#i felt very distinctly that i was the only stranger there. that everyone else had arrived with friends and that i was the outsider.

[venusiancarbondioxide]

the combination of being raised by drum corps people (my mom and aunt and most of their friends were in dci; my grandma helped run an all-girls corps in the 60s and 70s) and being in marching band myself in high school has given me a totally skewed sense of when the fuck a person is supposed to arrive to anything even vaguely parade-adjacent. "march starts at 7:00" translates to "we step off at 7:00" to me, which means that i'm there at 6:30 at the absolute latest. frankly, if i'm there at 6:30, i'm a little late. if you're not there at 6:30, i think you're a little late. we're never going to get our instruments off the truck like this.

[ladyswillmart]

Serpent Isle Companion #5: Mortegro Base Stats:

Strength: 9

Dexterity: 14

Intelligence: 20

Combat: 6

Default Combat Style: Nearest

Carrying (07/18 Stones): Backpack x1 (Spider Silk x5, Ginseng x4, Skull x1, Spell: “Curse” x1); Scythe x1; Spell: “Death Bolt” x1; Red Cloak x1; Leather Gloves x1; Leather Leggings x1; Leather Boots x1

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧✤☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙

“Dead?” Mortegro echoed the key word. “Old Gustacio’s dead, then?”

Stefano nodded. “Fairly.”

“What do you mean, fairly? He either is or he isn’t,” protested Mortegro. “Death isn’t a spectrum, it’s a binary. A boolean, if you will. Zero or One. True or false. He either is or is not dead.”

“Quite, then. He’s quite dead, I should say,” said Stefano, shrugging. “I say, I’m freezing my tail off out here!"

“We’re movin', we’re movin’,” Giselle told him. “And you could move a little faster, y’know.”

“Excuse me if I’m in no hurry. Something distinctly askew about this place,” he returned. “Seems haunted as all get-out but if you ask me,” (nobody asked), “I’d gladly take nobbing hobs with the local ghosts over becoming a frozen entree for the local leopards. How long were you stranded out here, Morty? How are you not dead?”

Mortegro, although gaunt and hollow-eyed with a slight droop to his otherwise lofty posture, was at the very least categorically alive. In fact, the suggestion that he could ever die made him bristle: “How should I know? Felt like only an hour or so to me—what do you mean by quite dead? You’ll have to indicate precisely what you mean to say.”

“I mean Gustacio, along with just about everyone else in the city of Moonshade, is very much pegged out, old friend. Popped clogs. Pulled up their stumps. They’ve carked it, Mortegro,” Stefano enunciated carefully. “Brown. Bread. Everyone.”

“Everyone...?”

Giselle was surprised to see Mortegro, the Necromage of Moonshade, very flustered and very earnestly looking to her for clarification.

“Alas, Stefano has the right of it, just about,” Gwenno intervened. “I am sorry you had to find out this way, Mortegro. There was a terrible occurrence in your city. I suppose you could call it an attack—well, the why of it is a little complicated—”

A strange, metallic keening, low in pitch and volume, rose from Petra’s voice box—the rare sound of an automaton sobbing. Something about this place evidently broke her last straw; not long after Giselle and the others arrived, her burgeoning sorrow surpassed the agency of consolation.

“I can handle complicated,” Mortegro said. “Perhaps not out here. The what of it should suffice for now.”

“The what was a Chaos Bane,” Giselle informed him. “Uh, kinda like a perverted spirit of one of the serpent gods what’re supposed to be custodians of this place. But long ago his enemies kinda cut him up into three pieces and he obviously wasn’t real happy about that, and then the pieces went kinda nuts so they had to be sealed up. Then some G. D. mudsill from Britannia came here and let ‘em loose—you met Batlin, right?”

For this, Mortegro had to take himself back. Several weeks ago, the most elite Moonshadian social circles were graced by a rather heavyset man with a withering scowl, accompanied by those suspicious minions of his; Mortegro did not use the word minions willy-nilly but those two characters were as worthy of the word as any junior dictionary could illustrate. And most of his fellow adepts found this stranger to be appallingly presumptuous, as if he—an outsider in every respect—intended to ooze his way into their favor by force. While Mortegro himself preferred to maintain a low profile on the fringes of high society, obscure and thus safe from most imbroglios, he recalled sitting in the snug of the Blue Boar Inn one evening, sharing a plate of breaded cheese sticks with fellow adept Gustacio and overhearing a distraught Celennia at the bar counter, pouring her woes into any sympathetic ear.

He thought he could threaten me into selling it! That I would dare name a price for something so precious, like a common strumpet! she cried while Petra swiftly mixed up another Fluffy Duck for the nice sorceress.

Scandalous stuff. But as it turned out, she was simply talking about one of her serpent’s teeth, an ancient relic of unknown provenance stolen from Erstam long ago, and the would-be buyer was that ill-mannered stranger.

Batlin was his name, Mortegro recalled. Yes, Batlin! And shortly afterwards, Batlin and his minions split town rather abruptly, hiring a boat to the Big Island without a single goodbye or cheers or sorry for being such a G. D. mudsill to anyone. That was when his fellow Adepts began to notice the thefts. And shortly after that, the storms started...

Before following Giselle and the others out of the courtyard and into the relative safety of the temple structure, Mortegro took a moment to eye the sky, understandably wary. The sun was high but the horizon resembled a fresh bruise in color. It grumbled ominously, like catarrh of the gods, ready to spew.

He shuddered.

“I have met Batlin, yes,” he finally replied. “I’m assuming then, he had some nefarious plan and Moonshade was the target.”

“Not exactly,” said Giselle. “Moonshade was just collateral damage, honey. As was pretty much everywhere else on the Isles.”

“Seven stars,” Mortegro whispered. “Everywhere? But surely not the knights of Monitor?”

“Monitor, yes sir. Wiped out by another one of them Banes.”

“And Fawn? Not Fawn, my birth city?”

Giselle nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“Even the Sleeping Bull?”

“Especially the Sleeping Bull!” rounded Stefano, bitterly gleeful. “Now now, don’t look so sour. Think of it this way: Everyone and their dog knows how you would’ve done anything to get out of serving on the Council of Mages. Now there’s hardly enough mages left to put together a football huddle much less a whole bloody council.”

“Hardly...?”

“Some of them did survive, yes, but don’t pin your hopes up.”

“Who?”

“You did, for a start.”

“Obviously, Stefano. Who else?”

“Scum of the Isles himself.”

Mortegro nodded, downcast. “Torrissio. Anyone else?”

“Fedabiblio and his little budding con artists.”

Referring to the Seminarium’s two student mages—Mortegro faintly recalled an episode where the younger of the two handily swindled the Thief Himself out of 40 Guilders but declined to bring it up in a place like this. The sunless, motionless interior of the building made it feel more like a forgotten tomb than a place of worship. While it was no match for the biting chill of the courtyard, the air inside seemed to stifle the warmth of life itself with its vacuous draft.

“And?” Mortegro resumed.

Stefano shoved his hands into the pockets of his ill-fitting coat and plodded forth with the others, thoughtfully. “Hmm. Well, you see Miss Petra here, hale and whole, lighting the room with her beautiful smile,” he offered.

She shuffled along in somber silence, too distraught for comment.

“Oh! And Ducio somehow made it out. Probably got mistaken for a slug and left alone.”

“But how could everyone—I mean, just like that? I mean, we adepts are not exactly easy to kill. You of all people should know that, Stefano.”

“I know! Believe me, nobody knows that better than me, Morty. But that Bane who visited us, named Anarchy as I recall, was probably the absolute very worst adversary a city like ours could’ve ever met. See, first thing he did, he threw Filbercio out on his arse and installed himself as the new Magelord,” he recounted. “And then he did exactly what it said on his tin: Anarchy. Threw out all those pesky rules and regulations so it was pretty much every adept and every mundane for themselves.”

“So you’re saying this Bane of Anarchy thing killed everyone?”

“The Bane hardly lifted a finger!” Stefano snorted. “It was everyone else, old bones. They all turned on each other within days! Hours, even! I say, the carnage was fantastic!”

“Don’t be so flip, Stefano,” Gwenno warned him. “I seem to recall you very nearly met your own end at the hands of that Death Knight—”

“—Wait! Days? You said days,” Mortegro echoed another key word. “Just how long ago did all of this happen?”

“Few weeks, give or take. See, I was smart. I holed up in my bungalow for the worst of it, lived off potted meat and tried growing out a beard...”

As Stefano blathered on, Giselle was surprised to see Mortegro, the former Necromage of former Moonshade, very flustered and very earnestly looking to her for clarification. Again.

“Honey, you’re gonna have to stop doin' that,” she told him. “I dunno what exactly but there’s something really strange going on in this here temple. Some kinda time-travel booshwa that gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinkin’ about it.”

“I gathered as much,” Mortegro said. “But we are leaving, then? Like, now?”

“Nope,” Giselle replied. “We’re goin’ deeper, darlin’.”

“Deeper!”

“Yes sir! You going on about death being a matter of is or is not and whatnot got me to thinkin’. And what I’m thinkin’ is, I reckon there’s someone in the basement you ought to meet...”

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧✤☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙

Side Notes: I guess this is officially an alternate ficverse, as trivial as the fics themselves may be. Narratively speaking I always felt that Mortegro and Sethys got shorted a bit, among other things that got cut short. Does that make it a Fix-It AU?

I guess?

Among other things, maybe?

This is another one of those things I like to do where I make the actual Earth-equivalent time period a bit more vague, in terms of technology. I feel like one can get away with fudging this aspect a little, given the content of Ultimas I and II...

Anyway, Mortegro. Ill-starred necromage of Moonshade. He seems fairly well equipped when he joins, with at least some gear and a weapon which he won’t use, which is fine because he also comes equipped with the Death Bolt, which means if he stays in your party he will be doing a lot of heavy lifting in re combat (despite having the lowest strength out of your companions... seriously even Sherry the Mouse is tougher than him 💀).

Those spells are never really supposed to be seen or equipped by you; it’s just a workaround for giving NPCs magic spells. I don’t remember for sure what happens if you try to nick the Death Bolt off his paperdoll but I think it’s just kinda... superglued to it. LOL

I always thought it was cute that he comes with a cape, a scythe and a skull. Talk about commitment to the bit!

[swxpped]

@royal-baby-birb​ said: → The child has been thrown out of her pram, I repeat, the child has been thrown out of her pram ! There is a baby on the floor everyone, and it is very confused about it !

swxpped:

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ 

{!!} – Oh, no, no, no, NO, NO. Immediate panic the second he realises the baby is on the floor, box of dainties being instinctively dropped and coating the pavement in a disastrous glaze of jam & fresh cream as Alexsander rushed to her side, abandoning the brief incertitude he had about lifting her up to return her hastily to her carriage where she was quickly swaddled over the shoulders with her natural merino wool blanket. ❝Péridianne...! Are you alright?❞

He fretfully checked over her far-too-easily-breakable, little body for any sign of bumps & bruises, paying close attention to the infantile frailness of her tiny head and delicate face, thankfully to no detection...but she wasn’t crying. Why wasn’t she crying?? Alexsander distinctly remembered Caroline having once recounted a story to him by which he became aware that if a baby is dropped and it doesn’t cry, it could be a sign of internal injury. He hadn’t really given the story much acknowledgement at the time, seeing as childcare really hadn’t been on the cards for him...but then he’d found P-M. And now she was hurt. Under his care. How could he be so negligent?? He could’ve sworn he had safely secured her into her pram with the built-in safety straps. In fact, in reflection...he was absolutely certain that he did. Alexsander was meticulous in every aspect of what he did, from making a cup of tea to filleting exotic game, he very seldom left something to chance. Especially not when in regard of P-M’s safety. 

That could only mean one thing.

The puzzle pieces slowly began to slip into place as he realised that Péridianne hadn’t fallen from her pram, but that she had been deliberately removed. He’d only taken his eyes off of her for a moment at most while he signed for the collection of the pastries; evidently, one moment far too great. Was there a baby snatcher in the vicinity? Such a concern felt ironic in a way that caused him a great deal of self-loathing given the fact of how Alexsander had even acquired P-M to begin with. But at least he had taken her away for more principled reasons than he could possibly imagine for whichever vile reprobate had unbuckled her safety straps that day. Now, he was left questioning the integrity of every stranger that walked by her pram. Nobody was innocent until proven otherwise! The faerie had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling, indeed. He peered regretfully beneath the soft shelter of the retractable hood on her carriage, a guilty look etched onto his face for having allowed this to happen to the poor, defenceless, little thing. He wondered aloud, ❝How did you get out of there, little one...?❞ 

Alexsander very nearly acted upon the impulse to apologise to her, but he got the feeling an apology would be of very little value to a two-year-old. Still no tears from Péridianne. He couldn’t take her to the hospital - people would ask questions, far too many questions, probably all very much along the lines of ‘Whose baby is this?’ and ‘Why the Hell weren’t you watching her?’. Ordinarily, when Alexsander was so vastly out of his depth, his first instinct was to call Caroline for help, but in this case, that option seemed equally as impracticable as the last. She was still as blissfully ignorant as ever to the existence of the fae and angel-kind, and Alexsander intended to keep it that way for the foreseeable future. Caroline couldn’t know, and explaining this to her would unravel far too many secrets. But what if the baby was hurt? Who else could he possibly turn amidst this predicament?

...Oh. It dawned on him with grave discomfort.

There was only one thing left for him to do, and Alexsander acquiesced to it only out of sheer necessitation. He was going to have to call Ashton.

[robininthelabyrinth]

how about song lan/jiang cheng and a happy ending, please? 💖 thank you for sharing all your amazing fics with us!

Untamed

As they travel towards the Unclean Realm, Xue Yang bound and carefully watched at all times, Xiao Xingchen naturally gravitated towards Wei Wuxian, sharing stories about the woman that had been Xiao Xingchen’s shijie and Wei Wuxian’s mother. Jiang Cheng, distinctly aware that if Cangse Sanren had not died that Wei Wuxian would be – at best – a familiar stranger, kept his distance from that discussion.

At first, he tried to distract himself with Nie Huaisang, but apparently Nie Huaisang had exceeded his quota for interacting with other people in a given day and wasn’t interested in anything other than a long nap in the carriage (Meng Yao, who had been recruited for use as a pillow, had shot him an apologetic look over his head), so Jiang Cheng had to find something else to do. If he wasn’t occupied, he felt useless, like he was intruding somewhere he oughtn’t be.

Somehow, he ended up walking alongside Song Lan.

“It’s an honor,” he said, feeling stupid and awkward. “Your name is – renowned, and your ambition to start a sect based on merit is very impressive.”

“On friendship,” Song Lan said, and Jiang Cheng blinked. “A sect based on friendship. Merit implies that you must have skills or talents that render you deserving of a place; the sect I dream of would have a home even for those whose only skill is in delighting others with their company.”

“That sounds nice,” Jiang Cheng said, feeling unwontedly wistful. Sometimes it felt like he spent his whole life trying to win enough merit, to demonstrate his value, to manage to justify having been born as his father’s son – trying, and failing, while all merit flowed naturally and effortlessly to Wei Wuxian.

He couldn’t even imagine a sect where that wasn’t necessary.

“You would be a good fit,” Song Lan said, and Jiang Cheng turned to him with wide eyes. “You care deeply for your friends.”

“I – I do,” Jiang Cheng said, stuttering over his speech. “I’d do anything for them.”

“Even if they didn’t do anything for you?”

“Why should they have to do anything for me?” Jiang Cheng asked, puzzled, and Song Lan nodded as if he’d said the right thing on the first try without straining, which might be the first time that had ever happened to him.

Suddenly feeling deeply moved, Jiang Cheng acted recklessly: he strode forward and turned to face Song Lan, stopping in his path and careful not to touch him – he would’ve just grabbed his arm if he were Wei Wuxian, but he’d noticed that Song Lan seemed to dislike too-close contact, even from Xiao Xingchen who was as close to him as a brother, and he didn’t want to offend.

“I’d like to be your friend,” he said, bold and brave the way a Jiang should be, and then promptly ruined it by coughing and looking down and muttering, “I mean, that is, if you want. No big deal.”

Song Lan looked at him thoughtfully. It made Jiang Cheng nervous, feeling like he was about to be rejected, but on the other hand it also felt kind of – nice, in some fashion, to know that there were other people in the world who had to think about what they were going to say, who didn’t have a ready answer for everything sitting on the tip of their tongues like Wei Wuxian always did.

“I would be honored to be your friend, Jiang Wanyin,” Song Lan said when he finally did speak, and then he smiled.

There are those that say that the smile of a solemn man was the most beautiful thing in the world, and after having seen it with his own eyes Jiang Cheng was inclined to agree.

A moment later, as if by unspoken agreement, they both turned and continued to walk along the road to Qinghe. They did not speak further on that subject, turning to others, but it was comfortable and evening the way almost nothing in Jiang Cheng’s life was.

When they finally said farewell, he had no regrets.

Later, much later, when so much had happened that Jiang Cheng could no longer recognize himself and fate led them to meet once more, this time at the house in which Wen Qing was hiding them, Jiang Cheng chased after Song Lan again: he called out from his window after him just as he was about to set out.

“Jiang Wanyin?” Song Lan asked, coming forward to him with a frown. For some reason, his eyes seemed not quite right for his face even though Jiang Cheng couldn’t quite put his finger on why. “I thought you were still asleep.”

“Comatose, you mean,” Jiang Cheng said mirthlessly. “One of the needles got bumped, and I woke up a little earlier…are you all right? I didn’t hear much, but – you got injured?”

“My eyes,” Song Lan said, which accorded with what Jiang Cheng thought he’d heard. “They’re better now, though.”

Jiang Cheng nodded. “I’m probably going to die,” he said, trying for a matter-of-fact tone but he was pretty sure that he mostly ending up sounding scared. “And even if I don’t, I’m – I’m not going to be able to – to do anything. For you. I’d be totally useless.”

Song Lan looked taken aback, and then visibly softened when he realized what Jiang Cheng meant. “I told you before,” he said. “It’s friendship, not merit. You don’t need to do anything at all.”

That in all likelihood, Song Lan would never found that sect of his went unspoken between them.

It was just the way of things. Like Jiang Cheng probably dying the second the Wen sect finally caught up with them and found him, useless and weak as he was, without the golden core that he’d worked so hard on all his life. 

You couldn’t change things like that.

“Anyway, there are still Jiang sect disciples out there,” Song Lan said, and to Jiang Cheng’s surprise he offered his hand out to him. “You will gather them and reawaken your sect from the ashes.”

Jiang Cheng wet his lips. He wouldn’t, of course; he wouldn’t be able to, not without a golden core, without cultivation, without hope.

And yet…

He was useless. He should just die and be done with it, not linger around to act as a burden other people.

And yet –

Jiang Cheng reached out and clasped Song Lan’s hand with his own.

“If I don’t, I’ll come find you and join your sect,” he said, only half-joking. Who else would take him as he was now? “But if I do as you expect, gathering them up and re-establishing the Jiang sect…in that case, you come find me, all right?”

“Find you?” Song Lan asked, now truly surprised. “For what?”

“You said that friendship doesn’t have to be about merit,” Jiang Cheng said. “But just because it doesn’t have to be doesn’t mean you can’t bring merit into it. If you’re my friend, I’ll want to do things for you, if I can. If you can do something for me, then why can’t I do something for you?”

Song Lan thought about it.

“All right,” he said at last, and squeezed Jiang Cheng’s hand before letting go. “It’s a deal, my friend. Now lie back down and let me put the needle back into place for you. You need to rest.”

Jiang Cheng’s chest hurt – in a completely different way from his missing golden core and the scars from the whipping he’d received – and he nodded, retreating through the window.

“Don’t forget,” he said, lying down and letting Song Lan reach up to his forehead with the needle. “You have to let me help you, or else it’s not equal. All right?”

“I understand,” Song Lan said.

Maybe he did, because later still, when all the world had changed once again and Jiang Cheng wasn’t anything like the man he remembered himself being – after he’d gone up a mountain and come down renewed, had led an army and re-started his sect, had lost his martial brother and then his sister and then his martial brother a second time over, this time for good, and was helping raise his nephew during the half-year that he’d begged the Jin clan to allow him – after all that, Song Lan really did come to him.

“My friend,” Jiang Cheng said, clinging onto his arms a little too tightly. He’d almost forgotten that Song Lan existed in the wake of everything, had forgotten that there were still people out in the world who he called friend and who called him the same in return. “My friend, you’re here.”

“I said I would be,” Song Lan said, and hesitated. “I have a favor to ask. You said…”

“A favor? Anything. Well, within reason, of course.”

Song Lan nodded.

“I’m looking for Xiao Xingchen,” he said. “I thought I could find him on my own, but all this time has passed, and I still don’t know where to look. I thought – maybe –”

Jiang Cheng had power at his fingertips. He could order a search party – could order dozens – could set a bounty and have every cultivator and every common person in the whole of Yunmeng keeping their eyes wide open for someone of Xiao Xingchen’s distinctive description.

“Let me come with you to search,” he said instead. “Jin Ling goes back to Lanling next week, and I’ll be at loose ends for six months, bullying everyone in my sect with my temper.  They’d be happy to the back of me for a while. We can pick up where you left off.”

Song Lan smiled at him.

It was as beautiful as it had ever been.

Jiang Cheng felt his chest grow tight – he’d thought once that it was hurt he was feeling, but it wasn’t, it wasn’t hurt at all – and he coughed, not sure how to verbalize all of his feelings or even if they would be welcome. Maybe one day.

“Well,” he said brightly, forcing his way through the embarrassment. “Where had you stopped searching? We’ll start there.”

“There was a mountain path,” Song Lan said. “The road sign said that the next place to stop was a place called Yi City.”

“Yi City,” Jiang Cheng said. “Hardly auspicious, but I don’t see why we can’t give it a shot. And with me by your side, if Xiao Xingchen is there or if someone who has seen him is – we’ll find him. See who’ll stop us!”

