the delicious and novel smell of ham that he had nearly burnt all of his taste buds off as he dug into the bowl. 

Since then, Hoseok’s been obsessed with the delicious noodle dish. He’s gained quite the collection since then, even having his own shelf in the pantry for his ramen pile. But ever since Park Jimin came barging into your life, that collection has slowly diminished.

All thanks to the stupid ramen stealer. 

“This will show him.” Hoseok whispers as he settles at the dining table and grabs his favorite pair of chopsticks.  “No more eating my ramen. No more stealing my Y/N.”

“No, really, Taehyung really said that!” You suck in a deep breath as you try to calm your shaking body from your laughter. “It took me an entire hour just to apologize to the customer and reassure that her son’s “big head” wasn’t a sign of a deadly illness. Taehyung just stood in the back laughing at me when her son kicked me in the leg.”

Jimin giggles cutely, nudging your side as you make your way up the stairs to your front door. “I have to meet Taehyung. I feel like he and I will get along quite well.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. He’s going to make you into another one of him, and then bye bye to the Jimin I know and love.” You say sarcastically. 

“Hmm, is he cute though?” Jimin asks only half jokingly. “Because my last date that you hooked me up with, uh, didn’t make the cut.”

You wince. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was going to bring his bonsai tree on the date. I thought Bonsai was the name of his dog or something.” 

“Uh huh, consider this ramen you’re giving me as recompense for your bad taste in men.” Jimin glares playfully. “Oh, speaking of ramen, are you sure Hoseok’s okay with me taking the last packages?”

You sigh. You still haven’t been able to figure out the cause of Hoseok’s bad mood today, but hopefully he’s cooled down since this morning. “It’ll be fine. I have to make a trip to the grocery store soon anyway, so I’m sure he’ll live. He practically has it for breakfast every week.”

Jimin follows after you as you open the front door and kick your shoes off. It’s eerily quiet in the house. Around this time, it’s normally filled with Hoseok’s excited shouts from his room upstairs followed by his rapid footsteps down the stairs to greet you. 

But now? Just silence. 

“Hoseok, I’m home! Jimin’s here too.” You call out, but there’s no response. 

“Maybe he’s asleep.” Jimin offers. You shake your head. 

“No way, his favorite show comes out at 9 PM, and he’s always up for that no matter what.” You answer, ignoring the curious look on Jimin’s face. “I’ll go look for him. Maybe he’s taking a nap.” 

You leave Jimin downstairs to check in his bedroom only to find an unmade bed and a scattering of clothes on the floor. Just as you make a mental note to berate Hoseok into doing his own laundry and learning the Marie Kondo way of folding, you hear Jimin shout from downstairs. 

“Y/N, he’s in here!” Your gut drops in nervousness when you hear the worried tone of his voice. 

Nearly slipping to your death as you race down the scarily steep stairs, you head in the kitchen where you heard Jimin’s voice. The lights are dim inside with only the small light in the tiny dining room left on. Jimin’s standing at the entrance of the kitchen with an uncomfortable smile on his face, blocking the view of your kitchen with his entire body. 

“Um, so good news is that I found him?” He cringes. “Bad news is I guess this means that I’m just going to have to buy my own ramen this time.” 

Your jaw drops open as soon as Jimin moves away, revealing the devastatingly large amount of empty ramen packages strung about the table and kitchen floor. Remnants of the seasoning lay sprinkled near the stove where Hoseok cooked, and eggshells and empty sliced ham containers litter the sink where Hoseok decided to throw them for the time being. 

Trailing your eyes back to the table, you stare in awe at the culprit of the mess. 

Hoseok’s whole body is sprawled about the surface, groaning quietly as in immense pain. You have no doubt that he most likely is, considering the amount of noodles and sodium he’s consumed in one sitting. You grimace at his pallid skin, slick with sweat and ramen broth. He’s just one noodle away from vomiting everything from his stomach onto your face. 

“Hoseok, honey, what did you do?” You try to ask gently, but it only comes out strained and slightly annoyed. “Were you trying to make yourself sick? What’s going on here?”

“N-N-No.” Hoseok moans. His stomach jumps even as he carefully lifts his upper body off the table and faces you, but he holds in the urge to throw up successfully. “I j-j-just wanted to-”

“Just wanted to what?” You frown.

Jimin’s still standing in the corner of the room, but once you make eye contact, he nods to the living room and silently makes his way there. 

“W-Wanted…” Hoseok looks down at his feet, crossing and uncrossing at his ankles and scrunching his toes up and down. He’s nervous, and having your eyes staring down at him with such heat is making him want to vomit from anxiety instead. 

“Hoseok, babe, you can tell me anything.” You assert with a sigh. It’s late at night and Jimin’s awkwardly waiting for you to finish, and you’re definitely not in the mood for beating around the bush about why Hoseok decided to consume a deadly serving of ramen noodles while you were away. “I won’t get mad at you, I promise. I just want to know why you ate all the ramen. Don’t you remember that I said I was going to give Jimin the ramen when I got home?”

Hoseok’s face instantly turns into a scowl. You mistake it for a look of “I’m-about-to-puke” and brace yourself with a stumble backwards just in case, but Hoseok just pushes himself around the chair with his back towards you. 

“Of course he’s here.” He grumbles almost inaudibly. 

“Excuse me? What do you mean?” You ask stiffly. “He’s my friend, why can’t he be here?”

Hoseok’s frown only deepens. “That’s the problem. He’s always here. It’s always him.” 

“What?” 

“Him. It’s always him.” Hoseok crosses his arms around his belly, cradling the tiny food pouch made from his impromptu mukbang in the kitchen. “You never have time for me anymore. Whenever I want to hang out with you, you always run away. But when he wants to do something, you’re rather quick about it.” 

You want to get angry. You want to shout at how it’s never always Jimin and that you try your very best to spend as much time with him as possible. 

But one look at his face, and you’re a goner. Kind eyes shimmering with tears, falling like jewels down his cheeks. Marred with sadness. Sadness that you created. 

“Hobi…” You try weakly. “Hobi, honey, how long have you felt this way? Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Hoseok sniffles. “Ever since you first left me to hang out with him. We were supposed to watch a movie together, and it was my turn to pick the movie. When I came downstairs to watch it with you, you were already out the door.”

You remember that day. It hadn’t been your intention to leave Hoseok all by himself that day. Jimin had an emergency he needed your help with, and it didn’t take much for you to get up your feet and rush out the door to help him. But in doing so, you forgot about someone else who means the most to you. Someone who you’ve been neglecting ever since and haven’t even noticed. 

“Babe, I’m sorry.” You lean forward to brush a stray hair from his forehead. Hoseok’s cheeks are flushed pink, but you simply blame it on the overeating. “I’ll try better next time, I promise.”

“You said that last time.” Hoseok whispers sadly, a teardrop clinging to his eyelashes. 

You wince. “I know I did. There will be times where I will say that but I won’t keep the promise.” Hoseok sighs deeply, but you continue. “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you anymore and that I love someone else more than I love you.” 

Hoseok feels something tickling him in the pit of his stomach. He fights the urge to wrap his arms around his legs and squish his face into his lap to scream. 

“I know my best sucks right now, but I’ll try even harder, okay?” You smile when Hoseok nods. “In fact, tomorrow, you and I will go to the beach all day, okay? I’ll even bring an entire picnic. Any food you want, I’ll get it.” 

You reach out to grab Hoseok’s hand, intertwining your fingers together and squeezing them tight. Hoseok takes in a deep breath, praying to the great sorcerers and witches alive to grant him the power not to sweat profusely from the hands. 

Hoseok’s mouth twitches into a weak smile, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly. “That’d be great. But…”

“But what?” 

“No ramen, please.” 

“Are you sure he doesn’t hate me?” 

“Yes, Jimin, don’t worry! I already went over everything with him earlier. In fact, he’s the one who asked if you and Tae wanted to come with us! He’s been wanting to hang out with you guys all summer!” 

“Then, why is he staring at me like he’s ready to slaughter me and my entire family.”

“Oh, that’s because you still haven’t brought the food over yet. After all, Hoseok loves ham.” 

[chrysalispen]

xvi. not otherwise can kind fires burn;

What a bloody awful morning, Briallaux thought.

