#i’m not even done with this yet i hope it doesn’t somehow dissolve into awfulness

[jaybirdwest]

why did i not know the dcau had its own comic version of an Under the Red Hood arc???

they made him such a cute kid with homicidal tendencies. the little tuft of brown hair is so cute

batman being a reasonable batdad?? (gonna ignore his own homicidal thoughts a few pages later)

[danses-with-dogmeat]

Romanced companions (fo4) react to a distressed female soul telling them she found out she's turning into a ghoul (she's known it for a while but she's been too afraid to tell them, worrying about how they'd react)

Romanced! FO4 Companions React to F!Sole Turning into a Ghoul

Thank you so much for the ask anon! (and for your patience, I know you sent this one in forever ago 😅)

I always kind of wondered how the companions would react to this if it was a function of the game 🤔 So I'm glad I got to explore it a bit! I hope you enjoy!

Cait:

No. Not her. Not her Sole. Cait thought, unable to grasp the news Sole had just revealed to her. Her partner was too strong, she was too careful. She was from before the bombs, before the radiation! How could this have happened?

In her mind, it would have made a lot more sense for Cait to turn into a ghoul long before Sole. Her arse actually deserved the pain of watching her physical self peel away day by day, but not Sole. Her companion, her partner, the one damn person she actually loved... No, Sole was too good for this. But the two of them, they could beat it, they could reverse it somehow. One of those vaults could hold the answer, like it did for her, even after she had thought it was too late.

Cait didn't want to stop the change because she had anything against ghouls, really, because she doesn't. But she couldn't stand the sight of her luv's face when, at the light brush of her fingers through her once silky locks, she felt them fall to the ground in webbed clumps, Cait couldn't stand the pain in Sole's expression as her skin began to shrivel and peel off, she couldn’t witness one more instance of Sole glancing in a mirror with such immense sadness in her eyes. And Cait became very troubled when she realized that Sole would be here long after she was dead. Cait couldn't stand to face reality without her partner after all that she's done for her, and now Sole was staring that reality in the face. The poor lass had already outlived everyone she's known and loved once, and now she had to do it all over again, who knows how many times? It just wasn't fuckin' fair.

Well, once Cait had accepted Sole's change as permanent, she would do everything in her power to ensure the pair made the most of their years together, giving absolutely no fucks about Sole's new appearance. And should anyone else decide to look at her the wrong way, or, God forbid, say something to her about it, Cait's fist would be unholstered and swinging before the offensive words could even leave their worthless lips.

Curie:

She would feel sorry for Sole, and constantly be there for her as a source of support. When her love had told her what was happening, Curie had been shocked. Sure, she had noticed a few changes in her partner’s body, but she had hoped it wouldn’t be anything too serious. Still, this wasn't the worst that could happen, Curie would know, after all of the diseases and viruses she had worked with in the vault. Yet... the synth still found her chest throbbing at the thought of watching her love deteriorate before her eyes.

Throughout Sole’s change, Curie would do what she could to lessen the symptoms. There was no “cure” for being a ghoul, but Curie would feel awful if she didn’t at least try.

As Sole’s condition became more and more obvious, she would do everything in her power to make sure her partner knew that she still loved her. Curie had been a reprogrammed Miss Nanny when Sole had found her, she'd been nothing more than a metal machine when Sole had selflessly saved her, and yet, she had found a way to love her for who she was, despite what she was, and she had been there every step of the way as she made the change to her synth body. Curie would be happy to return the favor tenfold.

Also, throughout the process of Sole's change, if anyone was rude to her love, about anything, Curie would be at them with harsh words and a firm teacher’s voice as she gave the ill-mannered stranger a quick ghouls-101 education session.

Danse (Post BB):

Oh… Oh God. Not this. Not her, not his beautiful Sole. The ex-paladin’s stomach would drop as she quietly forced out her confession, refusing to meet his wide, despairing gaze.

He didn’t know what to do. Danse was horrified. Not for the first time in his life, he felt like his world was crashing down all around him. Everything good in his life seemed to revolve around the person in front of him, but all of his love, his devotion, all of the effort he put into protecting this one person he had left, that he valued above all else in his life, it was all in vain. Because now… she was turning into something that he had always feared. Something that he had been taught and trained to despise, to think of as vermin that needed to be extinguished. It was the way he felt about himself when he found out what he truly was. He never wanted to feel that way towards her, never thought he would have been able to, and even now… he found that he couldn’t.

It didn’t matter what she was turning into, what she’d become, she was still Sole. And he was committed to her, he was loyal to her. Godammit, he loved her for Christ's sake. He wasn’t about to let this calamitous development change any of that. She certainly hadn’t when it had been him in her place.

Danse would still often have trouble with his internalized prejudices left over from his time with the Brotherhood, but he would try his heart out for her. Every passing day brought more changes to the woman he loved, each one serving as a reminder to what the end result would be, and witnessing it would break his heart into pieces.

It was strange though, it wasn’t as devastating as he had thought it would be, in the beginning. Sole was still herself, even underneath all of the physical changes, she was still here beside him, and in the end, that’s all Danse really needed.

Deacon:

For once, Deacon remained silent. His brows furrowed low beneath his sunglasses and his hand came up to rub at his mouth, as though he were trying to physically pull out a response. He cleared his throat, and his hand went up to remove his glasses so he could look Sole in the eye. A rare sight, one that made her pulse quicken further as the apprehension of her confession really set in.

Deacon had already known, or… suspected, rather, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. It wouldn’t be the first time the Railroad agent's experienced this kind of dread. When he had found out his wife was a synth, he had felt this same crippling pressure in his chest. But he didn’t say that, Sole didn’t need to hear about his problems, no, not again. Now she needed him to help with hers.

So, the spy would nod at her, and ask her what she needed from him. He's a knowledgeable guy, everyone knows that, Sole most of all, so if she needed anything as far as information on what she was about to go through, he would be able to provide it. Better yet, he could bring her to quite a few folks he knew who had gone through the same sorta hell themselves.

Beyond that, not much else would change. Deacon isn't one to put much stock in a person's physicality, what kinda daft and inconsiderate hypocrite would he be if he did? Hell, he may even speak to a surgeon about altering his appearance to become more ghoul-like if that was something Sole cared about. But honestly? He just would want his partner to know that it didn't matter to him.

"Thought you could get rid of lil old me just by going ghoul? Heh, sorry, cuddle muffin, but it looks like you're still stuck with me."

Sole had been able to forgive him for everything he's done, she hadn't judged or ridiculed him for being a bigoted assface for the first half of his life, and she'd accepted him for the compulsive liar and emotion-dodging, sarcastic smart-ass that he was now; sooooooo, yeah. This whole ghoul thing? Not a problem. Just another glorious and compelling chapter in this wacky book called life.

Hancock:

Hancock becomes the literal epitome of empathy. He knows what this shit's like, he's gone through the motions. He remembers the nightmarish sight of his flesh falling from his body in shriveled tatters, he recalls his once silken voice dissolving to his current raspy timbre, he knows what it's like to see the bright vibrance of his irises vanish over the course of a couple weeks, slowly dissolving to the blackness that he now saw the world through.

But with Hancock, it had been his choice. Okay, so he didn't know for certain that he'd become a ghoul, but he had been ready for it, had known it was at least a possibility. With Sole though, she didn't sign up for this shit. She didn't deserve to go through the same kinda hell he did. He wanted to go through hell, felt like he deserved it. But his gorgeous sunshine? The light of his life, the kindest, most selfless person he'd ever met? Nah. She didn't deserve to watch herself develop the likeness of a certain sorta dehydrated fruit.

Hancock would be sure to tell her every day just how incredible she was, how brave, and strong, and how she was still beautiful beyond belief, no matter what. He would show her how he felt. Showering her in gifts and affection, taking her out to prove to her that he could never even think to be embarrassed by her in any capacity whatsoever. He loved this woman, he cherished her. Every irradiated bit of her.

And now… now the best part. Hancock would try not to seem too overexcited, knowing that this whole process was traumatic and painful for his love, but now he could spend the rest of their lives making her see just how much one person-- one ghoul-- could love another. He'd been terrified out of his mind when he thought he would outlive Sole, by who knows how long. But now… now they had an eternity to spend together, or, however long it is ghouls live for. Whatever, no matter how much time they had, Hancock would never be convinced it would be enough. He just supposes the rest of their long lives will simply have to do.

MacCready:

He'd try not to give away his heartbreak as he gazed back at her, his face draining of all it's color as those fateful words escaped her with a sob. This was a nightmare of MacCready's. He hadn't ever told Sole what he saw that night he had woken up screaming, he had told her he couldn't remember the dream, and she had said "maybe that was for the best." If only he'd been telling the truth. In reality, what he saw was the immensely frightening sight of Sole taking his late wife's place in that horrific memory that was forever burned into his brain. Her body engulfed by a throng of writhing ferals as she shrieked out his name. As with all of his dreams like this, MacCready was rooted to the place he stood, forever imprisoned as a bystander to the brutality taking place before him. The agony only ceased when the pack of feral ghouls dispersed, revealing Sole, now as one of them. She had raced towards him, hunger and madness glinting in the opaque depths of her dark, iris-less eyes. The mercenary couldn't get the image out of his head as he watched the color in Sole's eyes fade away over time, her skin losing its divine smoothness, her soft hair drifting to the ground in wisps of somber defeat.

The couple had cried a lot in those weeks of her change. The process was heart wrenching for the both of them to witness; but MacCready stuck by her side. He could be stronger than his nightmares, than his fears, when it came to Sole.

When the day finally did come when she was referred to as a ghoul by a perfect stranger, MacCready had almost been surprised. It had taken time for her to look this way, to sound this way, and he had hardly noticed the extent to which his partner changed until looking at old renderings and pictures of her from before the bombs. This was just who she was now.

She wasn't a monster, a ravenous zombie that he feared and despised. She was Sole. She still acted like his love, her voice still resembled that of his partner's, her eyes had lightened to a blue that outshone his own, which he was clearly not bitter about, and she still was just utterly his Sole. The same woman he had fallen for in the first place, the one he thought he'd never be lucky enough to be loved by in return. But now, even behind all the changes, he could still see her there, and he could certainly still love her.

The nightmares became much less common after her transformation, oddly enough. And when he finally introduced Sole to Duncan, he was terribly worried that the boy would hate her, that he would remember that traumatic night when the pair had lost a mother and a wife, and that he would be afraid of her. But his son hardly seemed to notice Sole's condition, as he shook her hand and introduced himself with enthusiastic giddiness. Later, Duncan might voice some questions to her about being a ghoul, but they were always out of genuine curiosity.

MacCready couldn't have been more proud of his child than he was then, or more touched than when Duncan expressed his relief at Sole having a skin condition like this, and yet, she was still able to be loved by someone as great as his dad. The boy himself remembered the way people would look at him before he had been cured of his blue boils, and he didn't wish that on anybody, he'd assured both Sole and MacCready of that one day.

No, MacCready couldn't have been more proud. Of his son, sometimes even of himself as he learned to outgrow his fears, how to muscle through his trauma and be the best father and partner he could possibly be; and certainly, he couldn't have been prouder of Sole.

Nick:

Nick would be remarkably sympathetic, taking Sole's hand in his good one comfortingly as she struggled to get out the confession, and having not even a glimpse of a negative reaction in response to her heart-wrenching words.

“Oh, doll… I’m so sorry.” His fingers would stroke over her hand in an effort to comfort her. He had been surprised by the news, but it wouldn’t change anything. He’d assure her of that. No matter what physical changes Sole underwent; the memories of a certain synth, all metal, and fiberglass, and plastic, and the damn near perfect woman who somehow fell for him would fill his mind, and he wouldn’t be able to keep from telling her just how much she meant to him every single day.

Life would go on, they would go out on cases together, and help the people of the commonwealth as they have nearly since the day they met, but if anyone decided to utter a comment as to Sole’s physical state, they would certainly be faced with a stern talking to from one sassy synth.

He tried to not mention it too early on, but Nick wouldn't be unable to keep the thought buried forever. One day, when Sole was feeling especially despondent about her current state, he’d remind her that he’d always be there for her. Always. Now he didn’t have to worry so much about that dreadful and inevitable fast-approaching day that he would have to bid Sole goodbye as she passed away from her old age, leaving him alone on this ruined earth. He’d just have to hope that she would be as comforted by the thought as he was.

Piper:

The news would be hard to grasp at first, and even after she understood what Sole was telling her, she wouldn't know what to do. How can you fix something like this? This was her Blue they were talking about! She could do anything, she'd survived the bombs, had found the Institute, she had found her son after so many years, had done all of that, just to now have to go through this too? Hasn't Sole been through enough?!

Piper would be angry, and she'd feel horrible watching Sole go through the changes, as she was forced to witness her love's physical form deteriorate before her in just a couple short months. Piper would try to tell Sole to keep her chin up, remind her who she was, of everything she's been through, how much she's overcome; and if anyone wanted to bug her partner about being a ghoul, Piper would tear them to shreds with her words, not caring if she made a scene as she made the stranger realize what horrible mistake they had made speaking to Sole like that. She'd rip ‘em a new one for sure, and spend a good portion of the day making sure her love was alright after the ordeal. The reporter knew how much words could hurt.

She would be utterly supportive, and even, if Sole was comfortable with it, might see if she’s interested in being a sort of poster child for a campaign to allow ghouls back into Diamond City (and God help anyone who tries to keep Sole out of the city before Piper has a chance to change the law officially.)

Preston:

Preston tried to swallow through the lump in his throat, but to no avail. The Minuteman didn’t cry often, or, he hadn’t since meeting Sole. But this… He couldn’t stop the tears from spilling as he drew her into his embrace. His voice surely would have failed him if he had tried to comfort her with his words, so his arms wrapped tightly around her, her head pressed firmly to his chest. That would have to do for the time being.

“Sole, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” He managed to whisper to her as his hand came up to stroke gently at her soft hair, trying desperately not to imagine the way it would fall from her head soon enough. He took a deep breath.

“But… I want you to know something. Something really important.” Preston pulled away so he could look into her eyes, hands coming to rest on either of her tear-stained cheeks “This won’t change anything between us. No matter what, you’re still my General, and… and I love you so much. What’s happening to you won’t ever change the way I feel about you.” They’d both be sniveling messes through the night.

But each morning that passed in the coming days, each change Sole underwent, they would take as it came. Preston is a bit of a workaholic, he knows this, and so does Sole, but he’d take a day off if ever her symptoms became unbearable enough. The Minutemen were stronger now than they had been in years, because of her, and so he would try not to feel so guilty about stepping away from his duties to help her.

But he would keep his promise, and, through everything, Sole would remain the General of the Minutemen, with everyone still paying her the respect that the title was due. She would remain the love of his life, he would tell her every day the way that he admired her, tell her how gorgeous he found her, no matter how much her physicality changed, he would remind her of her boundless strength. He just hoped it’d be enough to make her happy, to save her back, in the way she had saved him.

X6-88:

When Sole hesitantly told him about what was happening to her, it had only been after he asked. It was clear to the synth that something was wrong with his partner, but waiting for her to explain on her own had him only becoming more impatient. When she did tell him, he was furious. Certainly not at her, and not necessarily at the Institute’s inability to prevent it from happening, but at the Commonwealth, at the world for doing this to the one he loved. X6 couldn't stand the thought of it, the pain she had to go through. A part of him blamed himself for it. He was meant to protect her, from anything that could possibly harm her, and he had failed. Her changing appearance would be a testament to that failure every day of his life.

