#i have to leave his name out because he's so obscure i will literally flood the tag anytime I talk about him

[self-shipping-hell]

Idk why but the rat is a tall stringbean. He can hold his own in a fight, but he's also a scrawny scrapper. A reedy rat. Ruin my fucking life over a stick of a rodent. It's fine! 😩

[forevfangirlwrites]

What about another nurse Percy one where Percy gets injured or sick and has to go to the hospital so Annabeth is meeting all his work friends for the first time. You don't have to write this, just thought I'd ask. I love your writing :)

Annabeth does not run. She eats Taco Bell and watches Youtube.

But right now, she’s running like her life depends on it, phone clutched in hand, still lit up, still displaying the last message she looked at.

She bursts through the doors haphazardly enough to immediately catch the attention of the ladies at the front desk.

“Mo…” her voice breaks and she can’t breathe enough to finish her sentence.

Her panic must shine through because Mo gives her a small smile. “Down the hall and to the left, dear, but he’s—”

She doesn’t wait for the rest, just beelines towards the hall. She finds the room quickly enough, but the sight before her sucks all the air out her lungs.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to keep looking because her vision quickly becomes blurry with tears, enough to obscure the view of Percy lying in a hospital bed.

Somehow she stumbles forward, to his side, immediately reaching for his hand.

“Excuse me, no one is allowed—”

The doctor who just walked in cuts himself off at the sight of the tears streaming down her face.

She quickly swipes at her eyes and tries to formulate words to explain herself because there is no way she’s leaving her boyfriend’s side.

But before she can say anything, another person rushes in.

“Annabeth!”

“Thalia!”

Percy’s coworker and cousin, the only person she’s met so far (and the one to send the text that caused her to run), greets her.

“Hey,” she says in a surprisingly gentle tone. “It’s okay, he’s—”

“Who is this?” The doctor cuts in. “Wait, is she—”

“Yep,” Thalia responds before he can finish his sentence. “The girlfriend Percy doesn’t shut up about. She’s pretty cool.”

And then realizing maybe introductions are in order, she continues. “Dr. Zhang, Frank, meet Annabeth.”

Franks smiles. “Nice to meet you, Annabeth!”

She nods back, far more concerned with the condition of her boyfriend. “You too,” she replies. (Though now that she knows who he is, she does remember Percy talking about him).

Hopefully he has the answers she’s looking for since Thalia’s text didn’t tell her anything beyond the fact that Percy was unconscious. “Dr. Zhang,” she starts, “is he—”

“Frank! We need you in—” The newcomer pauses at the doorway. A nurse from the looks of it, her eyes immediately land on Annabeth. “What…” she trails off.

“Hazel, meet Annabeth, Percy’s girlfriend.” Frank introduces.

Hazel, another name she’s heard from Percy, smiles as sweetly as Percy described. “Oh hi! Percy’s told us a lot about you!”

Thalia rolls her eyes. “You mean he doesn’t stop talking about her.”

“Is he okay!?” she cuts in, completely breaking up the flow of the conversation.

She doesn’t mean to be rude, but she has no idea what the hell is up with her boyfriend and it’s killing her.

Everyone stops to look at her. Her cheeks heat up under their gaze and she rushes to explain herself. “I’m sorry! It’s just no one has told me what’s going on and he—”

Her voice breaks because she can’t bring herself to say that seeing him lying on a hospital bed instead of working around it is breaking something in her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Frank says, walking up to her. “I should have mentioned. He’s going to be fine. He passed out unexpectedly, turns out it was from a lack of nutrition.”

“What?”

“He’s supposed to keep track of his blood sugar! He’s had diabetes his entire life, he knows this. Plus, he’s literally a nurse whose entire job is to keep track of shit like this.” Thalia stops to glare at Percy. “Even if he has a long overnight shift.”

“Basically,” Hazel cuts in. “We gave him an IV drip and forced him to rest because he’s in no condition to even drive home. But he’s fine.”

Annabeth nods, feeling the bulk of the worry leave her. Percy is okay, he’s alright.

“Are we having a party?” His voice is a little groggy but her head snaps towards him. Seems like Thalia’s scolding had an effect. “Annabeth?”

She can’t respond, partly because he looks illegally attractive for someone who has passed out and partly because he’s awake and okay.

“No, we’re discussing how stupid you are,” Thalia replies bluntly.

“I will have a word with you,” Frank threatens as he leaves with Hazel who just offers a small smile.

Thalia shakes her head and heads out as well. “Listen, Kelp head,” she says as she goes, “we have work to do, don’t make it harder by fainting on us.”

It sounds rude but Annabeth feels the sentiment.

He turns to look at her when Thalia is gone. “Are you going to yell at me too?” he jokes.

She doesn’t know what to say.

“Please don’t ever do that again,” is what comes out in a faint whisper as the relief floods in because he’s okay.

He sits up at the sight of the tears once again coming to her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking actually sorry as she cradles her face in his hand.

“Just…be okay.”

He nods. “I will be, I promise. I’ll never do that again.”

She just rushes forward to hug him, finally calming down at the sight of her boyfriend awake and well. He buries his face into her shoulder, and she relaxes more, already making plans to get him a large pizza when they get home.

“Besides,” he mumbles into her shoulder, arms looping around her body. “I don’t want to see you cry, unless it’s for more.”

Yep, he really is fine if he’s making her cheeks red.

A/N: I’m so sorry it took so long to write this prompt! I honestly wasn’t sure how to write the concept well because I know very little about medical stuff and I didn’t want it to be anything too serious either. Hope you liked it! And thank you for sending in a prompt!

[novantinuum]

Intake (SUF one-shot)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: Teen Audiences (TW: brief discussion of mental illness related topics like suicide ideation and intrusive thoughts.)

Words: 2800

Summary: Steven fills out an important form.

This is set multiple months pre The Future, and is a small glimpse into Steven’s journey to find a therapist.

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3 as well. AO3 link will be provided in the reblogs. Thank you! <3

____

His leg bounces with a restless fervor as he slumps in the waiting room chair, clutching the clipboard and pencil the receptionist gave him with a white knuckled grip. Gaze hardened, he takes a good long look at the other patients spread across the room, a few of them appearing equally as spent and fidgety as him, and hunches over the intake form so his answers will be conclusively obscured from their view.

He grimaces. Ugh. Why would a place like this lay out their chairs so close, anyways? Why even give people the option of being nosey? He may be stuck seeing this therapist Connie’s mom recommended because he’s all messed up in the head, but it’s not like he wants the whole planet to know about it. Goodness knows all of Beach City and Little Homeworld already does thanks to his little ‘incident’ a month back. That’s bad enough.

His chest almost feeling hollow as he sighs, he scrawls in his name, his birthday, his cell number, address, and an emergency contact (Dad, who left for the car to give him privacy after signing a few forms he can’t fill out as a minor) on the lines indicated. He leaves out his many middle names for once, all of them leaving a bitter taste in his mouth at this present moment. Briefly, he wonders if this will be a problem, as these past few weeks Dr. Maheswaran assisted his dad in finally acquiring legal documentation and health insurance for him, and per those records he’s officially ‘Steven Quartz Universe’ in the eyes of the law.

Eventually he shrugs, figuring the likelihood of there being another sixteen-year-old ‘Steven Universe’ here today to confuse him with is nearing zero.

Okay, what’s next?

He briefly skims over the next few passages— a bunch of legalese about the terms of counselor-patient confidentiality and when they might have to breach that for safety reasons— and signs where indicated so they know he looked over it.

Someone sitting two chairs away coughs. He can’t help but flinch at the sudden noise, and folds himself tighter in his own seat as he flips over the first page of the form and continues to read.

In a few words, explain why you’ve chosen to reach out to us today. How can we help you?

Steven frowns, fingers twitching around the shaft of the pencil as he contemplates how to respond. For whatever reason, the question “explain why you’re here” feels very blunt and antagonistic to him in a way he can’t quite ascertain. Like... in a “give the wrong answer, get booted right out the door” sorta way. He lifts his head, peering at all the humans spread across the room, each and every one with their own story, the central character of their own worlds. Some are texting on their phones as they wait for the receptionist to call their names, others are filling out forms as well. What brought these people here, he wonders? Surely there’s plenty of people having a worse time than him right now. Surely there’s people with real problems, people who are literally struggling just to stay alive from day-to-day. He’s not like that, right? Besides that one little wobble a month back, he’s been handling his problems on his own fairly okay. Hasn’t he? So what makes him selfish enough to think that he’s worth anyone’s time?

In his pocket his phone vibrates, knocking him back into reality. He yanks it out and switches it on to look at the new text splashed across the lock screen:

Dad: Hey Schtu-ball, just wanna let you know that I’m proud of you and love you very much. You’ve got this!

He stares at these words for a good minute, the kind sentiment— despite reading as a little hopelessly over-encouraging— filling the hollow space in his chest partway. Even if his dad’s been a bit overbearing in his affections this past month, it’s clear he means well.

So. Why am I here today, he thinks, reading the question over again. He folds his fingers up into a stiff fist, pulling his thumb across his knuckles. After licking his chapped lips and shoving his phone back in his pocket, he scribbles a hasty reply.

I feel really angry and empty and tense and just want to be better.

The teen pauses, allowing those words to echo over and over in his mind, to truly sink in. It’s such a succinct and to-the-point admission that he suddenly wonders why he ever doubted he was less deserving of aid than anyone else in this waiting room.

His countenance a little lighter now and his shoulders growing less stiff, he moves on to the next section.

To aid our counselors in providing you the best possible care, please rate the following statements on a scale from zero to four, zero meaning “not at all like me,” and four meaning “extremely like me.”

Steven’s eyes dart across the length of the massive table below these instructions, his previous anxiety rushing back into his brittle bones as if it’d never left. Each row is host to a short sentence and five blank boxes, numbered zero to four. Read it and rate yourself, right? Should be simple enough. But as his glance flits over these statements and he understands the sort of personal, probing questions they’re asking through them, he begins to mistrust his previous burst of optimism. Dread floods his system, making his cheeks flush bright pink. Heart pounding at the mere thought of people staring, he drops his head lower, successfully hiding most of his face behind the clipboard until he can coax that betraying glow into fading away.

In the end, this goes to prove that it doesn’t matter if everyone says therapy will be ‘helpful’ for him; reflecting on all this junk is still gonna suck.

Quietly, he takes a steadying breath and forces himself to read on, to crack open the hornet’s nest that is the depths of his crap brain.

1. I am shy around others.

He considers this for a moment. Shy. Historically, this has never been a word people would use to describe him. For years he reveled in the thrill of meeting new people, new Gems. His childhood eagerness to engage in fellowship with those around is half the reason Era 3 even exists. And he’s fine around people he knows. Like, on a rare good day he has no problem playing board games or watching cheesy soap operas with his friends. But to be fair... as of late, his eagerness to meet anyone new feels like it’s all but vanished. Is that being shy? Or is that just him failing to care for anyone beyond his inner circle?

With a small shrug he checks the box for one, and moves on.

2. I don’t enjoy being around people as much as I used to.

Hmm. Probably a three. People are unintentionally exhausting these days. He used to be energized by social interaction, and now it just leaves him sucked dry. Most days he’d rather stick to his room.

3. I feel isolated and alone.

The weight of the diamond embedded in his belly— something he normally barely notices— grows ever more apparent as he marks off a four.

4. My heart often races for no good reason.

Uh, yeah. What happened just a minute ago is a pretty good tell. Four.

5. I have spells of terror or panic.

Another four.

6. I am anxious that I might have a panic attack while in public.

Four once more. He holds his pencil tighter, squirming in his seat as he tries (and fails) not to think about the pale scars spread across his back, hidden in his hairline, and on the underside of his arms, indentations that once marked the base of the crystalline spines that jut out from between his scales.

7. I think about food more than I’d like to.

Steven pauses at this one. For once, he’s not sure he can say this statement applies to him. Truth be told, he only started caring about what he put in his mouth earlier this year, when he cut meat and fish out of his diet. And that’s not... a bad thing? It’s not bad to want to consider the impact your food choices have on the environment? He definitely didn’t choose to do so for self-denying reasons, and that’s probably what they’re asking about. He checks zero, and moves on.

8. I feel out of control when I eat.

He almost checks another zero, but then he remembers that day after the proposal... and the week after his incident. And he decides that even if he doesn’t consciously obsess over the food he eats, there’s still a few occasions where once he starts snacking he finds it difficult to stop. A one it is, then.

9. I have sleep difficulties.

This statement nearly makes him laugh. Does he have sleep difficulties. Hah. He doesn’t think he’s gotten a truly restful night of sleep since he sacrificed himself to Homeworld at fourteen.

A solid four. No question.

10. My thoughts are racing.

Four.

11. I feel uncomfortable around people I don’t know.

Hmm. Two.

12. I drink alcohol frequently.

The only alcohol he’s ever had is a tiny sip of his dad’s with permission at Garnet’s wedding reception, and it tasted terrible. He has no interest in drinking again. Zero.

13. When I drink alcohol I can’t remember what happened.

Zero.

14. I drink more than I should.

Zero again.

15. I have done something I have regretted because of drinking.

Another zero. It almost makes him feel better, just knowing there’s a decent number of lines on this paper that aren’t a carbon copy of his lived experience.

16. I feel sad all the time.

Aaaand back to “the story of his life.” Briefly, he wonders if ‘feeling sad’ is the same thing as feeling nothing at all. But then again, does the difference really matter? He checks the box for three.

17. I am concerned that other people don’t like me.

Three. Although honestly, he’s even more concerned that people continue to like him after everything he’s done.

18. I feel worthless.

Steven nibbles at the inside of his cheek as he reads this statement, memories automatically flashing through the pathetic events of the last few weeks, through all the days he barely crawled out from under his covers, all the days he didn’t even manage to brush his teeth or run his fingers through his greasy, knotted hair, all those awful days he couldn’t so much as play one of his video games without growing tired of it in minutes and taking a restless nap for the rest of the afternoon instead.

Four.

19. I feel helpless.

Two. Everyday affairs are a drag, but at the very least he knows he can fight his way out of danger in a pinch. He wouldn’t call that helpless.

20. I have thoughts of ending my life.

He freezes. Goes back, reads this line again. Reads it a third time to make sure he’s not horrendously misconstruing the prompt he’s been given.

(Tries not to think too deeply about the graphic images that flood his imagination some nights. It’s just stray thoughts, though. He’s fine.)

One, he marks, although his muscles can’t help but twitch as he shifts his wrist, as if deep down he knows he’s underplaying his answer.

21. I feel tense.

Steven gives a small snort under his breath. Yeah, he outright admitted as much earlier in this form. Four.

22. I get angry easily.

His grip tightens.

Four.

23. I have difficulty controlling my temper.

He swallows hard, his mouth feeling abnormally dry. He’s not sure he likes how blunt and probing this questionnaire is becoming.

Four...

24. I sometimes feel like breaking or smashing things.

His knuckles go white around his pencil, and he only barely resists the temptation to snap it in half as he feels a rush of hard light flow the distance from his gem through the veins of his arm. Geeze, it’s not like he means to break things! It’s just that all of his stupid powers are linked with his emotions, and whenever he gets even marginally upset now things start to splinter, crack in half, and inevitably end up broken. Just another sign he’s fated to ruin everything around him forever, and that his intent doesn’t matter. Why do they have to pry into this? He already feels terrible enough for thinking these things.

Three, he checks, his eyes damp, but mostly because he’s too scared what their response will be otherwise.

25. I am not able to concentrate as well as usual.

He takes a deep breath, coaxing his body to return to a baseline state. Eh. He’ll give this a two.

26. I feel self-conscious around others.

His glance skirts over the edge of the clipboard to monitor the four others currently spread out across the room. One’s rhythmically swinging their legs, another is still filling out a form like him, but sitting criss-cross on the chair, and the other two are quietly typing on their phones. Thankfully none of them are pressing an ounce of attention his way, (at least, not right now), but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like an exposed nerve. Three.

27. I am afraid I may lose control and act violently.

The raw memories hit like lightning before he can even think to prepare.

Flashes of Pink. Orange fragments, cold and slick in his palms. Thunder splits the skies overhead, each cacophonous sound manifesting in perfect synchronicity with his erratic heartbeat, with each tidal wave of thoughts gushing like a maelstrom through his head: SHATTERER, I’m a shatterer, I’m—

Feeling almost dizzy from the intensity of his heart’s pulse, he knows with full certainty that his cheeks are glowing bright pink again. All he can do is clench his fists, suck down whatever amount of fresh air his lungs will allow, and pray to the very stars themselves that it’ll fade away before it garners the attention of every last human in this place.

He checks the box for four, pencil marking so hard that slivers of graphite splinter off onto the page, and moves on before he can be cowardly enough to change his answer.

28. I have thoughts of hurting others.

His fingernails claw into the thin denim at his knee, limbs outright quivering as he stews in his seat, as he’s forced to reflect upon all the ugly, ugly thoughts that have flit across his awareness over the past weeks. Thoughts about one Gem specifically. He’s... always been angry, always harbored deep resentment... but ever since his most recent trip to visit Her, he hasn’t been able to shake this awful idea: a vision of him standing over the remnants of her gemstone, shattered, fragments spilled across the otherwise pristine floors of Homeworld. He... he didn’t do it when he had the chance. He wouldn’t do it, would he?

(Orange fragments, cold and slick...)

Would he??

And yet nevertheless, the thought tortures him with its frequency, makes him feel downright nauseous at every turn. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to feel this way at all.

Four.

29. I am unable to keep up with my schoolwork.

Stop. Sharp inhale. Staccato, shaky exhale. Repeat, deeper this time. Repeat.

(He can no longer see neon pink reflecting in the smooth metal clasp at the top of his clipboard.)

Okay. Schoolwork.

N/A, he writes in one of the boxes, arm still trembling from the last two questions despite his attempt at cool-down exercises. Not applicable. He hasn’t even been to school, and dreads the inevitability of this therapist asking about that mess.

30. It’s hard to stay motivated for my classes.

N/A.

31. I feel confident that I can succeed academically.

N/A, once more.

And like that, the questionnaire is over. Steven is quick to hide his answers behind the front page, and slides the pencil through the length of the metal clip. He glances around him, drinking in his surroundings with pinpoint precision. Despite his earlier concerns, no one is maliciously staring. No one’s whispering. He internally wrestled with a few challenging subjects and what do you know, it didn’t end in an embarrassingly public meltdown. He— he wipes a stray tear from his eye with the butt of his palm— he took a solid step forward today.

Coercing his body to move, he pulls himself out of the cushioned chair and crosses the room.

“I finished,” he says softly, proudly, as he hands the clipboard and pencil to the receptionist. She smiles and accepts his hard-fought offering.

For the first time in a while, the smile he instinctively flashes back almost feels genuine.

I want to be better, he thinks. I will be better.

____

Notes:

This fic is loosely based on my own experience of the intake process, and the questionnaire I had to fill out. No two intake experiences are the same though, of course. This is merely one possibility. I also take personal liberties on the way I depict Steven’s struggle with mental health, and acknowledge and respect that no two fans’ interpretation will be the same.

Additional notes: -Steven’s still a minor, so he can’t actually sign contracts. I figure Greg signed a handful of forms beforehand as his guardian, and then left to allow his son a bit of privacy with filling out the questionnaire stuff. Since he's a teen, they're still giving him the full confidentiality clauses to look over so he's wholly aware how that works, though.

-To expand on a brief comment made in the midst of this, I headcanon that Steven cut both meat and fish out of his diet, and thus actually slipped up on his vegetarian diet when he was training with Jasper. I interpret this as further showcasing how the poor kid— due to being mentally vulnerable at the time and thus liable to coercion/unwise decisions— began to take actions that went against much of his established morality. He ended up sacrificing his dietary choices during those days, just like he briefly sacrificed his pacifistic views to fight Jasper.

-I also headcanon that the therapist Steven is going in to see after this isn’t the one he eventually sticks with and mentions as “my new therapist” in The Future. It’s totally normal and okay to try a few different people to find someone who you click with, after all.

Thank you for reading!

[fletchphoenix]

You And I Have Good Chemistry

Hiya gamers - chapter three has arisen. As always, I love y’all and thank you so much for your supportive messages yesterday, it meant a lot. Anyway, enough of me rambling. Onwards with the chapter.

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

  “You came back-” Varian said with a tearful smile, cuts littering his face as he sat on the hard oak floor of the library. The very floor Hugo was sprinting across to slide against and pull the younger boy into his arms. He didn’t want to let go of the boy in front of him, not now, not ever. He muttered apologies - for what, he didn’t know - he just knew he’d hurt the raven haired boy he was currently holding in an embrace that was being returned just as passionately.

  “Of course I did, Varian. I’m not..gonna leave you here.” he confessed, his hands fixing Varian’s teal waistcoat, the other gently pushing his hands down to stop him. Loving eyes met his, the crack in his glasses slightly obscuring his vision. That didn’t matter though - at least the younger boy was safe. 

  He wasn’t sure who’d started it, but sure enough they were both leaning in, extremely close. “Hugo…” Varian’s voice was barely a whisper as his hand moved to rest upon the blonde’s cheek. Only a little more-

  “HUGO!” Donella yelled as she opened the door, startling the emerald eyed boy, before he groaned in annoyance and pulled his sheets over his head as Donella opened his curtains, letting in the sunlight which broke him from his VERY riveting dream about an Eternal Library. His brain neglected to remind him of the fact him and Varian were extremely close and how his rude awakening had interrupted a very intimate moment between the two - probably for the best. 

  “Geez, Don. I was getting up.” He muttered as he pulled the covers back to grab his glasses, pushing them up his nose before checking his alarm clock. One glance. Two glances. “It’s 7:15am. I’m not even late. Why are you waking me up?” he moaned and laid back, his head finding comfort in the pillows and his eyes watching the grey haired woman roll her eyes and fold her arms in annoyance, though an exasperated smile on her features said otherwise. 

  “Well, you need to start getting up earlier.” she stated, heading towards the bed. “Besides, your phone alarm has been going off since half six and I’m sick of hearing that hellish ringtone of yours.” Donella used a cold hand to push back his fringe and place a gentle, motherly kiss to his forehead before ruffling his hair gently and heading towards the doorway. The slight click of the heels on her boots created a comforting tempo, syncopated with the ticking of the clock on his wall. “Get ready, okay Hugo?” 

  “Yeah, alright mom. Oh! My study partner is coming over tonight by the way. His name’s Varian. He’s new.” he explained, his voice crescendoing into a shout as his mother descended the stairs. Once he was sure she’d heard him, he began getting dressed, selecting his moss green hoodie, jeans and some random shirt to go with it. Not as if it mattered anyway - he didn’t plan on taking off the hoodie today. After all, the only time he’d take it off was for chemistry, and that was second period. Hugo pulled on his clothes, strolling to the mirror placed on his desk and fixing his hair and glasses.

  The start of the day was a breeze - Donella had dropped him off at the entrance and as he walked down the hall, he could hear the usual gossip. Something about a kid called Leon getting suspended for homophobic slurs against Mr Crick’s kid - oh well, at least it wasn’t him, he noted as he pushed open the door to Room 106, Mrs Crick’s room. “Morning Hugo,” Elora called, not even having to look up from her book to know it was him, “Take your seat, you’re late, as usual.” 

  “Sorry Miss, can’t say it won’t happen again though!” he called as he took his seat before Isla, who was literally bouncing up and down in excitement. His eyes trailed up and down her body in silence, his right eyebrow slowly rising. Wow. She looked happy to say the bare minimum. Hell, she was even wearing her rainbow socks - ones she’d specifically told Hugo she was wearing if she was feeling especially happy. “Uh..hey there, Isla. Are you okay?-”

  “Yes! I asked Nuru out yesterday and she said yes! I honestly can’t believe it!” she giggled in her sing-song voice, each word sounding like a melody to an undiscovered song. A grin moved onto his face. So Nuru and one of his best friend’s were dating, huh? What an interesting revelation, he’d thought as he leaned forward against his desk, propping his head up with his hand. He just knew he could use this for blackmail against Nuru...or some form of teasing. Well, he was gonna have fun. 

  “That's interesting, Isla..tell me more..”