[archetypal-archivist]

Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone P.2

So, a little while back I wrote piece titled Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone (linked here) which was inspired by the works of @petrichormeraki and @redorich, who popularized the AU of Tommyinnit from the Dream SMP getting dropped into Hermitcraft somehow and summarily getting adopted by the entire server. I, in my infinite wisdom, decided “yes, but also angst” and spat out a solid 1500+ words with a cliffhanger at the end because it was getting ridiculous and I had yet more to write. This is another 1500+ words of continuation. 

-----

It's not easy, knowing things. Joe knows more things than most, and oh, how it eats at him sometimes. He jokes with Cleo that between the two of them and their dogs, they are perhaps the leading experts on being chewed on, but she never laughs at that joke. He can't help but wonder why, his thoughts drifting as he lies still and silent in her arms, curled up together on his bed in the winery. Her orange hair tickles his nose as he moves to bury his face in her shoulder a bit more, her cool breath ghosting over the sticky tear tracks that still line his cheeks. All the things that remain unsaid lie between them, but their silent agreement binds them together tighter still. And indeed silence is the name of the game, however much he wishes it wasn't necessary- everything will work out in due time, he knows. But oh, how it aches that he can't say anything more on the matter, not even to her.

"Cleo?" The zombie woman makes a soft inquiring noise, politely ignoring how his voice cracks on the syllables. "Are we doing the right thing?" Her grip tightens again, almost crushingly so, and Joe goes limp at the implied rebuke. Be it right or wrong, his silence must be ensured- he knows so much that if he said anything, it'd all come pouring out. A real modern-day Cassandra, verbal fountain and harbinger of doom in one. No, best to stay cryptic when he can and silent when he can't- and if even his silence fails, Cleo is there, sword in hand, ready to keep him quiet.

He should not take comfort from that. But here, wrapped up in his best friend's embrace, utterly at her mercy and all the safer for it... He does anyway.

-----

Joe and Cleo aren't in a romantic relationship, but it would not be amiss to call them platonic life partners in this universe. Joe has been seeing things for as long as he can remember, the exact mechanics are strange and baffling at best, and if he tries to actually do any Science to figure out how this stuff works, the magic changes to spite him. It's led to a lot of unfortunate visions of peanut butter and how the server generally tends to misuse the stuff (Etho sometimes using it instead of slime in a sticky piston is a milder example), so after enough peanut visions to make him allergic on principle, Joe tends to just let the visions come as they may. The only hard-coded bit that comes with them is that anyone living who hears his prophecies won't believe them and will have something bad happen to them as a result. Cleo, being a zombie, is a special exception to the rule. She's only alive in the most technical of senses, so while bad things still happen to her if she hears Joe speak about his experiences, she at least will believe him.

Which is why she is so determined to not know more about whatever is going on with Tommy. When Joe had rushed in a month ago, tears streaming down his cheeks and glasses barely hanging onto his face, she had merely put down the book she had been reading and had opened her arms wide to him. Convincing him that she would not betray his trust or break his heart had been hard, but she had known it was worth it. How can it be anything but, when Joe had looked at her then as if she was the most precious being on the planet and had immediately thrown himself into her arms, bursting out into troubled tears? He offered to tell her the full story, eyes wet and longing, and her long-dead heart ached at the trust he is giving her- but she is far too selfish to give that up. So she had turned him down, smile on her lips.

Even when he whispered, voice hoarse, that they wouldn't be seeing Tommy for a while. Even when he shuddered and shook in her arms, fragile as glass in her grip. Even when he begged her to ask, just ask, please, it's too much... She did not ask. If she asked, he would tell her, and then she would be hurt and his heart would break because it would be his words that had hurt her. She would not, cannot, will never inflict that upon him, or let him inflict that upon anyone else. (Of all the heads in her collection, the one she has most of is Joe's.)

She simply asks him if there will be a satisfying ending, and when he says yes, she asks no more. Everything will be okay, in the end. So long as there is that much, so long as she has Joe in her arms and the comfortable silence stretches out between them, then she will be content.

(At the foot of their bed, deep in Joe's winery where the barking is muffled and the light cannot touch them, there lies a chest of heads. Inside it, nestled among the many faces of the dead, rests an old iron sword bearing the name Hush. It's blade is rusty from disuse, but if Cleo ever decides that she isn't satisfied, well. There are ways of dealing with that.)

(Things will be okay. She'll make sure of it.)

-----

Philza was no stranger to death. A veteran of a hardcore world, where even the very earth was out to kill him, he had seen his fair share of deaths and had dealt out even more. Usually just to the local mobs and wildlife, but there was still the occasional player dropped into his world by the cruel hands of the Void as a sort of "apology" for leaving him alone, bereft of his sons. As if some random strangers could ever fill the Void in his heart.

Most of them had wandered off upon seeing him, more interested in escape than any companionship he could offer them, and he'd inevitably see their death messages in the otherwise silent chat a few days later. Others would approach him, some curious, some desperate for kindness- he gave them none, was often intentionally cruel just to drive them away. He had the Void in his heart and the Void had him, and he ached and ached for what he could not have. Anything less would be a pale imitation, a mockery of the love he was desperate to return to. He tried not to think about how those kind strangers would also come to meet their ends, often more messily than those that had decided to leave him be to begin with.

Then there were the rare few with... less than gentle intentions. (Blood for the Blood gods, no matter the universe.)

Theirs were the deaths he regretted the least, but the blood still gave him nightmares. For all that he loved his sons, he never understood their love for glory, be it found in conquering other nations or the sticky ooze of a dying foe. Maybe that's why he had spent so much of his time with his elder sons when he returned, the Void finally releasing him from his hardcore prison. Just a father's attempt at understanding, even if it left his youngest at loose ends.

But the problem with loose ends, he had come to find, is that the world had a way of setting them to rights- either by tying them back into the grand narrative, or by cutting them out entirely. For months after Dream had come to him, apology on his lips and charred shoe in hand, he had believed that Tommy's fate had been the latter. He had  mourned his son as if such was the case, weeping openly at the news for the first time in years. (He wasn't the only one, though- Technoblade was an only child now and he was not taking it well.) It was only when Tubbo came to him with his compass to ask about its ever-spinning needle that he felt a spark of hope, for a compass that spun was not a compass linked to a dead soul- simply a lost one. Such hope was justified when, six months later, Technoblade burst into his house with a snarl on his lips and a smile in his eyes. Tommy had returned.

And as Phil stood, back straightening and wings spread wide, hope bloomed in his chest like hanahaki, choking him with love right down to his core. Tommy had returned, despite everything.

And Philza would not let him go again.

-----

For all that Tommy might have been... gone for at least a month now on the Hermitcraft server and life has significantly slowed down for all involved, by no means has it stopped entirely. The shops are still stocked, the torches are replaced when the old ones burn out, Hermits still go out and see each other, if less often than before. Xisuma, in fact, instates a series of mandatory meetings every week or so as a way of making sure that everyone is still alive- a bit of reassurance that no one else has died in the time interim. Even the hermits who prefer to keep to themselves show up, such as Tinfoilchef, Joe, and Cleo, although the latter two remain distinctly separate from everyone else on the server during the meetings, their refusal to take a side alienating them from the rest. Grian, broken though he may be, also comes, usually in the arms of Iskall or with a vacant smile on his face depending on the state of his mental health on the given day. His presence is also alienating, as most of the hermits don't quite know what to say around him and thus will give him and Iskall a bubble of space to themselves during the meetings. Mumbo is the only one to cross the divide, standing loomingly tall at Iskall's back, as if daring anyone to say something potentially hurtful to either of his friends.

Frankly, the entire concept of weekly meetings is a bit of a mess. Xisuma stands at the front with Keralis at his back, voice and posture more and more tired with every meeting and Keralis standing just a bit closer, a silent show of support (ready if his admin ever needs some physical support too). The prognosis is usually a mix of dull stuff and hopeless stuff- lag is better than it has been in years, the Chestmonster shop is out again, Tommy still has not been... found. It's not exciting exactly, but the tension during the reporting stage is palpable as everyone waits to hear if something else has gone wrong. It's a bit like being on the front lines- horrible, drawn-out minutes of tedium as everyone holds their breath, waiting to see if another bombshell will drop but knowing that they have to be there, because some warning is infinitely better than seeing a death message in chat one day and not knowing if that person will ever make it back.

In addition to this is the tension that comes from the server being split in three- the believers, the mourners, and those too damaged or too caught up in their own narratives or too neutral to swing to one side or the other.

The meetings are where the most near-fights happen, and Xisuma is so, so tired of having to be the sane one these days. (The benefit of a helmet, he's come to find, is that no one can see you cry.)

(He doesn't take it off much anymore.)

-----

It's after one such meeting that Zedaph finds himself cooped up in his base, eyes burning with unshed tears and feet dangling out into the Void as he sits at the bottom of the hole in his base, the one that goes straight to bedrock and then even further still. The chill is a welcome distraction from his own inner turmoil, and for all that it's dangerous to be sitting so near to the edge of the world, he can't find it in himself to move away form its cold comfort. After all, Tommy can't have died permanently, right? So sitting there is perfectly safe. He has to believe that. He has to.

The meetings are tough on everyone, but sometimes Zedaph wonders if they are a bit worse for him than they are for the rest. It can't be normal that the first thing he does after every meeting is burst into panicked tears as soon as he gets back to his base, as he's certainly never felt such deep fear and relief after the meetings they had before the Incident. And yet, as soon as the iron door of his base sncks shut behind him, he drops down into the Void hole, sits at the edge, and bawls his eyes out. It's kinda funny- he's shed more tears in the last month than he has in his entire life so far. And all for a boy he had known for less than a year.

During this particular day, however, something odd happens. When he sits down for a good cry, it feels like there's the slightest of breezes coming off the Void beneath his feet, chilling him right down to his bones. It's cold, yes, but a welcome relief as he feels a bit like he's burning up from the inside out. Every moment he spends with Tango and Impulse is stifling, as with them he has to shove himself into a hateful mold he never wanted for himself. He doesn't like being angry, and being angry alongside his best friends is hardly any better. If he had it his way, he would have curled up in bed and simply slept the horror away, only waking when the nightmare was over and he could go play mini golf and Among Us with Tango, Impulse, and Tommy again. Instead, his love for his friends demands that he supports them in all their endeavors, even if their goals these days seem to run a little closer to "get them all killed" than is comfortable.

But yes. The breeze. It feels like ice on his skin and sends every nerve in his legs buzzing. It has a distinct smell to it too, like TV static, ozone, and that sensation you get after you brush your teeth and go take a big gulp of cold water. It's... odd. But vaguely comforting. And as the tears finally well up in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, as he lets himself sob for all the friends- both new and old- he's lost, he finds that it's exactly what he needs.

And if Zedaph would only listen a little closer, let himself see beyond his broken heart, perhaps he would hear the whisper on the wind, too.

Everything will be okay. I'll make sure of it.

-----

Evil X has his own troubles to deal with. He had been present when Tommy had died, if watching from the wrong side of their dimension. Lost in the Void with nothing better to do, he had often found himself watching his friend go about his day. With space and time being as screwy as they were in the Void, he could find himself taking three steps and then would be watching Tommy go from sleeping over at BDub's base to having "breakfast" with Rendog. So when Grian and Tommy had gone out End-busting that fateful day, of course he had been watching.  And that was all he could do- watch- as he saw his best friend fall to his apparent death, that little line of code that signaled "perma-death" flashing once, twice, and then glowing a deep, ominous red.

But that wasn't the end of it, even as his dull and bruised heart stuttered in his chest at the sight.

Like a redstone pulse lighting up everything around it, that red glow set off a cascading chain reaction that rippled up and down Tommy's code until it eventually trailed out to wherever his code stretched out into the Void. There, it must have severed something because before he could even call for help, his friend's code yanked inwards and away, slingshotting the whole mess into the distant darkness beyond, leaving naught but a vague impression on the inside of his eyelids behind. It was... awful. One of the scariest things he had ever seen, perhaps second only to watching his brother, stern-faced and cold, send him off to the Void once again. But for all that it hurt to see that red glow and watch in mute horror as the server he had once tried to destroy shake itself apart at the seams, there was still hope.

The code was gone, yes, but not unraveled, not destroyed. Merely... transported. Moved. Like a file being sent from one computer to another, or a player teleporting between servers. Tommy's code vanishing like that was cause for alarm, yes, but somewhere out there in the vastness of the Void, it lingered still- and it had left a faint impression of itself in its wake. That meant there was hope.

Evil X- and by proxy, his twin Xisuma- were voidwalkers, beings specifically designed to see, understand, and even modify the world's code. Were he anything else, he surely would have perished by now, his consciousness scattered across the Void as it was. And having been in exile for so long, he had gotten to be adept at seeing the seams between worlds and reading the truths of existence as the Void had intended for her children. If anyone could follow that faint trail, could get Tommy back, it would be him.

For the first time in a long time, Evil X had hope. And hope is a vicious motivator indeed.

-----

TBC :)

[yuribrd]

@txnichtgut​​ || sylvain tilted his head, holding this necklace in his hand he wanted to gift yuri, but the man was seemingly busy with many others, so the red head simply sat down at the campfire. he felt like it wasn't his business to interrupt the people congratulating and slightly... celebrating? he figured at the end of the day, he'd just put it to the other accessories of yuri, he's been at his tent before either way. he scribbled a small note with "happy birthday, yuri. hope you had a lovely day." and with that he just left for his tent, it was getting late after all and yuri would find the present. that was all that mattered. Birthday ask :’)

          Knowledge of the birthday of someone with even only a moderate amount of influence gets out, and suddenly people who barely know that person will start appearing to rub elbows.  Such is the case today.  Granted, a small number of the people who showed up were nobles and the like that Yuri had set his charm to at one time or another, who he’d parted with on good terms, and some others were actual friends, but most of the people who came and went?  Utter strangers.

          Still, Yuri’s not against little gatherings, chatting and dealing cordially with people, even if he didn’t know them well.  If the atmosphere is interesting, or nice at the very least, he doesn’t mind.

          There’s one person, however, who keeps coming back to his thoughts.  Maybe the next person who comes to see him will be that person, he thinks many times.  As the evening wears on, it’s a thought that starts making his chest ache more and more each time he thinks it, until Yuri accepts that person isn’t coming.

          The night wears on, and eventually everyone returns to wherever it is they should be.

          Not long after that, Yuri makes his way to Sylvain’s tent.  He doesn’t announce himself, or ask to enter; expecting the one who’s so offended him to be asleep, he slips inside.  There, he finds the redhead in bed, nearly asleep, maybe, but awake enough to look his way when he enters.

          ❝ Sylvain... ❞

          ❝ If I’d wanted, I could have spent the entire evening with most any noble, or anyone else, of my choosing. ❞    Arms crossed over his chest, there’s a note that sounds a bit like frigid anger in his words, yet they’re spoken so softly.    ❝ Silly, that I waited so long for someone who didn’t bother visiting at all. ❞

          There, he sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls out the necklace.  Yes, between there and here, he’d found the gift.  He holds it out into the darkness, looking at it.  Admiring it  ( as best he can with no light at all ), and the thought behind it.  Whether he’ll wear it is an undecided matter, but perhaps it’ll grow on him more.

          ❝ Did you know that your handwriting is distinctly horrible?  I knew it was yours right away.  You may have to read your note aloud for me, though.  I couldn’t quite make it out. ❞    In reality, it’s not that bad at all, and he can read it perfectly well.  The unkind words come from having been upset.    ❝ I admit, I don’t usually have much need for gifts on this particular occasion—  I prefer spending time with the people that matter to me. ❞

          When attention is turned back to Sylvain, traces of sadness have crept into his eyes.  With a single, slender, finger, Yuri brushes some errant locks of red hair from his face.

          ❝ But if you apologize for being so... distant on my birthday, I might still keep your gift. ❞

[clintbartonswife]

i’d trade my life for yours

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier Summary: Jaskier will be loyal to Geralt until his last breath, this he swears. Notes: im sorry. descriptions of torture. mentions rape (not graphic in the slightest, more like an allusion, but tagged it just to be safe), major character death. This is the bad ending, for a nicer ending read the series below :) masterlist  || nicer ending (p2)

Jaskier had always felt too much, falling a little bit in love with almost everyone he meets. The seamstress from Beauclair with the deepest green eyes he had ever seen, the knight from Kerack who had muscles the size of Jaskier’s head, the innkeeper and his wife from Rinde who had the warmest smiles he had ever seen.

All loves that he treasured, yet let go after a night or two, the heartache keeping him company until he found another gorgeous person to fall for.

When he finds Geralt at the ripe age of 18 it’s different, for once the bard doesn’t want to leave, a nagging feeling pulling him along the path by the Witcher’s side.

His love grows easily, from that of shallow appreciation of his honey golden eyes to a fierce want to protect his love from those that scorn him in every village they visit, a need to nurture the fragile relationship they were building.

It’s only Jaskier’s luck that the only person to ever intrigue him enough to stay seems to want him to leave, impenetrable walls built around his heart.

So, Jaskier writes songs of their travels, being respectful of Geralt’s boundaries whilst still trying to provide as much tender love and care as he could without scaring the Witcher, all the while falling deeper and deeper in love.

Everything starts to go wrong after the djiin.

He watches through the window as his heart breaks with every thrust of Geralt’s hips, the Witchers disinterest (which he had assumed was general Witchery distance) suddenly making more sense - he just didn’t like Jaskier.

Still the bard stayed, sewing his heart back together with every step he took beside the Witcher. His affectionate touches didn’t falter, not allowing his own personal hurt to affect his Geralt negatively. He still deserved as much softness as he could bring himself to provide - Melitele knows Yennefer wasn’t providing that.

Jaskier funnelled all of his creative energy in to his songs, more and more of them staying in his private notebook, too personal to be sung in front of Geralt, let alone the general public.

After each time they met with Yennefer, Jaskier was there to pick up the broken pieces the Witch left behind, baring the brunt of Geralt’s bad mood for a week after she had gone, heart chipping a little more each time as his hatred for the woman grows.

The last straw was the dragon hunt. The whistling winds whipping Jaskier’s hair in his eyes as Geralt’s words lashed out at him, vicious and hateful.

In the following two weeks, Jaskier drank to forget, falling back into old habits and into strangers beds with a new desperation.

The young farmer with hazel eyes - not as beautiful as Geralt’s. The miller’s daughter with blonde hair - not light enough.

The people begin to blend together, yet it doesn’t work. The heartbreak still radiates through his body, numbing him from any other emotion.

He’s too drunk to register that Cintra has fallen.

Too drunk to hear the rumours of the bounty on his head.

Too drunk to notice the Nilfgaardian soldiers entering the tavern.

Too drunk to defend himself against their arms that steal him away that night.

When he awakens the next morning, head throbbing with the familiar pain of a hangover, Jaskier is hit with a wave of nausea.

Turning his head to the side, he reaches for the bed-side table, blanching when he finds his arms restrained. It takes a few seconds to register that he’s in unfamiliar surroundings: the distinctly tavern smell (of weak ale and piss) gone, the slightly scratchy linens of the bed replaced with a hard wood surface.

Unrestrained panic swelled up in the bard’s chest, his instincts kicking in as he tried to mimic sleep.

‘Just breathe slowly, keep your eyes closed and stay calm’ repeated through his brain, sounding suspiciously like Geralt’s voice.

“-the bastard up yet?”

“He wasn’t the last time I checked, no sir”

“And no sign from the Witcher?”

“None sir”

Jaskier heard a scoff as the door opened, two sets of feet stopping at the side of the chair. Unnerving silence fell for a few seconds, before a heavy kick was given to his ribs, punching the air from his lungs in a loud exhale.

“Now listen here, bard” the bigger of the two men all-but-growled, looming over Jaskier as the singer blinked heavily to clear the daze that had settled over him, “We’re going to make this real simple. You tell us what we need to know, and maybe we wont kill you”

Scrunching his nose in disgust, Jaskier considered his options, “What is it that you want to know?”

Another scoff.

“Maybe he’s not so useless after all” the tall man sneered, exchanging an amused glance with the man stood in the corner, “Tell us where the Butcher of Blaviken is”

Self preservation was forgotten as the nickname stirred up anger deep inside Jaskier, the unfairness choking him, “I’m afraid I don’t know any butchers, not the biggest fan of hanging around long enough in towns long enough to befriend anyone in that profession I’m afraid”

That earnt him a sharp slap, the sting helping to ground him.

“Don’t try to be smart. Where is the Witcher - Geralt of Rivia?”

“Oh, I do know him” Jaskier answered, tone kept light and conversational, “Of course I haven’t seen him in months so I’m afraid I’m really of no use to you gentlemen”

Another slap.

“Now that must be a lie. Why would the Witcher leave his little whore behind?”

Now that one stung, the frown forming on Jaskier’s face before he could stop it.

“Aw, struck a chord with that, did I? He found someone else I assume - though Melitele knows how anyone can lay with a monster like -”

Rage finally overflowing, Jaskier spat in the man’s face, “How dare you call him a monster. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be”

A bitter chuckle, followed by a punch that left the bard tasting copper.

“I think you might actually be in love with that thing” he said, amused, “That just makes this all the more fun”

Jaskier held eye contact with the man, glowering as he slowly spat out the pooled blood onto the floor.

“Tell me where he is”

“No”

Two punches to his stomach, and a hard kick to his shin.

“My sister hurt me worse than that for stealing her brush when we were seven” Jaskier sneered.

“Where is he”

A backhand across the face, followed by three hard kicks to his ribs.

“Toss a coin to your-”

Another heavy kick to his stomach, winding him slightly as he keeled forward, a burning pain spreading over his chest.

“Oh valley of plenty” he wheezed, forcing his head back up to stare at his captor’s face.

The day carried on very much the same, Jaskier working through his repertoire of songs as he was beaten black and blue, the lyrics keeping him focused and alert.

The man in the corner just stood and watched, his silent presence looming over the beating.

“I must say” Jaskier eventually huffed, directing his words at the man in the corner, “Your indifference to this situation is highly annoying. Are you not enjoying the performance?”