In an effort to make it up to her, X6 offered everything he possibly could to his partner, walking her though each and every symptom that came with her change, and ensuring she was utilizing every resource the Institute had at its disposal. Treatments, and skin creams, and supplements, and enough radaway to douse the glowing sea were used in an effort to slow the process of ghoulification, or perhaps even to halt it.

When it inevitably didn’t work, X6 would feel useless, like he had failed in his mission to keep his beloved safe all over again. However, something strange happened to the courser when the one he loves began to physically fall apart in response to the radiation. He didn’t want to leave her. He could stand to look at her, to still love her in the way that he never thought he would be able to, even when she was human. Despite what she had become, she was still his Sole.

After he came to this realization, X6 would take it as a personal mission for himself to ensure that anyone who made Sole feel bad for the way she looked or the way she now spoke would pay dearly for the carelessness of their commentary. X6 would work endlessly to guard his love from insults and dangers alike, from outsiders as well as those within the Institute. That was what he could do for her, what he had to do, if he ever wanted to make it up to Sole. The way he had carelessly let this happen to her... He would never forgive himself, and wonder every day how Sole could, but he will make it up to her. Mark his words.

[forever-rogue]

I'm the anon who asked about the Javier requests. I understand that it may not be written. Female reader is partners with Javi and Steve, and dating Javi. Since she didn't disobey Messina's orders as much, Messina lets her go with Carillo to arrest Escobar (when Carillo is killed). When shit hits the fan over the radio Javi is losing his mind about her safety. He thinks shes dead like Carillo is but somehow she survived and they reunite. Thank you for considering this!

Pairing | Javier x Fem!Reader

Word Count | 1.3k

Warnings | language, mentions of death and violence

Masterlist | Javier

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Nothing was on your mind but getting back to him. You were hysterical, and felt half mad as you stumbled through the streets. You’d left and hidden yourself away, trying to stay out of trouble and out of sight so you wouldn’t be Pablo Escobar’s next victim. Not after Carillo. As you thought about his death again, bile rose up in your throat and you ducked in an alleyway to heave up the contents of your already empty stomach. Nothing came up besides some clear fluid as you tried to slow your racing mind.

As you leaned against the cool brick, you wiped the sweat from your brow as your chest rose and up and down rapidly. Everything was all wrong and now a man was dead, and you were probably presumed dead. It was going so well and then it was just...over. A few tears rolled down your eyes as you thought of your escape; you felt so cowardly in just leaving and running away it was all you could do in the moment amongst the chaos and shock.

Ever since then you’d been wandering the streets, attempting to make your way back to Javier. It was the middle of the night, dark and dismal, but the street lights served as a beacon home. Your clothes were dirty and covered in blood and sweat and grime. You felt so worn down and disgusting. All you wanted was a hot shower to strip away the memories from the day that kept flashing through your mind. You felt like you could sleep for years and years, but it was all you wanted. That and -

Javier.

You had to get back to him. He was the only thing that mattered right now. You hoped he wasn’t too worried or scared, or worse yet - that he’d given up on you. But you knew he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t just give up on you that easily.

“Javi,” his name spilled from your lips as you straightened back up and wiped away the tears that had rolled down your cheeks. There was a stitch in your side but you knew you had to keep going. You had to get back home to him. Spilling back out into the street, you slowly walked down the street. All you had on your mind was Javi, Javi, Javi.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Javier took a long drag of his cigarette as he paced back and forth in his small apartment. He was trying not to let his mind go too far, to get too crazy, just yet as he tried to come up with a plan to find you. All he knew is that so far you were considered missing, and although most people's minds immediately wandered to death, he wasn't quick to jump on that bandwagon. He couldn't let himself.

He also knew, he could just feel that you were alive, that you were still with him. He stopped in front of the window and looked out at the night sky in search of...something. Peace? Solace? Answers?

"Fuck," he sighed to himself under his breath as he stubbed his cigarette out and went to look for a bottle of beer.

It was then that he heard the faint knocking coming from his door. He was immediately on high alert as he slowly walked over, attempting to discern who it was from the peephole. He couldn't see anything and decided to slowly open the door. Much to his surprise, he found on the floor, slumped against the wall next to his door. When you heard the aging door creak open, you’d turned to look at him with a small little smile; at least you knew he was alive and safe.

“Javi,” your voice was small, barely above a whimper as his face dissolved into a mask of panic. He bent down and picked you up, tenderly scooping you up in his arms. He was saying something, but you were so tired and out of that you didn’t even notice. Instead you rested your head on his shoulder as he carried you inside.

“Oh Dulzura - fuck,” his immediate response was to drag you into the bathroom and get you cleaned up. You were a right mess and his heart was hammering in his chest. But at least you were okay, physically anyway. He immediately turned on the taps in the bath, letting it fill with warm water and the bubbles and oils you liked so much. You were silent as you watched him, your gaze staring off into space.

A heavy sigh left his lips as he turned back to you, tenderly swiping away some of the dirt and grime from your cheeks. You remained silent but he could feel you leaning into his touch as he moved to undress you. It was a slow, intimate thing that he’d done numerous times before, but today it was all different. Deft fingers undid each button, one by one before he peeled the shirt off of you. Your bra followed suit before he gently pulled you to stand up and strip off your ripped pants. Your eyes met his soft brown ones and he could spy a few tears glistening in yours.

Once he was done, he took your hand and slowly helped you into the tub, watching closely for any signs of discomfort as you let the warm water envelope you. A small groan escaped your lips as you felt the first bits of comfort in what seemed like hours. Javi sat on the floor next to you, leaning on the edge of the tub, waiting for you to say or do something.

After a bit of silence, you shifted and reached up, tenderly putting your hand on his cheek. Your eyes prickled with unshed tears as your lips trembled. He wished he could do something, anything, to help you. But he knew, right now at least, there was nothing he could do.

“Oh Javi,” you said after a few moments, trying your best to keep from completely balling your eyes out, “i-it was awful. I just....I’ve never been so scared. Poor Horacio...I…”

You couldn’t even get more of the words out. Your throat closed up and you just stared at him softly. Everything felt so wrong and horrible, but at least there was one thing in your life that wasn’t - Javier.

“Shhh,” he took your hand in his gently pressed a kiss to your palm, “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, Dulzura, but it will be okay. I love you, yeah?”

“I love you too,” you managed to croak out as you just looked at him with sad eyes. He slowly stood up and started to undress himself, letting his clothes join yours before he stepped into the tub on the opposite side of you.

“C’mere,” he whispered, motioning for you to come to him. You did so, lying down so your back was against his chest. His arms wrapped around you as he pressed soft, delicate kisses to the bare skin of your shoulder, “I’ve got you, okay? I’m not going anywhere - I’ll always be here with you. You don’t have to talk about it right now. Let me just take care of you.”

“Okay,” you agreed softly as he tightened his grip around you, “I love you so much.”

He kissed the side of your head, silently signaling his agreement before softly humming in your ear and helping you to relax. Maybe it wasn’t much, but right now it was everything you needed.

[yoonsshadow]

Strike! - OT7

❥ prompt ; ‘could you please do an ot7 where they all go bowling or to the arcade together? (I also love your eternals series so much!!)’ sent in by @deathbybigsisrory​ 

❥ pairing ; ot7 x fem!reader

❥ genres ; non-idol!au, rom-com, friends-to-[future]-lovers, [they’re not together yet but everyone is very much in love]

❥ themes ; fluff!!

❥ warnings ; none

❥ word count ; 1.7k

❥ note ; Thank you so much for the submission!!! (And also thank you for your sweet words darling xx) I may have strayed a little from the prompt, but I hope you still like it. I haven’t been bowling since I was like 11, so I’m sorry if some details are incorrect. I have never been to an arcade, so I thought this was the safer option. [this isn’t edited]

Somewhere, in the back of your subconscious, is a loud knocking.

It’s a rapid noise, insistent and forceful, but the dream you’re submerged in is far too pleasant to pay it any heed. It will go away eventually.

Except it doesn’t.

As you’re lying in the paradise of a warm coastal beach, mermaids off the coast and dragons in the distant sky, muffled yells are lost in the ambience of crashing waves and mer-song. You are so incredibly comfortable on this beach chair. You think, perhaps, that you’d happily stay here for an eternity.

Eternity does not last very long.

Your idyllic fantasy dissolves the instant hands shake your hunched shoulders, voices now louder in your ear as you are rocked from your sleep. It aches to move, to be moved, but soon you are sitting upright rather than folded over your desk, cheek pressed into papers.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Namjoon’s deep timbre vibrates through you; shocks you into clarity faster than your mind is ready.

“Hmrrfh?” Is your unintelligible response. He seems to understand.

Seokjin is crouched beside you, one hand on the back of your office chair, the other on your knee. “I thought you said that you were finished with your work.” You rub your eyes and yawn as he speaks, quickly taking notice of the other figures in the room. “You were supposed to have a break, remember?”

You hum. “I don’t get paid to take breaks, I get paid to have my work done by the deadline. Which is soon, might I add, so I’ll have to rain-check today. Sorry.”

“Nope.” It’s Yoongi who speaks this time. In the next moment, your office chair is rolled away from the desk and into the group of men who have somehow entered your home. Which reminds you-

“How did you even get in?”

“We found the spare key,” Taehyung says, as if the fact should be obvious.

“Yeah,” Jimin adds, “when you didn’t respond to our knocks and calls we thought you might be dead or something. Ggukie damn near kicked the door down when Namjoon-hyung lifted up the doormat.”

“Terrible hiding spot, Y/N,” Namjoon says. You can tell that he’s trying to sound disappointed, but he looks just a little too endeared.

Moving in front of you, Hoseok flashes you a warm smile. His eyes become crescents, his lips a heart, and your fingers twitch with the want to reach forward and caress his cheek. You don’t.

“There’s no way you’re getting out of today,” he says without a hint of malice. “You need a day to relax, and we haven’t seen our girl in far too long. So, will you be coming willingly, or by force?”

“But-” Your protests are cut off.

“By force it is. Gguk.”

Your vision is suddenly filled by a broad chest as thick arms sweep you from your seat. Gravity has no effect on the young man who now holds you bridal style, nor on the Bambi smile that naturally grows on his face.

“We’re going to have so much fun today,” Jeongguk says, muscles flexing around you as they all begin walking towards your bedroom. You have no doubt that Hoseok and Taehyung already have an outfit planned for you, and you even hear the bath beginning to run.

Your boys never fail to look after you. God, you care for them so much.

[You won’t admit to yourself that you may feel something deeper. Not yet. But one day, perhaps soon, you’ll realise that you don’t have to be afraid of that feeling.]

Retro music swirls around you as your group makes their way towards your assigned lane. Bowling shoes in hand and a competitive spirit growing, a weight seems to melt off of your shoulders.

All thoughts of work, of responsibilities, have simply disappeared.

“How are we going to decide teams?” Namjoon looks around the group, as if calculating a mathematic equation. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

Yoongi scoffs. “We’ll be here forever if we do that. Let’s just do Hyungs versus Youngs.”

While Jeongguk, Taehyung and Jimin are cheering at the quick resolution, you lift a brow at the unbothered man. “But what do I call your team then, Yoongi oppa?”

For a moment, he says nothing, merely ducking his head to hide the rosy tint that dusts across his cheeks. Hoseok is the one who steps in to answer, clapping a harsh hand on Yoongi’s back as if to wake him from a trance.

“We can come up with team names!”

Jimin jumps up and down, wide beam blinding you all. “We are team Young and Beautiful!”

“No, we should be Bold and Beautiful! Like that American hand-wash show,” Taehyung suggests, equally as enthusiastic.

Namjoon sighs. “It’s soap opera, Tae.”

“What about Y/N’s Angels?” Jeongguk seems to be thinking hard, ever competitive even in the sport of picking a team name. “Because we are angelic, and Y/N bosses us around.”

That lands him a swift chop to the neck, much to his giggling delight.

“We are the Young, Bold, and Beautiful Angels,” you decide, rolling your eyes. “And what about your team?”

Seokjin does not hesitate to announce: “We are team Kim Seok Jin!”

Yoongi sighs, but doesn’t object, and Hoseok leans his forehead on Namjoon’s shoulder as if he needs the support to keep standing.

“Thank you for consulting the rest of the team about this decision, Jin-hyung,” Namjoon says, deadpan but not upset.

“You should be thankful that I’m allowing you to use my name at all,” Seokjin replies, hands on hips. “It is, after all, a national symbol of good luck.”

“National...?” You mumble.

Jimin groans out a sigh, easily bored and antsy to win. “Can we just play already? We don’t need to have a board meeting every time we make a decision.”

“Let’s go hold some heavy balls!” Jeongguk then grabs your elbow and drags you to the bowling ball racks, uncaring that you’ve only laced one of your shoes on.

“Do you need me to teach you how to bowl?” Jeongguk’s voice in your ear startles you as you stand in front of your lane, ready to go. The pink ball is heavy in your hand when you turn around to glare at him.

“I know how to bowl, Gguk. Now shoo, I need to concentrate.”

“Yes, but do you know how to bowl properly? Like a pro?”

“I am this close to dropping this ball on your toes, don’t test me.”

“Pleeease? C’mon, just this once?”

Damn him and his doe eyes. “Fine. Just once. But you’re going to buy me a plate of nacho fries.”

“Deal.”

You shouldn’t be surprised when he stands behind you and circles his arms around yours, but you do jolt a bit when his hands touch your waist.

“Some people think that it’s the wrist movement that’s most important, but really, it’s the hips. Even if you mess up the bowl, if your hips are at the right angle, you can’t really go wrong.”

“I’m pretty sure wrist movement is actually pretty important.”

The man has the nerve to shush you. “Angle your hips like this,” fingertips press into the soft flesh over your hipbones, “and then take three steps before you let go of the ball. The trick is to start with your non-dominant foot, so that when you bowl, your dominant leg isn’t in the way.”

Sighing, you humour the youngest and stride away from him, following his steps and then releasing the ball from your grip.

It lands a perfect strike.

Jeongguk walks back to the group with a smug smile and a pep in his step, while you simply chuckle at his pride. Meanwhile, the other boys are glaring at him.

“So,” Hoseok says as you wait for your ball to return so that you can have your second go, “are we all going to be allowed to teach you? Or is this favouritism?”

Heaving a deep sigh, you look up to the ceiling as if it, or any higher being, may give you an answer as to why you’ve chosen these seven as your favourite people.

Deep down you know why, but it’s times like these that make you question yourself.

It’s also times like these that make you feel impossibly endeared.

Night has crept up on you by the time the boys drop you back at your apartment, ribs aching from laughter and cheeks sore from smiles. No tension resides in your muscles, in your bones, or even in your mind; you feel as though you are floating, ears brushing against the clouds, with how light you are right now.

“You have to promise that you won’t do any work until tomorrow,” Namjoon says, watching you dig through your bag for your keys. 

“After a full night of sleep,” Yoongi adds.

Seokjin then says, “And a nice, big breakfast.”

“And plenty of water!”

“And a comforting shower- Or a bubble bath!”

“And you have to take plenty of breaks.”

“Maybe we can drop by at lunch to make sure you eat-”

“Would it be better if we stayed over tonight?”

“Why don’t you just stay with us? We can help you-”

“Guys.” Your voice is sturdy as it cuts through the overlapping voices of seven worried men, all eyes turned to you as you stand in your open doorway. “I appreciate the concern, truly, but I’m a big girl. What happened yesterday - well, this morning - was a one-off. I assure you that I can take care of myself.”