Another day, another downpour. The days were starting to blend together like the rain that fell from the patchwork sky.

He squinted into the grey curtains of water, soaking wet and bored to tears. The Wood Wailers' perimeter patrol didn't stop for such trivialities as inclement weather, but it was a miserable godsdamned time regardless.

"See anything?" he asked his partner. The other Wailer, a Hyur woman, grunted and offered no other response - not that he'd expected one. He had tried for the last two bells to strike up friendly conversation, to no avail. 

With a sigh he turned his eyes back to the mudwash that now passed for a road. There hadn't been any illicit activity from beastmen or poachers to break the monotony, either. Just an endless sheet of rain, cold and unending as it had been for weeks. Like as not, the lancer thought with a sort of sour humor, the Ixal and Coeurlclaws all had enough common sense to stay inside and entertain themselves until the storm had passed.

"Say, what's that?" his partner said at last. She'd raised her hand to point vaguely in the direction of the northern road. Briallaux couldn't make out anything at first but after a few minutes had passed he saw the dark and heavy shapes dominating the road.

The two Wailers exchanged frowns. He tensed, reaching behind his back to grasp his lance-

-and the sound of voices -  a multitude of them - drifted into his ears. 

As the pair of sentries stood frozen and uncertain in their places, the caravan line of travelers staggered fully into sight through the silvered blanket of fog and rain. Briallaux's shocked eyes counted at least fourscore: bedraggled and filthy, some limping on foot, others huddled shivering beneath what meager protection they could find in the pouring rain upon wagon seats.

However, it was clear no violence was imminent. This was no bandit's ruse, merely a fresh influx of refugees seeking succor. Such sights had been commonplace; Dalamud's fall had leveled entire villages and their inhabitants had no choice but to flee. By ilms the Duskwight relaxed his tight grip on the lance.

"Da," a young woman's voice rasped from the slow-moving carriage at the vanguard, and he saw her: a pretty Midlander girl with chestnut hair, one of her hands wrapped in the chocobos' reins, the other clutching tightly at a pair of blanket-shrouded shoulders. They belonged to a man of late middle age, his face drawn and deathly pale, eyes glassy and fixed on some far-distant point.

Then, like a massive tree shorn of its roots by an Ixali logger, her tenuous grip on him came loose and he began to topple forward out of the seat.

"By the Matron," Briallaux swore, and took off at a sprint towards the carriage.

Ignoring the nervous kwehs of the draught animals, he knelt by the unconscious refugee to check for any injuries. The man fair radiated heat; it was like standing next to an active fire crystal.

A few fulms away his daughter stood before the chocobos, staring at him with stricken eyes even as she tried to gentle the frightened birds. He barely paid attention. His eyes fell upon the other sentry and gestured, then he pressed his fingers to the corner of his linkpearl. It worked less than half the time, these days, but they were close enough to the city that there would be a signal.

"Lieutenant?" he called to his superior. "Send word to the Quiver and the Fane."

"What? What's going on out there?"

He hadn't taken his eyes off the feverish man.

"We have a problem."

=

Miounne glanced at the water drumming against the windows and shook her head before pouring another spoonful of boiled oats into the wooden bowl. No use worrying about the rising river water just yet; surely the Wailers would evacuate if they deemed there to be any threat to the city itself.

Determined to set her uneasiness to the back of her mind, Miounne picked up the two bowls, her gaze scanning the tables in the common area. They were unusually full for this time of day due to the poor weather; there was little hope of continuing work on the aetheryte plaza or aught else in this downpour. She wound her way through the patrons and the soft buzz of conversation toward the nearly empty round table in the back, near the entrance to the inn proper. The prisoner she'd taken in sat there alone, save for the presence of the Twin Adder bowman assigned by the Council to watch her.

"Sergeant Epocan. Miss Laskaris," Miounne acknowledged, placing the bowls before them. "A good morning to you both."

"Frumenty again, I see." Keveh'to's ears flickered. The Miqo'te looked irritable and bored. His Garlean charge had procured a quill and ink pot from somewhere or other and was writing something down on a piece of parchment. Aside from a slight lift of her free hand she didn't speak.

"I've a kettle in the back for tea that will be done heating presently, but in the meantime I thought you might like to break your fast rather than wait."

He sighed.

"It's been naught but frumenty for nigh on a sennight, Mother Miounne, where's the rashers? The bloody eggs?"

"Not in the Canopy's larder." Outwardly unruffled but her patience frayed by days of complaints about the lack of rations, Miounne folded her hands neatly in front of her apron and fixed him with a polite smile that never once reached her eyes. "If you should like to go swimming in this storm to catch yourself a feral hog or to collect your own eggs, Sergeant, then I'd be glad to prepare them for you."

The Keeper coughed.

"I... ah, no, that's all right. I'll take the porridge."

"That's what I thought."

Though neither of them saw it, Aurelia stifled a grin behind her parchment.

"You've found something to keep yourself occupied, I see, Miss Laskaris," Miounne observed, changing the subject with barely a pause.

"Hm? Oh, this." She set the quill down and picked up a small piece of graphite. On the large page were several small sketches and matching paragraphs in ink, scribed in a painstaking hand. "Documenting the plants I've found in the Shroud."

"I see. You're an amateur botanist, are you, then?"

"Amateur gardener, more like, but I've been foraging on the behalf of the conjurers - with Keveh'to accompanying me, of course." The Elezen glanced at the yellow-clad archer in momentary surprise. She hadn't been aware the Sergeant knew aught of botany, though given Keeper traditions she supposed she shouldn't be that surprised. "I should like to learn more about the forest in my own time as well."

Keveh'to laughed at her, picking up his spoon.

"That why you started traipsing around the city, is it?" he managed behind a mouthful of porridge. "Here I thought all this time you were just bored, what with them setting you to work making field dressings for bells on end. Not that I'd blame you, mind."

"It occurred to me that perhaps I ought to start weighing my options." She stared at the words on her paper. "I do have a number of medicines and synthetic reagents stocked at present, but..."

Aurelia trailed off, noting the tolerant but only half-engaged expressions the two Eorzeans wore. They were listening, politely perhaps, but from personal experience she could tell at a glance when her conversation partner was or wasn't interested in the particulars of medical practice.

Most people weren't.

What she had meant to explain was that it had been years, literally years, since she'd had to craft her own potions. Basic mastery of pharmaceutical alchemy was required to sit the final exams from the Academy's medical program, but in truth all of the actual production of most medicines to be found in the Empire took place in the capitol. From there, the mass produced alchemics would then be transported by air to the various castra throughout the provinces and doled out to the medical staff at each base.

Even chirurgeons in the provincial fringes had the option, nowadays, of requsitioning their refills from the capitol, so she had not given much thought to it until now - now, when that was no longer a luxury afforded to her.

That knowledge, Aurelia suspected, would be needful before too much time had passed.

Miounne tapped a knuckle thoughtfully against her chin. "The Botanists' Guild is wanting for capable volunteers right now," she said. "If you like I can pass word along that I've an adventurer with an eye for the trade. I agree that it wouldn't hurt for you to learn more about the area - especially if you've a mind to start making your own potions. Folk who can do that are in short supply here."

"That's the idea. Do you know if-"

The loud snap of the front entrance door thrown open cut her off midsentence, and the graphite fell from Aurelia's fingertips and clattered to the table. Three Wood Wailers, soaked to the bone, came striding in without a care for the water that dripped all over the floor. They wore their customary masks to hide their faces, but the grim set of their lips was unmistakable. Something was afoot.

"Gentlemen, what can I do for you?" Miounne of course was the first to react, turning towards them with a polite bow (and partially blocking their view of Aurelia, who had not opted to wear her kerchief while her face was buried in her books). "Has something happened?"

"Aye, something's happened, all right," the tallest of their number said. He raised his voice, addressing the seated patrons at their tables. "Make your preparations; we'll be needing all able hands."

"Alfaut? What's happened?"

"I'd rather not explain here, Mother. Just that we require aid at the Blue Badger Gate, with all haste." The Wood Wailer hesitated, running his hands through his hair and shaking out a small waterfall onto the planks of the floor, and his voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "A runner's been sent to the Fane."