His question was met with another heavy hit to his stomach, the skin there surely covered in a patchwork quilt of forming bruises.

“You bore me”

The voice was cold, cutting through the pain like a knife and replacing all feeling in his body with the need to flee, an innate wrongness surrounding the man.

He stepped forward into the light, pink eyes flashing at him, “I think it’s high time we shut you up”

The taller man grinned, a shark-like expression that just added to the bard’s discomfort, moving behind him to grab him by the sides of the head, tilting him so that his neck was bared to the room.

They’re going to slit my throat, Jaskier thought absently, half delirious with pain, this is it.

The slimy tendrils of magic prodding at his mind made Jaskier’s eyes widen in panic, struggling against the bonds in a fruitless effort to get away from the unsettling sensation.

No. No this was so much worse.

He could handle pain. He could handle taunting words and harsh treatment. The one thing Jaskier couldn’t handle was fucking mages.

“No - “ he gasped, voice distorted by the angle of his head, “please-”

Yellow eyes. Lips curled in to a snarl.

The mountain.

“Damn it, Jaskier!”

No. No no no no no no no. Not this. Anything but this.

“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, its you, shoveling it?”

White hair. Curled fists.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands”

Wet eyes. Shattered heart. A wasted life.

“Damn it, Jaskier!”

And it looped. Again, and again, and again,

“Ready to talk, bard?”

His eyes fluttered open, eyelids heavy, fighting to remain closed.

“Fuck. You” he hissed, words mangled through gritted teeth.

The mage smirked, fingers reaching for his temple again, “Very well. It seems like one hour wasn’t enough”

The last thought Jaskier had before being pulled back to the mountain was one of horror, that one hour had felt like an entire day.

When he came to once more, Geralt’s voice still ringing in his ears, Jaskier realised there was a new man in the otherwise empty room.

“Going to talk yet little birdy?” the man asked, voice far too light for the circumstances, his posture reminiscent of those that approached him in taverns with hopes of charming him into bed that night.

The realisation occurred to him as he noticed his hands were free, a rusty cot added to the corner of the room.

“No” he whispered, the horror palpable in his tone.

“Well that’s too bad” the man sneered, his too-rough hands dragging him out of the chair and towards the cot.

The irony was that in that moment Jaskier would’ve given anything to have been back on that mountain, Geralt blaming him for everything, rather than be faced with his current reality.

Of course, the mage wasn’t kind enough for that.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how many days had passed since his capture.

What he did know was this: his throat was too sore to speak, ruined from both abuse and lack of water; his body was so mottled that it looked like he had begun rotting, greenish-yellow marks covering almost every inch of his skin; his back shredded by the impromptu whipping session earlier that morning; and he wasn’t sure he could muster a smile, even if informed of the untimely and gruesome death of Valdo Marx.

But, no matter what they threw at him, he would not betray Geralt.

He had made this vow to himself during a quiet moment on (what he guessed was) the second day, that no matter what faced him - be it further torture, mutilation and eventually death - he would not speak a word of the little information he knew.

He may have ruined Geralt’s life, may have annoyed him with his incessant and unwelcome company, but one thing Jaskier could give him now was his undying loyalty, the one thing that no one could take away from him.

They wouldn’t take away his love.

So he breathed steadily as he looked as his hands, tied down firmly to the arms of the chair, taking in every detail of the calloused fingers that made him the famous bard that he was today.

“Last chance. Where is the Witcher”

Jaskier just grinned, the smile bloody and insincere.

“Fucking your mother I would imagine” he croaked, withholding the wince of pain from the strain on his throat, instead widening his grin at the look of anger on the man’s face.

With a growl, the man brought the hammer down heavily on Jaskier’s left ring finger, smiling sickeningly at the bard’s agonised scream.

“Where is he?”

Head fuzzy with pain, Jaskier scowled and spat his blood in the man’s eyes.

The sickening crunch of bone echoed around the small room, Jaskier’s scream ringing out as another two fingers were smashed.

The line of questioning continued until all of his fingers were unrecognisable, the bard humming ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ through tears as he tried to regain control of his breathing.

“What a shame” the captor said, fake sympathy swimming in his cold eyes, “Looks like you’re worth even less than you were when we found you. What worth is a bard if he cant play anymore?”

The man pretended to think, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “Of course! A brothel worker!” He paused, tutting again and shaking his head, “No you cant even be that, we’ve made you far too ugly”

Jaskier tried to ignore his words, focusing on his rattling lungs instead, forcing them to inhale and exhale.

Unconsciousness crept forward, the pain finally overwhelming him, Jaskier falling into it’s open arms gladly.

“-cher isn’t coming for him. We’ve had the word out for two weeks and got nothing”

The words drifted in to Jaskier’s cell, the conversation prying him from sleep.

“So what do we do? The bard’s not talking”

“We were meant to give a destination by yesterday”

“So we make one up, blame the bard when it comes back empty”

“… That could work”

“Then I’m guessing we kill him afterwards?”

“Theres no reason to keep him”

“Well-”

“You’re not using army funds to feed just so he can be your personal whore, Cahir would skin you alive if he found out”

Jaskier huffed a laugh at that - the realisation that his worth had finally been reduced to what his father had called him all those decades ago, ‘a worthless whore’, ‘useless to polite society’.

The conversation carried on, though Jaskier’s mind drifted, thoughts racing yet head surprisingly clear. He shifted in his seat, only slightly to the left, wincing as the healing whip wounds on his back pulled open again, the stinging pain keeping him tethered to consciousness.

Not for the first time, he wondered where Geralt was. Safe, that he was sure of, hidden from the greedy eyes of the Nilfgaardian army if their unhappiness was anything to go off of.

Had he found Cirilla yet?

Was Roach okay?

Was he taking proper care of himself?

And - in even his lowest moments - he found himself wondering how Yennefer was.

If she was handling the break-up better than he did.

If she was safe, happy, looked after.

Or maybe, perhaps even back with Geralt. The three of them playing happy families while Jaskier rotted in a cell and waited for a hapless death.

Being on your deathbed gave you a lot of perspective, Jaskier had realised, and he found it hard to even hate Valdo on occasion (until he regained some energy from a piece of stale bread thrown at him and immediately felt disgusted that the thought had even crossed his mind).

As the fog in his brain seemed to seep into his dimming vision, his thoughts returned to Geralt’s eyes.

“Goodnight my love”

The news reached Geralt as they were passing a backwater town. 

“The bard Jaskier - I swear it was! They dragged him out t’wards the Nilfgaard base”

“Tom stop jabbering, they would’a been shouting that from the rooftops if they got ‘im”

Coldness seeped into the Witcher’s bones as the words registered in his brain, his eyes flying to Yennefer. The sorceress was looking at him with pity in her eyes.

“I can try scrying-”

“Please”

Ciri watched in awe as Yennefer set up her equipment that night in their camp, bouncing with barely restrained curiosity at all the new instruments that the mage seemed to summon from nowhere.

The young princess’ enthusiasm calmed Geralt slightly, focusing on her youthful movements instead of the dread that settled over him at the thought of Jaskier’s current situation, guilt hitting him every few minutes as he replayed their last conversation.

‘If life could give me one blessing-’

“He’s in Neunreuth” Yennefer said, looking up with a solemn expression, “in a Nilfgaardian fortress”

“They were right” the Witcher breathed, utterly defeated.

“So we’re going to get him right?” Ciri asked, enthusiasm now dampened by the morose mood emanating from the two adults.

“Of course” 

Yennefer quirked her eyebrow at his firm reply, before nodding in agreement, “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow”

Geralt knew the second he stepped out of the portal that something was wrong.

“He cant be here” he thought aloud, “It’s been abandoned”

Yennefer frowned, her expression telling him everything she refused to say out loud, “He’s here”

“No”

Striding forwards, the Witcher advanced on the old manor house, nose picking up on the scent of Jaskier’s blood the second he reached the front door.

“No!”

Strides turned in to a sprint as he chased the scent, denial still swirling through his brain as he got closer and closer to the muted wildflower scent. 

“Jaskier”

The name fell from his lips as his knees gave out from under him, the sight of his bard’s limp body hanging from the chair punching all the breath from him. The smell of rusted blood was overwhelming, a pool in the corner dating back months.

Geralt sat there, disgusted by himself as he imagined how long Jaskier had waited for him to come and rescue him, how long he had stayed faithful to a monster.

He wasn't worth Jaskier’s life.

He wasn't aware he was crying until Yennefer laid a hand on his shoulder, “Geralt-”

“No” he hissed, struggling to his feet and moving over to the bard, “he cant be dead - he -”

Eyes wild, he turned around to face the sorceress, rising to his full height, “Fix him. I know you can - you did it last time”

“Geralt-”

Anger overtaking him, he pulled Jaskier’s limp body into his arms, unaware of how much his own hands were shaking.

“FIX HIM. YOU NEED TO FIX HIM NOW”

“Geralt stop”

“YOU NEED TO FIX HIM” he shouted, falling to his knees again, cradling the cold body in his arms as he sobbed, “Please fix him, Yen I need - I need you to fix him please”

The woman sighed, brushing a hand over Jaskier’s temple, looking for any sign of life.

“He’s gone"

Geralt’s cries could be heard in the next village over, lasting well into the night.

Not long after, tales of the White Wolf, Princess of Cintra and the Raven Sorceress were spread far and wide, the image of Cahir’s head on a stick engraved in the public’s minds.

[prairiesongserial]

16.10

Nash and Stills had insisted on accompanying them all the way back to the motel that the Madsen and Graves Circus had commandeered for the night. Cody couldn’t complain. He was glad to have the extra eyes keeping a lookout - especially with the alarm still blaring in the distance, and many more strangers roaming the streets than he and John had encountered on their way to Central Headquarters.

John looked much less thrilled, though Cody couldn’t say for certain if it was because of the company or because John had dropped the files they’d stolen down the elevator shaft. Cody walked next to him in silence for a little while, Stills and Nash bringing up the rear behind them. He finally spoke when he saw the lights of the motel appear in the distance - it would be harder to talk once they got back.

“I’m not mad about the files,” Cody said, carefully.

“Okay,” John said. He did not sound entirely convinced.

“We wouldn’t’ve been able to read them anyway, right? So it’s fine.”

John made a grunting noise that might have been a disagreement. He pulled something from the waistband of his pants and handed it to Cody - a small notebook. Cody flipped to the first page and found the Hemisphere insignia there, along with the title Hemisphere Network Phone and Telegraph Codes.

“Where’d you get this?” Cody asked, though he didn’t expect much of an answer. He’d gotten the idea that John didn’t feel very up to a conversation at present. They’d only exchanged about five words between them since leaving Headquarters, though they’d been walking shoulder-to-shoulder through side streets and darkened alleyways this entire time. After the stairs, most of which John had insisted on doing on his own, Cody felt he should be close enough to catch him.

“Desk,” John said. “Seemed important.”

“It’s a codebook,” Cody said. He flipped a few pages ahead and squinted at the text on the page, trying to decipher the letters in the dark. “The King told me about these. Hemisphere gangs’ve all got these phone codes, to get the operator to connect you to them. The King gave me the one for the Good Guys, but this book has all of ‘em, I bet.”

He turned a few more pages, and found himself staring at the text Dead-Eyes Gang - Delta Echo 04. Cody shut the notebook.

“Good find,” he said. “I mean, it won’t tell us who put out the bounty, but now we’ve got the phone code of every operation that works under Hemisphere. That’ll come in handy.”

“For what?” John asked.

“Dunno yet,” Cody said, utterly honest. But having gotten away from Headquarters with anything felt like a small triumph, and he was determined not to dwell on the lost files. All that was bound to accomplish was make him and John feel worse, and make it visibly, abundantly clear to everyone else that they’d been somehow involved in the Hemisphere burglary.

Cody bent the notebook and shoved it into his pocket as the group approached the motel’s parking lot, which was littered not only with circus trucks but with a handful of people milling around. Val and Friday were there, both dressed more ostentatiously than Cody had ever seen them. Or, than he’d ever seen Val. Friday looked very at home in the costume she was wearing, but Val looked distinctly put out, tugging on his too-short hem and grumbling while they waited for Enis to find their room assignments on the list.

Johannes and Ezra were nowhere to be seen, as were the other circus members, but standing a few feet away from Val and Friday was Marc, leaned up against the back of a truck and smoking a cigarette. He noticed John, Cody, Stills, and Nash immediately, his face lighting up in a grin as he waved with his free hand.

“Hello, hello, you four! You won’t believe the evening I’ve had.”

“Oh, the evening you’ve had,” Stills said. He was still standing behind Cody, but Cody had the distinct sense he was rolling his eyes.

“Well, I’m sure we’ve all had eventful evenings,” Marc conceded, jerking his head towards Val and Friday, then giving John and Cody a once-over. “I am surprised at you two,” he said. “Wanted criminals breaking into the headquarters of the crime capital of the world? Très audacieux.”

“It sounds exhausting when you put it like that,” Cody said.

“It is exhausting,” Val said flatly, having wandered close enough to be party to the conversation. Enis had given them their room keys only to hustle away to the next problem that needed his attention. “Don’t tell me you two were the reason we got trapped inside the gala.”

“Wish I could lie and say we weren’t,” Cody said. He slid his hands into his pockets, pressing his palm against the cover of the notebook. Then, the other half of Val’s sentence hit him. “You snuck into the gala?”

Val made a face. “It was Friday’s idea.”

“You were the ones who broke into Headquarters?” Friday asked, peering around Val. “You almost got us busted. We had to pretend to be Bellamys to get out of there, they were checking invitations -”

“The alarm was supposed to stay off,” Nash objected. He and Stills had drifted towards where Marc was standing, and he’d pulled down his mask to smoke a cigarette of his own, leaning with his arms draped over the side of the truck bed.

“It sounds like it wouldn’t’ve been a problem if you’d never snuck into the gala in the first place,” Cody said, trying not to smile.

“See,” Val said, with an exasperated sweep of his arm. “Cody agrees with me.”

“We weren’t just there for fun!” Friday protested, though Cody doubted she was being entirely truthful about that. She was exactly the kind of person who snuck into places she wasn’t supposed to be for fun - especially, Cody was sure, extravagant parties. “We were there to spy!”

“Spy?” John asked. He had been silent up until now, occasionally shifting uneasily next to Cody.

“On Johannes,” Friday said. “I don’t trust him.”

“Me neither,” Cody agreed. He hadn’t looped Friday or Val in on his suspicions yet, or on what the King had told him, but it was good that they all seemed more or less on the same page. “What did you find?”

“His wife -” Friday began.

“Ex-wife,” Val cut her off, sharply.

“His ex-wife,” Friday said, stressing the extra syllable with annoyance, “is the head of Hemisphere’s Office of Intelligence. And they’re still on decent enough terms, from the looks of it.” She shifted her weight, propping a hand on her hip and looking at John and Cody. “Did you find anything interesting in Headquarters?”

“Intelligence had files on us,” Cody said. He was determined to talk around the elevator shaft incident if he could, mostly for John’s sake. “We got rid of them. Uh, most of them. I couldn’t grab yours in time, Friday.”

“Well, good job destroying the other ones,” Friday said, with a small shrug. “I can’t think of anything important they’d have on me.”

Cody had barely opened his mouth to respond when he was derailed by the appearance of someone rounding the corner of the motel building and striding quickly across the parking lot towards the truck everyone had gathered around. Her hair was much shorter than Cody remembered, shorn unevenly and close to her scalp, but her uneven gait gave Sailor away immediately.

“Sailor!” he called, and raised a hand in greeting.

Sailor’s eyes widened. She quickened her pace across the parking lot, and in seconds Cody found himself being held aloft, Sailor’s arms fastened around his middle in a hug.

“Cody!” she said, then glanced to his left. “And John.”

John nodded in greeting.

“Why the hell are you here?” Cody asked. The last time he’d seen Sailor, he couldn’t have imagined her voluntarily going on a trip with Marc - much less on a trip halfway across the country. “What happened to your hair?”

Sailor rolled her eyes. “Long story. And I could ask you the same.”

“We’re traveling with the circus,” Cody said. He bounced on the balls of his feet as Sailor set him down again, grinning. “I met your family! The Good Guys!”

At this, Sailor’s eyebrows shot up. Apparently the news of Cody’s ordeal in the Birth Canal hadn’t yet reached her. Cody expected she would get a letter about it eventually.

“Is that so,” she said, and slung an arm around Cody’s shoulder. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

16.9 || epilogue 16

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

Forgive me, I’m here to vent again.

Things have seemed a little better, at least I’m starting to brush myself off a bit and split my losses. In the coming days after the break up, I felt very unspecial. I felt moldy inside and grey, like something was pulled out of me. I felt gross and used up. I guess that in a very specific way I was made into something special or pretty, someone who had perfect strength and vulnerability, that I was some unique form of beautiful that he alone had discovered and learned to interact with. I was very open to him in a way I hadn’t been with other people. And losing that closeness is difficult for me still.

I’m trying to remember who I was before him, and here and again as spring emerges and I walk around town after work or watch the streets as the bus takes me where I am going, I find myself flowing more with what’s around me, or seeing more into it. I don’t feel as separated from myself. I don’t know if that makes any sense.

Not that I ever wasn’t me, but my focus at one time didn’t even acknowledge his existence. I was my own in a way that I had given partial custody to him after we got together. I realize that though not having anyone to look forward to or talk to is a bit of a drag, I was so used to the ebbs and flows of being disappointed that to a degree I was building up resentfulness and bitter personality traits around the prospects that there was no way out of this situation and I would never find anything in it. I had to hold my tongue more than I should have. I lived in fear of him walking away from me, and low and behold, he did it anyway.

I’m still hurt and I still love him. What gets me are the small memories of elements that are so distinctly him, little worlds that could only ever exist between him and I in songs and places and times that seem out of place, things I will always be haunted by but unable to recreate. There is a vibe to hanging out in a permanent midnight at 7-11 or Plaid Pantry at 2am. Or the way his tone of skin matched with his glasses, his beard, with his long hair around his face, his black eyes and sarcasm, the distinct way his hands felt, the way he walked and engaged with strangers, his skinny legs, just the overall way he approached everyone good or bad. I know it very very well.

I could text him but it wouldn’t make any of the old feelings come back. What we had is broken and I did the best I could to try to talk about that. If he really cared he would apologize and it’s for the best that he doesn’t care that much, or more likely he has this element of pride that will prevent him from admitting any indignity. He’s willing to lose friends over some petty stuff.

I know this is dumb but I can’t help but know that he’s going to miss me for a lot longer, years after all this. I have a way of pushing forward and he has been winding down for some time. He doesn’t have as much to look forward to. I imagine he will have some last ditch relationships that won’t last long in the course of the next few years and then he will have to live with what he’s done to his body (he drank a lot and now he’s losing feeling in his fingers and feet from permanent nerve damage). And I won’t be there. Which when you think about it that way, I get sadder for him. I wish he had been just a bit more forward thinking and connected to himself more. I don’t think he deserves that, but it’s what he’s going to get and he won’t do anything differently.

He’s going to be out one night in some bar and remember that he loved me and that he was dumb and told me he didn’t want to be my friend anymore because I told him in a passive aggressive way that I wanted him to want to see me more and I felt like this had become enormously one sided. Someday nobody is going to want to see him. I don’t think it will change much but I know it’s going to happen.

It’s fine. With what I lost I guess there is quite a bit to gain. It’s just giving up that identity or that certainty. And 2020 was a year when I really really felt lost and he was there. We went to the protests together, we suffered the intense wildfire smoke, we talked every night for so long, that I struggled to sleep without talking to him at least for a few minutes. 2019 was a year of secrets and intimacy and being exhilarated and 2020 was a year where him and I stuck it out and actually got to know each other. When he got a new job though, he like, deleted the friendship with me. I don’t know why, but maybe he met someone new. He started referring to me as a distant friend, and a fuck buddy and then he just stopped referring to me at all. I tried to message him, I told him I needed to talk. He wouldn’t do it. He would ignore those messages, or call me emo. He was warm and friendly at times and sometimes seemed invested like nothing was wrong but it seemed like he just pulled away overall. But he wouldn’t acknowledge it or tell me why. So I sat and stewed and felt abandoned all winter.

Then he started talking to his ex again who I am well acquainted with, who doesn’t know that he was with me afterwards. She still had a thing for him and wasn’t mentally stable. If she could have handled it I would have let her know. She’d sorta moved on, but you know how things like that go. They hadn’t ever not been friends but it felt like he was trying to rekindle something. And I didn’t like that. So I pushed him away, I backtracked all that openness I had had. I was a little humiliated and enraged, I got mad and started preparing an emotional escape. Between being pushed away and having to compete with his ex, I felt better off leaving the situation behind entirely. And I think for me, even though I tried to keep things going, it just died there. That was like a month or two ago now.

When I approached him about not making time to hang out with me in the way I had done for him, or wanting me to invest in him, calling me his girlfriend sometimes but not really wanting to be a boyfriend or acknowledge it at other times, I said I felt used and it wasn’t fair. And that made him tell me he never wanted to talk to me again. It hurt but whatever. It was such a cowardly response. Such a fuck you to every good thing that was worth it in our friendship. He threw me away because I brought up something that made him uncomfortable and he would rather just pretend I didn’t exist than give me any real answer. That was its own cold answer in and of itself I guess. But at least at the end of it he actually said something. I got so used to being half ghosted. At least he just ended it, cowardly or no.

A part of me is afraid though that this will happen to me again. I really really didn’t like losing this relationship. It was the dearest thing to me and letting go didn’t and won’t kill me, but I don’t know how much more of that kind of desolate disillusionment and misery I want to flower my life with. I guess there are only so many things a person can control or know about someone else before becoming invested emotionally.

I’m actually doing better than I thought I would, and I can only see this getting easier. It’s actually easier for me to wake up early, eat well, exercise, and plan my day. Those were hard when we were together, it was either a blissful fog or a heavy dreadful fog, but there was always a brain fog in everything I did with little moments of clarity when we were close. I do well on my own. I’m stronger than him and am capable of making certain kinds of progress that he’s not as disciplined in doing.