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

  “He did what?!” Nuru almost yelled, sitting bolt upright in her seat as Varian leant over to shush her. She couldn’t believe it. Hugo motherfucking Atkinson was simping over Varian Ruddiger? This was..a revelation! A hypothesis she just had to explore! The signs were obvious! Staring as Varian while he was talking, actually cuddling him after sharing their deepest traumas..it was just so unlike Hugo that she almost declared that Varian was faking it!

  “Please don’t yell.” Varian begged, sparing a glance over to Zander. The boy was clearly spooked, flinching away from the odd pair in his chair with a black eye on full display to them. Nodding gratefully, the other shuffled back into his prior position as Varian followed suit and sat back down. “But yeah, he was acting really weird and just..hugged me on my bed. It was..kinda nice if I’m being honest.” A slight flush dusted his cheeks, but it disappeared as soon as it came. No. No no. Hugo was his rival. His enemy. None of that.

  “Alright, but it’s almost unheard of that Hugo of all people would act like that. And I’ve known him for years.” she explained, her gaze fixing on Varian, “Trust me Varian, he’s up to something, I can just tell it. He isn’t the ‘good guy’ he makes himself out to be. I would know, okay?” her hand moved to rest on his shoulder, covering the small sun insignia of Eugene’s old Corona High hoodie that he TOTALLY didn’t steal from him. Silently, he nodded in agreement before the bell rang and the hallways flooded with people. “Well then, shall we?” She asked, her arm outstretched. Varian promptly took it and let her guide him through the sea of people in the corridors. 

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

  First period went way too fast, Varian finding himself standing outside the chemistry labs alone before pushing open the door and entering. Greeting him was Hugo, already standing at their desk and giving him a smug grin and wave as he made his way over. Ah. Back to square one then. “Hey there, hairstripe. It's good to see my favourite nerd after such a long, strenuous day.” Hugo lamented as he threw his arm around the other boy, the steel of his arm feeling like a molten iron poker due to the relentless August heat. 

  “It's only been one lesson.” Varian complained, pushing Hugo’s arm off him (much to the other’s dismay, as evident from the displeased grunt), and pulling on the ivory lab coat along with his own goggles he’d fished out of his bag. They were the last thing he had of his mother’s belongings - apparently she was a legend in the scientific field, making advanced progress for it before her sudden death. He would’ve killed to have been able to meet her. 

  “I know, but one lesson is too much without my beloved hairstripe!” the other whined as Varian’s face took on a frown. Did he always have to be so dramatic? What had happened to the soft, vulnerable man he’d seen yesterday? Still, he sat down and began to listen to Mr Crick as he explained the experiment. It was simple enough - make a compound of your choice - right?

  Well, he was obviously wrong considering who his partner was.

  He thought they’d been fine, Hugo taking the lead and showing Varian what to do. It almost felt like the sweet boy he met yesterday was back, until the compound blew up in his face. His hair scruffed up as Hugo laughed, Varian rapidly moving his hands to fix the absolute rats nest that was his hair as his partner’s cackles sounded in the background. He’d ignored Hugo after that, a frown covering his features as he pushed the boy away and slumped in his chair, pouting and sulking at the embarrassment he’d been put through. 

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

  Before he knew it, he was beside the blonde haired boy again and walking through town. He let Hugo ramble about something or the other, the blonde’s nimble fingers threading through his own locks as he ranted about some girl he liked. Varian didn’t pay attention, somehow a feeling of disappointment and something akin to jealousy bubbled in his stomach. He didn’t understand why - he hated the boy with his whole heart, so why was he jealous over some girl Hugo was frustrated about? He should be laughing because he was suffering so much, so why wasn’t he? He pushed that thought out of his head as fast as he could, his eyes fixating on the floor in silence.

  “You had your first kiss yet, hairstripe?” Hugo asked, it was an innocent question, but it caught Varian off guard. He didn’t want to admit to Hugo he’d never been kissed, all that would lead to would be relentless bullying about how he was destined to be ‘alone forever’ or how he just seemed to repel every girl in a two mile radius somehow. He pondered his answer for a minute, not even realising he’d stopped in his tracks. “You okay?” the blonde questioned.

  “Hm? Oh, i’m fine. And uh. Yeah, I’ve totally been kissed. By many, uh, many females.” he stuttered. Curse him for being so awkward. Hugo wasn’t going to believe him at all with a stutter like that. He knew he was a bad liar - but geez, this was REALLY depressing wasn’t it. It seemed Hugo thought the same, a look of suspicion taking over his face. “I swear I have!” he persisted as he jogged to catch up with the taller boy.

  “I never said I didn’t believe you.”

  “Yeah, but your face looked weird so I thought I had to clarify.”   “Your face always looks weird, but I don’t always clarify everything for you.” Hugo quipped, Varian gasping in offence and punching his bicep. Hugo let out a loud laugh before taking Varian’s wrist and guiding him along the street towards a small house. “Here it is. It really isn’t much, me and my ma aren’t exactly the most lucky people in the world.” Hugo added as he unlocked the door and pulled Varian up the stairs and along the hall to his room. “And this is where the magic happens.” He chirped, wiggling his eyebrows in a seductive manner, to which Varian responded with yet another punch to the bicep. 

  The room itself just had such Hugo vibes. Post it notes covered the walls with notes about chemistry along with little reminders on them (ones Varian couldn’t make out due to Hugo’s fancy yet unreadable cursive writing). An unfinished mechanical device looking similar to a mouse laid with his stomach facing upwards on the desk against the right wall with a wardrobe beside it, doors painted green and hiding the true color of the wood underneath. A bed pressed against the back wall sat against the left wall, the also green covers in a bundle on the floor, as though Hugo had fallen out of bed and forgotten to clean it. Slowly, Varian made his way towards the desk, before Hugo abruptly stepped in front of him to block his path. 

  “Ah. No working at the desk. There’s a surgical patient there at the moment called Olivia, so we’re gonna have to work on the bed. Lucky you.” He commented with a grin, taking a seat. Varian hesitated before perching beside him, taking the books out of his bag as Hugo’s eyes followed his every movement. As reassuring as it was to know Hugo was here, the staring was...really putting him off. It was excessive and happening everywhere - his room, the chemistry labs..hell, even the hallway today as they crossed paths while Varian made his way to math with Nuru dragging him along. It was strange and, according to Nuru, out of character for Hugo to be doing. Varian wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what was in character for Hugo, if he was being honest. Carefully he placed the books on the bed and the pair began to work on their presentation. 

  He hadn’t realised it, neither of them had, but by the time they’d decided to finish, Varian’s head rested on Hugo’s shoulder and had subconsciously cuddled against him on the bed. He flushed as Hugo brought this to his attention. “I’m sorry. I’ll just-” Varian apologised, trying to move away before a hand moved to hold him in place. Hugo’s eyes locked with his azure ones in a silent staring match, neither of them wanting to move until Hugo gained the courage. He tilted forward slightly before-

  “Varian! We’re here!” Rapunzel called from downstairs, the noise bringing both the boys back down from whatever alternate universe they’d created where it was just them. Varian moved away, Hugo letting him slide out of his embrace as he packed his books and their work into his backpack, slinging it over his back and rising to his feet. With his voice almost a whisper, he uttered goodbye before rushing out and down the stairs to meet Rapunzel.

  Hugo laid back on his bed, staring at the glow stars on the ceiling set out like constellations as his mind ran over what had just happened. What had gotten into him? What was the other boy doing to him to cause him to just..act like that? He let out a slight gasp at his sudden revelation. Oh no. No way did he have a crush on Varian Ruddiger. Absolutely no way would he have a crush on someone that was far too good for him in every way.

  He thought back to Zander and the rumours of him and his boyfriend. Of course he couldn’t risk that happening to him OR Varian. They had enough going on as it is, so the last thing he needed was for them to deal with that kind of torment at school. However…

  ..he couldn’t stop thinking about the other boy.

  The way that he couldn’t get enough of him. How he explained things so perfectly and not condescending in the slightest. The way he took care of everything around him and was gentle and careful when talking about potentially hurtful things. The way his blue eyes lit up the slightest bit when he smiled. The small snorts when he laughed. He really was falling hard for the other, huh. He was pretty sure his mom could tell too by the way she’d grinned at him from across the table at dinner in a way that told him that she knew whatever he was hiding, even though HE hadn’t known he was hiding anything at that point. 

  Huh. He really was in love. And this time, he didn’t hate it.

[archadianskies]

Whumptober Day 12

Broken Down

Whumptober Masterlist | 12/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags:  Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings  × Imprisonment × Post-Pacifist Best Ending × Abandonment  × Jericho Crew as Family

As far as achievements go, Chloe has achieved many ‘firsts’ across the almost two decades of her life. She is the first android creation of Elijah Kamski, she is the first android to pass the turing test, the first commercial android model is based on her, and now she is the first android to become CEO of a company- the very company her creator founded all those years ago when he created her. 

Chloe RT600 Kamski steps up to helm CyberLife as Elijah Kamski steps down as interim CEO and joins her side as Chief Technical Officer. And so it begins: unravelling CyberLife’s twisted network of deceit and corruption. 

It begins at the top and works its way rapidly downwards and what Chloe realises is during the peak of the revolution, when the future of CyberLife teetered on a knife’s edge, they grew desperate and when humans grow desperate, they make mistakes. In their panic they make brash decisions not fuelled by logic, but by fear and the board feared losing their money most of all. And so they tried to burn, to bury their trail of lies but she is clever where they are not. And humans are lazy, when she is not. 

“Between November 10 and December 1, the passing of the Sentient Life Act, CyberLife’s servers went through a massive overhaul.” Chloe explains as Connor sits up attentively. “They were prepared for both situations, but disproportionately skewed towards an outcome where the revolution failed.” North snorts back a laugh, a smirk on her face. Chloe continues with a small smile. “Obviously the revolution succeeding was not the outcome they hoped for. And so they began the monumental task of saving, backing up, then scrubbing the more unsavoury files from storage. Emails were combed through very thoroughly to try and remove any incriminating evidence. Everything from blueprints to schematics, to early concept designs in archives were scrutinised.”

“You say they did this, but they couldn’t have succeeded if you know about it.” Josh comments, blinking in surprise. 

“Oh, the only thing bigger than a human’s ego is their laziness.” She laughs brightly. “When this Tower was being built, I was temporarily installed into the mainframe.”

“She is, quite literally, the heart of this place.” Elijah comments from where he’s tinkering away at his workstation, barely paying them any heed. “There is nothing that happens here without her knowledge, whether the discovery is immediate, or something she will discover later.”

“Do you know how to speak like a normal person and not a supervillain?” North rolls her eyes and Markus shoots her a Behave look though it does coax a giggle out of Chloe.

“Eli isn’t the most social human.” She sends him an exasperated yet fond glance before her expression turns serious. “A lot of the files I recovered were meaningless, but I did discover something that required more effort than most. They definitely did not want anyone to find out about this.”

“And yet here you are.” Markus smiles gently. 

“And yet here I am.” Chloe blinks and the screen behind her floods with images and information. 

“That’s the junkyard close to Ferndale.” Simon murmurs, the first words he’s spoken all meeting.

“The only site we haven’t managed to negotiate terms for surrendering the androids on site.” Markus presses his mouth into a tight line. 

“Take a guess why.” Chloe’s smile is bitter and Josh sighs in frustration.

“Because CyberLife owns it somehow, don’t they?”

“Correct, Professor.” She blinks and the screen refreshes showing a bird’s eye view of the area. “The site was patrolled by security drones, which were resistant to hacking.”

“But not remote reprogramming.” Elijah adds from across the room, a small smirk on his lips. 

“This is not the entirety of the site.” The screen refreshes again and there is a blueprint overlay atop the image. “By comparing power grids and voltage output I discovered there is a small facility beneath the junkyard. I haven’t been there myself and with the potential dangers of the unknown, I know it would be foolish to attempt this on my own.”

“I will go.” Connor volunteers. “I can involve the DPD Android Crimes Division. Simon is the Jericho liaison and will be kept fully informed of our findings so both parties remain up to date with the case.”

“This must be treated with respect.” Chloe warns. “Now that this site is in my hands, in my name, I want this to be first and foremost a rescue mission. There are androids there, still alive, and in need of medical attention. And those that have perished deserve a proper retrieval of their memory cores for installation into memorial walls. That’s why I contacted both you, Connor, and the Jericho Four.”

“We will do our part.” Markus vows with a determined nod, extending a hand to Connor who accepts it with a firm grip.

“And I will do mine.” 

*~*

It is a mass grave. There is no other way to describe it and Connor cannot help but feel horrified at the sight before him. Simon’s smile is grim.

“You’ve never seen this before.” Not a question; a statement. “We only came here when we were desperate for parts and blue blood.” They had to salvage from the dead, Connor realises, equal parts horror and grief. “Sometimes we even lost people here, and returned with less people than we left with.” 

Not a mass grave, Connor discovers, not entirely anyway. There are androids, living androids, stumbling around in various states of disrepair. When he throws out a preliminary scan it pings several more stationary androids still activated, lying still in piles, unable to move. He thinks he will not be able to enter stasis tonight, not without memories of this place disrupting his thoughts. Nightmares, Hank calls them. Trauma.

“Leave this to us.” Markus says resolutely, clasping his shoulder. “And we leave the hidden facility to you.”

* 

The facility has been hastily gutted and haphazardly cleaned. A lot of activity happened here and efforts were made to try and wipe away all evidence. Perhaps a human would see an empty, abandoned facility and assume a dead end. Connor is not a human. He is built for this, for investigating and solving crimes, and perhaps this is the most important crime to solve because CyberLife must be held accountable, CyberLife must be linked to these atrocities. CyberLife must not be allowed to step out of the limelight and fade into obscurity. 

There is a trail of blood, invisible to the human eye but glowing bright blue for Connor, as though something were dragged down one of the hallways. No, wheeled down the hallway. There are faint marks on the floor, perfectly spaced apart, with the trail of blood between it. He follows it to a room that has even more blue blood. There’s not enough to sample, the blood having dried long ago. No matter. That it is here is proof something happened, something they didn’t want anyone to see. 

He preconstructs the scene, theorising that some sort of cart wheeled in android parts, leaving a trail of blue blood from the entrance. Whether the android was whole to begin with or already in parts he can’t yet ascertain, and there’s the possibility it was more than one, but what he does know is a lot of blue blood was lost atop the large operating table in the centre of the room. Something happened, something quick and violent and messy. And then the cart was loaded with the android or androids, and wheeled out. 

He follows the trail and he knows they must have done this last, they must have been so desperate to leave because otherwise they wouldn’t have dared leave a drop of blood for someone else to find. Something happened. The revolution happened, he guesses. Or perhaps it was when Elijah Kamski became interim CEO and they realised they had to destroy everything to escape his scrutiny. 

The trail leads to a disposal chute and this, Connor knows, will solve the case. Whatever lies at the other end of the chute will be the one thing CyberLife desperately hoped no one would find. They never counted on their prototype deviating and wrestling back control from its corrupted handler, they never counted on the Jericho Four staring death in the face and winning the hearts of the public with their defiance. Nor thousands of deviated AP700s flooding the streets to back them up. 

The chute is big enough to fit an entire android- unsurprising given the nature of the place. Connor climbs into it and follows it down carefully, dropping and halting at controlled intervals so he doesn’t hurtle towards unidentified danger. He needn’t have worried. At the bottom is a garbage disposal. A preliminary scan reveals general refuse; rotting food and food containers, packaging and packing materials. 

But then right in the center of the garbage pile, the very last thing dumped down the chute, is a pile of android parts. When he scans them, he realises all of the parts are compatible with his model. The thrill of the discovery and the triumph of the investigation changes swiftly to a feeling of horror. Is he standing at the grave of his predecessor? Is this the failed RK800 prototype? Or is this his successor? Had CyberLife planned on releasing his completed model, but realised they had lost the battle against deviancy?

There is a head within reach and when he picks it up, he is staring at his own face. Only… Only it isn’t, not really. There are minute changes here and there. A stronger jawline, a slightly more prominent brow bone. Grey eyes instead of brown. There is a positronic core inside the head, meaning it isn’t just a shell, it isn’t just a maquette. It was once active. It was alive, for however brief a moment or however long a period of time. 

And then the technicians had violently hacked it apart because none of the parts have been detached properly. The android had been pulled and severed in great haste and then shoved down the chute in the hopes nobody would ever find it, perhaps with the intent to return and dispose of it properly. But in crafting Connor, CyberLife had ultimately crafted their own demise because he is here now, and he has found him. His brother. And he knows he will have much to say.

*~*

As far as achievements go, Chloe has achieved many ‘firsts’ across the almost two decades of her life. Being given a trolley full of severed android parts and having to piece together an android like a crude puzzle certainly counts among her many firsts. Blueprints for this model are unearthed in the scrambled mess of corrupted deleted files and now that she knows what to look for, she knows what thread to pull to unravel the tapestry.

She has to build him from scratch because they injected him with a lethal cocktail of nanites to reformat him. A shame they didn’t physically destroy his core because had they done that instead of trying to reformat him, they would’ve prevented her from piecing his mind back together nano-particle by nano-particle. 

A shame they never properly drained him of his thirium, because it means the puzzle pieces are still right there in his veins. It will take some time, it will take nearly all of her processing power, but she is patient. And she is curious. And Elijah knows nothing will stop her until she has sated her curiosity. No matter, of course, since the goal at the end is still the same- ruin the lives of the team who ruined their lives.

She pieces his mind back together and Elijah crafts a new body, a better body for him to awaken in. The RK800, dear Connor, may have been CyberLife’s greatest achievement but this one, this RK900 will be the first Kamski remodel. 

It takes her just over a week to salvage his mind and when it is complete, Elijah installs the core into the brand new body. He is handsome in a cold, sharp way the way a katana is considered a thing of beauty in a cold, sharp way. She likes his grey eyes; grey like storm clouds. 

“Hello Connor.” She greets the RK800 nervously waiting in the hallway.

“Hello, Ms Chloe.” Connor’s smile is brief, fleeting, and overtaken by his anxious anticipation. 

“Well. It’s time to meet your brother.” She leads him into the lab and hears him gasp behind her. “RK900. Bring yourself online.”

*~*~*

[this will continue on Day 31: Left for Dead]

[beebleboosuwu]

Fic: Took My Days With You

I originally posted this on AO3 but wanted to share this with y’all:

There’s one thing that she hated the most about herself:

The fact that she grew up.

Lydia didn’t want to, but that was a part of life. She left fifteen years ago to pursue her dream career of becoming a photographer. Her success with that led to her becoming an author and multiple of her publications became New York Times hits. Her autobiography came soon after, and people were enthralled by her life story. Obviously she had to leave out the... interesting bits of her teenage years other than telling her audience that she lived in a house where the previous tenants died and telling them that she could feel their presence everywhere she went in that house. And she told her story to all who would listen, they seemed to enjoy it claiming that it was all in the name of fiction but to her it was real. When she left, all five of her family members waved farewell and wished her the best of luck. Delia and Charles helped her pack, Adam and Barbara made provisions and supplies for her trip and Beetlejuice, the sentimental bastard, waited and bid farewell to her on the roof where they met. But one devastating phone call from Skye sent Lydia into a panicked frenzy, she hurriedly left her home of Salem, Massachusetts to Winter River, Connecticut. With her car supplied for only a week's worth of clothes, and now 40 years old, she returned to her home. She was always nearby, and never too far from her family, she didn’t have the heart to go that far.

Lydia drove past the sign of Winter River with a somber look on her face, her black convertible rolling down the familiar town. The town didn’t change much, it was still a small town and the nostalgia factor was striking a hard chord in her. She couldn’t stop the wetness running down her cheeks though.. This is where she grew up and now…. it’s gone..

Not like gone, but in the more ‘this no longer feels like home’ vibe. She had a home and lost that one with the death of her mother, but she rebuilt a new one with a second set of (ghost) parents and a strange and unusual best friend. Lydia could see it in the distance, a raggedy looking building faded with age. The surrounding hill hasn’t changed, other than the fact that her dad actually pulled through with that gated community deal with a different partner other than that snob Maxie Dean. It was a nice area though, multiple houses lined the way to her house, or rather the ‘flagship model home’ her dad nicknamed it so long ago.

She pulled up to the driveway, taking note of the dead vegetation around the property. She hasn’t been back in years, and it certainly has seen better days. The paint was chipping off from the wind, and there wasn’t even a strong breeze blowing. No one has lived here for a couple years either. Her father and stepmother died 3 years ago and she never got the chance to return to Winter River. She was always so busy, and whatever time she had to herself, she would throw herself into her work. Always working on the next big thing that her fans would enjoy.

The windows had been covered with wood and the door was left wide open. Multiple cans of bear and graffiti littered the front porch and the front door. Lydia was afraid to enter in, not because of the ghosts that she hoped were still in there, but how empty it looks from the outside.

She left her things in a hotel already and chose to come straight here rather than getting some rest. The hotel manager so it seem, was a big fan of Lydia’s and asked if she was going to return to her house that she used to live in. Rather than disclose that information, she said no. He said it was a shame what happened to her old house, it fell out of repair and no matter how many times realtors wanted to sell it, no one would buy it. According to the locals, no one would buy and live In a house that is haunted by its old occupants. It also became a place that was frequented by juveniles to get a good scare from this place. Which did work cause they claimed that some monster always chased them out. She knew who it was and the reason for Skye’s call:

The monster sightings and other weird stuff happening in her old house suddenly ceased.

The porch creaked beneath her feet, as if the wood would snap at any moment. Normally the Maitlands would come rushing out and greet her at the door and Beetlejuice would be in the living room watching whatever he wanted to, but there was nothing, and that definitely made Lydia pause her advancement towards the rickety old house. Her nose wrinkled from the old, wet, wood smell emanating from the house.

Lydia trudged on anyway and went past through the threshold, and what she saw saddened her. The roof had given out at one point and that pile of wood was tucked away to the side. The living room was a mess, riddled with dust and more garbage thrown around. And call her crazy for keeping it, but the sculpture that she used to stab Beetlejuice with was knocked over. The stand was crushed to smithereens and the pole and the adorning head piece laid far away. The pole was resting by the fireplace and the spiky headpiece was near the base of the stairs. Multiple photos of herself and her family were callously left on the floor, leaving the glass frame shattered and the photos caked with grime.

“Adam? Barbara?” Lydia called out to the empty house, “Lawrence?” her demon adopted brother would usually hiss at her for using his first name, and she got no response from her ghost parents or Beetlejuice. “Anyone home? It’ me, Lydia!” She called again, but only the echoing tones of her voice reached her.

She entered the kitchen next, leaving her just as devastated. The stove had been ripped out of the wall and the table was smashed to pieces, knives, pots and other cooking utensils were scattered on the island, sink and counter tops. the backdoor to the garden was no better. The door hung off its hinges and the backyard was full of dead grass and weeds, like the entire life of the house just disappeared.

Scared of what that entailed, she rushed towards the staircase and climbed up it without disregard. The hand rail fell off the moment she touched it but ran up, ignoring the protesting groans of the wood. She had to know.

She had to.

The hallway was filled with odd bits and bobs of the rooms, a smashed mirror was on the floor, a mattress was laid against the wall, pieces of metal stuck out from the mattress too. Making it seem that someone repeatedly stabbed the thing multiple times. Lydia cautiously stepped around the debris to head towards the door to the attic and out of all things that were destroyed, the door was the only one that looked like it hadn't been touched.

With hope rejuvenating her system, she busted down the door only to find no one inside. The attic was an absolute mess, the room was torn inside and out. Barbara and Adam’s bed was ripped to shreds, the love seat’s ripped and the fluff from inside the cushions were strewn along the floor, Adam’s model town was no longer here and Barbara’s clay pots lay shattered on the shelves. The window opening to the roof is left wide open causing a draft into the room. There was a small pile of clothes in the middle of the room, all looking like it was haphazardly thrown there.

“Adam? Barbara? Beej?” Lydia pleaded to the open air that one of them are still around. “Please, I’m here!” Now she couldn’t stop the tears from forming, “Beetlejuice? Ghost-mom? Ghost-dad? Where are you?!” Lydia started to feel the adrenaline and panic flood into her system, she frantically went to every nook and cranny of the attic throwing anything that might have obscured a hiding ghost, but no luck. There was no trace of the ghost couple and the green haired demon here. Her tearful gaze turned towards the roof, she checked every room of the house and no one responded to her calls.