Hastily snatching her kerchief from where she had left it discarded on the table, Aurelia stood, rolling up the completed parchment to shove into the carbonweave bag at her side.

"Miss Laskaris, where are you going?"

"If they're planning to summon conjurers," she said, tying the kerchief about her head and concealing her third eye from view once more, "then there's call for medical personnel, whatever the issue may be. I should report."

Miounne answered firmly, "Not before you eat your breakfast."

"But-"

"If you're needed immediately someone will come and fetch you, and I am not sending anyone out with an empty belly. Eat. Both of you."

That mulish expression reminded her, keenly, of L'haiya. Brow knitting, Aurelia exchanged glances with her minder, stared at the place setting... then let out a sigh and picked up her spoon.

~*~

One full fortnight later the rains had abated somewhat, but the influx of people had not - and nor had the sickness.

The hastily erected tents stretched well down the gate path towards the embrace of the devastated Shroud. Although they had taken pains to stage the quarantine area well clear of the river while keeping the roads open for travel, people milled about on the path anyway: running supplies, engrossed in hushed conversation, Wailers barking orders.

Above it all, the pained groans and the frantic sobbing of the ill and desperate. It was all far too similar to the immediate aftermath of Dalamud's fall for Edwin Browne's liking. 

He wiped another handful of water from his hair and shivered, pulling his heavy yellow coat tightly about him. He'd spent the last moon on assignment in the southern Shroud, having traveled directly from the Carteneau Flats to aid in quelling the worst of the woodsin.

Like the others who had remained in the field as part of the Seedseer's entourage, Edwin had expected at least some time to breathe when he had gone to deliver reports to Stillglade Fane; needless to say, his arrival in Gridania two suns past had not proven the respite for which he had hoped.

The lanky man in his Wailer's leathers stood before him, patiently awaiting an answer. Edwin exhaled, sniffled, shook the water off his fingers.

"The flux has spread to outlying villages," the conjurer said. His voice sounded flat and dull and barely audible over the din. "You're certain?"

"On both sides of Baelsar's Wall, so our scouts say. I suppose it's small consolation, but we've reports the Garleans are likewise affected. Several of the Castrum Oriens garrison have taken ill as well."

"It does cheer the spirit to know 'tis not like we'll have imperials to contend with on top of the bloody flux, but-" Edwin gestured to a small cluster of refugees waiting outside the opened mouth of a nearby tent, "-this lot is surely coming over the Wall."

"Can hardly blame them, can you? I don't imagine the Empire will raise a finger to help them."

He didn't answer. His eyes had caught on a familiar figure: tall, slim, and blonde, dressed in a simple dalmatica and slops but still unmistakable by her height alone - though last time he'd seen her she'd certainly not been walking.

"Sergeant Browne, sir? Shall I inform Master Lewin?"

Edwin shook his head. "I merely spied a familiar face," he said. "Please do. The Wailers' assistance may be necessary outside the city before all is said and done."

The man saluted and quickly made his way up the path. That done, the conjurer wound his way through the throngs of civilians and soldiers idling near the tents to tap the prisoner on the shoulder. She gave him a bland stare in return before recognition dawned in her eyes. 

"Ah, Sergeant Browne," she said, with a warmth in her slow smile that surprised him. "It's been some time."

"So it has. I see your injuries have healed."

"For the most part, yes. Have you been here long? I've not seen you at the Fane."

"Duties called me elsewhere. I take it you've been working the quarantine?"

"Aye, I have." Her smile faded and her gaze broke away from his face to stare out over the line of hempen grey, edges blurred by the diffuse daylight. "We've lost nearly a dozen so far and people keep arriving every day. Anyone's guess as to whether it's the sickness driving it, or if it's part of a general migration south, but..."

"How many in the last moon?"

"Near two hundred."

"So many?"

"Gridania won't take them in. But we can't very well leave sick people outside the gates to foul the drinking waters so that leaves myself and a handful of novices to see to the issue, I suppose."

"Would you like company? I've been asked to assess conditions in quarantine. The Council is concerned about this spreading to the townspeople-"

"What they need to do," she said testily, "is send someone out to investigate the Shroud's water sources."

"Personnel is limited, Miss Laskaris. As well you know."

"Then they should revisit their priorities! There has to be something fouling the waters." Her eyes were unexpectedly bright; the sharpness in her voice uncharacteristic of what little he had heard of her thus far. Taken aback, he remained silent as she continued. "When should they take it seriously? When the townspeople begin to take to their beds?"

"You know that I agree with you, but what would you have us do? We've few options. I'm sure the Council has already advised that people boil their dr-"

"Boiling their drinking water isn't enough. Even bathing in tainted waters can sicken a body."

"The people here are not like to take it well if you tell them they cannot partake of the river's bounty."

"I should rather have people deal with the unpleasant taste of boiled water until the problem is resolved than to lose their lives. I assume this is hardly the first time their Council has faced such a problem, so they should know what needs to be done. I've no idea if the culprit is mundane or supernatural, but there are means enough to deal with the former."

A chill gust blew a small burst of rainwater into their faces and the pair grimaced, each throwing up an arm to shield their eyes from the rain now streaming down at an angle.

"Seven hells, the tents will wash into the bloody river at this rate."

"Here's hoping not. The last thing we need is another crisis." She glanced over her shoulder. "I'm about to do my rounds speaking to the new arrivals, if you'd like to do your investigation alongside."

Each of the stories they heard was the same, in the end. An alteration of small details here and there, but in most cases the people spoke of hardship, of devastation, and now, of sickness. They had come from all parts of the Shroud, on both sides of the border wall, and now they huddled in thin tents and windbreaks, pressed against each other for warmth.

"By the Twelve," Edwin muttered when they entered the final tent. It appeared all but empty, occupied by exactly three people. The first was a tall and lissome Elezen in conjurer's robes, her gaze upon the trembling shoulders of a sobbing Miqo'te, and-

He heard the Garlean's breath catch, in a soft and stricken *oh.*

Lying upon the cot, knees drawn up to his chest beneath his blanket, jaw slack and shaking, was a little boy - perhaps six or seven summers, at a guess. His hair fell in damp strings upon his flushed face and spilled over the meager pillow, and his ears lay flat against his head, tail twitching only the barest hint beneath his hempen coverlet.

"Sergeant Browne?"

This from the other conjurer, who had turned towards the entrance at the sound of the tent flap lifting.

"Ginette," he said, nodding. "This is-"

"I know who the prisoner is. Why are you here? Why is she here?"

Edwin narrowed his eyes at the chill in the woman's voice, but answered: "I've come to inspect the conditions in quarantine and Miss Laskaris was kind enough to consent to an escort."

"Well, you've seen what the conditions are like, now get her out of here. This is going to be difficult enough as it is."

"What harm can she possibly cause? She can't use magic."

"That's not the bleeding point, Browne!"

Aurelia had heard that scorn but barely took notice; she had become used to the cool disdain of the Gridanians over the past few weeks, and all of her attention was fixed upon the small figure lying prone a few fulms away. While the two conjurers bickered quietly she slipped past them to kneel at the woman's side. One of those small hands lay limp at the little boy's side, so she took it in her own. It was dry and hot.

"I... m-miss? Who're ye, then?"

The broad, lilting speech of Gyr Abania. Home.

Aurelia braced herself before looking into the woman's eyes, but saw neither recognition nor censure. So she hadn't guessed, then. "Pray excuse my intrusion; I'm here to assist the conjurers. This is your son?"

"Yes, miss."

"How long has he been like this?"

"I... he-he was fine until we came through the damned forest and now... he can't keep anything down but he won't eat and won't leave his bed. I-I don't know what to do!" The boy's mother let out another helpless sob, and even in the poor light she could see lamplight reflected in the woman's golden eyes, dark with desperate exhaustion. "Please, miss, my other sons were taken by the army. I spent all the coin I had left to buy us passage across the Wall and he's all I have left, I-"

Aurelia didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed upon that small, pale face, replacing it with another: a laughing emerald-eyed boy who had climbed trees with her, had learned his letters with her, let her drag him into all manner of pranks. Who had lain beneath the zelkova tree in her garden and-

She took a deep breath, dispelling the web of memories.

"What is your name?"