I’m almost freaked out about how chill it’s been since, considering how devastated it made me. I was in shock. I guess it’s just that I don’t have to worry about it anymore. I can put this chapter in my life behind me for better or worse. I don’t anticipate his existence in my life too much. I still notice when he is online. I can feel him thinking about me a little, which I know that’s weird. It makes me feel a little vulnerable and sad and a little part of me wishes he would just reach out because he does want me back, but I absolutely cannot put myself in that situation again. Even if I want it, it’s like my body wouldn’t listen. It’s not the side I’m focusing on or listening to but I have dumb naive little feelings at times. He regrets his decision but he isn’t going to step outside of himself to correct it. And if he does I am not interested in hearing him out. He had so many opportunities to talk, so many.

Okay, I’m done using tumblr as an emotional sounding board. Thanks for coming to my Ted talk

[salandition]

Wear it Like a Jacket

Raihan x Reader

A/N: This started off as a request that someone sent me, but i noticed i was straying very far away from the initial idea and prompt so I made it into it’s own post. 

Word Count: 3,700+

---

Raihan wears a big, fluffy, comfortable hoodie over his gym uniform- and he almost always wears his gym uniform. The gym clothes don’t really suit him, and the shorts show off too much of his legs, in his opinion- but the fans love his legs, so he guesses there’s at least that.

But Galar is known for it’s fickle weather, and Hammerlocke is built smack-dab in the middle of the Wild Area- you know, the place with several different climates that rotate daily? Yeah.

So Raihan takes what he can get with his uniform- using the hoodie as his one solace during the cold weather as his legs shake from being so naked and bare during literal snowstorms.

That being said, at least the uniform is nice for when the sun is determined to blast literal heat rays onto the city that create a fuzzy haze in the air. That’s the only time that he takes off his big hood, tying the article around his hips instead. Still, the hoodie doesn’t leave him. It’s always on him.

A shame that it’s been used against him. He wore it at first because he didn’t like his clothes, and he didn’t like showing his skin, and he really didn’t like having so many eyes on him and admiring him. Despite the selfies, the attitude he showcases out there- there’s truth to it, of course, but only so much. It was nice, but stifling. Raihan brought the hoodie with him originally to feel more secure, to ground him with something familiar and something that belonged to him.

Raihan was ignorant when he did such a thing- he should have predicted that people would leech everything they could get. The hoodie became his staple- a part of his image. It was his uniform now, just as much as the collared shirt and shorts were. And he just had to live with that.

That’s fine. It’s comfortable, it’s soft, it’s snug. He’s not complaining.

But he doesn’t wear it outside of work anymore.

No one has ever commented on it, though. No one really pays attention to Raihan like that, honestly, so he’s not surprised. He hardly even realizes it himself- it’s not something noticeable. Not really.

You were different, though, apparently. His eyebrows raises in surprise and interest as you ask him one day-

“Why don’t you wear your jacket?”

His lips pull up as his brow furrows, just a bit confused as he looks down at you. “What do you mean? I wear it all the time.”

“At work,” you look away from him as you look ahead, shuffling on the bench you sit on. Your hand ruffles through a plastic bag, taking out a handful of crumbs before you throw it out on the grass and several bird Pokemon flock down to get a bite. “You never wear it out of the gym.”

Raihan hums, watching the birds and how they flap their wings and one of the bigger ones puffs out its chest as it tries to get more than the rest. “I guess. Never really thought about it. Does my current outfit not do it for you?”

“That’s not it,” you tell him, “I just noticed. I guess I wondered if there was a reason behind it. You used to wear it all the time- your dad gave it to you, right?”

He had no idea you would remember such a thing.

“...Yeah,” Raihan says. “That’s true.”

He doesn’t say anything else and neither do you. The two of you once again sit in silence, simply just being in each other's company as you spread out food for the wild Pokemon around the park. It’s a beautiful day out- the sun is shining but not in an overwhelming way, a breeze flits through the air and through his thick hair, leaving little bumps on his neck.

For once, he’s wearing pants, so he’s not as cold as he’d usually be. It’s pleasant.

“But you do look nice,” your voice cuts through the silence eventually and Raihan turns his head lazily to look at you. Surprisingly, you look him in the eye- something you tend to avoid doing, so it almost catches him off guard how confident you are and how your eyes shine so brightly with the sun behind your head. “You always do, but I like what you’re wearing now, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Raihan smiles as he lets out a soft breath, his back slouching more as he relaxes against the hard bench. His head tilts just barely as he tries to look at you from another angle-

Hear your words from another angle. But he doesn’t see or hear anything except for everything that was already there.

“Thank you, then,” he says simply and you smile at him as you nod, your eyes squinting and nose scrunching in the cute way it does whenever you smile.

It’s not much longer after that when the two of you part, both having another thing to do while the day was bright and shining. You comment that you should do this again, and Raihan hums an agreement- and that was that. The walk back to Raihan’s home is relatively peaceful, besides the few times that a fan sees him and waves eagerly from across the street. But no one wants pictures today or conversation- it’s a rare day that happens, especially during such nice weather, so Raihan appreciates it. He appreciates the rare silence he’s given, especially when he’s busy trying to pull your words apart in his head.

When he opens his front door, closes it behind him, Raihan finds himself torn by how simple you are. Simplicity has never been so confusing. He shouldn’t really be wondering why you say the things you say- why you noticed such a trivial detail about him, that surely everyone else has noticed too, probably- it’s not a big deal.

Still, when Raihan wanders into his room and sees that same, familiar hoodie sitting clean and neat on it’s hanger in his closet- he can’t help but draw his eyebrows together and feel odd. He reaches forward without even realizing it, feels the material of something he’s felt hundreds of times between his fingers.

Your dad gave it to you, right?

Raihan hardly remembers telling you such a thing. 

Frustrated, he lets the sleeve go and shuts his closet in an act of defiance, though Raihan has no idea what he’s even defying. A jacket is a jacket- and it’s hardly even that, anymore. It’s a uniform. 

It wasn’t supposed to be a uniform. 

---

Raihan’s been feeling stranger lately. It’s not bad- but it bothers him that his jacket feels itchy all of the sudden when he goes to work- and it bothers him that he doesn’t know why he feels strange in the first place. It’s irritating, honestly, but Raihan is a relaxed guy and he doesn’t get irritated. 

So everyone hardly has anything to say besides what’s routine, because Raihan isn’t any different. Not really. 

But when you come to visit him at work, you confuse him again. “What’s wrong?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed. He does the same as he looks down at you. Again. You’re really short. 

“What do you mean? I feel fine.”

“You’re acting different,” your lips purse as you mumble and your arms cross across your chest. You look away as you ponder. “Maybe I’m wrong though,” you say, quickly taking it back- Raihan doesn’t know why you’re so quick to doubt yourself. “I guess I thought you were a bit tense. You’re itching your arms a lot.”

Raihan doesn’t know what to say to that. He looks at his arms- the sleeves of his jacket pulled up to his elbows- and he’s confused when he finds lines there. Lines his nails left from scratching too hard. 

Why didn’t he notice that?

“Maybe I’m allergic to something,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. Raihan knows he isn’t allergic to anything but soybeans.

You take the bait though, murmuring that maybe that was it, and the conversation moves on. The two of you talk about a variety of things, and then Raihan has to leave to work more with his gym trainers. You leave after you wrap an arm around his thin waist, pulling him into a side-hug and successfully confusing him further as you bid him goodbye and let him go. 

You didn’t even let him hug you back- but that wasn’t it. You’ve never done that before. Hug him? No, not really. He’ll hug you sometimes, as much as he hugs everyone else. But Raihan remembers distinctly how you often shy away from affectionate things like that and you’ve told him that you don’t really feel comfortable initiating contact. 

It’s flattering that you would hug him. That’s what he should be feeling. But instead he’s just...

He doesn’t know. 

---

The next time the two of you meet, Raihan isn’t wearing his jacket. He wears a faded purple hoodie, a black collared shirt beneath it, and once again he hides his long legs behind some grey jeans. You invited him out for breakfast- of all meals. 

Raihan didn’t even know people went out for breakfast. It was always lunch or dinner. 

The morning air is refreshing though when he walked to your apartment and picked you up, and the conversation is equally as refreshing. He’s glad you invited him out since he’s been feeling odd ever since the last time you talked. Thankfully, he doesn’t feel that way anymore. 

As you both eat your fruit and pancakes at the diner, Raihan feels light and relaxed. He breathes easy. 

You confuse him sometimes, but he doesn’t think it’s really your fault. Nothing you do is wrong or weird- it’s just Raihan. He’s the weird one. 

You’re the bright, beautiful one with the same shining eyes you had in the park. You haven’t changed, and that’s nice. 

So when you ask him, “are you feeling better?” Raihan tries to keep breathing easy. 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly and takes another bite of his fruit. “But I feel good right now.”

“I’m glad for that,” you smile. Raihan doesn’t try to hide his stare. “If you need to talk about something or vent, I can listen. I’m not nearly as busy as you, so I’m sure I have the time whenever you need me.”

Raihan hums as a reply. 

---

It’s around six A.M. when he calls you. Raihan doesn’t expect you to answer, but you do, so he doesn’t take that for granted. 

“Do you think gym leaders are allowed to play hooky?” He asks you. He sits on his bed, naked besides his boxers, and he’s staring at his closet. 

Your voice is rough and groggy, probably from just waking up. “I don’t think so, but the Gym Challenge isn’t really happening right now...” You hum and Raihan can hear shuffling on the other end. “Why would you want to? You have a plan?” 

“Not exactly,” Raihan says. “I guess I just don’t want to go.” 

A few silent beats pass until you talk again. “...Do you want to come to my place?” 

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” you grunt- Raihan thinks you’re proabably getting out of bed, “I’ll make some tea.”

---

When Raihan arrives at your place, he’s got a bag around his shoulder and skinny jeans on, which feels ridiculous because of how early it is, but skinny jeans are warm. 

You let him in without question, though, letting him close the door behind him as you wander to the kitchen. He follows behind, lowering his head when the doorway to the kitchen gets in his way. 

He’s too tall. 

“You like black tea?” You smile and sit at the table where two glasses sit. You take your spot, and he takes his. 

“Yup,” Raihan says, but when he looks down, it’s definitely not black tea that sits in his cup. He gives you a look, and you smile wider as you put a spoon in yours and stir. 

“Everyone knows that about you,” you say. “But I know you like green tea, too. With a blend of white.” Your head makes a nod as you look at his bag, gesturing to it. “Are you going to put the bag down?” 

Raihan slowly removes the strap from his shoulder, looking at you strangely as he puts the bag down to rest on his chair. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about me,” he says, selecting the words carefully. 

“I don’t know anything you haven’t told me,” you tilt your head in curiosity, still stirring your tea. Raihan sighs and frowns, looking back at his cup. 

“I guess I didn’t realize that, either.”

“Does it bother you?”

“I don’t know,” He frowns more. “I think I tell everyone the same things. My friends the same details. It’s never really brought up, though.” When he finally sips his tea, it’s full of flavor but burns his tongue. 

Raihan drinks some more and he doesn’t even wince. 

You hum as you take in what he’s told you. “What’s in the bag?” You ask him instead of questioning him on the other topic further. Raihan looks across the table at you, your face surprisingly calm. 

“...I wanted to ask you something,” Raihan stands from the table, and you follow suit, waiting beside him as he ruffles in the bag and brings out his hoodie. The familiar, iconic one- clean and warm from the dryer. He hands it to you, waiting for you to take it as you stare at the article wide-eyed. “Could you put this on?” 

You look at him, utterly confused.”Why?”

It’s six A.M. That fact is somehow really solidified in his head at this moment that he stands in your kitchen, feeling oddly desperate as he gives you something that is precious. 

“I... Whenever I put it on,” his hand lowers, holding the jacket tightly between his fingers, “it feels weird. No matter how many times I wash it, it makes me itch. I checked for bugs, all that- but there’s nothing. So I want you to put it on and just- tell me if it itches.” He’s aware that the idea is weird, and Raihan is ready for you to call him crazy and that he needs to go to work- 

Instead, you take the hoodie from his hands as you tell him, “okay.” Your head nodding in a resolute way. 

...Okay. 

Raihan can’t do much but watch as you unfold the jacket, shaking it out and then move it behind you as your arms slip through the sleeves. You fumble for the zipper and struggle to latch it and pull it up, because the hoodie goes all the way down to your knees- if Raihan wasn’t feeling like a bit of his soul was riding on this, he would have laughed. 

But he doesn’t, and he thinks you noticed that. 

“...Itchy?” He asks after a few moments, once the hoodie is zipped up and securely around you. You lick your lips and purse them, nose scrunching up as you think- cute- and then your arms fall to your sides as you look up at him. 

“...Not really. It feels soft and comfortable- I’m not feeling anything itchy, besides maybe the tag on my neck.” 

Raihan sighs- his body practically falling into your kitchen chair as he sits down and lays his head on the table. “What is it, then?” He groans, dragging the words longer than they need to be as he feels like he’s losing. Losing to what- he doesn’t know. But he’s losing. 

Your hand places on his back, rubbing gently until eventually you ask, “why don’t you put it on?”

He looks at you as his head lies on the table, cheek squished, and he rolls his eyes. “You know, I hadn’t tried that.”

You snort and pinch his back. “Just do it for me. I want to see something, too. I did it for you, so do it for me.”

Clearly, you have an idea. So Raihan groans some more as he sits up, watching you with half lidded eyes as you take off his jacket and hand it over to him. Raihan shrugs it on as he does nearly every morning, the jacket fitting him the way it always does. 

“How does it feel?” You ask. 

He waits. 

His face falls, and you fall down to squat beside him, a hand on his thigh as you balance on your toes. 

“I don’t get it,” he says, “it’s been bothering me all week.”

“Okay,” you say, taking a breath as you look up at him from your spot on the floor. Your hand starts to rub his leg- not in a way that’s suggestive or crude. It’s comforting- at least, it’s supposed to be. Raihan’s not sure how he feels at all in this moment. “But let’s think about it. Usually, you only wear it at work, right?” Raihan nods. “Right now, you’re only with me.”

He purses his lips, eyebrows furrowing. “That still doesn’t make sense.” You give him a look. 

“Raihan,” you sigh, “You’ve been acting off all week. Ever since we met at the park- do you think that’s just me? Or is it true?” 

His silence is enough of an answer. 

“I think there’s something bothering you, but I can’t tell you what it is. It’s impossible for me to know that,” Raihan almost scoffs. He’s not sure that’s true. 

You seem to know more about him than Raihan himself does, these days. 

Your hand around his knee, you shake him a bit. “So, do you think you can tell me?”

Raihan looks down at you again- and it’s odd. You’re odd- even if that goes against what he said yesterday. He doesn’t think that’s true anymore. Because here you are, squatting beside him and talking him through something- whatever this is- at six o’clock in the morning. With his favorite tea on the table- getting cold, if he might add. 

Who does that?

He sighs, an elbow on the table as he sits up to prop his face in his palm. His fingers scratch at his cheek. “You mentioned how I never wear my jacket outside of work. And I guess I was thinking about how that’s true. And a variety of other things.” 

You shake his leg again, and Raihan smiles as he huffs out a breathy chuckle. 

“So many people stare at me,” he closes his eyes, “so many people are looking. The appreciation for it comes and goes. I like the attention, and I like my job. But it’s... it’s like my life is impersonally personal. Like no matter what I bring to the screen, to the people watching me- it’s Raihan, right? The great gym leader, Leon’s ultimate rival- Raihan who goes feral, Raihan who uses the weather, Raihan who takes a bunch of photos.” 

“Who wears the sweater?” You add, and Raihan’s blue eyes open and stare ahead of him. 

“...Yeah.” He snorts. “I’m not even making any sense, but yeah.” 

You shrug from below him, but don’t offer him any words. You just keep looking at him- so Raihan guesses he isn’t done explaining himself. 

“I guess...” Raihan starts, the words taking their time to come out as the gears in his brain process. “I like my job, but I don’t like... when the things important to me lose their meaning because of all the people looking at me,” his free hand wanders to his jacket then, once again feeling the material between his fingers. 

Soft and warm. Unstained, despite everything it’s been through. Raihan made sure of that. 

“I think I get what you mean. I can’t say I wholeheartedly understand, because I’m not in your position,” your other hand grabs his hoodie too, making Raihan once again put his focus on you as you smile so gently at him. “But I can make sense of it- I can tell why you’re feeling bothered. So do you know what I think?” 

Raihan smiles back, raising an intrigued eyebrow. “What do you think?” He asks.

“I think you should wear this when we go out for breakfast again tomorrow,” you tell him. “And I think you should wear it when you go to work today.” 

Finally, you stand- groaning a bit as you do and wiggling your toes. Raihan’s eyes follow you, lips forming a pout. 

“You’re not letting me play hooky, after all?”

You laugh, eyes sparkling again when you do, “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” you tell him. 

And oddly enough, Raihan believes you. You haven’t given him a reason not to. 

---

He does as he’s told. Raihan goes to work, wearing the jacket as he always does- and things go smoothly. No one knows what happened this morning, because Raihan acts the same as ever. When the day is over and Raihan is back home, he puts the jacket back on it’s same hanger, and the gym clothes back in their same drawer. 

The next morning, he meets you at your apartment again. The hoodie wraps around him like a blanket, providing extra comfort against the chilly morning air. The break in his routine feels strange, but otherwise- not world shattering. You answer the door right away, and the two of you walk back to the diner you had gone to before. 

Once again, in the middle of your meal, you ask him the same question. “Are you feeling better?” 

This time, Raihan didn’t have any fruit on his plate- now it’s bacon, and the pancakes from before is replaced with a sweet chocolate crepe. The bacon crunches just how he likes it when he puts it in his mouth. 

“You know?” Raihan starts, his long legs stretching under the table and bumping against yours as he leans back in his chair. “I think I feel fine.” 

“Things feel a bit better when they’re put in a different context, don’t they?” You hum pleasantly with a smile, chewing on your own meal. “Not as suffocating.”

Ha. He gives you a squinty, wide smile as he shrugs. “Possibly,” he says. 

When Raihan reaches forward to grab his drink, your arm darts out and grabs his. His eyes widen in surprise, and you lift his arm a bit before you let go. “Nearly got chocolate sauce stains. Can’t have that.” You gesture to the plate below him.

He’s never been so careless. 

Raihan grins even bigger than before. “Thanks, mate.” 

His father would never forgive him if he got it stained. Thankfully, though, Raihan has you to help look after it just as much as he does. 

[dyaz-stories]

In Heaven

This is a little follow-up to Seven Minutes, the idea’s been floating in my mind since I finished it basically. Hope you’ll enjoy it!

Tagging: @shinidamachu​ @sailorbabydoll92​ @sweetchcolate​ @clearwillow​ @zelink-inukag​ @cstorm86​ @digital-art-monster​ @danycontreras90​ @redflamesofpassion​ @lost-amidst-the-stars​ @eternalnight8806-3​ @desiree239​ @keichanz​ @ashleys-canvas​ @mustardyellowsunshine​ @meggz0rz​ @contacting-u​ @ramen—boi​

When Inuyasha had announced it was time to stop for the night, the group had taken the news with relief, and had started to unpack to set their little camp. He’d sat against a tree in his usual position, Tetsusaiga ready to be used, should he need to, and had closed his eyes for some well-deserved rest.

Or, well, that was what it looked like from an outside perspective.

Truth was, his eyes were half-lidded, only betrayed by a flash of gold every once in a while, which he was pretty sure Sango had noticed, and he followed Kagome’s every move, as she chatted with their friends and as she prepared her sleeping bag. Things had been strange between them, since they’d come back to the Feudal Era. Hell, since the morning after his human night.

It wasn’t terrible, it was just… stilted. Unnatural. Uncomfortable, in a way it just never was. Even when they were fighting, Kagome was the easiest person to be around for him, and it almost physically hurt that he didn’t have that those days.

He didn’t know what had caused it. That night, when he’d finally been able to discover what it felt like to kiss her, what it felt like to hear her say she loved him— It had all been like a dream. And, like a dream, it had faded in the morning, when they had acted like— Practically like fucking strangers, compared to how they usually were.

Ever since then, the thought had seemed to dig some black hole in his chest, swallowing everything else, every other sensation, until it consumed him fully and it was all he could think about. And all the time, one question and one question only danced it his mind.

Why?

There was no apparent reason he could think of, no answer to that question. Nothing had changed between them, since that night, to his knowledge. Or, well, nothing but the obvious.

He wasn’t human anymore.

As soon as the idea had crossed his mind, he couldn’t free himself from it. Kagome had never seemed to have prejudices against him being a half-demon. Fuck, she even loved those stupid ears that screamed to everyone what he was, as if the eyes and hair didn’t make it clear enough.

However, there was a big fucking difference between not having a problem with him being a half-demon and loving one. Maybe, as he’d suspected already a long time ago, maybe he truly had to be human, if he wanted to be loved. He’d never thought he’d be loved as a full demon, just feared, but as a human, it could happen to him, and he craved that love, her love, more than anything else in the world.

She would never ask him to become human, Inuyasha knew, she just wasn’t like that, but in his mind, there was a very real possibility that that was the version of him she loved. The human one. He didn’t doubt that she cared, always, but love… He’d been told before that he couldn’t be loved. He’d believed it. In the end, it was just a confirmation.

He didn’t dwell on other ideas, because in that scenario, she at least loved one version of him, someone he could become once they got their hands on the full Jewel. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that she’d regretted it in the morning.

That night, he decided to take action. He couldn’t stand the distance between them any longer. He’d never had much, but at least he had that, he had her around him, and he couldn’t let it be taken away from him.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he offered to her after dinner, in a voice that was almost a growl because of how tense he was.

The smile she gave him in reply, as she nodded cheerfully, almost soothed all of his concerns. Fuck, he didn’t know how she did it, but when she smiled it was like everything inside him just melted. The world stopped turning, and he had no trouble believing that maybe she did love him.