You’re met with silence that sounds an awful lot like doubt.

“But,” you sigh, “maybe you can come over for lunch?”

Gleeful voices whoop into the night air, and you have to bite back your laughter as you hurriedly hush them, wary of your neighbours.

One by one, you give them a hug and a kiss on the cheek as you exchange farewells, peeling the younger ones off of you as you tell them that yes, I really do have to go inside now.

It’s only when you’ve closed the front door behind you, leaning on the wall beside you, that you come to the full, unafraid realisation.

You are in love with them. And you think they might love you back.

End

[reinvent-and-believe]

OH HO HO PROMPTS! how about geraskier + 35 (OR, if you'd like some options: 5 or 59) 😊

Ahhhhhhhh I mean if you insist 😄

(I really really like 59 and still might write that at some point, but 5 is what I ended up going with. Also I feel like you should know I started to write something super angsty, you know, something in my wheelhouse, but then I decided I couldn’t do that to my Fluff Friend™️ so instead, here, have something only kind of angsty and kind of Soft)

-

5) things you didn’t say at all

Jaskier has so many words.

They’re constant, relentless, ceaseless. A bombardment of words. An onslaught of words. A veritable barrage of words.

(Jaskier would appreciate the grandeur of these words, if Geralt shared his thoughts aloud. Bombardment, onslaught, barrage. Descriptive words. Poetic words. The sort of words the bard uses to transform the most banal contract into a thrilling adventure. They’re not words Geralt would have thought to use before Jaskier.)

He has words for the breathtaking beauty of the setting sun lighting a field of flowers they pass by, words for the awe-inspiring majesty of an archgriffin soaring through the sky (the cerulean sky, apparently) above them, words for the putrescent stench of a nearby rotfiend nest. He has words to make the shyest, most awkward village girl gleam beautifully under his doting attention, words to assuage the traumatized, stuttering child who witnessed a gruesome alghoul attack, words to charm the stingiest of men into coughing up the promised coin after Geralt completes a contract.

On a clear night a few weeks past the autumnal equinox, Jaskier has words for the grumbling innkeeper who protests that they “don’t serve your kind” when Geralt tries to procure a room. Furious, colorful words that surprise Geralt, even as he maneuvers his screaming companion out of the small country inn and into the still autumn night.

He lets him continue his ravings as they trek down the road, assuming that he’ll surely run out of steam soon. Geralt scans the terrain for a good place to set up camp, only half-listening to the diatribe that seems to be gaining momentum rather than reaching some denouement (Jaskier loves to talk about the denouement. He’d delivered a lengthy lecture on narrative structure to Geralt last month that seemed to last nearly the entire trek from Ellander to Vizima). Geralt picks a spot with some natural cover, far enough from the road to protect them from roving bandits, and begins removing Roach’s tack.

“—the utter churlish ingratitude of it all astounds me, truly, I’d love to see our dear Master We-Don’t-Serve-Your-Kind handle it himself next time a wraith starts to slaughter any who try to use the well after sundown!”

Jaskier is forced by physical necessity to take a breath, and Geralt seizes his opportunity to set the conversation to rest. “It doesn’t matter.”

Silence had been the goal, but he knows Jaskier well enough to know this isn’t the blissful quietude of the bard dropping it. He sighs and turns toward Jaskier, who is staring at him, mouth agape, with an expression stuck between disbelief and fury. “I’m sorry,” the boy says finally, fixing Geralt with a glare, “did you just say it doesn’t matter?”

And Jaskier is young, young and full of youthful pride, youthful expectations; more than that, he’s not a witcher. He’s travelled with Geralt on and off for the past two years, and while he’s seen traces, the witcher has tried to shield him from the brunt of these everyday indignities he’s met with. Jaskier hadn’t been in Blaviken, hadn’t witnessed decades of casual and humiliating and hateful and snarling dismissals that have hardened Geralt, changed Geralt, numbed Geralt. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats. He stops his preparations for their camp and looks Jaskier in the eye. If the boy’s set on traveling with him, it’s best he understands. “Wraith’s dead. The alderman paid what we agreed, didn’t complain about the price or try to shortchange me. It was a success. The rest doesn’t matter.”

There’s a look Geralt can’t quite parse brewing on Jaskier’s face as the witcher speaks, seeming to vacillate wildly between frustrated and wrathful and agonized and so many other feelings, too many for Geralt to track, too complex to analyze from the muddled, conflicting scent. They’re close, he realizes suddenly, and he isn’t sure when that happened but they’re close and he can taste the confused feelings in the air between them, the metallic panic and the acrid fury and the brackish tears that haven’t fallen but threaten to, building in spite of the bard’s best efforts. “It matters,” Jaskier insists, a broken hitch in his voice, and then he’s kissing Geralt.

And maybe Geralt shouldn’t be surprised, but he is, somehow. He’s noticed the lust, of course. It had been there at their first meeting, the sharp, earthy scent, strong but not unpleasant. It had been almost flattering, though not nearly so flattering as it was overwhelming; but then it had spiked again nearly as intensely when Filavandrel entered the cave as they sat bound together, beaten and bruised, then later that night when a barmaid’s fingers brushed his as she handed him his ale, a coy smile and the slightest tilt of the head to indicate Jaskier should follow her to the shadowed cellar. He’d followed her and come back, smelling of sex and sporting a dopey grin, singing the praises of women with the exhilarated bravado of an eighteen-year-old would-be libertine—women, Geralt, women, of all the gods’ creations upon this good earth can any compare to a woman? And that had been that.

But Jaskier is kissing him, a hard, frantic thing, his palm warm against Geralt’s jaw, the salt in the air growing thicker, not at all what Geralt would have imagined kissing Jaskier to be like (has imagined kissing Jaskier to be like, in the dead of night, sometimes, as the last embers of a campfire glow on soft pale skin, or at the look of absolute peace as he closes his eyes and breathes in the cool twilight air, or when the first rays of dawn flicker in his sleep-rumpled mess of tawny hair).

But Jaskier is distressed.

The bard pulls away with a sharp inhale, and the scents and tastes and expressions keep shifting erratically, and Geralt tries to keep track but can’t. It’s silent for a minute but for Jaskier’s uneven breaths and the gentle sounds of the forest. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, not looking at Geralt, and it’s the copper tang of fear now, something he’s never smelled once before on Jaskier, on this brave idiot who’s seen no end of havoc and slaughter at the hands of monsters and men since joining the witcher’s company and yet never smelled like fear in his presence before.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier repeats, and when he meets the witcher’s gaze there’s a flash of defiance there, now, “I shouldn’t have done that and if you no longer wish to travel with me I understand, I do, but it does matter, Geralt. It matters that that repugnant, contemptible prick thought he could throw you out like a mangy dog after you saved his pathetic life, all their pathetic lives. It matters that not a one of the other patrons offered a word in your defense. It matters that the songs aren’t enough, they aren’t doing enough, and it matters that this sort of abuse must be so very commonplace that you are, apparently, utterly unperturbed by the entire affair!”

Jaskier’s wrong, he knows that. It doesn’t matter how one small man treats a witcher. The Path is long and hard, and if scornful innkeepers and a night under the stars instead of a roof are the worst Geralt has to face then he is luckier than most. He’s no knight errant, no hero, no matter how gallant and romantic and chivalrous Jaskier insists he is in his ballads.

It doesn’t matter.

And yet.

Jaskier takes a shaky breath. He’s been staring, Geralt realizes belatedly, waiting for some sort of response, and now he seems to have taken silence as answer enough. “Right,” the bard says, nodding, swallowing, rubbing at his eyes wearily. “Suppose that’s my cue to make myself scarce, then.”

His chin trembles with the harsh set of his jaw, and Geralt can’t help reaching out, cupping his face gently with a strong, square hand, his sword-callused thumb rubbing soothingly over a smooth, pale cheek. He pulls Jaskier into a slow, tentative embrace, feeling the boy’s tension melt away in his arms, the copper tang dissolving into something sweet and familiar, something hopeful, something that smells like home.

Geralt tries to find the words. A rude backwoods innkeep doesn’t mean shit to him, but Jaskier jumping to his defense without the slightest hesitation does. Jaskier writing songs about him, about his selflessness, about his goodness—no matter how inaccurate, no matter how exaggerated—does. Jaskier looking at him like he’s something precious, something valuable, something worthy, does. Jaskier kissing him matters—certainly matters, and is certainly something Geralt is interested in investigating further—but Jaskier choosing to be with him, indignant and furious on his behalf, making his bed on the lumpy forest floor when he could have easily rented a room in that inn—matters even more.

Geralt doesn’t know how to say these things; the words sound trite and inadequate as he turns them about in his mind. But as he holds him close, their breath becoming one as they rock gently beneath the evening’s first stars, he thinks perhaps Jaskier understands nonetheless.

And if not, perhaps he’ll find the words tomorrow.

[kominum]

rewatching old sailor moon and thought of like... disgruntled tuxedo mask!corpse but with unrequited love because i’m a glutton for angst

wc: ~2.2k 

warnings: death of a minor character, implicit knowledge of sailor moon lore, modern twist, unedited

please send in ideas you might have that i could write short blurbs for! this was honestly fun to write. 

It’s a scratch he can’t itch. It’s what has him waking up in cold sweats, confused and moderately annoyed that his hard-earned sleep has been so rudely interrupted. He hates the cape, he hates the itchy suit, he abhors the top hat – and the only things he doesn’t really hate are his baton and endless supply of darkened roses.

The first time he transformed, he was half-asleep and struggling to understand why he was speeding down the highway and parking two blocks away from some random back alley. His pain was relatively dulled, which was surprising, and his body suddenly possessed a world of fighting skills that felt foreign yet familiar. All he could recognize was a slightly disheveled woman cursing and just trying her best against some odd form of demon spawn, and before he knew it, he’d thrown down a dark purple rose and engaged in combat. Once said woman found an opening, she took off her headband/tiara, performed a throw that would put professional frisbee players to shame, and the monster disintegrated into dust.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted, body hunched over and hands on his knees. “What the fuck was that?”

“More like who the fuck are you?”

“Fuck if I know,” he muttered and dusted himself off.  

“What’s with your get-up anyways?” She failed to hide her snickering. “You’re 3 decades behind.”

“Do I look like I want to fight in a suit? Plus, you’re fighting in some rendition of a schoolgirl uniform.” Her black thigh-high boots were killer, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

“You should’ve seen what it was before, but I was able to make some changes. Good heads-up for you and—”

“Sailor Moon, are you okay?!”

Oh. So she’s got a talking cat, too. What in fresh hell was going on? Did he take something? But also—“Your name is Sailor Moon?”

“We’re working on the name change,” she grumbled, bending down to let said feline jump up her arm and settle on her shoulder. “Anyways, uh…thanks. I was kind of in a bind, but I’m usually not I swear. Good timing, I guess?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it.” But she was already in the wind, hopping from roof to roof with no inhibitions, and left him completely dumbfounded.

His silly attire dissolved back into his previous clothing as he ambled back towards his car, thought not exactly at his own will. But he shrugged, slid into the car seat, and dialed the only person he could think of who would readily pick up at this ungodly hour of…2:37AM. That was just the start, and he can’t tell if things went downhill from there.

-

He should backtrack.

He met you almost two years ago at a hospital.

You had been waiting anxiously for your boyfriend to come out of surgery after being in a bad car accident, biting your nails, occasionally pacing back and forth, smoothing your hands worriedly against your jeans, and gnawing your bottom lip to death. It was midday, sometime after lunch, and he’d come in for some routine checkup he can’t remember what for now, and sat a few seats away from you in the tiny hospital coffee shop. He’s no therapist or expert, but he highly doubted that any caffeine would alleviate your anxiety. Yet you sat there with two to-go cups and a granola bar wrapper, and something told him to stick around for now.

He’s never been one for a lot of small talk, but you looked to be about his age and no one else was with you. Tragedy tasted most bitter when alone, and some force of the universe told him to at least say something, anything. So he stuffed his hands into his hoodie and shuffled awkwardly to your table, tentatively asking a, “Hey, uh…is everything okay?”

You’d looked up at him with wild eyes on the verge of tears, heart battering against your chest, and the only intelligible thing that left your mouth was a “Huh?”

And he’d casted a gentle grin, eyes laced with a mixture of pity and concern, and asked again his first question. “My boyfriend’s in surgery. He got in a bad accident. There’s um…roughly two hours left, I think.”

“And you thought coffee would make it better?” He jutted his chin towards your large cups.

“Hot chocolate,” you chuckled. “I’m not keen on torturing myself like that, not now at least.”

“Well, I’ve got an appointment soon but I should be done before his surgery’s over…want me to come check up on you?”

Dumbfounded was the best way to describe your expression, and he was so close to retracting his offer before you gave him one of the most thankful smiles he’d seen in many years. “I’d really appreciate that.”

He nodded. “Sounds good then. Give me a sec.”

At the counter, he paid for another cup of hot chocolate and added in a chocolate chip cookie for good measure before bringing it back to you. “I hear chocolate helps.”

“Thank you, again. Go, don’t want to make you late.”

But an hour and a half later in the waiting area outside surgery, the doctor came out with a solemn expression, and you all but collapsed into the plastic chairs, tears leaking like waterfalls from your eyes. Part of him wanted to bail and go because there wasn’t much he could do, but it wouldn’t be right to leave you to drive home now. He wanted to make sure that you were calmed down, all cried out, and breathing properly so you could at least operate a vehicle safely.

The same unknown force had him offering you his number in case you needed anyone to talk to, yet the conversation sat empty for weeks until curiosity and guilt ate at him. He tapped out a message, deleting it, then another one, more deleting, before he settled on a plain, “It’s the guy from the hospital. I know it’s been a while but…how are you?”

Your reply was almost instantaneous, to which he worried if he’d accidentally woken you up at 4:13AM. First, it’s a casual, “hey, thanks for checking up on me! I’m doing okay,” but he knew better. And the other shoe dropped in the form of a simple, “I miss him.”

It’s a quiet, heartwarming friendship. You know nothing specific about him – he’s incredibly vague on any identifying information. Hell, you’d be willing to bet that the name at the hospital was a fake one. Nevertheless, he’s one of your closest friends. You know he mainly works online, has a lot of trouble sleeping, is chronically ill and has a number of medical conditions, his general disposition and feelings on things, but overall, just wonderfully easy to talk to.

Yet something just feels wrong about falling in love with him. It’s a horrid combination of guilt and disbelief. Are you rebounding? Are you subconsciously searching for your dead ex-boyfriend? Are you so desperate for romantic connections that you’ve twisted yourself into believing you love a man that you’ve seen fewer times than the number of fingers you have?

You come to peace with it when his custom ringtone chimes softly on your nightstand in the middle of the night. Rain or shine, stars or none, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him. Nothing has ever woken you up so quickly, not even alarms on interview days. “Hello?”

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Kind of, but it’s fine. What’s up? Wait,” you interrupt yourself and listen carefully to your speaker. “Are you…driving?”

“…yeah.”

“Should I ask from or to where?”

“I…honestly don’t know. Something felt off, felt like I had to get out of my place and just fucking do something. So uh, I drove somewhere and just started driving back home.”

You curl up under your sheets on your side and plug your earbuds into the phone. “Well, did it get rid of whatever you were feeling?”

“I think so? Honestly couldn’t fucking tell you. Still really bizarre to me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you murmur. “Well, feel free to call me whenever you feel like that again.”

“I don’t wanna fuck up your sleep schedule though. Feel like it’ll happen more often than I’d like.”