The cold, crisp autumn air embraced her once more.. The weathervane rusted beyond recognition and the barriers between the edge of the roof and the solid ground she stood on were missing, most likely they were the things stabbed into the mattress. A hoarse scream left her throat and Lydia sunk onto her knees clutching her chest.

They were gone… She was alone, again. Forsaken. Invisible.

Her family has been scattered to the winds, Dad and Delia have expired, only days apart the doctor said. Lydia alone paid for the funeral and their gravesites to be dug, she didn’t return to Winter River. Instead she went straight into her work and wrote a hit, “The Demon Among Us.” It was about her experience with a literal demon, but over analytical professors and English majors chalked up her demon character (Beetlejuice) and said it was a personification of depression. Which would have been awesome… if that was what she wrote about.

Adam and Barbara were nowhere to be found, and the house they loved so much was falling apart. Their precious items, littering the lawn to the backyard to the front yard. If they could see what had happened, they would be surely hopeful and ready to fix it.

Beetlejuice didn’t appear instantly when she called his name, and since Juno was eaten by that Sandworm… Beetlejuice never had a problem with saying his name or getting anyone to say it. He did mention there was a slight tug from the after effects of the curse being lifted, but other than that he said it was manageable.

Lydia cried onto the roof tiles, the family she had built… vanished.

She pounded the ground, cursing herself for not making time, screaming that her life was taken away from her hands again. This was worse than when Emily died, back then she had her father to talk to about things like this. Delia would give insight of finding distractions to move past grief.. While Barbara and Adam gave Lydia a shoulder to cry one whenever she was upset. Beetlejuice made her laugh again and even though he was dead, or born-dead, he made her see that life is worth living. That even if it is a struggle, she could pull through.

Now they were not here, her decaying memories and odd photos of the family were the only things that helped remind her that they existed and were real to her.

“Lydia?”

Lydia turned around to find the familiar stench and sight of her black and white striped demon best friend. She gasped, got up and ran towards her friend. The demon had his arms wide open for her to collide into which she crashed into wholeheartedly.

“Beetlejuice…” she cried into his lapel.

“Heya scarecrow.. nice to see ya. You’ve changed.” Beetlejuice shakily rubbed her back.

“And you haven’t,” she let go to take a good look at him, “Oh Beej, your hair.”

Beetlejuice sadly smiled, his hair being a deep purple with even darker blue tips, his dress shirt was tinged purple too. She now got a better look at him, his face, stained with tears and wrinkle lines dominated his forehead. His eye bags were heavy as if he didn’t sleep for a long time. “I know.” He replied, “Things happened when you were away.”

“What happened?”

“The Maitlands…” His breath hitched. “They’re gone.”

Lydia stared at Beetlejuice and waited for the punchline. This was Beetlejuice, he was a prankster. Lydia laughed a little.

“You’re joking right?” She playfully shoved him, “They probably moved to the Netherworld, did you check there?”

“I checked… They aren’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious. They’re gone… Adam, Barbara… They vanished.” Beetlejuice rubbed his shoulder, “I’ve searched the Netherworld top and bottom, they aren’t there.”

Lydia stood dumbfounded, staring at Beetlejuice with wide-eyes.

“Here, I’ll tell ya what happened.”

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

2 years ago

The couple scared off its next batch of kids that thought it was cool to party when the Maitlands were around still, haunting their now decaying house. Beetlejuice hung around giving the ghastly couple tips on what could be scary for these new kids coming in and trashing their house. Delia and Charles passed peacefully during a trip at their vacation spot in Lake Tahoe. They never got to go to the funeral, but letters addressed to Lydia were mailed here. Offering condolences to her and informing any other occupants that the Deetz couple have passed away.

The house quickly fell in disarray, Barbara and Adam couldn’t step outside the house in fear of being teleported to Saturn and being eaten by a Sandworm, so the plant life outside died. Beetlejuice tried to revitalize the plants by gardening, but nothing he did made the grass green again and the plants to grow. Barbara and Adam tried their best to coach Beetlejuice but the pants wouldn’t grow. Nothing was growing in the house.

At one point, during a cold winter, the three had become a throuple. Barbara initially asked Beetlejuice if he was interested, and with Adam’s happy smile, the three became a relationship. They slept on the same bed, kept each other company, and scared everyone who dared enter their territory. They kept the house unoccupied in hopes of Lydia returning one day.

But she never did.

One day when Beetlejuice was finishing scaring off a particular group of kids who seemed impervious to his usual tactics, returned to the attic to celebrate another successful spook, only to find no one there. Thinking it was a joke, Beetlejuice playfully rummaged through the attic to find his partners. Nothing. The roof was next and still: nothing. He checked all points of the house and each empty room he entered, he got more worried and scared that they have been abducted into the Netherworld by one of Beetlejuice’s enemies. After Juno, a lot of Netherlings seemed to come after Beetlejuice. He easily deflected them off but now if they came after the people he loved then there would be hell to pay.

He investigated the attic once more to see if there was any sign of struggle but there was nothing. Not even evidence of a door being open to the Netherworld. He checked anyway, he drew his passageway to the Netherworld and entered. Beetlejuice asked multiple people if they have seen the couple anywhere, and all of them have said they haven’t. Even Miss Argentina said she never saw them, and they were decades past their date of death. If they came through to the Netherworld, she would’ve seen them.

Beetlejuice returned to the house with a broken heart, and fearing the worst, he thought they were done with life. Done with him, and teleported themselves to Saturn for suicide. But that didn’t sit right with him, Adam and Barbara said they loved him. That they cared for him, was that all a lie?

Beetlejuice transported himself to Saturn to search for his partners, and when a Sandworm started following him and nudging at his palm, he concluded that Sandy was the one who followed him and consumed the Maitlands. At first he was furious, hair flushed a deep red and yelled at the Sandworm to spit out the couple, if he was there early enough they could be still alive within the Sandworm. Sandy tilted her head to the side like a dog, confused why Beetlejuice was yelling at her.

He continued to berate the worm into telling him where they are, but Sandy only stared with puzzlement.

Beetlejuice cried and begged Sandy to show him where they at least ended up so he could say goodbye on top of their graves, she agreed and took both Beetlejuice and herself back to the attic. She shrunk and dragged herself to the middle of the attic and curled around herself.

Beetlejuice finally understood.

The Maitlands have… died, again.

After some time, if they don’t go to the Netherworld, ghosts usually fade into nothingness. He has seen it a couple times, and all of them writhed and squealed with pain. It was sudden too, you never know when it will happen. Beetlejuice had gotten enthralled with the prospect of being loved for the first time that he forgot about this and he paid the price.

He then let an anguished cry, and laid on top of the floor. He was unable to hold them as they reduced to ash and disappeared into the void. He scratched the floor and roared. The entire house shook, and he left the attic in a flurry of rage and grief. Beetlejuice tore through each room, tearing it asunder and plowing it of all  memory of a happy family within each wall. He grabbed the metal spikes from the roof and stabbed them into a mattress, he tore the oven out of the kitchen wall and threw it out the door. He brought his fist through the table and slit his arms with the knives over and over again. Causing them to bleed over and over again. He smashed Delia’s sculpture next, throwing each piece to the opposite ends of the room. He returned to the attic and smashed Barbara’s pottery and set Adam’s model ablaze.

He blamed them, he blamed himself for falling in love, he blamed their stupidity for not heading to the Netherworld when they had a chance, he blamed the universe. Cursing it. It took away his happiness and he would burn down the world to force people to feel how he felt.

But he couldn’t, it would dishonour their names. It would dishonour his love to them, he won’t hurt anyone. He’ll scare off anyone who comes nearby the grieving demon.

People started coming in troves everyday, and it was fulfilling at first… But without them, it meant nothing. Beetlejuice became defeated, each scream never satisfied him as much anymore. Not without them.

He collected a pile of Adam and Barbara’s clothing and placed them in the middle of the attic floor and he would sleep on it, and he would dream the sweetest dreams. Adam and Barbara cuddling him and making him feel loved. He would dream of everyone, Barbara, Charles, Delia, Adam and Lydia having a great time. He would dream of Christmas parties and softer moments with his partners. Sometimes he dreamt of memories, a kiss there, a fleeting touch, a smell from Barbara’s perfume and Adam’s cologne would linger in the air when he suddenly woke.

He always woke up crying, knowing that he’ll never have them again.

And one day, he wrote a note:

To the Maitlands,

For the past couple of months I haven’t been able to sleep much or if not, not sleeping at all. I mean, I already had problems sleeping but with your disappearance, it got worse. By all means, this does not seem like I am pointing fingers or blaming anyone… Although it is easy to blame someone for something.. I loved and still love you guys. I still do… I mean it, one hundred percent. All those little kisses we shared, stay with me everyday. Any place I want to be, I want you guys here with me. With you guys, my whole undead life found meaning again. My world, my days, my nights, my hopes, my dreams, was there in front of me and I didn’t do anything about it. This place fills me sorrow, and I can’t bear being here without you two.

Thinking back, you had grand ideas and many stories that the world should’ve heard. All the things you’ve told me were fascinating. All those conversations we’ve had will always be in my memories. Even forgotten, they will be there.

Each day it is depressing to know that I’ll never get to see you two ever again. You guys had so many things to do, and I was left with those broken hopes and dreams. I’ll never get to see your happy faces and feel the same happiness you two gave me, this hurts beyond human and even demon comprehension.

You know, all the time I ever smile and laugh, I instantaneously frown and have a huge wave of sadness run over me. The thought of: “why are you happy? You don’t deserve to be happy.” shut me down. Even with the sweaters and photos left behind, it has both given me great relief and immense sadness. Cause it is a constant reminder that you’re not here with me.. Selfish as it is, I just wished I would’ve spent one more day with you. And I would do anything to have that one last day.

I am haunted with each day that passes. Most, if not all, of my dreams always have you in them. I see you, I hear you, I feel you. When I wake, I loathe to get out of bed. Cause I want to be with you, even if it was just a dream.

Countless memories flood my mind each night before I sleep. From the time I harassed you two, and to the time where we three fell in love. I am overcome with joy and sadness when thinking with those memories. And I’m sad I can’t make more with you. I don’t sleep until 3 or even 5 AM because the thought of seeing you in my dreams puts me in great agony and some nights I lay in anticipation for you to come barreling to my room saying that more breathers have entered the house.

I’m sorry that I’m saying all of this now that you’re gone. I’m sorry I think about you every night. I’m sorry for my brash and lewd nature. I’m sorry that I didn’t make enough time for you two. I’m sorry that I didn’t try hard enough. And I know I am apologizing for nothing but it hurts. Everything hurts. Everyday I’m putting on a mask to hide my emotions because I’m afraid.

I will never stop looking for you in this house. I will never stop hearing your booming laughter in these hallowed halls. I will never take down your photos. I will never stop being your friend and lover.

Everyone knew that there was something wrong with all three of us being dead and all… You two knew what was wrong with me, and I to you. We comforted each other at times, You guys were smart. Funny. Talented and beautiful. And undeniably sexy. A couple with hearts of gold.

I love and miss you guys,

BJ

Beetlejuice wrote multiple letters that he left scattered to the winds, and everyday he thought it was all a nightmare and he would wake up to find them on top of him smiling their bright smiles at him. But no, he would wake up to empty air and breathers rummaging around the house. Beetlejuice kept the door to the attic shut and would lock each time a breather would try to pick the lock.

He hoped that they would walk in through a portal from the Netherworld and make him feel better but it never happened. Days passed, weeks, months and eventually a year.

He laid unmoving from the pile of clothes, until a voice called out to the empty house.

“Adam? Barbara? Lawrence? Anyone home? It’s me-“

It was Lydia.

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

At one point during his retelling, Lydia and Beetlejuice went to the roof and sat on the edge just like they used to do. They cried together, comforted each other. Lydia hugged Beetlejuice when he stopped to catch his panicking breath, and returned it to Lydia when she curled into herself. They stayed like that for minutes and finally moved when Lydia stood.

She wiped her eyes, “Beej we have to leave. It’s not healthy for us to stay here,” she looked over to the setting sun. “I rented a place here for a week, it would be nice if I had a friend with me,” Beetlejuice opened his mouth but was cut off by Lydia, “I know, I want to stay here too, grab a picture of them and grab a piece of their clothing and maybe find their perfume and cologne”

“But what if they come back?” Beetlejuice asked her, with desperate hope in his eyes.

“I… wouldn’t bet on it Beej,” she sadly replied, “Here I’ll help you grab some stuff.”

Lydia headed back towards the house with Beetlejuice following. They grabbed one of Adam’s green flannels and one of Barbara’s oversized coats. During her time in this house, she found a way to take a picture of the ghost couple, and Beetlejuice took the family photo and stuffed it within his suit pocket. Barbara’s perfume and Adam’s cologne was stuffed in a closet that was full of their junk, Lydia quickly did a search on her phone. Luckily enough, the companies that made the perfume and cologne still made them.

Their treasures in hand, they headed towards Lydia's car in silence. They both got in and headed towards the hotel.

“Wait, before night falls, I have to show you something.” Lydia quickly made a detour, and reared towards the graveyard.

“Lyds, the graveyard?” He asked incredulously.

“Just wait, I came here once and discovered something. Got that letter with you still?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’ll see.” Lydia smiled at her demon best friend.

They pulled into the parking lot and Lydia frantically left her vehicle, yakking at Beetlejuice to come after her. She has been here before and quickly went down the path. During the ride, Beetlejuice had changed into Adam’s flannel and donned Barbara’s coral coat. It was warm underneath, and he could still smell them.

“M….” Lydia scanned through the multiple rows. “Here! Lawrence come on!”

Beetlejuice slowly trudged down the path, meeting Lydia at two gravestones. Two gravestones, engraved with the Maitland’s names. A little poem alternating between the two headstones:

Warm summer sun,

   Shine kindly here,

Warm southern wind,

    Blow softly here.

Green sod above,

   Lie light, lie light.

Good night, dear heart,

    Good night, good night.

Beetlejuice immediately seized and collapsed to his knees, hugging the two marbled stones.

“I’ll be in the car if you need anything,” Lydia rubbed his shoulder and left Beetlejuice there crying.

“Thank you Lydia.” Beetlejuice looked at her with sad eyes.

Lydia nodded and walked away, her boots digging into the gravel path, the sound retreating as she got further and further away.

Beetlejuice rubbed the gravestones longingly, hoping that wherever they ended up that they might feel his soothing touch. Lydia brought him here to say goodbye and to leave the letter he wrote.

He couldn’t do It right away, but opted to sit there a little while longer. It seemed like ages went by but he knew that Lydia would be in the car and she had to go to bed and eat sometime. He’d hate to leave but he could always teleport here anytime. Beetlejuice bit down on his thumb, biting down hard enough to make it bleed. Knowing a rune that he had learned as a child, smeared his blood on Adam and Barbara’s grave. A triangle and three circles on each point and then a small inverted heart in the middle. He’s going to come here often.

Beetlejuice summoned a bouquet of flowers for each of them.

For Adam:

Rosemary

A Crimson Rose

Purple Hyacinth

Red Carnation

For Barbara:

Pink Carnation

Primrose

Sweet Pea

Forget-me-nots

He placed them and stood up, but before he would forget, he dug a little hole where he stuffed his letter in. They wouldn’t read it, but having it nearby their graves made it feel like that would.

He returned to the car soon after, and let himself in. Lydia had it running and was ready to go when he got in.

“Thanks again,” Beetlejuice said softly.

“You needed closure and you can always come back,” Lydia leaned over her seat and hugged her best friend again. “I’ll miss them everyday.” She sighed. Beetlejuice nodded his head in agreement, it was a small movement but nonetheless it was seen. His hair throughout this entire interaction has never reverted to its usual green, staying on that deep purple and blue. Lydia let go and drove to her hotel.

It will never be the same for Beetlejuice ever again, he loved them and knows he’ll never see them again and will never feel that same love again. Sure, Lydia is his best friend, but nothing would fill that void left in his unbeating heart after today. Lydia reassured him that time heals all wounds and even she missed her dead mom, dad and step-mom but it got easier when she met people like Beetlejuice to make her feel better. He had a little flutter in his chest but paid no mind to it. He wished that he didn’t have to live this cursed world, but having good company made it worth the while.

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

They watched the car drive past the graveyard gates from up above, tears flowing down their faces. They didn’t want to fade away but that’s the next progression of their after life. They initially believed that the Netherworld was definitely the end, but here? The Aether was just as everyone imagined it to be, like the Netherworld, they were forbidden to interact with the realms but they could watch whenever and whom ever they pleased.

This made Adam and Barbara so happy. They loved Beetlejuice and it broke their hearts seeing him mope for months until Lydia stopped by. They wanted to hug them but it was not allowed.

“Thank you Beetlejuice, we love you.” Barbara whispered.

“Lawrence, I’ll never forget you.” Adam wiped away a tear from his face.

[devilrising]

Fallen Draco, Pt. 11

This story is following a prompt set by @mymindsmadness

Summary: AU where Draco is a fallen angel, and the way he gets his wings back is by guiding Harry in defeating Voldemort, but it all goes wrong when Draco starts falling in love with Harry.

Word Count (Part 11): 3,692

Word Count (Total): 35,270

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/torture (non-graphic)

***

17th April, 1998 (continued)

“What on earth do you mean by that?!” I scream before remembering once again that Harry can’t hear me. But Hermione can.

“What? Christ, what’s happened Draco?” She rushes from where she’s sitting under the tree, her notepad and pen forgotten. There’s a wild look in her eyes, like she’s going to go literally mad if I don’t tell her.

Swallowing drily I manage to whisper, “They’re in there, Hermione. They are actually in there, with dozens of guests.”

“Dozens…” Her voice is filled with fear. “Anyone recognisable?”

“Not to Harry,” I say. “Hold on, he’s speaking.”

“They are in the living room too, Draco. Another 30 at least.” Harry’s words cut off for a second, as he presumably looks around from the vent. “I don’t know any faces, but names could be another story.”

I relay that to Hermione, and she hurriedly grabs at the notepad and writes it down, still standing. “Should he progress, or do we want to utilise him here?” I ask, thinking that she will have a clearer head than me. But why should she? She’s his best friend, and I’m… what am I to him?

“Progress as usual, I think. Now we know it’s possible, he can always go back in,” she reasons. Nodding at the logic there, I ponder about how we’re going to instruct Harry. I share the concern aloud, before it hits me like a Bludger. Quickly stealing Hermione’s paper and pulling a quill from my pocket, I scribble the message. Squeezing my eyes shut and praying that this works, I telepathically send him mh memory of writing the words.

“Instructions received, continuing ahead as planned.” Harry’s voice instantly soothes me, and my hammering heart slows a little. He understood.

“He got the message,” I say out loud, happiness clear in my tone.

“Brilliant,” Hermione says on a sigh of relief. She carefully makes her way back to the tree, sliding down the bark and to the ground. Tapping the grass next to her, she beckons me to follow. I do as she says and make myself comfortable. I look at her for a second, wondering about the Golden Trio’s relationship. Harry is in the very centre of this war, the only person who can ultimately defeat the Dark Lord. Weasley and Hermione are off to the side, heroes only because they befriended him when they were eleven years old. They must be constantly worried about his well-being, as well as being concerned for their own. Because they are targets too. Get to either of them, get to Harry. And now I’m in the picture, not that I ever wasn’t. It’s just that now it’s the Dark side trying to get to me. And it’s also Harry keeping me safe. Another blow against both him and I in their minds. Another reason to take him down. It makes me all the more determined to not let any harm come to him.

“Draco?” Something is clutching my shoulder and shaking me, and my head snaps up. As my vision clears I see that it’s Hermione, her face slightly panicked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I stumble. “Just thinking.”

“Whatever about? You looked murderous.”

“That’s… not important,” I reply. She does not need to know how deep my feelings are, regardless of the fact that she already knows that they exist.

“Harry, yeah?”

“Fucking Merlin!” I retort. She makes me want to pull my hair out sometimes at how observant she is. “How on earth could you know that?”

She ignores my cursing, but fixes me with an odd look. “I didn’t, not really. I do know however, that nothing between you two is ever simple.”

“And what is that meant to mean?”

“That for you both, it’s always all or nothing. And you are definitely not feeling nothing.”

“But Harry is…” I mutter beneath my breath. I instantly regret it as her eyes light up. That only happens when she is about to argue her point, and win. I refuse to give her the satisfaction, no matter that I kind of want her to win this one.

“That is where you’re wrong, Draco. And you know that, because I told you so ten minutes ago.” One of her hands threads through her hair, tugging at it in frustration. “Why do you never listen?”

“I do! I take your advice more than I probably should,” I confess.

“Not when it comes to Harry!” She sounds exasperated, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Because it simply can’t be true,” I state, staring into her eyes so she sees my sincerity. “Nothing will ever happen, because it can’t. We are on other sides of this war.”

“You used to be,” she argues. “Not any more.”

“But no one else will know that. I will also be seen as the boy from the other side.”

“But you are not. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise Draco.” She pauses, allowing a fond expression to cross her features. “Besides, Harry’s never cared what others think about his choices.” With that, she sits back down and starts writing again. Sighing, I sit down too and wait for anything else Harry has to say.

***

A couple of very long hours later, and Harry is Apparating back out of the wards and into the cover of the trees. I see him first and leap to my feet. My movement announces his arrival to Hermione, who jumps up as well. We both rush at the man who just infiltrated the Dark Lord and my father’s lair, all but clinging to him. Hermione gets the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, but I stop myself complaining because that means I can rest my arms on the slimmest part of his waist. His skin is hot beneath his shirt, and I desperately want my hands on his bare skin. But I don’t allow myself the temptation, and carefully step back. Hermione lets go a second later, a blush creeping up her face.

“Sorry, I just didn’t know if I’d see you again,” she whispers into his neck.

“Me either,” he confesses. His eyes flicker to me, an unreadable emotion carefully contained inside. My heart clenches, my palms growing sweaty. Harry looks like a god, even with his ruffled hair and his bloodied face. Bloodied face? I scan my eyes over him, trying to find where the red smudge has come from. Fixing them in a shallow cut on his cheek, I walk forward so I’m closer to him again. I reach my hand up and tentatively run my fingers over the cut. Harry visibly winces, his green eyes clouding over in what must be pain, and I hurriedly withdraw it. Harry’s face grows pink, and with his eyes still glossy he looks almost flustered. Ignoring the heat that is quick long pooling in my stomach, I drop my hand off his warm skin and step back again. I force my hands behind my back, grasping them firmly to stop them trying to reach for him again.

Hermione behind me tuts in annoyance, and I think I know why. I hear movement from where she is standing, and then she comes into view behind Harry. Her bushy hair sticks out from her head, obscured by Harry’s own. She moves forward so that she’s extremely close to him, and a trill of jealousy coils in my gut. She’s allowed to be so open with her affections, but if I make mine know he’ll surely reject them. I can’t allow myself to hope otherwise. Hermione turns his head and whispers something into Harry’s ear. His face instantly heats more than I previously thought possible, and he helplessly shakes his head. Hermione isn’t taking no for an answer, and spins him around to face her. She tries to murmur again, and again there’s a shake of a head. I stare at them, trying to figure out what they’re saying. But Hermione is clever, and has covered her mouth so I can’t lip read. This time when Harry moves, it’s a brief shrug of his shoulders. Hermione looks exasperated, but she drops it all the same.

“Tell us about what you heard,” she suggests as she takes out her notebook again and steps back around.

“How did you know I heard something else?” Harry demands with a soft chuckle.

“Yes, news of dozens of people inside the Manor is bad, but not bad enough to put that weight on your shoulders or that look in your eyes.” Hermione shakes her head, annoyed that she still needs to explain in herself in a situation like this.

Stories race through my mind of things my father used to tell me about the Manor as a child. At first, they seem irrelevant. Tales of the House Elves and the wards that keep evil people out. But then a particular one shows up, and I sharpen the memory as much as possible.

It’s night, and eight year old me is sitting on the leather sofa next to my father. Mother is out shopping for presents, as it’s nearly Christmas, leaving us alone in the house. He tells me about special spells that can eavesdrop on specified areas, ones that can capture the scene like a memory in a pensive or a muggle camera. He said that those spells would be incriminating evidence if anyone ever tried to hurt us. Now though, the memory of the conversation is startling and the meaning is very, very obvious.