"Eh? I-...my name is J'nehda." The other woman swiped at her eyes with her forearm. "Why?"

"J'nehda, do you think you could go speak with Sergeant Browne - that man in the yellow coat? Tell him I said we need water."

"Aye, o’ course I can, but-"

"He's in good hands," Aurelia said, amazed at the calm and gentle tone of her own voice. "I promise."

She placed her other hand over his, enfolding them as carefully as glass. Feverish. Cracked lips, sunken eyes. The next step if he didn't take water soon, she knew, was organ failure, then death. He stood on the verge as it was. But if she could get him to take even a little water-

Pain lanced through her temples, a flash of white blotting out her vision for a good handful of seconds. Aurelia bit down on her lip so as not to alert the boy's mother or the conjurers on the other side of the tent partition, and tasted copper on her tongue.

||Hear||

Oh hells not this, not now! Why does this keep-

||Hear||

"What do you want from me," she hissed between clenched teeth, but there was no answer - not that she had expected one - and she had been blinded by its light. 

All she could see was white. White and an endless sea of faceted blue.

Her hands, clasping the boy's, spasmed.

||Feel. Think||

Think. He stood on the edge of his mortality. Needed something to help his chances. Aether.

But she couldn't, she-

“Imagine you are the water.”

This instruction, calm and soothing: neither her own thoughts nor that overpowering command. A voice, one that felt almost familiar. A memory. Like something

(someone)

she had forgotten.

”You must needs only imagine and believe. Once the will is applied, the creation becomes reality.”

But- no.

She couldn't.

She couldn't use aether. None of her people could use aether. Centuries of hardship, of exile, of wandering from land to land, shunned and invaded and tormented by their neighbors, because of it. The one gift everyone else on the star had, except Garleans. 

They couldn't touch aether, she couldn't touch it, it lay beyond their-

Crystalline blue, rippling like a disturbance upon a pond surface once still like glass. White heat hissing through her veins, a frantic levin energy that surged like the tides within her limbs. It surged and gathered and had nowhere to go but out. 

She let it flow through her arms, her legs, her face, the tips of her hair and her fingers-

-and pushed.

Something cool (water? she thought distantly) prickled along the small hairs on her arms. She registered a gasp, unimportant, barely on the edge of her consciousness, and let the water in her fingers flow into the small body like a mountain spring trickling into a pool. A steady stream of cold, and blue. And.

Life.

Her name, less spoken than shouted.

Something in Aurelia's chest seized with pain, thick and hideous and stifling, as though a hand had wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed.

"No!" That voice again. Rough. Immediate. Panicked. "Miss La- Stop! You can't-"

Her heart stuttered.

The water kept pouring.

She felt the small fingers cupped within her palms twitch. 

Once-

Twice-

“Aurelia!!”

-then black swallowed the blue, and she felt nothing at all.

[freckled-words]

Count The Teeth - Part Three

I get so wrapped up between writing and working (doing more writing than working, WHOMP) I keep forgetting to post the next update!!

Edited by @the-wild-ego​

PART ONE / PART TWO

Three peaceful weeks went by. Three weeks without NateMare popping into your apartment. Three weeks without being dragged around. Three weeks to just feel like life was somewhat normal again. 

That bubble of peace was burst in a spectacular fashion as NateMare woke you up in the dead of night. 

The lights were thrown on, and a body slammed onto the mattress next to you.

You woke with a shriek. You shoved yourself away from the body in a frantic scramble. Unfortunately, you’d been right by the edge of the bed.

You hit the floor in an awkward heap, bumping your elbow on the edge of the bed frame in the process. 

That bit of pain ebbed off some of the panic. 

Peering up at your bed, the rest of your panic was wiped out by a surge of anger. 

NateMare was on your bed. His face was buried in the pillows as his body sprawled out over the majority of the surface. 

Not giving a damn about waking the neighbors you yelled, “What the hell is your problem?!”

He snuggled deeper into the pillows, “Yell at me later, trying to sleep.”

“No. I will yell at you now! You can’t just crash here like we’re friends!” for good measure you moved to the other side and slapped his leg. It felt good to hit him. 

There came a rumbling growl from his chest. You tensed, thinking he was about to spring at you, or he’d make the chain do something.

A moment passed, and then another rumbling growl.

Inching closer to peer at his face, you found that he was fast asleep. The growls were his snores.

Throwing your hands up in defeat you left. Thankfully you had a futon for a couch. You were too tired to try hauling his ass up just then, you’d deal with him in the morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the smell of coffee that pulled you from your dreamless sleep. Cracking an eye open you found a steaming cup on the table next to you.

Beyond that you could see NateMare in the kitchen. Cooking bacon while he whistled a cheery tune.

Sitting up you squinted suspiciously at the coffee, then over at NateMare, “Either this is a fucked up dream, or I’m in an alternate reality.”

“Sorry for stealing your bed last night, I was half conscious when I came in.” He called back over his shoulder. He turned off the stove and put the frying pan to the side.

The smug smile on his face made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. 

“You’re beyond happy about something. You get laid during the past three weeks?”

Your little quip did nothing to take his smile away, “Yes I did, and it was good times, but that’s not what I’m jiving on.”

You took the cup of coffee and gave it a small sip. Tasted safe enough, just needed more sugar. The nectar of the gods warming you from the inside, you gestured with your hand, “Alright, let’s hear it. What’s got your engines running?”

“While you were here, being unproductive and pining away for me-”

“In your dreams.”

“I was researching. After a little quality time with my host, I took a lovely trip to Japan.”

Your tone dry, you asked, “You have a passport?”

He scoffed and laughed. Going back to the frying pan, he used the spatula to move some bacon onto a plate that had already been loaded with scrambled eggs and toast. It smelled delicious, and you knew your eyes just had to be begging for that food.

Which was why NateMare took that much more pleasure in sitting down on the floor and digging into the plate.

You slurped your coffee in loud protest.

NateMare at least had the decency to wait until he finished his mouthful before talking, “Who needs a passport when I can sneak into a suitcase, and then into an empty seat on the flight? First class is amazing by the way.” He gave a wink as he took another bite of his eggs.

Rolling your eyes you urged him on, “Okay, you went to Japan. Why? What was there?”

He put down his fork and held up a finger telling you to wait. He leaned down and pulled something out from under the table. It was a tattered notebook with a navy blue cover. You couldn’t even begin to guess how old it was just from the frayed page edges you could see.

Placing it on the table he answered, “This beautiful gem, is a journal that belonged to my host’s family. It took me forever to first learn about it, and then to find it stuffed into one of their storages. Bless mortals and their need to hold onto everything for sentimental value.”

You picked up the journal and with slow, delicate movements, turned the pages. The pages were filled with Japanese writing, “And you can read Japanese?”

“No, but I met a charming college student that was happy to translate for me. Among other things.” with a flourish, NateMare pulled out a small stack of papers. 

You took the papers from Mare with a quiet, “Ew.”

They were typed pages, appearing to be word for word translations of what was in the journal.

As you began to read you felt your brows furrow. When you reached the 5th page and its ongoing story you looked up at NateMare, “Is this really-”

“A legend of a monster resembling a family member, that frames them for the murders of a handful of people? Yes. This is that asshat’s origin story.” 

“Alright, I’m adult enough to admit this is some good work. But this doesn’t tell us where to find him.” You continued to read, entirely engaged with the content about the mysterious monster from the past.

While you’d been reading NateMare had finished off his breakfast. Leaving the plate on the table, he lay back on the floor, “I have a name now, and I know someone that can find people with just their names. I’ll have my hands around that leech’s throat by the end of the day.”

This was the best bit of news you’d heard all month, “Great! You have everything you need, and you don’t need me anymore, right?”

Your eager question hung in the air.

Each second that passed without an answer was too long.

“NateMare.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No.”

Throwing off your blanket you stood to glare down at him, “You have what you need. The deal, which I never agreed to, was to help you find him. You don’t need me to find him anymore.”

His eyes were closed with his hands under his head, “The research is done, but I’m not going vampire hunting without bait.”

“Bait?”

He slowly nodded his head.

“Fuck you. Go grab someone off the street and use them for bait. I’m done. You can’t keep dragging me around like this, I have my own life to get on with!” You were panting by the end, and despite your words, your emotions were still a mess that threatened to cause tears.