“How about this – if I don’t pick up, it’ll just be my nice way of saying ‘fuck off, too busy sleeping right now’?”

A soft, deep chuckle warms your chest and cheeks. “Sounds good. So how’ve you been?”

“Well, you know…”

It’s the same night that you think you might have a chance at love again. You fall asleep with his voice weaving stories and tales in your ears and wake up to a message that says, “Wow, didn’t know I was so fucking boring that it made you snore so loud.” The hope that creeps through your veins is dangerous and thrums urgently whenever you get a call or message from him.

And as bright as a star, it all comes crashing down in a firey blaze.

You crash into a girl as mysterious and serenely beautiful as the moon with a talking black cat one afternoon. She exudes a gorgeous amount of confidence in her stance as she protects you from a creature that looks like it’s out of a horror video game, and you can only stare in awe. The cat from before yells instructions at you, throwing what looks like a pen with a red cap on it and you blindly follow them. Your subsequent red heels feel incredibly comfortable and you can’t remember the last time you wore a skirt – but there’s no time to ponder as you push the girl you were admiring out of harm’s way and somehow manage to direct fire at them from your fingertips.

The monster burns and screams in agony before getting hit with what looks like a glowing frisbee. Your savior wipes the dust off her outfit before extending a hand out to you, “Welcome to the club, Sailor Mars.”

Say what now?

“There’s gotta be a better name than that,” is the first thing you say as you get pulled up. She throws her head back and lets out a charmingly obnoxious laugh. “We’ll work on changing it. I can tell we’re gonna be good friends.”

“Her name ended up being a rip-off of my name,” the cat quips and receives a scowl from the supposed plagiarizer. “I’m Luna, and this is Sailor Moon, or Lunaria she says.”

“You gotta admit, that’s cutting it a little close,” you agree and Lunaria flips the bird. “How the fuck am I going to change Sailor Mars? Also, can I do anything about this outfit?”

“We can go shopping tomorrow for sure. Luna and I can fill you on everything and – oh, before I forget, there’s a guy—”

“So it looks like you don’t need my help?”

You freeze in your steps, startled by the familiar baritone approaching you two. He was involved in all this?

“I told you, I don’t need your help—”

“Is she new?”

“Yeah, which means, we really don’t need your help. She’s got actual fire power. Literal fire.”

“That’s pretty fucking cool,” he accepts. “Good to meet you.”

You spot a set of veiny fingers that appears in your peripheral and you tentatively turn in his direction, hoping that your hair will obstruct your face as much as possible. “Same,” your throat manages to squeak out as his warm hand engulfs yours in a firm handshake.

“Get out of here, Corpse,” Lunaria chides and lets go of you to push a finger to his chest.

“I’m only here because you fucking needed saving. Now you’ve got another person dragged in.”

“I told you, I’m not some fucking damsel in distress,” she hisses. The mirth in his visible eye only causes the infuriation to grow and swirl more vigorously in her gut.

You watch the exchange from the sidelines as Corpse’s teasing only increases and provokes Lunaria further, disheartened that you’ve never heard him laugh so much in one exchange before. Dread from deep within your veins begins to freeze around your heart, something so set and undeniable that causes your brain to realize that falling in love with him was a mistake. It was the kind of mistake that would strike you with pain for years and the intense foreshadowing has you spinning on your heel and bounding through an alleyway. Your outfit shifts back to what you’d been wearing before, the characteristic weight of your phone in your back pocket seeming heavier than ever.

You call him that night, holding in a deep breath when the dial tone breaks midway. A rustle, a breath, and then, “Hey what’s up?”

Oh god, you scream to yourself as your heart shatters at the bottom of your chest. His voice, again, cannot be misconstrued as anyone else’s – the inflection, the tone, the volume, everything belonged to him.

And the universe told you then and there that he, undoubtedly, belonged to her.

[heliads]

Doctor

When your best friend, Katherine Pulitzer, forces you to come talk to the newsboys of Manhattan with her, you’re sure nothing good will come of it, especially since you’re busy with work from medical school. However, one particular blue-eyed newsie just might change your mind.

masterlist

You stare at your best friend suspiciously. “You want me to do what?”

You had known Katherine for a long time. You can barely remember how the two of you met, probably some boring luncheon or other that both of your fathers happened to attend. Your father was a wealthy banker, hers the publisher of the New York World. The two of you bonded over tiresome social assemblies and harshly biased fathers, and had quickly become good friends.

The two of you also helped each other by supporting your careers. With a strong bank behind you, you had been able to sway the editors of the New York Sun into allowing Katherine to work as a writer. In turn, she had used her father’s influence to help you into your dream job: becoming a doctor. You and Katherine were equal halves of a strong friendship, and so you suppose it doesn’t surprise you that she would be turning to you now.

“Look, it’s just the one time, okay? All I need you to do is walk with me to wherever the newsies are so I can ask them for some quotes. It’ll barely be ten minutes!” You squint at her. “If it’ll take such a short amount of time, why don’t you just go yourself? You know I have a lot of work to do- medical school isn’t exactly easy.”

Katherine sighs. “I want you there for emotional support. I already spoke with one or two of the newsies today and they’re impossible boys. I can do anything if I know I’ve got at least one other person who wants me there.” You raise an eyebrow. “They’re that bad?” Katherine looks at you pleadingly. “Please, Y/N?” You groan and look away from her. “Fine, but you owe me.” Katherine squeals happily and pulls you into a quick hug before dashing away to grab her notebook and pen. “You’re the best friend ever.” 

It takes a little while to find the newsboys- they’re not in the refuge, and by now it’s late in the afternoon and so most of them have stopped selling their newspapers and retreated indoors. Finally, you spot them crowded inside a deli and so the two of you take a moment to prepare yourselves before heading inside.

The second the two of you walk in the deli, all eyes turn to you. The newsboys of Manhattan are a motley bunch, most of them scruffy or scrawny or both. They all stare as you walk in, although that may have more to do with the fact that Katherine just called them out for being afraid to go to Brooklyn instead of the two of you by yourselves.

One of the newsboys, who appears to be the leader of the group, calls out a response to Katherine. It’s amazing- you can already sense the cocky attitude oozing from his every word. Now you can see why Katherine wanted you here for moral support. If there’s one thing you know about Katherine Pulitzer, though, it’s that she will never, ever, back down from an argument. You can’t help but grin as you watch the two of them banter, exchanging witty retorts back and forth just as quickly as a pair of trained debaters.

You’re distracted from your friend when a voice comes from behind you. “I get why she’s here, but what about you? You don’t seem to be much of a reporter.” You turn around to see a blond boy facing you, arms folded questioningly across his chest. The other thing that you see is that he is very good-looking, almost too good-looking for a cocky newsboy.

“I, uh, am Katherine’s friend. She wanted me here and so I came.” The boy grins. “You got a name, sweetheart?” You force yourself to answer normally, praying that no one can hear the slight skip of your heart. “Y/N. What about you?” “Race.”

Race fixes you with a teasing smirk. “You know, I think it’s nice that you came out all this way to see us. We must have a pretty good reputation if you wanted to come with your friend.” You glare at him. “I’m not here for you, I’m here for her. Trust me, if Katherine hadn’t asked I wouldn’t be here at all. I’d rather be at home, finishing my work, rather than having to spend time with a bunch of newsboys who think they’re the coolest things on the planet.”

Race raises his eyebrows, still retaining that cocky (yet somehow still attractive) smirk. “Oh, you’se got a job? I thought you just sat around all day, wishing you could talk to a bunch of newsboys who know they’re the coolest things on the planet.” You roll your eyes. “Yes, I’m in medical school. I’m almost done, and then I’ll have a job.” 

Race grins, interested. “Oh, a smart goil! You want to be a nurse?” You look at him coolly. “A doctor.” Race just laughs, shaking his head slightly. It’s funny- whenever he laughs, his sky blue eyes gain this shine that make them look like stained glass. You shake your head slightly, forcing yourself to focus once more on Race, who’s still talking to you.

“-sounds alright. You coming to our strike?” Out of the corner of your eye, you see that Katherine has finished gathering quotes from the newsboys and is ready to go. You turn back to Race. “Well, I wasn’t planning on it. I’m not a newsie or a reporter.” Race takes a step closer to you, and you feel heat forming in your cheeks. “I think it would be nice to see you there.” You grin at him. “Then maybe I’ll be there. See you later, Race.” You wave goodbye and quickly head out of the deli.

Once you’re down a street or two, Katherine turns to you with a grin. “Looks like you found a friend.” You laugh. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Katherine has this look on her face like a cat that ate a very pleasant canary. “I’m sure it wasn’t. You know, you should be careful around him. I’ve heard that boy flirts with everyone. And, it sounds like you’re coming to the strike. So much for this being a one time thing?” You roll your eyes, but can’t help but grin. “Maybe it’s a little more than that.”

As you walk, though, you keep turning over what Katherine had said in your head. I’ve heard that boy flirts with everybody. As much as you hate to admit it, she isn’t wrong. You yourself have seen Race exchange a wink for a paper on the streets of many Manhattan mornings. You groan inwardly. What were you thinking? Of course Race doesn’t like you- he does that with every girl he meets. It means nothing. 

Tomorrow is the strike, though. You’ve already told Katherine as well as the other newsies that you’ll be there, so you can’t back out now. As you walk back to your home, you form a plan in your head: show up to the strike, but don’t seek him out. He was just doing what he always does, and it doesn’t mean anything. No matter how much you wish it did.

Once the two girls have left the deli, the rest of the newsies turn to Race. “What was that all about, Racer? I haven’t seen you falling over a girl that much in months. You weren’t even trying to sell her any papes!” Albert laughs. Race fixes him with a glare, shoving his friend but only making his grin grow. “It’s nothing. How ‘bout you mind your own business, huh?” Jojo joins the fray. “You were practically drooling.” Race swats him too, and the rest of the newsies dissolve into gleeful chatter. The strike is tomorrow, and they’re all too excited to sleep.

By the time the next morning arrives, you’re feeling hopeful. You and Katherine make it to the square by the time the newsies’ strike has begun, and you watch as she rushes off to take a photo of the assembled newsboys with a friend of hers from the newspaper. After the photo is taken and the rest of the boys disperse throughout the square, you feel a tap on your shoulder. You smile despite yourself once you realize it’s Race.

“So, you made it.” You smile. “Of course I made it. I hear it’s a very big deal.” Race spread his hands. “Well, maybe. I guess it’s a big enough deal that our very own resident doctor showed up.” The two of you laugh, and break into conversation. So much for not spending time with him.

However, the happy morning is interrupted when the goons start to arrive. Once the strike turns violent, Race rushes you out of danger. He makes sure you’re safe, and then runs back into the scuffle. You and Katherine are forced to leave so you’re not caught, but you can’t help a glance backward to make sure Race is alright. You’re not entirely sure that he will be.

The strike ends quickly, in a clash of blood and fists. Once the cops showed up, it was basically over. Even worse, Crutchie was taken away to the refuge and Jack disappeared. When you hear about how badly the newsboys were hurt, you immediately grab your first aid kit and dash over to the deli to help the boys.

Your feet pound on the cobblestone streets on the way to the deli. You’re moving far too quickly for a lady of your position, which attracts more than a few stares, but you’re too worried to care. Finally, you make it to the deli, and stand in the open doorway for a moment, shocked.

The boys look awful. Every single one of them has been injured, from what looks like a broken arm on Les to black eyes and gashes covering the others. You break out of your trance and walk briskly over to the boy closest to you- Les. 

He looks up at you through eyes clouded in pain. You speak to him slowly, trying to assuage his worries. “Hello, Les. I’m Y/N, Katherine’s friend. I’m going to fix your arm, alright?” Les nods, and you quickly apply ice and a sling, fixing the break and also bandaging up a few other cuts decorating the boy’s arm. Luckily, the break wasn’t that bad- just a minor fracture.

When you’ve finished with Les, you turn to the next newsboy, and then the next. You slowly make your way around the deli, helping fix up every boy who needs it. Some weren’t injured as badly, and others help bandage cuts after watching you. There’s one boy you haven’t seen a whole lot of, though, and that’s Race.

You can see the blue-eyed boy out of the corner of your eyes. It’s strange- every time you start to turn his way he quickly heads the other direction. It finally dawns on you- he’s avoiding you. Of course. He doesn’t like you, and probably never did. This is for the best. You force yourself to concentrate on your work, hoping that pouring your soul into bandaging up gashes can will away the breaking of your heart. It doesn’t.

Finally, you think you’re done. You stand up, stretching, and look around the room, checking for anyone who still needs you. You don’t see anyone, and so you start to leave the room, until you feel a hand wrap around your wrist.

You stare at the fingers encircling yours, and then back at the boy in front of you. It’s Race, finally willing to let you notice him. He opens his mouth, and the voice that comes out is cracked and quiet. “You got one last patient, Doc.”

You smile slightly and reach for your bag, pulling out your last bandage. There’s a cut on his arm (not too deep but not exactly a paper cut either), and so you gently clean it before beginning to wrap the bandage around it. You don’t dare to look up at Race, too afraid you’ll make eye contact with him and see the indifference you’re sure is there.

Once you’re done, you take a step back, still not looking him in the eyes. “Well, that’s it. I should probably be going.” “Wait.” Race’s hand gently lifts your chin, forcing you to finally look at him. “You want to tell me why you’se been avoiding me?”

You laugh bitterly. “I’m not the one who’s been avoiding me since I first stepped foot in here. It’s alright, though, I know I’m not exactly your first priority right now.” Race looks confused. “What are you talking about, Y/N?” 

You can’t stay here, can’t keep looking at him, so you force the words out of your throat. “I know you flirt with everyone, and I’m some girl you just met, and you have no reason to want anything to do with me, and that’s fine, and-”

You’re cut off when Race kisses you. “I do like you, Y/N.” You can’t do anything but stand there, stunned. “What?” Race grins. “I like you.” He kisses you again, and this time the newsboys around you take notice, whooping and hollering like they’ve never seen anything like it before. Race laughs against your lips, turning away to swat at the boys nearest him. You just stand there, a smile starting to spread across your face. He likes you. He honestly likes you. 

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) What is a legacy? DC

A03

When Wally had first met Earth's new Green Lantern, the  oh-so great Torchbearer, he'd wanted nothing to do with him. Wally - he'd grown up with Hal, then later John, and even Guy, and now all three were gone. He'd grown up with Hal dipping in and out of his Aunt and Uncles' house like he lived there. He'd grown up coming down to breakfast in the morning and seeing Uncle Hal there too, having just come back from space to crawl into bed next to Uncle Barry. When Aunt Iris had been killed, and Uncle Barry started spiraling out of control, it had been Uncle Hal who had kept everything together, who had promised Wally that he wouldn't let Barry out of his sight, that he'd watch his back. It had been Uncle Hal who Wally went to after Uncle Barry's death and the weight of being the Flash was too heavy.

Uncle Hal had been Wally's Green Lantern.

But Hal had broken too. He'd gone crazy and killed the Corps and then vanished. Hal had caved under the pressure no one had known he was under until it was too late, and when he'd come back he was mad.

Wally hadn't wanted a new Green Lantern, wouldn't give him the time of day, until he'd found himself outnumbered during a meeting discussing Hal - Lord Parallax - and had tried to argue that his Uncle needed compassion, understanding, and  help , not a fight. They'd called him too close to the situation, too young to know what needed to be done, like Wally hadn't been a hero since he was thirteen, like he was still the little kid in yellow who followed the Flash around and started at them all in childish awe. They could never separate him from the child he could be, but the new Lantern had never known him then, and had stood up and agreed with him.

