#i refuse to let people tape my mouth shut again on my experiences

[autistic-fuckwad]

at this point i am genuinely not going to be subtle with it: if you genuinely believe trans men and transmascs experience no or little to no oppression OR experience privilege by being a trans man please take the next exit on ramp 7 to Get The Fuck Off My Blog <3

tags because i know you some damn terf is gonna run in here pretending to be a trans ally and start screaming that i hate trans women so you are now forced to read them in the main post body

[jumpywhumpywriter]

The Experiments

Warnings: mention and threat of torture, shock collar, restraints, magic

Shadow, my favorite OC of my in-progress fantasy trilogy, is one of a near-extinct species of creature that look like humans, but with wings and fangs... and magic. She has ice powers, and she is in Jackal captivity, an organization that wishes to find a way to weaponize her gifts and power. Let the experimentation begin!

Shadow quietly fumed while she was led by guards into a bulletproof room full of targets and metal cutouts of people. She wore metal cuffs on her wrists with rows of inward-facing spikes that prevented her from using her ice powers. If she did, the metal would contract with the cold, sinking its sharp teeth into her hands. Her powers were useless with them on, and that was exactly the point: to have her like a cat with its claws removed. Less dangerous. And even if she did somehow find a way out of the cuffs, she still had the shock collar to worry about.

She reluctantly let her guards shepherd her into the room, watching as they backed out and shut the door, leaving her alone.

"Hello again, my favorite subject," Sebastian's venomous voice purred from a speaker mounted in the corner.

Shadow glanced to the side where he and a few other Jackals were sitting in an observing room, safe behind several layers of bulletproof glass.

"Pfff, cowards," she grumbled under her breath. "Wouldn't stand a chance in the same room with me without these cursed restraints." She cast them all a cold glare that could wilt the petals off of roses. "And what would you have me do today, oh smart mouth?" She sniped.

Sebastian chuckled, and she watched him hold up a black remote where she could clearly see it through the thick glass. Her hands instinctively tried to twitch up and grab the shock collar encircling her neck out of habit, knowing how painful it would be, but she forced herself not to flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction as he pressed a button... and no shock came.

Instead, the spikes on her wrists cuffs retracted, followed by the cuffs themselves unlocking and falling to the floor with a clunk. Surprising. Shadow couldn't help rubbing the chaffed, raw skin where they'd rested with a wince.

"Here's your task," Sebastian's voice crackled in the speaker, "you are to stand on the strip of black tape you see on the floor, and strike every target in the room. If you refuse, you get zapped. You know the drill."

Shadow scowled viciously, but grudgingly shuffled over to where the tape was. She hated giving in, her mind screamed at her to keep resisting, to fight back more... but she'd figured out a long time ago that all it did was make things worse for her in the end. She needed time to save her strength for an escape attempt, not waste it on petty shows of defiance. So she swallowed her snarky remarks and took up a defensive stance, shaking out her hands and narrowing her eyes. This day she was extra mad.

With a low growl, she flung a hand out at the nearest metal target with a fierce, focused intensity, packing all her anger and pain behind it. The frustration of being kept in captivity for so long. The resulting icy blast was so powerful it ripped the target clean off its stand, sending it smashing into the wall behind with such force it left a noticeable dent before it shattered like glass as it hit the floor, covered in ice. The cold made it brittle and weak.

Then she lashed out at all the other targets in rapid-fire sequence, her hands a blur of motion, striking every last one with deadly accuracy until they were all reduced to pieces of shattered metal on the floor. She breathed hard, feeling the overwhelming wave of nausea and exhaustion catch up to her that always came from using too much magic at once, but she took pride in the terrified looks of those observing her behind the safety glass window.

That's what kind of true power I possess, she thought angrily. The kind that you'll never be able to control.

There was a long moment of stunned silence, and Shadow wondered what the Jackals' reaction would be.

"All right, that's enough for today. Put the cuffs back on." Sebastian's obnoxious, polished voice finally sounded through the speaker, wobbling slightly. Shadow hesitated, staring down at the spike-lined cuffs still laying on the floor.

"Don't make this more difficult for yourself. Put. Them on. Now."

She felt the metal shock band on her neck start to buzz in warning, and wasn't in the mood to deal with the consequences of being rebellious. Now was not the right time for it. She leaned down and picked up the cuffs, locking them back onto her own wrists with an irritated eye roll, grimacing as they settled uncomfortably against her skin. As soon as they were in place, three guards came streaming in, approaching her cautiously and guiding her out of the room and back to her cell, giving her a wide berth the entire way, which she relished.

They're afraid of me. And they should be, she thought triumphantly. Word must have gotten out about the guard she had attacked, as well as the many others that had narrowly escaped her vengeful wrath. They all knew better by now than to tease or taunt her, even indirectly when talking to other soldiers within earshot.

Masterlist

Masterlist #2

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump @otterfrost @sausages-things

[stranger-nightmare]

𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐞

Pairing: Matt Murdock x (female) Reader

Summary: Matt worries he’s loosing his grip on the line between right and wrong, worries he might be cursed with the devil living inside him...

Warnings: angst, hurt / comfort, mention of injuries / blood, brief description of violence / gore, tiniest allusion of sexual violence against minors, smut, brief masturbation (m receiving), penetrative sex (m+f), tiny bit of cockwarming, praise kink, oral (f receiving), cum-eating, minors DNI

A/N: title and some of the plot inspired by the song Devil In Me by Halsey. Gods trying to write angst is hard, mad respect to my writers who do this so well bc it was a struggle for me, anyway I hope you guys still like it though🥺🖤✨ fair warning this is another long one😮‍🙈

This is for people 18+ only. Minors do not read on. If you click ‘keep reading’ you are hereby agreeing that you are 18 or older.

Matt takes a shuddering breath as you tend to his latest round of wounds. But you can tell the shudder just isn’t from the pain. Not physical pain anyway. His breathing is ragged, his face contorting in a way that tells you he’s trying not to break down completely.

You finish up the final stitch on the cut that sits below his armpit on the left side. You then tape the bandage to it, smoothing it over slightly. Matt continues to just stare blankly, his head turned away from you.

“Matt...” you venture quietly.

The only indication that he’s even heard you is the tightening of his jaw, the muscles of his neck going taught. You sigh quietly. You could tell he was upset, you just wish he’d talk to you more, let you in.

Your relationship was on a wire. The late nights and near-death experiences taking you almost to your breaking point, especially considering he wouldn’t even talk to you about any of it. You knew what he did at night, roughly. You knew he took care of the city, eliminating bad guys where he could. You knew he never killed anyone. And you knew that the burden hung heavy on him anyway. You wished he would talk to you about it more, help share burden, lighten the load. But he never did. He was too afraid of you getting involved anymore than you already were. It was one thing to make yourself a target as his girlfriend, let alone one who knew everything about the guys he was trying to take down.

But something was different tonight. You could feel the anguish radiating from his body. Something had gone down tonight. And it looked like Matt wasn’t ready to face up to it himself, let alone tell you about it.

But you try anyway.

“Matt please” you murmur gently. “What happened tonight? Something’s different with you.”

You run your hand over his bicep reassuringly, stroking his skin softly, trying to coax some of the tension out of his body.

He screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. He then shifts to bury his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, hiding himself from you. You see and feel the shuddering breath that tears through him.

You shift on the sofa next to him, angling yourself slightly behind him. You let your body collapse on top of him, your arms going around his shoulders, your head resting between his shoulder blades. You kiss his skin lightly, continuing to stroke his body wherever your hands could.

You spend a few more minutes in silence, just soothing him as best you could. Until, finally, he sits back up again. But he continues to sit forwards, refusing to face you.

His voice trembles like you’ve never heard before as he slowly attempts to speak, his mouth opening and closing blankly as he struggles to find the words. You just continue to stroke his back, waiting patiently, letting him go at his own pace.

“I came too close tonight” he finally says with a shaky breath.

You give a moment to elaborate, but he doesn’t. So eventually you prod him gently.

“Too close to what?” You whisper.

A sob racks through his body, his muscles going tense beneath your touch again.

“I- I almost killed him” he croaks.

You feel your body go cold at his words, your hand freezing in place on his back.

“I nearly killed him. I was so close. One more hit, just one more, I think that would’ve done it” he trembles. “It was too close” his head tips down again.

You know he hears you gulp, a tiny petal of fear settling in your stomach. You weren’t afraid of Matt, or what he’d nearly done. You wouldn’t have feared him even if he had killed the man. But you feared how he was going to dwell on it, how he would punish himself for what he almost did.

“I nearly killed him” he shudders again.

You sigh sadly, your hand starting up its movement on his back again.

“But you didn’t Matty” you reassure him, kissing his shoulder blade.

“It was too close” pain is laced in his voice, and it tugs at your heart.

“I- I just lost control. The things he did...” You feel anger simmering in him now, a different kind of tension settling in his muscles.

“The things he did,” Matt starts up again, his voice barely a whisper. “He- he... I mean they were just girls... children...” his voice breaks on the last word.

Ice takes over your veins as you realise what he’s talking about. Your bloodstream is somehow full of a hot rage and an icy cold. And you can feel that Matt’s is too. Now it was your turn to shudder, your turn to open and close your mouth helplessly as you struggle to find words of comfort. If it was up to you, you probably would have let the bastard die, but you knew that wasn’t Matt’s way, no matter what.

“I could’ve killed him, y/n,” he finally speaks again. “I could’ve killed him."

“But you didn’t, Matt. You didn’t. And now that asshole will get what he deserves; rotting away in a prison cell."

He just shakes his head again.

“That’s not the point” he breathes. “It’s not about him, it’s about me” he sighs.

“What do you mean?” You murmur.

“I lost control, y/n. It was like a blind, bloody, red rage just took over me. I was filled with nothing but the desire to obliterate him, to leave nothing but a bloody pulp beneath my fists. I felt his skull crack beneath my knuckles, and I liked it,” another shudder rocks through his body.

“It was like I lost myself in that moment. I lost my morals, my sense of self, like someone else had taken over me. Something else” he mutters darkly.

You just stare at him silently, continuing to run your hands over his back and arms, wherever you could reach with your comforting touch. You were unsure what to say. How do you respond to something like that? Your heart ached for him, yearned to take his pain away. But you knew it wouldn’t be that easy. So you just tried to convey what reassurance you could through your touch.

After another short while of silence Matt finally speaks again, his voice a whisper, barely audible over the sounds of the streets outside the window.

“Sometimes I- I think,” his breath trembles and his voice wavers. He sighs shakily as he tries to steady his voice. “Sometimes I think I have the devil in me” he whispers.

You feel his words tug at your heart again. You reach for his face, placing a hand on either cheek, turning his body towards yours where you were still sat next to him on the sofa. You hold him firmly but gently, but even then his head hangs low, avoiding your gaze.

“Matt...” you go to comfort him but he carries on, cutting you off. “I feel like have the devil inside me, and he’s getting too close to the surface. I’m afraid” he whispers the last two words, barely audible. “I’m afraid one day I’m gonna unleash him” he breathes.

He turns his head up to you at last. His eyes are glossy with barely contained tears. Pain and emotional turmoil is etched into every groove and curve of his face. You wish your fingers could brush away every semblance of pain that currently scarred his beautiful face.

His face suddenly cracks as a cry racks through him.

“Why?” He sniffs. “Why y/n? If I’m supposed to be God’s soldier, why did he put the devil inside me?” He chokes on a sob, barely finishing his sentence.

You didn’t think it was possible for your heart to ache like this. Every fibre of your being just wanted to wrap this man up and hide him away from this world that was so cruel. You wanted, needed, him to see himself the way you saw him. Not as a cursed vigilante, but as a good and loving man. The man who would end the world for you. The man who went above and beyond to protect complete strangers every night. The man who defended the innocent, even at great loss to himself. The man who loved with every ounce of his heart. The man who deserved to receive nothing but good in the world but was always burdened with the worst this world had to offer. The man who owned your heart and soul completely.

“Why? What have I become? I barely recognise myself, I don’t...."

You cut off his ramblings by pushing your mouth against his urgently, capturing his lips with your own. He groans into the kiss before he pulls back slightly.

“Y/n..."

But you just cut him off again, fervently pressing your mouth to his. You kiss him desperately, trying to convey your feelings through your lips as they move against his.

“You’re a good man Matt” you breathe into the kiss. “You’re a good man."

Something like a sob chokes out of him but you just swallow it, taking advantage of his open mouth by shoving your tongue against his softly. You kiss him with every ounce of passion and love that you can muster on your lips. Your hands are clinging to his neck desperately, pulling at the hair on his nape. You can taste the salt of his tears, the metallic tang of blood from his split lip, but you just swallow it all, revelling in the taste of him.

You can feel the reluctance in him; he remains stiff under your touch for a moment. But slowly, slowly, his hesitation starts to melt. He slowly but surely starts to kiss you back, his lips finding rhythm with your own. You push him down until he hits the backrest of the couch. Your lips never leave his as you swing your leg over to straddle him, your hips settling against his.

His shaking hands find their way to your hips, his trembling fingers ghosting over the skin of your bare thighs. You start to softly rock your hips against him, trying to tell him with your entire body just how much you love him, how much you cherish him. His hands slowly start to become a bit more sure as they find purchase on your hips, moving with you as you grind into his lap lightly.

“You’re a good man” you repeat as you move your lips across his jaw, working your way down to his neck. “This city doesn’t deserve you. These people don’t deserve you” you whisper between each kiss. “Your God doesn’t even deserve you.”

He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a sob at that.

You can tell he’s about to argue again but you quickly cover his mouth with your own again.

“You’re a good man” you push the words into his mouth, your teeth clashing roughly with his, his split lip leaking even more blood as you open up his mouth with your own.

“You’re a good man and I love you. I love you so much. Let me show you how much I love you. Please” you beg into his skin as your lips move down his neck again, nipping and biting at his skin gently.

You kiss up and down his throat until you find his lips again. His hands are squeezing and releasing your hips over and over again, mimicking his internal battle. The guilt and terror he feels after tonight, versus the want, the need, the craving, to give in to your touch.

He groans softly into the kiss again as you start to feel him harden beneath you, a tent growing in the crotch of his boxers. You’d stripped him down to just his underwear after he’d returned so you could bandage him up. You were only wearing one of his shirts and a thin pair of panties, so his growing erection was separated from your cunt only by the bare minimum of fabric.

You tug at his hair again, encouraging him to let go, to let you have him. He groans at the sensation as you twist your fingers tightly in his hair, pulling his head back slightly as you assault his throat with kisses. You bite at the skin before soothing over the mark with your tongue. This man was covered in so many scars, so many bruises. All of them a reminder of the pain and cruelty of this cursed city. You suck bruises fervently across his neck and collar bone. You wanted to leave marks on him that were a symbol of something else. You wanted to leave him with bruises as a reminder of pleasure rather than pain.

His hands gradually start to become more bold as he becomes more responsive to your touch. His hands slide up your thighs, moving under your shirt. His rough hands skim the curves of your waist and you shiver at the touch. His hands snake around your back, his palms laying flat against your shoulder blades, pushing you closer into him. His fingers curl and dig into your skin as he slowly starts to lose himself to you.

You moan in approval as his actions get bolder, his hips starting to grind against yours, his cock now fully hard where it remained trapped in his boxers beneath you. You sit up briefly, pulling the shirt over your head and tossing it to the floor. Matt’s leans forward, quick to recapture your lips. It’s now his mouth that opens up yours, his tongue sliding into your mouth as you rock in sync with each other. Your hands roam his chest, gradually making your way down towards his abdomen. You gently trace over each scar. The two that mirror his collarbones. The one that runs parallel to his left hip bone. You drag your fingers lower, scratching at his stomach, until you reach the waistband of his boxers.

You can feel a wet patch on your panties and knew there was a matching one on Matt’s boxers; a mixture of your arousal with his leaking pre-cum. He gasps sharply into your mouth as you dip your hand into his boxers, your fingers wrapping around his cock. His breathing is ragged again, his lips sloppy on yours as you begin to pump him, your thumb running over his slit, collecting the pre-cum and using it to help glide your hand across his length. You squeeze him gently, twisting your hand around his cock as you rub him languidly. You take your time with him, rubbing him slowly and deliberately, focusing on technique rather than speed.

He groans against your lips, his mouth hanging open in pleasure as you continue to sloppily kiss him, swallowing every sound he makes. His hips start to thrust up into your hand, a silent plea for you to go faster. You obey his request, increasing your speed the slightest amount. Sinful groans and grunts pass from his lips to yours.

Until you stop your movements, retreating your hand. He whimpers pathetically. You kiss him softly before standing up quickly, shucking off your panties and clambering back into his lap in the same breath.

“Shhh, I’ve got you baby. I got you” you murmur as you kiss him again.

His hands land on your legs, running up your thighs until he finds a hold on your hips again. One of your hands snakes around the back of his neck, scratching your nails over his scalp. Your other hand makes its way back into his boxers, pulling his swollen and leaking cock free. You pump a few times again before lifting up your hips, preparing to angle him inside you.

“Wait” he grips your wrist suddenly, stopping your hand in place. He pants heavily from the effort of restraint; “are you sure you still want me? This... this broken mess of a man.” His voice is thin and fragile, a hairline fracture away from shattering completely.

“Matt...” your voice breaks to match the feeling spearing through your heart. “Matty, I love you, no matter what” you kiss him fervently again. “You’re not broken. You’re just bruised from the burden that is this city. But you are a good man despite it all. You are whole, and you are beautiful” you sigh against his lips.

“Please” you plea, nuzzling your nose against his. “Let me take care of you baby. Let me make you feel good.”

He leans forward to press his forehead against yours. He sniffs again as he nods gently, quietly telling you to go on, his hand releasing your wrist. You kiss the tip of his nose before running the head of dick through your wet folds. You grind against his cock a few times, spreading your slick over him. A high pitched whine lodges in Matt’s throat as you finally angle him with your entrance, holding him steady as you sink your hips down onto him.

“Shit” he whispers almost inaudibly as you take him in to the hilt, letting him bottom out inside you.

“Shhh” you coo into his ear as you start to move your hips.

You rock against him, the warmth of you enveloping him. His arms wrap around your back again, his large palms flat against you. He moves to sit up, leaning forward into you. You can feel as he starts to lift his hips up into you, trying to fuck you himself. You place your hands on his shoulders and push him back down gently, forcing him back until he hit the sofa-back again. He whines his disapproval.

“Shh baby, I’m gonna take care of you. I got you” you promise as you slowly start your rhythm back up again.

You rock slowly against him, grinding yourself forwards and backwards in his lap. His hands move to settle on your waist, holding you but not guiding you, letting you set your own pace as you fuck him. You continue to mark him with bruises of pleasure all over his neck and chest. You can practically feel his deep groans rumbling through his chest as your lips travel across his skin. His pants get heavier as you keep working against him, building him to a slow climax.

“More” he chokes out. “Please, I need more” he begs you.

And you oblige. You increase your speed, now moving your hips to bounce up and down on his dick.

“Fuck, yes” he cries, voice cracking. “Yes, just like that.”

You can feel his hands tighten on your waist as he approaches his climax. You feel his body tense again beneath you, his body preparing for the immense pleasure that was about to roll through him. You kiss back up his neck until your face is level with his again.

“It’s okay baby, you’re safe here, let go” you coo into his ear as you feel his body shake under you, knowing he was close, right on the precipice.

“Let go baby” you repeat, whispering hotly against his neck, “I’ve got you.”

And he does. His fingers dig into your hips even harder, holding you in place as you ruts his hips sloppily against you; you allow it as he rides out his own high. His cock pulses as he spills inside you. He pushes his forehead up against yours, your breathes mixing hotly as he pants through his climax.

“I love you, I love you” he pants heavily, his voice cracking as he rides out his own orgasm inside you, his thrusts causing his cum to leak out of you, spilling onto your thighs and into Matt’s lap.

“I love you too” you whisper as you rock against him a few more times, slowing your pace gradually as you feel him start to soften inside you.

You both sit panting only for a second when Matt squeezes your hips again.

“Shit” he curses quietly. “Baby, you didn’t... you didn’t...” he chokes through his heavy breathing.

“Shhh” you cut him off, knowing what he was getting at. “It’s okay. I just wanted to make you feel better, Matty. I need you to believe that you’re good man, they way I do” you murmur as you return to kissing his neck yet again.

You kiss the underside of his jaw softly, tasting the mixture of sweat and tears where they had rolled down his face. You can feel the tension sitting in his jaw. You kiss it tenderly, hoping that your lips could draw the tension out, alleviate him of it somehow. You feel him shake his head softly. He angles his head down and to the side, nudging your forehead with his, lifting your head to face him again. He again pushes forwards and bumps your nose with his.

“I think I’d feel a bit better if I made you feel good” he mumbles against your lips as he leans forward to kiss you again. “Good men always make sure to get their girls off” he hums against you.

A broad smile breaks over your face. Not at the promise of Matt pleasuring you, but at the small glimpse into the Matt you knew and loved. Confidence layered with the tiniest bit of cheekiness; it was practically his signature. He was finally returning to himself and your entire body warmed at the prospect.

“Will you let me make you feel good sweetheart? Make you feel good like you just did for me?"

It was his turn to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbones. You moan and arch your back, your head thrown back as his lips make their way down your chest, biting your skin softly. He places a kiss in the valley between your breasts before suddenly flipping you over so you were laying down on the sofa beneath him, a quiet squeak of surprise leaving your lips. He pulls his now softened cock out of you as he shifts slightly down the sofa. You whimper at the loss of contact, feeling his cum seep out of you and paint the back of your thighs.

Matt is quick to return his lips to your body, kissing his way down your stomach, leaving hickeys in his wake. He eventually reaches your pelvic bone, kissing the top of your folds. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, your finger twisting through the soft strands.

But then he hesitates. His face hovering in place just above your aching pussy.

“Tell me again,” he whispers against your pelvis. “Please.”

You look down at him in confusion, your hand moving from his hair to stroke his face.

“Tell me... that I’m good” his voice cracks as it fans over your waiting cunt.

You moan softly at his words, your hand on his face moving to brush away the lone tear that escaped his eye.

“You’re good Matty. You’re a good man” you whisper.

He smiles softly, titling his head to kiss the palm of your hand. A second later his tongue is licking a slow stripe up through your folds. You immediately arch up into his touch, your head going back again, your hand returning to his hair. He licks up you several times, dragging his tongue slowly and deliberately over your entrance and then up and past your clit. You know he can taste himself on you, leaking out of your entrance, his tongue spreading his own release all over your needy pussy. You moan loudly as he finally flattens his tongue against your clit.

You curse quietly as your hips buck against his mouth. His tongue moves expertly, the exact way he knew you liked it. Now you could hear his silent communication; you could feel what he was trying to convey through his body. I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’ll be good for you. I’ll try.

You almost feel a tear prick in your own eyes as he builds a pleasure like the sun inside you, burning deep and hot inside your core.

“Fuck, you’re so good Matty” you cry. “Such a good boy, you’re making me feel amazing” you twist your grip in his hair for emphasis.

He groans against your clit, the vibrations pulsing pleasure into all corners of your body. The praise spurs him on, his tongue moving faster against your clit as he laps and sucks at you.

“Mmm, making me feel so good Matt” you pant. “I’m close."

He groans against you again. You then feel two of his fingers push past your entrance. You gasp loudly as they sink inside you, right up to the knuckle. Matt pumps and curls his fingers inside you expertly, taking no time to find that sweet spot inside you and hit it with each pump of his hand.

“Oh fuck, Matty...” you choke with a broken voice as he sends you over the edge, tipping you into orgasm.

Your whole body shakes, pleasure rolling through you as your pussy clenches over his fingers which continue to pump you through your climax. But it was more than just pleasure that surged through you. It was relief. Relief that Matt had found his way back to you, to himself. At least for now, but you’d take it.

You cup his face as he kisses back up your body again and you moan when his lips connect with yours. You can taste both of your releases on his tongue. He settles on top of you on the sofa, bringing one of his hands up to brush the hair out of your face, his fingers tracing over your features gently, mapping out the shape of your face. His finger traces over your lips as they hang open with your heavy breathing. His finger travels lower, down your chin, dragging your bottom lip down as he goes. His hand eventually finds it’s way to your neck, his finger wrapping around your throat. His touch is gentle, his hand just resting over your throat. You knew what he was doing. He was feeling your pulse, using it to centre and ground himself.

“Thank you” he whispers. “For everything."

You just shake your head lightly.

“I love you” he whispers as his lips find yours again.

You run your thumbs over his still damp cheeks where your hands held his face. I love you too you tell him with your kiss.

Masterlist

A/N: okay okay I know my angst writing probably isn’t the best but I tried lmao, I hope you guys still liked this!!🙈🥺🖤

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[pockydays]

unravel me

⤷ characters: tsukishima x gn!reader

⤷ synopsis: in which you notice tsukishima struggling to peel the tape off his fingers during study hall. what you didn’t notice, however, was how much he had the ability to find his way into every aspect of your life, until it was too late.

⤷ word count: 6.3k (longest fic to date woohoo!)

⤷ contains: fluff, slight angst, acquaintances to friends to lovers (?), mild language, my (insanely) wordy writing

⤷ a/n: i’m not even lying this took me weeks to write and it’s my baby :] most of the dialogue in this is probably hot shit but if you enjoyed please leave a like/reblog :3: mwah mwah ily all thank you for being patient with my slow ass <3 and thank you to my dear friend abby for beta reading the first chunk of this story, if you read this ily <3

You've always considered yourself as someone who wasn't especially generous. But you weren’t incredibly selfish, either. You were in some sort of grey area, too indifferent to care about what society says about people who aren't willing to go so far as to sell their souls to the devil for the common good. But you weren't heartless, either. You cared, usually out of mutual convenience. Isn't that what everyone does? Ninety-nine percent of the time, helping others (undeniably) involves genuinely good intentions, but they coexist with selfish motives as well. Then what about that one percent?

That one percent, in fact, came to you in the most inconspicuous of times: during mid-day study hall.

You found yourself going through the motions of your everyday routine: walking into the classroom, saying hi to your friend in the third row, putting your bag on the desk, pulling out your chair, sitting down, taking out your notebook and pencils, and waiting for approximately thirty-nine seconds until a (supposedly attractive, or at least according to whispers among your female classmates, which was bold of them to assume that he even liked girls in that way — you weren’t one to burst their bubbles) tall blond guy with glasses walked through the door, and greet him with a nonchalant "hey" and a wave.

And after that, if he responded with a slightly snarkier tone than usual, you knew he was having an especially bad day (more likely than not, it was because of the volleyball teammates he often complained about). But as for the real reason why, your guess was as good as anybody else's. He probably had piss in his Cheerios every morning and his trousers in a twist until the end of time for all you knew.

But today was slightly different than usual. For one, a full minute had already passed after you took out your pencils and yesterday’s chemistry notes, and there was still no sign of him. For some unknown reason, you couldn't stop the worry gnawing its way into your conscience. You rested your chin in one hand and drummed your fingers on the desk with the other, trying not to think about your classmate with a sharp tongue and a glare that could kill. Of course, trying to not think about something is a form of thinking about it, so that didn’t exactly work out.

The bell suddenly rang, jolting you out of your thoughts as well as your seat. Tsukishima Kei was now officially late, according to the school rules. Thankfully, your study hall advisor was lenient and understanding enough to not mark anybody late if they arrived within a reasonable time as to not tarnish their transcript, but you knew Tsukishima well enough to know that he wouldn’t care about a single unsavory comment that would only have the slightest potential to alarm admissions officers in those money-hungry institutions.

That was one thing you admired about your classmate. His ability to judge what things to put his effort into and selectively choose what he could get away with doing half-assed was unparalleled. As far as you could tell, volleyball was something he didn’t deem as worthy to put his all into. You weren’t usually wrong in such judgements about people, but then again, you’d only been right, let’s say, a total of three out of three times. You weren’t sure if it was considered a really good or really bad track record, so you’d always kept those sort of assumptions to yourself.

“Not going to say hi to me today? That’s awfully rude of you,” a voice said, out of the blue. You tense, wondering who had the audacity to call you rude.

“What?” you asked incredulously before you could realize where the voice came from. “Oh, it’s you,” you said, recognizing his inhumanly tall frame and the pair of white headphones around his neck. I should’ve guessed; of course only he’s brash enough to say something like that. 

You rested your chin in your hands again, the tension in your body visibly dissipating. You were glad that it was just Tsukishima and not some other person, because they would be a pain in the ass to deal with. Plus, he was just about the only person you allowed to speak without a filter; one, because it’s fun verbally sparring with him, and two, it makes his stunned silence after you counter with an especially witty phrase all the more satisfying.

This time, though, he sat down at the desk to your left without a word. Usually, he would never pass up the chance to have another round of firing tasteful insults at you. Today was indeed slightly different than usual. 

As he clicked the top of his mechanical pencil, you couldn’t help but notice a flash of white one his hands out of the corner of your eye. Did he always have that on his hands or was I just horribly unobservant before?

Leaning over to his seat at a dangerous angle, you asked, “Hey, what’s up with your fingers? You have leprosy or something?” in hopes of lightening his supposedly gloomy mood.

“Shut up,” he muttered irritably. “If I had leprosy, my fingers would’ve fallen off by now and I would’ve put one in your lunch as a keepsake,” he added. Shifting away from you in his chair, he tried as much as possible to make his (in your opinion, unconventionally lanky) body as far away as possible from your general vicinity.

“Okay, okay, geez! At least tell me, because now I’m curious and it’s all your fault.”

“If I tell you, will you stop bothering me?” he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Maaybee...?” you replied slowly, trying to find an answer when a simple “yes” or “no” didn’t suffice.

“If you’re not going to stop bothering me, then I don’t have a reason to tell you, so no,” he frowned, crossing his arms self-righteously.

“Alright then, keep your secrets, mister. I don’t care whether you tell me or not.” Which wasn’t completely the truth, since some tiny part of your conscience thought that wrestling the answer from him was for the better. “But just know that I’ll continue to be my annoying self, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With that, you turned your attention back to your chemistry notes.

A few silent minutes passed before you leaned back over to his desk on the left.

“Hey mister, do you have some pencil lead? I think I ran out,” you whispered to Tsukishima.

He heaved what you thought was the biggest sigh in the universe before responding, “Point-five or point-seven?”

“Tsukishima, you wound me! I thought you knew that I write exclusively in point-five!” you exclaimed with a hand over your chest, feigning offense. 

He rolled his eyes, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw him count out three pieces of lead. Three, that’s generous, you think to yourself as you suppress a small smile.

“Thanks, mister,” you whispered as you plucked the delicate sticks of graphite from his fingers. Taking a quick glance at his hands, you noticed that his fingers were wrapped in some sort of adhesive tape. Before Tsukishima could catch you looking for too long and make some snarky remark about how absolutely positively beautiful his hands were for you to be staring, you abruptly turn back to your notes and refill your (actually already lead-filled) pencil. If he wouldn’t answer your question, it wouldn’t hurt to take things into your own hands and figure it out for yourself, right? 

You looked back to the notebook in front of you, but with your curiousity still unsatiated, you couldn’t help the thoughts bouncing off the walls of your mind, competing for your undivided attention.

Ask him about it! a voice yelled.

Mind your own business, you creepy fuck! another (particularly foul-mouthed) one screamed.

At this point, you’d probably read the first line of your notebook about thirty times without comprehending a single thing, so you decided to give up and resort to banging your head lightly on your desk.

Apparently, 'lightly’ was an understatement, because a voice on your left hissed, “What’s your problem?!”

Oops.

“Nothing,” you replied softly with your head still on the desk.

Tsukishima sighed in exasperation. “Well, now I’m curious and it’s all your fault,” he scoffed, using your own words from earlier.

Now it was your turn to sigh. Stubborn person number one meets equally stubborn person number two: one of life’s most aggravating experiences. 

“C’mon, let me see your hands,” you demanded, your own hand outstretched. You’ll say ‘no’ no matter what I ask.

“No.” Tsukishima pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and turned away.

Point proven.

You had always considered yourself to be somewhat generous when circumstances permitted, yes. But being yourself around others was something you considered yourself to be quite good at, as well.

Sometimes you imagined what it would be like if people’s hearts had metaphorical layers of thread surrounding them, winding, twisting, wrapping, and sometimes tangling around and around the ugliest, scariest, or most precious parts of themselves. The people you met would either unravel a bit of your heart, even if just a little bit, or they would cause you to wind the threads of your heartstrings even more tightly. 

You had strings that were (sometimes laughably) effortless to unwind, but once someone got to the last layer of thread, they refused to unravel any further. In other words, you weren’t afraid to be ninety-nine percent yourself around everybody. But that one percent? You’d keep it safely tucked away behind the impenetrable fortress of that last previous layer of thread — for both the good of yourself and everyone else.

Sometimes, you also wondered what the threads wrapping around Tsukishima’s heart was like. Not because you particularly had more of an interest in him than your other classmates, but because he was a sort of enigma to you. You had countless questions: How hard is it to unravel those threads? and What lies beyond those tightly wound strings? and What did he have to hide that is so unsightly? et cetera, et cetera. He was a puzzle you wanted to piece together, although you weren’t sure what the finished product would look like, or if there even was a finished product. 

You had a lot more questions about Tsukishima than you did answers.

You must’ve been deep in thought for a while, because it took an utterance of some rather coarse language to bring you back to reality.

“Fuck,” Tsukishima muttered, fiddling with the tape covering his fingers. It was evident, after about ten seconds of observing him, that he was getting nowhere. At this point, you were presented with two choices: to help him or to leave him to wallow in his own frustration and suffer. Admittedly, the latter option seemed rather entertaining, but for some unknown reason, you opted for the former.

“Here, let me help,” you said, hand extending in front of you as an offer. “You obviously aren’t getting anywhere, so let me put you out of your misery.”

“You better get it all off then,” he grumbled, outstretching his arm, letting it limply dangle in front of your face. Huh, I didn’t expect him to actually agree so easily.

You gently took his hand, and starting with his pinky finger, you worked your nails under the end of the tape. As the tape unraveled further, you couldn’t help but notice how elegant his hands were. They were long and slender in ways that yours weren’t — the magnum opus of all things relating to hands. If God played favorites, he certainly did when it came to Tsukishima’s hands. Geez, knock it off, you cringed inwardly. You’re literally worshipping his hands at this point.

“So, uh, why are your fingers covered in tape?” You hoped to break the awkward silence between the two of you, and asking him questions that he probably wouldn’t answer (especially to plebeians like you) seemed like the last resort.

“Volleyball practice,” he responded simply. 

Oh. I didn’t expect an actual response.

“This morning? You guys sometimes have practice early in the day, right?”

“Last evening,” he corrected.

“You had these on your hands for that long?! I see you’re finally getting serious about volleyball, my dude, but you have to be able to ask other people for help." People other than me, but if I’m your last resort, then I’d be happily obliged to help.

Tsukishima scowled, which, thankfully, you missed, busy undoing the tape around his fingers. At least you didn’t criticize him for being hypocritical regarding his attitude about volleyball, which was relieving. 

There was a substantial (and slightly awkward) pause as you peeled the white adhesive strip of cloth off of his fingers, working slowly enough so that it wouldn’t hurt, or so you hoped.

“There we go!” you exclaimed proudly as the last of the tape fell away from his fingers. He wiggled them experimentally, not unlike a newly hatched butterfly would flap its fresh new pair of wings. 

“Thanks,” he responded curtly. 

As if on cue, the bell rang, marking the end of study hall. It was time for chemistry class.

Over the course of your next class, your mind with occupied with thoughts that weren’t even remotely related to chemistry. You almost had a close call with the teacher when he called on you to answer a question, but thankfully, your friend sitting next to you whispered the answer in your ear — though not before giving you a quizzical look. You were too embarrassed to say that you were actually thinking about why the hell you actually agreed to help the guy sitting the next seat over whom you should have absolutely nothing to do with.

I did not just touch his hands no no no — I did not just hold hands with Tsukishima Kei — It wasn’t really of my own volition and he looked like he really needed help and I was feeling generous and it conveniently benefited the both of us, right? He got to finally be free from his misery and I— I got to touch his hands—

Your thoughts spiraled out of control as you buried your face in your hands, and perhaps some of the threads around your heart unraveled themselves that day.

Thus, after that day, your everyday routine changed in more ways than one. You would into the classroom, say hi to your friend in the third row, put your bag on the desk, pull out your chair, sit down, take out your notebook and pencils, and wait for approximately thirty-nine seconds until a tall blond guy with glasses walked through the door, and greet him with a nonchalant "hey" and a wave. If he still had tape around his fingers (which was quite often), you’d ask him if he needed help; he’d say yes, and you would spend the next however many minutes undoing the adhesive strips of cloth.

Today was no different. You carefully eased the tape away from Tsukishima’s fingers. When you got to the base of his ring finger, he hissed in pain. The skin there was red and raw as if it had been recently injured. Not as if, it had been.

“Sorry,” you whispered, wincing as if you were the one in pain. “How’d you get hurt?” This time, you were genuinely concerned for him, which was rare for anyone, especially him.

“The one time I put some more effort into volleyball as if it were actually worth something, it comes back to bite me,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

You looked up from his hand. 

“What?”

“I said, somehow I always give the things that I swear off from my life a second chance, it never, ever, works out,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you can’t get better out of sheer will? You’re bound to slip and fall on your butt at least a few times. Or a lot,” you responded. 

“Nobody told me that falling would hurt this much, though,” he replied. He looked off to the side, too embarrassed to meet your gaze.

“It’ll get better, trust me. You just have to get back off your ass and stand up.”

You left the conversation at that and continued undoing the tape on his other hand. 

I want to kiss his hands like I’m greeting the crown prince of a foreign kingdom, you thought, lips twitching, fighting back a small smile.

Oh my God, stop it! you mentally slapped yourself. You had to restrain yourself from actually slapping yourself in the face. Meanwhile, the uniform you wore began to feel a bit too warm — it was quite convenient that Tsukishima couldn’t see your face at that moment.

Unbeknownst to you, however, Tsukishima's thoughts weren’t nearly as calm as his cool and collected exterior. 

After all, what was he supposed to do when he could feel your breath fanning on his hands (could he tell you were desperately trying to keep them steady?) and your meticulous fingers on his?

I must be going crazy, he thought.

He imagines holding your hand, and not because of that dumb finger tape-

He shook his head, as if to dislodge the idea from his memory. No, I’m definitely going crazy.

“So, do you like him or something?” your best friend asked out of the blue during a sleepover, the both of you laying in the darkness on your sleeping bags.

“Who?” you asked, though you had an idea of who she was referring to. 

“Tsukishima. That guy who sits to your left during study hall.”

“No, why would I like him? I mean, how can you even tell if you like someone or not. It’s not like there’s a radar that detects crushes and blasts ‘OH MY GOD YOU’RE HOPELESSLY IN LOVE’ on speaker,“ you replied dryly.

“Do you feel different around him?” she asked.

“As in the cliché symptoms of love that you read in romance novels? Like you feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and you have to clutch your shirt like it’s gonna pop out onto the floor if you don’t? If that’s what you’re asking, then no.”

“I mean that could be a sign, but you don’t have to feel like that to like someone. I mean in the way that you’re willing to show them who you really are, including all the ugly parts of yourself that you wouldn’t show to other people.”

Of course not! you thought to yourself. There’s no way I would fall in love with someone that I argue with for fun, right? 

“Why do you always complain about those tryhards on your volleyball team? You can always quit, you know,” you asked after Tsukishima was in a particularly bad mood about something, presumably about volleyball (as it usually was). As per your daily schedule, you were unraveling his finger tape during study hall once again.

“Don’t they know that the more effort they put into something, the more it’ll hurt when they find out everything they believe in is a lie?” he asked.

You paused. Oh, it was an a genuine question, you realized. And he wants a genuine answer.

“Such as?” you asked, your mouth acting quicker than your mind. I probably shouldn’t have pried deeper into something that’s obviously his business.

He went ahead and responded anyway, but not before taking a deep breath.

“When I was little,” he began, “I looked up to my older brother a lot. I really respected him, you know? He was my idol; he was perfect and infallible in every way. He played volleyball in junior high, so it was only natural that I played the same sport he did. And he continued playing throughout high school, or so I thought.”

“Or so you thought?” you repeated.

“He lied to me.” With those four words, you heard years and years of resentment and bitterness through his shaking voice, barely above a whisper. 

“To be honest, I should’ve expected it,” he continued, laughing humorlessly at himself. “I was too enamored to realize that when he was trying to stop me from watching his games, he was also trying to stop me from finding out that he was a liar. He wasn’t even a starting player. Instead he was on the bench, cheering for the team he was supposedly on.”

As those words left his mouth, you realized how little you understood Tsukishima. No, it was honestly ridiculous how you could consider yourself his friend when all you did was unwind strips of tape from his fingers for a mere few minutes every day.

Despite that, you held his hands a little tighter.