But then he swallowed and looked away. Nah. He couldn’t let himself be delusional any longer.

He didn’t miss the way Shippo, Miroku and Sango eyed each other as they left, but he ignored them. Those assholes.

He stopped a while further, where he was sure they wouldn’t be able to hear them. When he turned around to face her, he was surprised to see a blush on her face, obvious to his eyes even if she was only lighted by the pale light of the moon. She seemed to be just as unable to look away as he was.

Unfortunately for her, since she didn’t have his sure footing, she tripped on a rock.

He caught her, of course, strong hands catching her arms as she stumbled against him. For a moment, they only stared at each other, and Inuyasha realized that fuck, he liked that. It was almost like they were back in that stupid closet where this whole mess had started. Her skin was warm, her body was pressed against his, and her lips were parted, inviting and sinfully tempting.

This time, however, his senses were heightened, and everything was more intense, fuller. His hearing wasn’t the best, compared to his other abilities, but from this close, he could still hear her heart hammering in her chest. He could see her dilated pupils, and most importantly, he could smell her distinctly.

He really, really hoped he could kiss her with those senses. His previous experiences had basically been heaven, so he could only imagine what that would be like.

Except the reason why he’d brought her here was because he didn’t think that would happened. So he released her, and Kagome pulled back, glancing away from him, and rubbing the spot where his hands had just been.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I could use the Jewel, once we get it back from fucking Naraku.”

That brought her eyes back to him, worry shining bright inside them, ‘cause of course she’d worry.

“To become a full demon?” she questioned him, alarmed. “I thought you’d changed your mind on that!”

“That ain’t what I meant,” he growled, rolling his eyes. “I meant, y’know, I could still wish to become human.”

“Why?” she asked, and the genuine horror in her voice took him by surprise. “You don’t— You don’t want to— To go back to Kikyo, do you?”

“What? No! Why the fuck would you even think that?”

That was not at all how he’d envisioned this conversation going. For fuck’s sake, what was Kikyo even doing in here? Things always went south when they brought her up.

“Well she was the one you wanted to become human for, wasn’t she?”

Kagome’s voice broke, and Inuyasha realized with horror that it was trembling with tears. Unable to stop himself, he took a step towards her, and she lifted her chin to stare up at him defiantly.

“I told you I—” Fuck. “I told ya I loved ya, didn’t I?” He could feel his cheeks burning, and boy was he glad she couldn’t see him. Stupid human senses were good for one thing at least.

“And I told you I—”

And then she paused, and Inuyasha felt his heart was ripped from his chest during this silence. All he could do was wait, suspended to her lips, waiting for her to finish her sentence.

She didn’t.

Instead, she filled the gap between them, pulled him down towards her, and kissed him almost desperately. She understood exactly where his mind had gone, and she wanted him to know. As she entangled her fingers in his hair, as she opened his mouth against his, she wanted him to know that she loved him. No matter what version of him he was.

Inuyasha responded with the same energy, his senses completely taken over by everything her. Even if he’d tried to hold himself back, he didn’t think he wouldn’t have been to, but as it was, he towered over her, cradling her face in his hands, as her tongue darted out to explore his mouth. He tensed, briefly, when he realized she had to be tracing his fangs, but it didn’t seem to deter her, far from it, so he finally lost it.

Before he realized what he was doing, they were falling down in the grass, and he managed to move just in time so she wouldn’t hurt herself. She somehow landed on top of him, and he felt her tremble with laughter against his chest for a few moments before she pushed herself up. She’d managed to compose herself already, and she was deadly serious.

“I love you, Inuyasha,” she told him firmly, lifting a hand to trace his jaw. “I love you as a human, and I love you as a half-demon.” Her fingers moved to his temple as she gazed into his eyes, and Inuyasha forgot how to breath. “You’re always you,” she smiled. “You’re always the person I fell in love with.”

He swallowed with some difficulty and pushed himself up, resulting in her sitting in his lap. He cleared his throat, trying to think, which turned out to be fucking hard when she was so close. That probably explained why his response to the girl he’d loved for months reaffirming her love for him was him growling.

“Then why have you been so fucking weird ‘bout it?”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’re just more— open, when you’re human. You’ve said things to me during your human nights and regretted them or taken them back in the morning. I just… I wasn’t sure this wasn’t one of those times.”

“Keh. Of course not.” He slid a clawed hand under her chin to get her to look at him and leaned forward. He was blushing, even she could tell from that close. His eyes were glowing with something fierce, daring, but also with an absolute sincerity. “Just so you know, I’ve always meant everything I’ve said to ya as a human. Tend to have a big mouth those nights.”

“Only those nights?” she giggled.

“Fucking smartass,” he grinned. “Y’know what I mean. Things feel different and I don’t know, it comes out easier. But they were true then and they’re true now. I love ya.”

There. Couldn’t make it any clearer, and he hoped she’d enjoyed that, ‘cause he didn’t think he’d ever tell it again, so that better be good enough.

From her smile, it seemed to be.

“And I love you,” she replied, closing her eyes and letting her forehead rest against his. “Don’t ever doubt it.”

He wouldn’t. Especially now that, apparently satisfied with their conversation, she was kissing him again. He groaned in her mouth, hands moving to grab her hips and pulling her just a little closer

As the girl who overcame time kissed him and repeated to him that she loved him, over and over again, the words music in his ears, the boy let himself be just overcome.

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 86: The Madness of Mr. Crouch

Alice landed on what distinctly smelled like dirty clothes. She got confirmation of this fact by sitting up and a pair of used, and soiled trousers, slipping off her head.

"You alright Smith?" A slurred voice behind her understandably asked as she squealed in disgust and made a beeline for the ajar bathroom door. She barely paused to acknowledge it was Potter, shaking his head from a sizable lump, no telling what he'd smashed into upon their recent landing, as she slammed the door behind her and turned the shower on.

James blinked at the sight before he really took stock of it all and nodded to himself. They could all use a bit of that. He came across several more spare bedrooms in this place before finally finding another one that was deemed important enough to have an adjacent bathroom. He didn't waste much time himself before taking a proper shower and watching the ilk slowly go into the drain as he began to wonder where they'd landed this time.

Frank was still rubbing water, thankfully clean water now, from the nap of his neck as he took his own gander around this place and found himself in an immense library that answered that very question. It was practically the size of his home, but like nearly every room he'd come across it had a disturbed air about it. The books were all pulled off the shelves and scattered on the floor, some even ripped apart. In between every book case was yet another portrait of yet another Crouch.

He wasn't going to try the headache of asking any of them anything again of what could have been going on around here, and so ignored their tisking of the mess. The book he was looking for could have been in here, but he was much keener on finding Alice and Lily in this strange place, so he left the shambles and went off once more.

Lily rubbed her head as she took uncomfortably to her feet, using a hedge to keep her upright as she took in her surroundings of the great sweeping lawns. The hedges were becoming quickly overgrown, her mother would go spare for the sight. Whatever shape this one once had been certainly didn't resemble it anymore. The manor she found herself gazing at seemed in much better state. She wondered what kind of man would live in such a place and not take proper care of his property. She trudged through the grass, and stumbled to her knees in surprise. Yelping the Lumos spell at once for fear of anything at this point, she instead lit her wand tip upon a shoe.

Curiouser, and curiouser.

Making her way almost ghost-like through the shadows and the tall grass until she finally reached the gravel path, she found herself at the front door open for invitation. Hesitating and never particularly liking being alone recently, considering all the deadlier places they'd landed, she debated entering until she heard Pettigrew and Lupin's exasperated voices from just inside the door. At least they weren't screams of terror.

Ignoring the silver knocker in the shape of an eagle's head, she pushed it open wide and was in a grand parlor. It too was a mess.

A table was knocked over, a bottle of brandy long gone to waste. A high-back chair was nearly pushed into the fireplace's unlit grate, and beyond that was a set of stairs where Sirius Black was sitting, still bare-chested and looking almost bored with the proceedings of his two friends having a good laugh with each other.

An eagle owl was snapping its beak reproachfully at the pair, something tied to its leg, but neither of them were paying it any mind as they kept enchanting a pocket watch to hover in the air and letting it fall, the goal for the other to manage to get it to hover again before it hit the ground.

"I've found the book," Frank announced, hand in hand with Alice as he descended the stairs, the pair stepping around Sirius Black who didn't even look up at them, maybe lost in thought for the first time in his life. They spotted Lily still standing in the doorway, eying the betrayal of them looking decidedly cleaner than the mud she still sported and the new twigs likely caught in her hair.

"I'll wait until you've freshened up though," he concluded kindly.

"Much appreciated," she smiled in return, making her way upstairs to do just that.

Regulus was still running a towel through his hair and wondering how on Earth Sirius kept it so long, his was much shorter and it took forever to dry out, when Longbottom started the book. He startled a bit in the bathroom but thanked the fortuitous timing regardless, five minutes earlier and that would have been even weirder.

The Madness of Mr. Crouch? Was this possibly going to explain all of his odd behavior then? It would be nice to have a straight answer like a man going barmy for once, it would explain why he'd thrown his kid into Azkaban for doing something his mother had always insisted any sane pureblood would give their arm to do. Yet another odd juxtaposition of the world he'd never been privy to until all this, it seemed.

Alice sat cross-legged at Frank's feet, playing absently with his shoelaces as he read above her, wondering just as much as everyone else just how loony Crouch had always been. Apparently he couldn't keep his place together worth a damn without his elf, poor little Winky's deteriorating desinsion into freedom being once again highlighted as Harry gave the kitchens another visit.

The Marauders were still enjoying their little game, all four of them now with the extra challenge of avoiding spells from each other while keeping the pocket watch aloft. Lily was a step below her as she watched their game and tried to pretend otherwise, but it was either that or the wood paneling, so she wasn't hiding it well. Alice had never been in the Gryffindor dormitory on a normal day to guess as much, but she wondered if she always pretended to ignore them while they were up to their hijinxs and nobody had just ever seen otherwise. She never talked about her roommates really, and it's not like Snape would be up there to notice.

Nobody had seen the little Black yet, though it was a large manor, she still felt bad it didn't seem anyone was trying either. The times she and Frank had tried to chat with him he hadn't really been very forthcoming. Still, this place had an odd feeling about it, and someone should check on the lad. He'd been so quiet the past few places, she couldn't really recall him saying a word.

The moment she began getting up, Lily leapt to her feet right beside her ready to go. Maybe Alice had misjudged and she'd been fighting off the temptation to curse them instead of join them, it was surprisingly hard to tell with her.

"I'm going to have a poke around," she explained to Frank, who'd clearly been distracted by the story as he only looked up as she gave him a peck on the cheek and explanation.

"Oh," he stuttered in surprise, looking back down at the others and swallowing uncomfortably, already half closing the book, before he hesitated and glanced out the still open door instead. It was a half moon, Lupin was being the most lively of the bunch. Evidence of which, most texts had said, made him just as dangerous as a full moon for his energy could lead to a dangerous quarrel.

'One that led to hitting your mates with a curse to have them hanging in the air by their ankle apparently,' she snorted softly to herself as Black was effectively put out of the game for the moment while his mates laughed themselves silly.

Frank swallowed visibly, but then very obviously settled himself more comfortably on the carpeted step. "Alright love, I'm too curious to stop, you two have fun though."

She smiled brighter than the moon, giving him a more affectionate peck on the lips this time and running her hand through his hair as the two departed up the stairs.

"Anywhere in particular you want to have a look?" Lily asked pleasantly as they began traveling down the first hallway. "I found a ballroom a bit back, though I can't imagine the man was renowned for hosting parties."

"Think my Mum went to one actually, years ago," Alice agreed with a giggle. "She said his wife had been the life of the party and he spent the whole time boasting to his coworkers. Quite the surprising dancer though." She listened to Harry visiting the owlery by himself and watching from afar as Hagrid and Maxime had another interaction, a pleasant reprieve from anything death-defying recently, still leaving their current whereabouts and the chapter title all the stranger. She corrected the assumption though, "no, I actually had a goal in mind, I was thinking of looking for little Regulus Black. Haven't heard from him in awhile, and though nothing's attacked us in this place yet, I still thought I'd check on him."

"Oh," some of the enthusiasm dropped from Lily's face, and Alice couldn't blame her being weary of the lad. He'd been least friendly to her. She surprisingly picked herself right back up though and quickly hid that with a believable smile just as fast, "that's a really kind thought Alice, you're full of those. I really see where Neville gets it."

She blushed in surprise and had no comment for that.

They finally found him in the last room of the last wing, Alice couldn't help but think he'd sought the place out on purpose and the idea was reinforced when they saw the puckered look on his face as he inspected the room. The look didn't temper out much when he saw he had company, but his voice was cordial enough as he said hello.

Alice had seen as well as anyone how he'd been actively seeking out, even talking to Peter Pettigrew as of late. So maybe the kid was a little standoffish until he found some common ground, and she knew of at least one of those. "So, you think Crouch Jr. played Quidditch?"

This was the exact wrong thing to say apparently, Lily instantly deduced, as his uneasy frown turned into a full blown scowl.

"How the bloody hell should I know that, there's not a trace of the bloke in this whole house. Apparently he died the second he was shipped away to Azka-" he broke off and purposely turned his back on them.

"Oh, right," Alice finally said lamely to the dead silence that followed that. It wasn't hard to think for any extended time why the idea of Azkaban would bother him in particular for several reasons, his inevitable future being one, his brother winding up there being another obvious.

Lily's instinct kicked in though only moments later. "She was just trying to be nice, a lot more than you ever bother."

Both of them were briefly distracted by the book, Hermione being sent hate mail of all things and the poor girl having to go off to the hospital wing for it. They exchanged commiserating looks at the mess all around, finally turning to leave him to it as neither wanted to hear once more how much the mudblood probably deserved it, and missing the fact he watched them leave.

The two of them spent the rest of the chapter traversing the barren halls having a good chat about magical creatures they'd still like to see, those nifflers from Hagrid's lesson sounded adorable.

Remus finally let all three of his friends down and only preened in his victory for a few moments before he let himself get really distracted by the story, and Hermione swearing vengeance upon Skeeter. "I really hope she does it too," he nodded along, "that woman's caused enough trouble, and we can maybe even stop any of that before it starts."

"I'm game," Sirius hopped to his feet at once, then swayed dangerously, he had been upside-down the longest. Remus grabbed his arms to stop him face planting, not bothering to hide his resumed snickering at how flush his chest visibly was.

"What if someone even worse took her place though?" Peter asked as he shook out his legs, very much regretting letting himself get hit when he did, he'd thought Prongs couldn't have lasted that much longer! "Like, like someone who blackmails people to get stories instead of just making up-"

"One problem at a time," James rolled his eyes, very much repressing the spine tingling-feeling whisper that told him Peter didn't want to change the future- but obviously he did!

There was some interest piqued all around regardless at the last task being described by Bagman out on the Quidditch Pitch! Disgusted mutters, of course, for what they'd done to the place, but so long as it was put back right this maze sounded like an...interesting place, and the last one thankfully.

None of them were looking forward to being in there themselves, as was inevitable at this point, so they were as happy as anyone at the randomness of Krum pulling Harry aside, to talk about Hermione.

Peter giggled shrilly at the renowned Quidditch player thinking James's kid was any kind of romantic threat, even if Harry didn't like Hermione. He watched now as Prongs puffed up his chest in pride for the same and ruffled his hair, shouting loud enough for neighboring mansions to hear about his kid getting any lass he liked and able to beat that International player to boot.

There was something, off about it though. He couldn't even explain to himself for a moment why he forced himself to keep laughing longer than usual, why he was dithering uncomfortably in place when he had no good reason to as nothing was really wrong. Well... something had been wrong, for ages though. He'd felt it since the start, when Remus and Sirius had made up from their fight. Then that shite with his future had happened, and now everyone was ignoring there was some shift happening in their group. Their first game in too long and some old jokes didn't feel like it was really fixing anything- and what was Crouch doing there?!

Frank Longbottom was no longer leaning back casually on his elbows and pretending he wasn't watching them out of the corner of his eye, he now sat ramrod straight on the stairs and had no inkling of his audience, they were all so riveted by the sheer oddity of what they were hearing, glad for once they weren't at the scene of this crime. Standing in the shadows of the Forest, even one the Marauders knew so well, would have been terrifying, but somehow being in said man's house instead put an extra layer upon what they were hearing.

Madness was no joke then, the man had truly cracked, and Harry and Krum were there to witness the ravings.

Frank would swear the house itself stopped breathing, all eight of them taking in every word of Harry trying to sooth this Ministry official, then leaving Krum to take over as he went for Dumbledore. He was even selfishly glad Lily wasn't around this time, as Snape once again stepped in the way with his arse-like tendencies, he didn't need any distractions of how she would have explained that.

It was still all the stranger when boy and Headmaster returned, to find Krum stunned. Hogwarts truly turned into a madhouse for the following moments, and it wasn't until Hagrid was leading Harry away from it all that they each began really letting it all sink in.

Crouch was gone, his madness likely the cause of all this, but all of it? Frank did not think an onset of spotty mentality would cause him to put Harry Potter into the tournament, but things were progressing fast now into the final legs of his year, and still they were as scarce on information to the culprit of that as ever. Frank was a bit ashamed of himself he hadn't been paying nearly as much attention to details as he would have liked, and even found it some relief to look over and see the Marauders as aghast at all this as him. They were always known as clever students, to be able to do the stunts they pull, now three fourths of them being Animagi at their age was no easy feet. He was missing something, they all were.

[taetaespeaches]

favorite albums of twenty-twenty:

I’m indecisive, so disclaimer lol. But I wanted to be self-indulgent for a moment and share my very favorite albums of 2020. In a year where I felt both alone and lonely, music was massively important to me. I tried to limit this to my top ten but I’m too indecisive and a lot of amazing music came out this year so there’s eighteen albums lol. Why not. So yeah, enjoy or ignore, I just had the urge to do this. (This isn’t in order except BE, D-2, Maria, and Map of the Soul: 7 are all definitely in the top five.)

Also, if you see this and want to do your own, tag me! I’d love to see your top albums <3 

↬ BE — BTS

⟶ Top tracks: Telepathy, Blue & Grey, Fly To My Room, Disease, Life Goes On

I mean come on. This was the pandemic album we all needed and I will forever be grateful for this masterpiece. I think this is an album that will grow with me and will kind of act as a companion throughout my life. The musicality, the lyrics, the variety, all of it, it’s just perfection. It feels like a friend who gives you comfort but also makes you confront your emotions, and that was everything I needed this year. I will forever be obsessed with this one. BE is my friend. 

↬ D-2 — Agust D

⟶ Top Tracks: People, Moonlight, Daechwita, What do you think?, Dear my friend

Agust D came back and he fucking owned it. The amount of pure talent and passion in this mixtape is un-fucking-real. Yoongi is just unbelievably talented and this album perfectly displays that. Plus, these songs have been my ride or die since May, like, there isn’t a week that goes by that I don’t listen to this album in full at least once. Just incredible. 

↬ María — Hwasa

⟶ Top Tracks: LMM, Maria, Intro: Nobody Else, WHY, I’m bad too

This album is so connected to my fucking soul. I swear, Ahn Hyejin and I’s emotions are so similar and the way we process them is soooo similar, this album just honestly means the world to me. Plus, it’s amazing. Every song is a masterpiece. Obsessed. Much like D-2, I listen to this album at least once a week. And the number of times I have cried listening to it is unreal. Intro: Nobody Else is very much how I felt this year and LMM has made me cry more times than I care to admit. This album makes me feel what I’m feeling, gives me comfort, and helps me pick myself back up again. Another one that will grow with me. This year through the loneliness and in times that I felt I had no one, this was my companion.  

↬ MAP OF THE SOUL: 7 — BTS

⟶ Top tracks: Black Swan, Interlude : Shadow, My Time, ON, Friends, Moon, We are Bulletproof: the Eternal, Outro : Ego

Come onnnnnn. Perfection!!!! Quite literally the album that has been there with me through every step of this pandemic. I still cry watching the Ego mv. Why? No clue, just makes me sob tears of happiness. Black Swan? Possibly one of my very favorite songs EVER. OF ALL TIME. My Time? Relatable as fuck. Friends? The cutest thing I’ve ever heard. Moon? I’m sobbing again, that’s my emotional support Seokjinnie. Just, the album is a goddamn masterpiece, I don’t care who disagrees, my opinion is fact on this one.

↬ love is not dying — Jeremy Zucker

⟶ Top tracks: full stop, oh, mexico, hell or flying, lakehouse

Jeremy is another one that I just feel emotionally related too. Like I just get what he says and means and it hits me right in the heart and mind and gut. Another companion album. I think full stop is one of the most relatable songs I’ve ever heard- lyrically and the way it builds and becomes a bit chaotic… like whoah. I feel that in my chest. Also, oh, mexico is another song I related to so hard this year. This album has just made a massive impact on me and I love it.

↬ folklore — Taylor Swift

⟶ Top tracks: seven, peace, the lakes, the 1

So Taylor surprised everyone with an album. What the fuck, ma’am? This is my second favorite Taylor album to date, second to only her second surprise album of the year. Like what? I’ve cried listening to this album and absolutely sobbed listening to seven. She just really popped off with this one and I don’t think I need to explain to you all why this album is so good. If you’ve heard it, you know.

↬ evermore — Taylor Swift

⟶ Top tracks: ivy, cowboy like me, long story short, coney island, gold rush

Oh here we have another surprise album, and now my favorite album by Taylor. I think this album perfectly displays Taylor’s insane lyricism better than any of her works. This album just hit really different for me, every song was my favorite on first listen and I still have the hardest time picking favorite tracks. It’s just beautiful and it’s great and I love it a lot.

↬ SAWAYAMA — Rina Sawayama

⟶ Top tracks: Fuck This World (Interlude), Tokyo Love Hotel, Bad Friend, Comme Des Garçons (Like The Boys)

Have you heard it? If so, you know why it’s on this list. Pop perfection. Rina is a goddess. That’s that. It’s just amazing. Rina is a visionary and this album displays that perfectly. Comme Des Garçons was the first song of hers I ever heard and I was immediately obsessed. Next level, this woman. A queen.