It had worked too, because in the end, Hal had taken the hand being offered to him, and died to save the world.

After that, Wally had found himself seeking the Lantern out on his own. They still bickered, but Wally found that it reminded him more of the playful ribbing of Uncle Barry and Uncle Hal than any genuine bad blood. He got to know him, started genuinely thinking of him as a friend. He learned that his name is Kyle Rayner, that he’s two years younger than Wally and an independent artist that struggled to pay his bills now that he couldn’t spend all his time on commissions. He’s told that Kyle was well-liked growing up for being generally friendly and easy-going, but didn’t actually have friends until art college because he was just a little too weird for other kids to want to be around him long enough to actually hang out. He learns that Kyle’s mother is an Irish immigrant, that she was his biggest supporter growing up, and that he doesn’t know his father because the man walked out on them when Kyle was still very young, that the only memory of his father Kyle has is vaguely of him speaking Spanish. He learns that Kyle is multilingual, that he grew up speaking English and Gaelic, and learned Spanish in school. He learns the hard way that Kyle is lactose intolerant, and allergic to nuts. He learns funny little anecdotes about Kyle learning to draw before he learned how to walk, he learns that Kyle loves spicy food but doesn’t eat it often because the right spices don’t exist in space.

He learns a lot about Kyle, and it leads to Wally learning about himself as well.

He’d always known he wasn’t straight. He liked and dated girls, of course, he thought they were beautiful, but there was also a part of him that lingered a little too much during training. There was a part of him that looked at certain friends and said,  damn I’d like to kiss him. Dick had been the first, back when they’d still been young sidekicks just starting out, and it had continued on wards for a bit too. It had been reciprocated too; they’d messed around together a bit, but they’d ended it on good terms because Wally wasn’t ready to completely come out yet. He’d been happy for Dick, when he’d started dating Kori, then Babs, and then more and more people. After Dick had been Roy, for a little bit, because Roy was the cool, rebellious older boy, but it wasn’t long before that little crush faded away and Wally started looking at him like an older brother. He’d had that really embarrassing teenage crush on John Stewart for a while, the one that had made Hal burst a gut laughing at him for, before ruffling his hair and telling him under no uncertain terms that it wouldn’t be happening.

Well, Wally had known for a while that he liked men too, even if he hadn’t exactly come out to anyone but those he was closest too. His head was filled full of his dad’s hateful words, something he was working hard to shut out. Kyle though, he didn’t hide the fact that he was trans, or that he was pan - he’d grown up in California and now lived in New York, both of which had more of a thriving community than the likes of the small Midwestern Blue Valley Wally had lived in before moving to Central after getting his powers, and then Keystone after he became the Flash and living in Barry’s house was too much for him.

Kyle was - well, he was nice. A breath of fresh air, really. He was a fellow hero, a member of the main roster, so he knows Wally’s identity and understands the demands of being a superhero better than a civilian would. He’s his age, but didn’t grow up with him, and he  gets  what Wally is going through, standing in someone else’s shoes and being judged as less worthy compared to his predecessor. Before Wally knows it, he finds himself drifting closer and closer to Kyle, to the point where he’s heard older heroes whispering between them of another Flash-Green Lantern team up.

Apparently it brings back nostalgic emotions to see a Flash and Green Lantern dozing off in the rec room, lights dim and some silly movie or another playing in the background. Wally’s just glad he and Kyle have more control than Uncle Hal did, and haven’t been found in a cleaning closet somewhere.

Now, Wally is pretty sure he knows how Uncle Barry felt whenever Hal would stumble into the house at all hours of the night after a long mission in space to pass out in the bed next to him. He’s gotten used to the faint green glow that accompanies Kyle powering down, the faint hum of the Lantern uniform against his skin before it melts away to whatever civvies Kyle happened to be wearing before getting called out. There’s a soft warmth that comes with waking up in the morning to find Kyle sprawled out next to him, lit up by the soft golden light streaming in through the windows as he breathes, deep asleep. There’s a giddiness that comes with finding more and more of Kyle’s things slowly being added to his apartment; it starts with pajamas and extra clothes, but soon Wally is finding art supplies scattered around, or Kyle’s favourite butterscotch shampoo in the shower.

It’s how Wally realizes that he’s in love with his teammate.

He’s staring down at the innocently placed soap he remembers seeing before in Kyle’s shower when it hits him. Nowadays, Kyle spends more time at Wally’s apartment than anywhere else other than the Watchtower when he’s planet-side, and not out rebuilding the entire Green Lantern Corps on his own. Wally isn’t even sure when it started, that he started bringing more and more of his things to Wally’s small Keystone apartment. He thinks back to the sketchbooks and half-finished paintings scattered around the rooms, of the lactose free milk he didn’t think twice before buying when grocery shopping, of the space in his drawers made for Kyle’s clothes and the paint stained shirts in the laundry basket. He thinks about the lack of nut products in his apartment, of the boxes of tampons and pads he doesn't even blink over stocking up on anymore.

Wally moves so fast he’s dry instantly, bursting into his bedroom where Kyle lays among rumbled sheets. His white t-shirt had ridden up in his sleep, and the waistband of his track pants down, exposing a thin line of the packed core muscles that came with the training they all endured in the League. Somehow, his dark hair looks artfully tousled, inky against the sheets, and lashes just as dark are fanned across sun-browned skin and freckles.

He’s unfairly pretty.

“Kyle!”

Kyle jolts, ring flaring green as he stares around groggily, looking for a threat, “Wha-”

“Are we dating?” Wally blurts out, uncaring of his nakedness in the face of his realization.

Kyle blinks once, twice, looking fuzzy, before he groans, long and dramatic as his uniform dissolves into green sparkles and he drops back onto the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. There’s a long moment of silence, before the Lantern snorts, and then bursts into breathless giggles.

Wally flounders, “I’m serious!”

Kyle slants a look at him from under his arm, brown eyes warm and almost honey gold in the morning light, “I’d hope we’re dating.” Kyle tells him, voice thick with sleepy amusement, “Otherwise I’ve  really been overstepping.”

Wally blushes, feeling a little silly, now that he’s thinking about it. They - they really  have been dating, haven’t they? “Oh.” Flustered, Wally rubs a hand down his face, hoping to brush away the burning in his cheeks.

Kyle snickers again, expression warm. “You’re adorable.”

Wally groans, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?” He mutters, listening to Kyle dissolve into giggles again.

“Oh, definitely.” The Lantern teases, before sitting up and stretching with a yawn. “Well,” he drawls, amused, “now that I’m awake -” brown eyes rake across Wally’s body, and an eyebrow quirks, “- got a reason for this  visit ?” His voice takes on more of a purr, and Wally blinks in confusion.

Then he remembers.

“Oh.” Wally squeaks, red spreading rapidly across his  completely naked body. “I - shower -  soap - it’s just-” he cuts himself with an embarrassed groan. "I'm making this worse."

Kyle doubles over from the force of his laughter, holding his stomach as he wheezes, hand flapping. “Kidding -” he gasps, “- I’m just kidding.” The Lantern slides off the bed, still snickering, to press a lightning-quick kiss to his lips that, for Wally, lingers for so much longer. “Go have a shower, babe.” Kyle tells him warmly, “I’ll make some breakfast.”

[hobidreams]

A Bit of Magic

pairing: platonic best friends hoseok x yoongi genre: fluffy fluff words: 1.1k contains: magic au, there is a cat, meow a/n: this drabble is sponsored by a generous anonymous donor to the Black Lives Matter movement!!! get your own fic here.

“I’ve decided.” Yoongi’s drawl comes floating down the stairs with the man himself. He’s holding the same (unopened) white envelope he disappeared with about an hour and a half ago.

“Aaaand?” Sitting at the worn kitchen table, Hoseok’s eyes shine with a sunny hope as he nurses a glass of something clear and bubbly. A few feet away, Jiminie the calico dozes on his favorite pillow.

Yoongi stops short when he reaches the end of the stairs. Promptly lets the envelope thunk into the trash can. “Nope.” Then he plops his butt down on the chair opposite Hoseok’s with just as much decorum.

“First of all, it’s 2020. Recycle.” Hoseok jokes as he twirls his hand and the envelope promptly floats out of the bin, doing somersaults in the air before landing right on the table. Face up, with Yoongi’s name emblazoned across it in jet black script.

Yoongi snaps his fingers. Right back into the trash it goes, though not nearly with the same elegance.

“Hyung.” Hoseok fetches it again, this time placing a spread hand firmly over the mail with now slightly dented corners. “What are you scared of?”

“Fireworks. Heights. Namjoon’s cooking. All rational things.”

“Yet opening a measly little envelope?” Hoseok taps the paper with the tip of his nails and little stars fly out, dissolving on contact with the wood.

Yoongi very pointedly stands up and steps to the kitchen counter. Jiminie opens a lazy eye and gives a small yawn at the movement. “’m not scared,” Yoongi mutters. He looks at the pot that’s simmering away above an artificial fire, then gives it a slow stir with a rotation of his skinny wrist. “Potion almost done?”

“Yeah!” Hoseok’s face brightens, then falls when he joins Yoongi and looks in the mini cauldron. “I think. Maybe. Is it supposed to be that color?” Owl droppings is the polite way of putting it. He ladles a few spoonfuls into a glass and observes the rather chunky texture.

Thing is, Hoseok hasn’t been making concoctions for very long, preferring intuitive or physical magic usually, so the last few experiments have been... very iffy. Yoongi’s far better at the craft, able to whip up brews that even taste good, in addition to being super effective against illnesses. But... Hoseok figures Yoongi won’t always be around to make his potions for him, so he should at least know the basics, right?

“Uhh, depends on what you’re making.”

Hoseok’s mouth opens. He’s about to answer when he thinks better of it. Just grins instead, opening his hand to summon the envelope. With his other hand, he picks up the warm glass. “Hyung. Open this or drink the mystery potion.”

Here comes Yoongi’s familiar scowl as his eyes flick between the two options. In Hoseok’s mind, this is a simple decision. Any rational person would just—

Yoongi grabs the glass and drains the entire damn thing.

“O-Oh s-shit, that’s really hot,” Yoongi sputters out, swallowing hard as he refills the glass with cold water and throws that back too. That leaves him with water dripping down his lips, a slight burn reaching down his throat as he leans against the counter for support.

Well, the good news is that other than adding to a lifetime of potion-related trauma at Hoseok’s hands, Yoongi doesn’t feel very different. He still has two eyes and all his fingers and toes. Nothing is spontaneously growing out of his ass (“it was one time!” Hoseok cries as he watches Yoongi check his backside with suspicion), nor has his hair changed into any outrageous colors.

Hoseok beams, showing all his pearly teeth. “Hey! You’re okay!”

Yoongi does not like the genuine surprise in Hoseok’s tone one bit.

“Was I not supposed to b—meow.”

They both freeze.

Slowly turn their heads to look at Jiminie, who’s gleefully licking himself on the table, blissfully lost in his own world of hairballs.

Hoseok goes first. “D-Did you say...”

“No, I didn—meow.”

Hoseok’s lips quirk up in the way it always does before bellyaching laughter and he quickly slaps a hand over his mouth when Yoongi’s scowl gets even deeper.

“What the fu—meow.” Yoongi’s fists tighten with annoyance. “How do I sto—meow?!”

Hoseok flies to the stove, peering into the murky potion depths. “Oops... Guess some of Jiminie’s hair must have gotten into the pot somehow!” At the sound of his name, the cat perks up, gives a tiny consolation mew of his own.

Yoongi clutches his forehead as if an awful headache is coming on. “See, with shit like this, meow, how am I supposed to leave you all alone?”

“But you’re not? Leaving me?”

Yoongi supresses a meow by swallowing at the same time. “What do you think... is gonna happen if I open that envelope?”

“But hyung, it’s your dream!” Hoseok grabs the letter. “You can’t just keep avoiding it. It’s not going to go away. Besides, I’m sure you got in!”

“But what if that’s not the answer I’m hoping for meow?!”

(Hoseok bites back the fact that it’s starting to sound like part of Yoongi’s regular speech.)

“You’ve been studying for this for so many years. You didn’t even sleep the night before you sent the application in because you were so excited. Trust me, you want this.”

“Fine. Fine!” Yoongi snatches the envelope away. “You want me to leave so badly? I’ll go.” He tears it open, not caring if the paper scrapes harshly against his finger and he could have just used magic. Not like it’d be stable right now anyway. He doesn’t stop until they’re both staring at the words that read ACCEPTED and WELCOME TO BANGTAN WIZARDRY and in that moment, everything becomes real.

“Holy—meow—fuck.”

“You did it!” Hoseok’s a little teary eyed as he crushes Yoongi into a hug. The letter flutters to the ground, any argument forgotten. “I knew you would! Ahhh, hyung, you’re going to university!”

Yoongi swallows, hard.

He forces his arms to move, to return Hoseok’s affection even as disbelief and excitement and fear and too many mixed emotions come surging up just to get stuck in his throat. “H-Hoseok-ah,” he eventually says in a voice so tiny. “I did it.”

“Don’t you worry about me. It’s just a year. Then I’ll be joining you right before you know it.” Hoseok grins as he lets Yoongi go, Jiminie winding his way through both of their legs as he wants to share in the festivities.

“Are you sure?” Yoongi frowns. “Absolutely sure?”

“Hell yes! And if you don’t believe me, I’ll drink the potion too. As proof.”

Turns out, Hoseok made a pretty damn powerful draft. Their meows don’t fade until three days later, but they spend all that time packing and poking fun at each other about the purrs. In between throwing out old broken timekeepers and spent candles, they reminisce about their childhood, then dream about the good days yet to come.

[tarithenurse]

Stolen - 10

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson &/x fem!gifted!reader Content: Angst. Feels. Plot. Regerts. Fluffy inclinations. Mentions of torture. References to past MCU events. A/N: *radiates love to everyone* *begins singing Tina Turner’s “You’re simply the best”* Ask or reblog if you want a tag.

10. Leave a Scar

…   Reader  …

Two days later and you’re still praying that Loki has no idea what you’ve heard even if the chances seem remote. He’s grown quiet. Brooding. Most of the time he’s off somewhere without you but when he returns he finds a secluded corner and a carafe of wine to wash down his gloominess with.

He’s plotting how to kill me. It makes sense – haven’t you done what he wanted you to? The talk about keeping you safe must have been nothing but a ruse to eventually break your spirit completely before delivering the final blow. On the other hand, it seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to if he was just going to waste the effort by being emo. Plotting to kill someone else? Now, that would make sense considering his track record.

On and on your thoughts run in circles and not even the beautiful view from the balcony can provide enough of a distraction today.

“Tell me, mortal.” His voice startles you, coming from right behind you. “What’s plaguing your mind, hmm?”

There’s nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from those piercing, green eyes boring into the back of your skull. Pulling at the sleeves of the purple dress (kindly lend to you by the Älfir), you consider how to out-lie a liar.

“What...what is going to happen now?” you manage to ask, forcing your voice past a lump in your throat.

The sigh that fans your shoulder is chilling. “It seems I have to change my plans.”

Unsure of anything, this isn’t what you had expected. Turning towards him, the somberness clings to his face and cuts his already sharp features from ice. Only now do you realize that there had been a spring in his step and a softness to his gaze a short week ago but since then something has extinguished the light.

Your hand twitches as you restrain yourself from reaching out to stroke his cheek. “What’s happened?” Did he see that?