“If you don’t mind, I had a similar experience in junior high as well. This girl that I was really close friends with apparently had a huge circle of friends outside of school, and she would tell me and my other friends about all the rich guy friends she had and how well they treated her and shit. But I found out years later that they were probably all made up so that she could have something to tell us. So that she could keep us in her friend group. I realized they were fake.”

You let go of his hands, your arms limp at the memory.

“And how are you two right now?” Tsukishima asked. “Your relationship, I mean.”

“Surprisingly, we’re still on good terms,” you said. “She still doesn’t know I found out. But despite her pretending to be someone else in front of us for all those years, I still don’t think she’s a bad person. I’m actually kinda glad she got the attention she wanted. But man, the past still hurts like a bitch,” you chuckled in an attempt to forget.

“I see,” he replied. With that, you picked up his hand once again, continuing to undo the tape around the rest of his fingers.

That day, both you and the once unyielding, stone-faced Tsukishima left the classroom knowing just a bit more about each other.

You didn’t know that day that Tsukishima had his first real conversation with his brother after ‘the incident’.

He didn’t know you gave that friend from junior high a call for the first time in two years.

And the threads around your hearts unwound themselves just a bit more.

“No, I don’t,” you finally responded after a long pause. “I don’t like him in that way. He’s just someone I can rant to about the shit that happened in junior high—”

“Say that again, but slower,” your friend interrupted.

“He’s someone that I can rant to about all the... stuff that happened in the past,” you repeated. Did she not hear me the first time?

“Exactly, that’s my point,” she responded. “You never talk about those things with anybody, and even when I bring it up, you just brush over it.”

The weight of what your friend was implying took far too long for your brain to register, but when it did—

“Oh shit, I think I might actually like Tsukishima.”

It was in the classroom of your mid-day study hall where Tsukishima Kei stole your heart bit by bit through the conversations you had with him while unraveling his finger tape; it was where you opened your heart and he opened his. 

“You and Tsukishima aren’t a thing, right?” a voice asked you out of the blue in the hallway after the dismissal bell rang.

“What?” you asked, turning your head to see who it was. You recognized her, although you struggled to put a name to her face. “You sit in the back of our study hall classroom, right? And to answer your question, no, we are not a thing.” 

Such questions were becoming all the more frequent these days, and you had the same two-letter answer to all of them (although you secretly hoped you could answer yes, but how Tsukishima felt about you was a whole different story).

“Yeah, I do. But are you sure you two aren’t dating? Like you could just be going out with him and not know it,” she answered.

You held back a snort that almost escaped your lips. 

“No, I’m sure we aren’t,” you said with a sigh, trying to keep your tone remotely cordial. “Besides, I’m not sure if he even considers me as a friend.”

“Oh, I’m sure he considers you as more than that,” she replied with a tone you couldn’t quite decipher. “Trust me.”

You barely knew her, so you couldn’t say how credible her statement was (though you desperately wanted it to be true). You glanced at the clock, itching to end the conversation.

“Alright, then. I’ll take your word for it. I have to get home now though, seeya.”

“Seeya around then,” she replied with a wave. Why does that sound strangely ominous?

“Bye,” you answered, too mentally drained from the conversations that began with the same question: ”Oh my God are you dating Tsukishima?” (Answer: no, no you weren’t). Nonetheless, you couldn’t ignore the nagging voice in your head that you haven’t seen the last of her just yet.

She appeared the very next day, in the same spot at the hallway after school ended. That’s... strange.

You decided to ignore how off-putting it was. Maybe it was her wide smile — so much so that you could see her dimples and her blinding white teeth. Or maybe it was the way she spoke, like she was trying to get something from you. Whatever it was, you didn’t have what she wanted.

“If you’re asking whether Tsukishima and I became a thing within the past twenty-four hours, then no,” you said in exasperation. She was now walking by your side with an odd spring in her step, a bit too close for comfort despite the empty hallway.

“No, that wasn’t my question,” she said with a chuckle. “You keep denying that Tsukishima doesn’t like you, but I think he does.”

You had to scoff at that.

“In what way?” 

“In that way,” she responded with a knowing glance. “You’re already in the talking stage with him! He never talks to anyone other than that one friend he has, so I’d say you’re off to a good start.”

“And that totally means that he’s in love with me.”

“Please, don’t lie to yourself. You’ve gotten farther than anybody has, even if they tried for their entire life. How did you do it?”

But I didn’t do anything, you thought. 

“I just talked to him about stuff,” you replied slowly. The look she gave you said go on, so you did. 

“I just talked to him about myself and deep stuff and shi— and such. I really didn’t do much, so I’m probably not the best person to ask. Why don’t you try and ask his friend Yamaguchi?”

“No, I think I’m good,” she said with an unreadable tone. “Well I gotta go, so see you tomorrow!”

“....Bye,” you replied halfheartedly. You tried to shake the unsettling feeling from your chest, but you couldn’t help thinking, What if he does like me back?

The volleyball made a resounding smack against the court behind the middle blocker instead of his hands. Tsukishima clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. Another ball that I couldn’t block?

“Hey, use your smartass head for once and pay attention!” Kageyama yelled across the court.

Tsukishima ignored his taunts. 

“Oh, the smart mouth finally doesn’t have any words left to say? Finally some peace and quiet,” Kageyama muttered. 

Practice continued for far too long, but the whistle finally blew, signaling everyone that it was time to go home. Finally, Tsukishima thought. I don’t have to listen to the King spew nonsense anymore.

He and Yamaguchi gathered their belongings and made their way out of the gym.

“Something’s on your mind,” Yamaguchi commented as they walked back home side by side.

“No there isn’t,” Tsukishima replied a bit too quickly to sound convincing.

“Right.”

A long silence ensued, the two of them kicking pebbles on the road and twiddling their thumbs in the cool night air. The buzz of the electric street lamps felt much too loud, feeding off the tension in the air. 

“How can you tell that you like someone?” Tsukishima was the first to break the silence, but it was the question, not the fact that he was the one that spoke first, that was more jarring.

“So I was right,” Yamaguchi responded after a slight pause. He fought back a small smile and added, “I thought something bad happened that I didn’t know about, but it turns out that you’re just in love.”

The taller one of the two sighed. 

“I’m asking you to tell me if I... like someone in that way, not for you to tell me that I am, Tadashi.”

“I can’t make a judgement if you don’t tell me anything. Tell me.” Yamaguchi lightly punched his friends arm.

“There’s this... classmate of mine. They asked if I needed help peeling off my finger tape during study hall and I said yes.”

“I figured as such.”

“What?” 

“You always come into first period with your fingers still wrapped but it’s gone by the time practice starts. I always wondered why but I never got around to asking you. But I’m even more surprised at the fact that you actually agreed.”

“Yeah, I surprise even myself sometimes,” Tsukishima deadpanned. “Especially the fact that it would become something that they would ask pretty much every day, and I would say yes every time. I just don’t know whether I have feelings for them in that way or not.”

“Well, do you look forward to talking to them everyday?” Yamaguchi asked.

Yes.

“Do you want them to know you for who you really are instead of what people think you are?”

Yes.

“Does your mind wander to them all the time?”

Yes.

“If you flipped a coin to decide whether you do like them or not, would your gut tell you the answer before you looked at whether it landed on head or tails?” 

Yes, Tsukishima answered silently, knowing he’d finally have to accept the truth: he was in love and there was nothing he could do about it.

One thing you didn’t know about having a crush on someone was that you suddenly realize how often they appear in your life. You knew where you’d cross paths with him in the hallway before and after school, where his locker was, and worst of all, every goddamn love song reminded you of him. 

Even all the little mannerisms people had circled back to him: your friend would push her glasses up her nose the same way he did. Your mother would furrow her eyebrows like him when he was thinking about a particularly annoying math problem. Your English teacher would spin a pen between his fingers, just like him (although you had to admit that you preferred watching the latter do so; his hands were prettier). 

Maybe this was just some twisted manifestation of the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon, but your brain couldn’t recall enough content from psychology class to be sure. Either way, you were going insane.

That is, until one rather unremarkable day; there was nothing out of the ordinary. Everything came and went according to schedule — the same time spent with Tsukishima during study hall and the same boring class lectures. But as soon as the dismissal bell rang, you were surprised to find that the girl who would pester you in the hallway asking about you and Tsukishima’s relationship status (you still didn’t know her name) as if anything had changed (which it had not, of course). 

Apparently, her presence had already become routine enough for you to notice her absence. 

It was a welcome change, though; it wasn’t like you wanted her to be around. No, you absolutely didn’t need her nosy questions. So you just shrugged it off and made your way to the school’s exit like you normally did.

But a very familiar voice from a nearby classroom made your ears perk up — coincidentally, from your study hall classroom. You peered into the room from the doorway.

“Um, I think I like you, Tsukishima! I’ve felt this way for a long time and I just had to tell you!” The same boisterous girl who only had one topic of conversation with you (Tsukishima, of course) now had her hands coyly clasped behind her back, in all likelihood holding something meant for him.

As soon as you heard those words leave her mouth, the world around you seemingly ground to a halt — and so did you. As if your body stopped functioning for a moment, your heart stopped and your brain took much too long to process what she said. 

What did it matter anyway? You didn’t take your chance and look where that got you.

You turned on your heel and half-walked half-ran outside the school.

The second thing you didn’t realize about having a crush on someone, you realized as you laid in the darkness in the middle of the night, is that it physically hurts. Someone might as well have put your heart in a jar of acid and screwed the lid shut — no matter how hard you tried, it still hurt. And hurt it did.

You felt a stray tear slide down your cheek, and you angrily punched your pillow. You didn’t even have the emotional capacity to be angry at the girl who confessed to him. It was too obvious that she liked him, from the way she would stand a bit straighter when you mentioned Tsukishima’s name to the way she seemed a bit too satisfied when you said that you weren’t dating him. Were you too much of an idiot to notice? 

But most importantly, you were angry at yourself. Why were you crying over someone who you knew wouldn’t like you in the way that you liked him? Maybe you were too much of an idiot to not think things through; you’d just assumed that your feelings for him were so intense that he had to like you back. In retrospect, that was a stupid idea. But then again, in retrospect, you were the idiot all along.

It was in the classroom of your mid-day study hall where Tsukishima Kei stole your heart. It was in the same classroom where you got your heart broken for the first time.

The most annoying thing about the universe was that it was ruthlessly, unrelentingly cruel. The earth kept spinning even if your world stopped mid-orbit, too traumatized by loss to continue. 

This was the brutal irony that you came to realize in the classroom where it all began and ended, supposedly. The very next morning, you had to pick your sorry self out of bed after however many hours of sleep you were able to get and go to school. And now half the school day had gone by — it was study hall time once again. 

“Are you gonna help me get this off my fingers or not?” The voice that you wanted so desperately to get out of your mind after months of replaying in your head plagued you once again. Indeed, the universe was cruel.

“No,” you replied meekly with your head on the desk. “It’s been long enough for you to know how to do it yourself by now.”

“I insist.”

You hesitated. A second passed, then two.

“Fine.”

Ever since you realized your feelings for the other boy with a cold stare and an even icier glare, you couldn’t help but be hyper aware of yourself, and today was no different.

You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Could he? (It wasn’t that obvious, was it?)

You could feel yourself getting warmer by the second. Could he tell? (You were too busy looking at his hands; so let’s hope not.)

You knew that your heart was tugging you in his direction, urging you to do something. Was his doing the same? (You scoffed at yourself — you went over this last night and came to the conclusion that no, there was no way he could ever like you back.)

But maybe you wanted to be wrong this time. Being proven wrong wasn’t something you particularly enjoyed, but you would rather take the pessimistic point of view in this circumstance so you wouldn’t get hurt. And yet you still got your heart broken. 

That didn’t stop your erratic heartbeat and staggered breaths whenever your fingers brushed over his, though. While slowly unwinding the tape down his fingers, you wondered how many threads he unwound from your heart for it to hurt so much when it broke. Too many for your emotions to be left undamaged by something like this, you reckoned. Not that it was his fault, of course. It was your own for becoming so naïve and vulnerable.

But, the universe was full of irony. While you had your head down, too embarrassed and dejected to say anything else, Tsukishima was thanking whatever gods existed that you couldn’t see how flustered he was. 

Turns out, even people with hearts of stone can fall prey to the symptoms of falling in love. With a million thoughts collectively running through your minds, he was the first to blurt out:

“I think I’m in love.”

You let go of his hands, the loose end of the tape still dangling. There were too many questions raised at the utterance of a single sentence: With whom? When? How? Why?

Before you could organize your thoughts and form a coherent sentence — as if he could read your mind and peer into your soul — Tsukishima answered:

“With you.”

And as soon as the last two words fell from his lips, the last of the threads surrounding your worn, beaten hearts unraveled themselves, and fell away.

[emeraldblossom254]

A worthy sacrifice

Prompt: “whilst defending Thoma from having his Vision taken by the Shogun, y/n gives up hers in his place, losing all her former memories including those of Kazuha and her relationship with him”

(Note! Replace the given name (EEVIE) with Y/n if you’d like to read this with self insert)

Genre: Angst

Setting: back at the resistance camp after her Vision was taken from her

—“You…won’t get away with this”—

“You won’t get away from the Decree, pest,” the Electro Archon yelled from the wooden stage in front of the statue - she was a tall woman, donning nothing but purple, and she sneered in anger as her hand that was once held outward, jolted in front of her face. “Your punishment starts now!”

As the woman spoke, Eevie was lifted with an invisible force, her eyes screwed shut from all the agonizing pain she had endured a few moments before.

Her eyes shot open as she felt the force come to an immediate stop, her body hovering directly in front of the seething woman. She gasped for air sharply, as she was now mere inches away from the woman’s body, a dark aura surrounding the two of them. The woman then snapped her focus to Eevie’s waist, where the glow of her Dendro Vision slightly dangled from her belt. With a single movement, the woman reached with her other hand, using her abilities and taking the Vision from the ropes where it was tied to Eevie’s waist, as she gazed at the fox hybrid with a cold look in her eyes.

“You,” Eevie tried to breathe as she spoke, gasping for the air the pressure refused to give. “You won’t get away with this…!”

She struggled to breathe the more she spoke, the pressure getting worse and worse on her throat. Her tail thrashed violently as she attempted to breathe properly, though it was of hardly any use. The Shogun only veered her eyes from the Vision in her hands to pierce Eevie with her stare.

“But you see, pesky fox,” the Archon spoke coldly as she raised her hand up, the same one that controlled the energy that suspended Eevie above the ground. Eevie started to rise up higher above the ground, people in the crowd gasping in shock and fear at the sight.

Eevie attempted to keep her breathing steady, panic kicking in very quickly, as the cold-hearted woman continued, “I already have-”

With a flick of her hand, Eevie was sent flying toward the ground, with no time to brace for the impact. Thoma had broken free from the ropes binding his hands at the same time, allowing him to race forward and catch her. Eevie collided with him, finally, causing him to fall backwards onto the ground, while still holding Eevie in his arms.

“Eevie?!” Thoma spoke, startled, shaking her unconscious body in his arms. Her silence - and unresponsive, unmoving state - was all he needed, before he looked up, watching as the Archon was walking towards them, a sharp, glowing katana in her hands.

Placing his right arm under Eevie’s legs, Thoma rose up on his feet, glaring angrily at the woman before them, the look in her eyes cold, deadly, like that of a snake.

Thoma took no time at all, bolting for the edge of the rock, leaping with a small grunt as he clutched onto Eevie, making sure not to harm her as he landed, running away from the crowd, from the woman, from everything. “We need to get you to that resistance camp,” he said, despite knowing she wouldn’t hear, as he ran, his legs barely letting up speed as he jumped through cracks of rocks and over steep cliffs to reach the beaches.

It wasn’t long before he spotted a vacant, bare boat with nobody around it. Placing Eevie inside, he hurriedly pushes the boat, jumping inside and grabbing the boat’s paddle, before taking a deep, tired breath.

“Don’t worry, Eevie, you’ll be okay. Just hold on a little longer..”

—“Who am I? You don’t remember me…?”—

Meanwhile, a young male dressed in red, gold, white, brown, and black sat under a big tree close by the cliffside. His hair was white as snow, with a crimson-red streak in it, and he donned bandages wrapped around his left hand, reaching up his forearm, the ends of the tape hidden within his onyx-dyed sleeve. His eyes opened slowly, letting the sun’s setting light flood his ruby-coloured orbs. A deep inhale was quickly followed by a sudden hitch in his breath.

Something bad is about to happen, if it hasn’t already.

The male looked to his left, a habit he has, expecting to see the figure of a female fox hybrid with mahogany-orange clothing and a few sachets on her belt, her red-orange and white tail wagging in her enthusiasm to see him for the first time in a while - but she wasn’t there.

Instead, what he saw in the distance beyond the cliff was a man - one in all red, with blonde hair, but unfamiliar to him - running towards the camp he considered his temporary home.

A look of confusion and concern lined his face as he stood, leaping from one hill to the next, until finally reaching the biggest building atop the other cliff. Quickly sneaking into the back of the main building.

The more he could see what was happening from the frontlines, the better.

Kazuha walked into the dimly lit room, which bookshelves filled with several large reads, unique and rare rocks, strange writings, and more - making it seem like a maze in the small tent.

Passing one of the bookcases, he entered another small room with a desk in the center, flooded with papers, texts, and documents. A taller male - a hybrid, much like the female a Kazuha had expected to see on the cliffside, but rather than a fox, this boy was a dog - stood at the desk, his blonde tail wagged softly and slowly as Kazuha stepped closer, his dog ears perking up.

“Oh, Kazuha!” The male spoke, turning around, his journal in hand.

His tail wagged as he caught sight of Kazuha, but the motion of his tail began to slow, as did his enthusiasm - his concern growing more and more - as he recognized the expression etched into Kazuha’s face. “Is- everything okay?”

“Gorou?” Kazuha spoke, a trace of confusion laced in his voice, “Do you know what’s happening outside?”

Gorou’s ears dropped at that question, tail coming to a complete stop, as he turned around to face the main door of the building. His ears shot up again, his muscles tensed up, quickly turning back around to meet Kazuha’s eyes again, as they shared the same knowing, concerned gaze.

It didn’t take long for Kazuha to put it together.

“Eevie-” both of them spoke in unison, walking towards the door -having to maneuver around a table and a chair or two.

Gorou unlocked the door and swung it open, swiftly stepping onto the deck and in front of the resistance banner before the door. Kazuha followed not too far behind, fear and worry plastered onto his face, the worry was deep, as if it had been painted there.

“She’s not alone,” Gorou spoke out - snapping the shorter, white-and-red haired male out of his thoughts. Kazuha nodded and kept his gaze on the figure running towards them. “The smell of fear and pain,” Gorou continued, his mouth curling into a pained expression, though it was more so of a snarl. If the man running towards them was here to cause trouble, the resistance general would be ready.

Kazuha’s expression shifted to confusion at Gorou’s words.

He didn’t know what to make of those words. ‘Pain? Fear?’

He thinks to himself, frowning. ‘All I can smell… Is a type of guilt I never want anyone else to experience.’

The tall blonde man in red kept running at an alarming pace, confusion rising in the members of the resistance.

“A man in bright red?” Some had thought, confused.

“Who is that guy?”

“Is he carrying someone?” The concerned whispers didn’t cease as Thoma ran.

The boy was focused, his legs ready to give from under him. His panting was matched with his racing heart, and sweat drenching his shirt. The figure in his arms had yet to awaken, steadily breathing, even through the jumps and hurls that Thoma had gone through to get her here. As he approached the front of the building atop the cliff, his legs finally gave way, buckling under him as he heaved, still clutching onto Eevie as though she’d break if he let go of her.

Looking up, Thoma saw an arrow aimed directly at his head. At this point, he could care less about the arrow. He just wanted Eevie back home safely, regardless if he died in the process or not. The man behind the drawn arrow raised an eyebrow at him, watching in surprise as this man looked up at him unbothered.

He growled at Thoma as he lowered the arrow, throwing it on the ground.

“State your purpose here, trespasser!” Gorou yells, causing Kazuha to jump slightly, and reach for the dog-boy’s arm with a trembling hand. Gorou turned to him, seeing his scared expression like a jumpscare. “K-Kazuha?”

Kazuha took a few shaky steps toward Thoma as he spoke, “You’re the friend she mentioned, aren’t you? You’re Thoma?”

Gorou stepped back, taken aback by the scene, as he realized he almost shot the friend of a friend, and his ears dropped instantly.

“She stepped in the way,” Thoma spoke with a raspy breath, shaky - it sounded like he was going to start crying. He gulped dryly and lowered his arms, letting Eevie’s body shift in his grasp. Her ears were layed back, her signature Kitsune mask missing - along with her Vision. “She saved me and my Vision, but-” he coughed harshly, and took a deep breath as Kazuha inched closer to him, kneeling down in front of him, on the verge of tears as he gazed down onto Eevie’s unconscious figure.

He didn’t want to believe it was her.

“Can you walk any further?” Was all Kazuha said in return. He knew what was happening, what was wrong, but he’d rather get them out of the humid air in the camp before having to hear it. Thoma shook his head, giving Kazuha his answer as he scooped up Eevie from the blonde male’s arms. “Gorou? Could you help him in?”

Gorou kept his ears and tail down as he nodded, still upset about his recent actions. Reaching under Thoma’s shoulders, Gorou lifted him up and walked him into the tent, lowering him down on a cot in the back rooms, surrounded by herbs and tables with vials of medicines covering them. Thoma let out a groan as he rested on the cot below him, receiving a worried glance-and whine-from Gorou.

On the cot next to Thoma’s, Kazuha lied Eevie down, and pulled out a few herbs, with what looked like a beetle, crushing them all together into a fine powder.

His face was lined with worry, the smell of fear in the air made Gorou’s ears shoot up as he turned round to look at him. Kazuha had never been seen with tears in his eyes..

Not since his and Tomo’s incident with the Shogun.

He sniffed a little, as he unknowingly dropped a few tears in what was supposed to be a powder mixture, causing him to curse under his breath. He took small amounts of the now clumpy contents, and lifted up Eevie’s shirt just a little bit above her ribs.

And there, a wound with dried blood was visible. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed slowly - every movement agitating the crusted blood around the wound.

“Stronger than the winds of the raging storm, Eevie. You made me proud, nonetheless,” Kazuha whispered to himself, though partially to her, as he worked on the wound with a damp cloth. “I just hope…” he paused as he let a tear fall down slowly, “I just hope you remember everything.”

As he wiped it clean, some fresh blood started to spill slowly against her ribs, the injury red and irritated from being touched. He acted quickly in cleaning the rest of the wound and placing the mixture in his hands onto the gash. His eyes widened instantly after he applied it, bracing for the next few seconds.

A sharp yelp escaped Eevie’s lips, and she sat upright, eyes wide as she stared at the others in the tent, her gaze confused, scared, even. She looked at the contents in the white-haired male’s hands, and put two and two together easily enough. “Stars above, that was cold..”

Kazuha stood up, eyes almost flooding with tears, but whether they were tears of joy or fear is uncertain as he inched closer to her, and placed his hand on Eevie’s shoulder.

Gorou and Thoma watch from the other cot, Gorou’s ears kept below his head in worry. “Eevie, are you alright?”

She flinched back from Kazuha’s hands, and stared at him, unsure, his scent unfamiliar. She tried to take a moment - she felt like she had seen them before, yet their names and faces were strange, unknown to her. When she spoke again, her voice sounded hushed, her volume barely above her usual, cool tone.

“Do… Do I k-know you?”

Kazuha gasped softly. He had known this would happen, which was probably the root to the reason he started crying to begin with. Attempting to regain his posture, he looked away and took a slow deep breath. Gorou and Thoma gasped, and Thoma covered his mouth in shock. Gorou could only bring himself to stare. She saw this, unsure why they seemed so surprised. She looked back up at Kazuha with a confused expression.

“E-Eevie?” He started, his eyes on the brink of tears, voice cracked. “Who am I? Y-you don’t remember me?”

Gorou stood up, shakily walking up to Kazuha, his eyes also flooding suddenly as he reached out for Eevie’s hands.

“Hara, i- if- do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

Kazuha’s composure broke- shattered at this moment. He knew what her answer was. He knew what would happen. Walking away, Kazuha quietly slipped out the door behind him as Gorou held onto Eevie’s attention.

“Do you remember any of us?” Thoma asked, worriedly, watching as Gorou’s tail slowly swept between his thighs. He was scared. He’s never seen anything like this before. He knew Kazuha had, but never imagined he’d see it in person.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying.. I feel like I should.. but I can’t..” Eevie lowered her head - why did she feel so guilty? She didn’t know these people, at least, not the way they seemed to know her. “I can’t recall who any of you are..”

Gorou lowered his head, his tail tightening against his thigh as his ears went lower with sadness. He whimpered as he lifted his head up, peppering a small kiss on her knuckle. Eevie smiled softly at the gesture, still lost and confused.

Thoma attempted to stand up from the cot, wincing as he did so, walking- or limping over next to Gorou. “You saved me from losing my vision, Hara. Sh- she took yours instead. You said that helping friends was important to you, and-” He choked on his sobs as he spoke, watching Eevie’s expression shift dramatically as she stared at him, but despite her memories being gone, she felt bad. Without even realizing, her hand is on his and she gave him a gentle smile.

“I have no recollection.. but I feel, that, if you got to keep your Vision, then it would have been a worthy sacrifice.”

Gorou still kept his head on her hand, small tears escaping his eyes. ‘Where’d Kazuha go?’ He thought, worriedly, ‘is he okay..?”

—“Should it have been me?”—

Kazuha walked away from the camp, his pace slower than usual.

He couldn’t stop the tears that poured out, staining his fair toned cheeks with red. Occasionally wiping the tears away, he barely acknowledged the resistance members that said hello, hardly lifting his head.

He knew where he was going, where he wanted to go, but his sense of direction was shot. His composure lost- his emotions, stronger than an angry sea.

A sharp pain to the head - followed by a pained wince - reminded him he made it where he wanted to go. He didn’t lift his head from the tree trunk his face had hit. He just kept it there, his shoulders falling with the rest of him as his tears continued to rampage across his cheeks.

A small bloody spot on his forehead started to assume position, thankfully not gushing like his tears. He crawled in front of the tree to the spot he was in before Thoma had showed up, before he had seen Eevie hurt and stripped of herself.. and her memories.

On his knees, he sat there at the corner of the cliffside, trying so hard not to scream out in the agony, fear and guilt that consumed him.

“Should it have been me?”

—“You don’t need to be sorry”—

Eevie eventually snuck out of the tent, and followed the smell the white-haired male had left, a scent that was familiar, almost - cinnamon, fresh rain, and maple leaves.

She tracked it to the large tree at the cliffside, and caught view of him, the very same individual she’d seen in the tent. She walked towards him, keeping her gaze down and closing the distance between herself and him. When she spoke, she sounded.. scared, though whether she was scared of him, or scared of the fact she couldn’t remember him, is unclear.

“I’m sorry.”

Kazuha kept his head down, the pressure in his head much more intense than a few seconds ago. He wanted to stand up and hug her, hold her, help her remember, but even if he could, it’d be of no use. She couldn’t remember what was taken from her even if she was taken back to relive it all over again.

He just barely lifted his head enough to see her out of the corner of his eye, sniffling before responding, “There’s no need to be, little vixen.. it wasn’t your fault.”

He choked back a sob as he spoke, not even caring that he wasn’t looking at her.

Eevie walked up to him, and hugged him from behind, not saying anything - she just felt like he needed it, and perhaps she was right.

He felt her head in the crook of his neck, an overwhelming mix of relief, fear and longing feeling tugging at his heart. He leaned into her hug and sobbed again, attempting to twist his torso around to grab her right side with his left arm to scoop her up in his lap. She seemed a bit surprised by this, her head tilting, like a confused puppy. It’s not too surprising, though- it’s not like she could remember what she was to him, or vice versa.

He absorbed her expression, tears still falling endlessly as he pulled her in for a tight hug in his lap, sobbing into her shoulder as he continuously mumbled, “I’m sorry..! I’m so sorry!”, and, “what can I do?” repeatedly against her neck.

She let out a low whine, and hugged him back, her tail swished slowly as she buried her head in his neck - her instincts telling her what her memories could not.

“You don’t need to do anything.” She whispered, she leaned back, and touched her forehead to his. He winced softly, because of the mark on his head from hitting the tree when he came here, but he eased into the feeling of having her this close again. “I may not remember anything, but my instinct is enough to tell me this is.. right. That I belong with you. I should be the one apologizing, I can’t even remember your name..”

He chuckled softly and smiled at her words. “You don’t remember your Kazuha?”

He looked into her soft, green-eyed gaze, his vision burning a little due to the tears that threatened to spill again.

She looked guilty, and avoided his gaze as she shook her head, though she did take notice of his head wound, and she leans forward, swiping her tongue over it, just like a dog would have. “You’re hurt..”

Kazuha looked confused by the sudden change in expression and action, not really caring that the wound was bloody at all.

“W-well, it’s just a scratch. It’s okay,” he assured her, smiling softly. “I just hit my head on the tree behind me,” he followed, lifting his bangs out of the way. The mark stung a little, which he was good at hiding, to keep her from worrying too much.

She met his gaze once more, “are you usually so dismissive of such injuries?”

Her chiding sure hadn’t left her, even if her memories had. She examined the mark closely, seeing it already scabbed over, just barely..

He laughed softly at her question, cupping her face in his right hand, gently caressing her cheek. “And so what if I am? Anything to make you happy, right?” His mind said she was the same little vixen he always remembered, the same one that would lean into his touch when he cupped her face like that.

But she didn’t

Her ears flattened back, she seemed a bit confused by the gesture, her instincts told her it was okay, but without the memories of their time together, memories of him, and who he was to her, she didn’t know how to react. Her gaze looked torn as she pulled back, not knowing whether to trust her head or her heart. He pulled away, realizing, remembering what was happening, tears threatening to fall again as he takes his hand away from her face guiltily.

“I-“ he started, attempting to hide the tears that blinded him, “I’m so sorry..”

She reached for his hand, feeling bad. “I assume that.. we were.. partners, before my Vision was taken..?” Kazuha lifts her off of his lap, allowing her to stand on her knees next to him. He lowered his head again, trying to steady breathe before answering her, his voice cracking periodically.

“Y-ye-Ah. Yeah.. we were,” he took both of his hands and held them both in his lap, attempting not to choke on the tears he’s been holding back, “But it’s okay- it’s okay if,” he gulped down on the lump in his throat, the tears finally breaking free as he spoke, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, or if you feel that you’re not okay with it. I-“ his eyes had flooded as his composure broke yet again, the pressure rebuilt in his head as he put his head lowered once again.

She thought for a moment, and took his hands in hers. “..I do. I do want to. Right now I may not remember much, but my instincts have given me the intuition to know that, if I had chosen you before, then perhaps I could again.. I don’t have my memories. But, if I still have you..”

Her ears dropped to the sides of her head, she can’t bring herself to finish a sentence that contains a false hope within.

—“My autumn wind”—

Kazuha gazed down at his hand, seeing the amount of concern in her grasp. He could sense the emotion she was holding, but didn’t want her to push it out forcefully.

He took her hand and caressed it softly, tears still streaming slowly against his cheeks.

“You’ve always had me, little vixen,” he whispered softly, knowing she could hear it, regardless of how softly he said it.

“Like the water needs the clouds to hold it up, and the feathers keep the bird high in the sky, you and I have always supported each other and encouraged each other. I doubt there’s anything that can keep us from continuing that.”

Eevie smiled softly at his words, letting out a soft sigh of comfort as she spoke, “If that is the case, then I will continue to stay by your side.. my autumn wind.”

So this is my first ever writing on here. Very interesting little run of events here, to say the least. Thanks to the help of a good friend of mine, with his ideas and editing skills, his oc gets brought to life in a format that i’ve always peaked interests in. His oc, Eevie, now has another journey to start with our beloved Kazuha.

We hope you enjoy this piece of work, and hope to see your awesome reactions! Thanks for reading!!

~Emerald & Milo 💚

Milo @Eevie_Inky

[fanmoose12]

Partners

Characters: Petra Ral, Levi, Hanji Zoe x Levi Genre: Action / Mystery / Romance Rating: T

Detective!au

Summary: when Petra was promoted to a detective and partnered up with legendary Levi Ackerman, she felt like the happiest person in the world.

But, as she soon found out, detective Ackerman she used to admire so much was actually a far cry from the ideal policeman Petra thought he was. He was rude, harsh and easily annoyed. And, in addition, he still hadn’t moved on from the death of his previous partner - detective Hange Zoe.

Chapter 11/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Сhapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Сhapter 7

Сhapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

With every word from Levi's mouth, Erwin's face grew darker and darker.

"Fuck." He declared, as soon as Levi had finished. "Fuck," he repeated, rubbing his temples. He took a deep, heavy sigh, and when he blinked, the tense expression was miraculously gone, the usual look, full of determination and conviction, taking its place.

"So no sign of forced entry?” he asked, calm and collected and completely devoid of the previous frustration. “No sign of struggle? And no sign of Petra?"

"Yes, sir." Oluo confirmed with a frantic nod, which reminded Levi of a stupid toy dog Hange once put in his car.

Had the matter at hand been at least a little less grave, perhaps, he’d even crake a smile at the comparison. Hange definitely would have. Alas…

“And do we know who’s behind it?”

“No,” Levi replied. “Hange suspects one of Zeke’s man, but she also thinks some third party is involved.”

Erwin accepted his answer, slowly scratching his chin. “And where is Hange herself?"

“She went to talk to Zeke to ask if he knows something, and…" Levi faltered, not sure if he should share this information with Erwin. Hange was sure that Zeke was innocent, and Levi never doubted her, but…

"And?" Erwin prompted.

Fuck it, Levi decided. Perhaps, Erwin’s unbiased opinion was exactly what they needed.

"Oluo found Zeke's cigarette pack inside the apartment," he said, throwing it on Erwin's desk.

"It's not his," there wasn’t even a hint of doubt in his voice. Erwin didn’t even glance twice at the evidence presented to him. "Zeke would never be so careless. Someone's trying to sabotage him, and they are not very good at it."

“So you think it’s someone else?”

“Naturally.”

Erwin’s confidence eased a portion of his worries. If he and Hange were of the same mind, then it must be the truth. At least, he didn’t let Hange meet up with a potential culprit all by herself. Not that it gradually quelled his concern, but it was something…

“Zeke Yeager…” Oluo mumbled, biting his thumb. “Yeager, Yeager… I heard this name somewhere…”

“Huh?” Levi raised an eyebrow, looking quizzically at him.

“Yeager!” he exclaimed, his eyes lightening up. “Of course! Yes, now it came back to me!”

“What came back?” Levi demanded, glaring at Oluo in annoyance. God, how he hated being kept in the dark…

Oluo didn’t respond, irritating Levi even more. Instead he reached Erwin’s desk in two short strides, pushing him aside. “May I, sir?”

“Be my guest,” Erwin made a welcoming gesture, pulling his chair back. “If you know something, then…”

“Could be just a coincidence,”Oluo muttered, as he opened the database on Erwin’s computer. “But…”

For a long moment nothing happened. The office was silent, except for the sounds of typing on a keyboard, and Oluo’s quiet murmurs.  

Levi shared a look with Erwin. He shrugged helplessly, seeming just as bewildered by Oluo’s actions, as Levi himself felt.

“Aha!” he beamed, finally showing Erwin what he found. “Like I said, could be just a coincidence, but I came across name Yeager before. Here.”

“A family murdered in their own house,” Erwin began reading, his eyes quickly scanning the page. “Wife and husband found dead in their own bedroom by their fourteen year old son, who came back from a sleepover. The identity of a murderer remains unknown.”

“It was the first case I took as I started working,” Oluo confessed, scratching his neck. “That’s why it stuck with me. Don’t know if it has any connections to your Zeke…”

“The father of the family, Grisha Yeager,” Levi read the name from behind Erwin’s shoulder. “Zeke is his son. From the first marriage, but still… Maybe, he was murdered, because someone wanted to get back at Zeke.”

“And now that same someone wants to finish the job,” Erwin agreed. “The culprit was never found after all. It’s a solid theory.”

“Or as solid as we can get for now,” Levi nodded.

"It's different from other cases, though,” Erwin contemplated thoughtfully, his gaze turning distant, as he taped his finger against the desk.

"Other cases?" Oluo shuddered. "Are you talking about recent... Murder cases?" he paled, his lower lip trembled, and Levi started to regret bringing him here. They needed to keep their heads clear. Petra needed them to keep their heads clear. There was no time for worrying and panicking right now.

In Levi’s experience, that attitude could only lead to more tragedy.

"It's obviously different with Petra," Erwin said, his voice going an octave softer. Levi stared at him, almost gawking. Erwin wasn't the man to give empty promises. Either he was that optimistic about this whole ordeal, or... Levi preferred not to think about the other possibility.

"Levi?" Erwin turned to him. "What do you think?"

"I think Oluo is right, Petra was taken by someone close to Zeke. But either it was the same perpetrator from before or someone else, it remains to be unknown," he replied. "And I think we don't have any time to waste."

"Agreed," Erwin clenched his jaw, his brows furrowed. "I'll talk with Pixis and Nile, ask if they know anything or if they have any people they can spare... We need to start the search..."

"Sannes!" Oluo suddenly exclaimed, startling Erwin and Levi. "Sannes, we should check him first! We’ve planted a bug on him just yesterday!"

"Fuck," Levi groaned in frustration, feeling like the biggest and the most useless idiot in the world. He had completely forgotten about it.

"I didn't see him at work today," Erwin noted. "Perhaps, it's worth checking it out. Take care of it, Levi."

"Will do," he nodded. "Permission to go?"

"Report to me once you find anything," Erwin stood up. "I'll go to Pixis and Nile."

Levi nodded again, and left the office, his steps swift and heavy.

 ***

"Could it be our lead?" Oluo asked.

They've listened through every conversation that Sannes had that day and the day before. And only one of them, the one where he had agreed to a meeting with an unknown man, had raised Levi's suspicion.

"Not sure if we can call it a lead," he mumbled, biting his lip. There was no word about Petra and no mention of the actual location, but it was something they could work with. It was a starting point, at the very least. Much better than nothing. "But it's definitely a clue. Come on, we need to continue our investigation."

"Meaning..."

"Meaning we're going to break into Sannes' office and see if we can find something inside. Don't worry," he clasped Oluo's shoulder with just a little too much force. Oluo coughed, almost doubling over under Levi’s hard hand. "Nothing you hadn't done before."

  ***

“Zeke is a fool,” the man sneered, his voice full of disgust. “He’s not the man he was before. Ever since he took in that Zoe, he made mistake after mistake. It’s time to put an end to this. It’s time for someone else to take over his legacy. Our gang needs a new leader. Someone, who has as much potential as Zeke, but who doesn’t yet possess any of his flaws. Someone, who is cunning and ruthless. There is only one man who can do this," he finished, and even from afar Petra could see a shine of adoration in his eyes.

Sannes scoffed, rolling his eyes, not moved by the passionate speech at all. "And who is that?"

"No one can achieve the greatness Zeke once possessed. Except," the man smiled, and the sight of it made shivers run down Petra's spine.

"His own brother."

"You've gone mad," Sannes rolled his eyes, still unconvinced. "You've lost it completely, and now you want to drag me down with you. I refuse. Good luck getting arrested, but I’m out of here.”

“You’ll regret this, Sannes,” the man promised, his eyes flashing. “You’ll come begging for us to take you back in no time.”

“I really doubt that, boy,” Sannes sneered, his face showing nothing but disgust. “And if you’re going to actually proceed with your plan, then be ready to meet Ackerman. Believe me, it won’t be a pleasing experience. See you in prison,” he finished, and left, throwing the door shut.

As soon as Sannes had stormed out, the man with an eerie smile turned around to face her.

Instantly, Petra closed her eyes and lowered her head, but the man simply laughed.

"There is no need to pretend," he spoke, shortening the distance between them. "I know you've been awake for quite some time, detective Ral."

She looked up then, saying nothing and glaring at him beneath her bangs. Just the sight of that man left her breathless, her heart beating so loudly she could hear it in her ears, but she wouldn’t show him her fear. She was better than this. He may have had an ultimate upper hand over her, but she would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her tremble.

"I think we've started off on a wrong foot," the man smiled, the shadow of a lightbulb above him making him look even creepier. "I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Floch, nice to meet you!"

With the same crazy smile on his lips, he reached out and patted her shoulder. Petra winced, unable to move away from the undesired touch.

"What do you want from me?" she hissed, trying to hide the shaking in her voice. As discreetly as possible, she tried to loosen her restraints. In movies she watched with Erd, Gunter and Oluo, heroes always freed themselves so easily, the ropes being nothing more than a nuisance. But in reality, they didn't bulge an inch. Petra searched through her mind, trying to remember what characters from those movies did. Wiggle out of the restrains? Broke their wrists? Or was it applicable only for the handcuffs? Shit. She should have watched more movies like this, instead of melodramas and rom-coms. Shifting her attention back to the present, she stared up at her captor, still glaring at him defiantly.