His eyes opened then. Each of his movements seemed slow and deliberate as he got to his feet. Standing toe-to-toe with you he tsked, “A life to get on with? What life? I kept an eye on you for a little over two weeks. Your ‘life’ consisted of work at that gas station, going to the movies on your own, and sitting on your ass in front of the computer. Maybe the odd screaming match on the phone with your father. Pathetic as your existence is, it belongs to me.”

He snapped his fingers, and you began to burn. 

You’d assumed the chain would be the source of whatever punishment NateMare would inflict on you. You’d assumed wrong. 

You felt as though you’d been dunked into a body of water set to boiling. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t scream. You watched the skin on your hands form patches of blisters in some spots, or dry into cracks in other patches. 

You were cooking from the inside out, shriveling and weakening your muscles.

Crumpling to the ground, the tears that you managed to produce stung your skin as they traveled down your cheeks and to your chin. 

NateMare crouched down to your level, taking hold of your chin he hissed, “If not for me showing up that night, you would be just like the other victims. Drained and in the hospital, possibly even dead. You’re done, when I say you’re done.”

Straightening he snapped his fingers.

The heat stopped, and your skin returned to normal. Sucking in gulps of air you fought the urge to begin crying. You refused to let him see you as the pathetic person he already thought you were.

“I’ll come to get you once I have a location.” 

Then he was gone, leaving you to wonder what you’d done to deserve this fate.

[cruelzy]

sincere guile

pairing: mysterio/reader

warnings: manipulation, dub-con 

notes: for kat bby ♡

“Good morning.”

“And to what,” comes the amused hum, “do I owe the honour?”

The low purr of his voice alone eggs you on to a hapless smile. Your thoughts rise to a crescendo that near mutes the radio, but you are not yet so far gone to ignore the shrill blast of a horn behind you. You imagine surging forward out of pure spite, parting crumpled cars like sea.

“I believe a certain someone owes me a date.”

“That was today?”

“Funny.” You give a dry bark of laughter. “You’re so funny. Hold on. I’m crying.”

He makes a noncommittal sound in the thick of his throat, and you can practically hear the eye-roll over the phone. “Sweetheart. I am the one who set this up, yes?”

You absentmindedly nod in confirmation, half twisted to look over your shoulder, before your brain catches up with you. “’mmhm,” you manage to let out, squinting against the curtain of water at your back windshield.

“Why are you really calling?”

You pause to allow an acceptable amount of irritation to bleed into your voice. “What do you mean?”

“You already know I always deliver on my plans.” There’s a brief chop of static before, “Ah.” Where he was previously nonchalant, glee now bubbles to the surface, spilling over into your ear like ichor. “You’re stalling.”

The car door locks shut with a soft click. “Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“That so?”

“You calling me a liar, Mr. Beck?”

“Well,” he starts, and you nearly trip over your own two feet at the sudden silk of his voice. He sounds positively sinful. “I do like to please.” Quentin chuckles, rich and dark and rolling straight through your abdomen. “Are you satisfied?”

The keys in your palm bite into the flesh.

Darling, you think. I feel a bit north the side of a typhoon.

Raw electric over wire, pandemonium drip drip dripping down to languidly fill your cheeks with sleeping anticipation. And all those thoughts crinkling like cheap plastic behind your teeth. There is hollow ground here.

“Not quite,” you say, very quietly.

The owl-eyed woman in the back left corner dips her chin in greeting as you step into the elevator. You smooth down your skirt and stare at the white painted glass panels, watching the way your image refracts against the glossy reflective surface. Varnish. Your head is hazy and cool, near swaying to the anxious pound in your chest. Relax, you scold yourself.

“Everything alright?” Quentin asks, just as you realize the average lull in conversation has become not so average.

“Of course,” you breathe. The floors continue to count up, your nerves drip drip dripping down back to ground one. Soon you will be fully emptied out. “More than.” When you laugh, your reflection smiles back, as if in secret.

Quentin says your name slowly. His voice is hard and flinty, and you know he’s finally figured you out. “Where are you, darling?”

“Surprise! I know you’ve been caught up at work so I decided to visit!”

“I don’t thin–”

You hang up with a pleased tap together of your heels.

You cover your mouth and giggle. The gaze of the woman behind you burns into the back of your head.  

Tempestuous. You’ve always liked the term tempestuous. Blustering and cloud-hung, something like an angry sky being held back by ocean. An upspring of revelation strangled in black water.

“Well here’s my stop.”

Doors open. Close.

When you step out into the hallway, it is disconcertingly silent.

You make your way into the odd darkness. "Hello?“ Confusion mixed with inklings of dread creep up your spine, trepidation lining your movements.

Hyper-attentive, your conscience suddenly screams in acute warning, but no amount of preparation can protect you from the abrupt grip that clutches tight onto your forearm.

You scream.

The force viciously tugs you back, back, spiralling directly into an endless abyss as a

door

slams

shut.

You hang up with a pleased tap together of your heels.

You cover your mouth and giggle. You’re dizzy now, for some reason. The woman behind you twists her mouth in pity.    

Tempestuous. You’ve always liked the term tempestuous. Blustering and cloud-hung, something like an angry sky being held back by ocean. An upspring of revelation strangled in black water.

“Well here’s my stop.”

Doors open. Close.

When you step out of the elevator into the hallway, it is disconcertingly silent.

You make your way into the odd darkness. “Hello?” Confusion mixed with inklings of dread shoot up your spine, trepidation lining your movements.

Hyper-attentive, your conscience suddenly screams in acute warning, but no amount of preparation can protect you from the abrupt grasp that clutches tight onto your forearm. You scream in delight as it viciously tugs you back, back, directly into a firm chest.

“Hello.“

You shiver against the mouth at your neck.

"Hey, yourself.” Affection quickly becomes indignation, and you frown. “How did you know I was coming?”

“You should know better than to think that you can surprise me, sweetheart,” The typhoon says, smoothly spinning you around in his arms to face him. You go to reply, but find your mouth going dry.

Quentin Beck is dressed to impress, all crisp and clean corners wrapped up in a crooked smile, moon-cold eyes raking down your form. It takes recognizable effort not to let your mouth hang open.

“My, my.” His smile widens into a sharp grin, teeth straight and white. “Aren’t you pretty?”

You clear your throat, hoping your breathlessness hasn’t shown on your face. “This looks like a choking hazard,” you quip, looping your fingers in his tie to give it a short loosening tug.

“And sweet too?” The weight of his heated gaze is a near physical thing. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” you raise your eyebrows, resting your hand on his collar for another second before backing off to give you both some space. You lurch sideways in the process from a split-second bout of nausea. Something is wrong.

He waggles his own eyebrows at you suggestively and you snort, shoving him in the side. “Behave, Quentin.” Nothing is wrong.

“Ready to go?” He asks, pressing the button for the first floor. You blink. When had you gotten into the elevator?

“Sure,” you mutter. “Just let me grab my umbrella.“

"Why would you have an umbrella?” He asks easily.

You frown. You glance down at your dry pants. He’s right. It wasn’t raining? Of course it wasn’t raining.

“Nevermind,” you say. It doesn’t matter.

On the way out of the building, you see the same woman from before. (Where had you seen her?) Something flashes over her face when you meet eyes, roiling like water over a boiling pot–guilt?–and she opens her mouth, as if to say something, but closes it instantly. She instead offers a curt nod to Quentin before disappearing from sight.

“I reserved seats at that place you like,” Quentin singsongs, drawing your attention effectively. You perk up.

“You mean the one with the–”

“–good alfredo–?” the two of you say simultaneously.

You gape at his audacity and he laughs, goodnatured. “You’ve only told me a thousand times.”

“Isn’t it too early?”

A police car whizzes by on the main road, washing you in reds and blues, neon against the black of deep night pressing around you. You startle. (Wait. Yes. Yes, of course.) It doesn’t matter.

Quentin looks more at home than you’d ever seen him, out here in the dark, the explosion of colours blinking in and out across his form only highlighting the cunning continuously bleeding out of his very skin. He is unnervingly still. Moving shadows converge around him as if drawn by magnet, and you think you wouldn’t be surprised if he turned and shed his skin right there, blossoming into some otherworldly thing. You can’t help the soft breath that escapes you. His eyes flick down to catch your stare, and he visibly softens.