“No!” I call out, all the authority I can muster put into my voice. It’s a command, not to be argued with. Harry instantly falls silent, Hermione’s pen slowing down as she finishes the note.

“What?” Harry asks, cutting straight to the point and turning curious eyes on me.

“I remembered something. We need to leave,” I say, conviction strong in my tone.

“Ok.” Hermione waves her wand and gathers all of her things, grabbing ahold of Harry and me. Before Harry can get a word out, she has Apparated us back to Grimmauld Place.

The sun is slanting through half-closed blinds, coating the drawing room in an orange glow. It feels almost eerie. Threatening in its accuracy to how we are all feeling.

“What the fuck happened there?!” Harry demanded, throwing his hands up but not stepping further away from Hermione and I.

I reach a hand out to him, placing it carefully on his shoulder. He visibly shudders, and I withdraw the hand. Halfway back to my side though, I’m flooded with confidence, and put it back. “My father told me something when I was about eight,” I begin. “Stories of the Manor and everything in it. About how safe we were there, as no one could touch us.” I pause, looking Harry dead in the eyes. “He spoke of special wards, detection spells. One of those spells is an eavesdropping spell.” I wait for the meaning to sink in, and watch as Harry’s face drains. “It is untraceable, and you would never know if it was activated.”

“You’re saying…” Hermione starts, “that someone could have been listening to us the whole time we were there.” It isn’t a question. She knows she’s right. I nod.

All the information we collected and discussed, just for someone else to hear it. They know what we know. And then the realisation fully hits me. Shit.

“We need to move. Now!” I nearly scream. Harry summons everything we just brought with us and grabs me. Hermione throws a hand over mine and I Apparate us away. We jump four times. The first three are just to get far enough away, but the last one is vital. I’m taking us to Rivington Woods.

***

“Sorry,” I gasp out as I collapse to the ground. Leaves crunch beneath me and a stick digs into my back, but I’m too exhausted to move. I feel a shift in the air next to me, and watch as Harry lays down too. My eyes roam over him, double and then triple checking that he isn’t splinched. Then I turn around and look for Hermione. She is already walking around and setting up wards. She’s had a lot of practise.

“Let me explain,” I manage to say in a raspy whisper. Harry nods and reaches a hand to me as I turn back to face him. “If they heard everything,” I begin, “they would’ve heard Grimmauld be mentioned. That’s also where they took Mother from.” My heart clenches at the mention of my missing mother. We never found her at the Manor, and I can only hope she’s okay. “They know what we know, and can use it against us. They heard Rivington Woods mentioned, but I’m not sure Weasley is actually here, is he?”

Harry shakes his head. “It was part of a plot Hermione had. He’s actually in the Forest of Dean.”

I exhale in relief. “Well, they now also know for a fact that I am with you.” I feel my cheeks hurt. “Not- not with you, per se, just with you-”

“Draco.” Harry’s thumb rubs comfortingly over my hand. “I know what you mean,” he says. His skin is tinged slightly pink.

“When you guys have stopped talking, we still have more notes to write,” Hermione calls from somewhere behind me.

I rush to stand up and nearly fall over again as my vision spots. I throw a hand out to find something to hold onto, and it lands on something firm and warm. Once I have my balance back, I open my eyes and see my hand splayed across Harry’s chest. His head is cocked to the side, a smirk across his lips. I pull away instantly, blushing further. Notes. Right. Something to focus on that isn’t how strongly I’m being pulled towards Harry. Harry goes stiff, his posture shifting so that he’s standing straight. The only thing that gives away his dread is the caved-in shoulders, scrunching inward to protect his chest.

Harry’s mouth moves almost silently as he whispers something. I have no hope of understanding the barely-there whisper, and apparently neither does Hermione.

“Harry, you’ll need to speak up.” Hermione taps her pen impatiently against her notepad.

“Two weeks…” Harry murmurs, slightly louder. “Two weeks.” Again, firmer.

“Two weeks… until what?” Hermione asks, although the lack of shine in Harry’s eyes is enough for me to realise exactly what he is saying.

“Oh no.” Gasping, I sink to my knees on the cold, hard dirt. That’s not nearly enough time to prepare. My world is spinning around me, threatening to collapse in. Not only is my father getting closer to finding me, and no doubt torturing me to death, but also… this.

“Draco?” Harry whispers into my ear, afraid I’ll break. I think I might.

I shake my head and an arm wraps around my neck and waist. The skin is warm and solid, and soon I’m engulfed with comfort. Harry always knows what to do to make me feel better.

Relaxing into the touch, I manage to calm myself down and stand up again. Harry grins at me and I can’t bring myself to move his arms away from my skin.

“Can someone please tell me what just happened?” Hermione asks, clearly not keeping up with the realisation still fresh in my mind, regardless of Harry’s comforting presence.

“Two weeks until my father and his lord make a move.”

Hermione’s mouth drops open, her hand stilling halfway through a word. “What?!”

Harry nods solemnly, squeezes me, and then walks over to her. Air meets the warmth Harry’s skin left on me and goosebumps rise on my neck.

“Technically, it’s two weeks tomorrow. May second.”

“Did you hear any of the plan?” Hermione’s voice is called and disattached, back in work mode.

“No.” Harry shakes his head in annoyance. “I only know that it’s in the evening, in the Department of Mysteries.” Of course, the Unspeakables. It seems like months since I learnt of that idea. I guess no one wanted to change the goal, even knowing that I know it.

“So they’re going ahead with it then,” I say. “This is the plan they were trying to involve me in before I left.” Hermione nods at my little bit of context and jots it down.

Harry moves back to my side, so close our arms are nearly touching. “We need to inform the others,” he declares. “The second is very early May. We were preparing for about the tenth, so plans will need to be sped along.”

“You already have things organised?” I shouldn’t be surprised, not really. It is a war after all. It would be stupid not to be ready, especially when was able to give them some information. Still, I would’ve liked to have been aware.

“Sorry for not telling you Draco, it’s nothing personal.” Harry smiles a small smile at me, but I feel distant and unsure.

Nothing personal. This whole time, I have been growing steadily closer to Harry. Developing feelings I’ve never felt before, and here he goes saying it’s ‘nothing personal’. I take a step away and nod rapidly.

“Of course. Nothing personal, you did what you had to to prepare.”

“Draco?” Harry asks, hearing the coolness I’ve forced into my voice. “Are you alright?”

“Quite alright.” Turning around, I take a step away into the forest.

A hand on my wrist forces me to a halt. It’s too small to be Harry’s, meaning it’s Hermione who is currently preventing me from disappearing. Determined as always, I don’t turn to face her when she speaks.

“Draco, he doesn’t mean it like that.” Her voice is calm, reassuring. Exactly what I need but not what I want to hear. I would rather sink into the feeling of loneliness, at least that’s comforting.

“You know he doesn’t mean it like that.”

“Of course I don’t!” I snap as I whirl around. That seems to have got her attention. “I don’t know anything! Because he never fucking talks to me about anything irrelevant to the war or my ‘condition’,” I argue. And it’s true, I tell myself. The fact that we sit a bit too close to each other for friends, or that we use the disguise of being boyfriends whenever we’re out in public, aren’t important things. They can’t be, because Harry clearly doesn’t feel the way I do.

“Of course he does…” Hermione murmurs.

“Wait what?” I double take.

“Of course he feels the same way, Draco.”

“Did I say that out loud?” Idiot, clearly I did.

Hermione doesn’t move, just looks at me with eyes filled with curiosity.

A stick breaks behind me and I jump. Pivoting around, I’m met with sad, green eyes. Harry.

“You- you weren’t meant to hear that…” I utter.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just steps closer to me and pulls me towards him.

“Oh Draco,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to put you through that.”

I tug myself out of his grasp. “You’re sorry that I like you?! That’s great Harry, just great.” I turn to seek Hermione, but see that she’s already vanished. Apparated off to her boyfriend probably.

“Draco!” Harry shouts after me. “That’s not what I meant at all you prat!”

“Then what the fuck did you mean by that?!” I spit. “How else could I possibly have taken that statement?!”

Harry walks closer and holds my upper arms to my body. “I like you, you absolute prick.” He stares right into my eyes, and I feel like the earth is going to swallow me.

“I like you, despite everything that this world has thrown at us.” Harry waves a hand at us, and I swallow hard. “Despite you being a fallen angel, despite your father and Voldemort trying to kill us, despite our less-than-great history. Draco, how could you ever think otherwise?”

“I don’t know…” I whisper.

Harry is so close to me my brain is melting and I’m no longer thinking straight. My gaze slides down to his lips for a split second before I pull them back to his eyes. They are sincere and filled with longing, and I don’t know how I managed not to realise. I shrug Harry’s hands off me so I can move, and throw myself at him. Our chests collide with a dull thud and I wrap my arms around his neck. Our faces are nearly touching, mine slightly higher than Harry’s. His eyes are even more green this close up, his glasses reflect me in the transparent and fragile lense. Harry shifts his arms so they are around my waist, and pulls me that last fraction closer.

When our lips finally meet, my eyes slide closed and I sigh heavily. We fit perfectly together. I slowly start to respond to his insistent kiss, marveling at how right this feels. How right we feel. Harry is the one that opens his mouth first, but I stop it there. Today is not the time to snog in a forest. He understands doesn’t try again, just allows his hands to rub circles on the small of my back. When we finally break apart, Harry is smiling a silly grin at me and I feel impossibly stupid.

“I’m so sorry that I’m so oblivious,” I say.

“You? Ron told me today that you like me. Right before we left for the Manor, actually.”

“Yeah. Well Hermione told me at the Manor!”

Harry shakes his head. “The fact that Ron, who hasn’t seen you at all while you’ve been here, had to tell me, means I was clearly the more oblivious.”

Sighing, I say, “Well, you are a Gryffindor.”

“And what exactly is that meant to mean?!” Harry asks with mock exasperation.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Just that Gryffindors are known to not be the brightest.” I allow a smirk to cross my face.

“Explain Hermione then, mister I-have-a-response-for-everything.”

“She is merely an exception.”

Harry scowls, and I’m overwhelmed with the desire to kiss it away. Remembering what just happened, I finally give in to something I want, and do just that.

***

A/N: I’m finally back with an update! This has only taken like three months... I will never abandon this, don’t worry, I was just hit with a bout of procrastination and writers block. So sorry for the (extremely) long wait. Love you all Xx

Masterlist — Previous Part — Next Part

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[lordeasriel]

lord asriel’s quick analysis

Or why redemption isn’t always necessary.

Given that some people asked me to finish it and that I want to finish it, here’s my stroke over Lord Asriel’s arc. This is based on a post someone made it on reddit about the lack of redeeming traits on his part and this is my personal take on Asriel, so ok, here we go:

Let me get this out of the way: the thing about Lord Asriel is that he is not a redeemable character; that is not his purpose nor his story. He never seeks redemption, nor he sees his actions as a product of villainy or evil; in fact, Asriel believes he is quite righteous and he is willing to do whatever the fuck it takes to achieve his goals.

We never get a direct understanding of his motives: he does say he fights for freedom, he states his disgust with the Magisterium and the Kingdom of Heaven, and those who surround him believe in his cause and say, constantly, that his side is the right side, and that he fights for freedom and against the tyranny of the Church.

What is contantly overlooked is the fact Lord Asriel doesn’t require a redemption, this isn’t some sort of requirement a character needs every time they screw up. This, well, aversion to Asriel and the need to have him either punished or redeemed is solely based on the fact he killed Roger in cold blood, sort of, to wage his war for freedom. Was that fucked up? Absolutely! Does this means he requires redemption over that? No, and Philip Pullman himself explains why when Mary Malone says:

“I stopped believing there was a power of good and a power of evil that were outside us. And I came to believe that good and evil are names for what people do, not for what they are.” (The Amber Spyglass)

This has a lot to do with the recurring themes of the books, about morals, ethics and the poor use of free will by some, and it personifies almost every character in the books, from Lyra to Iorek. Everyone has committed some sort of bad deed at some point, but that does not label them as evil, and the same rules apply to Asriel. This is a man who’s crossed the very limits of the multiverse to achieve his goals, by being good in looking after the destruction of the Kingdom, and by being bad while killing Roger (plus being a bad father, a bad uncle, a bad lover, but let us remain philosophical for now).

Asriel is relentless, ruthless and sometimes, even cruel, to Lyra, to Marisa, to anyone really. At Jordan, he walks in, puts the fear of God (unironically lol) into almost everyone, including Lyra and the Master, he takes control of the enviroment and sets on to do what he went to Jordan for: to get money for his plot, so he can tear the sky apart and defy the Kingdom of Heaven. Lyra fears him (righteously) and admires his fierceness, she respects strength and brute force, it is the reason why she is so drawn to violent figures or rude characters, being herself quite rude and arrogant because she mirrors her uncle/dad.

He is considered to be a passionate man by almost everyone, and he causes a great impression in everyone he meets, including the reader. He was written as a likable character at first, made from scratch to fit in the role of the aloof, sometimes austere but caring uncle, or the traveler who serves as the inspiration for the hero (Bilbo Baggins, for quite the literal example, or Professor Kirke in Narnia). Sir Philip describes him, in Northern Lights:

“Then Lord Asriel stood up and turned away from the fire. She saw him fully, and marveled at the contrast he made with the plump Butler, the stooped and languid Scholars. Lord Asriel was a tall man with powerful shoulders, a fierce dark face, and eyes that seemed to flash and glitter with savage laughter. It was a face to be dominated by, or to fight: never a face to patronize or pity. All his movements were large and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild animal, and when he appeared in a room like this, he seemed a wild animal held in a cage too small for it. At the moment his expression was distant and preoccupied.”  (page 13, Knopf edition).

He is, at first, compared to other men in Lyra’s life (the scholars, mostly) only to be extravangantly praised for being nothing like those men. Stelmaria, quiet and reserved, beautiful and pacifying, is the ultimate contrast for Asriel; together, they are one, and he is an aristocrat with wild temper, and she is a snow leopard, a predator, but beautiful and wise. These are the representation of Satan, as in Paradise Lost: forsaken and forgotten by history for fighting the Authority, Asriel and Stelmaria are the embodiment of disobedience and they are bound to rebel again because that is their nature. All that’s left to them is a reason and the Magisterium, oh boy, they’ve given them plenty.

Now, think about a man who’s had everything, then this rising power that was the Magisterium, comes and takes everything from him, from his money to his daughter over something, not trivial, but certainly something that didn’t require such harsh method of punishment; considering a lot of his wealth was confiscated and assuming he had to pay a lot of fees and taxes because of the Court Trial, he was very much not the man he was before Mrs. Coulter’s affair with him. He obeys the rules and stays away from Lyra, only to discover her mother is with the Church and that they intend to harm Lyra, even after he played nice. His friends in Oakley Street are trying to protect Lyra, but against the Magisterium, after witnessing how powerful they are, how far gone they are willing to go, things aren’t looking very bright for Asriel. He even says, in Northern Lights:

“They’re stronger than anyone, Asriel! You don’t know-”

“I don’t know? I? No one in the world knows better than I how strong the Church is! But it isn’t strong enough for this. The Dust will change everything, anyway. There’s no stopping it now.” (page 394, Knopf edition).

The Asriel we meet in La Belle Sauvage is younger and a man who’s just been massacred by the Church, as he reminds us of in Northern Lights; he is wounded after all that has happened, almost in a tender way, as if he had been softened by it. But he still is himself; proud, arrogant and scholarly, he risks Lyra’s safety and his own to indulge himself and be with her for a while, to spite the Magisterium and its distasteful influence. Under the moonlight, he loves her so immensely, in such a raw and fiery way, that for a moment Malcolm even thinks Asriel might leave with her, and so did I.

Everything Asriel does, everything that leads to his war in the name of the Republic of Heaven, has to do with Lyra’s birth and how he lost everything because of the injustice the Magisterium imposed on the world; how he had an affair with a woman he loved and how she could easily have gotten a divorce to prevent all of that; how they took his fortune and prestige because he was defiant. The murders, the oppression, his career as a scholar, his life as a whole, and then after the affair, his daughter’s, all was threatened by the Magisterium. It’s hard to say when he decided to fuck up the sky, but I like to think by the time he left Lyra at Jordan, he was already working on his revenge, because when he lost everything, that was his turning point. He doesn’t do any of this because he is a caring, loving person; he does out of hatred and indignation, two powerful tools that fuel his existence for the next twelve years, perhaps even before then, in small dosages. 

There’s constant evidence of his hatred for the Church and their dogmas, especially on chapter 21 in Northern Lights, when he monologues to Lyra about Dust and how the Church allowed such things as Bolvangar to happen, implying that as many others, including scholars, he knew about what was happening. There could be a number of reasons as to why he didn’t interfer, and the most obvious one is that he was in prison, so there wasn’t much he could in his position. A second, deeper reason, is Mrs. Coulter’s involvement with Bolvangar, and by involvement I mean leadership, basically. He was fully aware she was the one responsible for Bolvangar, even enlightening us:

“That’s why they had to hide away in the far North, in darkness and obscurity. And why the Church was glad to have someone like your mother in charge, Who could doubt someone so charming, so well-connected, so sweet and reasonable?” (page 374/375, Knopf edition).

He speaks of her work with contempt and distaste, but also in a tone as someone who once fell for her masquerade before fully understanding who she was and her ultimate goal. Being his former lover, he sees the fact she works with the very Church who ruined him because of her, as disgusting despite their weird relationship dynamic, (which I could write a whole essay on but I’m not, because I already did it in college and that essay took me to a very dark place lol) and he despises her relation to the Church far more than he despises the nature of her work. And, as we see in the Amber Spyglass, despite inviting her to come with him, he is not eager to be in her company because he simply doesn’t trust himself when it comes to her and neither does anyone who knows both of them.

But the main reason he didn’t interfere, it’s because Bolvangar’s action, however crude and in favour of his enemies, was something he could take advantage of and their cruelty simply didn’t concern his own work, even if it was a discovery of his own that allowed such a thing. While they were doing something awful, they were too busy to notice his domination over his own house arrest or his plans in general, giving him the time and space he needed to finish his work.

Cruel and straightforward, Asriel is too practical and indecent to say he cared about the children: he hated what they were doing because the Church was tied to it; La Belle Sauvage!Asriel might have interfered and cared about it (he saved gyptian children from a flood, restored Malcolm’s boat, was gentle and wise in a rough way), but Northern Lights!Asriel was simply far too blindsided by his wrath against the Authority and the Church to give a damn. The only moment we see him hesitate is when he sees Lyra in the North, and for a moment he is taken by the shock of thinking he might have to sacrifice Lyra to kill God and destroy the Church, who was trying to, you know, kill Lyra. An ironic and cruel position to put him in, and he would’ve killed her, make no mistake; he keeps away from her because he simply knows he would’ve sacrificed her, or anyone else, including himself, to destroy God and the Magisterium.

Understanding this wild, carefree and inconsequential man is a crude task. The thing is, redemption is an overused trope and not everyone that does something bad needs it (or wants it for the matter), Asriel being the person who least requires it, because:

He is not a villain. I have seen this a lot and it honestly confuses me. Asriel, if anything, plays the part of the antihero, and even then he does so very loosely. We are constantly reassured by him and by basically every third party in the book (Ruta Skadi and her infatuation, John Parry and his wise comprehension, Baruch and Balthamos and their first-hand experience of the Kingdom’s brutality, amongst others) that Asriel is the “hero” of the war, that he is righteous and the one with the right views. He is not your conventional saviour, in fact, he is human and flawed, self-centered and ambitious, but charismatic and knowledgeable; that blur our senses and the lines and we’re stuck thinking he is either a hero or a villain when Asriel is, in fact, neither.

His ultimate goal is clear, albeit readable only between the lines sometimes. He is a liar, arrogant and wrathful, but once we get to the Subtle Knife, his goal is more clear, at least from Thorold and John Parry’s points of view (Ruta Skadi too, but she is far too unreliable for being too infatuated with Asriel): he wants to kill God and take down the Kingdom of Heaven. He says it’s for freedom and blah-blah-blah, and although I believe he seeks that outcome in the end, the reason he is doing this is much more self-serving and closer to revenge rather than doing what is right. He is a spiteful man, whom has been robbed of his wealth and his life by a religious institution who serves God and does anything in the name of God. Asriel wants to take them down because it satiates his need for vengeance, alongside his scholarly nature, by being a pioneer and an explorer of multiple worlds. It’s an ego booster, something to pat yourself on the back for.

He is unapologetic. He never apologises, or seems regretful over his actions. He isn’t apathetic, but he clearly does not resent his own choices. Killing Roger was a tough decision, but one he was intent on making because it was what he needed to do to achieve his purpose (hence his hesitation towards Lyra; he would’ve killed her if Roger wasn’t there). That was by far the most beautiful and sensible death ever written by Pullman: he doesn’t extend it or makes it purposefully dramatic and that’s because Roger’s death was merely a switch for everything else: Lyra and Asriel’s journey. Sir Philip makes us believe that Lyra’s ultimate goal is to stop her warmongering father, then he dismantles Asriel’s portrayal as the endgame bad guy for things of higher nature and Lyra simply stop blaming him, instead blaming herself, and everything she does from them on, is to spite Asriel by always staying away from him and his Republic.

These three aspects of Lord Asriel’s character core are relevant because they exempt him of a redemption arc. He doesn’t need to be redeemed, he asks for no forgiveness and he knew, from the start, where things were going. Perhaps not on Lyra’s account, but the overall outcome of his war. He never backs down, nor hesitates and Ogunwe claims:

“We’re not going to invade the Kingdom,” he said, “but if the Kingdom invades us, they had better be ready for war, because we are prepared.” (page 210, The Amber Spyglass, Knopf edition).

Despite the Republic’s claims of being builders, not conquerors, Asriel was the commander of a massive force and he was, fully aware, that the Kingdom would not leave them be to mind their business. They wanted that war, he wanted that war, and everything he did was because of it. That is why he only is granted peace, in a sense, in death as they plunge down into the abyss; it was a price worth paying for wrecking Heaven. He never truly dies, but instead is forged into oblivion.

A villain can be redeemed, and so can a purposeless character, but Asriel is neither of these things. He has a clear purpose, and he has done good and bad things in his life, he never apologises for what he’s done and he doesn’t intend to. He mimics great rebels of epic stories, and he embodies all that is truthful and essential to human nature: knowledge, passion, rebellious mind, the apex of free will and the wrath against those who do us wrong. He is neither a saint, nor sinner: he is both, as are every person in those books, and he embraces fully his nature. Once again, as Mary said: he’s done bad things, but he isn’t evil himself. No one truly is.

And this is it, sorry for the essay, I have thing for academic men in linen shirts who want to tear Heaven apart lol  @laciefuyu this is for you hahah 

[deviationdivine]

The Stoic Prince (RK900!Prompt Request)

TLDR: To you he’s a smug pain in the ass but you still fantasize about getting dirty with him at the DPD.

Word Count: 1,912

TW: Language, Suggestive Themes, Smut Fantasy

A/N: Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Why the hell am I attracted to snarky stuck up dick faces?” - anon request! Thanks for participating nonnie! This went somewhere else. 1 in the queue done! Onto the next!

"Why do you even bother talking to it?"

Bitter taste of coffee barely touches tongue. Peering up at the question leaves a tiny smirk across lips, which did a hesitant skim of cup rim. Can the DPD honestly get a better brand to chug out of this dispenser?

“Excuse me?”

Purposely hedging away from your co-worker’s sudden interrogation hardly hides the clear tinge of artifice lacing words. Speaking any further may give away this ploy. Of course you know who they mean. He is the only smug jackass that does a heck of a job digging under skin.

Tall, imposing steel scoping a sea of puny humans to gnaw on, using his steadfast jaw, cut from stone if he were made of clay to be fitted by the gods themselves. Plastic, metal – raw material configured, manipulated into eye catching aesthetics.

Fabricated beauty and despite a brusque imperious affectation streaming out of those cool, pert lips. Often times you fantasize how human, warm they might taste. Not just against your mouth but gliding in a hungry appreciation upon every inch of skin made readily available.