↬ Petals For Armor — Hayley Williams

⟶ Top tracks: Crystal Clear, Why We Ever, Over Yet

Wow. Just, bless Hayley for this. Crystal Clear has quickly become one of my very favorite songs ever and Why We Ever is a little too relatable. And I distinctly remember hearing Over Yet for the first time in May and feeling joy for the first time since the pandemic started. This album is one to listen to when you’re mad, sad, when you need comfort, or when you’re ready to heal. Honestly, another companion.

↬ Nectar — Joji

⟶ Top tracks: Like You Do, Your Man, Sanctuary, MODUS, Run, Mr. Hollywood

I could honestly list nearly every song on this as a top song. Holy shit. Joji is another visionary. He’s insane and I’m obsessed with this album. I swear, every time I listen a new song jumps out as a favorite. Like You Do is a song that just means so much to me. A masterpiece. This album is my go to when I’m looking to get into my feels. Also Daylight isn’t listed in the top tracks but what a fucking bop. I’m just in love with this album. For real, obsessed.

↬ Plastic Hearts — Miley Cyrus

⟶ Top tracks: Angels Like You, High, WTF Do I Know, Midnight Sky, Never Be Me, Plastic Hearts

I’ve never been like an avid listener of Miley, just a few tracks, but this year I got more into her. And this album, goddamn. Every song is a contender for top track. How does that happen? Midnight Sky? Huge for me this year. Like I cannot tell you how massive of an impact this song made on me. Angels Like You is such a perfect song. High is a little too relatable. Just seriously, wow. Kind of speechless, I just adore this album.

↬ Positions — Ariana Grande

⟶ Top tracks: pov, obvious, 34+35

The way I cried my first time hearing pov. Ari what are you doing to me? That song is just such a beautiful way to look at love and this whole album is just so healing. A happy spot on this whole year. 34+35 is a thot anthem and I’m obsessed. This album is just another example of Ariana’s talent and we were all blessed to be able to hear it.

↬ CALM — 5 Seconds of Summer

⟶ Top tracks: Wildflower, Lover of Mine, Best Years, Teeth, High

I don’t care if y’all think it’s cool to like 5sos or not, this album is so fucking good. It far exceeded my expectations. Some of these songs are some of my favorites for the year. Wildflower is a fucking happy pill and Best Years makes me fucking cry. High is too relatable, and Teeth may as well have been written about me. And Lover of Mine perfectly relates to the most important relationship of my entire life. I’m gonna say it, Luke Hemmings is such an underappreciated lyricist. The man is good. I love this album a lot. 

↬ Manic — Halsey

⟶ Top tracks: Finally // beautiful stranger, SUGA’s Interlude, Forever … (is a long time), 3am

I never really listen to Halsey so it took me a long time to give this album a try and wow I’m so glad I finally did. It became an instant fav. Honesty, anything Yoongi touches is a favorite for me so obviously that song would be in my tops, but Forever … (is a long time) is so relatable and just so fucking good. And Finally // beautiful stranger is honestly my favorite Halsey song ever. It’s stunning. This album is amazing. Period.

↬ Future Nostalgia — Dua Lipa

⟶ Top tracks: Pretty Please, Cool, Don’t Start Now

This album is just disco pop perfection and I’ve been obsessed all year. It’s the perfect album to listen to when you just wanna fucking dance and forget about all the shit that 2020 gave us. The perfect escape and it’s so so fun and the songs are just bops. I’ve probably listened to this album a hundred times because it’s just the perfect escape. If I wanna let go for a bit, this is my go to.

↬ Punisher — Phoebe Bridgers

⟶ Top tracks: I Know The End, Chinese Satellite, Garden Song

This album makes me feel some shit. Like holy hell we are in our feels. Phoebe’s songwriting is superb and these songs just hit. I honestly only listen to this album when I really need to get in touch with myself because it literally doesn’t allow me to avoid my feelings. But it’s pretty much perfection and I think it’s going to grow with me throughout the years. I just love it. I remember being blown away on my first listen, it’s just unbelievably good.

↬ Ungodly Hour — Chloe and Halle

⟶ Top tracks: Tipsy, Baby girl, Ungodly Hour

I don’t even know how to explain how good this album is. Like, have you heard it? You get it. These girls went the fuck off and all we can do is thank them for it. Thank you for your service ladies. This album is just a vibe from start to finish. And Ungodly Hour is one of the best title tracks of the year. That’s just that on that. Give them all the awards.

↬ IS ANYBODY OUT THERE? — DPR LIVE

⟶ Top tracks: OH GIRL, NO RESCUE NEEDED, KISS ME

This album isn’t just an album, it’s an experience. This man takes you on a musical journey. It’s a story. It’s flawless. I adore it. DPR LIVE is so underrated and I can’t wait for him to get the hype he deserves. This was the most surprising find this year and I’m so thankful I found it. Just so god. From start to finish, you just get sucked in and then it ends and you’re just left like, whoah. Amazing. 

[gideongrace]

5 & 23 from the ace prompts 🤩

5. "I have been waiting for you my entire life." 

+

23. "You are not allowed to die first, got it?" 

Okay, this one had me stuck for like, a week. I just couldn't come up with anything for it that wasn't super cheesy and tropey and cliche. But then I just decided to be cheesy and tropey and cliche instead anyway. 

(And to everyone else that sent prompts, sorry! I did get them, I am getting to them! I just also sorta got carried away by plotting out that amnesia steve fic…)

//

Billy runs in through the front doors of the hospital at full speed, ready to roar and to scream and to tear the place apart but instead of any of that, he takes a deep breath, adjusts the strap of his duffle bag that he suddenly realizes he had no need to drag inside and looks around for the front desk. This isn't the hospital he's used to, so he has no idea where it is. 

And he can't find it.

He looks and he looks and he looks and still, he can't find it.

This isn't the hospital he's used to, he doesn't know anybody who works here and he's fresh off a really rough, really long shift. 

He hadn't even gotten to go home and shower, he'd only just stepped out the door into the bright, warm, mid-afternoon sun, taken a single, deep breath and only just decided his plan of action was he was gonna go home, shower, then maybe go surprise Steve with a pizza when he'd gotten the phone call.

And he hasn't taken a single deep breath since. He just ran straight for his car, drove all the way across town to this neighborhood he doesn't know and this hospital he doesn't know and he tries to think of everything, of anything El's ever told him about PTSD or panic attacks, stuff she's said help people calm down when they're experiencing things like that, because he's experiencing something like that right now, he's got enough sense left to know that much but none of what she's said is sticking, none of it is applicable and -

The rage he's gotten so good at tamping down boils over in his blood and swims in his skin and he feels like he's gonna scream but instead he pulls at his hair, but he only manages to grab at too-short, freshly shaved sides with not near enough left on top and he takes a breath, and he's going to scream, he's going to scream - 

But then there's a hand on his shoulder and a soft, sweet voice saying, "You need some help?" and everything in him crumbles as he turns to see a sweet-faced and tall (very, very tall) man in poorly-fitting light blue scrubs behind him. 

"Uh, yeah," Billy says, somehow managing to get the words to push out past his numb, numb lips, "do you, uh, do you know where the, uh, front desk is?"

The guy nods, shaggy brown hair falling into his big, brown eyes. (It doesn't make Billy think of anybody. It doesn't.)

"Sure," the guy says, his hand still clamped to Billy's shoulder. "I'll show you." 

He directs Billy towards a slightly labyrinthine-looking set of corridors that Billy had distinctly avoided and he does it still with his hand on Billy's shoulder, guiding him like a captain guides a ship, like he'd seen the look on Billy's face, the terror and the panic and he'd recognized it. It makes sense. El and Mike are always telling him people panicked about - about loved ones, those who really, truly care, they almost always have the same look, even if it's contained itself to just their eyes, it's always there, it's always present, that panic, that fear. And Billy guesses this guy, working in a hospital as he does, he's probably as familiar with that look as EMTs like El and Mike would be. 

"Just right here. Ellen'll help you find who you're looking for," the guy says as he deposits Billy in front of the front desk with its big, red 'reception' sign, the one Billy wishes he could've - knows he should've - found on his own. 

"Yeah, thanks," Billy says as the guy claps him on the back and wanders off, probably to help some other poor soul like the good, good dude he is. 

Ellen, the nurse behind the desk, on the other hand, looks Billy up and down appraisingly, cold green eyes assessing, assessing, assessing and clearly finding him wanting somehow. Maybe it's the rough haircut he'd given himself, maybe it's the sweatpants and grungy white tank top he's wearing, maybe it's the big, fat, homemade "Station 52" logo patch on the front of his duffle bag that Max had custom made for him. Maybe this woman hates firefighters. Maybe she can tell that he's gay, can smell it on him and maybe she's homophobic.

Or maybe, the last five percent of his brain capable of rational thought tells him, maybe that's just her face and it's not personal.

"Who're you looking for, dear?" she asks, even though she clearly thinks he's anything but dear. 

"Um, uh," he stammers and god, he hasn't been this awkward, hasn't said um and uh this much since middle school, "Steve Harrington?"

Her face tightens, her tall stack of thick gray hair wobbles just a little and Billy's stomach prepares itself for free fall, for bad news, for - 

"Alright, he's in Room 357, just on the third floor-" and she keeps going, keeps giving instructions after that, but Billy doesn't hear them, is too overwhelmed with the taste, the feeling, the rush of sheer relief that hits him with the knowledge that Steve has a room number, which means that Steve has a room, which means that Steve hasn't died in the time it took him to drive here or in the time he spent wandering, lost. It means Steve isn't in surgery and these are both very, very good things.

That surge of joy fades out with a mewling whimper after Billy gets lost another two times looking for Steve's room, as it occurs to him, What if Steve's only not in surgery because he's too weak to survive it? and, Just because he wasn't dead however many minutes ago, doesn't mean he's not dead now.

And he still can't find the room, isn't even sure he's on the right floor anymore, but there is one thing he knows for sure, one thing he knows for certain:

Whenever he sees that partner of Steve's, Dustin whatever, he's gonna tear him limb from limb, gonna tear him apart, gonna rend flesh from bone for not telling him more over the phone than, "Steve's been shot and we're at St. Mary's, you should get here like, now."

As he wanders down yet another meaningless white hallway, he feels that rage boiling again, feels like he's going to lose it again until he turns a corner and sees a row of feet all clad in plain, dark, sensible shoes and looks up to see a line of officers, most still in uniform, all sitting stuffed end over end, just one too many in a row of old, creaky, metal and ugly navy felt hospital chairs. 

He almost smiles at having finally, finally found them - because of course there's a whole crew of people waiting for his boy, of course there is, that's probably why the nurse at the front desk got so annoyed, there's at least ten people sitting and jamming up this small hallway and here he is, adding to it, but -

Then it occurs to him:

Why are all these people waiting here? 

Why are they all…

He looks around at all their faces and each and every one of them has that pinched look, that capsized-rowboat-in-the-ocean look that Mike's told him about, that panicked look that loved ones get that El's talked about, that restless, hopeless rage that he's been feeling on and off since he got that call and if -

And if they all look the same way then maybe…

Then maybe those feelings he's been feeling aren't an overreaction like the last five percent of his brain capable of hope has been hoping, praying, wishing for it to be.

That last five percent shuts down and dies a quiet, lonely death as his eyes connect with those of one of the guys sitting in the middle of the row and he sees fear there, sees panic, and sees rage there. 

He feels himself capsizing in the ocean of this near stranger's sad blue eyes and as his terror over this spreads he feels his stomach pick itself up and ready to launch at his lungs which have suddenly decided to forget what it is they're supposed to do, like they've ever had more than just the one job and now maybe they're just a little confused. 

Billy himself is a lot confused, because he and this guy just keep staring at each other and nobody is saying anything.

Why is nobody saying anything? 

Then someone comes stumbling into him from behind, saying, "Well, it certainly took you long enough," and it's Heather and the way she says it sets Billy's teeth on edge because he can't figure out her tone, can't figure out what she means and - 

She points him in the direction of Steve's room, even if it's almost right in front of him and he's grateful, really, he's grateful (he's grateful and he's terrified) as she pushes him inside, not giving him the space nor the time to chicken out or run away. 

And he lets out a sigh at the sight of Steve lying before him, lets out a sigh even as his heart ripples and creaks under the weight of his exhaustion. 

He pulls a smooth, blue, and terribly squeaky plastic chair up to Steve's good side and tries to hold his breath, tries not to smell that cloying, abrasive antiseptic smell that fills the room, tries instead to imagine Steve's favorite cologne, that woodsy, citrusy one. 

He tries not to focus on the IV in the back of Steve's hand, tries not to focus on the cannula in his nose, tries instead to think of Steve pressed up behind him in bed, of Steve's hands warm and comforting on his chest and Steve's nose pressed into his hair or the back of his neck and inhaling deeply.

He tries to ignore the thick, white, starchy-looking bandages covering Steve up from his left shoulder to his elbow, he tries to ignore the way Steve's eyes are closed and what that might mean, he tries to ignore all of that and just see Steve -

He tries to but he can't. 

"I have been waiting for you my entire life," Billy says. He grabs Steve's hand and grips it tight. "You are not allowed to die first, got it?" 

Steve surprises him by squeezing back and saying, "I'll try my best," and being an idiot and trying to sit up with a freaking bullet wound in his freaking arm.

Billy pushes him back to the bed with his free hand on his good shoulder and winds up positioned very awkwardly for a moment before Steve finally relents and lays back down.

What he says next makes it worse. 

"I'm fine, though, you know." 

Like it's nothing. Like getting shot is nothing. Billy supposes it's meant to be comforting, to be reassuring, but instead it makes Billy see red. 

"You're in the hospital." Billy tries for soft, he really does. He wants to cradle Steve's face in his hands and press sweet, quiet kisses to his lips, but instead Steve said that and now he's snarling.

"Yeah," Steve says, voice either forced calm or drugged oblivious and Billy isn't sure which, "but it's okay, it didn't hit anything vital and the doc says I'll be fine in about a month or two." 

"You're in the hospital," Billy says again, louder this time. He can feel himself growing claws and he feels overwhelmed, feels a need to claw at something, to scratch, to bite. To destroy. 

Lucky for him, this is exactly when Dustin strolls in carrying flowers and looking particularly guilty.

Unlucky for him, Dustin says, "What the hell, man? I barely got to telling you we were here and you told me you were coming and hung up. Me and Heather tried calling you back like six times and no answer. We  were just about to send someone out looking for you." 

And. 

"Oh." It's all Billy can think to say. Then, "Sorry."

But then Steve just has to pipe back in with, "See? If you'd let Dustin get to it, he'd have told you that I'm fine, too." 

And boy, is that ever the wrong thing to say because it has Billy roaring with, "You are in a hospital with a bullet in your arm, Steve, you're not fine."

And Dustin politely interjecting with, "Okay, woah, woah, nobody said anything about you being fine. There's a lot of distance between you and 'fine' right now, Steve."

Steve's eyes narrow, that medicated calm sliding from his face even as Billy sees the last drops of whatever medication they've got him on dripping down from the bag and into the IV line. 

"You literally came home with your hair singed last week," Steve says, like he thinks the fact that they both have dangerous jobs is somehow going to win him this argument. 

"Yeah, and that was just my hair! You're in the hospital!" Billy shouts. This time, he fully shouts because apparently, Steve's not going to get it unless it's screamed at him.

"And I'm fine!" 

Or maybe he's just not going to get it at all.

From the doorway, Dustin laughs and Billy is on him in a second.

"What's so funny?" he snarls but Dustin keeps laughing.

"Just…" he says, unable to stop laughing even as he's trying to speak, "Just say 'I love you' and get it over with, already, both of you."

Steve's face goes as tomato red as Billy's suddenly feels. 

But neither of them says it. Neither of them says anything. 

fic tag squad:

@a-magey @xgardensinspace @myboyfriendsteve @haxpr0cess @thinger-strang @nagdabbit @demi-don @lissieisspacey @tracy7307 @ihni @yourneighborhoodace

@harringrovetrashh

[sluttyten]

crave you (like the moon)

summary: Taeyong is a god, seduction is second nature, and you fall easy prey to his attention. OR something like a Hades and Persephone au

words: 8,999

pairing: taeyong x reader

tags: god!taeyong, fingering, multiple orgasms, etc.

You never thought you would get the chance to see one of the gods up close. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine getting to touch one.

Yet here you stood.

Taeyong, the eternally young god of sunlight and death, was still crouched before you, his wings folded against his back as he’d just landed a moment before. He looked up at you, black eyes lined with gold and gorgeous long eyelashes. Breathtaking.

“Well, aren’t you going to introduce yourself to me?” He asked as he straightened up.

And just like that the godly glow over him faded. His wings dissolved under the glow of the evening sunlight, and shadows seemed to seep over his shoulders, taking the form of a leather jacket, clinging to his thighs in tight black pants.

No one else on the street seemed to see him. Only you. Maybe you were crazy, hallucinating. Maybe the stress of your life had finally gotten to you and this was your mental breakdown.

He smirked as if he knew what you were thinking. “I’m not a hallucination. I swear. Here,” He snapped his fingers and suddenly the eyes of strangers passing by glanced at him before drifting away. “Now everyone can see me.”

Taeyong held his hand out to you, his skin glimmering and glinting, immaculate and slightly golden. He wiggled his fingers and smiled kindly, tempting you to reach forward and shake his hand as if he was any mere mortal.

“Should I be concerned that the god of death just appeared in front of me unexpectedly?” You asked, reaching forward to grasp his hand.

Taeyong’s skin was warm and soft. His fingers closed around your hand, a firm handshake but gentle as well as if he knew that he had strength enough to crush you and was trying his best to avoid that outcome. He touched your wrist with his fingertips, the coldness of his rings burned against your skin, and your body seemed to buzz at the contact.

“You don’t need to worry. I’m also the god of sunlight.” Taeyong released your hand, and turned away from you to face the horizons all the colors of the sunset catching on his cheeks and in his hair, glowing brighter and more magnificent on him than even on the canvas of the sky. “Perhaps I just came down to view the sunset in the company of a lovely human who caught my eye.”

“Me?” You can’t believe that you could have caught the eye of a god.

Taeyong laughs. “Oh, no, sorry. I meant that human over there. The one paying attention to nothing but my beautiful creation that is tonight’s sunset.” He gestured toward a young man seated in front of an easel, studying the sunset and hurriedly swiping a brush over a canvas in an attempt to imitate the beauty.

Your heart sinks. You feel like your soul is caving in on itself.

Of course he’s not here for you. You were simply passing by this beachside park on your way to the bus stop. You weren’t remotely eye-catching in your own opinion unless a baggy hoody T-shirt and cut-off jeans and hair that was not being at all cooperative was a look that a god as attractive as Taeyong could find appealing.

A spark of heat dances over your shoulder, and when you look over your find Taeyong has one finger on your shoulder.

“I was joking.” He drops his hand and instead seems to conjure a cigarette out of thin air, lighting it in the same instant as he brings it up to his lips. “I think I’m out of practice with humor. But you are the human that caught my eye, love. I saw you and I just had to come meet you.”

It’s flattering and kinda creepy too. His words are similar to those you’ve heard from creeps in bars who like to hit on you and view your rejections as flirtations. His words have the same tone. You know what he wants.

“You think just because you’re a god I’m going to have sex with you?” You cross your arms over your chest and look at this young, beautiful god standing in front of you.

“Well? Aren’t you?” Taeyong smirks and steps forward, blowing the smoke from the side of his mouth. “I promise I’ll taken you to Heaven or Hell tonight. It’s completely your choice.”

A shiver rolls down your spine that has nothing to do with the chilly breeze blowing in off the water.

“I’m serious.” He says, taking another drag before he flips it away, cherry tip over the butt spinning away until it disappears against the blinding glow of the sun burning low on the horizon. “Say yes, love, and I’ll make you a Queen.”

All of his lines are rather cheesy.

If they were coming from just any man, a guy like nearly any other, you would laugh in his face and tell him to get lost. But somehow, from his mouth these promises carry a different weight. They hang in the air like his hand had just moments before, waiting for you.

And he is a god. His golden glow, his wings, the power in his voice and his touch are all proof enough of that.

Maybe you’ll regret this.

You hold out your hand to him, and Taeyong smiles so widely that you swear the sun glows that much brighter for an instant and then it dips below the horizon and the world grows darker. His hand squeezes yours.

“Heaven or Hell?”

Before you even give an answer, you feel a tug in your belly, Taeyong’s chest against yours, and then the ground vanishes from beneath your feet.

It seemed absolutely insane that you could possibly be flying in the arms of a god, but there you were.

You wrapped your arms tight around his waist, buried your face against his chest, and you could barely breathe until you felt a surge of something like cold air and electricity over your body and then your feet were on solid ground again and Taeyong was chuckling in your ear.

“You can open your eyes now.” He stroked the back of your head, and after a moment, once the slightly dizzy feeling you were experiencing faded away, you pulled your head back from his chest and you looked around.

Wherever you were, it looked very luxurious. You stood in an entryway sort of room although there was no door in sight. Black and white marble tiles were covered in a long red carpet running down the hallway that stretched in front of you, the walls were a deep red with white trim and golden accents. The air smelled pure but a bit rosy, pleasantly temperate, and so quiet that your breathing seemed to echo around the space.

“Where are we?” You asked, taking a tentative step away from Taeyong. There was a long mirror hanging on the wall behind you, and you stepped toward it, trying to look through but everything was shimmery and fuzzy. “Where did you bring me?”

“I’m a god, love. I brought you home.” He takes your hand, his fingers knotting with yours, his rings a strange weight against your skin. “Come along.”

The god leads you down the hallway, deeper inside this luxurious home. “You said home. Is this your home? Are we in Heaven or Hell?”