“What do you see?” Quentin murmurs, uncharacteristically sober.

“I should be asking that question,” you say, equally as quiet. He may be looking straight at you, but he is entirely someplace else.

His mouth twitches. “The future.”

“How is it?”

Quentin trembles, smiling like a broken television. “Glorious.”

The world blurs. Your cheeks are wet. Why?

It doesn’t matter.

“Now,” Quentin reaches for your hand.

It doesn’t matter.

He brings it up to his lips with flawless grace, kissing your knuckles gently.

“I believe a date was in order?”

[who-gave-atlas-a-pencil]

out of the deep waters

A/N: Feel free to shoot me any comments/questions you might have about stuff!!! I love interacting with people and I’m gonna be writing more so I’m trying to stretch my legs a bit with drabbles and such. Either way, enjoy the story!

Read on AO3 for notes.

Summary: Crowley claws his way through the icy waters the way he once crawled out of hell, messy and desperate and using every ounce of his strength. His body aches, every muscle screaming for air or release or both. The moonlight glimmers through the water for an instant, just out of reach –

Then a hand breaks the surface and reaches down to save him.

—---- The night he’s discorporated by a frightened Irish Catholic boy, the sky is black and wicked and churning with thick clouds that block out the stars. Of course, some of that might be Crowley’s fault, an unfortunate side-effect of his growing irritation with the omnipresent ache between his shoulderblades. It’s like that one stupid question about the chicken and the egg that humans find so fascinating, except this one goes more like ‘which comes first, the soul-sucking pain that storm fronts bring him or the storm fronts he brings because everything bloody hurts and he’s feeling vindictive?’

Not that it matters, really. What matters is that he’s forgotten his sunglasses and his snake eyes glow golden in the night without explanation. What matters is that a boy stands before him, wide-eyed and innocent and blocking his escape as he brandishes blessings and a cross with a shaking voice, stepping closer and closer, pushing Crowley toward the edge of the cliff and the waiting waters below.

What matters is, Crowley takes a step too far and the ground disappears beneath him. What matters is, he falls.

—–

If even a few hours later someone had asked him what he’d been doing on a boat beneath a cliff in Ireland in the dead of night, Aziraphale doesn’t think he would know the answer. All he knows is that he happens, by some miracle, to look up just in time to watch as a figure takes one step and then another and then plummets backwards off the cliff to the icy depths below.

Aziraphale gapes for a moment, too stunned to react. Then he drops the Dickens he’s been reading in favour of throwing out a hand, fingers spread wide in an attempt to slow the figure’s descent. With his other hand he fumbles for an oar and begins to row.

—–

It’s cold. Scratch that, it’s bloody freezing. Crowley hits the water with enough force to almost black out then and there, except that he doesn’t because he’s not that lucky. Instead, he’s wide awake as pins and needles jab into every inch of his body and force the air out of his lungs, replacing it with the cold clutch of the lake. The water burns in his eyes and his throat, thick and brackish as he starts to sink. He’s turned around by the impact, can’t tell which way is up, and the darkness hides away any hint of the moon but the fact is that he’s conscious and so he has to swim, has to try.

So he does. Crowley claws his way through the icy waters the way he once crawled out of hell, messy and desperate and using every ounce of his strength. His body aches, every muscle screaming for air or release or both. The moonlight glimmers through the water for an instant, just out of reach –

Then a hand breaks the surface and reaches down to save him.

——

The first thing that Aziraphale notices about the stranger he pulls out of the lake is that their hair is red, gloating in the water like a sopping wet flame. The second is that they are dressed in a manner utterly inappropriate for a late night swim in a half-frozen lake. The third thing he realises as he watches the figure sputter and wipe the water from a pair of brilliant gold eyes is that they aren’t really a stranger after all.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is too shocked to hide his surprise and so the word drips with it instead, much the same way Crowley is dripping on the bottom of the boat where the Dickens had been resting only moments before. Rather than responding, Crowley turns and retches over the side of the boat. The way he coughs reminds Aziraphale of plague victims, and he half-expects to see blood on Crowley’s lips when he finally, finally starts to breathe again.

Strands of vomit and salive hang from his mouth. Crowley spits over the side and wipes the remnants away with the back of a hand. Then he slumps against the side of the boat like an exhausted puppet and closes his eyes. “Hello angel,” he rasps. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, a bit dumbly. “What on Earth are you doing jumping off a cliff?”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise. “Wrong place, wrong time. Old habits die hard. You know.” Aziraphale’s just about to say that no, he doesn’t know, because Crowley’s making about as much sense as that whole manifest destiny business Americans got into a century back when he sees the demon shudder, pulling into himself and gripping his arms. His clothes are sopping wet and pasted to his skin, hugging the sharp angles of his body as he shivers and mutters something obscene.

Of course, Aziraphale thinks, mentally kicking himself. Snakes are cold-blooded. Crowley must be freezing. The thought’s barely crossed his mind when Crowley snaps his fingers and the water dissolves from what he’s wearing, leaving him visibly drier but still shivering, swearing under his breath.

Aziraphale flinches. It’s not the language that bothers him. It’s the look on Crowley’s face – pained and irritated and guarded to an almost entirely imperceptible degree. Aziraphale doesn’t quite recall the last time he’s looked like this, but he knows Crowley well enough to assume that the expression means he’s had a well and truly terrible night.

(On the other hand, he’s not entirely certain he has any right to make assumptions, not after London. He thinks of the Bentley peeling off into the bombed out night and swallows hard, pushing down the familiar and faint churn of guilt in his stomach.)

Where his hands have instinctively moved to take off his jacket and offer it to the figure shivering across from him, the fear of rejection makes them still, fingers fluttering like unhappy butterflies as Aziraphale lets them fall to his lap. Instead of offering anything, he clears his throat and attempts to sound authoritative. “If you don’t wish to answer my questions, then I insist you at least warm yourself up,” he says primly, and reaches for the oars again.

——

Evidently, Aziraphale’s idea of someplace warm is a tiny cottage not far from the lake shore where he says he’s staying, though Crowley can’t even begin to guess why he would be there, of all places. Not that he’s particularly trying, really. He’s too busy being cold and miserable and frankly a bit perplexed by the way the evening’s progressed to give too much thought to Aziraphale’s motivations. So long as he doesn’t end up on the receiving end of another attempted exorcism, this will be an improvement on the rest of the day.

He can only get away with silence for so long though. It’s one thing when they’re in a boat or walking or otherwise preoccupied, and quite another thing when they’re sitting still, mugs of tea in both their hands while the fire blazing in the hearth makes light dance across Aziraphale’s face, highlighting his poor attempts at studying Crowley subtly from across the room.

The angel clears his throat. “So. Are you around these parts for vacation or temptation?”

“Passing through,” Crowley says, and doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s hard, looking at Aziraphale without the sunglasses. After so many centuries, they’ve become a sort of safety net for him, a means of avoiding inconvenient encounters with crosses while also keeping him from revealing anything, from having to see his own damnation reflected back at him in the angel’s eyes.

He realises, perhaps belatedly, that this is the first time they’ve been in the same room since the whole debacle with the Germans in 1941. Back then, Crowley had driven Aziraphale home in a mostly awkward silence, tipped his hat in farewell at the door and disappeared into the Blitz without another word. He hadn’t known what to say then, and he still doesn’t know now. Fifteen years is practically a blink at their age, but in this moment it feels like millenia.

“So,” they both say, at the exact same time. Crowley gestures for Aziraphale to continue, making a face when they do that in sync too.

Aziraphale’s expression distorts into a delicate sort of embarrassment. “We seem to be rather on the same weight lane, I’m afraid,” he says, somewhat sheepish as Crowley clamps his jaw shut. “Would you like to speak first?”

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment and rests his head against the back of chair. Satan, give me strength. “It’s ‘same wavelength’, angel,” he mutters. “Honestly.” A wave of fondness surges in his chest at the mangled idiom, but he shoves it down before it can surface. “In any case, last I’d heard we have nothing in common. I’m fallen, remember?” Nearly a century has passed since St. James, and Crowley knows it’s a low blow to bring it up in the first place but he still can’t quite stop himself, can’t keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice.