If he did, nothing in his demeanour divulges anything as Loki steps as close as he can without the mossy greens of his clothing brushing against purple. A thousand worlds could come and go that second and you would never have noticed because the Asgardian’s presence is all-encompassing, sucking you into his personal vortex of pride and pain, stubbornness and deference.

“Why would you care what has happened?” His words are cold like blades of ice, but this time you see through it and wait him out. He resigns. “The Älfir’s magic is not strong enough. They cannot restore Jotunheim.” Deflated.

“If they could’ve then they would’ve healed the Priestess too.” Biting your tongue off suddenly feels like a really good idea.

The silence is oppressing, drawing out the seconds as the man looks you over as if you just dropped from the moon. Like he’s seeing me for the first time. The sensation is far from comforting, something that’s enhanced as the thin lips begin to curve into a crooked smile revealing white teeth.

“You did that.” Man, you hate the way he practically purrs.

“Barely.” You step backwards, bumping into a pillar.

Even now, you can’t help but notice how smoothly he moves as he follows in your footsteps. “But you did.”

Somehow managing to sidestep the god, you make it two steps into the shade of the room before his hands have gotten hold and you’re twirled, forced against the cold wall.

“Don’t -”

“Shush.” He places a cold finger on your lips, making you comply automatically. “We all have sacrifices to make.”

A smidgen of logic in the back of your skull is screaming at you to shut up, to let him have this victory while you figure out a way to get out of the situation. Of course you don’t listen to it, deciding instead to pull yourself up to your full height (as unimpressive as it may be compared to Loki) and glare at him. There’s even a moment there where you impress yourself by how calm your voice is when you answer.

“No. I won’t be your puppet anymore.” Black eyebrows shoot upwards at your words. “And if you kill me, at least I know you’ll still be crying every night.”

That’s the instant the sense of heroic pride dies.

The emerald eyes you secretly admire change into a sea of blood while a flood of blue, broken by ridges and lines cover what skin you can see and causes you to gasp, drawing in air so cold you can feel the lungs crackle in complaint. If at least Loki would snarl or growl, then it would somehow make sense, but he just smiles, the white teeth suddenly similar to the fangs of a predator. A wolf...and I’m the lamb.

“Mortal. Pet.” A claw traces along your cheekbone before scraping down your throat. “I thought we were coming to an understanding? You would obey my every wish in return for the life of those you love?” Nodding is the only option. “Tsk tsk. Perhaps I have underestimated you, wench, thinking you had a soul, a heart. Hoping you would recognize real evil when held up against the light of truth.”

Well...I’m already doomed. “You told a story -!”

“A story?!” This time he does snarl. “I’ll show you story!”

The cold of his hands burn the skin on your forehead, wrist, and palm as he slams your hand against his brow and mirrors the movement.

...  Loki   ...

The first glimpses are simple until the events fully unfold. Falling – he will hate the sensation forever. Falling through nothingness for half an eternity until he lands more dead than alive...except this time he’s watching it from the outside. We’re watching it. Though the Jotun can’t see it, he knows that [Y/N] is there with him, a spectator without the option to look away when the actor is found and brought to the Titan.

What were months or maybe years at the mercy of Thanos and his Children flash by in a few minutes, perhaps. Torture, mind games, hatred twisted and turned until it points back to the outcast prince and penetrates his soul, leaving it to fester before he finally succumbs to the touch of a sceptre. From there the events unfold in a blur only occasionally brought into focus when a part of the fallen god tries to rebel against the shackles.

It’s only when the Loki they watch is lying at the feet of the Avengers that clarity is fully restored, though one kind of shackles is replaced by another. Then: a speck of blue grants an opportunity impossible to dismiss.

A vision. A memory. A nightmare.

Loki’s hands fall to his sides. It’s over. The wall in the Älfir temple looks less real than what [Y/N] and the Jotun have just witnessed, but the wide eyes staring up at him brings reality back like a kick in the balls. She knows. Everyone knows when they witness the recollections of someone else – no amount of so called rational thinking can convince them they have hallucinated because they feel it as if they lived it themselves.

“[Y/N]...”

Tears are welling in her eyes, lips quivering as she tries to root herself in the present. “He...y-you...” What I wouldn’t do to take away your pain. “That was -” A sniffle interrupts her.

He hates it. Hates the despair she’s drowning in at his hands. Truly, he has proven to be the monster he claimed not to be. Losing control and forcing [Y/N] through this nightmare serves no purpose at all.

“I will...I will ensure your safety and then you will never hear from me again,” he promises shamefully, “now...get some rest.”

...

Flat on his back and with the hands behind his head, Loki’s gaze is fixed on a point far beyond the ceiling above. Dawn is nearing yet sleep has evaded him, chased away by memories and guilt. It served no purpose. Priding himself of his logic, the turmoil raging inside his heart is has pushed the Jotun to act rashly and he hates it because he wishes to be more than a beast that simply lashes out when cornered. He doesn’t want to be the monster he behaved like. No, the man in him has to find a way to -

“Loki?” The whisper is hesitant, almost too quiet to hear. “Are you...are you awake?”

He sits up, bare feet on the stone floor as if to ground himself. The covers slides from his chest, revealing the pale skin in the darkness but [Y/N] probably can’t see it with her human eyes as she stands in the doorway.

Draped in the soft-flowing silk from a borrowed shift, she could almost pass for one of the ghosts from the fanciful tales children enjoy to fear. Loki can see her better than that. He can see her face straining as she tries to find him in the dark, and her arms wrapped tightly around the ribs below her bosom perhaps to find some comfort.

“Yeah...I’m awake,” the god rasps softly in return. Is that regret or relief in your sigh?

Sitting there, waiting for the unknown, a tension begins to permeate the air and send tendrils to every nerve ending of Loki’s body. A coil tightens in his chest and it becomes nearly unbearable when [Y/N] tentatively walks towards him, her feet careful as they seek out the right path. A few steps before the goal, her hands reach out to locate the Jotun and he has taken them before thinking to stop himself.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, the mortal braves the silence. “This doesn’t mean we’re okay, but...I believe you now.”

“[Y/N] -”

“Shut up.” He does. “I’m trying to say that...that I get it a-and I trust you.”

Loki has no answer. Gaping slightly at her, he tries to come to terms with the woman’s foolishness. Once or twice a sentence nearly forms in his mind only to dissolve before it can be uttered and the task increases in difficulty as she shyly shifts her weight from one leg to the other, toes intertwining as best they can while she bites her lip.

He obviously startles her as he stands. Yet you don’t run, my dear? A shiver rolls through her the moment he embraces the lithe form.

“Oh! Oh, we’re...hugging? Okay, we can hug,” she babbles, unknowingly making the god smile into her hair.

It’s impossible to say how long they stand like this or when [Y/N]’s warm fingertips start a slow dance across his naked back. Then again, time hardly matters as the Jotun pulls back enough to study her face, smelling her hectic breath that fans against his skin.

“Thank you,” he says, but means I think I love you, “you should rest.”

Her hands retreat, and right away Loki misses the scalding touch and the heat of her body as she navigates the darkness to find her own bed.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Good Tidings We Bring || Morgan & Nell

TIMING: The day after the solstice

PARTIES: @nelllraiser & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Are we out of the woods yet?

CONTAINS: soft witches, mention of sibling death

Morgan poured her energy into walking steady and holding her package without crinkling the paper or dropping it. She hadn’t been to this house in so long, all she remembered was that first time, coming to dinner and being so petrified that she would be accepted by the Vurals. That they would believe she had something to offer, that she was more than the awful things destined to follow her. Rejection, she was old friends with. The way it cut her was almost soothing. So she never would have dreamed walking up to the house unannounced, asking to be let back in. But Yule was the time of light in the dark, and the miracle of the world turning back to light. There was never going to be a ‘good’ time to try, so it might as well be now.

Morgan knocked, swallowing what little was left of her pride. When the door opened, the speech she prepared dissolved into one clumsy outburst, “I want us to be good again, can we please be friends?” She stuck out the present with both hands. “These are for you. A-and a few extra for your sisters, but mostly you. I mean, you’ll be able to tell, uhh…” It was all very undignified, but after everything Morgan had done, she didn’t figure dignity was something she was going to come by soon anyway.

Hard choices such as the attempted exorcism in lieu of torturing Constance were something of a familiarity to Nell at the time she’d made the decision to go against Morgan’s wishes. By then she’d learned well enough that sometimes the greater good came at the cost of your personal good, but that didn’t mean it had been easy to knowingly destroy the bond of her and the witch turned zombie. She’d been the villain in someone’s story before— willing to take on the burden of severed ties and judgmental words if it meant that there’d be less pain for others in the end. It never got easier, especially when the severance in question was someone like Morgan. So as she opened the door to a familiar face that had been long absent from the daily rotation of her life, she did her best to squish down the flare of hope that bubbled up, quickly replaced with worrisome apprehension. Thankfully that too was fleeting, and her initial faith was restored, eyes cautiously bright with the renewal of her initial reaction “You want to be...friends?” she asked tentatively, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Morgan’s jumbled words, feeling as if there was another shoe about to drop. Without thinking she reached out to accept the box that Morgan had brought, staring at it a touch too long. Was she meant to open it now? Or wait? Her momentary silence was less than intentional. Apparently where Morgan was struck with an inability to stop her words, Nell didn’t know where to begin her own. “I don’t understand- aren’t you upset?”

Morgan had replayed this conversation a lot in her head, most of them involving Nell interrogating her, or saying I told you so or asking for proof about her being really, really sorry and really understanding all the ways she might have been mistaken. She hadn’t thought that Nell’s question was about how she felt. Morgan looked at her, stunned and grasping at air now that she no longer had the present to cling to. “U-uh, well...I was. And, okay, I don’t think it was fair to lie to me. Doing what you think is right is one thing, but pretending to help is something different, but that’s just...not important right now. Or it’s not more important than you. And…” Morgan shrugged haplessly. “What I wanted didn’t even work out anyway. It was bad. I got all this stuff and I hated almost every part of it and yes, in retrospect, only having informed support from my evil friends should have been a tip off, but I just couldn’t. And Constance poltered anyway and people died because of that, which is also because of me and so, no, I don’t know exactly how I’m going to trust you like I did before knowing you can just casually do that, but I don’t want be so stuck in my pain that I destroy everything that’s important to me. So if you can...I don’t know,” Morgan shrugged. “If you feel like it’s not destroyed yet, I’d like to be the kind of friend that does more than just send you sad birthday presents. I’d like to try. And I’d…” For some reason this was the most difficult part of all. Morgan tried. I’d like to be a witch again. A witch without magic. A mundane witch, who burns too much incense and works her will with glorified mind tricks and normal people stuff. The kind I used to smirk at and feel sorry for. In the end, she couldn’t. “The rest doesn’t matter right now,” she said. Holding herself up with all the strength she had, she looked at Nell with hope. “But what do you say, Nell?”

Quick on the heels of Nell’s hopeful question was the memory of the sourness the conversation between herself and Morgan that had followed the failed exorcism held, the bitterness of it still lingering in her mouth despite the sweetness that was trying to cut through the ugly sensation. Following behind that was the anger that had filled her when the news of the Common had broken— the knowledge that Constance had killed again and that this time it had been seven lives taken, and that Blanche had been caught in the crossfire as well. How could Morgan have let it come to that? You don’t know me at all, do you, Nell? It had been written to the younger witch after their initial fallout, and for a moment Nell wondered whether the words were truer than she’d thought at the time. How could she be surprised about the deaths and injury that had come to pass and still claim to know the woman that stood before her? Stars, Nell, you are the closest thing I have to family right now besides Deirdre. Family didn’t always know every inch of one another, and that was a lesson she’d learned well when Bea had died, a lesson all her sisters had learned. And then Nell had learned it again when she’d been kicked from the coven, her family ripped out from beneath her feet. But Morgan had been there. Morgan Beck, the woman who was saved from the choice of whether or not she’d follow the coven’s decree by the grace of literal death and her subsequent separation from the witches. She was family that Nell couldn’t afford to lose after having the rest of it already taken. Morgan Beck who Nell was certain wouldn’t have followed the demands of the coven and their banishment of the Vural daughters even if she hadn’t been the victim of a family curse. The same curse that had brought them to this exact moment in time that had Nell fiddling with the paper of Morgan’s gift that was still held between Nell’s uncertain hands.

“I don’t think it’s destroyed,” Nell answered in a tone that was surprisingly quiet in lieu of the jumble of emotions that were avalanching through her chest. She swallowed hard a single time, trying to make sense of the words floating in her head, all of them demanding to be spoken at once, but struggling to pluck them from the churning sea of what she wanted to say, what she should have said, and what she was going to say now. “I just- I’m not a fixer, Morgan. Not when it comes to people,” she finally managed to settle on, voice trembling with the effort to try and contain the dull tones of her sadness, the heat of her former anger, and frustration of being unable to find the medium between them. “I’m really fucking shitty at it. I never know what to say, or how to talk about things without getting upset again.” Even now she could feel the beginnings of her temper being dampened by the knowledge that whatever she was feeling about the situation, Morgan was most likely experiencing it ten-fold— the love she still held for the zombie making the witch unwilling and unwilling to dole out any more pain onto her. “I...I want to try, though.”

“...You...you dont?” Morgan repeated Nell’s words slowly in case she’d misheard. The young witch was so uncharacteristically quiet, she couldn’t be sure. She stayed clenched, feeling her impending disappointment hanging over her like a pendulum in a horror show. She’d done shitty things, and the earth didn’t judge or get angry, but people did and had every right to. Nell especially. But then she spoke again.

“You can be upset with me,” Morgan said softly. “I uh...I did a lot to be upset about. And you don’t have to... I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a ‘fixer’, you know? It’s not a box you get sorted into or not. You just learn and you try and maybe it happens faster for some people than others and--” She reached out her hand, fingers contracting and flexing as she tried to gauge whether she could, should, touch her. “We can just take it a little bit at a time and uh…” She sniffled and smiled bravely. “Can I hug you? Real question. N-no is super understandable. But--” It would be great if she could. It would feel like forgiveness even if she wasn’t yet. “Can I? Is that weird?”

“No...no, I don’t,” Nell affirmed, thinking of all the times she’d lost friends and counted them long gone, not at all accustomed to getting a second chance, but willing to take it and hold it tight nonetheless. “And you can be upset with me,” she quickly echoed, knowing things wouldn’t instantly be right. The witch’s shoulders relaxed, sagging in the slightest as Morgan did what she always did— somehow always having the perfect and right words for the situation and Nell’s self-consciousness. “Well then...I guess we can try, right?” She watched as Morgan’s hand opened and closed like a door in front of her, offering Nell a way in should she want to take it. Uncertainly she reached for the offered touch, using it as a way to pull Morgan into the hug she’d asked for. Her arms were softer around the zombie’s shoulders as she embraced her, still tired and sore from her less than comforting ventures at Neveah’s demon mansion the night before but holding on despite it. “I don’t think it’s weird,” she mumbled. Perhaps it was a little stiffer than their hugs had been in the past, but if this was the form the peace offering was taking, Nell wouldn’t be the one to shove it away. “Did you wanna come in? I actually have a present for you, too.”

Morgan clung to Nell as tight as she dared. They fit so easily against each other, head to head and hand to hand. The movement wasn’t fluid or effortless, but Morgan could almost feel the energy that still existed between them, flowing in and around, back and forth until it could reach some kind of equilibrium. Nell still wanted her in her family. She might be the only Vural to think so, but she was the only one that mattered.