“Don’t you listen to the stories?” Taeyong strokes his thumb over your knuckles, marching you past closed doors. “I may be the god of death, but I stay as far from the Underworld as possible. We’re not in Heaven either. They’re both far too overpopulated, so this is more like a fourth realm just for us. Jae!”

You look past Taeyong shoulder just in time to see the shape of someone pausing halfway through a doorway. 

He looks up, pink-haired, dimples showing as he smiles brightly at Taeyong. And then his eyes fall on you and he cocks an eyebrow. His smile disappears and he bows instead. “Hello, I’m Jaehyun, god of love. Taeyong, I’ve told you before, I can’t--”

“I’m not asking for that and you know it. Just like I’m not going to ask Doyoung for it either.” Taeyong wraps his other hand around the wrist of the same hand that he’s already holding, urging you forward to his side. 

You’re not sure what he’s talking about or why he’s brought up Doyoung, the god of time and memory, basically the librarian of the gods as far as the stories report. But you can’t help looking at Jaehyun. He’s truly deserving of being the god of love. 

His presence draws every bit of your attention and you want to slip by Taeyong, fall into Jaehyun’s arms and kiss him, wrap yourself in him for endless days. 

“Stop that.” Taeyong hisses and an instant later you realize that you’re still standing at Taeyong’s side, feeling distinctly less buzzy, light-headed and warm. “Why do you always do that? Stop trying to seduce my guests!”

Jaehyun laughs and waves. “Of course, see you later, Tae. Maybe next time, Y/N.” 

Taeyong’s grip on your wrist and hand doesn’t let up until after Jaehyun’s door has snapped shut, and even then he doesn’t let go entirely. He continues guiding you along this one single hallway. It doesn’t branch off at all, just winds slowly past numerous doorways, all of which remain closed but occasionally you’ll hear a burst of sound or see light slipping through a small gap beneath the door.

You don’t see any more gods or goddesses as you walk, which honestly is a bit of a disappointment because if you’re here you would like to actually get to see them, to know that they’re all actually real. You know your stories despite what Taeyong had said earlier. You knew the origins of these gods and goddesses, what they held power over. The stories didn’t cover the creation of a fourth godly realm though, but you had to admit it was very nice from what you’d seen.

“Here we are.” Taeyong pressed his hand against one of the many identical doors, and finally you were able to see inside. 

To say you were surprised would be an understatement.

Just inside the doorway, fine marble of the corridor’s floor was chipped and cracked, dirty with grass sprouting through it until finally giving way to a large green lawn rolling away into the distance. A tall blue sky filled the space overhead, fluffy clouds and birds and sunshine, and even a light breeze tickled your skin, blowing your hair away from your face.

“This... is not what I was expecting.” You turned to look at Taeyong. He was already watching you closely. “Are all of the rooms like this?”

“World within rooms? Yeah. Each of us designed our own space.” Taeyong steps inside. “Come inside. Close the door behind you, we don’t want my space bleeding out into the neutral zone. It messes with everyones rooms when that happens.” 

You follow Taeyong inside, closing the door behind you. It blends into the warm brown trunk of a tall pine with only a golden doorknob showing that this tree is different from the rest of the forest beyond.

“How big is this place?” You squint between the trunks, trying to see if perhaps there’s a boundary, a wall that you’re missing.

“As big as I want it to be. I could make an entirely new planet if I wanted to stretch my creativity that far, but for now it’s really just what you can see. Those mountains,” He points far ahead and you see the shadow of mountain peaks, snow-capped. “Those are basically the boundary, as far as I’ve created but there’s an infinity of space beyond for me to make whatever I like. Right now I’ve got lakes and rivers, caves, gardens and this forest. There’s a cavern somewhere that’s filled with gems that glow in the dark. But that’s for another time.”

He takes hold of your hand again and begins leading you through the grass which is tall enough to tickle your knees in some places, and soon you notice that the ground where you’re walking begins to slope off up ahead, dipping downward.

And when it does, Taeyong home is revealed, a massive home seated in the middle of a large, winding garden. 

From up above, the path to the house is obvious, but you know that once you’re down there, the plants will easily be able to twist you into a maze. 

Taeyong tugs on your hand as he starts descending the hill, but you remain frozen in your spot. 

“I must be dreaming. How is this all real?” You rub your eyes with your free hand, pinch at your thigh, hoping that you’ll wake up before you’re sucked too deeply into this dream. “And aren’t you the god of death? What’s with all the bright and beautiful creation?”

“You’re not dreaming.” 

Taeyong carefully takes your other hand and he stands in front of you until he’s all that you can see. His beautiful face, his perfect lips, the gorgeous dark color of his eyes. Almost naturally, your eyes drift to a scar beneath his eye that you hadn’t truly noticed before that moment, like a touchstone of reality that although everything here seems perfect, there is still a slight imperfection.

“And, yes, I am the god of death.” His thumb rubs against the inside of your wrist, your pulse races. “But from death comes life, and from life, death. Death is not a destruction, just the opportunity for more creation, my love. Come on, as much as I love the way you’re enjoying all of this, and how amusing it is to see you struggling to wrap your head around this, I didn’t pluck you from Earth just for this. I’d rather blow your mind in a different way, yes?”

He spins on his heel and you follow. It feels like three steps down the hill and then you’re in the garden surrounding the house, the scents and colors of the all the flowers swirl around you, and you barely have the chance to notice that there are hummingbirds zooming between roses as large as your head and owls with golden eyes that watch from atop cacti before Taeyong’s pushing open the enormous front doors of this miniature palace that he constructed.

“I’m impatient.” Taeyong explains as you glance back curiously, noting the distance down the hill and through the garden that you crossed in a matter of seconds rather than the handful of minutes it should have taken. “As I said, I’m tired of awe-inspiring you with all of that. I want you. I need you. That’s why I found you and brought you home.”

“Sex-driven gods,” You shake your head. “All the stories are the same, they’re all true.”

“Yes, but you’re the one that agreed to come with me.” Taeyong closes the heavy doors. “And now you’re all mine.”

His voice goes deep, thrumming through you, and you try to push down the sudden wave of lust that takes hold inside. Taeyong sweeps his jacket off his shoulders, tossing it toward a row of hooks on the wall beside the door. Your eyes trace the shape of his body, more visible now without the jacket in the way. The width of his shoulders against his t-shirt, his slender waist and hips, the gentle swell of his arm muscles, and his collarbone peeking out from under the neckline of his shirt.

Perhaps its a bit crazy to have agreed to all of this, traveling to another dimension basically with a god to be bedded by him, but was turning him down ever really an option? You were struck by this lust the moment you laid your eyes on him, a sense of need, a desire to fill a missing piece inside of you that you hadn’t known you were missing until the moment that you eyes were upon him.

Taeyong. Sunshine spikes through the windows that wind down the wall of the spiral staircase, casting shadows and light in equal parts over Taeyong, revealing the glimmering hint of his wings, highlighting his beauty. The god of sunshine and death.

He moves backward across this entry hall, his footsteps nearly silent on the stone floors, his eyes rooted on you as he approaches the base of the spiral staircase. And then he stops, waiting or you in a puddle of sunlight.

You feel your breath catch in your chest. Maybe it’s the way the light touches him and moves around him, faded and beautiful and warm, but you feel a sense of nostalgia that overwhelms.

“Taeyong.” You move closer, reaching out before you’ve even reached him, and he extends his hand to you. 

Your fingertips brush along his forearm, your fingertips tracing the network of veins from his wrist to his elbow. And your touch dips higher, over his bicep and under his sleeve, and with each centimeter of skin you cover, you move that much closer to him until you stand toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest.

Looking away from your hand under his sleeve, you raise your gaze and find his lips right in front of yours, his eyelashes nearly fluttering against his cheeks as he lowers his gaze to your lips.

When he kisses you, it’s soft and sweet, warm and all-encompassing. 

His arm slips around your waist, holding you against him, and you clutch at his shirt, raising on your toes, trying to draw yourself even closer to him. The kiss quickly turns from tender to hungry, even starved.

You move your hand from where it’s twisted in his shirt to his neck and then into his hair, tilting his head to a more suitable angle as Taeyong lifts you effortlessly. He teases your tongue with his, smiling into the kiss when you let out a moan.

Enchanted as you are by the kiss, you barely even notice when Taeyong begins moving, climbing the stairs with you in his arms, still kissing you. But when you reach the landing, his hold on you falters for just a moment and you drop your feet back to the ground, but that doesn’t mean that either one of you breaks the kiss. Taeyong backs you toward the nearest wall, both of you stumbling slightly as your feet get caught against the rug and then they also aren’t working entirely too well, but that really doesn’t matter when Taeyong pins you to the wall, his hands dipping under your shirt, skin burning against your waist.

You put your hands on his chest again, bunching the fabric of his shirt up in your grip. 

“Isn’t it so silly for you to be wearing a shirt?” You gasp against Taeyong’s lips. “You’re a god. Shouldn’t you be all shirtless and golden glistening muscles?”

Taeyong laughs and kisses you harder, and you swear it seems like his shirt unravels beneath your touch even as you attempt to push it up his chest, over his head. 

You don’t even get the chance to admire his shirtless form. Taeyong pulls your shirt over your head, obscuring your vision, and then there he is again, kissing you with the insatiable hunger of a god, wandering hands on your hips and your chest, massaging your breasts, gripping your ass to drag your hips against his.

He grinds against you for a moment, then pulls away, breathless.

“Taeyong, don’t stop.” You grab for his hands, dragging them back to your hips, knotting your fingers through his again as you tuck your face against his throat, placing small kisses on his neck. 

He groans loudly in your ear, pinning you back against the wall. 

Your head spins as Taeyong fingers the edge of your shorts briefly before dipping his fingers beneath, plunging them right between your legs to swirl around your clit. You gasp, scraping your teeth against his throat which draws another beautiful moan from his lips.

Taeyong rubs at your clit and ducks his head so his lips press to your ear as he says, “I”m going to give you so many orgasms you won’t believe you can manage another. You know the French have a phrase, la petite mort, which can refer to an orgasm. It directly translates as little death, which is fitting when all the orgasms you’ll be receiving are from the god of death, don’t you think?”

You press an open-mouthed kiss to his throat, right on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and you moan softly, shifting to be closer to him, grinding down against his fingers on your clit. 

“Love, you’re so wet.” He slides his fingers back toward your dripping cunt, teasing a finger over your entrance. You gasp, shivering. “What do you want? My fingers, my tongue? Should I make you work for it and ride my thigh?” Taeyong presses his thigh between your legs, grinding it up against where his hand is. 

The moment of hesitation before you answer is too long for Taeyong.

His hand disappears from inside your panties, which suddenly feel too wet and too roomy without his fingers.

“No!” You complain, grabbing for his hand again but he steps back out of your reach. Your chest heaves and your head still feels a bit light. You want him so badly, like a craving that you can’t fill. 

Taeyong’s eyes are on your chest, the rise and fall of your breasts in your bra. You know what he wants and it’s damn near the same thing as you want, so you waste no more time in reaching back around to unfasten your bra, slipping it from your shoulders, and in the next instant you push your shorts and panties off, step out of them and walk over to Taeyong to kiss him again.

He lifts you into his arms once more, spinning you around and walking off, winding through a sitting room, down a hallway, and up a short flight of stairs. Your back hits a door and there Taeyong stops, kissing you and he eases your legs back to the floor, his body still holding you against the door, his thigh slides between your thighs. 

You grind down on his thigh without even thinking. The sweet friction between the material of his pants and your clit has you moaning in to the kiss, and you can feel Taeyong smiling. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders as you pull yourself forward and back on his thigh, spreading your wetness over his thigh, and when you feel the roughness of the fabric give way to smooth, warm skin you cry out, focusing your movements on that spot.

“Taeyong! Oh, god!” You throw your head back, barely even noticing the pain when you hit it against the door. The pleasure coursing through you from your clit is enough to make you forget that pain. Your thighs twitch and you push yourself harder, you can feel your orgasm so close, and if Taeyong would just do something, anything to you right now, you would fall into your first climax.

He presses forward, grinding his thigh up as you grind down. His lips brush your cheek, warm breath and skin and soft lips.

The door falls open and it’s only Taeyong’s arm quickly circling your waist that keeps you from tumbling backwards. He twists you around so quickly that you feel dizzy but then you’re sitting in his lap on a fancy red leather wingback chair. Your clit throbs with your denied orgasm. Taeyong’s hand pats your bottom as he gazes up at you appreciatively, his eyes raking down from your eyes to your lips, your chest to your hips. 

“Beautiful. A goddess.” His eyes stick between your legs, and your pussy gives another hard throb. You can feel yourself dripping arousal, and the hand on your ass slips around to glide between your legs. Taeyong gathers your wetness on his fingers, tracing light circles around your entrance before slipping his soaked fingers forward to your clit.

“Mmm, please.” You buck your hips forward. 

Taeyong’s masterful fingers split apart your pussy lips, and you moan his name as his fingers fill you. “Taeyong, fuck.” His thumb circles your clit, fingers thrusting into you so hard and fast that you swear you’ll be suffering from a bruised labia later, but for now it doesn’t matter because his fingers fucking you like that send you over the edge quickly. 

Even as you’re cumming, your walls sucking at his fingers, you keep trying to fuck yourself down on his hand, attempting to grind on him. Taeyong just watches you with a smirk that’s so sexy you just want to kiss it off his face. 

He lets you go until you’ve worn yourself out and you collapse against him, nuzzling your face against his neck again, your lips parted just enough that he can feel your breath on his neck between the softness of your lips. He slips his hand away from your pussy, going back to resting his hands on your ass. 

“You’re so good, love. I can’t wait to make you cry.” His hand snaps forward, a sharp smack on your ass. 

You inhale sharply and sit upright, pressing your chest against his as you arch your back slightly.

“Will you cry for me, pretty girl?” Taeyong lifts a hand to your cheek, stroking gently, his thumb following the curve of your cheekbone and then moving to your lips again. “When I make you feel so good that you can’t take anymore, will you cry for me?”

Taeyong spanks his hand against your ass again, and you nod, “Yes. Yes, Taeyong. Oh, god.”

He licks his lips, and the look in his eyes is such a deep hunger, you’re not sure if you can ever be enough to fill him. 

His fingers dig into your thighs, and once again he’s smoothly lifting you, the strength of a god making you light as a feather in his arms. Taeyong carries you across the room to the large bed, a four-poster with a fluffy duvet that he drops you on. It’s soft as a cloud, puffing up around you and you feel like you’re sinking for a moment, but Taeyong’s hands on your ankles anchor you. He spreads your legs, pushing your knees up, and he slides into place between your legs, not hesitating before he licks a stripe over your cunt.

You’re not sure if it’s part of his godly powers or what, but Taeyong seems to know exactly how you like it. He pays all the right amount of attention to all the right spots, his hands on your ankles are gentle but firm reminders of who’s in charge with the subtle sweetness of his thumbs moving in soothing circles, and his tongue seems to reach new depths right to your G spot. 

You gasp, choking out his name, rolling your hips down against his tongue, and as you look down the length of your body to his head between your thighs, you see that he’s looking up at you. His eyes still full of that same dark intensity as before.

Riding Taeyong’s tongue is an experience. He kisses and licks and sucks at your cunt, his nose rubbing your clit, and there’s no possible way for you to hold yourself back from your next orgasm, and you know that Taeyong doesn’t want you to hold back anyway. He told you already he wanted to give you many orgasms, to reduce you to tears of pleasure.

You twist your fingers in the fluffy duvet, and as your second orgasm hits, you roll your hips down against his face, lifting your hips entirely off the bed. 

Taeyong pulls his mouth away for a moment, loosening his hold on your ankles to curl his arms over your hips, pressing them flat to the bed again before he dives back in, holding his tongue flat against you as you wiggle and cry out his name.

Your hips pulse up, or at least attempt to, and Taeyong keeps eating you out, burying his face between your thighs until your wetness has soaked his lower face, dripping from his chin when he pulls away.

He kisses up from your clit to your belly button, from your belly button to your sternum, crawling up your body. “Had enough yet?”

“No.” You shake your head, untwisting your hands from the sheets to reach for him, your fingers skating up over his ribs to his shoulder blades. You feel the soft indentations where his wings must appear from, and Taeyong’s eyes flutter closed as you run your fingers over those spots. 

Your knees rise up on either side of his hips, squeezing in, and you’re surprised when you realize that there’s no feel of fabric. You’re not sure when he stripped the rest of the way naked, but you’re not about to ask. Especially not when Taeyong ducks his head, pressing his face against your chest, his cheek to your heartbeat. 

The rest of him sinks against you. 

You touch the indentations on his shoulders again, feeling him shiver.

You can feel the weight of his erection against your thigh, hot and hard, damp at the tip. You know that if you just shifted a bit, if you nudged him, he’d be pressed against your pussy, sliding inside you. You want to feel him inside you, to see how his cock feels, if it’s as godly as the rest of him.

Taeyong turns his face.

He kisses your chest, right over your heart, and then he pushes himself up to look down at you. 

On his knees, he trails his hands down your body, his thumbs outline your breasts, sweeping down your sides over the curves of your body, over your hips, lifting them to grind softly against his cock. He pushes forward, rocking against you, but not slipping inside, only making you crave him inside you more than before.

“You’re so warm,” Taeyong groans. “I’ve missed this feeling. The warmth, wetness. I bet you’re so tight, aren’t you, love? Fingers are nothing compared to a cock.”

You buck your hips, rubbing against him again. For an instant, his tip slides just barely inside you. Taeyong shakes his head, a hand moving to his cock, pushing up between your folds, rubbing his tip against your clit just so he can witness you going shaky, slightly sensitive still from the previous orgasms. He does it again.

“Don’t tease me!” You plead. “I can’t take the teasing. I need you, Taeyong, need to feel you inside me.” You can just imagine him stretching your walls, fitting perfectly inside you as if he was made to fit you (or rather, you were made to fit around him). You want that rush of feeling his godly seed inside you; you’re almost certain it will feel better than just getting nutted in by any random guy.

Taeyong slides his cock back down and slides right into you, pumping in deep twice before he pulls back out. 

“Fucking wet, love. You feel so perfect around me.” He smacks his cock against your clit a few times again until your thighs jump when he makes contact, and then he pushes into you again.

Your head falls back on the sheets. You’ve never felt so full, yet still so needy for more.

“Can you kiss me again?” You press your hand to his skin, sliding it up his chest. “Please. Kiss me.” 

Taeyong chuckles, but dips forward, fitting his cock deeper still inside you, and then his mouth is on yours again, kissing you and fucking you at the same time with that desperate hunger. His long, nimble fingers massage your thighs, his hips knocking against yours, forcing you higher and higher onto the bed. 

His tongue tangles with yours, and when you moan, Taeyong echoes it back at you. His hands slip from your thighs, but you flutter your hands around in search of his to bring them back to your body. You need his touch, his hands sliding over your thighs, between your legs, over your chest.

When he slides his fingers over your neck, his thumb pressing in, your eyes fly open. You clutch at his wrist, not to make him move but simply to hold onto him as pleasure curls in your belly. Taeyong kisses the breath from your lips, and unable to draw more, you flounder in the delirium of oxygen deprivation.

Your pussy contracts around him, and Taeyong--although a god--is still a man and the feeling of you warm and wet and squeezing around his cock sends him into his orgasm.

He drags you up into his lap while he sits back on his haunches. You sink down on his cock as he shoots his load inside you, and he feels so deep inside you. You swear he’s cumming right into your belly. 

His fingers loosen on your throat and you gasp, pulling in cool breaths just so you can force out a moan when Taeyong’s hand dips between your legs to touch your clit, his other hand on your hip.

“Are you going to cum for me again, love?” Taeyong licks and nips at your throat, bouncing you on his cock. “Gonna cum with your cunt full of me?”

“Yeah, Taeyong.” You cling to his shoulders, dragging your fingers over those sweet spots for him, and in return, he brings his hand up from your hip to your chest, his fingers pinching one of your nipples between his forefinger and thumb, rolling it and sending a new spike of pleasure through you. His fingers still work over your clit as well, and you grind down on his cock, taking every single bit of stimulation Taeyong’s offering you.

“Cum for me.” Taeyong whispers to you, and then his lips are covering yours, catching your bottom lip between his teeth.

This orgasm snaps through you, your body going rigid and your nails claw at Taeyong’s back as your climax explodes through you. You squeeze so tightly around his cock that even as you try to pull yourself off of him, away from his fingers that don’t let up on your tit or clit, you can’t go anywhere and it just heightens everything you’re feeling. Tears bloom in the corners of your eyes and you blink them away, whimpering and whining, and when you can’t escape, you just decide to accept it.

You fuck yourself down on his cock, still hard inside you. 

His cum leaks out of you with every thrust, his cock pressing right against your G spot, his finger still swirling on your clit, and you’re seeing stars like the universe has just opened up over your head, time stopping and reversing and zooming forward and it’s like there’s something in your mind trying to push through, just another level of pleasure for you to achieve.

Taeyong sucks your lip into his mouth, hungrily kissing you, driving you into another orgasm immediately following the last.

Tears wet your cheeks just like he wanted, soaking against his skin as well.

Your legs give out and you sink down on him, unable to lift up again even to escape the attention of his fingers on your oversensitive bud. You drop your head to his shoulder, tears falling uncontrollably as this orgasm weakly burns through you, your cunt fluttering and throbbing around Taeyong’s cock. Your heart rages in your chest, your lungs almost feel like they’re seizing up, each breath feeling ragged and rough.

Taeyong’s touch falls away from your clit and instead he touches your hair, gently lifting your face from his shoulder to wipe away your tears. 

He smiles at you, wiping them away with his fingers and then kissing them away. “You’re amazing, love. See what I mean. La petite mort.”

You certainly do. 

You feel half-dead right now as Taeyong lets your head drop back to his shoulder while he puts his hands on your hips, lifting you off his cock and murmuring in your ear when you whimper at the feel of him leaving you, at the sensation of his cum dripping from you and your pussy clenching around nothing.

He lays you back on the bed, your head pillowed on the cloud of a duvet as he climbs off the bed and walks away.