"What do I want from you? The same thing I wanted from the others."

The same thing he wanted from the others? But the others were... dead. Petra suppressed a shiver.

"It's nothing personal, really,” he continued in the same careless manner. “All I need from you is to motivate your partner."

"Levi?" Petra gasped. "What it has to do with him?"

To her surprise, the man shrugged. "Nothing, really. In a way," he swept his hand across the room. "He's just a victim of circumstances. He's one of the best detectives in this city and he has a personal connection with Zeke. It'd be a shame not to use him."

"But why do you need him?" she pulled on the ropes, leaning closer towards the man and looking deep inside his eyes, trying to see right through him, trying to understand him. "Why can't you just kill Zeke and be done with it?"

The man tutted, shaking his head. "That's not what I—" there it was, that same pleased, creepy smile. "What we want to do. Taking Zeke's life would be too easy. We want to destroy it. But unfortunately," he continued in a voice of badly feigned sympathy. "You're not the main event here."

"Not the main event?" Petra echoed, confused. If it wasn't her, then....

"Not sure if you've met...” his eyes lightened up with something dark and dangerous. The smile on his face grew wider, more sinister. “But surely you've heard of one Hange Zoe?"

"Hah," a short chuckle escaped her lips. Very soon it turned into a full blown laughter. Petra would have clenched her sides if she wasn't tied up, she would have doubled over, hands on her knees and chest heaving, overcome with a sudden feat of giggles.

"What are you laughing at?" Floch inquired, the smile disappearing under a frown.

"You, of course," Petra answered, still breathless. "You're a bigger fool than I thought. To think that you can take on Hange Zoe..." of course, he had already gotten her, but Floch had taken her by surprise and she wasn't nearly as experienced and skilled as Hange. And even if they do somehow catch Hange... "Levi would never let you even get close to her. More than that," Petra raised her chin, a confident smirk pulling on her lips. "I'm sure he'll show up here so very soon. He'll save me and ruin your stupid plan. Then you'll be rotting in jail alongside your Zeke."

"We'll see about that," Floch promised through gritted teeth. "Wait a couple of hours, detective, and we'll see if your optimism would remain just as strong."

He gave her a furious look and then did a sharp turn, heading to the door.

“Enjoy your last hours. I’ll come to check up on you later.”

With that he had left, and Petra finally managed to breathe normally.

*** "Weren't you supposed to be good at this?" Levi dryly inquired. With a bored expression on his face, he was leaning against the wall, watching Oluo fiddle with a lock on the door to Sannes' office.

"I never said I was," Oluo grunted, wiping sweat from his forehead. His head darted from one side to other, checking if the hallway remained empty. "It's my first time breaking into someone's office, you know."

"Eh?" Levi frowned, confused. "Then how did you and Petra get in the other day?"

"I stole a key," Oluo huffed.

Levi rolled his eyes, pushing Oluo aside. "Let me handle it then. You go and stand on a lookout."

Oluo didn't need to be asked twice. He got his fair share of bullying from Levi today. With an annoyed but very quiet - he wasn’t so thrilled about receiving even more insults - sigh, he rose to his feet, going to do what Levi had requested of him. He didn’t even reach the end of a hallway, and Levi was calling out to him.

"Already?" his eyebrows went up. "You broke the lock so quickly? How?"

"Well," Levi shrugged and pushed the door open, sporting an almost smug expression. "Let's just say I wasn't always a law-abiding policeman."

"So cool..." Oluo whispered in reverence, as he followed Levi inside the office.

In Oluo's humble opinion and in comparison to a small cubicle he shared with Erd, Sannes' office was huge. A large desk, a wide bookshelf that took up most of the wall, a leather couch and a mini-fridge with a coffee machine and a microwave oven? If affiliating yourself with criminals meant you can have a workplace like this... Oluo wasn't that opposed to the idea anymore.

But they took Petra, he reminded himself. They were the bad guys, even if they were much richer and more successful than he could ever be. They certainly didn’t deserve any of it. And his job was to catch them. 

"So what should be our starting point?" he asked Levi.

"You could start with telling me what the fuck you are doing inside my damn office."

With heart in his throat, Oluo whirled around. As his eyes met Sannes' dark and furious ones, Oluo gulped, slowly taking a step back.

He chanced a glance at Levi and was surprised to see that he didn't look as scared and panicked as Oluo himself felt.

Quite the contrary.

"Sannes." he snarled.

With wide eyes and mouth open in shock, Oluo watched how Levi manhandled Sannes, a man, who was almost twice his size. He pushed him to the wall, fisting hands into his shirt.

"Where is Petra, you scumbag?" he hissed into his face. "Where are you holding her?"

“Let go of me, you freak!” Sannes shouted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, but you do,” Levi’s voice dropped even lower, almost resembling a growl. “You know about everything – Zeke’s dealings, Petra’s kidnapping, Hange’s survival,” he pulled Sannes even closer. “So I repeat my question – where are you holding her?”

"I don't know!" Sannes wheezed out, already out of breath.

"Bullshit," Levi answered, his voice so dark and dangerous it made shivers run down Oluo's back. And he wasn’t the one Levi was talking to. He really didn’t envy Sannes right now. "You know it, and if you're not a complete idiot, you're going to tell me everything right fucking now."

Sannes looked down at him, his gaze calculating.  "If I tell you, do you promise not to reveal my connection with Zeke?"

"No,” Levi answered coolly, shaking Sannes once more. “But you're going to tell me anyway."

Sannes closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. "Fine,” he said. “I'll tell you everything. Just let me go."

"Smart choice," Levi murmured and instantly took a step back.

Sannes sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair. "He's keeping her at the docks,” he mumbled, his face aimed at the ground. “I'll send you the exact location."

"Good," Levi nodded, much calmer now. "And after you do that, go straight to Erwin. If I were you, I wouldn't make him wait. Perhaps, he'd be more merciful then. Although,” he added, sending Sannes one last glare. “I doubt he actually would."

Levi turned on his heels then, walking out of the office. Oluo stayed behind for a second longer, a pressing need to ask Sannes a question arising in him.

"Petra?" his voice broke on her name, but Oluo willed himself to stand strong, looking up at Sannes without an ounce of fear. "Is she alright?"

"Dragged and unconscious," Sannes replied, rubbing the spot where Levi had grabbed him. "But she's unharmed. For now."

For now. Those two words made his knees buckle. They needed to hurry. Petra's life was on the line.

***

With sweat dripping down her face and completely out of breath, Hange finally reached Zeke's hideout.

Panting like a chain-smoker and with her leg muscles burning, she climbed all four sets of stairs, cursing Zeke all the while. Why couldn't he put his office on the first floor? Or next to a police precinct? Would have made her life so much easier.

As expected, Zeke was inside his meeting room, smoking. The fat rings of smoke were flowing around the room, flying just below the ceiling before dissipating into nothingness. Hange narrowed her eyes, squinting at the cigarette in his fingers. Could the cigarette from Petra’s apartment really belong to him? Perhaps, they should have run some tests on it… No, Hange shook her head. Zeke was innocent - at least, in that regard.

She looked around the room, nodding at Pieck and Porco, who, as usual, were sitting next to their boss.

"Ah, my dear Hange!" sweeping the ash from his cigarette, Zeke raised his hands, opening them in a welcoming gesture. "What brings you here? Already missed us?" he winked and Hange scoffed.

"Missed your ugly face?” she rolled her eyes. “Not in a million years."

Zeke shook his head, his gaze filling with disappointment. "Detective Ackerman has a terrible influence on your sense of humor," he complained, his expression turning sourer.

"Whatever," Hange fell down on a chair next to him. "I came to ask you for help. Petra is missing."

"Petra?" Zeke frowned, looking genuinely confused. The lost look inside his eyes cemented Hange's conclusion that he wasn't the one involved in her kidnapping. Zeke was sleazy and unreliable, but he was also a very bad liar. Well, that meant they managed to rule out one possible suspect…

"Yes, Petra. Levi's partner."

"Ah, he found a new one already?" Zeke spread his lips into a wide, self-contained smirk. "Not very loyal, is he?"

More loyal than you will ever be, Hange wanted to say, but stopped herself. Now was not the time to start a pointless squabble.

"Do you know something or not?" she demanded from him.

"I don't," Zeke answered, putting a cigarette to his lips and exhaling the smoke right in Hange's face. He knew how much she hated it, asshole. She waved the smoke away, scowling fiercely. "But I do know one thing," he turned to Porco. "The time has come, start packing."

Without asking for clarification, Porco nodded, thrusted hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and hurriedly left.

Hange watched him go, stunned. Was Zeke planning something? What could it be? Why didn’t she know about it?

There was only one way to find out. She surveyed Zeke’s face carefully, trying to see his motives reflected there.

"Packing? To where? What the hell are you talking about, Zeke?"

"Don't worry about our destination," he patted her hand, looking so condensing Hange had to clench her fists to stop herself from punching the bastard. "You're going with us after all."

"Like hell I will!" Hange threw his hands off, glaring at Zeke. "And you can’t seriously expect me to follow you. What does all of it mean?"

Zeke shrugged, lightening up another cigarette and taking a long drag. "It's the grand finale, Zoe. The dramatic climax, the thrilling last act. And I was never the one for theatrics. So I'll leave the stage and go on my way."

"You promised to help," Hange grunted. She couldn't believe it, she actually trusted the bastard, and now he tries to escape? She wouldn't let him. "Or did you lie to us?"

"I wasn't lying," Zeke scoffed. "Like I said, I don't enjoy the drama. I simply changed my mind."

"So you won't honor your promise?"

Zeke rolled his eyes. "Zoe, please. I'm a criminal. The word honor was never in my vocabulary."

"Fine," Hange huffed, blowing hair out of her face. The attempt to awaken his consciousness failed. Maybe, she could appeal to his ego instead… "But someone is targeting you. Don't you want to know who it is?"

"Not particularly,” Zeke shook his head. “Since they went through all that trouble just to get me, I'd rather we never meet. Lord knows what they're going to do then, and, unlike you, detective, I know what self-preservation means."

"So that's it? You're just going to leave?"

Hange couldn’t believe it. She knew Zeke was a scumbag, but goddamn it. She didn’t expect him to be that untrustworthy.

"Of course, I’m not going to just leave," Zeke smiled. "I'll take you with me. To make sure that no one is going to follow us."

Hange snorted. "You're that delusional? I told you already, I'd rather die than go anywhere with you."

"Be it as you wish," he said. "Pieck," he lazily outstretched his hand to her. "Make our dear detective cooperate. Do with her what you want, but make sure she won’t get in our way."

Hange turned to Pieck, her heart skipping a beat. She held her breath and tensed her muscles, anticipating her first move. She could take Pieck in a fight, in theory. But in reality, she came unarmed, and Pieck always carried a gun. And a couple of knifes.

And Hange wasn't sure that her wits were much sharper.

There was a bit, the air in the room growing stiff. Hange swallowed, her one eye narrowed, as she watched Pieck. Maybe, if she makes the first move—

"No." Pieck said suddenly.

For a moment, there was silence. Hange sat there, dumbfounded, staring at Pieck and feeling utterly lost. She didn’t mishear? Did Pieck really—

Next to her, Zeke seemed to have the exact same trouble. He blinked a few times and then his expression changed, turning into a look of betrayal and fury.

"What did you just say?" he snarled, baring teeth at her.

"No," Pieck repeated, staring straight at him, not swayed by his outburst. "I won't touch Hange, and you, Zeke, will go with her and surrender to the police."

"What do you think—"

"Stop it, Zeke," Pieck sighed tiredly. "Own up to your shit and stop running away. Do you really not get it? If you do this right now, whether you'll kill Hange or take her with you, this—" she gestured around, her gaze on Zeke hard and disappointed. "This running and hiding will never end. If you touch a hair on her head, detective Ackerman will get you even from underneath the Earth. Accept it, Zeke," she stood up and squeezed his shoulder. "You've lost that battle the moment you started it. You simply picked up the wrong opponents."

With slow, elegant steps Pieck approached Hange and bent down to leave a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Goodbye, Hange," she murmured, tucking a hair behind her ear. "It's been fun."

In spite of herself, Hange smiled. Sarcastic, adorable Pieck always had such an effect on her. "Are you leaving already?" she asked, touching a place where Pieck's lips met her skin.

"Well," Pieck grinned. "Pock had started packing, right?"

"And where are you going?" Zeke wondered, his lips pressed in a line and hands crossed at his chest. He stubbornly refused to even glance at Pieck.

"A secret," she chirped, smiling cheerfully. "But I'll make sure to send a postcard. Hange, I'll send yours to detective Ackerman's address?” she winked, chuckling at the sight of red color on Hange’s cheek. “And, Zeke? You'll be staying at the state prison, right?"

"Oh fuck off, Pieck," he groaned. "Go away already."

Their eyes met for a second, and Zeke's gaze softened ever so slightly. "Try not to get caught, will you?"

"Roger that, chief!" Pieck saluted, kissed Zeke too and then headed to the entrance, gliding on the floor and humming under her breath.

"You two should talk," she advised Hange and Zeke, and then quietly closed the door.

As soon as Pieck was gone, Zeke dropped his head on his hands, sighing in frustration.

"How the fuck do you do it, Zoe?" he sent her a side-glance. "How the fuck do you manage to inspire that kind of loyalty in people?"

Hange shrugged, sitting back in a chair, and curled her lips in a crooked grin. "Try not being a complete jerk, perhaps?"

"Fuck off," he retorted, hiding his face again. "You'll send me to jail, right?"

"R-right," Hange sang. "And before that, you'll help us looking for Petra."

"And if I refuse?"

"Initially, I planned to be the one organizing your arrest. But I can give that honor to Levi..."

Zeke visibly shuddered.

"Fine," he looked up, fixing the glasses on his face and brushing the hair back from his forehead. "I'll help you. Now get the hell out of here."

Hange arched an eyebrow. "You're coming with me, you know that?"

"I'll come," he huffed. "I promise. For real this time," he added, when Hange just kept giving him an unimpressed look. "Just give me half an hour to get all of my possessions in order, would you? I don't know if I'll be coming back after all."

"Half an hour." Hange nodded, looking at him strictly. "If you don't show up in half an hour, I'm sending Levi to get you."

She would have stayed behind and monitored him, but time was of the essence. She promised Levi she'd back in two hours. And the watch was telling her it was almost an hour past that. She needed to get back, and quickly. Hurrying out of the building, Hange rushed to the precinct.

But in her haste to get back to Levi, she didn't see a swift shadow that followed right after her.

***

One way, then the other, back and forth, left and right, Levi paced around the room.  

Seven. That was the amount of steps needed to get from one end of Erwin's office to the other.

Levi glanced out of the window, and then turned around, starting anew. He clenched and unclenched his fists, thinking if he should look at his phone again. Maybe, he missed a message? Didn't hear its ringing? Maybe, she had already replied to a dozen of his texts and calls?

"Levi," a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, making him stop in his tracks. "Levi, we can't wait any longer," again, Erwin's voice was so much gentler than usual, and that alone should have been enough for him to realize that he was being irrational. That, the eyes of a dozen other policemen, gathered in Erwin’s office, who looked at him with a mix of worry and sympathy.

"We have the location," Erwin reminded, bringing him back to present.

"I know."

"We have the team."

"I know."

"We have a plan."

"I know," Levi gritted through teeth. "But we do not have Hange!"

Frustrated, he turned away from Erwin. He took out his phone, holding it tightly.

Why didn't she call? Why didn't pick up the phone and answer his texts? Where the fuck was she? She promised to be back in two hours. Almost three passed and no sign of that messy, four-eyed brilliant weirdo. The knot in his stomach grew tighter with each passing second.

Logically, he knew Hange could be simply running late. She could be stuck in traffic or she could be busy trying to get some kind of useful information out of Zeke. But while Hange was never the one to care about such trite matters as punctuality and she could easily get absentminded and usually appeared to be scatterbrained and frivolous, she was so very different during the times like this. Times, when lives were on the line. Hange never let herself be so unfocused, that’s why Levi was so worried now. He was anxious, and he knew that feeling won't go away until he sets his eyes on Hange, alive, breathing and well. He just got her back, the thought of losing her… Levi cursed, checking the phone again.

"Levi..." Erwin sighed, patting his shoulder. "You know, we can't waste our time."

He knew that. Petra needed their help, needed him. He couldn't let her down, but still...

Hange, oh god, Hange. He couldn’t lose her. Not again.

"Perhaps, detective Zoe isn't going to come back," came a quiet murmur from the corner of the room.

Levi’s head whirled in that direction, and, in a flash, he was beside him. "What did you just say?" he demanded from Oluo, barely stopping himself from grabbing him just as forcefully as he had done with Sannes.  

Oluo swallowed, a trail of sweat rolling down his face, but he stared back at Levi, raising his chin.

"She was working with an enemy for more than two years. Maybe, she was the one who kidnapped Petra."

Levi closed his eyes, counting to ten in his head. He was not going to lose it right now. He was not. Not when Erwin - and a dozen other of his colleagues - were looking at him.

"Bozado," he began as calmly as he was able in that moment. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course, sir!" he answered without a moment of hesitation.

"Good," Levi nodded. "You trust me. And I trust Hange. With my life. And if you are at least half as smart as you're trying to appear, you'll trust her too. If you're not ready to,” his gaze grew harder, enabling Oluo from turning away. “Then get the fuck out of my team. If you doubt Hange, you doubt me, and I can’t work like that, I have to trust my people. So what do you say – are you leaving or staying?"

"I'm... I'm staying with you, sir."

"Alright," Levi watched Oluo’s face for another second, his eyes narrowed. Would he follow his orders without question? It seemed like he would. He hoped so, at least. With a low, thoughtful hum, Levi turned to Erwin. "We can start the operation. Bozado will lead my team."

He pointedly ignored the shocked gasp from Oluo. The boy wasn’t nearly as experienced, wasn’t even a detective, but their mission was to get back Petra. And Levi believed Oluo wouldn’t let himself fuck it all up.

It's obvious he has feelings for her, Hange once told him. She was right that time, but then again – when she wasn’t?

"And you, Levi?" Erwin asked.

"Half an hour," he promised. "Half an hour, and I'll be at the location."

Hange swore to come back to him. This time, Levi won't let her broke that promise.

Closing the door behind himself, he hurried to Zeke. He prayed that Hange was alright. Zeke wouldn’t get out of this alive, if she weren’t.

***

The silence pressed onto her. The silence, the waiting for god knows what - it was all making Petra go slowly insane. She wanted to hear something, any sound would do at this point.

Or so she thought.

But then Floch came back, sauntering inside and still sporting the same deranged grin, and Petra realized that she preferred silence so much more than the low, out of tune humming mixed with the sound of him polishing the various knifes taken from a long table in front of him.

She squirmed, the ropes digging into her skin even more. It would leave bruises, she thought absentmindedly.

Bruises? She chided herself almost immediately. Who would care about bruises if they find her dead? She suppressed another shiver.

They won't find her dead, Petra tried to persuade herself. They won't, because so very soon Levi would be here, and he'll save her. Perhaps, detective Hange would be with him, maybe, Oluo too...

She had friends who cared about her. They won't let her be murdered. She just had to keep believing in them.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked Floch, trying to distract herself from the thousand of horrible what ifs.

Why haven’t you— no, she wouldn’t ask him that. She would remain optimistic.

“You’ll see very soon,” he told her enigmatically. “My friend is almost here.”

His friend? Did he mean Zeke’s brother? The one, who had planned it all? And what would happen, when he comes? Would he—

No, she stopped herself once again. She needed to hold onto that hope. She needed to stay strong.

The sound of footsteps somewhere above her startled Petra. Hearing them too, Floch started chuckling. He turned to Petra, pressing a finger to his lips.

“That’s my friend,” he whispered quietly, as though it was the biggest secret in the world. “And he brought someone with him.”

The next second, the door opened and a man – so young, probably in his early twenties – stumbled in. He was hobbling slightly, his hand pressed to a place just below his hairline. His face was a mess – split lip, bruised eye that already started to turn deep purple, bloodied nose and forehead.

“You didn’t tell me she was a fucking psycho,” he grumbled, glaring daggers at Floch. “I wouldn’t have a chance, if I wasn’t armed.”

“But?” Floch passed him a white cloth to wipe off the blood. “You’ve caught her, right?” his voice was full of hope, and his fingers were trembling in anticipation.

“She’s in my car, dragged out of her mind. Help me get her here.”

“With pleasure,” Floch turned to Petra, winking. “You’ll have company so very soon, detective. I hope you’re excited! I am!”

He didn’t stop to hear her response, following after his friend and leaving her alone once again.

It was possibly her last chance, she realized. Petra desperately pulled on the ropes, trying to get away, but to no avail. She couldn’t move an inch, and it seemed like the more she struggled, the tighter her bindings became.

Not enough time passed, before Floch had returned, dragging a body inside. His friend put the chair, right next to Petra, and Floch dropped the body there.

No, not just some body, Petra realized. Fear crippled inside her, seizing her heart in its merciless hold.

Not just some body, Hange Zoe’s body.

Her head was bowed, but even from where she was sitting, in a poorly lit room, Petra could see blood dripping down her cheek and neck.

So much blood, she thought. She was breathing, albeit faintly. But she wasn’t waking up.

Her heart stopped, as Petra realized another thing – if Hange was there, no one was looking for her. And if no one was looking… then Hange and she… they would most probably… not be found.

At least, not alive, or so it seemed.

Petra tried to hold onto that sliver of hope, but with Hange Zoe’s bloodied face in her line of sight, it was getting increasingly harder and harder to.

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Six

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: nsfw sort of?? barely

***

Cassian is going to kill Nesta.

He’s never met a woman so stubborn that she would rather throw herself under a bus than accept help from others.

“What happened to your rants about universal healthcare and redistributing wealth?” He gestures furiously between the two of them while keeping one hand on the steering wheel. “I’m trying to redistribute the wealth!”

She scoffs from the passenger seat. “Nice try, comrade. I’m not letting you dangle your wallet over me while I live with you for free. It’s disgusting and manipulative.”

Cassian wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. “Why do you automatically assume I’m trying to manipulate you?” he says incredulously.

“You don’t get to pay for my things,” she snaps. “They’re mine.”

“I know you’re already broke from that MRI—”

“That’s none of your business.”

They pull up to one of the university buildings. “Oh, great argument.” Cassian brings the truck to a stop. “Are you gonna use that one in court?”

Nesta buttons her blue blazer and furiously grabs her things, not saying a word.

“What are you thinking now?” Cassian pokes, the hardness dissolved from his voice a little.

She shoves the passenger door open. “How much longer it’s going to take to get my car fucking fixed,” she bites, hopping out of the truck and slamming the door shut on Cassian’s face.

Clenching his jaw, he watches her walk sharply for the building, tension ratcheting her figure. Impossible woman.

She does look damn good in a pantsuit, though.

***

Nesta has to take deep breaths before she enters the mock courtroom, refusing to let Cassian get to her head right now.

It's not his offering to pay for her endometriosis treatment that pisses her off, but it's that he won't take no for an answer. She wishes he could just let her dig herself into a hole of debt and despair like millions of Americans already do every day. She wishes he wouldn't demand an explanation from her every time she screams and cries about getting her way.

Later. Her mind clears through an imaginary filter. You’ll deal with him later.

Now, she has a case to win.

Nesta strides into the courtroom with her file of documents and takes the speaker’s bench, her opponent already seated on the other side of the aisle. Emerie Nikolis is five feet nine inches of Mediterranean goddess, and the only student at Prythian Law who’s been able to challenge Nesta for her spot at the top of the class. Not that she’s succeeded.

Nesta’s never been up against another woman for a moot court, though, and it adds a buzz to her nerves. Men always come into the courtroom with too much confidence and not enough research, and from there Nesta can steadily dismantle their arguments until they’re left spluttering. From Emerie’s cutting hawk eyes, Nesta knows she doesn’t function like that.

As student judges file in and head for their seats, Nesta leans over and mutters to Emerie, “Good luck defending the side that represents everything morally corrupt with this country.”

Emerie brushes back her ponytail and smiles mockingly at Nesta. “You mean the side that powerful white men have chosen since the beginning of time? I won’t need luck.”

Nesta scowls at the panel of student judges. They are all white men.

“You’re lucky I enjoy a challenge,” she hisses, and sits back in her seat as they start calling oyez.

***

Cassian doesn��t mean to fall asleep.

He’s cleaning up around the house while Nesta is gone, and ends up finding a worn paperback trapped between the leather cushions of the couch. Pulling it out, he takes one look at the cover and nearly chokes. A half-undressed man graces the cover in regency-era clothes, his flowy shirt unbuttoned to reveal toned abs. A woman with golden curls clutches onto him passionately, only dressed in a corset and underskirt.

A slow smirk spreads over his face and he snickers. He didn't know people read these anymore. A glance at the back of the book proves his point: published in 1999, a true vintage piece.

Plopping onto the couch and laying back, he opens the paperback. If Nesta doesn't want him reading her books, she shouldn't leave them lying around the place.

Flipping to a random page, he frowns when it isn't a smut scene. Boring. He keeps flipping until he finds one, and props his feet onto the armrest to get comfortable. Now what exactly does Nesta Archeron get off to?

Over an hour and a hundred pages of surprisingly tender romance later, his aching eyes finally slip closed. The open book falls onto his face, and the scent of faded ink follows him into sleep.

Cassian is in a dim candle-lit room. Foiled wallpaper and overstuffed furniture decorates the space, and there, by the small window, she waits.

She turns her head to speak over her shoulder, “You came.”

“I did.” The line comes to him naturally.

Without turning around, her hands reach up for her hair. She starts removing pins from her updo, golden curls falling apart one by one. Once the last pin drops, she finally turns around.

Gleaming locks now frame her soft face and shoulders; her pale breasts rise and fall above the low curve of her thin nightgown. Under the candlelight, she looks freshly forged and porcelain-like at the same time.

“Could you help me?” Nesta says.

Cassian is stuck in his spot, unable to move. He's never seen Nesta like this: so heavenly, but so different.

“Cassian?” she asks again.

“Oh,” he stutters, “um— what do you need?”

She steps closer. “You.” His breathing stops. Nesta slips her slender hands up his arms, to his shoulders. She's holding him close. “I need you to tell me something.”

“Anything.”

Her breath fans over his face. “Do you want me?”

Cassian is very still.

“Do you want me like I want you, Cassian?” she repeats, pressing closer to him. He can feel her nipples through the wispy fabric of her gown.

“Yes,” he breathes shakily. He doesn't know which hurts more: wanting Nesta or being wanted by her.

“Have you been very lonely, Cassian?” She drags her hands back down his arms, finding his hands and placing them on her shoulders. “Is that why you like having me around so much, because you’ve been lonely?”

This Nesta knows him… a little too well. His breath hitches as his hands, directed by Nesta’s hands, slowly pushes down the sleeves of her nightgown. In a flash, the fabric has dropped to her waist, baring her unblemished chest and stomach. Before Cassian can even absorb what's happening, her arms are winding around his neck again, and now she's pressing entreating kisses into the crook of his neck.

“Tell me,” she mutters onto his skin. “Do I make you feel heard, or am I just a pretty face to you?”

“Nes—Nesta.” Cassian tries to swallow air.

She smells so good. She feels so good, and she's not even doing anything to him, just holding him.

“Heard,” he gasps when she goes for the buttons of his shirt, her mouth finding his chest. “You make me feel heard. I like it when we talk and you listen to me. Nobody listens to me.”

She pulls away from him, mouth shining. He just now realizes how jarring the gilded ringlets of her hair are.

“That’s so good,” Nesta purrs, reaching up to clasp his face. Her hands feel thin and rough, like paper. “You’re so good.” She reaches in, her lips chasing his, and—

Awareness seeps into the corners of Cassian’s reality, and his eyes peel open. He blinks between two different worlds until he finally realizes— it was a dream.

Of course it was a dream. Nesta doesn't have blonde hair or curls. And her skin isn't porcelain smooth, but dotted with freckles and moles. And yet, the arousal stirred in him is very much real, evident by the ache in his dick. Fuck.

A throat clears softly and Cassian jumps. The romance book is still on his face, he notices, and his world is darkened by the rough pages. Batting it away, confused, he fully awakens when he sees who’s in front of him.

She’s still in her pantsuit from this morning, but her hair is undone and her cheeks carry a rare flush. Her clothes are rumpled.

“Nesta.” He scrambles upright, painfully aware that he was just dreaming about her half-naked. He carefully arranges his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between his legs. “You’re back,” he says casually. Taking notice of the blackness outside the windows, he becomes concerned. “You’ve been out this whole time? Oh God, I was supposed to pick you up—”

“No, no,” she says quickly. “Didn’t you see my texts? I went out with some people from moot court.”

Cassian widens his eyes. He’s never heard her mention any friends from school, much less leave the cabin to hang out with other people.

“I totally kicked this girl’s ass in the Title IX case I was telling you about,” Nesta goes on, “and she wanted to take me out for afternoon drinks, and some other guys ended up tagging along too…” She twists a piece of hair around her finger, the experience sounding as brand new to her as Cassian suspects it is. “And yeah, then she got me a cab.”

He raises a brow and leans back. “You willingly let someone else pay for you? Wow, you really are drunk.”

The smile blossoming on her mouth drops and the cold veneer returns. “So you go through my stuff while I’m gone?” she scolds. “How many times are we going to have the boundaries conversation?”

Cassian picks up the paperback still on the couch. “Oh, this? This was just a little light reading. You know, since I share my Netflix and Prime with you, I figured you could share your period-piece smut with me.” He fans through the pages, trying to find the spot he left off on. “I didn’t even know people read physical romance books anymore. That’s like me keeping VHS tapes of porn instead of using my phone.”

Nesta stomps over and snatches the book out of his hands. “It’s not like I enjoy owning books with ugly covers,” she hisses. “I get headaches reading e-books. And this is a classic.” She carefully wipes at the cover as if Cassian got dirt all over it.

Cassian tries to snatch it back. “I wasn’t done with it,” he grits. “Nesta, give it back.”

“I’m glad we brought up boundaries,” she says instead. “Because we need to talk about this morning.” Shoving the book into her pants waistband, she peels off her blazer and takes a seat on the coffee table in front of Cassian.

Cassian blinks, gripped by the authority in her movements. Nesta pokes a finger at his chest. “What you said bothered me all day. Nearly ruined my night. So I’m telling you now, I’m not taking your money for anything, ever. And if you bring up the topic again, I’m moving out.” She sounds dead serious.

He’s not afraid of her. “I’m bringing up the topic now,” he pushes back, his tone hard. “As someone who considers you a friend, I don’t like to see my friends struggling.”

Nesta blinks, and maybe finally accepts that she can’t fight her way out of this, because she drops her finger. “I can’t be financially dependent on a man, Cassian,” she admits, refusing to look away from him. “I’ve done it before, and it’s no way to live life. I don’t care how nice you are; I’m not taking your money. And you can’t make me.” She doesn’t shout or hiss that last part. It’s said with a quiet strength, and it makes Cassian want to concede everything. If this is about her ex-boyfriend, then he doesn’t want to be anything like him.

But it doesn’t change the fact that her health is still on the line. “What if you don’t take my money?” he says quickly. “What if I make you work for it?”

Law school doesn’t allow for part-time jobs on the side, and Nesta’s been scraping by with scholarships and leftover money from her father’s will. The suffering is worth it now, she told Cassian once, if she’s at a law firm the year after next with a starting salary of 100K.

Nesta purses her lips, skeptical. “What kind of work?”

“You can be a legal consultant for Night Court.”

“Do I look qualified to be a legal consultant?” She’s glaring now.

“Well, it’s either that or you get to be my personal assistant.” Nesta looks even more outraged at that, and Cassian holds up his hands. “I respect your need to stay independent,” he says, “but you can’t convince me that a handout or two is worse than going broke.” Cassian himself would be dead right now without all the handouts he got over the course of his life. “Please, Nesta,” he says quietly. “Think about it for me. And if you still hate it, I’ll never bother you about it again.” Even though it would kill him.

Nesta stares at him, the gears in her brain visibly turning. Finally— “Rhysand’s company does run on handouts anyway,” she mutters, glancing away. “What’s one more?”

Before Cassian can drop to his knees and thank her, she whips her head back to him. “But I want to do real work, Cassian. Not the pretense of work while I get a fat paycheck.”

He bursts into a grin and grabs her arms. “I’m gonna work you so hard.” He kisses her hard on the cheek.

Nesta makes a choking noise and starts coughing, and Cassian realizes how that sounded. “Did I say something wrong?” he plays innocent.

Nesta’s face is red for reasons other than alcohol now, but she covers it up by shoving Cassian hard enough to send him into the couch cushions. “Asshole.” She pulls her book out of her waistband and throws it at Cassian’s chest. “Have your romance back, I’m going to bed.”

“Hey— wait, it's six p.m. What about the puzzle?” he calls after her. She ignores him and keeps walking.

“Fine,” he says to her back, “but don't go to sleep with your contacts in again; you're gonna hurt yourself.”

As she reaches the stairs, he adds, “I’m proud of you for the moot court, by the way. I’m telling everybody you're the smartest person I know.”

Nesta pauses briefly at that, before saying, “Goodnight, Cassian,” and continuing up to her room.

Later that night, Cassian does want to tell everybody that Nesta is the smartest person he knows. She's the smartest, coolest, and wittiest person he knows, full stop, with killer looks and a criminally underrated personality. But something is holding him back from sharing his feelings with the rest of the world.

It's the same feeling that's had him avoiding Feyre these last few weeks. The unspoken knowledge that not everybody sees Nesta the way Cassian does, paired with the fierce desire to protect her from any sort of criticism.

He doesn't have any definitive proof to justify his feelings, but he knows he can't stop thinking about Nesta. He knows his friends will take notice of the change in his behavior eventually, so in a fit of restlessness, he reaches for his phone to test a theory.

Scrolling through his contacts, Cassian eventually settles on Mor. She's close to Feyre and Cassian both, has an inclination to gossip, and she’s never interacted with Nesta. Perfect.

Cassian: what do you think of Nesta?

He's straightforward with her the way he always is, the way she always is with him.

Mor answers quickly without question: didn’t she let feyre work her ass off at age 14 while she sat around and did nothing?

Mor: she sounds like a bitch and i have yet to see anything to the contrary.

Mor: she has very nice eyes though

Mor: if u know what i mean ( . )( . )

Cassian wishes he hadn’t even asked. He doesn’t even know how to reply to that, so he’s about to turn his phone off when another message from Mor comes in.

Mor: why do you ask? how are things going with you two?

Cassian sighs deeply, not in the mood to start a fight with one of his best friends. He never told Feyre about taking Nesta to the doctor, or the following MRI and diagnosis. The last time he had a real conversation with Feyre was the first night of Nesta’s period, when he was worried sick over how to take care of her.

“What should I do, Feyre? She's crying herself sick upstairs and all I have is this stupid hot towel.”

“You don't have to do that,” she sighed tiredly over the phone. “Nesta goes through this every month. She’ll survive. Don’t get yourself worked up over nothing.”

That was when he decided he was calling a doctor no matter what.

And now… He’s confused and upset and he doesn't know why. Instead of arguing with Mor, he texts back, it’s nothing. A second later, he adds, but she's not a bitch.

He wants to say more, but texting Mor an essay on why she’s wrong for judging Nesta without knowing her would make him look crazy, among other things. He doesn’t know why he has to clarify that Nesta isn’t a bitch in the first place.

Either way, Cassian’s theory was proven correct.

He decides not to mention Nesta to his friends anymore.

***

Nesta lays in bed, thinking about the absolute day she’s had.

If getting drunk with Emerie Nikolis and Eris Vanserra at two in the afternoon wasn’t enough, stumbling back home to find Cassian like that finished her off for good. Her cheek has been tingling for hours.

She remembers how this housing agreement between them first started: I need you to know you can enforce whatever rules and boundaries you want while you’re here.

Nesta huffs a laugh. Boundaries are for strangers. Cassian seems content to poke and tug at Nesta’s boundaries whenever he wants, and Nesta… is okay with this. A mere month ago, this would have been her worst nightmare— living with a man who pushes her on every decision, who never does what she wants but somehow always knows what she needs.

But now they're friends, and Nesta is slowly learning that the rules are different with friends. Not everything has to be spelled out, because Cassian will understand what she's trying to say anyway. Not everything that is unknown has to be scary, because Cassian is never scary.

He’s allowed to read her books because he won’t make fun of them. He's allowed to know about her personal health matters because he won’t tell anybody else. And apparently, he’s allowed to give her a job so she doesn’t go broke trying to afford endo treatment.

These are the new rules.

She’s ridiculously glad that she told Lorene she won’t be coming back to the apartment for a few weeks. She doesn't know what she'll do after then, but for now she is okay.

***

a/n: hello i love writing cassian pov and learning more about him so much :) also thinking about having cassian call nesta 'baby' when they get together more often than 'sweetheart' just bc i think it would be a good look on him. pls share ur opinion.

tagging: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies

[cripplingaddictions]

Bakugo x Reader: Confession

Summary: After Bakugo’s mental breakdown with Midoriya outside the dorms, you take it upon yourself to get him to open up. Of course it isn’t easy, but you two had known each other for years. Bakugo realises how he really feels and claims you as his own.

Rating: SFW

Genre: Fluff, angst, lime

Word Count: 4.7k

A/n: I love comfort fluff and tending to wound tropes... and I also used the headcanon that Bakugo needs hearing aids, so that is included in this fic. I’m also sorry about the slow updates... I’ll have some headcanons out for haikyuu in the new future so stay tuned!

The crisp night air flooded through the open windows as you held a warm drink in your chilly hands. A fluffy blank landed on your shoulders as Mina deposited them off to everyone. You shifted yourself to meet Mina’s extraordinary eyes, nodding in thanks. Mina returned with a cheery smile of her own.

All the girls of 1A populated the couches, basking in the much needed warmth. A few boys sat amongst you, such as Kaminari, Kirishima, Ojiro, and Sero. Mineta desperately cried for help, wrapped in a cocoon of Sero’s tape after a perverted comment directed at Momo. Todoroki did as he always did, awkwardly standing slightly adjacent to the lively group, a keen but kind eye flickering between classmates as they contributed to the conversation.

“Everyone!” Iida marched up to your group, “Leaving the windows open in this weather is incredibly irresponsible! You will all get a cold!” His rapidly chopping hands paused momentarily to hurriedly pull all the windows shut.

“Thanks, emergency exit!” Kirishima waved at the class representative. A satisfied expression washed over Iida’s face.

You rolled your eyes, slightly smiling at them, before taking a prolonged sip of your warm beverage. Without spilling it, you pulled your legs up on the couch to cross them.

The class was happily celebrating a successful hero licensing exam. All but Bakugo and Todoroki. Hagakure and Momo had insisted they could join you too. It didn’t surprise you that Todoroki showed up but Bakugo didn’t, for one of them took it a lot worse than the other.

Bakugo was your childhood friend, knowing him since forever. There wasn’t a time you didn’t know each other, but not quite outdating him knowing Midoriya. You never really announced yourselves as “friends”, per se. It more so happened by consistently interacting, never really introducing yourselves. One of those friendships that “just happened”, neither of you remembering when you really met each other. Turns out, your mothers had been friends for years prior.

As you two grew older, and Bakugo became more and more like... himself, you did not condemn for anything he would say to Midoriya, being quirkless. Luckily, you happened to manifest a fairly powerful quirk, so he never judged you for it. He could never find himself to explode at you whenever you told him to back off. He may yell, but it never went further than petty insults. Of course, Mitsuki would have been appalled with him if he did. She definitely had a soft spot for you.

Once starting at UA, Bakugo’s ego slowly but surely began to deflate. He began to obtain standards, something that surprised you plenty. You noticed how he acted around Kirishima. That was when you realised the difference between how he treated all his peers. He seemed to rank them - most worthy of his friendship and time to least. Upon witnessing Kirishima - someone pretty high in those “ranks” - interact with him, you noticed the outside perspective. How nice he was to you and Kirishima, compared to people like Midoriya.

Eventually, you grew an odd feeling in your chest whenever he showed up to class. Top buttons undone and without a tie. Or when you caught a glimpse of his ember swirling eyes. Not to mention during training, rocking up in that hero costume of his.

You even began to play a little game. Testing him to see how long you could pester, order, or genuinely annoy him before he literally exploded at you. More and more of late, that time stretched. Unfortunately, your little experiment didn’t go unnoticed. All the girls of 1A knew, questioning you about it. You passed it off as something you thought would be funny. Only Mina saw right through you. She knew you liked him and constantly teased you about it to no end. Midoriya and Kirishima were the only others to notice you pushing his buttons more than usual lately.

Uraraka’s voice broke through your elaborate train of thought, “Y/N...”