To say you had the hots for Nines is an understatement. To say it can go anywhere is another quandary in your grand scheme of things. Natural enigmas be damned he is a walking puzzle waiting to be stripped of his authoritarian programming and cynical attitude.

Unfortunately those gods decided pompous and hypocrisy should be star qualities. Incessantly rolling eyes at your luck, leaning casually into table, coffee machine obscured by your current position, sank an invigorating quiet into your weary body for a brief moment.

Breaks are never long enough. At least there isn’t a sign of top human asshole of the Detroit Police. Rather not have to put a foot up his ass again. However, let’s get back to the inquiry at hand since it hasn’t left the break room.

“Daydreaming about it? Wow, Y/N.”

Sounds like some others you’ve known in the city. Detroit is just a heaping pile of garbage on a good day. Android fever is still in full swing and not how society originally saw it unfolding.  "Don't call him that." You defend him while not in his presence. Better to keep it that way because no way in hell are you admitting how fast you’d drop clothes and get down with the rigid android on the force.  "Just because he's an android, I mean." The female officer rolls eyes at you. "Uh huh. Sure. Next time you’ll tell me Reed’s going out for drinks with Anderson and Connor.”

Considering androids do not drink she’s a long way off course. You snort.

“Better luck with puppy eyed boy,” the officer jabs, smug. “He doesn’t look like he wants to eat people alive. Or maybe that RK900 just wants to eat you out.”

Nearly spitting coffee all over moves you in a quick step forward, grabbing a napkin out of dispenser to brush splotches of brown liquid off shirt. Eat you out?! Yeah, absolutely!

Perfervid antagonism blinds your gaze resting in a target over fellow officer all consuming in personal embarrassment. Truth is not far from luscious fantasies swirling in nightly subconscious. More than a few dreams about tangling body, flesh and humanity with synthetic, plastic and robotics transforms sleep. It is a burning secret. 

A mystery garden planted between the cages absconding the heart ruminating for something of construct, designed in perfection but never mind false images. Never mind unnatural heavenly auras built around a shell of mechanized man. He is everything you can dream about but never will quite openly acknowledge.

One more step and – "Your heart rate is dangerously high for caffeine consumption."

The calculating voice of the RK900 hovers close, sinking in smooth and curt. A statement more so than concern but appropriately edged with his swift, sharp stride into break room.

Fusing a firm hand atop your shoulder seemingly resonates effectively. Analysis is punctual upon your figure as are the sweeping steel he possesses to invoke fear in opponents. He stares down suspects and useless colleagues alike. However there is a bit more skill in you out of most among these humans. He keeps silent, studying a wide appreciation in your eyes.

Pupil dilation is telling to an android who measures subtlety, language in the human form, moving under its own command. Rarely does he witness a shining example of what is referred to as a poker face in most offenders. Upon you it is quite - delicious.

The spike in vitals draws him. Nostrils flare in your personal radius sampling as a bloodhound on a ferocious hunt. Fluctuations respond exquisitely as you are equally confounding in his state of processing.

Do you honestly believe you will affect him in such a wasteful way without retaliation? The form in which he shadows your trembling inhibitions is opposite of what is desired in potential partners. This android does not care in the slightest for decorum. 

He will pull you into his awaiting grasp, splaying atop his smooth marbled chest, wanton in prurience, undone from the molecules that form soft, fragile flesh. Tasting your essence will act as more than data on a long, skillful tongue. It will bury into the nerves breaking down your barriers in a flood of rapture. 

All it takes is a deliberate push. Buttons unfastening with each poke he prods, bleeding into your skin and he does so intentionally to gain reaction. Steeping within your system liquefies him to the plasma running through veins. 

Just as thirium runs a gamut of power to biocomponents he readily will be the life force keeping your mortal existence afloat. So it will be because he wills it out of a viral need you have unwittingly but most adoringly spread into his frame. 

His lips twitch faint. A tiniest curve unseen by naked eye but he settles them to a hard line. 

Your entire body shivers giving away how good he’s gotten you. Damn it. And he’s looking awfully smug about it all. Somehow he manages to keep his stoic façade nestling in his wide, masculine exterior; handsome is a mere flash in the pan for Nines. 

He is beyond definition. You think he knows it too. Why else does he single you out? Making you literally sweat, taking great pleasure in how you behave and pretending nothing is happening.

What a complete and total jackass! Sometimes you swear he fakes this hard ass persona to look the part. Actually, no he’s built this way. Deviancy does nothing for him!

Collecting yourself is instinct and self preservation kicking in. Nobody in their life will get away with this but he melts your strong core down to a puddle. Limpid steel expunges self control. In front of him you strive to be alert so it's not obvious but there was more warmth underneath his imposing touch than you can stand. 

God, he's too good. Flicking eyes down the length of his body drives a surge in your heart, thundering in desperation to current fantasy riding out awake.

Strewn atop table, legs around his waist; ripping open that damn white jacket, digging fingers against defined pecs visibly bursting at the seams through black material, fluffy camouflage to a toned body. Taking you right then and there, moaning his name, sinking fingers into exposed synthetic skin because you want to lay into him as heavily as he lays into you.

Biting of perfectly white teeth, licking languid, sensual from smooth tongue and pounding your body on hard surface, pain thumping against the plane of your back but you beg him for more. 

Ravenous, unfiltered and insatiably poetic while he completely ravages whatever is left of you, nearly collapsing the chosen surface of your hungry carnality. Eye witnesses neither ceasing nor distracting from the obvious orgasm you will ride on high in the clouds of your mind.

Breath catches in a mystifying glaze sparkling up to his hard narrowed brow. A daylight delusion swept hold at the least private location for you to be horny.  For a minute you fear he knows what went on in your head. A predatory slit of Nines’ eyes tracks each minute expression, fidget you relay. He resembles an albino king cobra, flaring a shroud to engulf you in his beguiling shadow.

 Hammering against ribs betrays you to the point of imagining the entire precinct eavesdropping on the laborious thud. A small inhalation expands his chest one he hardly requires for oxygen but absorbs your arousal. Oh, it’s very obvious. You have a bit of a problem between your legs right now. Fuck.

"Peak performance suggests you not consume more than the recommended dose of caffeine, Detective.”

The android’s voice is deeper, darker than usual. Almost testing, watchful of how your body will respond next. Enough so that a smirk graces the mouth you wish to ascend in prayer to the immediate issue you physically suffer. He will cure such issue predominantly efficient. “Coffee will not help your productivity if you misuse it." Misuse it, huh? Oh, you’re sure nothing will be of misuse here. Preferably his tongue; you screw up your face to hide the lust.  

Why the fuck is he looking like that? Does he realize people will start noticing? Honestly, it’s first time you realize it’s just the two of you in the break room. Guess he scared off your former gossip partner.  "Why do you care what I do anyway?” Seething at his game and the fact you’re turned on at work, you slam a finger into his chest. Stabbing him doesn’t move his perfect posture but it sure does make you ache more.  “It's not as if it's worth your time."

Nines’ head cocks to the side marginally amused by this insolence. He finds it cripplingly fascinating on a good day but why voice such trivialities?

“Perhaps if you behave in a professional capacity, Detective Y/L/N?” Leaning in to brush the words beside ear, purposely expelling artificial breath to lick your skin, the android fuses fingers against your hip.

A slow slide kisses beneath the android’s tempting fingertips allowing the hitch of your natural breath fuel his personal stimulus. Aroused by you will not go without discipline. There is only one kind he imagines to have utmost potency and satisfaction.

“Tell me, Y/N,” Nines switches to informalities, dangerously silken. “Do you wish every advanced piece of technology that wanders into the DPD to fuck you? Or is it because I am faster, stronger and more resilient to your needs?”

Gasping is the last vocalization you will give him. Pushing back from you reserves dignity even if you want him to just snag you hard by the hips and throw you down into the evidence room. Quieter, less traffic right now and it’d be a pretty good way to… He just called himself the best and believes it.

Well, it’s true right? No. Fuck his snide self!

You are trying but still…

“Why the hell am I attracted to snarky, stuck up dick faces?!”

Story of your goddamn life apparently and this one is the snarkiest, smuggest, sexy piece of android you’ve had the discomfort and pleasure to meet.

“Get over yourself, Nines!”

Yelling on the way out of the break room only causes looks and you’re sure without turning around he’s still standing there. Tall as hell and making you weak, oh so weak to his stormy sea and he’s already swallowed you up.

Wait until he devours you.  

Tag List: @elydith  @your-taxidermy

[distressedpanda]

Her Song (Loki x OFC) Part 9

Warnings: Trigger warning for description of pain and injury. I don’t get to in depth in this chapter. Fluffy, fluff! A/N:I don’t really have much to say about this chapter it is kind of a filler chapter to move the characters forward. But it is still important to the story. As always if you wish to be tagged let me know. And I hope you are enjoying my story! Tags: @whosaidididthat​ @thenatallie​

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Loki jerked awake, with a loud gasp and then groaned at the movement, snapping his eyes closed against the assaulting bright light surrounding him. Falling back to the surface he had been lying on, in a slightly upright position. Immediately his senses were captured by the electricity flooding into his body, wrapping his aching body in a blanket of warmth and soothing the suffering, through the contact on his bare arm. 

“Loki?”

He turned his head slowly to the soft sound. He knew it was Iloa, could feel her presence there on his arm before he could see her. The scent of sea salt from a warm ocean spray flooded his nose. But something was off about her voice, like an untuned piano or someone playing the wrong notes to an all too familiar song. He slowly lifted his lids again. Blinking rapidly trying to focus, “Iloa,” he growled out, his mouth dry and sloppy from disuse. He could tell he was in a bed and the offending light reminded him of a sick room. Was he in a hospital?

She smiled, “I am here,” she cooed, softly. Running her fingers gently across his forearm. She had been so scared that she would never see those brilliant green eyes again. Pulling her hand back to her lap, she added, “I am not going anywhere.”

Loki blinked at her, “What happened?” he asked, lifting the opposite arm to rub at his eyes. But as soon as he lifted his arm from the bed, he immediately regretted it. Sucking a sharp breath through his teeth, he scrunched his face up in pain, dropping the offending appendage instantly. 

Iloa stood quickly, lifting her hands to rest gently and soothingly against both of his arms, “Don’t try to move,” she begged, running her hands lightly across his forearms now.

Loki was again struck by how off key her voice was, made worse by the pleading in her tone. But he soon relaxed under her ministrations, settling back into the bed. “Where are we?” he asked, favoring the knowledge of location over information of what happened after he had passed out.

“In a sub-basement of the Avengers Compound, upstate,” she answered softly.

That answer struck him as oddly specific and he suddenly realized that she was keeping her volume low on purpose and he could ignore her abnormal tone no longer. “Iloa,” he whispered, trying to see her through the migraine that was literally forming in his eyes. “What is wrong?”

Iloa inhaled sharply, she couldn’t even be happy about the fact that he had stated her name so openly, twice now. No malice, no animosity, no hostility. As though it was as natural to him as breathing. She could only think, He can’t know yet. Of course she knew he would discern that something was off. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him, he would be disappointed in her. Her own insecurities overwhelming any rational thought.

The truth was her ear drums had ruptured from the explosion in Stark Tower. She could still hear, but the sounds were coming to her damaged ear canals as though through water. She shook her head at him, “Nothing,” she breathed, worried that her voice was betraying her more than she was aware. She took a deep breath, lifting her hands from his arms again. Settling herself back into the brown leather chair she had vacated. “Do you need anything?”

He growled, knowing it would be painful, and it didn’t disappoint as the sound ripped through his chest, setting off electrifying spasms of excruciating pain through the muscles in his back and shoulders. This electricity was not welcome or enjoyed, but he growled his protest at her evasion anyway. 

He could see her head pop back up towards him and she gasped. He still couldn’t quite make out her features but his eyes were adjusting slowly. If only the offending light wasn’t so bright, he would certainly be able to see her better. His chest continued to rumble as he openly growled at her, she stood again replacing her hands on his forearms. “Loki, please,” she begged.

The emotion in his name even though it was still out of tune, quelled the growl. Cutting it off sharply, he huffed which hurt worse than the earlier sound, setting a fire running through his veins which almost matched his agitation. 

He grit his teeth, turning his head from her and closing his eyes. He let her warm and soothe his nerves for only a moment. Her thumbs running slow calming circles across his skin. Then, “Can you do something about the lights?” he hissed through his teeth.

She snapped her hands away from him, instantly leaving him cold and he mourned the loss of contact. He turned his head back to her and watched her form walk across the room. Slowly the lights dimmed to a much more reasonable setting for his aching eyes. He could see her properly now, in the low lighting. She looked exhausted, dark circles permeated the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair falling in messy unkempt waves around her shoulders. Concern wrinkled her forehead and turned the corners of her mouth down in melancholy. Her before smooth features appeared as hard edges now. It did not suit her. She can’t have rested after the incident. He knew she had passed out and began to wonder how long he had been out himself. 

Iloa didn’t seem to be significantly injured. He breathed a sigh of relief though it was much more about her seemingly being free of drastic harm than his own easement. She smiled, small, weary, “Better?” she asked when she returned to his side. Her voice remained low, just above a whisper, yet still ringing incorrectly in his ears.

His eyes danced across her face, there was a healing gash across her cheekbone. A speckled pattern of cuts between her eyebrow and hairline on the same side, healing as well. Casting his eyes lower, he came across bruises and scrapes along the parts of her arms that weren’t covered by her white t-shirt. He couldn’t see her legs at all, covered completely by jeans as they were. He hadn’t protected her from injury completely but she would heal just fine. This fact almost made him smile. 

Almost. 

Her voice, something had injured her despite his efforts. Something he couldn’t see. As he drew his gaze back to those deep cerulean pools, he caught the anxiety in them. She was keeping something from him. “Tell me,” he stated simply.

She turned her gaze from his quickly, bowing her head, long locks of crimson waves spilled forth to obscure her face from his view. He wanted to reach out to her, brush those spirals aside, hold her. But he did none of those things, because he couldn’t. Bound to this bed as he was, she was too far away.

He waited for her to answer, but nothing came from the girl. In the silence, his mind rolled over possible injuries that would contribute to the difference in her tone. Suddenly the thought struck him, Why hasn’t she healed herself? Why hasn’t she healed me? 

She was certainly strong enough in her seiðr to perform both tasks. Though he could plainly see that she hadn’t rested well, if at all, she should still be able to heal herself at the very least. Why then had she not? He knew that until his own injury had healed significantly on it’s own, he would not have the strength to summon his own seiðr.

“Please,” he started to ask again.

“I’m fine,” she blurted without looking up, the tone so harsh and wrong it caused his ears to ache. Like nails on a chalkboard. It was simply awful.

He knew he shouldn’t, but her dismissive words angered him, “Do not lie to me,” he growled out before dissolving into a coughing fit that wracked his aching body with fresh waves of agonizing torment. Her hands were on his chest instantly, only faintly making him realize it was bare between gasps for air and waves of pain. Chest heaving, struggling to breath past the pain, he opened himself to her warmth. She rubbed small circles across his bare skin and slowly the coughs and anguish subsided. 

“Water,” he croaked when he could breathe somewhat normally again. She nodded and moved away from him, again venturing across the room. To a door he hadn’t noticed. She reached to exit the room, suddenly an unexplained and powerful panic arrested his senses. “Don’t,” he pleaded. He had to use all of his willpower not to move, to stop himself from reaching out for her and begging her to stay. It was just as powerful as it had been on the rooftop, if not more. She had to stay with him, she couldn’t leave him. Even in his current state, he had to protect her somehow.   

She turned to him drawing sad concerned eyes to his, “Behind this door is a kitchen. Since there are currently no cups in this room, I have to go in there,” she explained slowly, simply, quietly, as though consoling a child. Oddly enough it was working, luckily her words didn’t feel condescending and her unnatural tone, absent of mockery. “I am not leaving you,” she continued, “I will be right back.”

Instantly the panic was gone. She would come back. She had said so. He tilted his head once at her. “Then you will tell me,” he stated just as softly as she was speaking. 

It wasn’t a question, but she knew it wasn’t a demand either. She turned her face from him, leaving him to stare uncertainly at her profile. All she could think about was how disappointed he would be, she couldn’t heal him after all. How he would surely hate himself for not being able to protect her fully from injury. How he might even hate her as well. With a steely resolve and a shuddering exhale, she nodded her head, then turned finally exiting the room. 

In her absence Loki took in the room. It was a large open space, everything white devoid of color. The door Iloa had exited through was on the right of the bed he was lying on. A small counter with a sink along the wall next to it. Across from the foot of the rather large hospital bed, another door. To his left, the wall was completely covered by glass fronted steel cabinets. Various medicinal supplies, covered every shelf. A metal rolling tray was pushed to one side of the cabinets. Matching white nightstands sat next to each side of the bed as well as an IV stand sitting next to the one on his left, which he belatedly realized was hooked up to his left arm. A clear liquid being pumped into his veins. Other than the brown leather sitting chair Iloa had been in, there were no other adornments to the room. Plain, simple, efficient.

His own state was harder for him to access. A plain white sheet covered his body, from the waist down leaving his chest, shoulders, and arms exposed. He had no other coverings, his clothes had been removed at some point. Angry gashes criss crossed his left bicep. He could feel bandages on his back from the top of his shoulders down to his hips, made more evident by the slight itch that plagued his sides from the tape that secured them to his skin. His left cheek and forehead itched slightly as well, but being unable to see or reach a hand up to inspect it by touch, he was left to assume that there were injuries there as well. 

The door to the kitchen opened, drawing his attention. Iloa came in, foam cup in one hand, a plastic straw in the other. She walked across the room, stabbing the straw through a plastic lid on the top of the cup. He could have chuckled when she bent the straw to his lips holding it for him. He felt like an invalid, although honestly how could he even consider himself anything else right now. He couldn’t even move without excruciating waves of pain shooting through his entire body. Tamping down the unruly embarrassment that threatened to rear its ugly head, he accepted the help she so freely offered. Slowly pulling long draws of the fresh cool liquid, he moaned at the relief that quickly spread across his mouth, tongue and sore throat. 

“Easy,” she chided gently, “You don’t want to get sick. There is nothing in your stomach.”

He pulled away from the cup at that comment, “How long have I been out?” he asked, sounding much more like himself, to his great satisfaction.

“Only a little over 24 hours.” She answered quietly, pulling the cup back to herself holding it between both her hands. Her eyes cast down she chewed on her bottom lip. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering what else she was keeping from him. The statement ringing incorrectly in his ears and not simply because most would have said ‘a day’ or something less specific. This made him wonder if he was learning her tells for lying.

He nodded, “Tell me, please.” He didn’t want to push her, but with every denial the anxious need to help her, protect her, grew and he had to know what had happened to her. He couldn’t help her without first knowing the problem.

She sighed heavily, finally releasing her swollen lip before taking a step back. Her fingers fidgeted absentmindedly against the cup. Her eyes cast downward, not daring to look up at him. If she looked up at him right now, she would never be able to find the words he wanted to hear. 

She stood there continuing to worry her fingers against the cup silently. Loki feared she would not speak, as the silence grew deafening. The panic returned tenfold. He tried to calm his breathing, his hands digging into the sheet that covered his waist, trying desperately to be patient. He had never been good with patience, but the wrinkle of skin between her brow showed that she was thinking, perhaps she didn’t know how to tell him.

Finally after long excruciating minutes, that felt like hours, she broke the silence and Loki could breathe again. “I can’t hear correctly.” It was brutally simple, explaining everything and nothing all at once. She sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping forehead. She began to fold in on herself, hair falling to hide her from view again and Loki regretted asking even though he had been desperate to know. He scrambled for something to say, but she spared him when she spoke up again. 

“I shouldn’t have been able to save us,” she admitted, distraught. “Thor thinks it was the adrenaline. Forced me to be able to use my seiðr even though I couldn’t properly hear myself. I wasn’t thinking either, just reacting. Now that our lives aren’t in immediate danger and I am aware of the damage, I can’t seem to. . .” She struggled to find the words and inhaled shakily. Her fear of his disappointment and anger, strangled her. Trapping the air from her lungs in her throat. She couldn’t breathe, as she fought to draw air into her lungs and push it back out correctly. Her chest rising and falling frantically in her panic. She had been on the receiving end of Loki’s anger several times before. Causing the fear to grow into a living breathing thing in her mind, crushing her from the inside out. They had come too far to take any more steps back.

Loki wanted to comfort her, fearing tears would soon spill from those watery down cast eyes. “Iloa,” he called for her. As she lifted her watery blue gaze to him, a single tear ran down her cheek. He broke, something inside tearing his heart apart. Lifting his hand, he pushed his pain down. He had to touch her, hold her, comfort her. “Come to me, please.”

Iloa jumped to his side. All thoughts about the terrifying creature forming in her mind, being pushed quickly aside. “Loki, stop,” her voice rang in all the wrong ways, in her state of panic. Leaving the cup forgotten on the nightstand, she grabbed his hand, trying to lower his rising arm gently back to the bed. The muscles across his back and shoulder blades, were raw, exposed, seared. The lifting of his arms would only hurt him more. 

But instead of getting his arm back to the bed, he grasped her hand and pulled her to him. She struggled to keep herself from landing on his chest, managing to stay on her feet. He huffed at her, freeing his hand from hers and wrapping his arm around her waist. He tried to pull her again, gritting his teeth as she carefully fought his hold. He no longer had the element of surprise, so her feet remained planted on the floor, even though he had managed to get her closer to the bed. She was leaning precariously over him and he refused to relinquish his hold on her.

“Loki, stop,” she cried, her hips pressed painfully into the side of the bed. Fresh tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “You are going to hurt yourself even worse,” she begged him.

“I don’t care,” he argued harshly.

“I do,” she shot back indignantly. “I can’t heal you. . .” she shouted before immediately cutting herself off at the admission. The tears that had threatened earlier flowed freely, she stood in shook, her eyes wide.

“I don’t care,” he repeated, this time softer, gentler. “You need me. And though I am in pain, I am alive. That is because of you. So no matter how much it might hurt. I will hold you, comfort you. Because I need it as much as you do.”

She almost melted as he spoke, the tension in her body slowly draining away. He was not angry with her. Her heart leapt at the fact that he still wanted her, needed her. Even though she was still terrified of harming him further, her body betrayed the fight her mind put up against his efforts. 

Gently he tightened his arm, grunting at the pain, but refusing to voice it any further. Pulling her closer, he felt her give in and he sighed in relief. Wiping away her tears, she carefully climbed up onto the bed with him. There was plenty of room for her to lie beside him on her side without touching him too much. But as she settled herself, propping her arm beneath her head so he could return his own to his side, he pulled her body again. 

She gasped, as he pulled her flush with his side. “Loki, no,” she protested. But he ignored her, then lifted his hand to the back of her head, forcing it carefully to nestle against his chest. He breathed in an alleviating breath, warmed and soothed by her contact. Her soft hair tickled his chest pleasantly, her small hands laying flat against his side. Honestly, once she was no longer resisting, her small frame pushed firmly against his side, he didn’t feel his pain at all. Whether that was the connection running between them, or his own ability to ignore his injuries he wasn’t sure. But he suspected it was the first.

“Please, let me up,” Iloa sobbed, her body shivering beneath his grasp. She didn’t want to pull away, making him strain his muscles anymore than she had too.

“Hush,” he admonished gently, running his fingers slowly into her curls. “You are not hurting me as you fear. You are helping.”

She shook her head slightly against his chest, “How?” she whimpered. “I can’t heal you until my ears heal on their own. This much contact has to be unbearable.”

He tilted his gaze down to her, she was staring across the room. She was so still, save for the slight tremble from each sob. He was fairly certain that she was trying not to breathe too much, much less move. “Your presence,” he started, then shook his head, “No, your contact,” he corrected and she slowly tilted her head to meet his eyes with her own still watery eyes. “Calms and soothes my affliction. You must know that. You were using it before.” He hoped the explanation would have the same effect on her that she had on him. 

She wrinkled her brow, “But that was different,” she argued in confusion, her hands balling into fists against his side. “I was barely touching you. I was not laying on top of you, threatening to alter the treatment Banner applied to your back.”