“Come in?” She repeated, lifting her head from Nell’s shoulder. “Are you sure? I mean, that it would be okay--?” She tried to peer into the house, waiting for Bea or Luce or some spectre of guilt to pop out and declare that she wasn’t allowed to come inside at all, ever, and furthermore, she had no business asking forgiveness from Nell or anyone else. But no one came out to spoil the moment, and Morgan didn’t have enough fear or sense to turn away from Nell’s offer. “But I do. Want to. You didn’t have to get me anything though.” She pulled away, sniffling as she smiled. “But thank you, Nell. Really, really. Thank you.”

Nell bit down her lip as Morgan squeezed, trying to swallow the pang of pain that surfaced as Morgan’s arms unintentionally found the bruises and cuts she hadn’t healed from her and Adam’s continued infiltration of Ma’al’s demon cult. Those in visible places were always safely healed away, but the ones beneath her clothes and long sleeves were kept in secret. After all, Nell had to save every ounce of strength she had for what happened within the mansion’s hellish walls. But she also needed to keep unwanted questions at bay, unwilling to have her friends tangled in the mess she’d thrown herself into. Brushing away the darker thoughts of her current affairs, she pulled back to focus on Morgan, letting the brightness of the zombie’s face and their renewed friendship brush those shadows away. “Of course I’m sure,” she insisted, confidence re-entering her voice. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have offered. And I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to.” Nell gave Morgan’s hand a last squeeze before moving to tug the other woman over the threshold of the home, leading her to the living room where she’d kept the gifts she was planning on giving. “It’s this one,” she began as she handed Morgan a carefully wrapped package, her nerves returned for this moment as she hoped she’d gotten this right.

Morgan took a moment to look at the gift. If it wasn’t so wildly inappropriate, she would get out her phone and take a picture of it, so she could always remember the care that her friend had shown her, the love she didn’t deserve made visible in a carefully tied ribbon and a full package. She wanted to remember that care like this still existed. That even after doing some of the worst things she’d ever attempted, someone like Nell still wanted to give to her. But she would have to settle for her memory and hope that a hundred years or more down the line, she would be able to see Nell and this gift just like this. “Should we open them at the same time?” She asked, taking the package from Nell. “That’s how we did it at home when I was a kid. I’ll be careful with the ribbon. at least. It’s all so pretty…” She smiled sheepishly, moved and almost embarrassed by how much this meant to her. She nodded to Nell to indicate go and tore into the wrappings.

The first thing she saw were the Yule smudge sticks, so potent that she caught a whiff of cinnamon and pine. It was like the Yules from her childhood all over again, when they hung freshly cut firs and holly from every door and entryway. When the tapers ran down the sides in gothic, runny clumps, and the candlelights flickered and their shadows leapt along the wall like pixies in flight. It was everything. Underneath: vials of bath salts, colored in cleansing tones and filled with herbs that symbolized renewal, a fresh start to wash away the hurt that still stuck to her. And beneath that-- “Oh, Nell,” Morgan gasped. “How did you know? About any of this? I haven’t told anybody…” Her eyes filled up again. “After everything happened I went to Strawford Cemetery and tried to do a chord removal. I know it’s all like, jedi mind tricks, but I swear I felt lighter and I felt...something. Not a live energy something, but a connection to something. And I know you’ve been trying to tell me this all along, but I actually feel it now…” She clutched the package to her chest, gripping with all her might. “I want to be as much of a witch as I can be. I want to belong here, and put out things that...help, even a little. And that’s vague and dopey and I haven’t figured out anything more specific yet, but I just want you to know why this means so much. Thank you.”

Nell unwrapped her own gift with much less delicacy than Morgan opened her’s, the still present nervous energy making her a little overeager as she tore into the pretty packaging. She almost forgot to look at her own gift as she heard Morgan’s reaction to the present she’d been gifted, but her attention was easily re-captured by the crafting tools inside the box, instantly recognizing them for what they were. The hoops, twine, and other assorted supplies tugged at some place between her heart and gut, nostalgia gripping her as she counted a set of three. One for her and each of her sisters. “For wreaths and Yule!” Morgan had to have known this would be the girls first season without their family and coven, and given them something to do together in response, no doubt truly understanding the gravity of the girls’ situation and the way it seemed to stifle the usual traditions of the holiday. The cocoa supplies and taki bags beneath it all were obviously meant solely for the youngest witch, and Nell touched the gifts with a thoughtful hand, still in slight disbelief that Morgan was even here in the first place. “Thank you, Morgan. I- well, I love all this.” But what she loved most of all was that Morgan had wanted to give her a gift in the first place.

“I didn’t necessarily know,” Nell continued, still unable to shake the last of the nerves that had settled around her and Morgan. That would be normal though, right? They’d said they wouldn’t turn back into place at the drop of a hat. “I know it’s not anything remotely the same as you, but after the stuff that I went through well- I could only begin to imagine what you might have felt, and even though I didn’t lose my magic, I know that I would have still wanted my family after it. And everything I grew up with and stuff. Even if I...hated it at first.” That’s why Nell had grouped the witchy books under the bath salts and Yule sticks wanting to return them to Morgan long after the witch had lied and said she’d handed them over to Nisa and the coven. “It’s not vague and dopey,” Nell instantly rebutted. “We- we need it too, you know. Need another witch here.” Their mother’s coven was long gone out of their lives, but perhaps they could make a little one of their own. Looking down at her present, Nell waited a moment before making another offer. “You know- you could always make them with us. I could call Bea and Luce and see if they can come right now.”

“Yeah! I figured, something all of you can do together might, you know…Nothing’s going to make things like they were before, but they can still be good. And maybe this new turn of the wheel will be better too.” Morgan said, gushing with relief now that her gesture had been accepted. “But I didn’t want you to have to share your whole gift, that’s lame, right? So hopefully you can use them to enjoy the rest of your day, or any other traditions you get to do, or just, you know, cozy time to yourself. You do still get time like that, right? Anyway, I’m glad you like it…” She trailed off, uncertain how to proceed.

At Nell’s insistence that she consider herself another witch around, that she should stay with them for the day, Morgan’s eyes watered again. “O-oh, I don’t… I meant these for you and your sisters, and you should have your special time together, and I don't want to be the reason anyone…” Doesn’t come. Leaves you alone during yuletide. Morgan shrank back, out of the doorway, her bright smile only a little weighted by sadness. “But I do, want to be around. Maybe after the regular new year? I’m just gonna be traveling, for my birthday, as it turns out. But still-- I’d like to. Just, you know, not at the risk of making things weirder or harder after everything I’ve done…” Her resolve gave way for a second and she dove back to Nell for another swift press of a hug before ducking out the doorway again. Maybe for Imbolc we’ll have a big cleaning party together, huh?”

Nell nodded with a half-sad smile, unable to pretend as if the loss of her coven didn’t sting at the mere mention or thought of it. Still— Morgan’s comforting words were more than welcome, and brought back a trickle of warmth to drive out some of the cold and drafty winds of the hole left where her family had been. “Thank you, Morgan. I know you’re right.” Unfortunately, the knowledge that new and good things would come didn’t always help to lessen the wounds of the past. That would take time if such wounds could ever be truly healed. “And yeah- of course I’ve always got time for hot chocolate.” The brief answer was an easy enough way to brush away the real answer of her having been far too busy with the twisted rituals and gatherings of the cult amongst the other day to day problems of White Crest that claimed her attention.  

Morgan’s reluctance to join in the festivities wasn’t all that surprising, and Nell didn’t feel the need to push it at a moment like this. It was probably for the best if they wanted room to breath and return to normal or create whatever their new ‘normal’ would look like. “Oh shit, well- I hope you have a good trip. You’ll have to tell me about it when you get back, obviously.” There was a flare of jealousy in Nell as she offered Morgan the well wishes, remembering her own travels around the world before she’d returned to White Crest. She doubted she’d ever experience something like that again, not when there were so many things and people tying her to White Crest now. “We’ll figure it out, though. With all of us. And then we can do that big cleaning party with some midnight margaritas, and maybe even make some Brigid crosses.” As she headed with Morgan back towards the front door of the home, Nell held the zombie’s present to her chest, the anger that had gripped her earlier finding a temporary solace that let her enjoy the bond that had been restored on this day. No doubt it’d return when they had to speak of things less pleasant than travel and parties and gifts. But for now, she could simply enjoy the hopefulness buzzing within as she leaned against the doorframe, giving her farewell. Finally, she would relax in the knowledge that it wouldn’t be their final one. “I’ll see you later, Morgan.”

[yoyo-inspace]

Mmmm... Top 5 hdm scenes!

all of them

Alright so there are tons of scenes in the entire trilogy that mean so much to me or that I find funny or horrifying or thrilling, etc. Had to narrow it down somehow. So I sort of settled for “scenes that stayed with me” after like, the first or second time I read the trilogy. Those that really etched their way into my head from when I was quite young. They don’t come in particular order though. I noticed going through it after I’d written it that there’s definitely a heavy bias towards moments in TAS, which I think is fair enough considering that’s the book I read last, when I was most mature, and it also has the culmination of a lot of stories - those moments wouldn’t have been half as impactful if they didn’t have the storytelling in the other books to lean on. 

This got longer than I thought, but that’s generally what happens when I talk HDM. Also, obvious SPOILER WARNING for anyone who haven’t read the trilogy. 

1. Lyra finding Tony Makarios in the shed.God, this scene. The build-up for it is amazing and absolutely chilling. There’s been build-up all throughout the book to what the Gobblers are actually doing. We get closer and closer to it. And then this chapter happens. The slow approach to the shed, the ominous but vague warnings from the alethiometer, the stories from the town’s people. You can really feel the dread creeping up on you. And then that last paragraph hits you.

The little boy was huddled against the wood drying-rack where hung row upon row of gutted fish, all as stuff as boards. He was clutching a piece of fish to him as Lyra was clutching Pantalaimon, with both hands, hard, against her heart; but that was all he had, a piece of dried fish; because he had no daemon at all. The Gobblers had cut it away. That was intercession, and this was a severed child.

It honestly gives me shivers every time. Nearly tear up reading it. I think it’s one of the best examples of how brilliant Pullman’s world-building is (and I do think his world-building is the strongest aspect of NL/TGC). I honestly don’t think this will be as strong in the tv show (and the movie really didn’t do it justice) - though I hope it’ll be horrifying - and that is because in a visual medium, we won’t get the horror and insight into Lyra’s mind that we have in the book. That’s okay, some things just fit better in the written medium, and I think this moment is going to be one of them. Lyra’s internal struggle with how to be brave is so good, and I hope they manage to portray a little bit of it on screen. 

2. Roger leaving the land of the deadIf I tear up every time I read the Tony Makarios scene, this is the scene where I bawl. Literally, I started crying while writing the passage down. The entire sequence in the Land of the Dead is intriguing to me, and Lyra telling the ghosts of what will happen to them is beautiful, and the struggle to get there is painful. And then they get there. And Will opens the window and they’re all crowding, afraid and yet excited to be out of that horrible place. And then a little ghost of a boy, the boy who was the reason Lyra set out on this journey to begin with, takes a step forward. 

The first ghost to leave the world of the dead was Roger. He took a step forward, and turned to look back at Lyra, and laughed in surprise as he found himself turning into the night, the starlight, the air… and then he was gone, leaving behind such a vivid little burst of happiness that Will was reminded of the bubbles in a glass of champagne.

That specific phrasing, the description of happiness as “the bubbles in a glass of champagne” has stuck with me for so long. It’s one I keep coming back to. 

3. Lyra leaving Pan Don’t have much to say about this other than I still have such a vivid image in my head from when my dad first read that passage to me, of how I remembered it all to look, of what I felt at the time. Especially my shock at the call-back to Lyra’s betrayal. Again, a scene that in several layers is strengthened by the world-building. We’ve been so convinced at this point how painful it is to leave your daemon, both emotionally and physically. I’m greatly looking forward The Secret Commonwealth to dig into what this did to the relationship of Lyra and Pantalaimon. 

[--] Lyra was doing the cruelest thing she had ever done, hating herself, hating the deed, suffering for Pan and with Pan and because of Pan; trying to put him down on the cold path, disengaging his cat-claws from her clothes, weeping, weeping. Will closed his ears: the sound was too unhappy to bear. Time after time she pushed her daemon away, and still he cried and tried to cling. [--] 

”Pan, no one’s done this before,” she whispered waveringly, ”but Will says we’re coming back and I swear, Pan, I love you, I swear we’re coming back - I will - take care, my dear - you’ll be safe - we will come back, and if I have to spend every minute of my life finding you again I will, I won’t stop, I won’t rest, I won’t - oh Pan - dear Pan - I’ve got to, I’ve got to.” And she pushed him away so that he crouched bitter and cold and frightened on the muddy ground.    What animal he was now, Will could hardly tell. He seemed to be so young, a cub, a puppy, something helpless and beaten, a creature so sunk in misery that it was more misery than creature. His eyes never left Lyra’s face, and Will could see her making herself not look away, not avoid the guilt, and he admired her honesty and her courage at the same time as he was wrenched with the shock of their parting.

[--] Her eyes never left Pantalaimon, who stood trembling at the shore end of the jetty; but as the boatman let go of the iron ring and swung his oars out to pull the boat away, the little dog-daemon trotted helpless out to the very end, his claws clicking softly on the soft planks, and stood watching, just watching, as the boat drew away and the jetty faded and vanished in the mist.

(Sidenote: I remember getting to the chapter titled “Lyra and her Death” and doing a big WHAAAAAT kind of face. My dad laughed at me. Either way, I find the concept of a personal Death strangely comforting.) 

4. Asriel and Marisa into the Abyss This one is difficult to quote. Because it’s the whole scene, the whole part of it, the fight - which is brutal - and the ferocity of these two people who, granted, are both absolutely awful, but they do this thing at the very end and it saves everyone. It’s one of the many things that people do at the end that saves everyone, but still. Especially Marisa, who reveals earlier that she was so afraid of exactly this type of faith, just nothingness, to make that last jump, as Asriel calls her name, and she’s roaring as they topple Metatron over, the fact that they both have each other’s daemons at their side. It’s just a very haunting scene. I don’t think the tv show (or any movie) would have been able to pull of the exact way I imagined this in my head, but I’m looking forward to seeing it all the same, and I hope that we get there. 

Instead of quoting the very end, I picked the moments just before, when they’re together again for a brief moment before Metatron arrives. It’s a rather sweet conversation, considering who’s involved, Marisa crying and Asriel comforting her. The “Dust is beautiful - I never knew” stuck with me especially. 

He took her in his arms, and the golden monkey embraced the snow leopard’s neck and buried his black face in her fur.  ”Is Lyra safe? Has she found her daemon?” she whispered.  ”The ghost of the boy’s father is protecting both of them.”  ”Dust is beautiful. I never knew.”  ”What did you tell him?”  ”I lied and lied, Asriel - Let’s not wait too long. I can’t bear it. We won’t live, will we? We won’t survive like the ghosts?”  ”Not if we fall into the abyss. We came here to give Lyra time to find her daemon, and then time to live and grow up. If we take Metatron to extinction, Marisa, she’ll have that time, and if we go with him, it doesn’t matter.”  ”And Lyra will be safe?”  ”Yes, yes,” he said, gently.  He kissed her. She felt as soft and light in his arms as she’d done when Lyra was conceived thirteen years before.