“Yeah?” You answered.

“Do you have any idea where Deku is?” Her voice trembled slightly, her cheeks going slightly pinker as she rubbed the back of her neck. She couldn’t be more obvious about her crush on Midoriya, so you had nothing to worry about. “He hasn’t come back since Bakugo said he wanted to talk to him. I’m kind of worried about him.”

A huff left your lips, “In all honesty, I am too. There’s no telling what Bakugo wanted to talk to him about.”

“He might be seeking girl advice,” Mina chimed in, sending a sly wink in your direction.

You immediately took a long sip of your drink, hoping the cup hid your slight blush as you furrowed your eyebrows at Mina.

“I highly doubt it,” Tsuyu placed a finger to her chin in thought, “I’m not sure that Bakugo would need that kind of advice. Especially not from Midoriya.” Your gaze fell.

“He probably wants to kill him,” Jirou shrugged her shoulders, taking a sip from her own drink.

Jirou’s comment silenced the group of 1A girls. Only condescending sipping of drinks and the guys chattering filled your ears. Your attention left your drink to the sound of shuffling feet approaching. Bright yellow eyes met yours when the source of the shuffling feet sat beside you.

“Ladies,” Kaminari’s smooth voice wooed as he rested his arms on the back of the couch, “What’re you guys talking about?”

Dyed red hair, held up by a graphic bandana, flashed your peripheral vision as Kirishima took a seat next to you. He pouted slightly when you flashed him an almost sarcastic smile. The pout couldn’t mask that he could see right through you. Worry for Bakugo plagued your mind. There was no doubt Midoriya had improved his ability to use his quirk. If Bakugo had indeed wanted to fight him, he definitely underestimated him.

“I’m sure he’s just in bed, Y/N,” Kirishima placed a hand on your shoulder, “It is way past eight-thirty.”

You stifled a small giggle, nodding at Kirishima’s words and mentally thanked him for his optimistic nature. You continued to sip your drink in silence, occasionally tuning in to Mina and Kaminari’s chaotic conversation. Overall, you felt the homeliness of this family created through 1A. A homeliness soon to be destroyed.

A loud bang caused everyone to close their mouths, the worst case scenario filled your head. Luckily, when you followed it to its source, it came to a slammed door. An easy answer came to your mind; the wind. However, standing before the door stood Bakugo and Midoriya. Both definitely looking a bit rough around the edges. A gauze on each cheek, they looked defeated. They refused to reach each other’s eyes, or any other pair staring them.

You cautiously planted your cup on the coaster before you, as if you were afraid of agitating Bakugo, easily spotting the anger and emotion in his ruby eyes.

“Bakugo and Midoriya!” Iida rushed over to them in a flash, his arms chopping up and down in anger, “Where on earth have you been? Why do you look like you just got into another brawl with some villains?”

“Shut the hell up, four-eyes,” Bakugo snapped, grumbling to himself. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, before storming past the couches.

Before anyone could stop you, you leapt to your feet. Your drink left behind, you rushed after Bakugo. The blanket around your shoulders flowed behind you like a cape, you called out to the angry blond, “Bakugo!”

Bakugo ignored you, continuing up the stairs. Hurriedly, you sped up the stairs and overtook him.

Your body blocked his, “Bakugo, what the hell happened?”

His head continued to hang low, his blond hair falling to obscure his eyes from view as you desperately tried to meet them. Scratches, grazes and cuts littered his face and arms, some covered up with gauze. The two gauzes on his cheeks mirrored each other, lightly stained in blood. Dust and dirt smudged up his arms; his wounds weren’t properly cleaned. His hands stuffed in his baggy sweatpants shook slightly, from both physical and emotional pain.

“Shut up, Y/N,” Bakugo’s wavering voice protested, failing at any attempted aggression, “I don’t need to tell you shit.”

You heaved in a shaky breath, “True, but I want to know. I might be able to help you.”

“You can’t help me,” his voice raised, causing you to step back. You really wished you could see his eyes, to see what kind of pain he was in.

“You won’t know that until you tell me what’s wrong,” you sighed, trying your best to stay calm and not snap back.

“Get out of my way...”

Bakugo harshly barged his shoulder into yours, causing you to stumble to the side slightly. You stepped after him as he continued to his dorm, the most likely place you imagined he would storm off to. You caught up again, flinging an arm out in front of him. His warm, sweaty hand latched onto your forearm. Your heart skipped a beat, relishing the ironically soft touch.

However, the softness of his touch contradicted his tone, “Y/N, move... right now...”

“Bakugo!” You cried, not afraid of the slightly startled boy before you. 

You didn’t budge or flinch as you laced your fingers between the ones he gripped onto your forearm with. With a soft touch, you lifted his chin upwards to get a perfect view of his face. 

His cut up face held the softest expression you had ever seen. No crease sat between his eyebrows, grazes over his forehead. The gauzes taped to his cheeks hid the worst of his face injuries, letting a small amount of blood to seep through it. His eyes glistened with tears, about to be spilt. They stung red, from previous tears.

Katsuki Bakugo stood before you, with tears in his eyes.

The Katsuki Bakugo.

“You can tell me, you know,” You hushed, once his bloodshot eyes met your sympathetic ones, “I’ve always been there for you, like when you got your hearing aids.”

One hand still holding his, you let the other one slip up to expose the small black device in his left ear. It wrapped around the back, resting behind his ear. A soft sympathetic smile graced your features, as Bakugo squeezed his eyes shut. He entered a vulnerable state, allowing you to wrap an arm around his lower neck and pull him into a hug.

“Please...” You whispered, “It’s better if you let it all out.”

Bakugo awkwardly stepped out of the hug, slipping his hand out of your grip. His eyebrows creased again, squinting his eyes to hold back any tears. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and refused to meet your eyes again.

“I’m just fucking pissed!” He raised his voice again, “I’m pissed at myself. At damn Deku! How did he become someone so damn special? And I didn’t!? When I finally get fucking recognised for something... it’s because I ended All Might! Why me?”

Your breath hitched. All of Bakugo’s pain unloaded onto you. All Might’s end happened a small while ago. He held this guilt in for that long? No wonder he was angry. In a way, you felt privileged and relieved Bakugo opened up to you. You always tried to be there for him. You wished you could have been there earlier, to stop him ever feeling like this in the first place.

“Bakugo...” You hushed his uneven breathing. It almost sounded like he was about to have a panic attack, “You couldn’t have prevented it. No one knew that it was going to happen. The last person who should be blaming themselves is you.”

“I could have done something! All I did was stand and watch. I left as soon as I saw you call out to me. Damn it!”

“Look at me, Bakugo,” digging into his pockets, you removed his hands from them and held them in your own, “If you didn’t leave when I called you, not only All Might would have ended. You would have too. And I don’t know what I would ever do if you did.”

A sharp inhale came from Bakugo’s parted lips, before he trailed off, “Da-damn it...”

“I care about you, Baku,” you let your thumbs run small uncoordinated circles on the back of his warm veiny hands. You couldn’t force yourself to look into his eyes, afraid of how he would respond. “I care more than you can ever imagine.”

“I- I-, fuck...” He couldn’t form sentences, let alone words. You, of course, couldn’t blame him. Not only because of his current emotional state, but you knew it would take a little bit more to get something so sincere out of Bakugo.

“It’s okay,” you finally met his red eyes, trying to mask the glossiness of your own, “It’s okay if you don’t return my feelings... I won’t take it too harshly.”

A small cocky grin slid its way onto Bakugo’s disheartened features, “Who said I didn’t, baka.”

Little giggles left your mouth as you wrapped your arms around his neck. A newfound sense of confidence filled you. Not only did you let the burden of your confession lift off your chest, but he reciprocated the feelings. You couldn’t wait to tell Mina all about it.

“Now...” All sadness and sorrow had drained from Bakugo, a sudden huskiness melted off his words, “Let me claim you as mine.”

“Wait, wha-” Without warning, Bakugo cut you off by pushing you forward towards the elevator at the end of the corridor. A small laugh left you again upon witnessing the determination - no matter what it was for - return to Bakugo. The Katsuki Bakugo you knew and loved was back.

Without letting go of your wrist, Bakugo frantically pressed the elevator button, “Hurry up, you damn elevator!”

“Yelling at it want make it come faster, you know.”

“Shut up, Y/N.”

Once the elevator pinged, the doors slid open. Bakugo rushed you inside, turning around to watch as the doors slid shut again. No words were spoken, both of you urgently watching the elevator travel up to the level his dorm stood located in. You adjusted your hand in Bakugo’s grip, only for him to squeeze your hand tighter. The small action caused a tiny smile to tug at your lips in satisfaction. Damn, it felt good to finally have him.

The travelling between the elevator and Bakugo’s dorms happened so quickly it was all a blur. The only thing you knew was the sound of the door slamming behind you, before you were back up against the wall beside it.

Bakugo’s rough, calloused hands pinned your wrists to your side. There was no time to protest before the gap between you two closed. Your lips roughly fought against his a loosing battle. His lips felt chapped but soft at the same time. The taste of nitroglycerin lingered between your lips, the smell of caramel wafting into your nostrils. His hands let go of your wrists, finding a new home firmly on your hips only to press you further against the wall. Hands now free, they rushed into his hair. Silky blond locks weaved in and out of your fingers before you ran them down his neck to grip his shoulders.

The tickling of his tongue on your bottom lip begged your lips open, allowing it to slip inside your mouth. You desperately fought against his rough movements, only to lose. He took complete dominance as he slipped a knee between your thighs and propped you even further up the wall. In retaliation, you wrapped your legs around his waist, so he supported your full weight. Your crotch shamelessly pressed against his lower abdomen.

A gasp left your mouth as his warm hands glided up your curves and beneath your shirt. Bakugo’s skilled fingers ran patterns on the soft skin of your back, sending countless satisfied shivers up your spine. Your mouths continued to move in sink as his fingers slid along the skin just beneath your bra. The moan that escaped your mouth sent a wicked smirk onto Bakugo’s lips. Without warning, Bakugo’s lips left yours and attached to the soft skin of your jaw. You tilted your head to the side to give him more access to trail kisses down the curve of your neck. At the same time, one of his hands ran to the clasp of your bra. He fiddled with it, desperately trying to unclasp it before he gave up and detached his warm mouth from your neck.

“Damn it,” his warm moist breath tickled your neck, “How does this shitty thing work?”

You let a laugh leave your lips as you arched your back for your own hands to slip up your shirt. In an instant, you had detached it. The bra lacked straps, causing it to immediately drop to the floor.

A growl left Bakugo as he began sucking on the soft flesh of your neck. His warm, wet tongue pressed and flicked against it. The occasional sensation of his teeth grazing over your neck made a shiver slide up your spine. Bakugo’s large hands travelled back to the front, fanning over you exposed breasts. They travelled over them until he lightly fondled them in his hand, squeezing gently. Your hands on his shoulders quickly gripped onto the fabric of his black tank top. One of his thumbs flicked over your hardened nipple, causing his name to fall from your mouth in a pleasurable moan.

Bakugo greedily grunted, whispering against your neck, “Yeah, I like that, Y/N...”

His tongue continued to trail over your skin, sucking and flicking until he pulled away. Your eyes fluttered open, leaning down to press your forehead against his. Slowly, Bakugo’s hands trailed back down your sides and pulled out of your shirt. Your feet made it safely back down to the ground. When you attempted to meet Bakugo’s eyes, you found them trailing over purple bruises covering your neck, continuing up to the start of your jaw.

“Now you’re mine,” Bakugo brought you into a safe hug, letting you rest your head into the crevice of his neck. Your eyes squeezed shut again, delving yourself completely into his sent of caramel.

“As far as first kisses go,” you teased, letting a cheeky grin slide onto your face, “that wasn’t half bad.”

“Damn well, it wasn’t half bad!” His voice lifted higher, a familiar angry tone taking over. An even bigger smile came to your face once you realised he had almost completely forgotten the predicament he was in previously. “That better have been the best kiss ever!”

A little string of laughs left you, “Yeah, yeah. It was the best. You got me there.”

The silence continued for a little longer, until Bakugo retreated out of the hug. He cleared his throat before turning away from you. You took the opportunity to rush to his mirror, observing the damage he had done. A dozen or so purple hickies littered across your neck. They travelled all the way to your jaw and almost your ears. It would take a lot of foundation to cover those up, you thought.

“I’m definitely yours, it seems,” you turned to Bakugo, who only grunted, “I almost look as beat up as you.”

“I’m fine,” came his reply.

“You still need to clean those wounds and cover them up.”

“I don’t need Recovery Girl.”

“No, we shouldn’t bother Recovery Girl right now. I’d be happy to do it for you in the girls bathroom. Mr Aizawa is long gone, don’t worry about him catching us.”

“What about your annoying extras?”

“If any of the girls come in, I’m sure they’ll understand and make a pretty quick exit. I promise.”

Bakugo huffed in reply as you tilted your head in the direction of the door. You made your way to the door. As you reached out for the door handle, a bundle of black was thrown at you.

“Cover up, damn it,” Bakugo shoved his hands in his pockets and joined you by the door, “You don’t even have a bra on.”

“Oh, yeah,” you hurriedly unfolded the black clothing item, to find it was one of Bakugo’s plain black hoodies. You slipped it over your head and let it drop down a little further than your hoodies usually would. Caramel scent engulfed you, making it clear it hadn’t been washed since the last wear. Normally, that would disgust you, but it was your boyfriend’s. You plotted how long you were going to hold onto it in your head as you bundled the hood around your neck.

You gestured to yourself, only to receive a shrug from Bakugo. The shrug couldn’t hide the tiny reddish tint on his cheeks from the sight of you in his clothes. A victorious smile made it to your face, and you opened the door.

The journey to the girl’s bathrooms was uninterrupted. You led him there, linking pinkies the whole way. He hesitated to walk through the door, after all it was the female bathroom. The door shut suddenly behind you as you pointed Bakugo to sit on the bathroom counter. Swinging open the cabinet above the sink, you pulled out a small box of first aid supplies. You placed you hands on your hips after allocating the box a spot next to Bakugo.

“Take your shirt off,” you demanded, the authoritative tone desperately hiding the redness of your ears.

“Why?” Bakugo grumbled, mocking you with arms crossed.

“So I can see if you have any further injuries,” You opened the first aid box, pulling out a dry rag. Out of the corner of your eye, you spied Bakugo lifting his tank top over his head to reveal his toned chest and abs as you ran cold water over the rag. Wringing it of excess water, you turned to see him checking himself over for any injuries.

“Nothing,” Bakugo bluntly replied.

“Yes, but your ribs are bruised,” you pointed at the green patches of flesh along his sides. The mirror didn’t indicate any wounds or bruises on his back. Without warning, you dragged the moist rag over the bruises. A few droplets of water rolled down his chiseled stomach as he pulled back.

“That shit is cold!” Bakugo exclaimed, “I’m getting wet now, damn it!”

“It’s a rag with water, what did you expect?” You hummed, continuing to trace the bruised ribs softly with the rag. You leaned over the counter to grab hold of his closest hand, resting your sover it. “Stay still.”

Once you had finished, you gently gripped one of his forearms. The cloth traced his skin, washing it clean. You had to scrub it softly at some points, but avoided any of the open grazes and cuts. You travelled the cloth to run over his biceps, this time lightly dabbing at the largest graze. Your skilled hands couldn’t hide the blush on your face, especially with his fiery eyes watching your every move. They occasionally shifted to your concentrated features.

The cloth quickly passed over his shoulders and chest, before repeating the process on his other arm. This one wasn’t as scratched up as the other, making your job a lot simpler. Once you finished, you took a step back over to the sink.

“You’re probably gonna hate what I’m about to do,” you sighed, wringing out the rag after rinsing it.

“What are you gonna do?” He demanded, less agitated than he usually would be.

You didn’t answer with words but with your actions. Stopping the dripping of the rag, you dragged it around the gauze on his cheek. His hand swiped up, grabbing your wrist and pulling my hand away from his face.

“Die shitty rag! How dare you come near my face!”

A full hearted laugh left your lips, your head tilting back, “I’m trying to help you, baka. Please let me.”

Bakugo studied your face for a short while, until he ripped his eyes away, “Fine.” He left his cheek exposed, letting you place the rag back onto it. All the dust and ash had been scrubbed from his cheeks and nose. You softly dragged the rag over his forehead, softly dabbing it over a shallow graze. Once, your hand pulled away, you leaned up to place a soft kiss on his forehead.

“Are you done?” Bakugo rolled his eyes, pressing his bare back against the mirror.

You shook your head, “Nope. Not even close.” You placed the damp rag in the sink, digging around in the first aid box again. Bakugo groaned in annoyance, causing you to smile and shake your head again.

Cold plastic slipped between your finger tips - a small bottle of antiseptic. Pulling it out, you placed a few cotton balls next to it. Carefully, you dropped a small amount of antiseptic onto the cotton ball. You lifted it towards Bakugo, who grimaced at the sight.

“I can’t promise this won’t hurt,” you hissed in empathy, hesitantly detaching he hand from the counter. Pulling his arm closer, you dabbed the cotton ball onto one of the shallow grazes on his forearm.

Bakugo immediately pulled back, “Antiseptic can die!” You smiled, knowing that was his way of saying that it stung.

“It’s gonna sting a little bit,” you rolled your eyes, “I did tell you that.”

Your hand swiped out to grab his wrist in it again as he constantly ripped it away, “Katsuki Bakugo! It’ll get infected and hurt even more if you don’t let me do this!” You exclaimed in a playful seriousness.

“Say that again,” the grimace on Bakugo!s face dropped, his features now softer.

“It’ll get infected?”

“No, baka. My name.”

“Your name? Katsuki Bakugo?”

The smirk on his face now unmistakable, he placed a hand on your waist, “Yeah, call me Katsuki. I like when you say my name.”

A similar smirk crossed your face as you placed a hand over his on your waist. Without warning him, you took the cotton ball and frantically dabbed it onto the next graze. Katsuki grunted, whipping his arm out of your reach.

His eyes remained glued in the victimised graze, “What the hell? That was a dirty trick!”

“It worked, though,” you replied, drenching a new cotton ball in antiseptic, “That’s all that matters.”

“Whatever.”

Eventually, he gave up fighting against you, allowing you to finish applying antiseptic to grazes and cuts on his arms and shoulders without much fuss. You left the injuries covered by the gauze on his cheeks alone, immediately tending to the largest and most tender graze on his forehead. With your free hand, you pushed back his blond hair that shaded it. You kept that hand lovingly caressing the start of his hairline, while the other hesitantly dabbed at the graze.

Katsuki hissed through his teeth, causing you to slip your hand down the side of his face. You held his cheek in your palm and sent him an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry,” you placed the cotton ball down into the small pile of used ones under Katsuki’s observant gaze.

“I think I’m going to leave that one exposed. It needs to dry out to heal properly,” you explained thoroughly. A grunt left Katsuki as you pulled out more gauzes and a roll of bandage.

After a silent moment, you had successfully wrapped up his entire right forearm in a bandage. A large gauze covered a wide but shallow graze on his left shoulder and a couple of smaller ones littered over some small ones on his left bicep.

As you began to quietly pack up the first aid box, you felt a pair of arms slide around your waist. You stood on your tippy-toes to place it back in the cabinet, only for the limbs to wrap around you tighter. Katsuki’s breathtaking red eyes met yours in the reflection of the mirror, where you swayed in his arms in contentment.

“When I’m let off this shitty house arrest,” Katsuki grumbled into your marked neck from your previous activities, “I’m taking you out.”

“Yeah,” you laughed, leaning your head against his, “I’d love to, Katsuki.”

“It wasn’t a choice.”

A giggle left your lips, leaving both of you happy as you stood in each other’s arms.

[kinglazrus]

Until Death Do We Part

Truce gift for @anthropwashere! Sorry I'm late, but I hope the wait was worth it!

Summary: For someone who fights ghosts, literal dead people, on a near-daily basis, you would think Danny could handle death better than this. He faces mortality every day, every time he goes ghost. So why can't he face this? Why is this any different than any other day? Because it was his Valerie, and he saw it, and he couldn't stop it. Because it was his fault.

(links to ffn and ao3 on my bio)

Warnings: gore and blood, panic attacks, murder

Word count: 24011

By the time the ambulance arrives, Valerie is already dead. The fight is over, Spectra and Bertrand long gone, and Danny—in human form—cradles her head in his lap. He doesn't know who called the ambulance, or when. Everything after Valerie's fall is a blur. He remembers a scream, his own most likely, and Spectra's victorious cackle, but not her retreat. The citizens had fled at some point near the start of the battle. How long was he holding her before someone returned, saw what happened?

After years of dealing with ghosts, the people of Amity Park had formed a simple routine. Run from the fight, don't get in the way or put yourself in danger, wait for the noises to end, wait a few minutes more, then trickle out of hiding once you know it's safe. The entire city knows the choreography by heart, follows every step with military precision. It's one of the main reasons no one has died during a ghost attack before. At least, until now.

The ambulance's wailing sirens cut out abruptly. Danny barely registers their absence, focused entirely on Valerie's face. If he lets himself get distracted, he might be tempted to look lower, at the wound that took her life a gaping mess of blood and shredded organs in the middle of her chest, covered by his jacket. Don't look at it. Don't think about it. Keep your eyes up.

People talk about peace in death, but he only sees agony on her face. Blood smears her lips, fills her mouth. Her wide eyes stare up at him, dull and empty. Shaking, Danny passes a hand over her eyes, trying to close them. As soon as he removes his hand, her eyelids slide back open. He tries again. They still don't close.

One of the paramedics comes up to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, kid. It's not... it's not like the movies. That's not how it works." The paramedic glances back at her partner, a helpless look passing between them.

"I called dispatch," her partner says, speaking softly, but still loud enough for Danny to hear. "Coroner's on the way."

She nods, then turns her attention back on Danny. "I'm sorry but you need to let her go."

Danny squeezes his eyes shut and sobs. Oh, god. Oh, god. He doesn't know what to do. He can't let her go, can't leave her, but she won't stop looking at him with those dead, accusing eyes. Another sob tears through him, and another, each cry ripping him to smaller and smaller pieces. He presses a hand to his mouth, clamping down hard as if he can force the sobs back down his throat if he pushes hard enough.

Belatedly, he notices the taste of copper on his tongue. Danny scrambles away from Valerie, her head dropping with a thump that makes the paramedics wince, and barely makes it two feet before his stomach heaves and he pukes in the street. A hand rubs his back; a soft voice whispers empty reassurances. When Danny finishes puking, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and gasping for breath, he leans back on his heels and looks up at a paramedic. Blinking through his tears, Danny catches her nameplate, C. Vaughan.

"Hey, you're okay," she says.

Danny stares at her incredulously. Okay? How is any of this okay? Valerie is dead. His mind is still reeling. Despite seeing it happen, some part of him can't believe it's real. Someone died during a ghost attack. Not just someone, but Valerie. And she wasn't killed by any old ghost, either. Nothing is okay, and it never will be again.

Because Danny Phantom killed Valerie Gray.

—

It takes nearly twenty minutes for the coroner to arrive. That whole time, Danny refuses to move or even talk. He doesn't approach Valerie's body again, but he can't walk away either. A handful of cops—he's not sure when they arrived—have set up a perimeter around the scene, keeping curious onlookers back. Looking over the line of people crowding against the police tape, disgust swells in Danny's gut. They're treating it like a show, pointing and whispering. Danny, grinding his teeth, glares at them, wanting nothing more than to blast them down the street.

In the throng, he catches a glimpse of Lance Thunder's perfectly coiffed hair.

The scrape of boots on asphalt pulls his gaze from the reporter, and he looks to his right. Vaughan approaches him, a water bottle and a cloth in her hand. She offers both to him. "You should get yourself cleaned up."

Danny stares at the offering blankly.

"Unless you want me to do it for you?"

At eighteen years old, Danny's entire face goes red at the thought of someone cleaning him like that. He snatches the items from Vaughan's hands, soaks the cloth in water, and scrubs at his cheeks. By now, the blood has long since dried, dark red streaks stretching across his cheeks. He remembers how warm it felt when it first splattered across his face.

Danny flinches, hands freezing. It takes him a moment to compose himself, shoving the sensation to the back of his mind, before he finishes scrubbing.

"Careful, or else you'll start peeling for skin off." Vaughan laughs weakly at her joke.

Danny doesn't even crack a smile. His face still feels dirty, but the cloth is more pink than white now, and it doesn't seem to be getting any darker, so he must have gotten all of it. Unsure of what to do with them, he offers the cloth and bottle back to Vaughan.

She takes them, then sits on the curb beside him. Her presence is neither comforting nor annoying, she's just there, a warm body next to him, soaking in his misery.

"It's never easy, finding a body," she says.

Danny holds back a snort. Right. Finding. As if he didn't watch it happen. As if it wasn’t all his fault.

"You're the Fenton boy, right?"

"One and only, last I checked."

"Marty called your parents." She nods toward the ambulance. For a second, Danny thinks she means her partner, the other paramedic, and he's confused about why they would call his parents. But then he realizes she's motioning to the cop standing beside her partner. Every few seconds, Marty the Cop glances his way. "I told him to back off for a bit, but he's gonna ask you a few questions about what happened before you can go."

Danny frowns. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you just found a dead body, and that's a horrible experience to go through, but it also means a bunch of strangers are going to ask you questions about what happened, and I think you should know what's happening before you get into it."

"I didn't find her."

Vaughan raises an eyebrow. "But dispatch said–"

"I was there. I was with her. We were friends."

Vaughan goes silent. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, letting it out slowly. "Oh," she says, packing so much emotion into one soft syllable. Pity, distress, world-weary exhaustion. A hint of anger. Hearing it makes Danny flinch, leaves him winded as if she punched him. Just another ache on top of all his growing bruises. He gets the feeling he's not the first kid she's had to deal with who watched someone die, and he probably won't be the last.

"Yeah," he says.

"Was that your jacket on her?"

Danny nods.

"That was a good thing you did. I can't imagine what's going through your head right now, but I think she would have been happy to have someone with her at the end."

Bracing his elbows on his knees, Danny clutches his head. Vaughan's trying to comfort him, but he finds no solace in her words. She has no idea what she's talking about. The look in Valerie's eyes at the end, seething even as the light drained out of them. His presence brought her no comfort, and he won't be forgetting that any time soon.

Vaughan nudges Danny. "Marty incoming."

He looks up and sees the cop approaching them, beady eyes narrowed on Danny. Marty the Cop keeps a hand on his belt, fingers drumming against his thigh. Inches away from his stun gun, Danny notes. Real quality cops in Amity Park, he thinks.

"Daniel Fenton?" Marty asks.

"No."

"Funny. I know your parents, and I hope you'll be a lot easier to deal with than they are."

"Marty!" Vaughan hisses. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Hey, just saying. You know how the Fentons are."

"Have some compassion you heathen."

Marty rolls his eyes. "Daniel. We don't have a procedure for something like this, but I'm gonna need you to come down to the station so I can get a statement. Your parents," he sneers, "will meet us there."

"But Valerie..." Danny trails off. The coroner already has her in a body bag on a stretcher. They're in the middle of loading her into the van, taking her away. Danny watches, numb. A protest nearly rises to his lips, but he holds it back. What does he think that's going to do? They can't leave her in the street, and he can't sit here forever. She's gone and nothing's going to change that.

Marty taps his foot impatiently, staring down at Danny.

Danny waits until the coroner slams the van's back door before answering. "Okay. Let's go."

—

The interrogation room is cold, the metal table raising goosebumps along Danny's arm as he leans against it. Marty brought him here "for privacy." Danny thinks the guy just hates his parents and wants to see him squirm. Danny relishes in disappointing him, far too numb to react to the sombre setting.

"Name?" Marty asks.

"Daniel James Fenton." Danny answers.

"How did you find the deceased?"

"I– I was there. I watched the fight. Um." Danny scrambles for an explanation. "I got stuck in the street, and I saw it."

"Can you describe what happened to me?"

"She and Phantom were fighting some ghosts. I didn't see exactly, but something happened, and Valerie fell off her board. And she–"

"Are you confirming the deceased's identity?"

Danny stares at Marty, confused. The cop had to see her face. She hadn't been wearing her visor when it happened, her head exposed for anyone to see. A good few seconds pass before Danny realizes his mistake. To Marty, Valerie wasn't anybody, just a face behind a mask. Only now does it dawn on him that none of those bystanders were looking at Valerie Gray, a high school student killed tragically. When they saw the body, they saw Red Huntress, a local hero brought down by a foe.

"Yeah. Her name is Valerie Gray. She's a senior at Casper High." Danny says.

Marty's eyes widen minutely. "Your relationship with her?"

Danny starts to say friends, then stops. Would she call him a friend now? He settles on, "Classmates. We were classmates."

Before Danny's eyes, Marty's whole demeanour changes. "Shit, kid," he says. He frowns and rubs his eyes, sighing in a way that makes Danny think of Vaughan. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to see that, and I shouldn't have– just, sorry. I know it must be hard, but can you tell me what happened?"

Danny spares a moment to collect himself. "She, uh. Something happened and she fell, and one of the ghosts. They, it could shapeshift. And it st–stabbed her." Danny swallows, trying to wash away the bitter taste the lie leaves in his mouth. He almost wants Marty to call him out on it, point out the way his fingers twitch or how his gaze jumps around the room as a subtle tell.

Tell me I'm lying, Danny thinks. Make me tell the truth. To his disappointment, Marty just hums and writes Danny's words in his notepad.

"I'm sorry I had to bring you down here," Marty says when he finishes. "Your parents should be here by now."

Danny nods.

Marty doesn't move, staring intently at the table.

"Are we... are we done?" Danny asks.

"Huh?" Marty looks up. "Oh. Yeah, you can go." He still doesn't move.

"Okay..." Danny stands up, shoving his chair back. The metal legs screech on the concrete floor, but Marty doesn't react beyond a reflexive wince. On his way out of the room, Danny hears Marty mutter.

"A high school senior? Damn."

Danny doesn't stick around after that, quickening his steps and hurrying out to the bullpen. As he nears, he hears a commotion, raised voices.

"Where's our son?"

"Sir, he's just being questioned right now."

"Questioned? What for? He's not a criminal."

"It's the procedure, please, sit down."

"It's ghosts is what it is, and that's our business!"

At the end of the hall, Danny lurches to a stop. "Dad!"

Jack turns toward his voice and beams. "Danny!" He puts down the cop he was harassing, setting them back on the floor. Danny's surprised no one tried to cuff his dad for that stunt. Then again, Jack is a good foot taller than the tallest person here, and at least twice as wide. He engulfs Danny in a crushing hug, thick arms wrapped around his shoulders. "They told us something happened with a ghost and the Red Huntress."

"What were you doing out of school, young man?" Maddie scolds from behind Jack. "You can't afford another tardy."

"Valerie's dead," Danny says.

Danny can't see his parent's faces, not with his own pressed against Jack's chest, but he feels Jack tense and hears Maddie gasp.

"Oh, sweetie. That poor girl." Maddie's hand finds its way to Danny's head, brushing his hair softly. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"There was a ghost–"

"A ghost!" Jack releases Danny and steps back, pumping his fists. "Damn ghosts! Which one did it? We gotta get 'em, Mads."

"Of course, dear. But perhaps we should take Danny home first?" Maddie gives Jack's arm a placating pat and tilts her head towards Danny.

"Please?" Danny's voice is soft and pleading to his ears. All he wants right now is to collapse in bed and shut everything out for a few hours. He'd take days if he could manage it, but with his family, tough luck. A part of him hopes no one tells Jazz any time soon, at least not until he's unconscious.

They head out to the RV, Maddie and Jack claiming the front seat while Danny curls up in the back, thankful for the meagre amount of solitude it provides him. His parents' murmuring voices wash over him, lulling him into a daze as they drive—Maddie at the wheel, thank god.

Danny barely believes Valerie's gone. He glances out the window, half expecting to see her streaking across the sky on her board, a blur of black and red. Not even an hour ago, they were exchanging taunts and banter as they beat Spectra and Bertrand back. Neither ghost was much of a fighter. Together, he and Valerie should have taken them, easy, but all their guns and ectoblasts couldn't stop the mental hits from catching them. Out of all his enemies, Danny's never feared anyone like he fears Spectra.

Pariah Dark and Dan? They might be three times his size and ten times as strong, but he knows how to fight ghosts like them. A well-placed hit, a lucky shot, and victory is his. But Spectra? She leaves scars so much deeper than any ecto-burn, ripping him open and dragging every flaw to the surface. Too weak, too pathetic, too confused to fight against her, she overwhelms him more often than not. And now... every taunt she's ever tossed his way comes to mind.

I'm sure you're only half the monster your parents think you are.

Everyone's afraid of being weak, but I've never seen someone meet those expectations so well!

Not everyone is cut out to be the hero.

Turns out, Spectra was right all along.

—

Maddie pulls up outside Fenton Works, idles long enough for Danny to step out of the RV, then peels out with the sound of shrieking treads. "Let's get that ghost, baby!" Jack bellows. And then they're gone, around the corner and out of sight.

Watching the dust settle over the road once more, Danny isn't sure what to feel. He's pretty sure that normal parents wouldn't just leave their freshly grieving son at home alone so they can go hunt ghosts, but when have his parents ever been normal? At this point, Danny doesn't think he could function with regular parents. Growing up, he wished Maddie and Jack were less Fenton, but after nearly two decades, Danny knows how to deal with Fentons. He knows how to be alone when his parents set out seeking vengeance on the local spectres.

Danny heads inside, kicking off his shoes at the door, and instinctively goes to set down his backpack, until he remembers it's still at school, probably in Lancer's classroom. Unless Sam or Tucker grabbed it for him. He flexes his empty hand before letting his arm drop to his side. It's Friday, anyway. He has all weekend to get his backpack back, no matter where it ends up.

Danny goes straight to his bedroom, flopping onto his bed. He should change out of his clothes, still smeared with Valerie's blood, but he doesn't have the energy for it. The thought of getting up and digging through his drawers makes his limbs heavy. But sleeping in the shirt Valerie bled out on... that thought has Danny lurching out of bed. He fumbles about in his laundry basket, grabbing a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. In seconds, he's stripped off the bloody clothes and dressed himself in, at least relatively, clean new ones.

The bloody clothes get shoved under his bed. Out of sight, out of mind. And right now he wants to be out of here. A few hours of sleep where everything else can just fade away sounds great right about now. Finally, Danny slips into bed, pulling his covers up to his chin, and lets sleep take him.

—

Snow crunches under his boots. The afternoon sun glints off the sparkling surface, nearly blinding him. He has to squint and shade his eyes to see properly. Even then, it hurts. Danny shivers, drawing his arms in close. He puffs out frosty clouds with every breath, crystals of ice hanging in the air for a moment before they melt, droplets falling to the ground.

Scanning his surroundings, he tries to find some kind of marker. A building, a sign. He'd even take a tree, anything that isn't snow. But no such luck. It's a flat white field in every direction, stretching well into the horizon.

"Great," he mutters. Of course, he's lost. He can't even remember how he got here. Flying, maybe. Chasing a ghost. Looking down at himself, he sees his familiar white and black jumpsuit, so he already went ghost.

Danny shivers again, his whole body trembling. His jumpsuit might be great against hazardous ectoplasmic materials, but the black boots and gloves, designed for lab work, provide little warmth. His fingers and toes are already numb. The heavyweight fabric making up the rest of the suit is a little better, but not much. He can't remember the last time he felt this cold. Not since before he got his ice powers, at least. Back then, it felt like a blizzard raged within him, full of furious winds and freezing air.

This feels like sinking into the bottom of a frozen lake, where there's nothing to feel but cold and crushed.

"I can't stay here," he says, receiving no answer. Not surprising. Who would answer him out here? Sighing, he gives the horizon another speculative glance and picks a random direction. No matter what way he goes, he has to find civilization eventually, especially if he flies.

Danny takes off into the air, makes it two feet up, then plummets back down and faceplants in the snow.

It takes him a moment to realize what happened. When he does, he jerks his head back, spitting out snow, and stares at the imprint of his face in the ground. Glancing at his chest, he checks again to make sure he's in ghost form. Jumpsuit? Check. Ghostly aura? He can't tell, thanks to all the snow. Even the white of his jumpsuit blends into the field. If anyone is out there, all they would see of him are the black pricks of his boots and gloves.

Pushing himself back to his feet, Danny tries again. And again. And again. Each time earns him the same result, a moment of weightlessness at the apex of his jump, followed by a lurch as he drops back down. After the fifth try, Danny finally admits it. He can't fly. If he wants to go anywhere, it has to be on foot. Dreading the trek ahead, he sets off.

With every step, the cold digs in a little more, sinking its sharp claws into his chest. Breathing hurts. Every inhale he feels ice coating his mouth. Every exhale, crystals sting as they drag across his tongue. Blood wells in his mouth, tinting the mist leaving his mouth pink.

Still, Danny presses on. He can't tell how long he walks for. The sun stays rooted to its place in the sky, almost directly above him, shining pale and blue. He's gotten used to staring at the bright snow, at least, able to keep his eyes open without them hurting, so that's a bonus. Squinting into the distance, Danny finally sees something. It glitters, bright and blue, although that might be the sunlight. Either way, it brings a relieved grin to Danny's face. Bolstered, he takes off running.

At first, it looks like a giant mass, but the closer he gets, the better he can make it out. Spires of ice, hundreds of them, protruding from the earth, like a giant's icy fingers poking through the grave. They sharpen into needle-thin claws at the tips, far above his head.

Danny slows when he reaches the first one. It's as thick as the Fenton RV and taller than any building in Amity Park. He can't help but feel awed, tipping his head back as he stares up to the top. Something tells him this isn't a natural formation. He looks at it and sees an awesome display of power.

"Jealous?" a voice whispers in his ear.

Danny spins toward the noise, but the space beside him is empty. He backs away, eyeing the open air with suspicion. "Who said that?"

Something rushes at his left side. He stumbles back, bumping against the ice, and nearly tumbles into the snow. "Who's there?"

"Imagine what you could do with this kind of strength."

Danny swings at the voice. It cackles and flies away out of reach, but not fast enough for him to miss completely. His knuckles skim something, telling him this isn't in his head. It's real. It's real and he can fight it.

"Just let it out, you'll feel better."

Danny snarls and lunges after the voice. He chases it through the spires, spitting curses and swinging his fists. Every hit misses, but he gets tantalizingly close, feeling cloth and skin brush his knuckles more than once. He loses himself deeper and deeper into the maze, kicking up snow, slipping on the ice.

All the while, the voice taunts him.

"If only you had this power. No one could stand up to you, could they? But you're just so weak."

"I'm not weak!"

Stale breath wafts across his face. Danny recoils, lips curling in disgust at the smell. The figure, inches from him yet still unseen, whispers, "Then why couldn't you save her?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Leave. Me. Aloooooooooooo–" Danny's cry pierces the air. It reverberates throughout the icy maze, shaking spires and cracking the ground beneath his feet. Jagged fissures split the ice, shattering the spires into pieces. All around him, they fall in chunks, smashing against the ground.

The wail echoes long after his breath runs out and the spires have crumbled, leaving him in a field of ruin. He gasps, hungry for air, chest tight and mouth numb. Something drips off his lips. Red drops litter the snow at his feet. Reaching up, he touches his mouth and his fingers come away bloody. It spills down his chin rivulets, fills up his mouth and lungs until he's drowning in it. Choking, Danny stumbles forward. His foot catches on a chunk of ice and he falls forward, barely catching himself on his hands. Blood sprays from his mouth.

"Pathetic."

Danny raises his head. Everything's blurry, but he can just make out Spectra's dark form in front of him.

"No wonder you died," she sneers. Turning her head, she glances at something off to the side.

Danny follows her gaze and sees a single spire still standing, this one far shorter than the others were. He swallows, struggles to take a breath. It comes out raspy and wet. Pushing through the agony, he crawls forward until the spire is inches away. The white of his jumpsuit is stained red, looking more like Valerie's old suit than his. Reaching out, Danny lays his hand on the spire. His reflection doesn't reach back.

Trapped in the ice, lips blue from the cold, Valerie opens her eyes.

—

Danny's head is thrumming when he wakes. The room spins. Blood rushes in his ears. He feels his heart beating against his temple, his chest, his throat. It takes a good minute for everything to settle down, leaving him flushed and dizzy. He throws an arm over his eyes, the fading image of Valerie's glare piercing the darkness.

It was just a dream.

Danny scrubs his face and pushes himself upright, sparing a glance at his alarm clock. Nearly eight a.m. He slept through the whole afternoon and night, and yet exhaustion still drags at him. Too bad, he won't be sleeping again any time soon. Not if that's what waits for him.

As his pounding heart finally quiets, slowing to a steady pace, he hears a soft buzzing. Danny's head swivels, his gaze searching the room for the source. It must be his phone, but he left that at school with his backpack yesterday. And yet, there it is, sitting just inside his bedroom, leaning against the wall by the door. His friends must have brought it for him after all.