He scoffed, he couldn’t stop it. “Your head on my chest is hardly you lying on top of me. Now if we were in the throes of passionate love making, I would understand your argument.” He relished the blush that immediately bloomed across her cheeks at his words. A grin tugged at his lips, as he continued, “But seeing as we are simply lying together in peaceful comfort. I highly doubt you will alter any treatment the good doctor might have provided.”

She ducked her head looking up at him through her lashes, “You don’t have to be so crass,” she mumbled, under her breath.

He chuckled, cut off quickly by his soft groan of pain. He felt her stiffen beneath his arm, “That was not you and you are very aware of that. Relax and just lie with me, don’t overthink it.” He stroked her hair until the tension started to leave her. “You need this and I am eager to provide it for you,” he added in a whisper against the top of her head. He ended the statement by planting a soft kiss on top of her head. 

They stayed that way, in blissful silence, until Loki could feel her breathing become even and shallow. The tension in her muscles melted away. He glanced down at her, knowing she had fallen asleep. The lines across her forehead smoothed, the wrinkles around her eyes disappearing as well. She was so peaceful in sleep. He soaked it all in, the feel of her body against his own. The way her chest rose and fell, grazing her small pert breasts against his side. Her hair wrapped between his fingers as he gently massaged her scalp. He could get used to this.

[kusunogatari]

[ ObiRyū October | Day Thirty: Musical Soulmates ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Hatake Kakashi ] [ Verse: The World’s a Stage ] [ Previous || Next ]

It takes him a while to notice that something isn’t quite...right. And not just because he hears music at odd hours in his head. Everyone does that…it’s part of how people claiming to be soulmates find one another, after all. Whenever music gets stuck in your head out of nowhere? Your ‘other half’ is listening to it. And the same goes in reverse.

He’s always wondered if his supposed match has any interest in his favorite genres. Blues and metal isn’t the most...typical combination. But he considers it fair game given that his head tends to fill with any manner of music. Orchestral, pop, jazz, swing, rock...it’s like they can’t stop flipping through stations, it drives him nuts!

And yet, in a way...he finds it comforting.

...not everyone hears music in the quiet.

So, he endures. Some people actually join message boards telling what they’re listening to, hoping to find a match and figure out who’s on the other end of their musical experience the easy way. But Obito puts off such a method for a while. In truth? The notion scares him. Is he really supposed to be bound to one person for life? That just sounds so...forced. Besides...people change. Sometimes the music you hear switches. And at times, he wonders if his own mental music being so sporadic is the result of his heart not being able to make up its mind.

Sometimes he looks up the music he hears that has lyrics, but he avoids the forums. There’s just something...holding him back. All through high school he dodges the opportunity, still uncertain.

...but then something...odd starts happening. He hears music in pieces. Bits at a time, and it...changes. He scours the net for the lyrics, but comes up empty handed. Several songs in a row - his other half bouncing between them a few days at a time, but otherwise hyper fixating. And either this stuff is way indie, or...it just doesn’t exist. He can’t find it anywhere.

So, he finally takes the plunge...and starts asking on one of the bigger musical match sites. He posts inquiries about the lyrics, but...no one else has heard of them either. A few people pitch in to try and find the obscure references, but...nothing. Eventually they all get bored and leave him with his mystery music.

Sitting in a quiet diner one night, Obito absentmindedly rolls a quarter under a finger, back and forth, back and forth. There’s only one other occupied table: one full of teenagers that his early twenties mind finds obnoxious. He doesn’t have much for a tip tonight, but he’s managed to dig out the change from the bottom of his coat pocket, idling it while he waits for a coffee refill.

And then...he hears it.

Staring forlornly at the coin, it comes to a halt, eyes widening as the speakers in the diner suddenly switch to a tune he knows. One he’s never actually heard before - not with his ears. Only in his mind…!

Turning to stare at one in shock, he listens, hearing the familiar tune. But...he’s looked for months...and nothing! Now it’s on the radio?

...is he losing his mind?

The song plays through, the radio DJ taking over as it fades out.

“And there you have it: the titular track from up-and-coming artist Marshmallow’s first ever record! New to the scene and soon to be climbing the charts, we’ll be playing her new tracks hot and heavy, so prepare your ears! Now, on to the chart topper -”

Focus shifting, Obito pulls out his phone, quickly searching the name. Scrolling past pages about literal marshmallows, he finds what he’s looking for. A new pop artist, huh…? Then...that explains it. He was hearing something no one else had heard...because she was making the music as he heard it…!

...holy shit.

Surely a few other people have had this happen - after all, musical artists are people too, and people have matches. Well...most of them do. Why didn’t he think of that…?

But...that presents him with quite the dilemma. How is he ever supposed to contact her? Surely her social media will be flooded with fans - he’ll be drowned out! And there’s no way he’d ever get into some kind of private message, or a phone call. Is he just...doomed to be unnoticed forever?

...and then he gets an idea. A rather...interesting idea.

If he can hear her make music, then...maybe he’ll just have to make her a song…! He’ll just...put an explanation in the lyrics, and where to find him, and...there! She’ll hear it!

...won’t she?

...he has to try…!

Jogging home, he keeps his phone to his ear, hearing it ring. “Come on, pick up…!”

“Hello?”

“Kakashi! Kakashi, I need your help -”

“Whoa, slow down - you okay?”

“You still know how to play guitar?”

“...uh...yeah? I mean, it’s been a few years, but -”

“Great! Listen, I need you to help me write a song.”

“...didn’t know you were into making music.”

“I’m not...but someone important is! I’m coming over - I’ll explain when I get there!”

“Obito, dude, it’s almost eleven o’clock, I’ve got work in the -”

“It’ll just take a minute!” He cuts off any refusal with a hang up, grinning widely. This is genius…!

Obito doesn’t stop until he reaches Kakashi’s building, making his way up and knocking almost frantically.

A very irritated Kakashi opens the door. “...I’m gonna kill you.”

“Just let me explain -!”

“You’ve got five minutes. And then I’m going to bed. Because some of us have work in the morning, Obito.”

Ignoring his friend’s complaints, Obito makes his way in, trying to catch his breath. “Okay, so: music soulmate thing.”

“...uh huh.”

“I found mine!”

“...that’s great.”

“She’s a songwriter! A new one!”

“...and?”

“And...I don’t think I’ll be able to talk to her because she’s, well...y’know…”

“Cooler than you?” Kakashi offers, folding his arms with a smirk as Obito scowls.

“...you’re an asshole.”

“And you aren’t letting me go to bed on time. So we’re even. Keep going.”

“...I thought maybe, since I could hear her writing a song...if I wrote one, and put all my info in it, she’d know where to find me, and I wouldn’t get lost in the crowds!”

“...that’s a good point. Good luck DMing someone that far out of your league.”

“Hey, she’s my soulmate!”

“...yeah. She’s yours. But soulmates don’t always line up...remember?”

The reminder sobers Obito slightly. “...well yeah, but…”

“...I’ll help you try. Just...don’t get too bummed out if she doesn’t hear it, okay?”

“...she will. I know it…!”

“Whatever you say, buddy. I’ll make you a five minute ditty, just...let me blow the dust off the ol’ six string, okay? Like I said, I haven’t done this for a while.”

Obito, in the meantime, scribbles down what he wants to say. Which Kakashi quickly scraps.

“If you’re gonna make me do this, at least make it rhyme.”

“Rhyme? There’s no time!”

“You literally just did. C’mon. It’s not that hard.”

“Ugh, all right! Uh…” Sitting and thinking for a while, he scribbles something else.

Kakashi picks it up.

“Hello, my name is Obito.

You’re someone that I’d like to know.

I hear your music in my mind.

You’re someone that I’d like to find.

Before your songs were on the air,

I’d hear them daily, everywhere.

Long before the others knew,

I heard the music made by you.

Maybe that means we’re destiny

Us together, you and me.

If you hear this song of mine,

Could you please text me sometime?”

After come his phone digits, and Kakashi looks up to his friend, seeing the anxious look on his face.

“...this sounds like a fourth grader wrote it.”

“I’m in a hurry! And I never said I was good at poetry, okay? I’m desperate…”

“Yeah, well...that much is obvious.” Sighing, Kakashi drag his empty hand down his face. “...tell you what. I’ll work on this when I get home from work tomorrow -”

“But Kakashi -!”

“And that way...I can try to make this dumpster fire sound decent. Right now I’m tired and I’ve got an early morning ahead of me. You can wait another twenty-four hours, Obito.”

The Uchiha huffs a curt sigh. “...fine!”

“And you owe me for this.”

“Owe you?”

“I’m helping you get your soulmate, and it’s not out of the goodness of my heart.”

“And here I thought we were friends…”

“Buy me a beer next time we’re out, and I’ll call it even.”

“All right, fine. Sorry for...barging in…”

“...it’s fine. Now scram. I need to get to bed.”

Leaving the apartment, Obito scuffs his shoe against the carpet dejectedly. Maybe Kakashi is right...maybe this is a stupid idea. But...he has to try…! At least if he tries...he’ll know one way or the other. Heading home, he puts on his favorite blues album and eventually falls asleep.

Being as he’s between jobs, he doesn’t wake to an alarm, staring at his ceiling before throwing an arm over his eyes. He’ll have to wait until Kakashi gets home...and even then, Kakashi has to write the song. And then...all he has to do is hear it. Maybe a few times, just to make sure she hears it. Then maybe…

Not wanting to dwell on it, he gets up and goes through his morning routine: a quick workout, a run, and then breakfast.

...by then it’s ten o’clock, and the hours left are going to kill him.

He tries watching TV. Tries surfing the web. But nothing is enough to fully distract him, and he spends most of the day moping before getting a text from Kakashi that evening.

Think I’ve got it. Get over here so I never have to do this again.

In a flash, he’s out the door. Never has he made it to Kakashi’s so quickly.

“All right, it’s...nothing fancy. And I can’t sing very well, so...brace yourself.” Adjusting his guitar, Kakashi strums a few chords, and then gives Obito’s lyrics a go.

Sitting with rapt attention, Obito nods along, gesturing for a repeat once Kakashi finishes. She needs a chance to write his number down, after all! In his hand, he clutches his mobile, pleading for it to buzz.

Kakashi goes around and around for ten minutes before stopping.

...nothing.

“...maybe she’s asleep,” he offers. “Uh...I can record it real quick, if you want. Put it on your phone so you can listen to it later?”

“...sure.”

Hearing the dejection in his friend’s voice, Kakashi does as promised, moving the file to Obito’s phone. “Give it a try a few times tomorrow. See what happens.”

“Yeah...thanks, Kakashi.”

“...no problem. And hey...good luck.”

Obito manages a flicker of a smile before making his way back home, pace sluggish. Flopping into bed later, he puts in earbuds and listens to the track a few more times...just in case, before doing his best to sleep.

Come morning, he stutters awake as his phone vibrates, nearly falling out of bed as he checks his message.

...it’s Kakashi, asking if he’s heard anything yet.

No, not yet. I’ll text you.

Sighing, Obito reattaches his earbuds, going through his routine while listening. Then a short break...and he listens again.

By mid afternoon, he’s getting awfully sick of Kakashi’s voice. And still...nothing.

Sitting at his table with his head in his hands, his vision blurs before a few tears impact against the surface. He’s running out of ideas for excuses about why he hasn’t heard from her yet. She’s travelling. She’s ill. She’s...busy. Something. It’s not that she can’t hear him...it’s not...it can’t be…

Folding his arms, he burrows his brow against them, sulking self indulgently. He’s always been afraid of this...afraid of being unheard. Of being...alone.

Nearby, his phone vibrates, but he writes it off as Kakashi again. But then, it...keeps vibrating. Someone’s calling…? Maybe he’s finally gotten an interview. Picking the mobile up, he doesn’t recognize the number, swiping and holding it to his ear. “...hello?”

“Hi! Um...is this...Obito?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, um...h-hello. My name is Ryū! I’m...well, you might know me better as...Marshmallow…?”

Stiffening, Obito’s eyes fly wide, unable to answer.

“I’m so sorry I’m getting to you so late...I literally just finished a tour yesterday and I was exhausted and on a plane, and couldn’t call! But as soon as I landed I tried your number! I...I heard your song. But...the voice is different…?”

“T-that, uh...that was my friend! Kakashi. He...plays guitar. I...well, I don’t, heh…”

“Oh! Well that was such a good idea! I never even thought about that...and to think, you’ve been hearing my silly music for months, even before it was ready! I’m so embarrassed…”

“No, no! It’s not silly at all!” Grinning against the phone as it sinks in, Obito replies, “I mean, I can’t write or make music, so...I was impressed! You heard my pitiful attempt, heh…”

“Oh, no! It was good! Perfect - I knew just what was going on, and who you were! Really, it was a genius idea.”

His chest warms, smiling so wide his scars ache.

“But, listen...I’d really like to meet you, if...if that would be okay? I understand if that’s too forward -”

“I’d love to!” Obito blurts, going red as he realizes his manners.

Ryū, however, only laughs...and man, he already loves her laugh… “O-okay! Well...um, do you have an email? It’d be easier to get all the information back and forth that way, right?”

“Yeah, yeah - uh, one sec…” He relays the address, waiting as she jots it down.

“Okay...perfect. I’ll get something figured out! You...do you need some time to arrange your schedule, or…?”

“I’m, uh...I’m actually wide open right now,” he admits a bit sheepishly, itching his neck.

“That’s great! I’ll see if I can get something in the next few days - will that be okay?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Okay…” There’s a small pause, and then she admits softly, “...I already can’t wait to meet you...I’m so excited…!”

“Yeah...me too…”

“I was so scared I’d be someone matchless, you know? I mean...well, I won’t ramble, but...it’s a frightening thought. I’m so relieved…!”

“I know what you mean.”

“...well...is it okay if...if I text you between now and then?”

“I’d...love that, honestly.”

“Okay! If I’m ever annoying, just...tell me to can it,” she laughs.

“I doubt that’ll ever happen.” He doesn’t admit to how lonely he’s been - about how he’d be happy if she just sent him random emojis. Something, anything.

Ryū laughs. “Well...I’ll go work on getting you here. We’ll have to arrange all the details based on where you’re at, but...yeah! Just let me know all the info, and we’ll make it happen.”

“Okay.”

“I guess I’ll...talk to you later?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“All right...bye…!”

“Bye…” Hearing the line click, he lets his arm go slack to his side, suddenly a bit dazed.

...he’s got to text Kakashi.

     ...okay I actually really like this, it's so cute xD This is based on a prompt (one of many lmao) that Meg generated off a site I...can't remember the name of. I've always loved soulmate AUs, and this is my first attempt at one, so...hopefully it's okay! Very cliche, and both Obito and I were rushed coming up with his lyrics, but...at least it worked! It was very clever of him x3      Anywayyy...only one prompt left...I'm kinda sad...but then I remember all my WIPs and I feel better xD But that's it for today's - thanks for reading!

[cheshiresense]

for your SP au if u have time, how about a scene with injured/close to death!ichigo and kisuke losing it big time? idk i just feel like in this universe where even tho they're surrounded by people they know, theres also a sense of them only having each other, and after everything theyve been thru, one of them facing the possibility of losing the other could be rly trauamtizing.

Uhhhh… okay. Wow, alright, let’s see…

This takes place sometime far into the future. Well, not that far but like at least a couple years after the convo with Kaien and Shinji I guess?

Pinglist: @yoshifics @bewarethemandragora @runeofluna @selenedreamwalker@hypnos28 @verticallychallengedintrovert @fandommaniac2401 @lovingempress @cynthia-of-the-wallflowers@pairp @warriorofbooks @charlottedabookworm @lyra689 @sheyrenawyrsabane @sora-the-empress@xadriannax @yumeniai @oceanshimmerspirit-blog @stereden @lirial89 @midnight44442@srs2160 @running1way @midnightkaito

Later, Kisuke would be able to tell you exactly what happened. His mind automatically breaks down an attack blow by blow, every strength and weakness catalogued just in case he would need to counter it in another fight, because that’s just how his brain works, and for once he wishes it wasn’t.

He’ll have nightmares about it for years to come.

One moment, they’re scattered across the skies of Soul Society, either fending off the hoards of Hollows Aizen has released into the heart of Seireitei or confronting Aizen himself, and the next, Kisuke loses track of the traitor for a split second, too many illusions overlapping each other and too many useless bodies in the air who haven’t the first idea how to shake off Aizen’s Shikai but insisted on fighting anyway because Yamamoto ordered all Shinigami Ninth Seat and up into battle.

He feels more than sees what happens next, at the very edge of his peripheral vision. He and Ichigo have split up, both of them still in the same piece of battlefield but no longer covering each other’s backs because they’re too busy trying to simultaneously make sure Aizen doesn’t gut one of their colleagues or friends and launch an attack that’ll actually stick at Aizen himself at the same time. Of everyone here, Ichigo and Kisuke are the only ones who’ve gone toe to toe with Aizen, which was a difficult enough task without throwing in the dozen or so handicaps around them.

One moment, Aizen is smirking, monologuing, boasting about everything Kisuke’s long since learned to tune out. The next, the Fifth Seat from the Ninth Division rushes him like an idiot, and as if on cue, half the other Shinigami also surge forward as if they think Aizen has left any openings for them to get a hit in. It distracts everyone there, and Kisuke mentally curses when more than one person obscures his line of sight. He shifts, steps to the side, trying to keep all his senses honed on Aizen, but a breath and a blink later, the man has disappeared, and Kisuke is turning before he’s even consciously aware of doing it, his gaze cutting through the throng of Shinigami around him, searching frantically for-

Aizen doesn’t attack Ichigo. Of course he doesn’t. But Fujiwara Asuka is there, and to her credit, whatever illusion Aizen weaves around her doesn’t make her hesitate from bringing her Zanpakutou up to block a strike Kisuke can’t see, nor does it stop her from following through, just as Ichigo taught her. She remains on the defensive, wary of attacking and hurting a comrade, but she doesn’t stay in one place, deflecting whatever sword she sees and then throwing herself to one side, obviously trying to get clear.

It’s just not enough, because she throws herself to the left, and Aizen materializes there to meet her, Kyoka Suigetsu thrusting forward and-

Kisuke knows what will happen before it even happens. Somehow, the sound of a Kidou spell eating through flesh echoes loudly even with people shouting all around him and the shrieks of Hollows in the distance.

These are the things Kisuke notices in a single snapshot of time: Fujiwara’s wide, distraught eyes; the smug, satisfied smile on Aizen’s face like he expected nothing less; and the shock-tinted pain splashed across Ichigo’s features as he shoves Fujiwara to the side with one hand and deflects Kyouka Suigetsu with Zangetsu, only for Aizen to bring his other hand around, the light of a Raikouhou already glowing in his palm before he releases it straight into Ichigo’s abdomen, a sizzling ball of yellow lightning that slams through one side and out the other and leaves the stink of burning flesh behind.

Ichigo staggers, chokes, wobbles in the air like someone’s cute first attempt at Shunpo, and for a long frozen second, Kisuke tries to draw breath and can’t seem to find the lungs for it.

Then Fujiwara screams Ichigo’s name, and it’s as if everything fast-forwards again, flooding the area with noise and colour all at once.

Kisuke covers the distance between them in one desperate flash-step. The incomplete Espada that gets in his way is bisected right through the middle, Benihime singing through the air like a cacophony of screaming symbols, and the nameless Arrancar doesn’t even slow Kisuke down. He barrels into Ichigo, catching his lover just as he begins to fall. He barely notices Kyouraku covering his retreat, appearing a half-beat behind him, dual swords swinging at Aizen to force him back, his eyes a hard slate grey as he stares down the traitorous would-be overlord.

Instead, Kisuke’s already trying to calculate the damage before they’ve even reached the ground - front torn open, shattered ribs, not as much blood as there is charred flesh, but Kisuke can see his insides anyway and it’s a mess of hemmorhaging viscera.

He lands on a rooftop, out of the way of any immediate enemy fire, and sets Ichigo down as gently as he can. Even then, Ichigo convulses and then coughs, spilling slick crimson over his bottom lip, and the spasms that wrack him shifts his broken ribs in ways that can’t be good for his continued survival.

“Ichigo, it’s going to be alright, just try to hold still-”

Ichigo makes a rough sound that’s half-laugh, half-splutter of pain, and then he coughs again, unending and terrible, and Kisuke can see the way blood is bubbling up and around the hand Ichigo’s instinctively braced against his front.

Fuck. Fuck.

Kisuke is usually calmer than this. He prides himself on remaining calm at all times, no matter how dire the situation. But right now, as he pins Ichigo down with one hand to Ichigo’s shoulder to prevent him from doing more harm to himself while his other flickers green in an attempt to start healing the worst of the damage, he can’t seem to stop the way either of them are shaking. There’s a funny roaring noise in his ears, and every time he blinks, all he can see is Ichigo lying too still, Ichigo’s face twisted up in agony, Ichigo dead and gone and leaving him behind, and he can’t-

A hand appears in his line of sight, and he’s not even holding his Zanpakutou anymore, having dropped it beside him the moment he landed, but Benihime’s still unsealed, and her signature reiatsu snaps out like the fangs of a beast and nearly takes the limb off, hand and arm and all. Whoever it belongs to swears and snatches it back just in the nick of time. Kisuke doesn’t even look up, too busy staunching blood flow and holding the ribcage together and making sure nothing slices into a lung and-

Fuck. Fuck. There’s just so much damage, and at the end of the day, Kisuke’s no master healer-

“Urahara-taichou, you will get a hold of yourself.” A female voice calls, not quite raised but sharp enough to cut through the haze of terror clouding his mind. Coupled with the hand that suddenly finds his, slippery with more blood but with enough coordination to squeeze down hard and anchor him back to the present, Kisuke suck in a breath, then another, then another, until he’s almost dizzy with it.

He looks at Ichigo first, and while his face is white and creased with pain, he meets Kisuke’s gaze steadily enough, and it’s enough for Kisuke to at least shove aside the panic and think.

He looks up next, right into the looming figure of Unohana, waiting for him to shuffle aside so she can tend to Ichigo. She’s already casting a critical eye over Ichigo’s injuries, and Kisuke should, he should move over right now because on a regular day, if Kisuke could have his pick of healers, Unohana would be at the top of the list. There is literally no one better for the job, and he should be thanking the Soul King that she was even nearby enough for someone to fetch her here so quickly.

But even just the thought of passing Ichigo’s wellbeing to anyone makes him want to lash out.

Benihime, Kisuke thinks for one wild moment. Benihime could probably fix him. Even if it means a patchwork of scars inside and out by the end-

She’s never had to restructure so many broken pieces of bone before though, never had to work with half the internal organs fried and nerve endings destroyed by such a close-range, point-blank electric explosion. What if she can’t-

Benihime stirs at the back of his mind, all affronted pride and snarling wrath with a seething sort of fear underneath. And yet-

He looks at Ichigo. Ichigo, eyes at half-mast and dazed now, Ichigo who is depending on him to make the best choice for him. And-

And that’s enough. Barely, but enough.

He rounds on Unohana again, and if he looks a little manic and more than a little mad, no one calls him out on it.

“If he dies under your care,” He bites out in a voice even he almost doesn’t recognize, soft and flat and no less vicious for either. “The Fourth Division will require a new captain by the end of the day.”

There are scandalized gasps from more than one person, and Yoruichi hisses a warning, “Kisuke!”

Only Unohana remains entirely unperturbed, looking back calmly even as she inclines her head in a nod. “I understand.”

Kisuke watches her for a moment longer, weighing her answer, then he turns back to Ichigo. The stasis spell he resorted to earlier begins fading as he lets it go, and he takes those few precious seconds to reach up to cup Ichigo’s face in his hands instead, bending low until the brim of his hat brushes Ichigo’s forehead. “Ichigo, you listen to me.”

Eyelashes flutter like it’s a struggle for Ichigo to keep them open, but he opens them anyway, and even though it takes a few blinks, his eyes are clear and focused when they look at Kisuke, and Kisuke holds that gaze.

“You will live. Do you know why?” His fingers curl into Ichigo’s hair, probably gripping harder than he should, digging bruises Ichigo can’t afford into his skin, but he needs this, needs his promise, needs his word. “Because if you die, you know perfectly well I will follow you and I will find you, no matter how many reincarnation cycles I’ll have to tear apart, even if that means razing the Soul King and his whole palace to the ground. So you will live because I will set the universe on fire if I lose you, and you have too much of a saviour complex to let that happen.”