Aziraphale flinches, though to his credit he makes no effort to excuse himself. Instead, he looks at his hands and studies them guiltily. “That was a rather callous thing for me to say, wasn’t it? It’s not as if you would have forgotten or… I don’t know, become an aardvark.” There is a nervous edge to the way the corners of his mouth quirk up with a quiver slight as a ladybug’s wings. When Crowley looks at him, their eyes meet only for a moment before Aziraphale blinks and returns to studying his hands with a truly inordinate degree of dedication. “I suppose I should, ah. Amend that statement. Apologise, perhaps.”

All at once, the anger that’s been boiling in Crowley’s veins all night falls away to a low, pathetic simmer. “Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago, and it’s not like you’re wrong.” Just that you’re the last person I expected to remind me, he adds mentally, though he’d never say it aloud. Probably for the best, anyway, leaving the conversation where it is. He’s not the type to grant anyone absolution.

The silence stretches between them, languid and threatening, a snake sizing them up and preparing to swallow them whole. There is an elephant in the room almost ninety years in the making and they both refuse to shoot it, even if they both know that ignoring it won’t make it go away.

Crowley breaks first. “So. Dickens in the dark. New hobby of yours?”

“Fortuitous accident, really. I was reading and rather lost track of time, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale smiles, a bit shyly. “Quite lucky in hindsight, don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” Crowley echoes, with the distinct sensation that he’s swallowing his own tongue. “Will heaven be upset that you…?” He waves a hand in vague indication to his very obviously not-drowned self and their current situation. “You know.”

“I should think not,” Aziraphale says, his smile just a bit too quick. “It’s not as if they would have any reason to suspect I’d specifically saved you. I didn’t expect it myself, after all.” He quiets, his smile dimming somewhat as his eyes settle once more on Crowley’s face, searching. “Why were you plummeting off a cliff, exactly? If I may ask.”

Crowley shrugs. “New hobby I thought I’d try. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Too late, he remembers Aziraphale’s accusation of the holy water suicide pill and he realises what he sounds like, wincing. “Not like a staggeringly good idea. I’ve definitely had better ones this century. Can’t all be winners.”

“I would hardly consider atomic bombs to be winners.”

“You don’t actually think I made those, do you?” Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face and catches a flash of guilt and suddenly the annoyance is back in full force. “You know, you could actually give me some credit now and then.”

“Well, how am I to know? You take credit for everything. It’s been fifteen years. People talk.” Aziraphale huffs, adjusting his suit jacket impatiently. “You can’t blame me for logical assumptions.”

“Logical assumptions? Of course.” Crowley glares, his muscles tensing as he bites down on a bitter laugh in favour of an even more bitter smile. “Why would you ever assume anything but the worst out of me?” Outside the window, rain has started to pour down and Crowley’s only just started to get warm but he stands anyway. A snappy retort hangs off the tip of his tongue, thanks loads for the rescue, see you in a century when you’ve finished cleaning your hands of me, and he opens his mouth to say just that.

Then Aziraphale stops him. “Crowley, wait,” he says, rising to his feet as well. “Please. I didn’t mean to insinuate – I’m sorry.” The apology stutters off his tongue like it’s tripping and Crowley looks at Aziraphale and curses himself for it a moment later. The expression on the angel’s face is the most horribly, frustratingly genuine thing Crowley’s ever seen. That’s the trouble with Aziraphale. It always has been. The only thing that’s ever been able to rival the scope of his brilliance and capacity for kindness is his immense talent for putting his foot in his mouth. In the worst, most horrible way, Crowley  has to admit he can relate.

He sits back down, settles himself on the chair again. After nearly a minute of awkward silence, Aziraphale clears his throat, delicate, and tries again. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He pauses a moment as if contemplating his next words very carefully. “What I meant to say is – well, you really are terribly clever, Crowley. I simply don’t understand why you didn’t use your wings.”

In the silence that follows, the rain lashes the window with a sudden, angry force. A bolt of lightning splits the night and Crowley doesn’t see it flash, doesn’t hear the thunder. For a single, horrible moment, he is not there anymore. He is in a different cramped space, and there are several people on each arm holding him down and a gag in his mouth that tastes like rot and mold and ash, and there is a horrible wet sensation and a pain not entirely unlike the lightning, flashing white and sharp against his eyelids as he screams and-

“Crowley?” He blinks, and Aziraphale is staring at him quizzically.

Shit. Perhaps a bit too obviously, he shakes himself free of the memory and smiles, quick and sharp. “Oh, you know,” he says smoothly, “I just don’t think it occurred to me. I mean, I was a little surprised at the whole exorcism bit, mostly. Can you believe people still do that? Been centuries since the last one. A century, I suppose. Century and a half? Right, that reminds me – you wouldn’t have a spare pair of glasses around that I could borrow? I’d like to avoid redoing all this.”

He’s rambling. More importantly, he’s deflecting, and he’s doing it far less smoothly than he usually does and far less subtly than he would like to. He sees Aziraphale frown and feels his fingers twitch nervously at his side. “I’m afraid I haven’t much need for sunglasses,” the angel says, studying him.

Feeling pinned, Crowley resists the urge to squirm, screwing his face up with disappointment. “Right. Too bad then.” He stretches out, his arms bending at night quite natural angles, then stands again, his heart suddenly racing. He needs to leave now, before the questions start. Before the problems begin. “I ought to get going. Hate to get between you and your Dickens.” He says it with the exact sort of mocking tone that he knows drives Aziraphale up the wall, hoping to get a rise out of him, to manipulate him into agreeance.

Instead, Aziraphale sputters indignantly. “Get in the way of-? Crowley, you nearly drowned! And that lake was –it was practically freezing. There is absolutely no way that you’ve fully warmed yourself.”

“Part snake, remember? I adjust fast.” The lie rolls easily off his tongue, and Crowley shoots off a quicksilver grin, sticking his hands in his pockets to hide the way they’re shaking like an addict’s. He starts to walk, ready to leave with or without Aziraphale’s blessing.

Then there’s a hand on his wrist, holding him in place. Crowley looks down, and Aziraphale is there, bright blue eyes blazing with determination. It’s been years since their eyes have met without the buffer of sunglasses, and Crowley isn’t quite prepared for it. He forgets sometimes, how beautiful Aziraphale’s eyes are, like a cloudless sky with everywhere to go and nothing to stand in the way.

He wants, more than almost anything, to stay. But he’s always been good at denying himself what he wants.

Crowley pulls his arm free. “Aziraphale, don’t.”

Aziraphale’s face twists with an almost comedic determination. “I know when I’m being lied to, and I would very much like you to know that I don’t appreciate it.”

Crowley snorts. “You almost got killed by a bunch of Nazis over a mutual interest in books, angel. You’re not what I’d call a divine lie detector.”

“I am when it comes to you,” Aziraphale retorts, and oh, there it is, the inevitable moment when he says something that hits Crowley like a knife stabbed deep into his guts. He does it so casually, Crowley wonders sometimes if he even knows that it’s happening, if he knows that it means something when he says things like that and it is not the sort of thing one can drop into a conversation without expecting it to blow up like a poorly timed atom bomb right in their face. Crowley looks, and Aziraphale is staring at him, his shoulders straightened in an obvious attempt at authority. “Now then. I must insist you tell me why you didn’t use your wings. Truthfully, this time. Please.”

Crowley can’t help it. “Or what? You’ll put me back the way you found me?”

“Put you back-? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what exactly are you going to hold against me?” The smart move, Crowley knows, would be to stop while he’s ahead before he says one too many smart remarks and they really don’t ever speak to each other again from now until the end of time. This whole conversation is a mess of foreign waters and he has no idea where he’s going or what he’ll do when he gets there, only that he’ll drown if he isn’t careful and Aziraphale won’t even know he’s the one holding him under.

Aziraphale’s shoulders fall, defeated. “I don’t intend to hold anything against you,” he says softly. “I had hoped you trusted me enough that I wouldn’t have to.”