He grabs his backpack and digs through the main pouch, finding his phone soon enough. Sam's name appears at the top of the screen. He hesitates before hitting the answer button.

"Hey, Sam," he says.

"Danny! I wasn't sure if you'd be awake. When you didn't come back to school, we thought you had gotten hurt during your fight, and we couldn't call you to check."

"Not quite, I guess." Danny makes a noise, not quite a laugh, less than a groan.

"No one answered the door when I dropped off your bag, so I left it in the flowerbed and texted Jazz. I just found out what happened."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Um, Tucker's with me, actually. Hold on."

Sam goes silent for a moment. As she's distracted, Danny sets his backpack on the floor again and backs up to his bed, dropping on the mattress with a bounce.

"Okay, it's on speaker."

"Hey, Danny," Tucker says.

"I texted him as soon as I heard. We're on our way over now, but I thought we'd call first. See if you were, you know. Okay."

"I'm–" Danny falters. Of course he's not okay; how could Sam even ask that? What does she expect him to say? I saw Valerie die, and it's all my fault, but sure, I'm great! "No, Sam. I'm not."

"Man, I'm sorry you were alone. We should have gone with you," Tucker says.

Danny pales. "No! Oh, god, Tuck, no." He runs the scenario through his head. Sam and Tucker by his side when it happened. Sam and Tucker dead, just like Valerie. If not dead, then... witnesses to his lowest moment. He wouldn't be able to look them in the eyes if they had been there. He's not sure he can look them in the eyes now. "It's better for you that you weren't there."

"But not for you! We should have asked if you needed our help before you left. Maybe we could have–"

"No. You couldn't have known, Tuck. Look, I thought it was the Box Ghost or something, not..." Danny presses a hand to his eyes and takes a sharp breath through his nose. "It doesn't matter. It happened. She's gone."

In the silence that follows, Danny perfectly pictures Sam and Tucker trading worried looks.

"Danny." Sam takes over. "It must have been horrible."

"Yeah, it was." He can practically hear Sam grimacing at that.

"It must have been horrible," she repeats. "It shouldn't have happened. And you never should have seen it. We're still sorry we couldn't be there for you."

Danny squeezes his eyes shut. Why, why are they apologizing? Why are they being nice? They should be screaming at him for letting Valerie die. Four years of ghost fighting and he loses someone now when he's supposed to be at his best, his strongest. Not only couldn't he save her, but he's also the reason she's dead. If anything, Sam and Tucker should have been there in his place, then Valerie would have survived.

"Guys, it's... it's fine."

"No, it isn't. We can talk when we get there if you want to. It might help."

"Actually, I think I want to be alone right now." Guilt pricks Danny's heart, but he means it. He doesn't want to talk about it, and if they're just going to pity him, then he doesn't want his friends with him. At least not right now. "Maybe tomorrow or something."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I just. Need time to myself, to process," he says.

"Okay, if that's what you need."

"Just don't shut us out, okay, man?" Tucker says.

Danny nods, then remembers they can't see him and promises just as much. "I'll be okay."

Sam and Tucker say their goodbyes, neither of them sounding confident. Danny hangs up before they can apologize to him or offer any more condolences. He doesn't deserve their pity.

Tossing his phone away, he stays rooted to the spot for a moment, trying to swallow down the tightness in his throat. It doesn't help much. Instead, pressure builds behind his eyes, and no matter how much he tries to fight it, the tears come unbidden. He cries quietly, biting his tongue to stay silent, like a child fighting not to be heard. He doesn't hear the usual clangs and bangs signalling his parents' presence—perhaps they're out hunting for Valerie's killer once again, unaware he lies in their own home—but Jazz could be here; it was the weekend. He doesn't want her to hear him and come knocking on his door.

So, he turns and falls onto his side, shoving his face into his comforter, and makes as little noise as possible as his entire body shakes. Jazz says crying is supposed to make you feel better, once you're done feeling terrible. Somehow, he can't imagine any good feelings coming from this. The tears stop soon enough, leaving him with a pounding headache, puffy eyes, and, just as predicted, feeling no better than before.

As he struggles to pull himself together, rubbing the tear tracks from his face, he hears footsteps outside his door. He pauses, holding his breath, hoping they will pass by.

They don't. A light knock comes.

"Danny?" Jazz whispers, her voice soft enough that he can barely hear her through the door. For one terrifying moment, he thinks he heard her after all, but then she goes on. "Are you awake?"

He doesn't answer.

Jazz waits for another second or two, then leaves. Danny lets out the breath he was holding and sags in relief. He will have to talk to her eventually, but for now, he wants to be alone. Assured that he will get his wish, for a little while longer at least, he crawls back into bed. With the nightmare fresh on his mind, he has no plans to fall asleep again, and settles on staring at his phone, grabbing it from where he tossed it away by his pillow. Today is a day for being numb.

—

Danny stays in his room all day. At noon, Jazz comes around again, knocking on his door and asking to be let in. He turns her away.

"I just want to be by myself right now," he tells her.

She gives in easily enough. "Okay, that's fine. But don't forget to eat. I'm going to the library and I'll be back later."

"I won't forget," Danny says. And he doesn't. He thinks about it, a lot, but he doesn't have the energy to go downstairs and raid the fridge for food. There might be something in the cupboard, some crackers he can snack on with little effort, but even then, the prospect of heading all the way downstairs stops him. One day of wallowing won't hurt. He's gone longer without food the few times he's gotten stuck in the deepest parts of the Ghost Zone.

Sam and Tucker send him a few texts throughout the day. Word has spread fast about Friday's events. Practically the whole town now knows that Valerie Gray was the Red Huntress, and that Fenton boy was there when she died.

Danny doesn't like Amity's rumour mill, never has. More often than not, the churning gears spew out harsh words about his family. He's heard everything from jabs at his father's intelligence—completely incorrect, Danny would like to see anyone else design a ghost portal—to sly suggestions about Danny's parentage—thanks, Vlad, for gleefully fuelling those—to whispers about how neglectful his parents supposedly are. He can't entirely argue against that last one, but he still doesn't like to hear it.

Horror fills him at what things they might be saying on Valerie's death.

As night approaches and Jazz returns home, Danny has barely moved from his bed. He got up once to go to the bathroom and ended up huddled on the bathroom floor for a good hour, afraid to look in the mirror, plagued by visions from his nightmare. Jazz knocks on his door again, and, again, he feigns sleep, pulling the covers up over his head. Good thing, because this time, instead of walking away when he doesn't respond, she opens the door and peeks inside.

"Oh, Danny," she says. Danny struggles to keep his breathing even as she walks closer, her steps signalled only by the creaking of his floorboards. The bed dips when she sits on the other side, at his back. Her hand rests on his hair, nearly making him flinch.

"I hope you know I'm here for you. It's only been a day, but don't lock yourself away in here. It won't make you feel any better."

He wonders why she's saying all this when he's asleep, as far as she knows. If he hadn't been awake, her words would mean nothing to him. He scowls into his pillow, suddenly decided that they do mean nothing to him. If this is her version of helping, comforting him when he isn't even awake to hear it, then he doesn't want her help. Danny's glad when she leaves.

Sometime later, he's not sure how long, Maddie and Jack come home, too. They make far more noise, or Jack does, stomping around downstairs, grumbling his disappointment at catching no ghosts. They come to check on him, too, but unlike Jazz, they stay at his door, saying nothing, slipping away when they realize he's 'sleeping'.

Danny almost laughs. Sleeping, right. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Valerie falling, hears her scream. Relives the moment over and over again with Spectra's laughter echoing in his ears. If these are the kinds of things plaguing him while awake, he doesn't want to know what else lies waiting in his nightmares, especially after last night. He sits in his room, curled on his bed, and stares at nothing. More than once, he hears Jack and Maddie groaning about the ghost they failed to catch.

"We'll get them, Mads. Don't you worry. No rotten ghost can escape the Fentons for long!"

"That poor girl. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

Then why didn't you try and stop it? a traitorous part of Danny's mind whispers. If you knew, why didn't you save her?

A more rational thought breaks through the bitter hisses. And what could they have done? Hunted ghosts more than they already do? Built a permanent containment system so Danny could keep his enemies locked away forever? Put a shield around all of Amity Park to keep the ghosts out?

Yes.

Danny stairs up at his ceiling, blinking slowly as he ponders that revelation. Yes, they could have. If they thought ghosts were so dangerous, if they expected someone to die at their hands eventually, then they should have done something, anything, to stop it. Make something to ward ghosts away, arm citizens with protective gear and weapons, close the fucking portal. They had so many options and they did nothing.

Danny has never hated his parents before. Been mad at them? Yes. Embarrassed by them? Definitely. But hated them? The feeling is so foreign, yet it rushes quickly to fill his entire being, a burning rage that has him clenching and unclenching his fists, holding back a blast of ectoplasm. Furious accusations ring through his head. Why didn't you; how couldn't you; you could have stopped this!

They could have stopped it.

They could have stopped him.

Danny chokes on bitter laughter. It's not funny, but he can't help it. His parents are putting in all this effort to find Valerie's killer, but little do they know, he's living right above their heads. Maybe if they looked at him with the same accusing eye they cast on Jazz whenever she acts a little out of the ordinary, they could have prevented Valerie's death long ago.

He resists the urge to call out, "I'm here! Come get me!" As much as he wants them to turn their weapons on him, the image fills him with terror. It's bad enough staring at them from the bad end of a barrel in ghost mode, but doing it as a human? Telling them he had killed someone? He wants someone to hate him, to scream at him, but at the same time, he can't stand seeing the betrayal in their eyes, realizing that he'd been a ghost all along, the one thing they hate above all else.

Danny whimpers. This is pathetic; he's pathetic. Forget hating his parents, he doesn't think he's ever hated himself this much before. But it still doesn't matter, because it won't bring Valerie back.

—

There's a shadow in Danny's room. He finds it the second day after Valerie's death, when he's nearing forty-eight hours of no sleep. He hasn't tried since yesterday, too afraid of his nightmares, occupying himself with his phone instead. Hell, he even picked up his textbook at one point, when playing games got too boring.

He hasn't eaten yet, despite Jazz's efforts, and barely had anything to drink. Stomach cramps come and go, but the headache stays with him, a combination of dehydration and exhaustion as the fortieth hour without sleep slips by. It's no surprise, then, that he doesn't notice the shadow right away, not until it's solid enough to block out the glow-in-the-dark stars on his wall even though he stares right at it. Each cluster of stars, lovingly placed by his hand, forms a constellation. Together, they mimic the night sky, as well as plastic stars in a square room can mimic the infinite expanse of space. Danny knows the patterns by heart, can trace them with his eyes closed. When he sees two of Cepheus' stars are gone, he realizes something's wrong.

Dragging himself out of his trance, he rubs his eyes, scratchy and dry from staying open so long. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and even then, he has to strain to see... something. It doesn't look like much; a dark cloud blending into the shadows of his room. The shape isn't human, or even ghostly. Just there.

Reaching over to his bedside table, Danny switches on his lamp. Soft orange light fills the room, illuminating the corner. The shadow is still there.

"He–" Danny's voice cracks. He swallows, grimacing at how dry it is. It's been a while since he had something to drink, or eat for that matter. "Hello?" he tries again, once it doesn't hurt to talk.

Anyone else might feel ridiculous talking to a cloud, but Danny's had entire conversations with less. You get used to that sort of thing when you talk to ghosts more than living people.

The cloud doesn't respond or react in any way. Hesitantly, Danny scratches ghost off the list of possibilities. Some kind of Ghost Zone anomaly? Not impossible, considering he lives ten feet above one of the only stable ghost portals in existence. A ghost messing with him? His ghost sense didn't go off, but it only works when an actual ghost is nearby, not an offshoot of their powers.

He can only think of one thing ghost-related that might show itself to him now of all times. He doesn't want to feel hope, but it swells in his chest anyway, bubbling up his throat until a single name bursts from his lips. "Valerie?"

The shadow quivers.

Danny clambers off his bed. "Valerie? Is it really you?"

When he gets close, the temperature plummets. A shiver seizes him, cold fingers curling around his spine.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to!"

Something cracks. Danny cries out as pain shoots up his back. He crumples, falling to the floor. It burns the same way sticking your hand in a bowl of ice water burns. He thinks he might shatter any second.

The shadow drifts closer.

"Stay back!" Danny shouts. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawls away, each movement sending searing pain up his back. Fighting back gasps of pain, he manages to drag himself up with his bed and turns on the shadow, still formless, but he has no doubts about its identity now. Valerie's hateful gaze stares out from the darkness.

Danny flees. It hurts, both running from her and just running. Every step feels like someone is driving a dagger deeper and deeper into his back, but he doesn't stop. He darts down the hall to Jazz's room and bangs on her door. Going ghost doesn't even cross his mind. He just needs someone else to see, needs to know this isn't all in his head.

"Jazz!" he shouts quietly.

Jazz rips the door open, a relieved look on her face. "You're out of your room." She takes in his panicked expression and turns serious. "What happened?"

Danny grabs her hand without saying anything and drags her to his room. "Look in the corner."

Jazz stops just in front of his door, glancing back at him; Danny has to prod her back to get her to step forward. She peeks her head in first, moving slow and deliberate. A few more steps and she slips into the darkness of his room. Danny bites his lip, afraid to go after her, slumping against the wall instead. Standing up hurts. Moving hurts. Everything hurts. He tries to slide down to the floor, but that hurts, too, and he resigns himself to standing perfectly still, waiting for Jazz's reaction.

She sticks her head out of his doorway. Rather than looking shocked like he expected, she stares at him with worry. "There's nothing here."

"What?" Danny jerks forward, biting back a wince of pain. Shooing Jazz back, he takes her place, clinging to the doorframe as he leans inside. The corner of his room is empty. A quick scan reveals no shadows out of place. "But..."

"Danny, are you okay? You haven't come out of your room in two days; that's not healthy. Have you been eating?" Jazz raises a hand to his forehead, but he flinches away from her touch.

"It was Valerie. I saw Valerie's ghost."

"Did you ghost sense go off?"

"Well, no. Not really. But it was her!"

Danny hates the way Jazz stares at him, a trace of a frown on her lips, her gaze critical, judging him, analyzing every twitch.

"Danny, you're distraught."

"No shit I'm distraught! Valerie's haunting me, apparently!" And she should. She has every right.

"Is she haunting you, or are you haunted by her?" Jazz asks.

Danny reels away from her, scowling. "What?"

"You're exhausted. You haven't been eating. Have you even changed your clothes since yesterday? Of course, you're thinking about Valerie, but you need to think about yourself, too." She reaches out again.

This time, Danny slaps her hand away, staring at her in disbelief. His lips curl back in a snarl. "That's not what this is. Jazz, I killed Valerie!"

"I know it feels like that, but it's not your fault. Just because you couldn't save her doesn't mean you did it."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do, Danny. Stop shouting, you're gonna wake Mom and Dad."

"No, I'm not shouting. You're not listening to me!

"Danny!"

His chest heaves. Breathing through his nose, Danny struggles to contain himself. The hall goes deathly quiet without their voices to fill it.

Jazz's face crumples. She rubs her eyes, wet and on the verge of tears, and stretches toward him once more, but gives up. Her hand hovers for a moment, then drops limp at her side. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. But you need to sleep. You've been in her room alone for too long. Have you even talked to Sam or Tucker today?"

He meant to. He honestly did, having promised the day before to see them today. But when the time came, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He ignored their texts and calls

"Get some sleep. You'll feel better after, and then we can talk tomorrow, okay?" Jazz says.

Tomorrow. He has school tomorrow, doesn't he?

"Goodnight, Danny." But Jazz doesn't leave right away. She shuffles her feet, contemplating something. Before Danny can react, she pulls him into a hug and kisses his forehead. "I love you, little brother."

She lingers for another second, then slips by him and heads back to her room. It isn't until Danny hears the sound of her door closing that he realizes she was waiting for him to say it back. Guilt rushes through him, briefly. He could go say it now, but... he doesn't. He trudges toward his bed instead, pausing just before he reaches int. Turning his head, he peers over his shoulder. The corner is still empty. His gaze slides to the tall mirror beside his desk, leaning against the wall rather than hanging from it.

Slowly, and with shaking hands, he pulls up his hoodie to expose his lower back. There's no mark. It doesn't hurt anymore, either, stopping sometime while he was shouting at Jazz. He didn't even notice.

Danny shakes his head.  "You're just seeing things. You're tired. It's been... rough." Valerie's bloody torso flashes through his mind. He hunches forward, a shudder running through his body. "Fuck." He grabs his head, tangled hair catching on his fingers. His scalp stings as his nails dig in, but he doesn't care.

Eventually, he lays down, too tired to hold himself upright. He still tries to fight against sleep's tempting hold, gripping his arms so tight it hurts, clinging to the pain to keep him awake. No matter what, he won't let himself fall asleep.

—

Shards of ice slice his tongue and lips as he breathes. In, out, they glide across his mouth until all he can taste is blood, the shards slowly shredding his throat. He tries to grip his chest but finds a gaping wound instead, wider than his fist. Inside, his heart thumps weakly. One of his lungs, ripped open and slowly filling with blood, sags through the hole. Blood and gore spill down his chest, staining the snow all around him. All at once, he's drowning and bleeding out. Which one will kill him first? He doesn't know.

The lonely spire looms ahead of him, Valerie still trapped inside. She's wearing his jumpsuit. Looking down, Danny sees he's wearing hers. Or maybe he's Valerie, and Danny is the one caught in the ice. Drowning, bleeding, freezing to death.

"Why didn't you save me?" Valerie asks the reflection.

He gurgles in response. Unable to move, he watches, helpless, as his heart stops beating.

—

Danny jerks upright so fast that he tumbles out of bed, smacking his face on the hardwood floor. He barely registers the pain, too busy pressing his hands to his chest. The panic doesn't fade until he feels his pounding heart, strong and steady. There's no hole in his chest, no blood in his lungs. He swallows, pressing a hand against his mouth.

It was just a dream. He fell asleep on accident, that's all. He's fine. He's not hurt. There's no blood. Right as he finishes that thought, he notices the scarlet splatter on his floor.

Danny's stomach lurches. Scrambling to his feet, he rushes to the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He barely makes it to the toilet before his stomach heaves, acid burning his throat as it makes its way up. There's nothing in his stomach to throw up, but that doesn't stop the heaves from coming, dry wretches tearing at his throat. Nearly a minute passes before Danny finally stops, able to catch his breath at last. Blood and bile swirl in the water and the sight of it almost has him throwing up again. He looks away from the bowl and scoots back to the wall, unable to take the smell, but unable to stand. His legs tremble too hard.

Shaking fingers rise to his mouth and touch his lips. No ice. No cuts. The only taste on his tongue is vomit. Danny swallows, and the motion makes his nose ache. Wincing, he raises his hand a little higher. His nose is bleeding, not his mouth. He swallows again and rubs his nose on his arm, leaving a bright red streak behind.

Danny can't bear to look at it. He's used to blood, especially his own after fighting for so many years. But right now it makes his stomach churn. It makes him think of that fight, of Valerie and watching her fall. He swallows again and breathes, heavy, through his mouth. His nose feels stuffed and warm, and it's definitely still bleeding. Rather than taking care of it right away, he closes his eyes and shudders. It happened so fast. He barely had time to move, much less to try and catch her. By the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late. He saw her body plummeting, and then...

Phantom blood sprays across Danny's face, hot and thick. He jerks back, thumping his head against the wall. His cheeks grow warm. Blood drips from his nose onto his lips, and the taste of copper fills his mouth. Valerie's blood is everywhere. On the ground, on him. Soaking into his gloves and staining his face. Danny wheezes, struggling to take in air. His chest heaves, and he can feel his body going through the motions, but it's like the air disappears somewhere between his mouth and his lungs. No matter how much he gasps and gulps, it's never enough. His lungs burn. His head aches. The bathroom tiles are slick and red, and the whole room tilts around him.

Fighting back a sob, Danny crawls forward. He grabs the counter and drags himself up. His legs, quivering, barely hold him, but it's enough. He fumbles with the sink tap, twisting it hard and nearly yanking it off the faucet. Over and over, he splashes water across his face. Scrubbing around his nose hurts, but he keeps going, rubbing furiously to get rid of all the blood. He doesn't stop until the water, on the coldest setting, makes him shiver. By then, the front of his shirt is soaked, and his hair is dripping wet.

Leaning over the sink, Danny takes a moment to breathe. It comes easier now, the air finally reaching where it's supposed to go, although his face still hurts. After a moment, he looks up at his reflection. His nose is a little red, but there's no more blood on his face.

Danny's cheeks flush. It was never Valerie's blood, just his own. He feels ridiculous, embarrassed, for getting so panicked over a bloody nose. Shifting his gaze to the floor, he sees only a few small spots on the tiles, not the seeping puddle that plagued his imagination.

"You're being stupid, Fenton," Danny says. "And now you're talking to yourself. Like an idiot."

He washes his face one more time, using warmer water and less frantic movements, as if that erases the panic he felt moments ago. Cleaning up his mess doesn't take long. Wipe away the spots on the floor with a few squares of toilet paper; toss that in the toilet and flush it away, along with the vomit. A quick swipe with the hand towel takes care of the water on the counter. He squeezes out his hair and strips off his shirt, too, bundling it up in the towel, and chucks both in the hamper. He's too exhausted to clean the blood out of it now, especially with the prospect of school looming over him. Maybe he'll get to it later. Or, worse comes to worst, he can just throw it away if the blood won't come out.

Before leaving the bathroom, he presses his ear to the door, listening for movement outside. He can't hear his parents. Chances are they already left, out for ghostly blood in the pre-dawn hours. It doesn't sound like Jazz is home, either. It is Monday, and she likes to leave early for college, spending the whole day on campus to focus on her work.

Holding his breath, he eases the door open and peers into the hall. Empty. He almost smiles, thankful no one was home to hear his breakdown, and shoves the door open the rest of the way.

Jazz stands on the other side of it, arms crossed. "Danny. We need to talk."

He grimaces. "Do we?"

"I could hear." She gives the bathroom a pointed look, a flash of guilt passing over her face; it's gone soon enough, almost too fast for Danny to catch it. "Whatever you're doing to yourself, you can't keep doing it. Hiding away and keeping everything locked up won't help.

Danny opens his mouth, then closes it. What do you say to someone who heard something so private when you didn't want them to? "You were listening?" Immediately, he decides that was the wrong thing to say. As soon as the words leave his lips, Jazz's shoulders sag and she gives him a pitying smile. He should have played dumb.

"It's okay to cry. You saw something terrible, and you're hurting. I'd be more worried if you didn't cry. But don't think I forgot what happened last night.  You're allowed to be alone, of course, but shutting everyone out isn't healthy. Especially not if you're... seeing Valerie." She wrings her hands, a familiar nervous habit. She does it every time she's about to launch into one of her psycho-babble spiels and isn't sure if it's welcome or not. Well, it isn't.

Danny's eyes narrow. "Unhealthy?"

"Personal space is good, but total solitude after a traumatic experience can be damaging. I don't want you to be alone."

"Unhealthy?" he repeats. "I think ki– I think watching Val-Val-Valerie." He swallows down the stutter, cursing how much his body still shakes. His mind, a jumbled mess, can barely string two words together, much less deal with Jazz right now. "I think that watching Valerie fall. To her death. Is unhealthy. You know? I think that's a little fucked up, don't you?"

Jazz steps closer, reaching out, but seems to think better about it a second later, drawing her hands back. "Danny, just listen to yourself. If you need time, that's okay, but don't forget that I'm here for you."

"It hasn't even been two days!"

Jazz flinches away from his shout.

"I'll be fine." Danny lowers his voice but keeps the hard edge in his tone. "Just let me deal with it however I want to. If I want to talk, I'll talk to you, okay?"

"Danny, don't be like this."

"You're gonna be late for class, Jazz. And so am I." Danny turns away from her. "I have to go get ready."

She steps after him, but Danny doesn't turn back, shutting his bedroom door and locking it behind him. He hears Jazz make a distressed noise, halfway between a whine and a groan. After a moment, she thumps down the stairs. The front door doesn't open, meaning she's still in the house, but Danny will take what he can get. If he leaves quick enough, it won't matter.

He dresses fast, replacing his sweatpants with a pair of jeans, but keeps his hoodie on. He hasn't taken that off for three days, now, but it smells fine to him. And it's dark enough that you can't see the blood from his nose.

Danny scrubs his eyes. He may have preferred not sleeping at all, but he can't deny that he needed rest. Although, he at least would have liked to choose to sleep. Last, he remembers from the night before, he had no intentions of falling asleep. Danny frowns. Why didn't he want to sleep? Besides the obvious nightmares. Wasn't there another reason?

He runs his hand over his upper arm, gently brushes the bruises there, struggling to remember why he did it in the first place. He presses one of the purpling spots, wincing at the way it throbs, then freezes. The shadow.

Danny's head snaps up and he zeroes in on the corner of his room. It's empty. Cepheus' constellation meets his gaze unbroken. In an instant, he wilts with relief, shoulders slumping and head dipping down. He must have imagined the whole thing, exhausted as he was. Thank god. Now is not a good time for strange shadows in his room.

He gladly shoves the entire debacle into the back of his mind and rushes out of the house before Jazz can catch him again.

—

Danny miscalculated. Avoiding Jazz is easy, thanks to school. Not that he wants to go in the first place, but he can't afford to skip, and there's no way Jazz would protest against him going, not with his bad grades. So, school doesn't have Jazz. But school does have Sam and Tucker, who Danny has been ignoring.

Peeking at his phone, Danny winces at the overwhelming amount of missed calls and unanswered texts. He feels guilty for not answering them, but... he didn't want to. He just wanted to sit in his dark room and forget. Even now, that's all he wants. If it weren't for Jazz and his already disappointing attendance record, he would still be at Fenton Works, curled up on his bed. Which probably isn't good. His sister is a psych major, he knows harmful behaviour when he sees it. Primarily because Jazz points his harmful behaviours out all the time. You throw yourself into danger too much. You're stretching yourself too thin. You need to take a break.

He sneers at the sidewalk. Right. A break. Because that would have kept Valerie alive. Not that Danny's presence did anything to save her, either. He bites the inside of his cheek, not hard enough to draw blood—he doesn't want that taste back in his mouth for a long time—but enough to be distracting, cutting off that thought before it can go any further.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Valerie's gone and that's it. There's nothing more to it. She's gone and she's not coming back. For someone who fights ghosts, literal dead people, on a near-daily basis, you would think Danny could handle death better than this. He knows most of his enemies were once living, breathing people who died in tragic ways. Danny was once a living, breathing person who died in a tragic way. He just skipped out on the "stop breathing" part of things.

He faces mortality every day, every time he goes ghost. So why can't he face this? Why is this any different than any other day?

Because it was his friend, and he saw it, and he couldn't stop it. Because it was his fault.

Danny cups his mouth and chokes on a sob. He doesn't want to do this here, in the middle of the street. Or at all, if he could just not. But apparently, the rest of him thinks this a great time to breakdown, because the tears come unbidden, spilling over his cheeks. Ducking his head, he hurries forward. The faster he gets to school, the faster he can lock himself in the bathroom, or the janitor's closet, or anywhere without prying eyes.

The tears blur his vision, turning his feet into red smudges against the grey sidewalk. He doesn't dare lift his head, just in case anyone sees him. Thankfully, he doesn't need to watch where he's going to make his way to school. After four years, the route from Fenton Works to Casper High is firmly etched into his brain

Danny wipes some of the tears away with his sleeve when he reaches the school grounds, pausing to compose himself as much as he can. After a few deep breaths and swallowed sobs,  he feels well enough to storm the student body. With any luck, he can hold himself together long enough to make it to the bathroom.

Before he can step from the sidewalk onto the schoolyard, someone grabs Danny and pulls him aside. Stunned, it takes him a moment to realize what has happened, even as Tucker's arms wrap tightly around him.

"Dude, we've been so worried." Tucker squeezes Danny tighter. His voice is thick and watery. "Jazz said you wouldn't come out of your room, and you wouldn't answer our texts. Just– god, it must have been so awful. Man, I can't imagine."

Finally, Danny registers what's happening. Tucker's hugging him, and crying into his shoulder. This is bad. Tucker shouldn't be doing that. Tucker is... Tucker is good, and Danny did something horrible. Tucker shouldn't be comforting him.

"I­–" Danny falters. Inside, he's screaming. Say it. Say it's your fault. Make him hate you. You deserve it. "Tuck, you–"

He can't say it. Instead, Danny reaches up, grabbing Tucker's arms, and carefully pulls them off his shoulders. He steps back, squeezing Tucker's wrists once, before letting go and looking away.

"I'm okay. You, I know you liked her. And she was our friend. How are you?" Danny asks.

"Dude. You liked her too, and you were actually there. You're not okay."

Danny bites his lip, unsure how to respond to that. It's true, but he deserves this. Tucker doesn't. "But you­–"

"Guys!" Sam—when did she even get there?—cuts him off. "Just be sad together, okay?"

Danny glances at her, then away, then back again, shocked. Her eyes are red. In all the years they've known each other, he can't remember ever seeing Sam cry, even when she broke her ankle fighting Technus that one time. The most she did then was swear up a storm before punching the ghost barehanded. It didn't exactly do much to Technus, but Sam looked damn proud of herself afterward.

Right now, she looks downright distraught. Danny wonders how many of her tears were for him, and how many were for Valerie. They may not have gotten along a lot of the time, but they were still friends. He hopes she cried for Valerie more, although he'd rather she not cry at all. He doesn't know what to do when a girl cries

"But," Sam shares a glance with Tucker, one Danny doesn't like, "seriously, Danny. Are you okay? We heard how it went down."

Danny pales. Did they know? How? By the time anyone else arrived, he already had Valerie in his lap, her skin cold as ice.

"It was Spectra and Bertrand, right?" Tucker says. "They said that one of them... well, they..." He motions vaguely around his torso.

"Tucker!" Sam slaps his hands down.

Danny looks away again, hiding the relieved look on his face. They don't know. Guilt and shame quickly wash the relief away. He should tell them. Or Valerie's dad. Danny rubs his eyes, a new tension pressing down on him. He hadn't even thought of Valerie's dad.

Did Marty the Cop call him? He must have, after Danny left. By then, Mr. Gray may have already seen the news. God, that must have been horrible, turning on the TV to see Lance Thunder reporting his daughter's death before he even knew about it. Although Sam and Tucker hadn't known until the day after. Maybe Mr. Gray remained ignorant, too, until Marty could break the news gently. He hopes so.

"Danny?" Tucker reaches out and touches Danny's shoulder.

Danny steps away. For a moment, he's glad he's not looking Tucker's way. He doesn't want to see the hurt expression on his best friend's face.

"I'm okay," Danny says because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head, perhaps a little too aggressively.

"It might help," Tucker presses. "Doesn't Jazz say–"

"Fuck what Jazz says."

Tucker and Sam recoil at the harsh words. Danny feels another stab of guilt but doesn't apologize. It's only been three days and he's already such a mess. The thing in his room yesterday, the nightmare, his panic attack in the bathroom this morning. That’s what it was, wasn't it? A panic attack? He's had them before, but not like that. Usually, he feels empty and distant, like there's a gaping hole growing inside him, slowly swallowing him up. This time, Valerie's the one with the hole in her chest, and it's left Danny a shaking mess.

"You don't have to tell us anything," Sam says. Her tone is soft and understanding, as if she understands any part of what Danny's going through. "But if you ever want to talk about it, we're here for you."

"I don't," Danny says. "I can't. Just drop it, please?"

Sam and Tucker share another look, just as bad as the last, but say no more. A small mercy in Danny's eyes. He gives them an hour at most before they bring it up again, and that's being generous.

"Okay. But I'm sorry we weren't there," Tucker says.

An hour was very generous.

"It doesn't matter now. It's better you weren't there." Danny runs a hand through his hair, only able to meet Tucker's sad stare for a moment. He still wishes he had made it into the school before Sam and Tucker found him, but their little confrontation drove back his tears, at least. Now, he can't quite figure out what he's feeling. Sad? Yes. Guilty? Always. A little angry, too, but he doesn't know why. His friends haven't done anything bad.

A sourness fills Danny's mouth, making his lips pucker. Bitter feelings squirm through him, like a worm eating its way through an apple. He can't control it, but he's constantly aware of its wriggling presence. Talk about being a bad apple.

"Class is gonna start soon. Let's just go inside." Danny turns his back on them and sets off, ignoring the sting behind his eyes. The faster this day gets over with, the better. Then again, he's not looking forward to sleep tonight. He should go for a long flight instead, or maybe dip into the Ghost Zone to visit his allies, as few as they are. Anything to keep him from having more nightmares.

Danny keeps his head ducked as they walk. Sam and Tucker fall into step beside him, their elbows brushing his from time to time. He doesn't pull away, but only because the hallway is cramped and there's nowhere for him to pull away to. Eager to escape the crush of teenage bodies, he heads straight for Lancer's classroom, skipping a visit to his locker even though there are books inside that he needs. His only plans for class today are to duck his head and get through it without any more crying, and books won't help with that.

Sam and Tucker stick with him, much to his disappointment. He hoped they would break away and stop at their lockers, giving him a short reprieve from their presence. Unfortunately for him, they seem content without their books for now, or they already grabbed them before Danny arrived. The last thought doesn't sit well with him. It means they were lying in wait outside the school for his arrival. While he knows they worry about him, he doesn't enjoy falling into traps, no matter how emotionally supportive they're meant to be.

The halls are still full, thrumming with chatter, by the time they reach Lancer's classroom. It will be a good few minutes before the warning bell rings, so most students haven't bothered moving away from their lockers, instead gathering in tight-knit groups. Before stepping into the classroom, Danny pauses, lifting his hand, and gives the hall a once over. He's not surprised by what he sees. Curious, pitying eyes staring at him. Hands cupped around mouths, carrying whispers between friends. Valerie's name floats in the air.

"Did you hear­–"

"–found her­–"

"Totally gutted."

"–the Red Huntress all along."

Danny looks away all too quickly, their stares too heavy for him, and hurries into the shelter of Lancer's classroom.

Lancer looks up when they enter, his eyes widening in surprise. "Mr. Fenton?" His chair squeals when he pushes away from his desk too quickly.

"Yeah?" Danny shuffles his feet. Lancer has this way of looking at Danny like he knows much more than he should. It sets him on edge on the best days. Right now, it makes Danny's heart pound, each thump beating out a damning he-knows, he-knows, he-knows.

"You're here?"

"Uh..." Danny glances at the clock. "I know I'm earlier than usual."

"No, no, I mean." Lancer shakes his head. "Are you...?" He looks between Sam and Tucker. "May I speak to Mr. Fenton alone?"

Danny hopes his nod doesn't look as eager as it feels.

Lancer waits until Sam and Tucker leave, closing the door behind them, before turning to Danny.

"Daniel," he starts, then hesitates, which is never a good sign. "How are you?"

Danny opens his mouth, the words I'm fine already resting on his tongue. At the last moment, he pauses. Lancer looks concerned, yes, with his furrowed brows and tight frown, but it's different from how everyone else has looked at him. Not like Jazz trying to tell him how feels and what he should do. Not like Sam and Tucker pretending they understand when they don't. A far cry from his parents, who have barely spent two minutes with him since it happened.

Lancer doesn't elaborate, doesn't try to placate him. Doesn't offer shallow words of comfort. He simply asks.

"I–I'm, I'm not okay," Danny says.

Lancer nods as if he expected this. He probably did. "I saw on the news that you found her. You went through something traumatic, and I can't begin to understand that. Am I right to assume you aren't ready to talk about it?"

Words fail him, his tongue weighed down by relief. He nods vigorously instead.

"I thought as much. With that in mind, no one would fault you for not coming to school today."

Danny's mind goes blank. He stares at Lancer, blinking owlishly, as confusion fills his gaze.

"Your mental health is more important than school," Lancer goes on when Danny doesn't say anything. "I can speak to the other faculty members about your absence. And if you want to take a few more days, you can have your parents call the school. I'll make sure this doesn’t affect your grades."

Grades are the last thing on Danny's mind right now. "I can really do that?"

"After the Storm, Mr. Fenton, of course you can." Lancer sounds as surprised as Danny feels. "Mental health days are important. I've spoken to your parents about them a few times at parent-teacher conferences. Have they never mentioned it?"

"No."

Lancer frowns. "Well. You know about them now."

Danny stares down at his feet, amazed. He can just... not come to school if he isn't feeling well? And not just because he's injured or sick? And Mr. Lancer is encouraging it? Danny looks over his shoulder, catching Sam and Tucker spying through the classroom window. They offer him shaky smiles and hesitant waves.

Danny turns back to Lancer. "I really don't have to be at school today? Or tomorrow?"

"Or even the week. Not if you aren't ready for it. Some people might tell you otherwise, but as your vice principal, I fully endorse taking time off after such an experience. Should I tell the other teachers you'll be absent today?"

"Yes! Please, yes. I can't be here right now. It's... too much." Surprisingly, admitting that doesn't make Danny feel weak.

"Would you like me to call your parents to pick you up?"

"Mr. Lancer, I'm eighteen. I don't need my parents to pick me up."

"Whether you're eighteen or eight-hundred, it helps to have someone with you when you're dealing with something like this. Seeing as Jasmine should be in class, and both your friends are here, I think your parents suffice."

"Jazz is at home, actually," Danny says, leaping at the excuse. "No class today. Her professor is out. I'd rather walk home, but she'll be there, so it's okay."

Lancer purses his lips, then nods. "Alright, I'll let everyone know. Please take care of yourself, Daniel."

"Thank you, Mr. Lancer, I will." Danny rushes out of the classroom, eager to leave the school grounds before the bell rings. He brushes past Sam and Tucker on his way out.

"Hey, Danny, wait!" Tucker calls after him.

Danny doesn't want to stop, but he also doesn't want to be an ass, so he slows down instead, letting Tucker catch up. Sam stays back by Lancer's door.

"Where are you going?" Tucker asks as he falls into step with Danny.

"Home. Lancer said I could take a mental health day."

"Oh." Tucker falters. Danny doesn't wait for him, forcing Tucker to jog to catch up again. "Do you need one?"

Danny glares at him.

"Sorry, that was. Right. Yeah. Of course." Tucker flushes. "I mean, you said you were okay, and I want to believe you dude, but if you need a mental health day... Well, you know."

"Tucker." Danny finally stops, only inches from the front door. "Can you do something for me?"

"Yeah?" Tucker smiles.

"Leave me alone. No offence, but I need to be alone right now. It's hard."

Tucker's smile shatters. "Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure thing, man. I get it. Just don't take too long, okay? I'm worried."

Danny smiles, eyes empty and mouth wide. "Everyone is." With those final words, he leaves the school, and Tucker, behind.

—

Instead of going home, Danny wanders. He has no particular destination in mind, only knows he doesn't want to go home yet. Something is refreshing about walking aimlessly through Amity Park. By now, he's more used to seeing the streets from above rather than ground level. Everything looks familiar, but a little off from what he knows.

It reminds him of fourth grade when he missed the bus one day and his dad had to drive him to school. They took the most direct route, complete with hairpin turns and broken speed limits, arriving at the school well before Danny's bus did. But for Danny, the strangest thing about that day was seeing the school from a different angle.

Normally, the bus drove along the main street in front of the school, pulling into the drop-off zone by the doors. Jack drove Danny around the back, skirting around the soccer field, and pulled up alongside the school around the corner from the drop-off. That side of the school, facing the side street, was opposite the playground. As a fourth-grader, Danny had no reason to go to this side of the school. He almost didn't recognize the building when his dad pulled up, distracted by the unfamiliar windows and the narrow wedge of grass between the wall and the sidewalk.

Seeing Amity Park from the ground makes Danny think of that day. Everything is recognizable, but foreign at the same time. Outside ghost hunting, he doesn't have a reason to explore most of the city besides his usual haunts. Trying to navigate the familiar streets from an unfamiliar angle provides a welcoming distraction as he searches for landmarks he knows. Antennas on rooftops, billboards looming overhead, cornices encasing the highest floors.

Danny is eying a fresco on top of a stout three-storey building, unsure if he's seen it before or not, when his ghost sense goes off. The shiver seizes him for a moment, and he has to push down a wave of panic. He’s not sleeping, it's just a ghost. There's no reason to panic. He berates himself for being scared of something less tangible than the freaking Box Ghost. A simple nightmare is far from the scariest thing he's seen over the years; but, for some reason, it affects him in a way no ghost ever has.

Danny shakes his head. The ghost. Focus on the actual threat. A quick scan of the street to make sure no one's watching, then he dives into the closest alley, ducking behind a dumpster. Not the most glamourous place to transform, but it works.

"Going ghost!" he calls, pumping himself up. The transformation rings spark around his waist, quickly growing to their full size, and split apart with a sizzling hiss. His jumpsuit overtakes his everyday clothes as the rings spread. The rings rise above his shoulders, passing over his raised fists. Bloodstained gloves appear on his hands.