Surprisingly the sheets are still cool even though you feel like the world is burning, and you close your eyes, drape an arm over your face, and attempt to catch your breath.

Sex with a god. So not a letdown.

When you feel something cool and damp touch your lips, you jump and pull your arm away so you can see what it is. Taeyong sits beside you, leaning over you, and he’s holding a pomegranate seed to your lips.

“Eat.”

You obey, opening your mouth to let Taeyong slip the seed between your lips.

He drags his finger against the tip of your tongue then withdraws. A moment later, another seed. Another and another. You’re not sure how many he feeds you, but after a moment, Taeyong leaves his finger between your lips. You close them around his fingertip, gently sucking as you lock your gaze on his.

You’re not sure how you know this, but you know that Taeyong loves getting his fingers sucked on, both sexually and non-sexually, but at the moment in this sexually-charged atmosphere you have this gut-deep feeling that you sucking on his fingers is going to lead to him bringing you to another mind-numbing orgasm on his fingers. 

Already. You’re not sure you can take another one again so soon, but somehow, if it’s coming from him, you think you can manage. You trust him to take care of you, no matter what.

Taeyong sinks against your side, his eyes riveted to the way that your lips close around his fingers. His other hand he lays against your waist, slowly drawing it up the length of your body, over your chest, your shoulder, and then he’s cradling your head.

You moan and close your eyes, pushing yourself a bit so you actually take his fingers deeper into your mouth. 

His fingers in your hair twitch.

“Love?”

With a hum of acknowledgement you open your eyes to meet his gaze. 

Slowly, his fingers slip from your mouth, but you keep trying to suck on them until his fingertips leave your lips.

For a moment, Taeyong just watches your face, as if he’s memorizing every detail from the way that you look at him to the way that your lips part and the corners of your mouth glisten with saliva. He stares, and under his stare you feel a warm rush of something that you can’t identify other than to know that it feels like a good something, something that you like.

Another time, in another universe, you think, this moment could have been one of thousands. If Taeyong were a human, not a god who would live forever and forget you the moment you leave, then maybe this moment and numerous moments just like this one could happen. He could hold you in his arms and you could look at each other like you were so perfectly in love.

But you know it can’t be like this.

This is just a one night stand with the god of death.

You surge up and press your lips against his. This time it’s you kissing him, you who takes his hand, his wet fingers, and guide it down between your legs, using light pressure on his fingers to convince them inside your cunt. You kiss Taeyong, just simply moving your mouths together until he licks your lip, and then you open your mouth to him and the roles of power resume what they were before.

Taeyong covers you in his warmth, like the feel of sunshine covering your skin. His fingers stretch inside your pussy, scissoring apart so he can add a third finger. 

Positioned as he is, sunken into the left side of your body, it’s no effort for Taeyong to throw his leg over yours so that he’s straddling your thigh while he kisses and fingers you. Taeyong grinds slowly against your leg, moaning into the kiss, his fingers taking up a similar kind of motion inside you, and he flattens his palm against your clit so that when you roll your hips to meet the strokes of his fingers, you grind against his hand.

This time the orgasm that Taeyong pulls from you is a slow, stuttering one. You swear Taeyong can feel it building inside you, because just as you’re feeling like you can almost get there, Taeyong slows his touches and pulls you back from the edge all while he continues grinding his cock against your thigh, leaking precum. And then he’ll start up with touching you again, edging you close to just to pull you back again and again until you’re rolling your hips off the bed, whining, reaching for his hand in an attempt to urge him to let you cum.

But he waits.

He waits until his own hips stutter, the rhythm shifting, and then he moves.

Taeyong’s knees press your thighs up, driving your knees toward your chest, and he pushes into you in one smooth stroke. His fingers, soaked with your wetness, stimulate your sensitive nub while Taeyong thrusts into you deep and perfect and right how you need him.

This orgasm isn’t a ridiculously powerful one, but it’s fantastic all the same. It shivers through your body, seeping slowly and growing better and better as Taeyong keeps fucking into you, hitting your G spot and stimulating your clit. You roll your head back and feel his lips on your throat, and then his hips flex forward, holding himself deep inside you as his body goes tense.

Taeyong’s moans vibrate against your throat as he cums inside you for the second time. Hot and filling, a golden warmth that spreads through you, not quite like a second orgasm after the last, but almost.

His lips trail up from your throat to your lips, and the pair of you stay like that for a few moments. Kissing and coming down from your highs.

You never want to leave, but you just know that you can’t stay. 

It has nothing to do with your life on Earth. You don’t care about your job or the acquaintances you’ve got, and you’ve got no family left down there. You don’t think its anything on Earth that’s preventing you from staying here, just like this, tucked within Taeyong’s arms while he kisses the breath from your lungs and fucks you until you can’t find the energy to move. 

It’s something else.

When Taeyong pulls out, you feel his godly seed leaking out slowly with each pulse of your walls around the emptiness inside you. 

Taeyong down beside you, his head on the pillow. 

You’re not sure if gods sleep, but he looks sleepy right then. Sunlight from the window behind him shines in, creating a pattern of shadow and light over his back, and you reach over absentmindedly to trace your finger over his skin, following the shapes. 

Taeyong makes a pleased noise and you witness a half-smile forming on his lips. His eyes are closed, and his face half-buried in the pillow, but that doesn’t stop him from throwing his arm over your waist and dragging you closer, almost protective in the way that he holds you against him.

And it’s only been a few minutes, but already you feel him poking against your thigh.

”You’re ready to go again? Already?” You tease, easing a hand between your bodies to touch the hard curve of his cock.

”Of course. I’m a god, love. I could fuck you until the end of time without stopping, if only we had that luxury.” Taeyong nuzzles his head against yours. “I would petition Doyoung to pause time, to make it longer if only so I could have more with you. But every time I ask that favor of him he tells me no. He lectures me on the time continuum, on the dependence of time on memory and memory on time, how the disruption of either could mean the end of us for good.”

His hand drops to yours, and he runs his fingers over your knuckles, then flips your hand over so he can trace the lines on your palm, and then he touches your wrist.

Here his touch grows even lighter. Fine, careful movements that sweep over the dark lines of your tattoo, the letters permanently inked into your skin.

You can’t remember getting the tattoo, but it’s been there for almost as long as you can clearly remember, back to when your memory gets kinda fuzzy, and you figure you were probably drunk when you got it.

Taeyong traces the letters now with a sad sort of look on his face that makes you want to hold him between your hands and give him all the comfort in this world and every other.

“Do you know what this means?” Taeyong asks after a moment of touching you like this.

You look down at the letters, his fingernail tracing the dark line of the first letter.

You shake your head. “I can’t remember.” You’re sure that at some point you must’ve known what the words meant, but they’re in a language, probably Latin, and even if you knew what they meant when you had them tattooed, you don’t anymore, but you look down at them now and read them again.

Memento Mori.

“You always forget.” Taeyong whispers. His touch sends a sensation like golden sparks over your skin. 

“What?” You look up from his fingers to his eyes, but he’s still gazing down at the words. He sighs, his breath tingling over your skin, but he doesn’t answer you until you prompt him again with, “What are you talking about?”

“When you leave, you always forget me,” Taeyong draws his hand back. “You forget, but this never fades. Memento mori, a reminder of death, of me waiting for you to return.”

You feel that rush again from earlier. That rush of unidentifiable something. Only now you know what it is.

Familiarity. Almost a sense of deja vu. Like you’ve done this all before.

You clench your fist, digging your nails into your palm as you squeeze your eyes shut. You can’t remember. You know that your memory before several months ago is fuzzy, but several months before that it’s clear, and it goes like that time and time again. You can’t remember ever meeting Taeyong before, but you know his words are true, you can feel it in your heart, in your soul, in the way that it feels when you touch each other, like coming home.

“Love,” Taeyong’s voice is gentle. “My love, every year I gain you and I lose you. We’re together for months at a time, but then you’re torn away, cast back to earth, your memory fades.” Taeyong’s hand strokes your cheek. “A curse from my father back when he and his kind ruled the universe, to keep us apart, to keep us subdued and obedient to him.”

“I don’t understand.” You shake your head, trying to clear away the clouds of fog you’re suddenly so aware of in your own mind. Before you didn’t know that there was anything shielding part of your memory away, but now you see the fog, you see the thinning as your memories start to work their way forward again.

He rests his head on your shoulder, playing with your fingers as he explains, “We fell in love against his wishes, whispering and conspiring in the dark corners of the universe, and when father found out he was furious. He cursed us so that we would forever be apart. You on Earth, forced to forget, and me locked away in the realm of the gods. For eons we couldn’t see each other, you didn’t remember me at all, but when the others and I overthrew father, parts of the curse he’d placed were broken.

“I could leave the realm again, sink down to Earth and seek you out, but when I found you, you still didn’t remember me or remember where you’d come from. You still believed that you were human, living out a normal human lifetime. But you weren’t, you’re not. You’re a goddess banished to Earth, immortal just as me, only you can’t remember.”

You don’t know what to say. You still can’t wrap your head around any of this, but Taeyong’s not finished yet.

“That was the first time I brought you back. You were here for mere hours when you started to remember, and I thought that the curse was lifted, but just as you really began to remember our times together eons before, it was like a door shut. Your memories closed up again, and you vanished like you’d been thrown back to Earth. So I tried, again and again. And it kept happening again and again, and it was painful for me, and I could see that even if you didn’t entirely understand what was happening, it was painful for you too.

“But then finally one day, by accident, I happened upon a remedy. A partial remedy, but it worked. We were picnicking in the garden, and as I fed you pomegranate seeds, I could just feel the tether of the curse weakening. It’s not a permanent solution. I fed you only eight before we were distracted by something else, and left our picnic behind entirely forgotten, but that time you remembered and you weren’t forced away. You remembered and you stayed and I thought it was broken, but after eight months of Earth time, one day I woke and you were gone.

“It was the others who I brought this to, and Doyoung who told me that he’d been studying in the Library of the Gods, and he found information on the curse father had placed on us. It tangled together time and memory and love. Naturally, I petitioned the two gods of those things, Doyoung and Jaehyun, to help me out and bring an end to this curse, but they both refused. They claimed to disrupt this between us would be to ruin parts of the order of the universe, and they refused to disrupt the universe for my love life.”

You could almost see it now. The things he talked about. 

There were flashes of a picnic under a flowering tree, sunlight streaming through the branches to lay flower patterns across your knees while you laid your head in Taeyong’s lap and he fed you pomegranate seeds. You could see trysts in lakes, explorations of caverns including the one Taeyong had mentioned earlier with gems that glowed in the dark. Your memory was coming back to you.

So you asked, “If the pomegranate seeds were a temporary cure, then why not feed me a whole fruit? Why not give me seeds like medicine, a pill a day to ensure that I stay?”

He shakes his head. “That’s not how it works. Believe me I tried. Eight months is the longest you’ve been able to stay. It seems the curse is unbreakable to the extent where you must spend part of each year on Earth, but the rest you can spend with me. I wish we could break it. That we could spend eternity in this world I’ve created, loving each other. But instead we have an eternity of relearning each other, of you being wary when I approach you, but some part of you must remember because you always come with me, always seem to have a trust and a deep-rooted love that overpowers the curse and has you falling into my arms in an instant.”

Memories flood your mind. 

The prick of a needle against your skin, the words Memento Mori in permanent black ink while Yuta grins at you and Taeyong and tells you, “The words will last, but it’s no guarantee about her memories.” 

Jaehyun watching the pair of you as you kiss beneath a grove of trees, laughing with you, but growing serious when Taeyong asks again, “Can’t you do something? Anything?” and Jaehyun shaking his head, “I can’t meddle.”

You remember festivals of the gods, bacchanalia with Ten and Youngho and all the others. 

You remember, and it hurts because you just know that in a few months time, it will all be ripped away again.

“But we’re together,” Taeyong murmurs. “We get to hold each other in our arms again. To love. Those first few eons were the darkest times, death and darkness, I could barely contain my depression and rage against Father and the Earth for holding you prisoner. But now we’re together once more.”

It hurts, but a gentle hurt. A hurt made better with the soft press of Taeyong’s lips against yours, his fingers still playing with your fingers tracing a circle on your ring finger, in the shape of a ring you know you once wore. 

“Someday,” You tell Taeyong. “Someday, we’ll find a cure to this curse. I’m a goddess, and no one can hold me down.”

Taeyong smiles, “Are you sure about that?”

Suddenly he’s rolled on top of you, pinning your arms down above your head. 

And you can’t help laughing and smiling up at him. “Well, I suppose as long as it’s you holding me down like this, there can’t be much of a problem in that.”

And when Taeyong kisses you now, you feel like it’s the sun meeting the moon, all aglow in his warmth and light, like a craving after chasing each other across the sky, finally fulfilled.

a/n: there might be some grammar errors and stuff, but I wanted to get this posted, and I have to leave my house in like five minutes and I’m not dressed yet or anything lol. so anyway please I hope you enjoyed, any feedback, likes, or reblogs to share if you liked it will always always always be appreciated

[maraudererasmut]

Black and White (Part XXXIII)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI | Part XVII | Part XVIII | Part XIX | Part XX | Part XXI | Part XXII | Part XXIII | Part XXIV | Part XXV | Part XXVI | Part XXVII | Part XXVIII | Part XXIX | Part XXX | Part XXXI | Part XXXII | Part XXXIII | Part XXXIV | Part XXXV* |

Remus followed his friends into Chez Bijou as James’ car was driven off by the valet out front. The restaurant was still a culture shock for the artist, but he was significantly more comfortable than the last time he was there. As they were escorted to their table, Sirius kept his hand protectively on Remus’ back, guiding him towards his seat.

Sirius pulled out Remus’ chair for him, the same way James pulled out his wife’s. Remus glanced over to Lily with a questioning look, but she simply smiled in return.

“Uh… thanks…” he mumbled to Sirius as he sat down. Sirius took the seat beside him, his eyes remaining focused on the artist. Remus felt like he was on display and he wasn’t sure if he loved the sensation or hated it.

“So!” James began, drawing the table’s attention to himself. “Sirius tells me you guys might have some news to share?”

Remus felt Sirius’ gaze on him, but he purposefully ignored it, glancing at Lily instead. Lily gave Remus an understanding nod before she answered her husband.

“Yeah! Dorcas and Marlene represent a film studio who’s looking for some paintings for a shoot. They asked Remus and I to produce three pieces each within the next two weeks!”

“That’s amazing!” James’ smile was so wide, it was almost as if he were the artist in question. “I’m so happy for you guys!”

Sirius was beaming proudly down at Remus, who couldn’t shake the sense of guilt that had settled in the pit of his stomach. The artist looked up at his boyfriend, trying to keep his face calm.

“You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow at Remus.

“Would it be a problem if I did?”

Remus’ stomach churned and he felt a lump forming in the back of his throat.

“Sirius…” He began quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. “I don’t want you doing things for me just because we’re… you know…”

“Remus,” Sirius responded, loud enough for the entire table to hear. “You’re showing in my gallery. For the duration of this exhibition, I am representing you. You are one of my artists. When Dorcas and Marlene approached me and asked if I knew of any artists who fit their criteria, I recommended both you and Lily, because I felt that you were best suited for the job.”

“So… it wasn’t because of… anything else?” Remus asked, fiddling with the napkin that had been placed in his lap by a server.

“I did my job as your gallerist, Remus. It’s mutually beneficial. When you succeed in the art world, so do I. I would have done the same for any artist who I represent.”

Sirius’ statement gave Remus pause for a moment.

“How many artists do you represent?” He asked cautiously. It wasn’t a question he had thought to ask before.

Sirius responded with a shrug.

“Five or six. Why do you ask?”

“I just… it never crossed my mind that there were other artists. I just… didn’t think of that…”

Sirius let out a deep chuckle and reached for the bowl of bread in the center of the table. He casually took a bite out of a piece of focaccia before grinning at his boyfriend.

“You know, I wouldn’t be a very good gallery owner if I only ever showed two artists, Remus.”

He made a valid point. Remus glanced down at the empty plate in front of him. There was still so much he didn’t know about his boyfriend and the gallery business.

“Speaking of which…” Lily’s voice carried across the table, catching Remus’ attention. He looked up at his friend, who had her eyebrows raised. When Remus didn’t respond, she continued. “Dorcas had asked Remus and I if you were representing us, Sirius. Of course, I know that I’m signed on with you indefinitely, but as far as I know, Remus is only working with Black and White until the end of this show, right?”

“That’s true,” Sirius remarked, raising a brow. He turned to Remus, an expectant smile on his face. “What do you say, Remus? Interested in coming on as a permanent artist with us?”

Remus hesitated for a moment, remembering their conversation from the previous evening and the card that was slipped into his jacket pocket. He hadn’t mentioned his exchange with Caradoc to anyone yet. He also distinctly remembered one of Sirius’ ground rules explicitly stated that they would not let their personal lives get in the way of professional decisions.

“Well,” Remus admitted guiltily. “I was approached by someone at the show yesterday… He mentioned that his gallery would be interested in displaying some of my work, and I know Black and White requires exclusive ri—“

Remus cut himself off when he noticed the colour drain from every single face at the table. He kept his mouth shut for a moment, waiting for somebody to explain what he had done wrong, before three voices suddenly started shouting at him at once.

"Someone approached you at the show, Rem—"

"-- plan to sign on with another gallery?"

"--was their name? Was it Na— "

"--can't possibly think they're better than Si— "

"--fter everything we've been through you sti—"

"--bably another Black from the sounds of—"

"Stop!"

Remus thumped his fist on the table, directing everyone's attention towards himself. He glared firmly at his group of friends, making sure to make eye contact with each of them.

"For Christ's sake, I can't understand you when you all talk at once! One at a time! Jesus!" Remus turned to his left and looked at Lily. "You first."

Lily looked taken-aback. She blinked in surprise before gathering herself and starting.

"As one of Sirius' artists, I can honestly say, I don't think you'll find better representation in the city. I really mean that, Remus…"

Remus nodded at his friend.

"Understood. James? What were you saying?" Remus turned to look expectantly at the man across the table from him.

"Oh… uh… just that…" In all the time that Remus had known the man, he had never seen James at a loss for words before. "Who was it who approached you? Because if it was another member of the Black family—"

"His name was Caradoc Dearborn."

James furrowed his brow in confusion.

"Who's that?"

"Tall, dark and handsome? He has blonde hair? Anyway, this is his card."

Remus pulled the card out of his pants pocket and handed it to James, who was studying it so hard, he seemed to be trying to memorize it.

"You… brought it with you?"

Remus heard Sirius' voice to the right of him, but refused to look at the gallery owner. Why did he feel so guilty? Wasn't this something that he and Sirius had discussed?

Remus shrugged, trying to pretend he couldn't hear the hurt in Sirius' voice.

"I figured it would be easier to ask about him if I had the card with me," Remus lied. The artist was never particularly good at lying, but he was afraid the truth would make Sirius feel worse; Remus had brought the card with him because he was considering checking out the other gallery that day, just to see what it was like.

"...Do I get to voice my objections now?"

Remus closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them and turning to Sirius.

"Yes. Go ahead, Sirius."

"After everything that's happened… after these past few weeks, you accept the business card of a stranger at the gallery show that I put on for you?"

Sirius' eyes were clouded with anger, but Remus could tell that he was trying to keep it at bay.

"I didn't accept his card. He put it into my pocket. I just… I figured there was no harm in bringing it up with you guys." Remus glanced around the table at the faces of his friends. "Clearly I was wrong."

Remus watched as Sirius' face darkened, his jaw hardening. He noticed Sirius tilt his chin up, the thin line of his mouth tightening. Remus knew what was coming before the words even left the gallery owner's mouth.

"If you want to switch to another gallery, go ahead." Sirius said, a tinge of malice in his voice. "It's fine by me."

Remus rolled his eyes and let out a sigh.

"That's not what I said, Sirius, and you know it." The artist was beginning to tire of Sirius' games and the way he resorted to juvenile passive aggression. On the bright side, at least Sirius' behaviour was predictable.

"You're sitting here, the day after your opening night, with someone else's business card in our hand," Sirius growled, his fists tightening. "Is there another way that I should be interpreting this?"

"Sirius…" James began in a warning voice, but he was met with a glare from the gallery owner.

"Fuck off, James," he spat, before turning on Remus again. "I can't believe this, Remus. I thought you were better than that."

Remus straightened his posture and steeled his expression.

"Sirius, you said not to make any business decisions based on personal feelings. But more importantly, I haven't done anything yet. I told you about someone who gave me a card. Stop being a jealous prick."

Sirius was about to retort when the waiter came by to take their orders. Sirius closed his mouth and glued a fake smile to his face while he told the server what kind of steak he would like. Remus hated the way Sirius could turn his charm on and off; not only was it frustrating, but it made reading his boyfriend nearly impossible at times.

After the table had ordered their food and wine was poured, the conversation recommenced, albeit in hushed voices.

"Sirius," Lily chimed in after James and Sirius had a whispered row. "I think Remus just wanted to be open and honest with you, letting you know exactly what happened. You shouldn't fault him for that."

Sirius turned on Lily.

"Really? Is that why he brought up the fact that business decisions were separate from personal matters?"

"Stop it, Sirius!" Remus' voice was louder than he intended, but the desired effect was achieved. All three friends looked at the artist with mild surprise. "You said you would work on handling things more maturely! You're acting like a spoiled brat, Sirius. This is a terrible way to start a relationship."

Sirius' face went through several changes upon hearing Remus' words. He looked shocked, upset, dismayed, until he finally settled on a dejected pout. Remus felt a slight twinge of remorse for being so careless with his phrasing, but he knew Sirius needed to hear it.

The food arrived just in time to help ease the tension, but conversation was few and far between as the four friends sat and ate their meals. By the time everyone was finished, the heaviness that hung in the air was stifling, the tension palpable.

All four of them filed into James' car in silence, and Remus and Sirius faced opposite windows in the back seat, purposefully keeping their knees from touching. The ride back to Black and White was the most uncomfortable car ride that Remus had ever endured.