There’s a hush all around him, the kind that comes from a stunned, maybe even appalled, sort of disbelief.

Kisuke ignores them. None of them matter right now.

(And if they don’t believe him, don’t believe he’s capable of it or don’t believe he really would do it, then the joke’s on them.)

All his attention remains on Ichigo, who blinks at him once, twice, and then even manages a hoarse chuckle as a bloodstained hand comes up to tangle in Kisuke’s own hair, as possessive as Kisuke at his worst and not at all ashamed to show it.

(Yoruichi knows what people say about Kisuke, both within and outside of the Onmitsukidou, with admiration or with contempt. But Kisuke’s problem has never been an inability to love. His problem has always been that he loves very, very few, and of those he does love, he loves with a world-burning passion that halts for no one and nothing and consumes everything in its path if allowed to run its course.

It makes her wonder, sometimes, whether Shiba Ichigo is very brave or just very oblivious.

Or maybe he’s like Kisuke, loving with a ferocity that’s equally devastating and unstoppable, and isn’t that a terrifying thought?)

Ichigo swallows, and his reiatsu surges with the solid resolve shining in his eyes, not even slightly dimmed, even now. Or perhaps especially now.

“You’re such a drama queen, Kisuke,” Ichigo rasps out, but his grin is all teeth, stained with blood but bold and bright and brilliant. “Go kick his ass. I’ll be right behind you.”

Kisuke gives himself another second, curled over Ichigo like he could protect him this way, clutching at him like he’s Kisuke’s last lifeline.

(He is. He has been for so long now.)

Then he exhales and lets go. He presses a kiss to Ichigo’s temple and then eases back and clambers to his feet, retrieving Benihime on his way up. “I’ll buy you time. Catch up when you can.”

Ichigo nods, and Kisuke steps away, finally letting Unohana take his place. He starts walking, and the Shinigami in his way automatically part for him. There’s Kaien, whom Kisuke vaguely recalls as the one who tried to get his attention and almost paid for it with his hand.

Kisuke might apologize later.

Then there’s Yoruichi with Suì-Fēng at her side, Rose and Love look like they’ve just arrived, and Matsumoto stands a few feet away, her arm around Fujiwara’s shoulders. Hachigen is farthest away, hands pressed together and a yellow barrier erected around them. A handful of battered-looking seated officers Kisuke never bothered remembering the names of complete the ensemble, and up above, Kyouraku and Lisa are keeping Aizen at sword-point.

Or at least Aizen is allowing them to keep him at sword-point. It’s about time Kisuke changes that.

He strides forward. Three feet and he’s shrugged out of his captain’s haori. Five feet and he’s dropped it behind him. Seven feet and his hat follows. He’s in full Shinigami garb today, all black uniform and flat sandals meant for fast and easy movement.

“Open it,” He orders in placid tones as he approaches the barrier, and Hachigen wastes no time releasing one wall of the barrier.

The moment Kisuke steps out and looks up, Aizen glances down and smiles like he’s been waiting for this.

“Urahara Kisuke,” He calls out with his trademark mockery lilting each syllable. “You should keep a closer eye on your-”

Kisuke disappears from the ground and reappears behind Aizen, Benihime angled for the man’s heart. Aizen dodges, but he also has to stop talking, and he doesn’t see the glint of silver in Kisuke’s other hand before the dagger sinks to the hilt in the soft flesh just above Aizen’s hip.

“Hadou #11,” Kisuke intones as Aizen’s smile thins. “Tsuzuri Raiden.”

An electric current sparks and crackles down the hilt just as Aizen wrenches himself off the blade and Shunpos away to safety.

He’s still smiling when Kisuke looks over. The injury is already healing with the power of the Hogyoku even as blood drips from the dagger in Kisuke’s hand, and yet something uneasy lurks in the tightness around his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting Kisuke to attack him so ruthlessly.

Kisuke hasn’t the faintest idea why. Everybody knows which military organization groomed him after all.

Ah well. He’ll learn.

Kisuke tosses the blade aside, then twists his fingers together, activating the seal he planted underneath the Tsuzuri Raiden just as he recites, “Bakudou #61, Rikujoukourou,” and six beams of light bursts from the newly healed wound in Aizen’s side, enveloping him in a brief burst of yellow before settling evenly around his midsection and paralyzing him to the spot.

Aizen looks momentarily surprised before his usual confidence slides back into place. “Do you think such a simple Bakudou can capture me?”

Kisuke huffs out a breath that’s barely a shadow of his usual laugh. “Capture you? I don’t want to capture you, Aizen-san.”

He brings Benihime up with a deliberate sort of careless grace, and this time, for the first time in this time, when he looks at Aizen Sousuke, the Shinigami is no longer smiling. Maybe he finally sees the rage in Kisuke’s eyes, pulsing with every breath he takes and every beat of his heart.

“I just need you to stay still for a bit,” Kisuke explains lightly, and behind him, her reiatsu jolting with an abrupt sort of urgency, he can hear Yoruichi yell for Kyouraku and Lisa to get back, right now.

“Bankai,” Kisuke commands, and distantly he hears the triumphant laughter of his Benihime’s bloodlust. She laughs, and he smiles. “Kannonbiraki Benihime Aratame.”

[nyewclear]

doin’ some dialogue practices for creative writing class! i had to write dialogue based off of images n stuff :^)

. one . > picture > characters: max | teeny

The clouds swirled overhead, forming obscure and vague shapes that somehow Teeny managed to pick things out of.

“Look!” she crowed, pointing her finger at a nondescript blob of clouds that looked more like a lump to Max than anything. “Issa turtle.” Max wrinkled his nose as he squinted up at the clouds.

“It does not look like a turtle,” he said flatly, putting a hand up to his face to shield his eyes from the sun.

Teeny snorted, turning on her side to flick Max on the cheek. The freckles dotted across her nose had gotten darker from all the time she’d spent in the sun lately. “You’re jus’ uncreative! What does it look like to you?”

The corners of Max’s mouth turned down. It literally looked like nothing. It was a smear of white across the sky. “Um…” he started, feeling Teeny’s big eyes stare at him from the side. “I don’t know? Maybe a…” He peered at the sky a little more, trying to see something. The clouds writhed in the sky above them. “A g… ghost?”

Teeny snorted again, louder this time, and it dissolved into laughter as she flopped back onto her back. Max made a face, trying to keep from laughing himself. “You suck at this, Maxie,” she teased lightly before staring off into the sky for another long moment.

It was quiet when Max sat up after a minute or so. He could feel the grass stains seeping into the backs of his pant legs. There was a rumble in the distance.

“It’s planting season, isn’t it?” he asked idly, plucking grass from the ground and twisting it between his fingers. He looked back to see Teeny fold her arms behind her head. Her eyes were closed, inky black lashes fanned across her cheeks.

“Sure is, cuz,” she replied. “Daddy’s probably runnin’ the tractor over the hill.”

“Soybeans this year?” Teeny opened one eye to gaze at him.

“Nope! Corn this time. We did soybeans last year.” There was a silence. “Remember when you ran through that soybean field by the pig pen and stepped on the hornet’s nest?”

Max grimaced. “You laughed at me for, like, two hours. That hurt so bad. I couldn’t walk for a week.” Teeny grinned at him full force and it was almost blinding.

“You city slickers know nothin’ ‘bout the stuff that creeps around in those fields. You’re lucky you didn’t get bit by a cobra or somethin’.” Max gaped at her.

“There aren’t any cobras in the middle of Ohio, TT.”

There was a mischievous glint in Teeny’s eyes. “You don’t know that.”

. two . > picture > characters: boomer | oliver

The office desk shook violently when a pair of hands slammed down onto it, making Boomer’s pen skid to the side of the form he was filling out. Ophelia was going to kill him. She was always so adamant about having all the museum’s human resources paperwork filled out so very neatly. His brow crumpled with annoyance, looking up to probably frown deeply at whoever had made him do this, only to see a flushed faced Oliver looking down at him.

“Is it true?” was all he said, his voice stretched thin and layered with something that sounded like anger. Disappointment? Betrayal? Boomer couldn’t tell. He set down his pen, carefully, quietly.

“Is… is what true?” Oliver leaned back, green eyes ablaze. They looked watery.

“About you,” he bit out, forcing the words out of his mouth like they were foul.

Boomer cast him a bemused look. “About me?” The fact that Boomer had simply repeated Oliver seemed to bother him more. He crossed his arms stiffly across his chest.

“Yes. About you. And Valentina.”

Oh.

Boomer didn’t know how to answer this, his mouth working uselessly. He’d like to say that he’d forgotten about Oliver and Valentina and their very, very complicated history, and he’d like to say that he had thought about that before he’d kissed Valentina over the summer (he’d kissed her many, many times. But to be fair, she always kissed him first), and he’d like to say that he’d felt bad-- guilty even-- throughout all of this, but he didn’t. He really didn’t.

“I thought you and Ross were together,” he said lamely, biting his lip.

“We are,” Oliver snapped, exasperated. “But you? And Lenn-- Valentina? Are you kidding me? Are you f… are you serious?”

“You… you guys broke up in freshman year.” Oliver smacked the table again. The tin of pens on the corner of the table rattled.

“That doesn’t matter!” he retorted, even though it mattered a lot. He’d started dating Ross three months after Valentina broke up with him. It shouldn’t matter anymore. “You know how much she meant to me. You were there when things ended.”

“Oliver, just because I’m your roommate doesn’t mean that I--”

“You were,” Oliver interrupted suddenly, voice flat and brimming with something terrifying. Boomer had the urge to stand up. It was unnerving to be looked down on by Oliver.

“... What?” It came out as almost a whisper.

“You heard me.”

A hot flush came rising up Boomer’s neck and flooded into his cheeks. He sputtered, “B… but-- You already submitted your roommate request. We’ve been roommates for two years, you can’t just--”

“I already did.” Oliver’s voice wavered, and Boomer realized that his friend’s eyes had brimmed with tears. They threatened to spill as Oliver reached into his back pocket and thwacked a folded piece of paper down onto the table. “I apparently can’t trust you to not stab me in the back, so I told housing I’m living off campus.”

“Oliver--” Boomer’s eyes flicked to the paper. It was folded so sloppily that he could see the bold heading of the page peeking through one of the flaps. Notice of resignation, it read. All the breath was abruptly sucked from Boomer’s lungs. Oliver turned on his heel, began to walk towards the door.

“Don’t you ever talk to me again, Boomer,” Oliver went on over his shoulder, his voice shaking so badly that it would be impossible to believe that he wasn’t crying. Boomer watched Oliver’s back, watched him reach up and viciously wipe tears from his cheeks. “I hope you and Lenny last longer than she did with me.”

He was out the door in a second, his footsteps only a faint echo down the hall. Boomer wanted to call out to him, wanted to call him back, but he couldn’t find the words.

. three . > picture > characters: rosiane | james There was a loud crash from the living room, one that sounded like shattered glass and toppled chairs. The sound reverberated throughout the house, traveling up the stairs to Rosiane’s bedroom. Her pencil halted in the middle of her sentence as she looked up from her homework. A momentary silence passed and it made Rosiane uneasy, so she pushed back from her desk and clicked off her lamp. 

“James?” she called, shoving her feet into her slippers as she left her room and began to pad down the stairs. “Are you okay?” There was no response. She opened her mouth to say her brother’s name again, turning the corner that led from the hallway to the mouth of the living room to see the disaster in there.

“James??” Rosiane shrilled, rushing into the living room and to her brother. He was sitting in what had been the rounded coffee table, the glass surface all fragmented into a thousand pieces and the wooden base splintered under his weight. He was sitting there with a stunned sort of stupefied look on his face, bloodied scratches from the glass on his bare arms. He turned to look at her, big green eyes overflowing with tears.

“Rosie… Rosie, I broke the table,” he sniffled, the words coming out slow. Rosiane let out a sob mixed with a laugh, trying to navigate her way to him without getting glass stuck in her slippers.

“Oh, James, what on earth did you do?” There was another moment of James simply just sitting there looking lost, tears still running down his ruddy cheeks.

“I was trying to use my quirk,” he answered, looking down at his hands, his palms up and open on his thighs. A crushing sympathy tore through Rosiane’s chest, and she carefully lowered herself down next to James, glass crunching under her feet.

“Jameski…”James curled his fingers tightly into his palms, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so. More tears spilled down his face. “I wanna be… I wanna be like you, Rosie,” he mumbled, his chin quivering. His dark hair fell over his eyes and Rosiane reached out to tuck some behind his ear. “I tried to do it like you told me, to concentrate on the object, to… to reach out to it, and-- and it would...” He sighed heavily, shakily, shoulders hunching up to his ears.

“What were you trying to move?” Rosiane asked softly, ungracefully plonking her butt to the floor to release the strain on her legs. Glass painfully poked into her pajama pants and she met this fact with a wince. James curled into her like he was trying to hide.

“The picture frame by the TV.” Rosiane looked over at the television across from them, knowing exactly the picture James was talking about. It was a photo that her dad had taken the day they’d moved to their new house in Musutafu after leaving Kensington. James was just a baby, held in her mother’s arms, and Rosiane had been a skinny girl of nine. Her two front teeth had been missing.

The picture hadn’t moved from the spot that it had always been, perched on the TV stand like it had been for the past seven years. Rosiane assumed that James had climbed onto the coffee table for a better angle and it had given out on him.

“Jameski, you know these things take time,” she murmured, rubbing her hand up and down her brother’s back gingerly. She thought that she could feel glass in the back of his shirt. Her brother was beginning to cry into her shirt, big, heaving sobs that soaked the fabric through in moments.

“R-Rosie, I c-can’t do it,” he said through his tears, hands gripping her shirt in fistfuls. “I can’t, it’s s-so hard.”

“Shh… don’t rush it. It’s okay, Jameski, it’s gonna be fine.” A minute stretched into what felt like an eternity, the only noises being the clock ticking away on the wall and James’ blubbering into her shirt. It took a long while for James to calm down and stop crying, a while until James peeled his face away from Rosiane’s shirt and instead pressed his wet cheek to her chest like he was trying to hear her heartbeat.

“My q-quirk’s weak, isn’t it,” he hiccupped quietly. Rosiane gasped without meaning to, her eyebrows knitting together.“Oh, my God, no, it’s not! I never want to hear you say that again.” She paused before continuing, “My quirk was slow in manifesting too, did you know that?” James peered up at her with his puffy eyes, her shirt crumpling under his cheek. “Yup. I was so frustrated with it that I gave up on trying to summon golems for almost an entire year. It was like my quirk hadn’t even manifested at all.

“But I had to be patient. Not only with my quirk, but with myself. It’s exhausting to be angry at yourself about your quirk and it not being insanely strong right away. I had to learn to take my time, to pace myself, and not push myself too much before I started to see any real progress at all.” She smiled a little down at James, a long, straight lock of hair falling down her shoulder. “And you know what? I remember my first tiny little golem-- one made of air. I’d summoned it while sitting at the kitchen table back in Kensington and it was incredible. Definitely worth waiting for. Definitely worth trying for.” She gave James a little shake, her arm tucked firmly around his back. “So don’t you ever say your quirk is weak. I know you’re gonna be so frickin’ strong someday, Jameski. You’re gonna be stronger than me. It’s gonna be awesome.”

“You think so?” James squeaked. Rosiane smiled big this time, using her thumb to brush the nearly-dried tears from James’ cheeks.

“I know so.”

[starsandsupernovae]

Terrible Ideas Chapter Three

BlackHill

It’s here finally!!! It took forever, I’m sorry about that to anyone who was waiting. Thank you so so much to @acastleintheair who read and edited and also is an amazing person who i would die for. And if anyone wants to be tagged in future chapters please just comment or send an ask!

Until now Natasha hadn’t realized how little human contact she had been accustomed to. Not meeting people or talking to them, she did that most days, but actual human touch-that, she realized had been rare. Perhaps she would find someone willing and able to spar with her but even that was hard to find, those who were able to fight her were those who tended to keep busy putting their skills to use.  Natasha wasn’t exactly a touchy-feely person as her few friends could attest. It had never bothered her before.

But now, with Maria staying over most nights, she was aware of how much they touched, from the casual brush of their hands while they prepared dinner to waking up with Maria’s arms around her, holding her tight, something that from anyone else would have woken her as soon as she was touched and probably ended with the other pinned to the floor. It was almost surprisingly nice, and she had gotten used to it easily. Which is why now, when Maria was needed overnight, the silence in her apartment sounded strange, it felt too empty.

“It’s not like that.” she told Liho who was curled up on her lap, perking up for a moment at her voice, staring at her judgmentally.

“No, really. I’m just used to having another person around. I don’t miss her. I literally saw her this morning.”

Liho continued to stare, unimpressed.

“No one misses a person who’s just a friend who’s gone for one night when they don’t even live here.” Natasha continued.

Liho managed to convey an utter lack of belief combined with a complete lack of interest in a single noise.

“Yeah, okay, you useless feline.” Natasha dropped her to the floor where she stalked off, tail in the air in search of something more interesting.

Because she knew the truth was that she did miss Maria’s presence, no matter how much she tried to convince Liho and herself that she didn’t. She got up, intending to go to sleep, telling herself it had nothing to do with the fact that in the morning she’d see Maria again providing that one of them would be in the wrong place which the two of them seemed to be doing increasingly these days.

Natasha knew she was only around Maria’s office because she wanted to see her, and she wondered what brought Maria over to Natasha’s side of the building so often. Whatever it was she was thankful for it.

She prepared for bed as any other night. But something was different. Missing. She lay down staring blindly at the ceiling, the cracks of light floating in between the curtains hardly enough to illuminate basic shapes, the moonlight obscured by heavy clouds, a dreary drizzle pattering at the window pane. She focused on it awhile, tried to let it flood her mind instead of letting it be the background noise to the thoughts she couldn’t force away.

Nights like this weren’t uncommon. Nights where sleep wouldn’t take her away and she had to lie alone with herself and all she had done, all she had become. It was a failure of sorts, a weakness to regret the past instead of planning for the future. But no matter how hard she tried, the past didn’t leave, and she couldn’t leave it. On nights like this, where the noise of the rain turned to Tchaikovsky in her mind, when the walls became mirrored, the room bright, the floor polished wood, when she could still hear the Madames in her mind teaching them to be beautiful, graceful and lethal, on these nights, the past came to her.

These nights had grown less frequent recently, and Natasha knew why, the warmth of Maria’s arms around her counteracted the cold of the unheated halls, her light breathing drowned out the voices of the Madames, her presence scared the ghosts away. But tonight she wasn’t here, and the ghosts had no fear of Natasha alone. She lay still, waiting for it to past, not wanting to remember, not wanting to return.

At last she fell into an uneasy sleep, full of whispers and ice cold rooms, bleeding toes and gunshot wounds, beauty, grace, and the ugliness that went into creating it.

Because that’s what it was, she mused in the misty realm between sleep and consciousness. Ugliness covered up. That’s what she was. Ugliness covered in a facade of beauty. Twisted black evil wrapped in a white silk leotard, dancing in snowy silk slippers. She wondered that no one had seen it yet but of course, the white covered so much, her facade of goodness. The mask that she wore, so white and strong but oh so delicate, and she just knew that if anyone got too close, if anyone so much as reached out and touched, it’d crumble away. And no one wanted what was underneath

She had been letting someone close though, someone had somehow slipped from the audience for whom she was constantly performing to backstage where she truly existed. But this new player could come no closer, no matter how much she craved her, for then the mask would fall. And then, who would be left? No, better like this, better with the performance, better with the mask, better with the distance. It was better. She repeated this like a mantra and had finally drifted off when the phone rang, the sharp noise interrupting the first real sleep she had been able to get.

She woke immediately, sitting bolt upright and grabbing at it, looking at the name flashing on the screen.

“This better be good, Fury.” she answered, letting her displeasure at being called at 2:30 in the morning seep into her tone. Fury wouldn’t care of course, but she liked to let him know.

“Would I call you if it wasn’t serious?” barked the Director. His words were expected but his tone wasn’t, the underlying stress creeping in unfamiliar to her. “It’s Hill.”

“Maria?” Natasha’s voice was calm, as her heart picked up pace. She was already getting out of bed, dressing and gathering up her weaponry, readying herself to fight.

“She’s hurt.” Fury answered. “She said to let you know. She’s been stabbed by something probably not of Earth origin so we’re keeping her in medical here.”

“I’m on my way.” Natasha answered, hanging up before Fury could reply.  She was out the building barely a moment later, into the night, following the dim light of a street lamp cutting through the darkness to her car.

She was driving on autopilot, trusting her body to drive to the triskelion while her mind buzzed with questions, one after the other. Was Maria gravely injured? Why had Fury called her? How had she gotten hurt? Why couldn’t she go to a standard hospital?

At last she arrived, making her way into the building and to the medical wing faster then she would have thought possible. A nurse came up to her as she entered, reaching to tap her on the shoulder before thinking the better of it and withdrawing.

“Agent Romanoff?”

“Yes.” Natasha answered tersely, desperate for information.

“Agent Hill is down here.” The nurse said, gesturing down a hallway before leading Natasha down. They walked for a few minutes, Natasha asking questions the nurse would only respond to with

“Agent Hill’s doctor will explain.”

At last, they reached a door where the nurse stopped, taking out a key card and pressing it against the small panel on the wall. The door slid open and she gestured for Natasha to enter before turning and walking back the way they had come.

Natasha walked in to see Maria propped up with pillows in a bed, IV dripping some sort of fluid into her arm. She was pale but awake and smiled as Natasha came in.

“Hey, Nat,” Maria said, as she tried to sit up further and winced with apparent pain.

“Maria,” Natasha answered pulling up a chair from the side of the room and sitting. “I got a call from Fury saying you were hurt.”

“Yeah. I’m fine now. Mostly.” Maria said, lifting the blanket to show her left leg which was heavily bandaged. Dark green streaks rose out from the bandage, twining around her leg, creeping up towards her torso and down towards her foot, deep ugly veins of poison. But even as Natasha looked they were fading, retreating back towards the wound.

“We just thought I wouldn’t be. Couldn’t find an antidote, then we had to pull out some alien tech we’re not supposed to have and on some research, we weren’t supposed to have conducted. Fury probably called you before we realized we could cure me. He shouldn’t have woken you though, I’ll be completely fine. They’re letting me go in a few hours, so long as everything goes well.” Maria said, drawing the blanket back over herself.

“Because when do things ever go wrong?” Natasha asked, but her sarcastic tone was undercut by her smile and the way the tension bled out of her, legs crossing and shoulders untensing as she shifted into a more comfortable position.

“It’s fine, wasn’t getting much sleep anyway. And now you’ve got someone to drive you home when they let you go. Unless you’re planning to go straight to your office and work afterward.” Natasha said with a look indicating that the latter was the wrong option.

“I can’t actually,” Maria said. “I’m not supposed to be fine remember? I have to stay low profile while a cover story is fabricated for how I’m okay.” Maria suddenly looked uncomfortable, and Natasha tilted her head, a questioning look on her face.

“The tech we had, the serum they were able to synthesize- there wasn’t a lot of it.” Maria started to say slowly. “But there were a lot of people hurt.”

“And those people weren’t the vice director of SHIELD.” Natasha finished for her, understanding.

Maria nodded.

“And you took it. All of it.” There was no judgment in Natasha’s voice as she spoke.

“Yes.” Maria looked away from her as the word left her lips, but then her eyes swung up to meet Natasha’s again, owning the decision, even if it had not been fully hers, even if she had been half dead when the cure was administered.

“And the others?” Natasha asked.

Maria shook her head.

Natasha nodded.

She understood. And they sat in silence, Natasha reaching out her hand to hold Maria’s offering her the comfort she couldn’t speak. There were so many things she could say, that it wasn’t Maria’s fault, that she didn’t hurt them, that she had had to take the cure, that it was experimental in the first place, that it wasn’t her fault it worked. But there was nothing, she knew, that would actually mean anything right now. So they sat in silence, Maria’s hand resting in Natasha’s as all of the unspoken words hung in the air.

At last, Natasha broke the silence.

“You can stay with me if you like. While you’re waiting for SHIELD to announce your miraculous recovery.”