The world goes grey around him, his vision tunnelling. Danny gapes at his gloves. Blood. Valerie's blood. It's everywhere. On his gloves, his chest, his face. Seeping across the ice. Danny drops to his knees, gripping his head as the alley fades around him. Spears of ice circle him. Valerie's body lies in front of him, twitching. Blood bubbles from her mouth as she struggles to breathe, a futile effort thanks to the hole in her lungs.

Danny tries to staunch the flow, so panicked he drops his transformation, but it's not helping. The wound stretches wider than his palms. He presses too hard, his hands slipping in the blood. His palm touches something firm but it’s neither flesh nor bone. It thumps. Danny jerks back, yanking his hand out of Valerie's wound.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" he cries. His tears are lost in her blood. He never knew people had so much blood in them, but now it's everywhere, and all Danny sees is red.

He meets her dull gaze, watches her eyes fluttering. Valerie's lips move, but no sound comes out, barely even the wheeze of air. Blood bubbles at the corner of her lips. She chokes and bleeds out all at once, and Danny can't do anything but hold her.

—

Hunched over on the asphalt, Danny hacks and coughs, clutching his stomach as bile dribbles from his lips. Valerie is gone, was never there in the first place. He lets out a soft cry of pain, all thoughts of the ghost abandoned. This is all so wrong. Things were never supposed to turn out this way, and now, Danny can't even transform without panicking.

"Valerie." Danny's voice cracks as he sobs into the pavement, the rough ground pressing against his forehead. The alley reeks of garbage and vomit. His whole body hurts. It feels like he's being torn apart inside, and that's still only half the pain Valerie must have felt. She deserved so much better.

Distantly, Danny hears the wail of the Fenton RV, the sound of the rumbling engine filling up every crack and crevice of the street. His mother's voice echoes over the loudspeaker. "You ectoplasmic evil-doer! Suffer for what you did to that poor girl!"

A voice in Danny's mind hisses, I am.

He rolls onto his side, unable to stay hunched over his own sick puddle, but too weak to do anything more. A traitorous part of him thinks maybe he should have talked to Jazz after all, but a louder, more insistent part screams no. She can never know what he did. None of them can. They should hate him, but he can never tell them why. He couldn't live with himself if they knew. He can barely live with himself now.

Danny listens to his mother scream at the ghost, silently hoping that, whoever it is, they escape his parents' clutches safe and sound. He hears the boom of the Fenton bazooka, but no cries of victory or shouts of pain. Small mercies.

A shiver runs through him. Something black flickers in the corner of his vision. Danny thinks he's about to fall unconscious, familiar with the dark spots that often precede it. The flickering doesn't stop.

Danny's breath catches in his throat. Achingly slow, he turns his head to the mouth of the alley. The shadow hovers there, and it's slowly drifting closer. Danny tries to scramble back, but his trembling arms can't hold his weight. His shivers grow stronger, making his teeth chatter and his fingers go numb. He hugs himself, fighting back the chill as the shadow approaches, but it forces its way through him. A puff of glowing blue hair leaves his mouth.

"Oh, wow! The ghost boy, cowering before the power of corrugated cardboard vengeance!"

Danny starts and twists toward the intruder. The Box Ghost—of course it's the Box Ghost—is poking his head out of the wall, smiling gleefully down at Danny. He comes through all the way, revealing the Fenton RV's overhead speaker in his arms. At least that explains where his mother's voice has gone.

"That's not cardboard. And it's barely square," Danny wheezes. His gaze flickers back to the alley's entranceway. The shadow is gone.

"Well, it's mine now and you can't have it back." The Box Ghost sticks out his tongue and raises the speaker above his head. But rather than chucking it at Danny, he sets it on his shoulder and floats closer. A strange look crosses his face, one Danny can't immediately decipher. The Box Ghost's brow pinches and his eyes narrow, lips pressed into a firm line.

He's being serious, Danny realizes.

"Something awful happened, didn't it?" the Box Ghost asks.

"What?"

"Only something great and terrible could bring down the sworn enemy of me, the Box Ghost!" He lowers his voice to a more conversational volume. "And not everyone gets haunted by such twisted shadows."

Danny snorts. "That's awfully philosophic coming from you. I'm surprised you didn't squeeze a portent about the glory of boxes in there."

The Box Ghost simply frowns. "You are a strange child. I hope your shadow leaves soon so I may battle you again, at full strength! As all rivals do!"

"Wait, what?" Danny sits up. "What do you mean?"

"Farewell, weirdo!"

"Wait!" Danny shouts, but the Box Ghost is already gone. Danny stares after him, bewildered. "It's real?" The empty alley provides no answer. Danny draws his knees in close and cranes his neck, inspecting the alley. Nothing stands out. No shadows where they shouldn't be. No hidden wraiths. But the Box Ghost's words nag at him. The shadow is real after all.

One sighting he can brush off as exhaustion. Two he can blame on the mental stress. But the Box Ghost knowing it's there without seeing it? He couldn't ignore that. Maybe only real ghosts could see it, see her. She could be anywhere, and Danny wouldn't know.

He scrambles to his feet and backs against the wall. The back of his neck prickles, but he can't tell if it's real or his mind playing tricks over him, tripped into overdrive by his panic attack and the Box Ghost's unsettling words. As he scans the alley once more, something shifts in the corner of his eye. Danny peels away from the wall, jumping into a ready pose, fists raised, feet apart, fully prepared to fight.

A plastic bag. A plastic bag stuck under the dumpster, fluttering quietly in the rank alley breeze. Danny flushes and lowers his fist. If a damn grocery bag is enough to set him on edge, then he's really losing it. It's not even noon yet, but he thinks he's had enough of his walk for today. Getting some real sleep might do him some good, nightmares be damned. Or he could raid the medicine cabinet for some sleeping pills when he gets home. There might be some leftover from his dad's last prescription.

Plan set, Danny shuffles out of the alley. He barely makes it three steps along the sidewalk before the Fenton RV comes ripping around the corner. A tangle of sparking wires rests over the windshield, marking where the speaker had sat before the Box Ghost tore it out. Maddie stands on the roof, defying all laws of physics as she stays firmly rooted despite how erratic Jack drives. A Fenton Bazooka rests on her shoulder, the barrel smoking.

"We might need to circle the block again, honey. I don't see it," she shouts down to Jack.

Danny ducks behind a nearby mailbox, hoping his parents don't see him, but it's futile. From her place on the RV, Maddie has a perfect view of the street. When she turns toward Danny, he catches the exact moment she sees him, her grip on the bazooka slackening. She stomps on the roof of the RV, then braces herself as Jack slams on the brakes.

Maddie pulls her goggles down. "Danny, sweetie, what are you doing here? Don't you have school?"

"Uh, I, I'm," Danny stutters. It's the first time he's seen his parents since the police station. They look the same as ever, which he should have expected, but somehow, he thought they would be different the next time he saw them. Glaring at him from the bad end of a bazooka, perhaps. But instead of raising the gun and pointing it at him, Maddie sets the bazooka down and hops off the RV.

Danny doesn't want to tell the truth. Right now, Maddie and Jack are acting the same as they always do, and he didn't realize how much he needed that until now. When he looks at them, he sees the familiar level of parental concern they always bear, which is minimal at best. Thinking about it, that's pretty terrible, isn't it? He watched one of his friends die, and instead of staying at home and comforting him, his parents are out hunting ghosts.

Danny wavers between anger and appreciation. His parents aren't bad, but they aren't good either, are they? He doesn't want them pestering him like everyone else is, but maybe he would at least like them to try. To act as if they care. He knows they do, they do, and it's stupid being mad about something he wants, but he's mad anyway.

Maybe it's Valerie's ghost, or the two panic attacks in one day, but something makes Danny glare up at his mom and say, "Well, I've been a little fucked up since I got Valerie killed, so I decided not to go to school." Acid fills the words as he spits them out, begging for a reaction. He gets one, but not the one he wants.

Maddie steps closer and wraps her arms around Danny. "Oh, sweetie, you should have told us. Does the school know? Do we need to call them?"

Danny squirms out of his mother's grasp. "What?"

"Would helping us catch the ghost that did this make you feel better? Your father and I have been looking ever since we heard," she continues.

"Did you even hear what I said?"

"I know. We should have brought you with us from the start, but we thought you might want some time alone first. She was such a nice girl."

"Mom. I swore. I skipped school. Valerie's dead because of me!"

Maddie drags him into another hug. "Oh, sweetie. I know it feels like that, doesn't it? But just because you couldn't save her, that doesn't mean it's your fault. You were with her at the end, and that must have meant so much to her."

This time, Danny doesn't pull away, too stunned to think of moving. She should be shouting at him, scolding him, not coddling him like some kid. How can she hear him say that and think he's exaggerating?

Jack leans out the RV window, smiling sadly at the pair. "Want us to drive you home, kiddo?"

Danny bites his tongue. Briefly, he considers turning down the offer, but his legs are shaking again, and his mom's hand running through his hair brings him back to sick days in elementary school when she would sit with him all day and watch cartoons. Danny melts, although his anger doesn't disappear; it slinks away to a dark cave, giving up on the fight for now.

"I want to go home," he says.

Maddie hums, shifting her hold from a hug to an arm over his shoulder, and guides him into the RV.

"It'll get better," Jack says.

Danny doesn't answer, curling up on the backseat with his arms around his knees. When he looks out the window, he spots a blurry form in the alley. As they pull away, Danny watches the shadow until it's out of sight. A question forms in his mind.

"Mom, how long does it take for a ghost to form?"

Maddie turns in her seat. "What brought this on?"

Eyes downcast, Danny shrugs.

Maddie hums in understanding. "Well, it depends. Not everyone that dies becomes a ghost. We've done some studies of how long it takes a spectral mass to reach conscious levels after first recording its presence. So far, it can take anywhere from a few seconds to up to a week."

"And until then?" Danny presses.

"We've only managed to properly record one spectre's creation process from beginning to end. But from our notes, they appear to take a lesser non-corporeal form that barely even registers on our instruments until they're strong enough to manifest. Until then, they can't do much. We barely even saw the ghost until it manifested." Maddie smiles at Danny, in a manner that she probably meant as reassuring, but just looks sorry to him. "I hope this helped."

"Yeah." Danny nods. "Yeah, it does."

—

Danny doesn't check for the shadow when he gets home. It might be there, but he doesn't care to check. He refuses to acknowledge it. Instead, he raids his parents' medicine cabinet, finds the sleeping pills, and takes two before collapsing on his bed.

—

Valerie glares at him from within her icy prison. Danny knows it's a dream this time, and he thinks it's a little uncreative of his subconscious to give him the same one three times in a row. He doesn't think sleeping pills can affect his dreams, but he feels calmer this time. Or maybe that's just because Valerie is doing what no one else will: hate him.

"I don't want to be a ghost," she says.

"You're not. You're just dead." Lies. All lies. He knows who the shadow is, just hopes he's wrong.

"How do you know?"

Danny looks down at his lap, unsure how to answer. Ghosts exist for a lot of reasons. Not all of them were once people and not every person who dies becomes a ghost. The ones who do usually have something they wanted to live for. Fame, desire, glory. Boxes. Some part of their mind chose to stay, clinging to that one thing they wanted and couldn't get.

"You would never choose this," he finally says. "You hate ghosts. There's nothing you could want that would make you stay."

Valerie sneers. Her teeth are stained red. "What could anyone want enough for this? Why would anyone choose this?"

"I did."

"No. You didn't want to die; there's a difference. I didn't want to die either. But you took that away from me, didn't you?" Valerie looks down at Danny's hands. Following her gaze, he sees her heart resting on his palm. It beats, barely. Blood seeps from the torn aortas and soaks into his gloves. Holding a heart doesn't feel like he thought it would. Whenever Danny thinks of organs, he thinks of softy, squishy tissue, easy to pierce and crush, but Valerie's heart is a firm bundle of muscle.

Danny squeezes.

Valerie gasps, her hand shooting up to her chest, but there's nothing there, only an empty hole. She slams her fist against the ice. "Give it back!"

Danny tries, he does. His whole body shakes with effort as he tries to push his hand forward, returning what's Valerie's, but his arm won't budge. His hand squeezes tighter.

Valerie gasps and falls forward, both hands to her chest now, scratching and scraping. Her fingers hook around the hole and tug, tearing it open wider. "Stop it! Give it back!" she cries.

"I can't, I'm sorry!" Danny grabs his defiant arm in his other hand and pushes, but the frozen limb barely shakes. "I didn't mean it, Valerie. You have to believe me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

Ice creeps along Danny's arm, stretching over his fingers. Beautiful frost ferns grow across Valerie's heart, tinged pink from her blood. He tries to pull them back, shoving his core down deep inside himself where the snow and ice can't hurt anyone, but it's too late. The ice overtakes her heart. Danny's hand clenches one more time. The heart shatters.

Valerie screams. Her shriek pierces the air, shattering her prison of ice. Danny slaps his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise, but it rings inside his head, bouncing around his skull, stabbing his brain with a thousand tiny needles until blood leaks from his eyes, his nose, his ears. He screams with her, raw and hoarse until the shrieking stops and silence rings out.

—

Danny wakes up cold. Not even an hour has passed since he went to sleep. So much for the sleeping pills.

Despite wearing his warmest hoodie, he shivers. His foggy breath clouds the air in front of him, but it lacks the pale glow of his ghost sense. Instead, it's accompanied by a bone-deep chill that stings his teeth when he inhales.

In the corner of the room, the shadow hovers, darker than the previous night.

—

At sunrise, the shadow fades before Danny's eyes. It takes the pervasive cold with it, leaving him uncomfortably warm, swathed in a pile of blankets that hadn't helped fight off his chills. His eyes burn, but he has no desire to go back to sleep. Moving slowly, he climbs out of bed, stretching his cramped muscles. The blankets slide off his shoulders, leaving him in the same sweater and jeans as the previous day. The thought of changing doesn't even cross his mind.

Danny checks the back alley through his bedroom window and finds that his parents are home today. Other than mild surprise, it stirs no strong emotions in Danny.

A knock at his door pulls his attention from the alleyway. He drums his fingers on the windowsill, pursing his lips as he debates whether or not he should answer.

"Danny? Are you awake?" Jazz's voice is pitched with worry.

Sighing, Danny turns from the window, leaning back against the sill, and answers. "I'm awake."

The doorknob turns. Jazz pushes it open a crack, her bright blue eyes peering through the narrow opening. Danny jerks his head, not quite a nod, but a welcome, nonetheless. Jazz swings the door open and shuffles inside, nudging it closed behind her.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," she says. "I shouldn't have pushed you." Danny remains silent as she takes a seat on his bed. She picks at the pile of blankets, eyeing the unruffled comforter beneath them. "Did you sleep last night?"

"I was in bed," he says.

Lips pursed, Jazz scrutinizes Danny's clothes. "You wore that yesterday, too."

"It's still clean."

"Danny. I don't want to cross any boundaries–"

"Then don't."

"–but it's only been a few days, and this is concerning behaviour. I'm not expecting you to instantly bounce back, but I'd hoped you would at least come and talk to me if it was this bad."

"Jazz. Do you know how often I don't sleep because of ghosts? This isn't that different. And so what if I'm wearing the same jeans? I only have, like, three pairs that aren't ripped or stained."

Jazz starts wringing her hands. "It can take weeks to accept a traumatic event. I don't want you to lose yourself denying what happened. It was horrible, but ignoring it won't change that. Talking will. You have me, and Tucker and Sam. Letting out what you're feeling to people you trust can help. And keeping a routine! It's important to stay grounded with regular habits. Things like not sleeping, not eating, wearing the same clothes over and over. They're signs of you slipping into negative behaviour."

"God, Jazz, you make it sound like I'm some kind of drug addict or something. You want me to talk? Fine! We were fighting Spectra, and Valerie fell off her board, and she got skewered like an ecto-weenie at a bonfire. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Jazz goes completely white. "Danny, no! That's not what I meant."

"Well, it's what you're getting. I'm going to school." He strides past her.

"You can't be serious!"

"See you later, Jazz." Danny slams the front door behind him.

—

He doesn't go to school. Lancer gave him a free pass to skip and he's going to milk that for all it's worth. It's not milking it when you actually need it, his thoughts whisper. Shut up, Danny hisses back.

With yesterday's events fresh on his mind, he doesn't want to go for a walk, either. He slinks around the side of the house and crouches beside the bushes, out of sight from the street and the front door. The dirt is dry and the bushes browning even though it's not even summer yet. Danny's parents might be great at inventing things, but they're shit at taking care of their yard. Not that Danny cares. The bushes provide just enough cover for him to see without being seen, and he only plans on sitting here for a couple of minutes, or however long it takes for Jazz to leave for school.

Danny turns his phone over in his hands. It buzzes a couple of times. Probably Jazz trying to shove more of her opinions down his throat. He debates the pros and cons of checking the messages now or later. Either way, he doesn't intend to answer, so it doesn't matter. Relenting, he flips his phone over and checks the notifications.

The message isn't from Jazz, and not Sam or Tucker either. It's from Valerie.

Danny's blood runs cold. It's not possible. She's dead. She's gone. But she's not.

| Val Is this Daniel Fenton? The contact says Space Boy

Danny blinks as he reads the actual message. He nearly laughs. Space Boy? That was his name on Valerie’s phone? He wipes his thumb across the corner of his eyes before opening his phone and typing out a brief yes.

| Val This is Valerie's father. I'd like to talk to you after school if possible

Danny ducks his head, tapping the phone against his chin. He thought about talking to Mr. Gray, but he hadn't been serious. Of all the people he could see right now, Damon Gray is at the bottom of the list. But it doesn't look like Jazz is leaving any time soon, and he doesn't want to sit in the flowerbed forever.

Before he can regret it, he texts Mr. Gray back.

| You I can talk now. I'm omw

—

The bus ride from Fenton Works to the Gray's apartment in Elmerton takes twenty minutes. Danny sits at the back and stares out the window the whole time. The landscape turns grey and dusty as they cross the river into Elmerton, malls and office buildings replaced by warehouses and empty lots.

The Gray's apartment building lies on the edge of the warehouse district. Despite Mr. Gray's job prospects steadily improving over time, they never moved out of the cramped apartment that carried them through their darkest days.

Mr. Gray answers the door before Danny can even knock.

Danny lowers his raised arm. "Um, hi."

Mr. Gray looks as bad as Danny expected. He hasn't shaved in a few days, and his eyes are dry and red. Danny thinks he must have been crying before he arrived

"Hello, Danny." Mr. Gray steps aside to let Danny in.

They move to the dining room, where Mr. Gray sits at the head of the table, and Danny takes the opposite chair.

"Did Marty tell you?" Danny asks, seeking some reassurance in all this madness.

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"You were there for her."

Danny clenches his teeth and nods. He knows what Mr. Gray is about to say and looks away before he does.

"Thank you."

Danny stiffens. This is so wrong. "You shouldn't."

"I'm sorry?"

"You shouldn't thank me."

"You don't understand. I let her put on the suit every day even though I knew it was dangerous. If I ever tried to stop her, I know she would have done it behind my back. But still. I should have stopped her. I let this happen."

"No!" Danny shouts. He jumps to his feet, slamming his hands on the table. "No, you didn't. No one could stop Valerie when she wanted something, and... and it's my fault. Not yours."

Mr. Gray shakes his head, rising from his seat. "Danny, you made sure my daughter wasn't alone at the end. They told me how she died. There was nothing you could have done to save her."

"Mr. Gray, I didn't just find her. I was there. I'm–" Danny squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm Danny Phantom."

Mr. Gray doesn't answer. The only thing Danny can hear is the ticking of the clock. Eventually, Danny opens his eyes. Mr. Gray stands frozen on the other side of the table, gaping at Danny.

"You..." he falters. "You're..."

"I can't... show you. I haven't been able to transform since, well, since. But I am," Danny says.

Mr. Gray drops back into his chair. He looks up at Danny, then down, then up again. "You?" He runs a hand over his head.

"Mr. Gray?" Danny asks.

"Hold on." Mr. Gray cups his hand over his mouth, muttering under his breath, too low for Danny to hear. His wide eyes dart back and forth across the table. It looks like his whole world is falling apart before his eyes.

With nothing else to do, Danny lowers himself back into his seat. He waits, patiently, for Mr. Gray to finish processing, looking about the apartment for some kind of distraction. Nothing much has changed since the last time Danny was here, nearly a year ago. There's a picture of Valerie and her mom hanging on the wall by the clock. Both of them are smiling widely. It should be a happy picture, but all Danny sees are ghosts that will haunt Mr. Gray forever.

"She really liked you. Did you know that?" Mr. Gray asks.

It takes some effort to tear his gaze from the photo, but Danny eventually looks back to Mr. Gray. "Yeah. I really liked her, too. For a while."

"She hated you, too."

Danny nods.

Mr. Gray sighs, sounding as exhausted as Danny feels. "Being Danny Phantom doesn't make any of this your fault. She might have started ghost hunting to get you, but it ended up meaning so much to her. I'm sure that, with or without you, she would have found her way to it somehow."

Danny bites his lip. He knows what he wants to say, but once he does, there's no going back. Over Mr. Gray's shoulder, he notices a dark spot in the living room, one that wasn't there before. Valerie.

"That's not all. Mr. Gray, there's something you need to know about how Valerie died."

—

An hour later, Danny steps out of the apartment. Mr. Gray closes the door behind him without a word. By now, they've said everything they need to. Danny slumps against the wall and inhales sharply through his nose. He holds it for a second, trying to keep himself together even as the shaking starts. He only manages for a few seconds before he breaks. The tears flow freely down his face as he gasps, sinking to his knees in the middle of the hall.

Rocking back and forth, he wails into the floor. He lets out every pent up emotion in his cries; frustration, anger, sadness, guilt. They fill him up, suffocate him, steal his air, then leave in ragged gasps. He cries until his throat hurts and his tears blind him. He cries until he has no more tears left to spill.

—

Danny calls Tucker that night, around midnight. They haven't spoken since Danny ditched school, and  Tucker hasn't even sent him any texts or left any messages—although Sam had. It looks like he took Danny's request to leave him alone to heart. Danny refuses to feel guilty for it, but he also needs to talk to someone, and Tucker is always the first person he thinks of during these times.

Jazz was gone to class by the time Danny got back from Mr. Gray's, and he brushed her off when she got home earlier that evening. His parents, to Danny's complete lack of surprise, have gone back to being their usual negligent selves, putting ghost hunting before their mourning child.

Danny is constantly aware of Valerie now, finding her lurking around every corner, hovering at the edge of his vision, taunting him. He doesn't know what to do. So he calls Tucker.

"What would you do if I did something really bad?" Danny asks as soon as Tucker answers the phone.

"Hello, Danny."

"What would you do?"

Tucker sighs. "I thought you wanted me to leave you alone."

"Tucker. I'm being serious, come on."

Tucker remains silent. A day ago, it might not have bothered Danny at all, but now it makes him squirm. He needs to hear Tucker's answer.

"Okay. I'm sorry, happy?"

"No."

"Why not? I apologized."

"Because you're being a dick, Danny! You're not the only one who lost Valerie, okay? I thought you got that, but I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry I couldn't be there, and I'm sorry you had to see that, but I'm hurting too. I have no idea what's going on with you right now, but going through something shitty doesn't give you a free pass to be an asshole." Tucker's voice cracks.

Guilt twists Danny's gut. In seconds, Tucker might start crying, and it will be all his fault. But he needs to know.

"Valerie is haunting me," Danny says.

"What?"

"I've been having nightmares, and ever since she died, there's been this shadow in my room. I thought it was all in my head, but then I ran into the Box Ghost yesterday, and he mentioned something about a shadow? I asked my parents and they saw a ghost form like that once."

The line stays silent. It stretches on so long Danny thinks Tucker might have hung up, until he hears a shaky sigh.

"Are you sure?"

Danny glances at the shadow. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? Is it a ghost?"

"I don't know. I thought I was just seeing things, but then the Box Ghost, and what my mom said. I'm just, I'm stressed, man. Sleeping's hard, and it makes my ghost sense all weird."

"Weird how?"

"Like," Danny kneads his chest, grimacing, "like there's a block of ice in my chest. It's heavy and cold."

"Are you sure you aren't just... sad? And tired? I want to believe you, man, but Valerie as a ghost? And you just said you're not sleeping. Remember that one time you didn't sleep for, like, four days and you started seeing things?" Tucker dips into a whisper. "Are you sure you just don't want her to be gone?"

"Tucker, listen to me. I know I'm not seeing things. I'm looking at it right now! And the Box ghost said–."

"The Box Ghost says he'll rule the world with cardboard. Look, dude. I want to believe you, but you're not okay, man."

Danny scowls. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"So you're not denying it?"

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"Are you going to apologize?"

Danny doesn't answer.

"We just lost Valerie, man. Don't do this to us."

Danny closes his eyes as Tucker starts crying. He doesn't wail like Valerie did in Danny's nightmares, or gasp and sob like Danny so many times over the past couple of days. Tucker cries quietly, his voice wobbly, breaths short. He cries like he doesn't want anyone to see.

"I shouldn't have called."

"Dude, no. Wait. I'm sorry."

"I just made you sad. And it's not helping. I should just– never mind. I'm sorry, Tuck. I'm so sorry."

"No, you didn't do anything. I'm just sad, man. Of course, I am. But god, you. You were actually there. You’re allowed– okay, you're not allowed to be a dick, but I shouldn't be a dick either. If you just talked to us­–"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You should."

"It's fine."

"It's not. Dude, it's not okay."

"Can you just fucking drop it? Whatever, it doesn't matter. Sorry I called. I'll just deal with this on my own."

"Danny, I'm sorry. Please don't–"

Danny hangs up and tosses his phone onto the bed. Calling Tucker was a mistake. It accomplished nothing, except making Tucker mad, and cry. Danny squeezes his eyes shut, lowering his head as his throat tightens. He's so tired of crying. It's a miracle he hasn't dehydrated by now. At some point, he has to run out of tears, right? No one can cry forever. Jazz always says crying makes you feel better, once you're done feeling terrible.

He almost felt good after visiting Mr. Gray. But it didn't take long for the dark feelings to return after he left. Now, he just feels worse and worse each time.

Tipping onto his side, he buries his face in his comforter and gasps. It hurts, tears at his throats, makes the cold in his chest swell and fill his lungs. "Valerie. I'm sorry."

The room grows colder.

—

"I saw your dad." It's the first thing Danny says when he finds himself before the spire again. The snow glistens pure and wide. The ice shines untouched by blood. Valerie's so close to him now, like she's on the other side of a window. The ice warps her image, blurring her edges and tinting her blue, but still. She's almost herself.

"I know," she says.

"Were you listening?"

Valerie reaches out, laying her palm on the ice. It cracks beneath her touch. "Yes."

"And?"

"It doesn't change much, does it?"

Danny lowers his gaze. He knows what he feels, what he did, no matter what Damon says. At this point, nothing can quell the guilt that swirls in Danny's blood. It seeps through him, poisoning his every thought.

"No, it doesn't," he says.

Valerie nods, satisfied, and pulls away from the ice. "Good. As long as you know."

—

Jazz knocks at his door, rapping persistently. He wonders if her knuckles ever get sore when she does that because it's been a good thirty seconds since she started. Apparently, she's resorting to the "annoying older sister" method, since the "therapist older sister" tactic didn't work so well.

Does she know about Danny's disaster of a call with Tucker last night? Danny's friends are, tentatively, Jazz's friends, too, at least when it comes to ghostly things and Danny's health. He wouldn't put it past Tucker to message Jazz, let her know what happened.

Danny swallows before calling out, "What?" His voice still comes out hoarse, probably because he hasn't had anything to drink for a good day and a half, which would explain the headache, too.  But he's very busy right now having a staring contest with the increasingly tangible figure in the corner of his room. He didn't bother sleeping last night. Between the nightmares and Valerie's ghost, he would take the ghost.

Tucker's words from last night echo through his head. Are you sure you just don't want her to be gone?

Of course, he doesn't watch Valerie to be gone. But having her ghost isn't the same as having her, and the last few days have proven Valerie's ghost is no good to Danny. Still, he watched her all night, hoping for some flicker of familiarity. A flash of her headband, the dark brown of her eyes, the soft clinking of her bracelets. Proof his dreams aren't a lie. He got nothing. He's still not sure if he wants to see something.

"Danny?"

He blinks. The corner is empty now. Danny turns his head, his stiff neck cracking, and finally notices Jazz standing inside his bedroom. He doesn't remember her entering. He stopped paying attention entirely after he answered her. Had she said anything, or did she take his question as a welcome?

Danny licks his cracked lips. "What?" he repeats.

"Tucker called me a couple of minutes ago."

Danny keeps his expression carefully blank, but inside he panics. Tucker told her. He told her everything. She's going to tell him he's seeing things again, or give him those pitying eyes, or try and tell him this is all a psychosomatic reaction to losing a dear friend.

"There's a memorial for Valerie at Casper High today. He thought you might want to go," she says.

Danny's spiralling thoughts stutter and fizzle out. "A memorial?"

"Some of your classmates wanted to pay their respects. They’ve been planning it for the past couple of days." Jazz sits down on the edge of Danny's bed. Her fingers grip the hem of her sweater, holding back from reaching out. "Do you want to go?"

Danny keeps his gaze down but thinks about the now vacant corner of his bedroom. Staring at Valerie's maybe-ghost all day can't be good for him, as much as he hates to admit it. He groans and rubs his eyes. Agreeing with Jazz is never a good sign.

"Yeah." He drags his hand down his face, letting his arm drop into his lap. Going to school won't be fun, but he will regret it if he doesn't. "I'll go."

Jazz beams. "Put on something clean and I'll drive you."

"This is clean. Relatively."

"Put on something you didn't wear yesterday. You're not getting in my car until you do."

Danny sticks his tongue out at Jazz as she leaves. He's tempted to ignore her command and roll out of bed in what he's wearing, but knowing Jazz, she meant what she said, and she will leave him at home if he doesn't change into something fresh. And Danny doesn't feel like walking to school. Before, he would have flown to school, but he doesn't even entertain the idea now.

With a weary sigh, Danny crawls out of bed and heads for his dresser.

—

The Red Huntress stares down at the auditorium from the projector screen. It's a nice shot, taken during one of her patrols. She stands straight on her board, one hand shading her eyes, the other loosely holding her blaster. Sunlight glints off her visor, masking most of her face, except the part shaded by her hand. With the visor's tint, it's near impossible to tell those are Valerie's eyes unless you know. And Danny has always known.

Even though it's just a picture, Danny can't meet her gaze for long, turning his head and staring down instead. He steps away from the auditorium doors, letting others through. A few whispers float over his head, Valerie's name paired with his, mumbles about his presence at her death, his absence at school. Maybe he should have stayed home after all.

Danny waits until the stream of students thins before raising his head and peeking into the room. About half the seats are full, most of them toward the back. Waiting might have been a mistake. Now, he can't slip unnoticed into the back row as he planned. Danny bites his lip, wondering if he could stand at the back, or if he should leave. He shuffles his feet, turning down the hall toward the entrance.

A few stranglers are still making their way toward the auditorium, some students and a handful of teachers. Lancer walks with them, nudging some freshmen along.

"We didn't know her," one of them mutters.

"I mean, she was the Red Huntress," the other says. "She was kind of badass."

"She was a student who risked her life and died tragically. Be respectful," Lancer chides. The freshmen, cowed, scurry ahead and disappear through the doorway. Lancer, pinching the bridge of his nose, shakes his head and sighs. Danny can't remember ever seeing him so weary. Lancer drops his hands and finally spots Danny.

"Mr. Fenton, you came." His smile is weak but welcoming. "How are you?"

"Not much better."

Lancer nods. "Not surprising. Am I right to assume you won't be attending class after the memorial? It only covers part of the first period."

"Actually... I think I might go." On the way over, Danny told Jazz he could walk home after, and he didn't bring his backpack with him. Until this moment, he had no intentions of sticking around longer than necessary. Ironically, at least Danny sees it that way, it's Lancer's lack of judgement that convinces him to try and stick it out for the rest of the day.

"You know, Mr. Fenton. I'm proud of you." Lancer smiles again. "Remember, you don't have to stay if it gets too much but good on you for trying."

Danny smiles back, although with far less confidence. He waits for Lancer to go on ahead before slipping into the auditorium himself. From the top of the stairs, he has a good view of the entire room. The entire student body doesn't quite fill up the seats, leaving gaps here and there between grades and friends groups. He was right that all the seats at the back are taken, for the most part. A few empty spots peek out at him, but they're all much too close to other people.

Hugging himself, he readies for the long march down the steps to the front of the room, the only place with ample seating far from anyone else. He gives the back rows one last, hopeful glance. Nearly everyone is settled, friends hunched together, trading whispers or staring at their phones, although one figure off to the left is standing. And waving their arms.

"Danny!"

And calling his name?

The dim lighting makes it hard to see, forcing Danny to squint and shuffle closer, until he finally recognizes Sam. Tucker sits to her left, a single space between them, and their backpacks occupy the seats on either side of them, creating a thin barrier between them and the next students.

Tension bleeds out of Danny's shoulders. Without a second thought, he squeezes his way down the row, using his intangibility more than once to slip through long legs and jutting knees. A few people grumble their annoyance, but otherwise, no one calls him on it.

"Jazz texted and said you were coming," Sam says when Danny's close enough.

"I didn't want to miss it." Danny slips by Sam, claiming the middle seat. "Tucker?"

Tucker only spares him a glance before looking forward again.

"Thanks for letting me know. And... sorry. About yesterday."

For one stubborn moment, Tucker says nothing, and Danny thinks it's too late, he ruined their friendship. But then Tucker beams and grabs Danny, yanking him close.

"Dude, I'm so sorry. I was a dick, too. I'm glad you came."

Danny returns the hug, wrapping his arms around Tucker's shoulders and squeezing tight. It feels good, warm. Even if it doesn't erase anything from the past few days, it's still nice to hug his best friend.

"Oh, what the hell," Sam says. She flops onto Danny's back, draping her arms around him and Tucker. "Thanks for not shutting us out, Danny."

Just like that, the good feeling vanishes. The way Sam talks, it sounds like she thinks he's going to talk now, about everything. Everyone says he should, but after his parents, he's not so sure it will go well.

"Uh, yeah. Glad to be back," Danny says. It's only a partial lie.

They separate soon enough, settling into their seats just in time for Principal Ishiyama to walk on stage. As Ishiyama approaches the podium, the auditorium falls silent. Not that there had been much noise in the first place. A few muttering voices. Whispers here and there. It seems the whole school agrees now isn't a time for idle chatter.

"Students." Ishiyama's voice echoes from the speakers. "As I'm sure you know, we've experienced a great tragedy this last week. Valerie Gray, one of your classmates, maybe even your friend, died in a ghost attack. Despite dealing with ghosts for years, we've never lost someone to them before, and her passing came as a great shock.

"None of us knew, but Ms. Gray was a hero. Only now, after her death, have we learned about how much she did for us. She put her life on the line every day to keep the city safe, fighting valiantly for us. Today, we would like to honour that with a moment of silence, and a few words from her friends."

Ishiyama bows her head, signalling the start of the silence. Around the room, a decent number of students follow her lead, but even more sink down into their seats, as if they're settling in for a nap. Danny's glare hardens when he sees this, thinking of the freshmen from before. How many people in this room actually knew Valerie? How many are mourning the Red Huntress rather than the girl behind the helmet?

He thought coming to the memorial might make him feel, well, not better, but less bad. A little closer to okay. Instead, looking out over the gathered students, his stomach twists. This is a free pass out of class for most of them. They don't care, don't know, and they don't want to. Danny seethes, grinding his teeth as hot anger builds inside him.

Ishiyama breaks the silence before he can boil over. "Thank you. Before the first student comes up here, I'd like to remind everyone that a grief counsellor will be on the premises during school hours for the next week. If you need someone to talk to, he will be here. Your teachers will be here. Valerie was a bright girl and a friend to us all. Her death is a tragedy, and it has affected many of you in different ways. Don't be afraid to seek help when you need it."

Sam nudges Danny at Ishiyama's last word, shooting him a small smile. He can't return it.

Below, Star makes her way on stage, replacing Ishiyama at the podium. Danny immediately tunes her out when she starts speaking. The longer he's here, the more he realizes this is a waste of time and he shouldn't have come at all. He grips his armrests, squeezing the hard plastic as a distraction. It doesn't help as well as he hoped. He takes to scanning the room, dragging his gaze up and down the aisles, catching every sign of disrespect. A kid on his phone. Friends with their heads pressed together, talking softly. A dark silhouette standing halfway up the stairs.

The armrests crack in Danny's grip.

"Whoa, Danny. Are you okay?" Sam asks.

Danny barely hears her, all his attention on the ghost. Valerie's ghost. It looks more like a shadow than ever, with well-defined edges a strong, humanoid figure. He can almost see Valerie in it. But it still doesn't set off his ghost sense, not properly. A pinprick of cold pierces the heat in his chest, spreading quickly. Goosebumps raise along his arms and his breath carries the faintest trace of fog.

"Hey, uh, Danny? Can you maybe stop making it cold?" Sam whispers.

"It's not me," he says.

"Dude, I don't see anyone else with ice powers here," Tucker says.

Danny risks looking away, shooting Tucker an incredulous look, and points toward the aisle. "You don't see it?"

Tucker leans forward, following Danny's finger. "No, man. See what?"

Danny looks back and nearly jumps out of the seat. She's closer, further up the staircase, standing at the end of their aisle. The numbing cold has spread through his entire body by now. He can barely feel his fingers. His teeth chatter.

The shadow leaps forward.

Danny shoots to his feet, crying out in surprise. Heads whip toward him, but he barely registers them. The shadow leaps again. Danny bolts. He books it down the row, kicking a few knees, nearly tripping several times. Indignant shouts and raised voices follow him as he bursts out of the auditorium. He doesn't check over his shoulder, just keeps running. The cold seeps through his bones, sinks into his core. He feels himself sinking deeper and deeper into an icy abyss.

Moving on instinct, he dashes through the halls until he reaches the locker room. He dives into a shower stall, nearly ripping the tap out of the wall as he turns the water on to the hottest setting. It spews from the showerhead piping-hot, turning his skin red the moment it hits. It burns but the cold still won't go away. Danny tips his head up, opens his mouth, and swallows the water. It scalds his tongue and throat, burning all the way down, but the cold overwhelms it much too quickly.

He doesn't want to step out, not when the water hasn't done its job yet, but his skin is bright red and tender, minutes away from blistering. He forces himself out of the shower without turning it off, stumbling through the door and practically throwing himself against the nearest sink. Hunched over the basin, he swallows down the bile rising in his throat. Somehow, he manages not to throw up, a small victory for a hellish day. Once he's sure he won't be puking any time soon, even though his stomach still feels queasy, he splashes water against his face and looks up.

Blue lips. Pale skin. Face bloody and full of despair. In the mirror, Valerie looms over his shoulder.

Danny whips around, shoes slipping on the wet tiles as he tries to back away. The edge of the sink digs into his back. There's nowhere for him to go, Valerie's pale shade looming inches from him. An arm, or a trail of black mist that resembles one, reaches out toward him. It touches his chest.

Nothing happens.

"You're not whole yet," Danny realizes. It's only been five days since Valerie died.

The shadow ripples. Twisted tendrils burst forth, shooting toward him. They strike his chest and disappear in puffs of smoke, able to touch him but too weak to hurt him. Valerie shrieks. Her voice scrapes against Danny's ears, filling his head and bouncing around his brain, but it doesn't hurt. The lights flicker. The mirrors shatter. The tiles under their feet crack and still, Danny remains untouched. His disappointment overwhelms his relief, crashing through him in waves.

He pushes off the sink and reaches out, stopping inches away from her. "You can't touch me. Yet."

Valerie ripples again. Her form flickers, then she's gone.

Danny runs all the way home.

—

The ice is already broken by the time Danny's dream starts. He called them nightmares at first, but now, they're more like warnings. Promises, even.

Valerie crawls closer. Danny is not afraid.

"Danny," she says, her voice soft and calm, carrying no echoes of pain. She stops in front of him and lifts a cold finger to his chin, pushing his head up.

"Yes?" Danny matches her tone, just as soft, just as smooth. He can't help it. Something about the way she looks at him, the way she speaks. It makes him think everything will be okay.

"I know why I stayed." There's no trace of forgiveness in her gaze, but for some reason, he finds it more comforting than unsettling. As if she understands what he's thinking. She's the only one who knows what he deserves.

"Why?" Danny asks, but he already knows the answer.

"Wait for me," she says.

"I will," he answers.

—

Danny does not go back to school. He locks himself in his room, turns off his phone, and refuses to let anyone in. He made a promise and he's going to keep it. It's the one thing he can do for Valerie, after all. Give her what she wants.