Forget foreign waters. Forget drowning, forget swimming, forget all of it. Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face, and he knows he’s already in too deep. This isn’t a story he wants to tell, isn’t the way he wanted this to come out. He hadn’t wanted it to come out at all, but if he doesn’t say it now he never will and if he doesn’t ever say it, he’s not sure Aziraphale will ever quite trust him again, and that thought hurts more than heaven or hell would ever get him to admit.

He wins this round.

Crowley lets the tension drain from his shoulders. In his pockets, his fingers still. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, angel,” he says, and waves a hand.

Aziraphale’s expression as his wings are summoned forth from the ether in which they normally rest is almost comedic. He squeaks like a startled mouse, wings shooting out to either side and nearly colliding with the furnishings. He immediately tucks them back in to a more reasonable position, then narrows his eyes at Crowley. “I know very well what my wings look like, thank you,” he huffs, waving a hand to dismiss them. “Why didn’t you summon yours? You’re the one in question.”

“That’s it, though. I did.” Crowley smiles, bitter and flat, and the fire crackles in the silence between them. He turns his back to Aziraphale and waits.

——

In the six thousand years of Aziraphale’s life time, the world has stopped moving on exactly three occasions. The first was in 48 BC, when he’d watched the library of Alexandria burn while nobody could even try to stop it. The second was in the 14th century, when he’d stood over a plague pit lined with bodies while a rainbow stretched overhead and the world drowned in grief instead of water. The third time is now, when Crowley turns away and understanding hits Aziraphale like a slap to the face as he finally sees Crowley’s wings.

There’s little left of them. Calling them wings feels generous, but Aziraphale can’t quite bring himself to refer to them as the stumps they are. The scapulae are little more than jagged edges of bone pierced through angry, infected skin. Tiny black feathers are speckled like ash around the base of the bones where a thick, ugly scar has started to form. Crowley shifts, and the skin of his back stretches nearly to the point of tearing, and it is all Aziraphale can do to hold in his nausea as he stares, and stares, and stares.

“’S not pretty, is it?” Crowley turns to face him with a strange, not-quite smile that does nothing to erase the memory of gore now emblazoned in Aziraphale’s mind.

A moment too late, Aziraphale snaps his jaw closed, blinking. He struggles briefly for an appropriate response, only to eventually settle on a somewhat inappropriate one as his eyes scan Crowley’s face like he’ll find an answer there. “What the hell happened to you?’

Crowley shrugs and barely hides a wince. “Hell, obviously. Who else do you think’s got handiwork like that? I’m not important enough for Gabriel to visit.”

“But how? Why? When?”

“Are you just going to work your way through all the question words?”

“This isn’t funny, Crowley.” Aziraphale takes a step forward and reaches out as if to touch him, stopping just short of contact with a sudden wariness. Maybe touching him will make things worse, and the last thing he wants to do is scare him away now. “Were they like this in the church?” The thought that they might have been and he was too wrapped up in himself to notice is almost sickening.

Crowley’s mouth curves, the expression lightless. “Nah. This was after.”

“How long after?”

“Oh, ages. Few years at least.”

“How long?”

“Four months,” Crowley admits. “Maybe five. Wasn’t really keeping track.”

Four months. Four months after he’d saved Aziraphale from a Nazi spy ring and a spared a collection of books from utter annihilation, something – someone – had sawed or ripped or burnt Crowley’s wings right off his back. It’s been fifteen years since the last time they spoke, and the wounds still look fresh. “I’ve always been under the impression that they were fond of you down there,” he says uselessly.

“They are. They were very impressed by all my hard work bombing churches, inspiring people to make camps for working and starving and gassing anyone they don’t like to death.” His voice is cynical, sharp and bitter like he’s chewing on a block of arsenic. “Thought they’d give me a special commendation to commemorate how far I’d fallen.”

“Surely you didn’t tell them you had-?”

“Of course not.”

“They just assumed you were responsible?”

“We’re demons. Assuming the worst is half the job.” Crowley reaches out with an entirely too casual grimace and pats Aziraphale twice on the side of his face, gently. “Chin up, angel. Could’ve been a lot worse if they’d had two brain cells to rub together and figured out I was slacking.”

Aziraphale catches his wrist and holds it in place. “Or if they’d figured out you were helping an angel.” His eyes lock onto Crowley’s, daring him to dissent.

Crowley’s smile vanishes. He clenches hi jaw, saying nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” Aziraphale makes the decision in an instant and squares his shoulders. “Turn around.” The demon opens his mouth to protest and Aziraphale cuts him off before he can utter a sound. “Turn around, Crowley.”

For a moment, he stares like an astonished fish. Then, slowly, he does as he’s been told.

Aziraphale steps forward and closes the gap between them. He catches his breath at the sudden proximity and stretches his fingers. “Now hold still. I’m sorry, but…this may sting a little.” Then he presses his hands flat against Crowley’s back and closes his eyes to focus.

There’s always something a bit cold about demonically created wounds, like a strange occult sludge that hangs about the site of the injury. Aziraphale feels it now, icy against his hands where the sensation has pooled at the junction between Crowley’s shoulderblades and his ruined wings. As if he’s engaged in a particularly complicated stitching project, Aziraphale envisions his own energy as a sort of golden thread and weaves it over the wounds like a warm blanket wrapping around the ice. He murmurs something under his breath (not a prayer, because he knows better than to pray for Crowley), but a request. Heal his pain, he begs, and hopes with all his might that She will hear him and listen.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, his hands pressed to his best friend’s back. All he knows is that when he opens his eyes, Crowley is relaxed and comfortably still beneath his touch, and his wings…

His wings are not recovered, and it’s as much a disappointment as it is a foregone conclusion. An angel’s wings are not unlike a badge of honour, and their loss is not meant to be easily undone. Though Crowley’s the only demon Aziraphale’s ever seen who possesses wings, he suspects they exist under similar restrictions. That doesn’t stop the surge of joy that pulses through him when he sees what progress has been made. The once-jagged edges of his bones are smooth now, the skin around them a faint pink instead of the enraged inferno of infection it had been before. What scarring had begun is cleaner now, less like mountainous ghosts of old wounds and more like a memory. Best of all are the feathers. Small and black, they cover the base of the bones with a soft, downy fuzz, like they’re ready to grow again.

There is silence. Aziraphale does not dare to move his hands for fear that all the work will be undone. For his part, Crowley remains still, breathing even and almost peaceful.

When he speaks, his voice is laced with a confused, hesitant wonder that makes Aziraphale wish more than anything that they were sitting in front of some reflective substance so he could see Crowley’s face. “Angel,” he says, the words reverberating warmly through his back and into Aziraphale’s hands, “what did you do?”

The least I could, Aziraphale doesn’t say. “Nothing much,” he says instead, letting his shoulders sink. His hands fall away from Crowley almost reluctantly, fingers trailing behind until they can’t anymore. “I think I mostly made it so you at least have a chance to heal.”

Crowley turns at that. Their eyes meet and without warning, Aziraphale finds himself captured, pinned in place by golden light. Crowley’s eyes may be the primary feature which marks him as a demon, but Aziraphale has always found them beautiful – the way they’d glinted in the light where they stood on Eden’s wall, flashing like lightning in the wake of the flood, always filled with feeling when he thought nobody was looking. Aziraphale can’t remember when he started looking, but he’s staring now, and he thinks it’s a bit like staring at the sun. Doing it too long will only lead to disaster, but that doesn’t make it any easier to look away.

“Won’t your side frown on you miracling a demon’s wings back on?” Crowley asks, slow and careful.

“No more than yours would question you miracling a collection of prophecy books out of extinction.” Aziraphale reaches out to straighten Crowley’s collar and tells himself it’s only by coincidence that his hand lingers. “We can consider ourselves even on the risk-taking front.”

Crowley’s mouth opens and shuts, his face adopting the wonderful, hilarious contortions it always performs when he’s not quite sure what to say before eventually, finally, he manages a nod. “Yeah, of course. Even score. Nothing owed anywhere.”

“Good. Then we’re settled.” Aziraphale lets his hands fall and smiles, more genuinely than he has in the entire month preceding. There are things he could say, things he knows he likely should say, but he cannot yet say them to himself and he cannot say them tonight. What he says instead is, “How do you fancy a nice drink?”

What Crowley says is, “I’m always in a drinking mood,” and Aziraphale goes for the glasses.