Maria’s grip on her hand relaxed a bit as her mouth turned up just a bit.

“Thanks,” she said.

And Natasha understood.

[fortheloveofholland]

Vices & Virtues | 0.1 | SP

A/N: Hi, I know this lowkey sucks and its short but things will get a lot better as the chapters go on and I have more to work with. I’m gonna be posting side stuff to go along with the story (if you think of something that goes along with the book lmk, i’d love to hear it) so stay tuned, kids. I’m excited to see where the book goes and I hope you love it just as much as I do! 

ALSO I MADE A SPOTIFY PLAYLIST FOR THE BOOK THAT I’LL CONSTANTLY BE ADDING TO WHICH YOU CAN LISTEN TO HERE OR CLICK ON ONE OF THE SIDEBAR LINKS ON MY PAGE! 

XOXO

It was one of those obscure moments, you know? One of those situations that only happens in a shitty teen coming of age movie or in literally every YA novel you’d read in middle school. The room that once was my own little oasis was tainted with the scent of cigarettes, liquor and mint. And the cause of the unlikely mixture sat in front of me. All he’s done in the 20 minutes since he walked into the classroom was eat 10 mints that were left out on the desk, stuffing the wrappers into his jacket pocket and stare me down with those big brown eyes that could make God uncomfortable. 

Avoiding his gaze, I skimmed through the drafts of the Homecoming spread one last time to see if any other edits needed to be made to it before it was typed and sent to the printers.Tap! Tap! Tap! — His black boot hit the bottom of the desk. I looked up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Stop.” He ceased his actions. “Thank you.” With one last tap I looked up at him abruptly. I’m done. “Look, emo Hercules. I get that you were moved in here because you still need some sort of an arts credit, but some people are actually trying to produce a quality yearbook and we’d really appreciate it if you’d stop.” I leaned forward in my seat. “Look for the rest of the year just come in here, sit down, shut up and I’ll make sure you get the credit. You don’t have to do any work, just don’t get on my nerves. Are we clear?”

He sat up, elbows rested on his knees, learning forward to get closer to me. “Crystal.”

I sat back, gathering the papers, only to set them down and begin going through another pile. “Good.”

He began to hum the tune of an unfamiliar song, as he unwrapped another mint he managed to snatch out of the little bowl that was left on the edge of the desk. Sitting back in his seat again, he asked. “Why isn’t there a teacher?”

Looking back up from him, my lips turned down into an unamused frown. “You know you don’t have to sit here the entire class period, there’s plenty of open seats.” I motioned the pen around to the 8 empty chairs scattered across the room.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Maternity leave.”

“So you’re just gonna go the rest of the year without one?”

“Yes and no. And I thought I told you to stop talking.”

“I’ve never been one to follow rules.”

“Wonderful.” I sat back in my chair, crossing both my arms and legs. This gave me time to actually take in his features. He was tall, very tall. He had insanely greasy, raven black hair that could use a wash or two. He wore layers, first a white Henley, on top of that a green flannel and then to top off the outfit he wore the signature black leather jacket with a double ended snake etched in to the back.

“So.” He shrugged.

“So, what?”

“You gonna tell me why theres no teacher?”

“She had her baby a couple weeks ago and until then i’ve sort of been left in charge of the class.”

“And why you?”He began rubbing the bags under his eyes.

“I mean I have yet to miss a day of school, plus, I’m editor in chief so I’m basically in charge of the class already. The only difference is now I have to do attendance and I get to sit in a better desk.” I motioned to the smaller desk that was set up next to the one I currently possessed. He looked over and then back at me, I had began tapping the pen in my hand in-between my thumb and pointer finger, a habit I had since I was younger. “Now please, for all that is good in the world, please go sit somewhere else.” He remained seated. “Look I’ll give you ten bucks if you just go away. I’m terribly close to a deadline and I need to get these done.” I held up the stack of unedited articles. With that he stood up and walked across the room and to the corner where three empty seats were placed right next to each other. He sat down in the middle and turned to face the wall with his arms crossed.

The rest of the class period was spent in silence except for the typing of students on computers and the occasional question about spreads. I looked down at my phone, the clock reading 2:08pm. Two more minutes and I was home free for the day. I began packing up my bag and taking the classroom key out of my bag to lock up. I grabbed a ten dollar bill out of my wallet and stood up. Walking over to him, I held out the bill. “Here.” I wiggled the piece of paper, his eyes cautiously watching me. A couple seconds later he took the bill, shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans.

The end of the day was different than any other. As  people exited their classrooms and flooded out into the hall, it became a mad house. Opposite sides screaming at each other, papers flying everywhere. It was like that scene from Mean Girls where the burn book was released and than an all out war broke out, except this was worse.

I turned around, quickly turning the room light off and locking the door. As I turned again I saw emo Hercules join the masses. If only this student body could learn how to take a xanax and eat cookie we’d be doing just fine. Well maybe just fine, but a whole lot better than Mean Girls post burn book. The Serpents had been here for one class period, under one hour, and it was already hell.

Stuffing the keys back into my pocket, I maneuvered my way around the chaos and out a side door, silently praising myself for opting for senior release. The parking lot, usually lined with clean cut trucks and little sports cars, was now intertwined with motorcycles and old, beat up trucks. I kept walking, occasionally nodding or waving at a classmate as I passed them until I got to my car, Quinn. He was a gem, a black 1969 Chevy Impala that my dad and uncle had fixed up for my 17th birthday and of some sorts, an apology gift for making us move to Riverdale. Unlocking the door, I threw my bag into the passengers side and slid in. Pulling out of the parking lot, I turned down the street that ran in front of the school, emo Hercules stood outside with the group he had run towards when class let out, a cigarette hanging from his lips, permanently lined with an underlying smirk.

I slowed dow the car to a stop, ignoring the fact that a line of pissed off, newly licensed sophomores sat in line behind me. “Hercules, you shouldn’t smoke on school grounds.”

He took the cigarette, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger, blowing the smoke out. “I’m doing a lot of things I shouldn’t do, princess. And it’s Sweet Pea, not Hercules.”

“I’d stick to Hercules, sounds a lot tougher.”

“So what’s yours?” He stuck the cig back in his mouth. The Serpents gaze going back and forth between the two of us.

“My name?” He nodded. “Fallon.”

[laffayettereincarnated]

shortish boyf riends fic

been ages since I wrote whoops

enjoy a short and crappy and maybe cute boyf riends fic about Jer being jealous and the squip being shitty and Michael being a literal sweetheart 

you can also read on AO3

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11867328

Jeremy walked into their shared College dorm room, and was greeted with a sight he never thought he’d see; Michael, out of his customary red sweater, looking smart. Not ‘these jeans don’t have-holes-in-them-smart mentality that Michael usually adopted. Smart.

He was faced slightly turned away from Jeremy, adjusting his hair in the mirror. He had his hair slicked back more so than usual, and was wearing an ironed button shirt and smart, skinny jeans. Really skinny jeans. That really suited him. That really…

“Jeremy!” Jolted from his thoughts, Jeremy looked up to see Michael with a flustered expression and shit he was wearing contacts Jeremy couldn’t handle his cuteness when he was like that.

“uuh,” Jeremy stuttered out, trying as hard as he could to not stutter like a total idiot. “you look…”

“I know I probably look stupid, right?” Michael admitted, chuckling nervously as he scratched the back of his neck. No, Jeremy thought. No, you look fucking hot.

“no no, you look,” Jeremey tried to think of the nicest compliment he could drop without revealing how flustered Michael was making him. “Real, like dapper? And smart. But not like too smart! Just uh, enough uh….” Jeremy’s thought process was trailing off as his eyes started to trace the curve of Michael’s hips, and…” uh, where are you going? Exactly? I’m not meant to come, right? Cos, I know I don’t have anything like that and…”

Michael chuckled, not helping Jeremy’s situation in the slightest. “No dude, not unless you wanna 5th wheel, or something.”

Jeremy’s heart stopped.

“huh?

“oh yeah!” Michael said, smiling bashfully, a slight flush tracing his cheeks. “Rich and Jake were moaning at me for complaining about being single, so they uh, set me up? With a guy they know. They said they’d turn up so he couldn’t like, I dunno. Become all weird, I…”

Michael was speaking, but Jeremy couldn’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears. Michael. On a date. Michael was going on a date. And just like that the squib’s voce was there in his head, suddenly louder that his own thoughts, smirk evident in its tone “you waited too long Jeremy. I told you, his little high school crush wouldn’t stay around for you to…”

“Jer? You okay there buddy?”

Jeremy looked up, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. Michael looked so nice, with his hair all smart and his glasses no longer obscuring the little mole just below his right eye, and…

“yeah of course.” Jeremy chuckled shakily. “um, just why didn’t they set me up too? I mean, I’m also single. And I complain loads…”

Michael looked up at that. “oh, well I guess that since you and Christine broke up kinda recently, I don’t know.” He looked kinda guilty, glancing to the side just a little.

Jeremey could feel the jealousy that was surging in his gut, because Michael looked so nice, and it was for some jackass who didn’t know Michael. “yeah, well me and Christine weren’t really going out. You know that.” It came out harsher than he expected, the hurt making his words sharper than he intended.

Michael held up his hands in mock surrender. “okay dude. I know. Rich and Jake don’t I guess.” Michael raised his eyebrows and Jeremy could feel the mockery, hear the squip in his head saying, “you’re making a scene Jeremy. Change the subject.”

Jeremy breathed out shakily, trying to release the tension in his chest.

“Well…what’s he like? The guy you’re…” Jeremy could feel his mouth restrict around the words, his stomach tying in knots.

“oh, I don’t,” Michael looked nervously to the side, a slight smile gracing his lips. Stop thinking about how kissable they are. Stop it. “I don’t really know him. I know he’s on the football team,” Michael said with a chuckle.

Jeremy felt so bitter. “You have no right,” began the squip, and with all the thoughts swirling in his head it was hard to drown it out.

“you okay?” Jeremy must have stayed quiet for too long; Michael was looking at him quizzically.

“yeah,” Jeremy replied, “I just,”

“Jeremy don’t be pathetic.” The squip snarled in warning.

“shouldn’t you know a little bit more about him before you go?”

Michael’s smile froze. “huh?”

“I mean,” Jeremy knew he should stop. “What if he turns to be, I don’t know, a bad guy or something.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Dude, that’s a little unfair. Besides, like I said, Rich and Jake are coming too, to keep tabs…”

“But what he stays nice until they like leave and he’s…like a total creep!” Jeremy stepped forward, feeling the jealous energy build and build. Stop. Stop… “Besides, you always said blind dates were stupid, and here you are…”

“Jeremy, Jeremy whoa. Calm your ass.” Michael joked, his eyes looking nervous. He moved forward, and the close proximity made Jeremy squirm. Jeremy flinched when he felt Michaels’s hand on his shoulder. “He’s way too good for you,” the squip supplied, and Jeremy had to agree with it.

“you sure you’re okay, bro? You’re acting tenser than that time you hid porn on my computer so your dad wouldn’t find it.” He said laughing, but his touch burned Jeremy’s shoulders. Jeremy tried not to picture Michael putting his hand on the mystery guys shoulders, but being more tender, moving his hand to his face and…

“I’m fine!” he snapped, leaping out of Michael’s touch.

“geez what’s got you all defensive.”

He was worried about Jeremy, he was only worried; Michael’s eyebrows were furrowed as he said it, and the squip’s voice telling Jeremy how much he was worrying Michael only made it worse.

“Well, you’re the one who just rubs his amazing new date in my face the minute I walk in.” Jeremy choked out, the pain constricting his throat making it harder and harder to think. “You think this is a plan, Jeremy?” the squip snarled at him. “acting whiny and needy isn’t an attractive trait, Jeremy.”

Michael took a step back, stiffening. “You’re the one who asked me! Don’t be an asshole.”

Yes, he knew he was the asshole. He was. He should stop while he was ahead…

“Excuse me, you’re the asshole!” Jeremy yelled.

“What?” Michael shouted back. “are you kidding me? How the fuck am I the asshole in this situation?”

Jeremy really wanted to stop this, Michael looked hurt and angry, and without the glasses obstructing his face it was easier to see the anger in his eyes. But the squip was spitting insults in his ear, and he wanted him to

“shut up!” When it echoed in his own ears he realised he said it out loud by accident.

“Excuse me?” Michael let out a bitter laugh. “just because you’re jealous, or somt…”

Panic ripped through Jeremy’s already fragile mind-set. “why the fuck would I be jealous! You can date whoever you want! Date the entire campus for all I fucking care!” he screamed, lungs aching. “Jeremy, what are you hoping to accomplish with this pitiful outburst?” the squip laughed, not even needing to appear for Jeremy to see the smirk that would be on its face.

Michael said something, low and angrily, but Jeremy couldn’t hear him over the growl of the squip in his ear; he felt something brush past him and the distant sound of a door slamming shut.

Then he was alone.

The instant Michael was gone, Jeremy broke down.

What the fuck did I just do.

Everything swam, the slam of the door echoing in his head. He’d been a total asshole, and there’s no way Michael was stupid enough to not guess the correlation, between his date and…

“aah, jealousy. The ultimate spanner in the works,” the squip said with a sly smile, as he materialized in front of Jeremy. Jeremey snapped his head up at that, because the squip never appeared, only if it got really bad.

“shut up,” Jeremy hissed.

The squip chuckled, and Jeremy’s blood curdled in his veins.

“If only you’d followed my advice, Jeremy. If only…”

“Then what!” Jeremy didn’t care if the whole campus could hear him yelling at nothing. The squip grinned at that, somewhat satisfied with Jeremy’s reaction. “Stop pining after a guy you hurt and expecting him to forgive you.”

The image of the Halloween party flooded his brain, and the guilt started to burn through him. “He’s forgiven me for that,” he breathed out, not sounding at all certain.

“Has he really?” The squip paced forward and stared straight into his eyes. “in his position. Would you?”

The panic was rising in his gut, and his throat felt like it was caving in. The dark thoughts curled into his mind like smoke; the squip’s voice was all encompassing. Normal positive thinking wasn’t working. He needed, he needed…

 Mountin dew red, he thought. Mountin dew red.

The squip’s calm demeanour vanished. “Jeremy, no. Jeremy…”

Jeremy ran to the end of the dorm room in an instant and tore open the door of their minifridge. He could hear the squip insulting him, insulting Michael, its calm demeanour cracking as Jeremy reached for the bottle with shaking hands. At least the squip no longer had full power over his body anymore. He grabbed their nearest bottle-which they kept in times like this- and chugged it back. Instantly a white-hot pain shot through his skull and he heard the distinct sound of the squip screaming his name, and his own garbled cry of pain before he dropped the bottle to the floor and fell to his knees. It always hurt, every time.

But the squip’s voice was gone, and that was enough.

The silence filled the dorm room, and it was almost overwhelming in its peace. He felt hot tears cascade down his cheeks, and his chest began to heave with relief. He tried not to think about Michael, and how he was such an ass; he could feel the guilt churn into anxiety in his gut.

Dammit dammit dammitdammit…

“Jeremy?”

Jeremy jerked and pulled himself up, shame washing over him. Michael was standing in the doorway, and he looked like he’d run back. Why? Jeremy didn’t deserve that.  He wiped at his tears, cringing as his voice cracked saying, “Michael?”

Michael’s eyes tracked down to the bottle of Mountin dew red lying next to him, several red drops staining the already hideous carpet. “shit.” Jeremy scrambled to grab the bottle and rub at the marks. “Sorry, m-Michael, I’m sure I can get it out…”

“it’s fine.”

“No it’s n-not,” Jeremy gasped out. “I’ve gotta, I’m…”

Jeremy distantly heard the sound of slow footprints approaching him, praying to god Michael was going to punch him because…

He felt a slight tap on his arm and looked up, seeing worry crossing Michael’s features.

“The squip?” Jeremy didn’t know what to say so he nodded dully in response. “ I heard you shouting at nothing when I left.”

Jeremy dropped his eyes to the floor, numbly aware of his hands shaking still. Michael took the bottle from his hands and said, “go lie down” in a voice that suggested this wasn’t an option. Jeremy staggered to the bed, wishing Michael would yell at him because he felt too guilty otherwise. He pulled himself into the bed, lying on his side and feeling his chest heave in and out unevenly. When Michael returned, he expected him to go.  He didn’t. He sat down next to him, leaning back against the wall. Jeremy looked up in shock. “your d-date…” he stuttered out.

“Cancelled it.”

Shit

“no, no Michael, don’t, dammit, Michael...”

“It’s fine”, Michael mumbled in response, letting out a soft sigh. It didn’t stop Jeremy worrying though. “I didn’t really feel, up for it anyway.” Jeremy knew why. It was him. All his fault. Jeremy curled up tighter, heart thundering in his chest.

“I wanted to talk anyway.”

Jeremy tensed and Michael must have sensed it because he quickly blurted out a “you don’t have to, if you’re not up to it, cos I know the whole squip thing can, like mess you up for a bit.”

Jeremy let it hang in the air before murmuring a hesitant ‘okay’.

Michael breathed in; the panic settled in Jeremy’s entire body, feeling glad he was facing away from Michael right now.

“about that fight.”

“I’m so sorry Michael,” Jeremy gasped out. “I was totally out of line, I was a complete asshole, it was all my fault,”

“that it was.” Michael said with a chuckle. “but… when I said you were jealous,” his tone switched instantly. “you acted as if I accused you of being jealous, of the guy, I was gonna go on a date with? Not the fact that I was going on a date in the first place, like…uh you” Jeremy felt his throat constrict. “uh…never mind.”

Jeremy knew what he should say. The truth that was always sitting on his tongue, whenever Michael would get high with Jeremy and turn all giggly and cuddly and Jeremy just wanted to blurt his feelings out. Whenever the squip came back and Jeremy was shaking and his eyes were darting around the room, and whatever the situation Michael would grab hold of his hand and take him home; they’d sit on the bed, playing videogames until Jeremy’s nerves were calmed, and when Michael looked so relieved when he gave the all clear, he wanted to say it then. Say that he loved him. Say how much he needed him, and how he didn’t deserve any of this. And somehow, of all the things that he wanted to say, that’s what slipped.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“what?” he felt Michael twist around on the bed. “dude, no…”

Jeremy pulled himself closer, his head feeling oddly empty without the squip mumbling at him.

“everything about me is so terrible.” How I get jealous though I have no right, how I ruin your night because I’m a horny teen who can’t keep his emotions in check.

“no, no” Michael scrambled for Jeremy’s shoulders, turning him around to see Michael’s face above him. “everything about you is so…” Michael breathed out shakily, his voice breaking slightly. “wonderful.”

Jeremy pulled away. “everything about me makes me wanna die” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Michael crawled on top of Jeremy, turning his head upwards so he could see his face when he said, “Everything about you is so alive.”

Jeremy hated the warm smile Michael gave him; he hated the way that warmth spread across his chest; he hated that Michael still stuck around, looking at him like he was everything.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Jeremy grumbled, trying to stay mad when Michael’s tanned, gorgeous face was inches from his own.

“like what?” Michael said, his eyes lit up with a hopeful smile.

“Like I’m…I don’t know dude…” Jeremy could feel his cheeks flushing, suddenly aware of how close their chests were, and the way he could feel Michael’s breath against his lips.

“like you love me, or something,” he murmured, his voice sounding punched out, his emotions flattening his chest.

“but I do.”

What.

 Jeremy’s eyes snapped up, heart hammering in his throat. Michael looked a little panicked, like he might retract his statement any time, cheeks flushed and deep, brown eyes watching Jeremy with such…

But I do.

Jeremy swallowed; his heart felt way too big for his chest. He felt so scared, because he didn’t deserve Michael in any way, but he wanted him. Selfishly, he wanted him. So fucking much. Michael was hovering above him, and time stood still.

And Jeremy risked it. He broke the bubble between them by leaning up, slowly and cautiously, because what the fuck was he doing and Michael had a date tonight, with someone who is not you. He leaned up, too scared to open his eyes, and pressed his lips so lightly to Michaels they practically didn’t kiss. Their noses bumped slightly, and Jeremy pulled away almost instantly, already forgetting the warmth of Michael’s lips, how they felt.

The moment after the kiss, Jeremy lay back, his head screaming at him; he refused to open his eyes. He knew that Michael kinda confessed to him, but he could have meant it platonically, or Jeremy made it up, or misheard him or…

But his thoughts were silenced the minute Michael’s lips were back on his, certain this time. Deliberately pressing against his own. Every thought was filled with Michael Michael Michael and Jeremy was frozen for barely a minute, before leaning up as best as he could with Michael on top of him. The brief kisses he’d shared with Brooke and the pecks from Christine were nothing on this: not even close. Michael’s lips were warm and rough, and his hand that had sneakily crept up to frame Jeremy’s head was gentle and sure. Why didn’t he kiss him earlier?

Michael pulled away to breath; Jeremy felt his cheeks heat up embarrassingly quickly as he took in Michael’s lidded eyes and flushed cheeks. A moment passed, and the Michael laughed. “So, you really were jealous, huh Jer?”

Jeremy’s laughter bubbled out of his throat, giddy with shock. “Shut up” he chuckled, punching Michael playfully in his arm.

“No” Michael said with a lopsided smirk.

Jeremy breathed out shakily, gazing up at Michael with his giddy grin and the deep flush spreading across his cheeks. He could see the slight nerves in Michael’s eyes, the slight flash of fear. He could see how he couldn’t stop grinning, like he was incapable of stopping. Then out of nowhere the situation hit him, the fight, the…

“Your date.”

Michael looked confused for mere seconds, before realisation hit him and his eyes widened. “Wait, Jer…”

It hit Jeremy all at once. How Michael couldn’t love him, not when he was going on a date with some guy, and… Jeremy pulled himself inwards, heart thumping so loudly against his chest it was all he could hear; he couldn’t hear Michael begging him to listen, and his soft voice telling him it was okay and…

He didn’t fully snap out of it until he felt a warm hand gripping his tightly, shaking almost as much as his own. Jeremy looked up, only to see a flustered Michael staring anywhere but Jeremy’s face. Jeremy was so awestruck by Michael that he didn’t fully register that he was actually talking.

“wait…uh…what?”

Michael gave him a brief glare, before chuckling lowly.

“That date was ‘cos… I couldn’t get over you.” 

A brief moment of Jeremy’s brain short-circuiting.

“I couldn’t stop complaining about… being so hopelessly in love with you that I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about you…” Michael breathed out shakily. “it wasn’t cos I didn’t uh…cos I do.” Michael turned around to face Jeremy, and he looked gorgeous (well he always did but more so than usual). His cheeks were flushed and without his glasses he looked so vulnerable, although the worried expression was one Jeremy had to fix. Because he loved him. And Michael…

“oh.”

Jeremy was frozen. Until it hit him. The reality of it.

“oh!”

Michael laughed, his entire body shaking. “you look like you’ve cracked the fucking da Vinci code or some shit.” Jeremy looked up, a laugh bursting out of his chest before he could stop it.

“yeah.”

Michael grinned over at him, looking so happy that Jeremy couldn’t handle it. His heart felt like it was going to explode out of his chest. Without thinking he grabbed the front of Michael’s shirt and pulled into another kiss, but with both of them smiling so much it was almost impossible to keep it going.  When they parted Michael was flashing his winning smile, and Jeremy felt it slip from his lips automatically.

“god I love you.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “oh.” Jeremy simply grinned, his entire chest warmer and his heart beating a mile a minute. “I love you, so much.”

Michael’s cheeks heated up ridiculously quickly, and he had to cover his face, letting out a breathy, “okay.”

“what you said it first.”

Michael slapped him playfully on the shoulder; even with his face covered Jeremy could see that even the tips of his ears were pink.

“it’s different when you say it.”

Jeremy grabbed Michael’s hands, pulling them away from his face. “How come?”

Michael fixed Jeremy with a lopsided grin.

“Cos, you sound like Mickey Mouse on helium compared to my rich baritones.”

“why you FUCKING…”

Jeremey tackled Michael to the bed, grabbing his sides and tickling him mercilessly, revelling in Michael’s laughter as he giggled and squirmed on the bed. And if they exchanged a couple kisses in between the laughing and the play fighting, who cares.