One sleepless night later, on the seventh day after Valerie dies, her ghost manifests in Danny's room.

—

Danny swallows a cry of pain as Bertrand smacks him into the pavement. His great bear claws leave deep gouges across Danny's chest, the wounds leaking ectoplasm. He grits his teeth but doesn't worry. With his abilities, they will be healed by the end of the fight. Which he hopes comes soon. He's missing fourth period with Lancer right now, which isn't a big deal, but he has a math test next class, and he cannot afford another zero.

"Having a little trouble, ghost boy?"

A relieved grin stretches across Danny's face at the sight of Valerie flying overhead. "I don't know, I think I've got it handled." Planting his hands on asphalt, he flips himself up and out of the way of Bertrand's next swipe.

"Doesn't look like that from up here," Valerie says.

"Well, you could always come down and help me then. Prove how much stronger you are." Danny wastes a moment to wink and nearly gets taken out for it. Bertrand roars and pounces toward him. Danny barely leaps out of the way in time.

"Geez, I know you're unbearable, but this is ridiculous."

"Not quite." Spectra's melodic voice easily carries down the street. "I think pathetic is more accurate for your display, Phantom."

Danny scowls. "Shut up, I don't care what you think!"

Valerie swoops down while Spectra's distracted, her blaster spitting bullets faster than Danny can think. Spectra's eyes widen and she drops through the pavement, intangible, to avoid the fire. Danny doesn't have time to watch for her return, trusting Valerie to keep an eye out while he tackles Bertrand again.

The stuffy butler has shifted from a bear into a snake. Venom drips from his fangs and sizzles on the pavement.

"That's not fair," Danny whines.

"Ssssso what?" Bertrand hisses. He coils then jumps.

"Whoa!" Danny grabs his head and yanks it out of Bertrand's path, his neck turning to pale vapour.

"Phantom!" Valerie shouts. "Get your head back on and fight seriously!"

"You don't think I look good like this?" Danny pouts, tossing his head from one hand to the other. Everything blurs and he stumbles. "Okay, wow. Don't do that again." He shoves his head back on, struggling to steady himself as the street spins around him.

"Phantom!" Valerie shrieks in annoyance.

"Yeah, yeah!" Danny twists away from Bertrand's sneak attack, grabbing the ghost’s fang as he shoots by. Yanking hard, Danny swings Bertrand around and slams his head into the ground. "Good snake, nice snake!"

Bertrand writhes, bucking wildly under Danny's grip. He struggles to keep a firm holds on him, but then Bertrand opens his mouth wide and snaps down. Yelping, Danny lurches away, yanking his hand back just in time. He flies up to Valerie and takes to scanning the street with her.

"No sign of Spectra?"

"I can take care of her myself," Valerie snaps.

"Sure, but a little help never hurt, right?"

Through her visor, Valerie's eyes narrowed. "Fine."

"Oh, now this is interesting."

Both ghost hunters stiffen. Danny turns, pressing his back against Valerie's, and searches for Spectra. He can't see her. Neither can Valerie, judging by the soft curses under her breath.

"You don't care what I think, but you care what she thinks, don't you?" Spectra asks.

Danny bristles. "So what?"

"Does she think you're strong? Or weak? Do you want to protect her?"

"I don't need anyone to protect me!" Valerie shouts. Under her breath, she says to Danny, "We can't stay together. We won't find her this way, and we still have her crony. You take the ground, I'll take the sky."

"Shouldn't the ghost take the sky?" Danny whispers back.

"Just do it!"

He rolls his eyes, but complies anyway, dropping back to the street.

"Back for more ssso sssoon?" Bertrand asks.

"I didn't get enough of your pretty face the first time," Danny says. "Those fangs are a real good look on you."

"Ssstop ssstalling."

"Stop being so ugly."

"Real original."

"Bertrand!" Spectra snaps. She sounds closer now, too close for Danny's liking. "Get the girl. I'll deal with our little meal."

"Um, ew?"

A bright green disk flies at Danny out of nowhere. He barely sees it before it hits, exploding against his chest and blasting him back. Danny groans when he hits the ground, carefully patting his chest for injuries. The gouges from Bertrand were nearly healed, but now they're seeping ectoplasm once again.

Above him, Bertrand has changed into a giant wasp. He zips about Valerie, trying to catch her with his stinger. She's too fast for him, but, likewise, he's too fast for her. None of their hits are landing, and they're playing an endless game of chase.

Spectra rises from the ground beside him, her hands glowing. "You might want to focus on me."

Danny scrambles back, disks of ectoplasm exploding behind him. Ectoplasm lights his fists, and he swings, aiming for Spectra's face. She ducks away cackling.

"Do you ever give up?" he shouts.

"Why would I when you make it so easy?" Spectra laughs behind her hand. "I can only think of a few things worse than an abomination like yourself."

Danny falters. Don't let her get to you, he tells himself. "Oh yeah, like what?"

"The only thing worse than an abomination is a weak one. And that's what she thinks you are, weak."

"That's a lie!"

"Really? Then why did she send you down here to take care of my little assistant, while she kept watch above, searching for me?"

Danny can't help it. He slips, falls for it, lets the ectoplasm coating his hands fizzle out as he glances up at Valerie. She's still caught in her game of cat and mouse with Bertrand, but in the midst of her fight, she keeps glancing down, at Danny and Spectra. Watching out for him? Or watching to see if he can do it? If he needs help?

"N-no, you're lying." He knows Spectra lies. She never tells the truth, always twists other people's words and actions for her own gain, but...

"Look at you!" Spectra's not even poised to fight now, standing completely relaxed with a hand on her hip. "Pathetic! You couldn't take us on your own. She had to come help you, and you still can't beat me."

"Liar!" Danny whips and ectoblast at her. It shoots through the air, a blazing green star. Spectra's quick to counter, breaking his attack with a blast of her own. They explode when they meet, a cascade of light and ectoplasm.

"See? Weak. You can't do anything with powers like this?"

"Then what about this?" Danny thrusts his arm out. Ice races across the ground, encasing Spectra's feet. It creeps up her legs until nearly her entire body is coated in it, but all she does is laugh and clap.

"Oh, that's a fun trick. But it doesn't do much, does it?" A swipe of her hand and the ice melts and cracks. She shoots into the air, her aura glowing brighter as she gathers her power. "You're only proving me right, dear. You should just give up."

"Shut up." The temperature around Danny plummets, frost creeping across the pavement. His breath fogs the air.

Spectra goes on. "You can't expect to protect anyone like this. A freak, a loser, and a joke of a hero! You've hit all three!"

Behind Spectra, far above their heads, Bertrand splits into a swarm of wasps and rushes Valerie. He knocks her off her board, and she plummets with a scream.

Danny sees. He sees but he doesn't think. Spectra's taunting words pound in his ears, fill up his head, shove all other thoughts aside and blind him.

"I said. Shut! Up!" He bellows and stomps his feet. A wave of power bursts off him, razor-sharp icicles spewing from the ground, taller than Danny. Spectra easily dodges, flying up out of harm's way as she cackles with glee.

Too late, Danny realizes his mistake.

"Valerie!" he screams, echoing her cry, as he lunges toward her, but it's too late.

An icicle rips through her with a sickening squelch. Her blood sprays across Danny's face, seeping into his eyes and mouth. It's all he can see and taste. Her body hits the ground with a thud, nearly torn in two. Her heart beats against the open air. One of her lungs lays on the ground beside her, shredded to pieces.

Danny drops to his knees. He can't breathe. He can't think. Valerie, Valerie, VALERIE! A scream of agony tears from his throat as his world shatters around him.

—

Valerie doesn't look all that different in death. She wears her Huntress suit, although ferns of frost curl along her abdomen, spewing from a gape black void in her side. Pale blue overtakes the red. Her hair glows orange. Not bad, as far as ghost forms go.

"I always knew you were bad." Her voice carries an echo that swells and fills the room. "I knew you were evil. All ghosts are. And you made me one of them. Danny," Valerie's stoic expression splinters, "how could you?"

"I'm sorry," Danny says, because there's nothing else he can say, nothing that will make up for this. He reaches out to her, but she recoils, lips curling in disgust.

"I never wanted to turn into this. It hurts." Her voice breaks. A wet sob chokes her words. Like she's still drowning in her own blood, forever.

"I know. God, I know. It never stops. It's like your broken inside." Danny grabs his hair and tugs. "There's a void and nothing ever fills it. I didn't mean it, Valerie, I didn't! But I killed you, and I­– I'm sorry! If I could take it back, if I could trade places with you, I would. You know I would."

"I know."

"If I could do anything to make better..." Danny lowers his head, shame and regret pressing him down.

Valerie reaches for him. Just like in his dream, she grabs his chin and slowly lifts his head, forcing him to look at her. "Danny."

He knows. He knows. He knows what she's going to say, what she's going to do. He's known all along, since that first nightmare. Maybe he's been ignoring it, or hoping for it. Either way, he won't stop her. He deserves it.

She lays her other hand on his chest, ice gathering in her palm. "Die for me."

—

When Mr. Gray finishes crying, he wipes his eyes and slumps into his chair. "So." The words cracks as it comes out. He pauses to swallow a few times, shuddering visibly. "So. That's how it happened."

Danny keeps his eyes downcast. He knows what's coming next. The screaming, the yelling, the accusations. He will take all of it, already agrees with Mr. Gray even though the man hasn't said a word. It's just a matter of seconds, now.

"You­–" MR. Gray starts.

Say it. Say I killed her. Call me a murderer.

"It wasn't your fault."

Danny nearly chokes on his surprise. "What?"

"It was. An accident. You were manipulated, tricked. It wasn't your fault, Danny. I don't want you to think it was."

Danny's mind reels. This can't be happening. Surely, he's hearing Mr. Gray wrong, making up a fantasy in his head, but no. Valerie's father doesn't hate him. The one person who has any right to, other than Valerie. And he... forgives Danny.

"And if I know my daughter, she wouldn't blame you either."

As Danny gets up to leave, only one thought runs through his head. Then you didn't know her very well.

—

It doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. The impact feels like a punch, a burst of searing pain, then he's gone.

And then he's not. He's in his room, floating on one side of his bed. Valerie stands across from them. Between him, his body sits, held upright by the spear of ice jutting through his chest. Valerie apparently had some shred of mercy left in her. The spear went right through Danny's heart.

The wound is still fresh, still bleeding, dripping down his body's chest. Seconds or days to manifest, Danny's mom said. Isn't he a lucky one?

Valerie eyes him over his dead body, and he follows her stare. In the middle of his chest, swirling frost creeps out of a black void. They match. How poetic.

"You're not gone," Danny says, lifting his gaze back to Valerie.

"No. And you stayed."

"Yeah."

She doesn't move away, and neither does he. They can't, not without the other following. They have haunted each other for so long, Danny stalking her in life, Valerie hunting him in death. Now, it seems, they're stuck together at a stalemate, neither one willing to move first. They're dead now, though, so that doesn't matter. They have all the time in the world.

[whumpingcrow]

Chapter 6 (Gio POV)

Bad Dogs Sleep Outside

CW: bbu and everything in relation to that, discussion of conditioning/training/brainwashing, trauma/ptsd themes, noncon drug use, noncon/dubcon touching and kissing, lady whumper, intimate whumper, multiple whumpers, physical assault, dehumanizing language/themes, emotional whump, weather whump (is that a thing?), strangulation mention (let me know if i missed anything!)

Everything sounds very far away. It's a thing I keep noticing over and over again, like my mind is a carousel and there's only one little man riding in circles, screaming "Hey! Everything sounds really far away!" each time he goes around. How do I remember what a carousel is? What a bizarre thing to linger around after everything else was beaten out of me. It's so bizarre that I laugh. That sounds far away, too.

"Watcha laughing at?" Rory asks me, her voice a murmer across a million mile void from her throat to my head. I look up at her from my spot on the floor. She's so beautiful, her once electric blue hair is fading out to a light blue-ish blonde, which looks like a silvery halo, the way the light is catching it right now. I smile at her. Nicko should be drawing pictures of her, and it makes me feel somewhat disgusting that I have the one he drew for me taped up to the wall next to the beanbag, because I'm most definitely not living, breathing art that needs to be captured on paper, Rory is.

I can't remember her question, but the fear that ties my stomach into knots because I am so stupid and need to be listening better, also feels far away. Whatever drug she gave me this time is amazing. I never want to stop feeling this way. I want to be as far away from myself as possible all the time, if I could I would get a restraining order against myself. Why do I remember what a restraining order is? Restraining orders and carousels stayed behind but not guitars or names of people I think I used to know? Why'd they have to break me up so jagged like that? None of my pieces fit together anymore, no matter how many times I've tried to glue them back together.

But right now, the pieces of me that are the most functioning are the most shattered and re-mended of all; the sharp edges of training. I remember it all, even if it's just down to muscle memory sometimes. I don't have to try so hard to think about why I'm doing something or what it means, it just is. I do this now, kneeling in front of Rory, tentatively hovering by her leg, making it obvious I want to be closer. I know that, with some of the trainers, being soft like this was sometimes reward-worthy, or at the very least would stop them from hurting me for a little while.

"You're so beautiful," I breathe, realizing that she's still looking at me expectantly, waiting for an answer to the question I'm stupid enough to have forgotten in the five seconds since she's asked it. She blushes, then smiles at me. Her hands find their way to my hair and she runs her fingers through some of the tangles.

"You're such a darling, you know that?" Her voice is like a song, her fingernails scratching behind my ear is driving me crazy. I feel myself pressing into her touch, and I hear her laugh softly. It makes me warm all over. I want her to look at me how she's looking at me right now all the time, jaded blue eyes downcast at me, shining in amusement behind the dullness of the drugs, like sunshine reflecting off shattered glass discarded in a dirty puddle. And I love the way she sounds when she says things like that, that I'm darling. I want her to say more stuff like that, so I keep going.

I lean toward her, tipping my head back to get a better look at her. "Rory," I whisper, "you're like an angel, miss."

She smiles wider at me, then drags one of her sharp nails against my jaw and down my throat. A chill goes down my spine, and I sigh just a little at it. "Why don't you come up on the bed with me, Gio?" Her voice is real low and silky when she says it, it echos across the vast canyon that I feel is separating me from reality. I remember when I first got here, she told me her name was like the princess I was too stupid to know (how fucking irritating that I remember what a carousel is and not whoever Rory was talking about) and I think now that the title fits her. Nicko's called her that a few times, "Princess", and it feels like the most honest thing he's said.

Slowly, I grab onto the too-soft sheets and pull myself to my feet. The ground is nothing but static underneath me, for a second I'm scared I'll drop through it and fall endlessly into hell. I can't help but think that's where I'll end up, and it scares me shitless that I might be going there right now. So I collapse onto the bed next to Rory, keeping my eyes focused on the floor to make sure it's still there.

Rory loops her fingers around my neck loosely and forces me to turn my head to look at her. She's staring holes into my skin, her gaze suddenly so intense it reminds me of Master. I close my eyes. I don't want to think of him, towering over me and watching me with that same look as I would tremble and sob and beg him to just be done already. Rory's finger is right over my pulse, and I pray that she doesn't add any pressure.

She smells like smoke and alcohol and perfume, and her breath is brushing my cheek when she says "It's so cute when you say things like that." Then her lips fall against my cheek, then my jaw, then she moves her hand and kisses over my pulse. I draw in a deep breath, keeping my eyes closed. I wonder if her lipstick is coming off on my skin where she kisses me. And, just when I think I might fall over in the euphoria that comes with her touching me so gently, her lips are against my own, hands cupping my face to keep me still. As if I would ever dream of not letting her do this to me.

She kisses me sloppily, with tongue and teeth, and I'm grabbing hard at the sheets and trying to put myself back into my body so I can actually experience it. But no matter how hard I try, everything is still so far away. "Hey!" The little guy on the carousel screams. "Everything is very far away!"

Even when her hands are sliding down my chest, and over my waistband, I don't really feel it, even when she's taking my lip into her teeth and biting like she's trying to draw blood, it's not my pain, not really. Even when the door opens and slams shut and I hear Nicko's booming voice asking us "What the fuck are you doing?!", it hurts my ears but I don't really process it.

Only when Rory snaps away from me and I feel hands grabbing me hard and ripping me off the mattress do I feel somewhat present, and Nicko is grabbing the collar of my shirt tightly and his furious face is right in front of mine, and I'm afraid.

"Why the fuck are you tounging my girlfriend, you fucking freak?!" He shouts at me. I try my best to cower away from him, but his grip is too tight, he really wants me to see how angry he is. Hot tears are in my eyes, I can't force my brain to come up with an apology, so I just stare up at him as he shouts at me. And then he must decide that yelling isn't enough, and he pulls back and punches me in the nose.

"Nicko stop it!" I hear Rory shriek, but it seems to only egg him on more, and he hits me again. This time I notice that the floor is pressed up against my back, or I guess I'm splayed out on the floor, it's hard to tell, my world feels all upside down. And my face is throbbing, I think, and I can't tell if it's hard to see because of the pain or if I just don't have my eyes open all the way. Through all of that, though, I remind myself to be quiet. Nicko's already so angry, the only thing I can do is stay silent and observe him landing brutal kicks against me, now. I find myself wondering what I did to deserve this, everything is so muddled and confusing I'm not even sure who's hitting me anymore.

"I'm sorry," I plead to the hands, trying to put as much remorse into my voice as I can, but it only comes out mangled and exhausted. Not good enough, they hit me again. I try another time, "ple-please, I'm sorry!"

Then I'm being picked up off the ground, hands reaching out of the dense, fuzzy cloud of confusion surrounding me and pulling me gruffly to my feet. I'm dragged out of the bedroom, I can hear Rory shouting at Nicko to let me go, and I look up to see him glaring forward, not even looking at me. He's livid, even more angry than the day he shouted when I passed out at the shop. My lungs feel like they're full of cement, Nicko is mad at me! I am so stupid and annoying and worthless and

"I'm so sorry!" I sob out. He ignores me.

We pass by one of Nicko's other roommates as he drags me down the hall, he's never said a word to me before, but he always looks at me with vague disgust when he's around. I think his name is Ben. Now, his disgust is warped with horror, his eyebrows twisted into a tight frown and his mouth hanging open as Nicko drags me along next to him. He doesn't say anything. I wish it were Salem. Salem would have said something. I wonder when he'll back from work, if I'll be able to sneak away from Nicko and Rory long enough to see him. That is, if I even live that long. The way Nicko is handling me carelessly, with a drunken, vengeful look in his eyes, I don't have much hope that I will.

He opens the sliding door to the backyard, where snow covers nearly every surface, the porch light soaks all of it in a rusty orange glow. It makes me feel hollow inside when Nicko drags me out there. I'm not wearing shoes or socks, hardly wearing pants, and Nicko seems to only give me thin t-shirts instead of heavy sweaters like he and Rory wear.

The cold knocks my breath away, especially when Nicko tosses me down to the ground. The snow feels almost sharp against my skin, like it's cutting into me. I refuse to make any sound. Nicko is mad enough. He approaches me slowly, I only dare to look at his huge black boots approaching, I don't lift my head, I don't look up at him. I don't deserve to. He crouches down in front of me, sliding his belt out of the loops in his jeans slowly.

"You're fucking sick, you know that?" He says. I flinch away from his voice, and then he's sitting me up, leaning me against one of the wooden pillars holding the awning up. "You don't seriously think she wants you, right? I mean, look at you, you're pathetic. You're not even a fucking person anymore, Giovanni. Do you get that? She doesn't want you..." he presses me closer to the beam I'm leaning against, I feel splinters in my back already. He's so fucking scary like this, and I absolutely hate myself for pushing him into such horrific anger. I'm so horrible. I deserve this. I deserve this and so much more. He brings the belt up, looping it around my neck and the pillar, tightening it so I can't move. If I relax even an inch it would strangle me, I'm sure of it, I'm barely able to get in ragged breaths already. Nicko stands up. "She just wants the attention."

I can hardly see him through tears in my eyes as he stands up, hovering over me for a moment. I want him to let me down, I want to go back inside and put on Salem's sweater that I keep hidden, I want Nicko to like me again, I hate when he's this angry. I say nothing, because I deserve this. Because I'm horrible.

"You'll sleep out here tonight, so you can really learn your lesson."

His blurry silhouette turns away from me. I can't move enough to watch him walk all the way inside, but I hear the door close, then I hear it lock. When I'm sure I'm alone, I start to cry.

[enigma-im]

Crocodile Rock

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Lizard Man X Female!Human Warning: sexual drought, minor stalking, kidnapping, sex on a mountain, Oral, monster sex, loss of control, scenting, ovulation

Word count: 3660

A monster prowling the streets of a suburban neighborhood. A girl in a bit of a dry spell is driving him crazy.

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One would think that going most of your life without sex would make going a few months without it easy. I'd imagine the metaphor for food would make sense. If you never had spaghetti before you can't crave it, you can want it but not really desire it. I also just compared sex to spaghetti, I really need to get laid.

I believe the last time I was intimate, not even had sex, with someone was almost a year ago. It is fine for the most part, hardly noticed it till recently. Work has kept me busy so it wasn’t a great loss. Now that I have more free time all I crave is the touch of another. Reading hasn’t done me any favors either. Its been a mess of a time.

As I spiral in the depth of frustration I have been noticing the presence of someone watching me. It was easy to brush off at first but once I started seeing strange things do I become worried. In the morning when I'd walk to my car to go to work id catch a pair of glowing eyes in the woods opposite my house. The first time I assumed it was the neighbors' house lights, boy was I wrong. When I come back home and rechecked I saw there were no lights. Next came the sightings and talk around the area. People caught sight of a huge man walking about. Other added on saying it wasn’t a man but a monster, having scales and sharp teeth. I hardly believed any of that until I caught sight of him when looking at my backyard.

I stood in the kitchen and looked out the window at my poorly kept yard. It desperately needed a trim and grooming. I wonder who will be doing that cause its definitely not me. As I was about to walk away with my fresh cup of cocoa I see a shadow move under the trees. I squint and lean against the sink to get a better look. It was big, that was easy enough to decipher. It stepped over my fence and walked towards the back porch. Once it was close enough, the motion sensors caught it. We both stood frozen after that.

Tall was my immediate thought. Big, hulking, scaled, were my next ones. This… thing… looks like a lizard to simplify things. It was covered in dark green and brown scales and had some spikes coming out the back of its head. Before I could detail more it ran out of the yard and into the dark.

"Well fuck me," I grumble in shock. I didn’t particularly know how else to react after seeing that. Big damn lizard in my yard heading to my back door. It felt like watching one of the lost tape videos on YouTube. That creepy feeling crawling up your spine that may turn into a flight or fight response. I shivered at the time, standing in the kitchen for an uncomfortable amount of time.

It's about two weeks after the incident that I am heading back home from work. The day was harsh and aggravating. Not sure why I scheduled a date for today. Just because its Friday, doesn’t mean I'm not tired. still, my sexual drought hasn’t done much for my growing stress around the mystery in the neighborhood. I think I've caught it out the corner of my eye often after seeing him. Always lurking in the woods like some stalker. It's unnerving but I can't help to an awful fantasy of being watched while gratifying myself at night. I won't lie and say I've never thought about it, opening my windows so the lizard man could catch an eyeful. Of course, I haven't don’t it but I feel its only a matter of time.

I make it home with phantom pains in my stomach. Always around ovulation do I get these little pains, about a 2/10 on the scale but still noticeable. Fingers crossed that my date goes well so I won't have to come home and use the detachable shower head to get some peace. I pull into the driveway and shuffle about collecting all my things in the car. I open up the door as I shove my phone into my pocket. Before I could slam the door shut I hear a loud snap in the woods. It wasn’t like a twig being stepped on but more of a branch being broken. The sound echoes over the mountain and bounces off the trees. The noise sending a chill down my spine.

"ok," I grumble in comfort. I quickly shut the door and speed walk to the front door. As I grab the handle I pause. A crawling feeling runs up my spine. I freeze like a deer caught in headlights. A primal feeling of fright gripping my brain. I can't put my finger on it or even explain the reasoning until a puff of air pushes against the back of my neck. I stop breathing.

Out the corner of my eye, I see a large hand slowly reach out and press against the door. On the other side, I see another hand grab mine and gently take it off the handle. Taking in small gasps of air, I do as it says. The heat of the thing behind me increases as it crowds me to the door. I look up at the glass and try to make out the reflection. I gulp when I realize what it is.

I watch him lean down toward my neck and inhale a greedy breath, letting it out in a pleasing growl. I find myself whimpering right after. His hand still holding mine trails up my arm, stopping at my elbow. Slowly, he traces his nails over to my stomach, flattening his hand to cover almost all of me. He pets his thumb just under my bra and releases another growl.

In a flash, his hand tightens and pulls me back. He grabs me and twists me so he can throw me stomach first over his shoulder. I cough as the breath is punched out of me. We twist and in a dizzying speed, he runs away from my house. My chest bounces against his back as he runs us into the woods. Tree passes us in blurring speed till we stop at a short sharp incline of the mountain. Keeping a strong hold he grips the rock and catapults himself upwards.

He climbs up to a flat space high up over the neighborhood. He walks over to a clear space surrounded by trees, stopping and settling me in the flattened grass. I rest on my back feeling like a dog showing its stomach as I get a good look at him. His features are sharp and aggressive. His eyes are extremely dilated, or his pupils are always that big. His teeth are bared in a snarl and a bit of drool dribbles out the corner of his mouth. I don’t know how to interrupts this, is he going to eat me?

"Please," I whimper while trying to sit up. He growls as he quickly presses his hand to my chest, forcing me back down into the dirt. I follow with minimal complaint, too scared to deny him. The man lowers himself with me, settling on his hand so he can press his face close. Startling me he presses his nose to my neck and sucks in another deep inhale, releasing a deep breath with a rumbling purr. His tongue slithers out and licks up around my collar. I accidentally cry out at the warm press of his mouth. He seems to startle as well, jumping back with a gasp. He looks down at me for a moment before he shakes his head vigorously, seeming to clear his mind.  

I yelp when he grabs at my pants, jerking at them. I jump up but he makes me fall back as he jerks again. Quickly he rips my bottoms down and tosses them aside. His palms glide up over my thighs, parting them as he nears my crotch. I keen in protest, trying to buck away with a flush face. Our eyes meet as he settles on his stomach. He sneers with a growl, gripping my legs tightly in command. Stay still. I settle in panic, resting on my back with a strange mix of anticipation.

His fingers settle in the cleft of my thigh, massaging gently as his breath ghosts over me. I clench my fist to my sides, refusing to look. I yelp when his tongue runs a slow stripe up my crotch. He grunts loudly as his head rest against my pelvis. I feel a dribble of drool splash onto my hip as he shakes his head slowly, perhaps overwhelmed with the experience. Without warning he licks again, dipping inside before sliding his full length up and over my clit. I choke on my breath, clenching my stomach with a white jolt pierces up my spine. He wastes no time going for thirds, taking his time to taste everything he can.

I can't ignore the sharp pulses of arousal drenching over me. I have never cared for slow but he is making it work. Feels like he is worshiping the experience, worshiping me. His tongue invades me and I can't stop the soft moan escaping my lips. He groans along with me, vibrating my thighs as he does. His fingers dig into my skin, no doubt leaving marks. He laps at me like a dog before using his lips to suck on my cunt. The scales on his chin rub over my rear and entrance, the sensation is different but not unwelcomed. I feel myself bucking against him and ignoring any previous protest I had. I let my body enjoy his assaults, even going as far as to watch him.

"Yes, fuck," I sit upon my elbows, my head dropping to my shoulder. His eyes meet mine with an intoxicating amount of enjoyment. Glad we are both on the same page. His eyes roll back as he adjusts his hold, shoving his tongue inside. His fingers then glide around to finger at my clit. "Ah, yes, please," I cry out. I watch as he drinks from me, rolling my hips into him as I near my end. I whimper out pleads, falling back onto my back as I arch into him.

"Please, please, please," I chant. His growls push me over the edge, bucking and squirming into him as I cum. He licks up everything I offer as I dig my fingers into the dirt. My fist ripping up the grass as I cry out.

As I fall he sits up and watches. I roll my head back and forth against the ground, whispering thank you. He is the first person to give me an orgasm in nearly a year. That thought should be sobering but all I can think is, he is kind of cute. For a giant lizard, he did great, better than most, if not all, my exes.

Once I come down I sit up and look at him. He isn't looking up at me, well he is looking down. Motion catches my eye and I look down at his hand wrapped around his cock, and what a cock it is indeed. He is hung like a soda can, thick as all hell. His hand is teasing along his length as he eyes my crotch. He passes a quick glance up at me, his look seems debauched if not predatory. I quirk a brow at him as I try to stray off a smile. I kind of want him inside me, I won't lie. I didn’t imagine I was this desperate for sex but here I lie, ready to plead for him.

I look from him to his crotch, spreading my legs a bit as I lick my lips. This breaks his last strand of control as he grabs at me. He clutches my hips and slides me so his tip rests against my entrance. With no preamble, he bucks forward with a loud growl. Not ready for him to go full hilt I fall back to the dirt with a clenched yelp.

"Jesus," I huff. He takes no time wildly thrusting into me. His hips clapping at mine, leaving my thoughts scattered. Sweet fuck I might die. His cock stretches me like no other. His claws piercing my skin a bit as he slams in and out. Wanting to see what's happening I sit upon my elbows again.

I watch his hips roll, ending with a sharp snap. His stomach muscles pull taunt then flow with his movements. I'm in rapture watching his motions, feeling the effects of his actions. Sitting on my elbows I watch his thick cock pound quickly into me. His cock pulling out swiftly before bucking forward. My face clenches up as I think too much on it, feeling him rub against my walls. I want to look up at him, see what this creature's face looks like when taking me so quick and hard. Yet I can't bring myself to look away from this erotic sight. I hardly notice this keening sound coming from my throat, I also hardly care.

"Fuck, please," I cry as I fall back into the dirt. His grunt and growls echo up the mountain. With a quick squeeze to my hips, he falls forwards on to his hands, hovering over me with a sneer. His bucking picks up pace, slapping against my hips with loud claps. He bares his teeth down at me, his eye nearly clenching shut. The sight is anything but ghastly. His monstrous snarling with his beast-like thrust is all the more arousing.

"Fuck-," I try to whine out a name but nothing comes to mind. The acknowledgment that this beast is using me like a sex toy hits hard. I don’t know anything about him, except how well he can eat a girl out. The taboo of fucking some strange monster in the woods is erotic, like some over the top romance novel. I can't help but squeeze around him with a fluttering of tension. He clenches his eyes close and stutters in his thrust. Soon he falls forward onto his forearms, hanging his head near my neck. I can hear his panting breath and grunts clearer now.

"Heath," I hear him huff out. I lazily swing my head to the side, eyeing him confused. He watches with a side-eye. I can't help but squeeze again when I notice that I'm bouncing with him. "Heath," he growls again.

"Heath," I mumble out around heavy breaths. As he hears me he drops his forehead to the ground and bucks harder into my hips. I choke on a gasp as it feels like his cock is in my stomach. "Fuck, Heath," I growl out between clenched teeth. I find myself reaching out for something sturdy, grabbing at his biceps near my shoulders. As I call his name again he grunts and groans. His noises sound delightful next to my ear. I squeeze around him as I listen, fighting off my nearing peak just to prolong this experience.

I can feel everything. The way the head of his cock leads the way deep inside me. The sensation of his scales rubbing against my hands and thighs. I can feel the air puffing from his heavy panting, brushing my hair slightly. I hold on to every sensation until I can't take it anymore. "Heath, shit- you-… Fuck," I try to speak. My brain seemingly mush as I cry out, hearing my whines echo over the mountains. No doubt startling some of the residences below.

Quickly everything turns white. My hearing becomes a ringing as I suddenly stop screaming. My mouth opens in a silent yell. My insides clench around his impressive length, making him stutter in his thrust. I clench his arms with a vice grip, listening to his short whines as he frantically pounds into me. He takes all he can get before slamming once more. He stills, his breath caught in his throat. I feel his hot load jet into me, coating my insides with his seed. Giving just one final buck we both lay silent. His face buried to my neck and my hands gripping him tightly.

Neither of us moves, still coming back into our own and catching our breaths. I relax my hold and tilt my head back with a content sigh. That was amazing.

Heath startles me by pressing his face to my neck. Licking a short stripe up to my ear. I can feel his chest rumble with a soft purr. His satisfied behavior is pleasing in an almost primal way. I trail my hands up his arms, over his shoulders, and down to his chest. I press my palm to him, feeling his vibrations.

"Jesus, you have been driving me insane all week. I tried taking myself in my hand but it didn’t work, your cunt was the perfect cure," he growls out next to my ear. It's startling, if not embarrassing, to finally hear his voice. Well, hear it in a full sentence anyway.

What he says is still a bit concerning, "I've been driving you crazy?"

"Yes, your scent was too potent. My little sexually frustrated female, practically screaming for my cock," he rubs his nose to my cheek, licking and kissing as he does.

I push his head away while trying to bite down on my smile, "I was not, you big brute." he finally sits up, cocking an eyebrow down at me.

"Right, shall we make a repeat performance than? I will have you begging in the dirt in seconds," his smug face is both charming and annoying.

"Cocky aren't we?"

"Only when I'm right," he grins. He settles back on his forearms, pressing gentle kisses around my face. It’s a strange contrast to his previous domineering actions. Despite my denial, he did have me screaming into the dirt like some kind of whore. I won't lie and say it was unpleasant or unwanted but I will say it would have been nice to know his name beforehand. Not everyone can say that they found out someone's name when it was growled into their ear while that someone's big cock was rearranging their organs. That would be weird if it was a common thing, be concerned about today's way of life if that were the case.

Without warning, Heath grabs my hips and tilts us sideways. He is on his back, cradling me to his front. Letting out a content sigh that ruffles my hair, he closes his eyes. I rest my palms to his chest a bit perplexed. Is he going to sleep? What a typical man. With a roll of my eyes, I rest my chin on his sternum, just observing this strange beast. As I too begin to fall captive to the grips of sleep I remember my plans for tonight. Instead of catching some comforting rest, I begin to rouse with questions.

"Now what?"

His eyes peak open, "Now what?"

"I need to get back home, I have a date tonight I need to get cleaned up for," I clarify. It seems wrong to go out after being thoroughly fucked on the plateau of a mountain but I can't imagine this is going to form into something more. A taboo rendezvous that won't result in a committed relationship.  

He still surprises me by saying, "Date? Not anymore."

I regard him confused, "hmm?"

"No man is taking you away, I will state my intent right now. I will have you again, and again, and again because you are mine," his fingers dig into my naked hips. A growl rumbling from his chest into mine. I'm not put off by the idea, far from it, but I won't make it easy for him.

"I don’t remember agreeing to that," I answer in a cheek to tongue way.

"You agreed when you took my cock," he counters with a wicked smirk.

"I feel there wasn’t much say in that. Didn’t exactly ask," I pretend to ponder.

"Why would I need to when you were begging so beautifully? I couldn’t prolong our torture by asking. Also, I don’t think I could have arranged enough words into a coherent sentence with your arousal surrounding my nose," he sits up and rubs his face into my neck. I can feel his sharp teeth grazing along my collar. It was a fair point, not a good one but a pleasing one.

"I'll let it slide, this time. I expect to be properly courted, don’t need some brute coming in and just staking his claim," I submit, not without my own demands. He stops his assault and leans back with an annoyed look.

"You are exhausting," he thumps his head back to the ground.

"Maybe you shouldn’t have thought with your prick before your brain then," I poke to the top of his head.

"What can I say, he made a good choice," he chuckles.

"I can agree with that," I answer as I rest my cheek to his chest, tracing some of his scales with my finger.

"Then we agree, you are mine," he asks with a large grin. I look up at him, my lips quirking at his full toothy smile.

"As long as you are mine," I shoot back.

"I was yours the minute I got to taste your cunt," his smile goes from playful to teasing. His fingers trailing down to cup my ass.

"Brute and vulgar," I can't help but laugh.

"Shut up, you love it," he purrs. His hands grope and squeeze my rear, his tongue lapping along my neck. If he keeps this up I may be partial to another round.

I grin like a fool, "perhaps."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This is almost exactly how a dream of mine went. only difference is i woke up before he said anything. Bruh was hella hung, miss him.

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[hood-ex]

I know DC won’t do a good job addressing Dick’s issues post-amnesia arc, sooo I decided to go ahead and write a lil fix-it fic where Dick talks to Clark about how the batfam treated him as Ric. 

Read on AO3

Summary:

“Pretty much everyone has. Missed the old me, I mean,” he says distantly, incapable of keeping the bitterness from bleeding into his tone.

Unfortunately for him, Clark’s emotionally intelligent enough to pick up on it.

“I miss you every day, no matter what name you go by,” Clark says, jostling him slightly.

Dick leans further away from him so he can look Clark in the eyes. Clark’s expression is as genuine as ever, blue eyes roaming over Dick’s face in concern.

Dick’s throat feels tight. “If that’s true… why did you never come see me? Why didn’t you try to help me?”

Dick finds himself sitting on the ledge of a building in Metropolis one Tuesday night in July.

He’s in the midtown district that’s a halfway point between the downtown and suburb area. It’s always been Dick’s favorite part of Metropolis other than Clark’s apartment.

Most of the businesses in this area are family-owned. They’re decorated with fresh coats of white paint, green plants, pretty lights, and handpicked decor that gives each place it’s own unique feel. It’s the type of place where the owners know you by name and bend over backwards to get you what you’re looking for.

It’s that personal connection that Dick loves the most. It gives the whole place a very welcoming and homey vibe that reminds him a lot of the circus. It’s nothing at all like the fake illusion of community that holds Bludhaven together like an overused piece of scotch tape.

The only downside is that it’s a little too humid for his liking, but the warm breeze that keeps ghosting through his hair makes it bearable. Plus, the fairy lights that are strewn between a lot of the restaurants across from where he’s sitting are mesmerizing to look at. They make it easy to forget about things like the weather.

Dick wishes the restaurants were still open at this time of night. The longer he eyes the Mexican restaurant down the street, the more his stomach starts to rumble insistently. He hasn’t eaten anything since lunch and he’s starving. A few tacos and some salsa would really do wonders for his mood.

Dick crosses his arms over his increasingly loud stomach.

“Sh!” he hisses at it in the same way he hisses at his teammates when they’re being too rowdy.

He clenches his fingers in the fabric of his shirt and lets out a shaky breath, chest feeling too tight for comfort.

Teammates. Friends. Right. He had those once.

He doesn’t want to think about that. About his friends. Or what’s left of them, anyways.

He came here to forget about that stuff. To forget about everything that happened to him in Bludhaven. The destruction of Gotham and his family. The loss of...

“Shit.”

Dick forces the image of Alfred’s smiling face out of his mind. He already cried about Alfred this morning. And yesterday. And the day before that. And a lot of days before that.

He’s tired of crying. Tired of feeling like he’s a stupid piece of Swiss cheese that’s got too many holes in it. Too many pieces missing. He’s just…

So tired.

Dick threads his fingers through his hair and pulls it back out of his face. The more he soaks in the tranquil atmosphere of the street, the more he feels like disrupting it by screaming into the night. He won’t do it, though. It may be Troy Bolton’s style, but it sure isn’t his.

“Thought I recognized your voice.”

Dick looks up, not all that surprised to see Clark gliding down towards him in his Superman gear. Clark’s eyes are warm and friendly, just like how they always are whenever it’s just the two of them. Dick’s glad that at least that hasn’t changed.

“Supes,” he says, sporting a genuine smile. “Long time no see.”

Clark returns the smile easily and floats closer until they’re face to face. He holds out his blue-clad arms in invitation.

Dick feels himself hesitate for a split second. He’s never been hurt by those hands. By a lot of other hands, sure. But never Clark’s.

He dives forward and wraps both his arms around Clark’s shoulders, pressing his cheek into the crook of Clark’s warm neck. Clark hums in happiness and returns the embrace, leaning his head against Dick’s.

Clark is bigger than Dick. Always has been. Getting hugs from him feels like being engulfed by an impenetrable teddy bear. It’s… nice. Feels safe.

Dick likes feeling safe.

It takes a long, long time before either of them pulls away. And even when Clark moves to sit on the ledge, he stills keeps his arm around Dick’s shoulders, pulling Dick close into his side.

Dick lets Clark take all of his weight, and he sighs in relief, feeling the tension drain out of his shoulders.

“I don’t mean to get all mushy on you,” Clark says through a laugh that sounds a little too wet. A little too fake. “But I’ve really missed you.”

And just like that, Dick suddenly feels cold inside. Detached. Like he has to shut his emotions off before he explodes.

He’s heard that same sentence uttered by his family ever since he got his memories back. Part of him understands what they mean. They were emotionally attached to Dick Grayson, not the person he became after he got his brains scrambled. Obviously, they would miss who he used to be.

The other part of him, the more fragile part, feels rejected by them. Because for a period of time, Ric was all he ever was. The only thing he ever knew. The only thing he could be. And his family rejected that part of him. They didn’t want him around unless he was the person they knew.

Even Babs, who had been there when he was learning how to walk again, only showed up in Bludhaven to try and get him to remember who he was before the accident. She didn’t want to support him as Ric. She wanted what was best for her, not what was best for him.

Dick still remembers every detail from those days. It’s not easy for him to forget how his family tried to make him step back into his old life rather than help him move forward into a new one.

Even though he’s had his memories back for a few weeks now, he’s still not over it. He’s not sure he’ll be over it for a long time, if ever.

Clark’s arm suddenly tightens around Dick even more. Shit. Dick must have spaced out. He does that a lot more now these days. That, and he gets really intense headaches a few times a week. Side effects from brain damage and all that.

“Pretty much everyone has. Missed the old me, I mean,” he says distantly, incapable of keeping the bitterness from bleeding into his tone.

Unfortunately for him, Clark’s emotionally intelligent enough to pick up on it.

“I miss you every day, no matter what name you go by,” Clark says, jostling him slightly.

Dick leans further away from him so he can look Clark in the eyes. Clark’s expression is as genuine as ever, blue eyes roaming over Dick’s face in concern.

Dick’s throat feels tight. “If that’s true…why did you never come see me? Why didn’t you try to help me?”

Dick knows it’s not fair to ask that to Superman of all people. Clark can’t save everybody. He can’t be everywhere at once taking care of other people’s problems, especially when things have been so crazy lately with his own son and all the hero deaths...

Fuck. He’s got tears burning in the corners of his eyes now. He refuses to let them fall. Refuses to let himself crumble when he’s spent weeks trying to put himself back together.

“I visited you once while you were in the hospital,” Clark admits with a color of remorse. “Bruce didn’t think it was a good idea for anyone to come see you once you woke up.”

Bruce. Typical.

“He told us you were having a hard time adjusting. Said you didn’t want to be around your family and friends.” Clark eyes him closely. “I’m guessing it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?”

Dick’s laugh falls flat. “Isn’t it always when it involves Bruce?”

“Touché.”

Dick pulls part of Clark’s cape into his lap and rubs the fabric between his fingers. He’s been sitting up here for way too long. He can’t help but fidget under Clark’s arm.

“You know what he did the first day I got home from the hospital?” Dick asks, focusing on the cape instead of Clark’s gaze. “I didn’t even have time to change out of my hospital gown before Alf—they shuffled me down to the batcave.”

He remembers how confused he’d been at that time. How awestruck he was at the very idea that he apparently grew up in a mansion with a butler. It didn’t make sense to him back then. Not when he only had a few select memories from the circus days and nothing else.

“Imagine my surprise when a man in a bat costume greeted me by jumping down from the goddamn rafters.”

He feels Clark’s stare burning into the side of his head.

“He did not,” Clark says in a tone that’s part disbelief and part oh my fucking god my best friend is a moron.

“Yup,” Dick says with a pop. “Right after that, I was treated to a video of me getting my brains blown out.”

Clark’s mouth drops open in shock. “What the hell?”

“My thoughts exactly. I booked it out of there and never went back.”

“He can’t just… why would he…?”

“Listen, I’m just happy to know that you’re acting like this isn’t normal. Everyone else was perfectly fine with it, and I thought there was something wrong with me for thinking it was insane to watch one of the most traumatic experiences of my life fresh out of the hospital.”

Clark groans and rubs his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ. There’s nothing wrong with you . Bruce on the other hand…”

“A real piece of work,” Dick nods in agreement. “He wanted me to be the same as I was before a bullet snatched my entire life away from me. Everyone did. That’s why they showed me that video, and that’s why I didn’t want to be around anyone I knew. They were only interested in getting me to remember stuff I had no chance of remembering. Shit sucked.”

And it still does. It really, really sucks.  

Clark takes a second to process all that. “I can’t even imagine… I’m really sorry, Dick. Really, I am.”

Dick finally raises his head to lock eyes with Clark. He almost does a double-take when he realizes how upset Clark looks with his furrowed brows and deep frown.

“I didn’t know all that was going on. If I had, I would’ve checked on you even if Bruce didn’t want me to. Even if you didn’t want anything to do with me at that point, I still should have tried. I could’ve at least pestered Bruce into helping you more. I never was very good at trying to fix things between you two, though.”

Dick smiles sadly. “No, I guess not. That’s not part of your job description anyways.”

Clark squeezes the back of Dick’s neck. “It’s my job as your friend to give him a kick in the ass for you. How about that?”

“I think I could get behind that. Just… go easy on him, alright? He’s been dealing with a lot of shit lately.”

Clark gives him a pointed look. “You’re his kid. Your health and safety should have been his priority. Not getting your memories back. He needs to know that.”

“I know, I know,” Dick grumbles and crosses his arms. “I just think that with everything that’s happened recently, he’s not going to give you an explanation you’ll be satisfied with. There’s a lot of things he’s lost control of, and honestly, catching the third degree from you probably won’t register with him in a good way right now.”

Clark whistles short and low. “Even when he’s the one in the wrong, you’re still looking out for him. You amaze me Dick Grayson. Always have. You mind if I start sending Jon your way? I think he could learn a thing or two from you. ”

Dick feels his cheeks get hot at the praise. When he was younger, he always felt like a million bucks whenever Clark complimented him. Brain damage or no, that still hasn’t changed.

“From me? I’ve got nothing on you.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my favorite hero like that,” Clark says, booping Dick on the nose.

Even though Clark is probably just teasing him, Dick can’t help but soak in the happiness at the very idea of it.

“And don’t worry about Bruce’s problems right now,” Clark says, voice taking on a concerned tone once again. “If he needs help… I’ll do my best to help him. But I’m still going to talk to him about all of this because he needs to hear it.” Clark’s blue eyes are so intense that Dick almost looks away from him. “You just focus on yourself, alright?”

Dick wants to laugh at that because he’s so tired of thinking about himself. He spent practically an entire year having an identity crisis as Ric, and now that he has all of his memories back, he feels lost all over again. It’s like a rollercoaster he can’t get off of.

“Thanks,” he says anyway, because what the hell else is he supposed to say?

Clark claps him on the back, and just like that, the atmosphere suddenly feels lighter.

Dick feels lighter too. Kind of. Maybe it’s just the humidity making him feel a certain way.

“You know,” Clark says as he peels himself off the ledge and starts floating, “Lois cooked up a mean lasagna earlier. We still have half a pan left. Think you’d be interested in finishing it off with me?”

Dick’s stomach growls at the mention of food. He’s had hunger pain for hours now, and he can feel it reaching a peak. Even if Clark had just asked him to eat a seasoned rat, his answer still would’ve been the same.  

“Hell yeah.”

He pulls himself to his feet and jumps forward, knowing that even if he’s uncertain about everything else in his life, the one thing he can rely on is that Clark will catch him.

And he does.

[thewhumperinwhite]

FBI AU: Intravenous

Art Knows Things, And People Need Money.

Previous: Rescue / Interrogation / Awkward / Painkillers / Father / Flashback / Visitation

TW for: hospital, needles; blood; self-harm (kind of); references to suicide and destructive behavior; dislocated joints; drugs, including IV drugs; references to self-medicating; negative self-talk; abuse of power; attempted murder; referenced minor character death.

@whumpitywhumpwhump

----

Simon has been cleared to leave the hospital for roughly twelve hours now, and he has spent eleven of those hours asleep. Then he took a shower, drank three cups of coffee, and came straight the hell back to Art’s hospital room.

He was gone for half a day; in that time Rona has let Karim Mun into Art’s room as an experiment, and Art himself has refused medication for hours and then almost died again, and Simon wants a drink so badly he can’t think straight.

“Explain it to me again,” he says to the RN, fighting very hard to keep his voice level. “How is it fucking possible that he could be hooked up to that many machines and you still not know he’d taken no painkillers in fucking six hours?”

The woman’s eyes dart toward the door, and Simon makes himself step back to give her space; even if the fuckup is hers she’s doing her best at a hard job, he doesn’t want to corner her, he’s not a monster. “S-sir— Agent Blake. Our policy is that pain-management is patient led where possible to... to reduce the risk of over-medicating—”

“Over-medicating?” Simon says, and reels himself back in, makes himself lower his voice back to reasonable inside levels. “Nurse, the kid had his leg torn out of its socket, you didn’t think it was suspicious that he hadn’t taken anything all—”

“Ma’am!” Simon recognizes the nurse calling from the hallway from the reception desk; she’s young and pretty and looks nervous as a cat, very conspicuously not looking at Simon. “There’s a call for you at the front desk,” she says, and the RN sags with relief and scurries with a perfunctory apology to Simon. Simon steps aside to let her go; if it was just a fuckup there’s nothing he can do about it.

The nurse from the reception doesn’t leave. She looks at Simon nervously, and then away, like she wants to say something. When she doesn’t, Simon sighs and moves to brush past where she’s standing in the doorway.

“I think someone paid them off,” she says very quietly when Simon passes her. Simon freezes.

“You what?” he hisses, and she looks up and down the hall, sees no one, and grabs him by the sleeve to tug him back into the empty room. “Who? How do you—”

She looks at the floor, chewing her lip. “I don’t— I don’t know for sure. But I heard one of the doctors on the phone, and— I don’t think they were supposed to hurt him, but I think someone told them to— to leave him alone, not watch him. When the other boy started yelling for help they all came running, I don’t think they meant to— to—”

Simon— can hardly see, he’s so angry. “I’m sure,” he hears himself say. “I’m sure they all thought someone wanted to sneak in to leave the key witness some flowers—”

“I don’t,” the nurse says in a small, miserable voice. “I don’t think it was— that man.”

Simon blinks, trying to clear the red fog in his head enough to see her. “What are you saying,” he says, his mouth running on autopilot.

“I— I knew the voice,” she says very quietly. “I heard the man talking on the phone. I don’t think it was the man on the news, the, the cult leader.” She finally looks up and meets Simon’s eyes. “I think it was Senator Lange.”

Simon stares at her, his ears ringing. Then he says stiffly, “Thank you,” and turns to walk out of the room.

He’s read Michael Lange’s file at least a dozen times now. He has the address memorized.

——

There was a solid year after Michael died when Art was high more than he wasn’t— when he did a lot of things with the few assets available to him, in pursuit of getting high and staying that way, that he will never, ever tell Karim, not because Karim would judge him— Karim has made it inescapably clear by now that he has terrible judgement— but because it would be too fucking humiliating.

Anyway. If you had tried, at that point, to explain to him the difference between being high because you wanted to be, and being high because you couldn’t be trusted to know your own pain threshold, he would half told you that it didn’t matter, and to pass the fucking pills.

The difference is, back then the point was not to think, and now he wants to think so bad it’s killing him, and his brain will not work because they have taken away the little hand-pump he wasn’t using and switched to injecting shit straight into his IV tube.

Which is still in his arm, by the way. He fucking hates needles.

Also he’s almost certain Karim was here, and now he isn’t, and if Karim was here when he— when his body did whatever horrible thing it seems to have done, then Karim will be upset, and at the very least Art would like to know that Karim is not being allowed to lay there stewing in guilt and self-recriminations and oh-this-is-all-my-fault-for-getting-kidnapped-and-brainwashed.

The nurse who comes to dose him this time is new, with a shaved head and a tattoo on the side of his neck that prickles something in the back of Art’s stupid drug-addled brain. Which, whatever, the previous one didn’t listen to him at all but he figures it’s worth a try.

“I don’t need anymore,” he says; he wants it to be a snap but his stupid stitch-and-bandage lips are too clumsy. “They fucking— just gave me one. Hey—” He tries to flail at the man with his non-elevated arm but the wires and tubes are too complicated to reach. “I don’t want it.”

The man looks at him, and Art stares at his eyes, the pupils blown wide and dark circles underneath. “Nobody ever does,” the man says in a blown out croaking voice, and pushes the needle into the receiver on the tube and presses the plunger all the way home.

Art looks at him, and then he raises his arm to his mouth and pulls the IV needle out with his teeth.

The sudden tear sprays a small amount of blood into his mouth and across his cheek; seeing the look of absolute shock on the face of the man who is not a nurse, Art thinks, no one’s gonna fucking believe I wasn’t trying to kill myself this time.

The man blinks, looking kind of disturbed. “Jesus,” he says. Then he pulls up the hem of his scrubs and reveals a small knife poking out of the waistband of his pants. He shakes his head. “That was fucking stupid,” he says, perhaps reasonably.

Blood and IV fluid are going everywhere, and Art can hear several different machines giving distress signals. The man who isn’t a nurse looks helplessly around at it.

“Lost... lost your window, fuckhead,” Art says thickly. "Now you're... wasting your getaway time."

The man looks at him. Presumably they are both hearing swiftly approaching footsteps.

“Fuck you, you fucking freak,” the not-nurse says, and he stabs Art in the stomach.

——

Rona is in the hall, trying to get the cute nurse to describe to her in exactly what tone Blake told her “thank you” before storming off to probably commit a felony, and then suddenly the hall is filled with women screaming. 

Rona turns, and sees a man with a shaved head barreling out of Art Lange’s hospital room, past several panicking nurses, knocking one straight to the ground. She has time to see blood on his hands and scrubs and the big tattoo on the side of his neck, and time to see the small knife in his hand, also bloody.

He’s looking over his shoulder while running. It’s very, very easy to trip him. She doesn’t even need training for that. It is useful for swinging a leg over him and pinning his arms behind his back, though. 

“Hey, does anybody fucking work here?” She snaps. There are several people hovering in doorways up and down the hall; one of them is a 6’5” guy in a labcoat that’s obviously hiding huge biceps. “You,” Rona says, pinning him with a glare. “How much can you deadlift?”

“Uh,” Dr. Muscles says, startled into compliance, “400?”

“That’s enough,” Rona says, she squeezes the tattoo-man's wrist brutally until he drops the knife onto his own back. “Come grab this guy. Hold him exactly like I show you and don’t move until I tell you.”

“What?” Dr. Muscles splutters. “Ma’am, I— I’m not—”

Rona looks up at him, watches him see her eyes and teeth. “Did it sound like I was asking?”

Dr. Muscles is heavier than Rona, so he won’t need any particular skill to hold Tattoos down, just weight; Rona installs him and then runs back and— 

They are moving Art onto a gurney; a pale-faced nurse has her hand pressed over his stomach and there is blood pumping out through her fingers. A big wad of gauze has been taped over his wrist where his IV tube should be. His eyes are squeezed shut but he is obviously very much awake.

Rona jogs next to the gurney. There will be time for— there will be time later. “Kid! Did he say anything useful?” Some of the nurses stare at her; she ignores them.

Art cracks one eye open. “No,” he croaks. Then his face breaks into a wide, shaky grin, and Rona stops; he looks like a little kid. “I think Micah is scared of me,” he says, and then she watches them wheel him down the hall.

Rona thinks Micah isn’t the only one.

[lepus-arcticus]

OMENS: CHAPTER FIVE one | two | three | four trigger warnings apply HORIZON MENNONITE COLONY JULY 23 - 12:06 PM

Abel Stoesz was cabled with stringy muscle, a sparse yellow beard struggling to assert itself under phlegmy, peacock-blue eyes. He had the brutish, loose-jawed look of someone who was willfully stupid, and Mulder, still on edge from the dead fox in the boat, was already itching to break his nose. 

Salome, his wife, was a waif of a woman; tiny, shorter even than Scully, and so agonizingly underweight that you could see the architecture of her skull beneath her face. Perched beside Abel on the stiff loveseat, she rested her bird-bone hands on the gentle, rounded swell of her belly, and a raisin-coloured bruise, smattered with green, framed one eye. Most of her was buttoned up in one of the ubiquitous puff-sleeved frocks of the religiously sequestered, but Mulder would bet that the bruise had a few cousins underneath the powder-blue polyester. They were a few days fresh, he estimated, probably about as old as the news of Anna’s death. 

Mulder longed for the opportunity to set Abel up with a few matching welts of his own, but settled for hating him privately in the interest of avoiding an assault charge and one of Skinner’s arduous ass-chewings. He consoled himself by grinding his molars together. 

Outside, white bungalows and red barns squatted in clusters on the flat expanse of land. A black storm battled the sun for dominance, and the glass panes of the windows, loose in their tracks, rattled against the wind. The other members of the colony, bonneted and behatted, milled politely about their business. 

He and Marion had been invited to stay for lunch by the community elders the moment they arrived. They’d been ferried along to the dining hall, but then Abel had emerged from the throng and snapped them away from the friendly masses, yelling for Salome, who scurried after them and into the dark of their tiny home. 

The air stank of hyssop detergent. No one offered coffee or tea. Marion refused to sit down, and Salome eyed the gun on her hip uneasily. 

Abel spoke first, and spoke plainly. “I didn’t murder my sister.” 

“It’s interesting you say that, Mr. Stoesz,” Mulder countered, struggling to hide the contempt in his voice. “Why do you assume that Anna was murdered?” 

“Why else would you people be here?” Abel glared at Marion, who was standing sentinel near the empty wall, arms crossed. Mulder half expected steam to billow from her nostrils. 

“Your sister’s husband mentioned that you’re not too fond of him,” Mulder said. “Would you say that’s accurate?”

“Hugh Daly is a scourge on this earth, and every day I pray for his retribution,” Abel sneered, spittle frothing in the corners of his mouth.

“Wouldn’t it be more Christlike to pray for mercy on his soul, instead of divine punishment?” Marion asked, her face ruddy with indignation. She stared Abel down with fiery determination, and Abel stared right back, the loose skin around his eyes twitching, not deigning to respond. The wind knocked against the windows like it wanted to pick a fight.

“What has he done to warrant retribution?” Mulder asked, and Abel turned back to him. 

“Anna always had a… disobedient streak. That’s why she left. But that man… he seduced her, corrupted her. Ruined her. Before he came sniffing around, before he made her his whore, Anna could have still come home. She could have returned to her people, to her rightful place.”

“Her rightful place?” Mulder prodded.

“It was my duty to bring her back. To correct her. She was my sister. My responsibility.” 

Mulder leaned back in his seat, hands firmly flattened on his knees so they wouldn’t accidentally crash into Abel’s ugly mug. He let his eyes pass over Salome’s battered, bitter face, and wondered what, exactly, constituted this man’s idea of responsibility. 

“You know, Mr. Stoesz,” he began, slowly, easing into a new strategy. “I… do admire your conviction. It takes a strong hand to correct a wayward woman, and so few men these days have the stomach for it.” 

Abel was visibly heartened, his mouth twisting into an agreeable, self-righteous frown. This is too easy, Mulder thought to himself. Men like Abel thrived on validation. If he could effectively convince him that he was on his side, he was sure Abel would, intentionally or otherwise, let the cat out of the bag. Or, maybe, in this case, the crow. 

Mulder could feel Marion staring at the back of his head, but thankfully, she didn’t say anything. He hoped she could trust that he knew what he was doing.

“I have a sister too,” he half-lied. “I understand. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect her. To bring her home if she was… lost.” His mind conjured a few versions of Samantha at various ages, abducted, cloned, ripped to a bloody pulp in the wheat. His chest contracted in a familiar pain, and he directed the images to the raw hollow in the back of his brain where he kept most of his thoughts about her, promising to return to them later for self-flagellation. 

Abel nodded fervidly, evidently gathering his thoughts. 

“Anna was the devil’s slut⁠—” Salome hissed in a high, thin squall, apparently unable to contain herself any longer. “Witch—”, then Abel violently gripped her arm, and she gasped and shut her mouth, glowering at her belly and skating a claw around it discontentedly. 

“She was still my kin,” Abel growled. 

Mulder, sensing an opening, leapt in for the kill. “Mr. Stoesz, have you ever experienced anything you couldn’t explain? Or suspected that you have the ability to make things… happen? To affect the world around you without necessarily taking direct action?” 

Abel looked at Mulder stupidly, his neanderthal mind stonemilling the words, trying to decide if he was accusing him of something or not. But before he could answer, Salome spoke again. 

“Hugh Daly is facing retribution for his sins. Whatever misfortunes befall him, whether they are acts of God, man, or Satan himself, he is deserving of.” She trembled with conviction, her bony jaw shaking. 

“And Anna, Mrs. Stoesz? What about her?” Marion said tersely, from over at the wall. 

“Perhaps she has also received her judgement,” said Salome, and Abel looked at her quickly, working, Mulder noticed, to keep his expression neutral. 

Mulder’s cell chirped in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he muttered, and removed himself to the porch, carelessly letting the screen door slam shut behind him. He jabbed the worn rubber of the call button and put the phone to his ear, squinting at the gathering storm. “Mulder.” 

“Mulder, it’s me…” Scully sounded breathless, resigned. He didn’t like it one bit. “Hey, you okay? What did the autopsy turn up?” He picked at a shard of peeling paint on the railing, wary of the sadness in her voice. 

“Anna Daly was pregnant.” 

“... Are you sure? How can you tell?”

“I found… remnants. Of the fetus.” 

Mulder flinched. “From what I can gather based on the apparent level of skeletal development, I’d estimate she was eighteen to twenty weeks along.” 

He sucked air through his teeth. “Jesus. You think Daly knew?” 

“I’m going to call him up to the station here and find out.” 

“You okay?” His stomach clenched with the brief flickering memory of her ova in a vial. Not now, he thought. She doesn’t need to know right now. Maybe not ever. 

She hesitated momentarily before answering him. “I’m fine, Mulder.” 

“You sure?” Scully’s voice took on an exasperated edge. “Yes.” 

“Because if you’re not, it’s…” “What do you want me to say? That it was fun?” She said, sharply. “Scully, that’s not⁠—”

“⁠—Listen, I have to get back. We’ll discuss it tonight.”

“...Okay,” he said, doing little to disguise the irritation in his tone. 

Held hostage by some unspoken, unacknowledged superstition, neither of them said goodbye. Mulder hung up the phone, took a stabilizing breath, refocused himself, and walked back inside. He settled back into a stiff-cushioned chair across from the Stoeszs. “I just got a call from my partner,” he said. “Mr. Stoesz, are you aware that Anna was pregnant at the time of her death?”  

Abel looked like Mulder had punched him in the gut, which was almost as good as actually doing it. 

“Are you serious?” Marion whispered behind him, and when he glanced over his shoulder at her, her eyes were saucer-wide. 

And then Abel leapt up in a sudden rage, prompting Salome to flee the loveseat like a frightened, emaciated rabbit. 

“Get out of my house,” he seethed, taking a few lunging steps towards Marion. She stumbled backwards, palming her gun over the holster. 

“Mrs. Stoesz, if you’d like, you’re free to come with us.” Mulder swiftly maneuvered himself so that he was between her and Abel, and reached out an upturned hand, but she gave him such a sharp, hateful look that his balls practically shrivelled, even as his heart went out to her. 

“You heard my husband,” she hissed. “Get out.” 

Just another person he couldn’t save. Add it to the scoreboard, boys. 

He stomped out of the house behind Marion’s flustered stride, the cool wind catching the edge of his trench coat and sending it flapping behind him. A few plaid-clad teenage boys waved excitedly at them from the flat of a wooden cart as they hoofed it back to the truck. 

Marion released a creative string of curses and condemnations concerning Abel’s personal attributes, including the diminutive size of his dick. “You drive,” she finished, tossing Mulder the keys in disgust. “I’m gonna end up killing us if I do. Fuck, that man riles me.” 

“You’ve got experience with him? Mulder asked, as he hoisted himself into the cracked leather driver’s seat of Marion’s cherry Chevy Scottsdale. A felted green air freshener in the shape of a pine tree swung from the rearview mirror. He started the engine, and Harvest swelled to life from the tape deck. 

“Kind of.” Marion said, slumping into the passenger seat. “Met him a few times. Mostly at Rhiannon’s, back when me and Anna lived there. He used to show up a lot. Rhiannon usually wouldn’t let him past the front door, so him ‘n Anna’d be arguing in the driveway… God, was she really pregnant?” 

“Yeah. Sc - uh, Dana found, um. She found evidence to that fact.” 

“Fuck. Goddamnit.” Marion was pale. 

Mulder pulled into the road and eased the needle on the speedometer upwards. The truck gasped and sputtered like it was having an asthma attack. The sky above had turned dark and threatening, but the sun pushed a few tenacious arms through the thunderclouds to illuminate the lonely stretch of highway. It was eerie as hell. 

“So… while we’re at it, can you tell me how you came to live at Rhiannon’s?”

“Why do you need to know?” 

“C’mon. Just help me out a little here.” 

Marion picked at a hangnail, sullen and slouching. “Um... I, um, left the res when I was 16. I wasn’t planning on staying in Horizon or anything, but Theo picked me up and kinda took care of me and set me up at Rhiannon’s. She took Anna in, too, when she ran away from the colony.”

“Did Anna ever say anything about why she ran away?” 

“Oh, gee, I dunno, she was probably tired of getting pummeled to shit by her brother,” she said bitterly, as if he was an idiot. She gripped the console and swallowed. “Fox, slow down a little.” 

“Oh⁠—” he eased off the gas pedal. “The… colony elders didn’t do anything about it? What about their parents?”

“Her parents have been dead for years. Highway accident. And the elders...it was none of their business, not their concern. You saw how Salome looked. They’re fucking heartless up there.” 

Mulder nodded, thinking. “So… do you think that Abel would be capable of all the things that have been happening? Setting the silos on fire? Drowning the horse? …Anna?” 

“No,” Marion said flatly. “I don’t.” She took a deep breath and let it stream out of her nose. 

“I’d love to know your thoughts on this, Marion.” 

“And I’d love to know what the fuck you were going on about in there. Affecting things without trying to. What does that even mean?” 

He eased into it as naturally as he could, cautious of her mood. “Well… in my particular line of work, I’ve seen people who… experience such a strong emotion that it can affect the physical world around them. Daly claims he’s been seeing omens, right? And I saw something strange myself this morning. A dead fox in a boat out at the lake.” She turned to him at that, quickly, with a sharp look in her eye. “That seems pretty on the nose, don’t you think?” he continued. “Perhaps Abel’s anger towards Daly is manifesting in these visions, or somehow these events are a result of⁠—” 

“⁠—Stop the car. Oh, God, stop the car. Stop the car.” Mulder glanced at her, and upon seeing the look on her face, immediately pulled over to the side of the highway, lurching over the rumble strip. Even before they’d rolled to a stop, Marion was heaving herself out of the passenger seat and vomiting noisily into the ditch, clutching her stomach. 

Mulder had to look away to keep from losing the rest of his breakfast. Jesus, first this morning, and now Marion... this was entirely too much upchuck for one day. He hadn’t even been going that fast. 

He hunted around the back seat for the bottle of water he’d spotted earlier. He replayed a few fresh, brutal memories of Scully’s poorly-hidden chemo nausea, her deathly pallor, her heart-wrenching heaves behind closed motel bathroom doors. He burned anew with guilt.

Mulder swung himself out of the truck when the retching stopped, toting the bottle. Marion was kneeling on the side of the road, arms wrapped around herself, weeping. He crouched down and placed a palm on her back, trying not to balk at the caustic smell of her. 

“Marion, have some water, okay?” He held the bottle out to her, and she looked up at him, teeth bared, her earth-dark eyes bottomless with desperation. “We’ll find out what happened to Anna. I promise. We’ll keep you safe. From Abel, from Hugh⁠—” 

“Oh, you stupid, stupid⁠—” she sobbed. “Abel has nothing to do with it. You can’t stop it, Fox. You can’t. You need to leave this place. You need to get out.” 

An investigatory thrill chilled the back of his neck, and a distant flash of lightning silently illuminated a fumey cluster of clouds. “What can’t I stop, Marion? Why do we need to leave?” 

Marion groaned in tandem with a low roll of thunder, her tears splattering onto the asphalt, a prelude of the coming storm.

“You can’t stop what’s happening.” Her throat was thick with fear. “No one can.” 

[useless-slytherclaw]

Chapter 10: Wands

TW: very brief mention of ptsd

Regulus and Iset decided to use the floo network to get to the Leaky Cauldron as neither of them was keen on repeating their experience with apparition from the previous day.  Sirius came with them, and as Regulus predicted, he was not happy with the grey hair.  He’d ranted for a full ten minutes, but Iset refused to change it to anything else.  He couldn’t say anything about it once they stepped into the Leaky Cauldron.  Regulus looked around himself, he had never frequented the Leaky Cauldron, but it seemed almost unchanged since the last time he had been there.  The old man behind the bar appeared to have one or two fewer teeth, but he’d never had a full set as long as Regulus could remember.  His mother had always complained about how unsightly it was.  

Iset walked beside him as they headed towards the brick wall at the back and Diagon Alley.  Sirius stayed a bit behind them, still clearly annoyed.  Regulus tapped the bricks and watched as the stones pulled back.  It was early in the afternoon on a weekday, so the street was far from crowded.  There were a few small groups of people moving around, though.

“We should go to Ollivander’s first,” Sirius said, walking up even with Iset and Regulus.  “That way if we have to leave quickly, we at least have wands.”

“Alright,” Regulus agreed and they adjusted their trajectory towards the wand shop.  

“Mr. Ollivander is a friend of Dumbledore’s,” Sirius said quietly.  “He knows about me, so we can trust him.  Which is good, because I bet he’ll see through our disguises.”

“Indeed, he’s a very perceptive man,” Iset said.  “I imagine it’s very useful for his job.”

Regulus paused when they reached the shop.  It looked how it always had, boxes of wands stacked everywhere up to the ceiling and motes of dust dancing in the lights.  He remembered the last time he had entered this shop when he was eleven.  When Regulus had picked up his wand and a shower of silver sparks fell and danced around him, Ollivander had looked from him to his parents with those large, odd, pale eyes and said “How unexpected.  Unexpected indeed.”  Regulus still didn’t know what the man had meant.  Exhaling a long breath, Regulus opened the door.

The three of them stepped into the silence of the shop.  The bell on the door chimed gently as it swung shut behind them.  They all waited in complete silence for Ollivander to appear, and Regulus wondered if they were remembering when they got their wands as well.  

“How unusual,” they heard the paper-thin voice from the stacks before its owner appeared in front of them.  “Two adults coming to my shop for new wands.”

“Hello, Mr. Ollivander,” Iset said politely.  

“Ah, Miss Senusret.  A walnut wand, quite unusual for one so young.  But I’ve seen that book you wrote; no less than I’d expect from the wielder of a walnut wand.”  Ollivander turned his eyes to Sirius.  “And you.  This is your third wand, is it not?  The other you had only two years.  Dragon heartstring both times, I do recall.  Strong wands.  A great shame that the first one was broken.”  

Sirius winced at the mention of his wand being snapped.  At the thought of his wand being snapped, Regulus reached into his pocket to check his.  The motion must have caught Ollivander’s attention because he turned to face Regulus next.

“Yes, yes, I remember you.  You’ve grown quite a bit since I last saw you.  A cypress wand with phoenix feather core.  Quite an unexpected wand for someone from your family.  My father used to say that he knew a man would die a hero’s death when he held a cypress wand.”  Regulus swallowed hard.  “Yes,” Ollivander said in a voice that was nearly a whisper, “you’ve seen death haven’t you.”  A shiver went down Regulus’ spine, Ollivander was creepy.

“Hardly a hero’s death,” Regulus said stiffly.  He could see Iset shaking her head in disagreement out of the corner of his eye.  “But we’re here for these two.”  He changed the subject, gesturing at Iset and Sirius.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Ollivander pulled out his measuring tape and began taking Sirius’ measurements.  Regulus tried to focus on that process, boring as it was.  His brain wanted to slip away to the cave, the lake, the dead white hands.  He gritted his jaw.  This was not the time for that.  Suddenly, Iset’s hand was in his.

Iset didn’t say anything, though her brown eyes were full of concern.  She just squeezed his hand tightly.  Regulus focused on her face, the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips.  It helped him settle himself back in Ollivander’s shop.  He squeezed her hand back and hoped she could see the gratitude in his face.  A small smile, just the slight turn at the corner of her mouth, made him think that she did.  They both jumped, then ducked as a loud bang sounded from behind them.  Regulus’ heart went into overdrive, and it took most of his self-control to resist drawing his wand.  

“Hey,” Iset said, so quietly he barely heard her.  She ran her hands up and down his arms.  “It’s just your idiot brother.  We’re safe.  You’re safe.”

Regulus winced and rubbed his face with one hand.  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“It’s perfectly understandable,” Iset said.  “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Regulus sighed.  Iset released him and turned back towards Sirius, who was trying another wand.  This one did absolutely nothing.  Ollivander took it back and handed him another one.  This time, when Sirius gave it a wave the tip lit up with golden light.  

“Yes, yes, very good.” Ollivander said, “Spruce wand, 13 and a half inches, dragon heartstring, unyielding.  It’s not too unlike your last wand, which is hardly a surprise, after all.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ollivander,” Sirius said, pulling the seven galleons out of his purse and lying them on the counter.  

“Now,” Ollivander said, large pale eyes turning away from Sirius.  “Miss Iset.  Why don’t you come forward?”

Ollivander held up his magic measuring tape and let it start to take Iset’s measurements as he went rifling through boxes.  Regulus stifled a laugh as Iset went cross-eyed when the measuring tape measured the distance between her eyes and the length of her nose. 

“Enough,” Ollivander waved his hand and the measuring tape fell to the desk.  “Let’s see, I have a few walnut wands here, always a good place to start for someone like you.”  

Iset took the wand offered by Ollivander but almost dropped it as the whole thing turned bright red and apparently hot.  

“Nope, definitely not,” Ollivander said, picking up a new one.  Iset took this one more gingerly.  However, it did nothing even when she gave it a swish.  After she tried a third wand, this one also did nothing.  Ollivander frowned and went back to his stack of wands.  “Something different then, not walnut.  Beech, let’s try that.  Unicorn hair, I think.”

He returned with another pair of boxes.  Opening the first box, he proffered it to Iset.  When she reached for the wand, it almost jumped into her hand.  With a smile, Ollivander motioned for Iset to give it a wave and she did.  The box in Ollivander’s hands rose to float a few inches and Ollivander laughed.

“Splendid! Splendid!”  He clapped his hands as Iset carefully stowed the wand away.  “11 ¾ inches, springy, very good, very good.”

“Thank you very much,” Iset said as Regulus fished the gold out of his pocket and set it on the counter.  Ollivander waved them away as the three headed towards the door.  Regulus glanced over his shoulder as they stepped out onto the street, but Ollivander had already vanished into the back of his store.

“He’s an unusual old man,” Regulus said as they walked down the cobblestone street.

“For certain,” Iset agreed.  “Where to next?”   

“We should do books last because they are the heaviest,” Regulus said.

“Let’s go to Knockturn Alley then.”

“I’ll just go to the Leaky Cauldron or Florean’s,” Sirius said, “I’ve no desire to see Knockturn Alley again.  Have fun kids,” he waved at them and turned away.

“Kids,” Regulus muttered as he turned back towards Knockturn Alley.

“He’s still upset that he has grey hair,” Iset said. “It probably makes him feel old.”

“Probably,” Regulus said, then he smiled.  “I hope you know that I have no idea what you’re shopping for.  I’m just here to pay and help you carry things.”

Iset waved her hand dismissively. “Nonsense, I keep you around for the company.” 

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[fuck-customers]

Yay, me again with a bucket of stories that I'm just gonna dump off instead of doing individual asks cause I know how everyone just loves that. TW: swearing, threatening, blood, and literal shit.

Lady comes in, has no problems for most of her time in the store and then all of a sudden we hear this big crash near the nail polish. She had squatted down to look at a lower rack and when she got up she used the upper shelf to pull herself and in the process pulled the whole shelf down. She's standing, she seems fine, we tell her to please stay there for her safety as there is now glass everywhere and it's hard to tell what is broken or not. Coworker locks the door, I get a broom to sweep her out of there, and when we come back she's standing at the counter now real impatient. We ask her if she was injured and she replies with "No, but who is gonna replace my shoes?" Coworker and I both look down and yeah, they are a rainbow shit storm. We tell her as it was an accident (though really she should not have pulled on the shelf like that cause that is just fucking stupid anyway) and that we well and truly were more concerned with her well being after being in a glass avalanche. She does not like that answer and flips, yelling at us and making rapid hand gestures as she makes her way out of the store. Filled out the incident report and marked it as "refused medical attention". Our cameras have sound, jokes on her if she tries to come after us for refusing medical attention. In total we offered it six times. As a side note; I am so sick of both the smell of nail polish and acetone I'll probably never paint my nails again.

Woman calls the store asking to speak to a manager, I am the senior employee as there isn't a manager because she quit a month ago and we've had a revolving cast so I offer to take the call. I introduce myself and ask if she can describe her problem to me. From what she describes it seems like a product defect so I tell her if she brings in the item we can better see what is wrong with it and if it is a defect we can exchange or refund her. Very important to the story. Anyway she comes in thirty mins later with a wig, I take it out of the box and I do a standard inspection. No ripped or loose wefts, no tears in the top scalp cap, all the clips and loops are right. I look at her and ask what exactly is wrong and she rips this thing out of my hands and points at the loops in the wig. Wigs come with two loop types, top and sewn. Sewn are typically for small to medium heads while top loop fits everyone pretty comfortably. She tells me it's broken and so I explain that same word for word explanation to her and her response? "Oh well I have a smaller head what do I do?" Adjust the fucking clips? Get a pack of bobby pins? Something completely rational before flying off the handle at me to tell about how I am a horrible person and deserve to be arrested for fraud. I mean, I have to lie about a lot of shit or dumb it the fuck down, sure. But I know wigs really well, get out of my store with your "Gimme the owners contact info" attitude. You can complain about the gas prices too, I commute between two locations each 20-45 mins away from my house and I just wanna know when it's my turn to complain.

D is a regular customer who has gotten used to bossing around the new girls at my home store. The other day she cornered one of them and demanded a manager for her problems, I get called cause I just am fed up with her shit at this point. Just because you are going through a nasty divorce gives you no right to mistreat anyone. She proceeds to run her mouth for about ten minutes, listing off the shit that the girls are doing wrong and how she feels so unsatisfied with her experience at ou store since we hired them. Number one, shut the fuck up they are new and learning. Number two, that's literally why you are getting a divorce cause nothing satisfies you apparently. I walk her around the whole three aisles pretending to be interested in her rant before Looney Toons-ing her into standing in front of the door. She looks at me and in the nicest customer service ass kissing voice told her to have a nice day. She left confused and not exactly sure what just happened.

I, the genius I am, cut my hand open at work. Not bad enough for stitches but bad enough I needed a bunch of bandaids. We had none. I wrap my hand in paper towels and packing tape before going to the grocery store next door to buy some and patch myself up like a human being and not a heathen. I go, come back, and as soon and I get all my stuff set down and wallet away this woman stops me and asks for help as I am clearly on a mission. I tell her one of the other girls will be with her and she literally stomps her foot and blocks my path demanding I help her. Through this entire encounter I am still bleeding, less but enough for concern, and I just open my hand and go "I need to disinfect this, some one will be with you when they can". The paper towel is red the packing tape is peeling, it looks worse then it is but I also cut my hand clean on one of the metal shelves so it sucked ass regardless. Miss stampy foot "is a nurse" and gets mad at me for choosing my own health over her hair like what even lady, get over yourself. This entire encounter I am polite as I possible can be with a bloody hand, a box of band aids, and a tube of neosporin. One of my coworkers thankfully separates us cause I was reaching a point where I was gonna lose my shit. Happy end though, one of the older women saw my hand and has been an RN for something like thirty something years, really nice lady, she patched me up after we gave her a pair of gloves. She gets a discount now for being just awsome.

I tend to work by myself some days as I can and am very intimidating as a person so people tend to not fuck with me. However on occasion I'll get people who wanna pick a fight with me just to see if I will yield to them. Never will and never have but I enjoy listening to them. Woman threatened to have me killed and I just sorta shrugged, like shit man if you do it you get a gold star. Another had her boyfriend come in the store and try to intimidate me into taking back used hair dye. Sorry, but your five-foot five boo-berry-fuck-munch couldn't scare me into giving him directions to the nearest pizza joint let alone give you back your money for something you decided you knew more about then me. Woman and her husband came in for just a fight. Straight up wanted to fight with someone and didn't care who. When I wouldn't give it to them they tried for other customers so I just quietly called the police and they were arrested for being drunk in public.

I love my coworkers, but a lot of them are afraid to clean the bathroom. I get it, this is cosmetology and cleanliness is super important but we are also a salon and have to meet the expectations of clients. I spent a fucking hour cleaning the bathroom the other day cause no one else would. We have a hand drier and the wall beneath it was yellowed, the trashcan had mold on it, toilet had stains in it from someone's after morning coffee break. It was fucking gross. By the time inwas done you couldn't go on there and breathe I used so much bleach cause fuck that. I will sacrifice my hands for a clean fucking bathroom.