5. Lyra and Will freeing the Authority For a series that people keep harping on is about killing God, the actual death of the creature who called himself that is actually quite beautiful. It’s even a little sad. But it’s also important to me that there is actually no killing going on. All that happens, in all its unremarkable-ness - because no one else notices - is that there are two children who are kind and wants to help. And that’s what they do. 

Will cut through the crystal in one movement and reached in to help the angel out. Demented and powerless, the aged being could only weep and mumble in fear and pain and misery, and he shrank away from what seemed like another threat.  ”It’s all right,” Will said, ”we can help you hide, at least. Come on, we won’t hurt you.”  The shaking hand seized his and feebly held on. The old one was uttering a wordless groaning whimper that went on and on, and grinding his teeth, and compulsively plucking at himself with his free hand; but as Lyra reached in too to help him out, he tried to smile, and to bow, and his ancient eyes deep in their wrinkles blinked at her with innocent wonder.  Between them they helped the ancient of days out of his crystal cell; it wasn’t hard, for he was light as paper, and he would have followed them anywhere, having no will of his own, and responding to simple kindness like a flower to the sun. But in the open air there was nothing to stop the wind from damaging him, and to their dismay his form began to loosen and dissolve. Only a few moments later he had vanished completely, and their last impression was those eyes, blinking in wonder, and a sigh of the most profound and exhausted relief.  Then he was gone: a mystery dissolving in mystery.

___

Whew. There we go. More crying than I was expected, though I probably should have, considering it’s me.

Quick honorable mentions, because I’m a horrible cheat, but without explanations: Lyra in the Retiring Room, Lyra leading the children through the snowstorm after Bolvangar, Mary Malone talking to the Angels through the Cave, Will and Lyra fleeing the children of Cittàgazze, all of Marzipan, Mary Malone standing on the platform and looking through her spyglass at the dust, Pan and Lyra talking about the Republic of Heaven. 

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Kira (9)

CHAPTER 9: It’s a Different Dawn

Loki x fem!Reader (Kira)

Series: Will contain fluff, smut, bloodshed, violence, anxiety, tears and the cries of my wilted soul.

Chapter content: some old stuff is dug up, a new place is visited, a new stranger is...met?

Warnings: not much really...but then again...not much really :P

Word count: I am in such a weird phase right now. Like a trance. I can't seem to make my mind come to this very moment sometimes. Often, actually.  But this place such a weirdly comfortable escape I keep wondering if things would’ve been different had I known about this site ages back.

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

The one time you like the city you have hated so much for so long, you are leaving it for another place- continent, in fact- and are somehow surprised by the streaks of flawless orange, red, pink and purple paint the sky the most colourful for the first time. The roads are empty when the car leaves from The Hidden Grim. The forests give way to barren lands outside the city walls and the concrete jungle is but a side view to your journey to the airport.

Robert was supposed to play the role of your chauffeur till the terminal but you are being escorted by another man today. The same man who, according to you- had perfect yet eerie timing for saving you that horrendous night.

"Everything okay back there?"

His voice. Yes, of course, that is one of the reasons you are so wary of him whenever he is around you. His voice seems to have a gravity of its own, moving the things around him in order, according to his elemental force. Maybe that is why even though he has been nothing but a gentleman, he just does not seem to rub you the right way. Which answers the question of why your boss does not like having him around. No two stars with such strong force fields can survive in such close vicinity.

"Didn't realise you cared so much about me."

Ah. Right . You had nearly forgotten Loki's presence beside you. Nearly. Hard task but it happened for- you look down at your watch- twelve seconds.

Even at five in the morning, he is dressed with the intention of taking over the world. The black suit does not seem to disappoint the looker- in this case, you- when you wonder what all had Gustav packed for you.

"The question wasn't for you," Heimdall admits with an irritated sigh and a raised brow.

You are clearly sitting on the edge of a black hole waiting to be formed.

"Hm," Loki sighs, closing his phone, "here I thought we were finally getting warm."

From the corner of his eyes his watches you smile at his- what he thinks is ill-timed- joke, feeling this strange flutter take form inside his chest. He feels better watching you smile after the night you had. But the moment he remembers the horror and the tears on your face, his fingers close themselves into a fist, calculating all the ways to find out the source and theorise what could possibly be done with them.

I'm watching out for my own interests , he even tries to convince himself. If she isn't in the right frame of her mind, it will affect my work. There is no other reason.

"Everything's fine, Mr Heimdall, sir," you admit, breaking the cold trance of his thoughts that Loki is swimming in, resurfacing at the call of your tired yet soft voice.

"Okay, good," Heimdall acknowledges with a nod, swerving smoothly towards the private terminal, "just wanted to make sure your boss wasn't being the reason for your silence."

You brows converge as you turn to face Loki in confusion, him doing the same but ending it with an eye roll and a slight shake of his head. "He has a tendency to mock my skills as a host ever since the beginning."

You let your tired eyes go a little wide to show the dawn of realisation engulfing your sleep-craving brain while Heimdall scoffs from the driver's seat.

Ten minutes later you sit in the most comfortable little jet you have witnessed in your life, your hope of getting a shut-eye in the back of the plane seeming impossible as you are shown to the comfortable soft leather seat facing Loki while Heimdall and Robert- who was responsible for the vehicle bringing the luggage- sit at the back.

Oh well, might just make good use of it.

"The marketing and finance floor each sent in a list of investors for the new subsidiary of agro-plant and machinery."

Loki- already settled in his seat, his jacket resting in the closet at the back, his sleeves rolled up just enough for you to think how used to he is hiding his scar- looks up at a fidgety you trying to find a comfortable angle to sit as you open up your laptop and turn it to show him the list.

"Tell them to run their respective checks," he concludes, taking the champagne offered by the hostess who is looking at him with the most suggestive look, ticking something off inside your mind.

"Uh...they already did," you mention, your fingers curling into your palms, trying to stop you from saying anything further.

Loki has learned to read that look you have on your face right now. The look of having something to say but letting anything out for the fear of something awful.

"And?"

He watches you blink, take in a lungful and sit straight in your seat before finally speaking.

"It...um...there are a couple of things that I...what I'm trying to s-"

"She made me run an intense background check on the list. None of them is worth letting into your business," Heimdall finishes all your anxiety for you and creates another tide nonetheless.

Loki eyes you with curiosity first and you are still trying to make sense of what he is thinking before he pulls your laptop towards him and eyes the list.

"What's wrong with the Silvercombs?"

You turn to Heimdall, who simply tilts his head to let you take charge on this one.

"The heir to the business is the elder son. He's..." you tilt your hands in the traditional gesture of 'that's how it is', "a known socialite who has been stealing money from the company's charity to fund his extravagant parties."

You can hear Loki click and swipe on your machine, watching the stills and captured CCTV footage of the man being involved in everything that is wrong.

"Okay," Loki's brow does a little wave, letting it seep in, "what about Dante and Bradburn?"

"Involved in sex trafficking," you say softly, wrapping one hand on your opposite arm, rubbing your thumb over the skin that can feel the goosebumps come in waves over the surface.

"Smith and Darby?"

"Darby is renouncing the partnership soon. He is leaving the empire to settle with his new wife in the Himalayas after they lost their daughter in an accident. Smith doesn't know about the decision yet but Heimdall thinks he will grow suspicious of the fund flow within the next month or two which might not be good for the employees if there isn't a contingency plan that can bear Smith's temper."

"Would you like anything else with your champagne, sir?"

The hostess practically coos at Loki, making you wish you'd just taken an economy flight, never having to witness the ridiculousness that you were seeing right now.

"No, thank you," Loki sits up to look at you, not even breathing in that woman's direction, who- you admit to yourself- seems like Victoria's Secret model on her off days, "so no one on that list is clean?"

"How about some s-"

"Excuse me," Loki breaks the woman's coy composure with just a thread of iciness, "I am trying to have a conversation with her, do you mind?"

It is hard to look at the poor lady trying to keep herself together as she goes away but not that hard when you realise you are the only one on the plane without any refreshments.

"There are two companies we weren't able to find much about. Anvil Corp and Goliath Inc. Nothing is given about the owners on the company's website. The VPs are ordinary people and are as clean as a human can be but I still have my doubts."

The captain of the flight welcomes every passenger by their name before announcing take off, making you the first one to fasten your seatbelt as the engine comes to life.

No further conversation is made as you see the gravel move back from outside your window.

What your mildly anxious heart does not notice is the three pair of eyes discreetly glued on to you, looking for any signs of discomfort that might need external aid.

Loki can see your eyes shut close- partially due to the uneasiness of the flight, partially due to the heaviness in your head thanks to a sleepless night- while your fingers try to dig into the leather of the armrests. He cannot help but notice how your breathing accelerates with every second as his mind counts the gap between every inhale. You open your eyes just for a few moments, making the mistake of looking outside just as the plane tilts and the dew in your eyes is clearly visible to the man sitting opposite you.

Without wasting another bit he reaches into his pant pockets and takes out a silver strip of some medicine.

"Here," he calls out to you, "John recommended me this for my...travelling sickness. Take a tablet."

You look at the silver strip, sending its reflection everywhere inside the plane, wondering for a moment about the medicine before throwing every precaution out the door to take it from his hand and popping one inside your mouth.

The little tablet tastes sweet on the tip of your tongue, readily dissolving in your mouth. Within minutes you start feeling your nerves relax, your breathing ease up, and your hands unwind. That's what it takes to finally have slumber engulf you in its embrace.

"What did you give her?" Heimdall whispers at Loki with a hint of anger, frustration and worry swirling inside his voice.

"An SOS for anxiety," Loki whispers back, looking at the unconvinced face of the watcher, "oh relax! Her doctor recommended it. And I know that you know."

Heimdall does not counter him. Instead, he watches him get up and take the seat next to Robert and Heimdall, swivelling the furniture towards them in order to face them more comfortably.

"Did you find anything?"

Heimdall watches Loki's gaze go further than where he sits, following it to see Robert produce a file for both the spectators. He takes the file and opens it for him and Loki to see. Inside is the entire life of a man that goes by the name Harrison Wardwell.

"There is a five-year timeline from about ten years ago when he was in the same city as Kira," Robert whispers, pointing at the activities of the man during that time along with pictures of him from every source that is at his disposal. "It looked like coincidence first until I found out he used to work with her mother's sister. According to the photographs on her social media, they dated for a while before he decided to end things and move away."

Both Heimdall and Loki study the timeline intensely, letting the information be etched in their brains.

Loki's eyes wandering eyes pause over Robert when he watches him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"What is it?"

Robert breathes in before turning to look at you sleeping, hearing you snore lightly.

"During that time, Kira frequently visited her family doctor for various ailments," Robert hesitates a bit before continuing, "her doctor had coded her file with symptoms of depression. And...more."

Both spectators looked on at the copy of notes Robert had put inside the file.

*Patient shows symptoms of depression...family not been able to catch up...Does not express anything...as if...in shock...unable to register her surroundings...avoids talking to the male staff in the hospital...*

The flip of the page forces Robert to glue his eyes on Heimdall and Loki, reading every minute change in their expression when they see what seems like a family photograph with a recognisable Harrison and barely identifiable- not to mention too young- Kira not smiling for the camera while the former keeps his hand on her shoulder.

.

"I was not expecting this."

"It's Tony Stark. What else were you expecting?"

You look at Loki with a mixture of confusion and frown.

What the hell do you mean 'It's Tony Stark...'

"But...it's an expo ..." you try to reason with yourself than with Loki as the cars that picked you up from the airport now slowly take you through the gates of what seems like a little heaven made right in Anthony Edward Stark's city.

There are cars coming in and going out through this estate that is covered in more green than the entire New York City combined. Striking villas lineup two streets, nearly making you miss the lake right in the middle of lush green golf grounds lying at the back of those too-good-to-be-true houses.

Wait. Will we be staying in one of these...mansions? you wonder through the window when another lane filled with better villas named after a flower passed by. But I just left a mansion!

Turning another lane, the driver stops the vehicle after just a few meters.

"The reception, Madam, Sir," he announces.

You are trying to let his words seep through your brain when the door on your side opens with fair greetings.

"Welcome to Potts Sunrise Estate," the concierge greets, indirectly urging you to get out of the car.

The air smells of grass and something sweet and sensational that you cannot put your finger on. The sun is brighter and the sky is clearer than you'd seen eleven hours before. There are birds chirping somewhere in the distance while a few people are going in and out of the reception, some of them meeting up like long lost friends, which, a part of you envies for a withering moment.

"I'll go see what Stark's kept in store for us," Loki mentions, adjusting his jacket before turning to Robert and Heimdall- getting out of the car behind you.

You see them exchange a nod before Robert takes out the luggage and Heimdall excuses himself, telling the former to go ahead while he 'takes care of some business'.

Great. I'm invisible I guess.

The reception is nothing too over the top but a decent room of glass supported by wooden beams and decorated with plants, vines and windchimes- housing a place for the people who are responsible for helping out the guests. By the east side in the present shade sits a statue of Buddha in meditation and opposite to it in the lawn is a swing chair in white. The windchimes strike a duet with the breeze that puts your soul in a happy mood.

"No, but you don't get it, Hope. I'd love to stay in one of those mansions because it's day time. But the moment the sun goes down I'd be running around for the smallest box to hide in because my brain won't stop playing 'Tip-toe by the window'. It's the monkey brain, hon. Can't do nothin' about it."

You turn around to watch a fair-skinned man with eyes filled with so much light, you think they might start shedding tears of pure sunshine at any moment. The woman with him is his total opposite. Filled with grace and composure that dances with her hair bouncing off her shoulder, away from the collar of the white pantsuit she is dressed in.

"All I asked you was whether you picked the key of our chalet from reception or not," the woman decrees, walking away, the man following her like a puppy lost in love.

"Also I don't get half the people arriving here in three-piece suits. The expo doesn't start till tomorrow. What are you guys, business jocks?" He raises his hands in question, making eye contact with you halfway when he sees your eyes light up at the topic.

"Oh my God," you chime, "right?"

Like a hundred light bulbs turning on at once, his face lights up as he points his index finger at you in the friendliest 'hey, she gets me!' gesture.

"See?" he tries to show Hope another human who agrees with him before turning back towards you to shout, "love your shirt."

You look down at the Lord of The Rings themed blue shirt matched with black cotton palazzo pants, smiling at the thought of looking anything near decent in this. That too after an eleven-hour flight.

"Thank you!" you nearly yell back, turning towards the reception with a huge smile on your face, nearly bumping into a very curious Loki.

You try to hide the joy on your face so as to compose yourself in his presence, clearing your throat to try and explain the reason for this absurd goofiness.

"Twenty."

"Hm?"

"The chalet booked for us. Number twenty."

"Oh. Okay."

You both walk behind the concierge helping you out with the luggage.

Wait.

The chalet booked for us. Us. Us-us?

How many rooms does a chalet have?

What even is a chalet?

.

"Ah, rooms," you sigh with relief on walking in another room on the upper floor. With three rooms in all- two bedrooms with attached bathrooms on the first floor and one of similar nature downstairs apart from the cosy living room with an open kitchenette- you are already falling in love with this place.

"Keep these in the room upstairs and the rest in this room," you hear Loki's voice from the living room downstairs.

Your belongings have been moved to the room attached to the hall while his stuff has moved up to the supposed 'master bedroom'.

When did chivalry die to make him the boss of all decisions?

You feel the jetlag catalyse with this microscopic bitterness rising inside you. Is the same man who comforted me- in his own way- last night?

The bell breaks the heaviness rising around you.

Loki looks from behind the kitchen counter as you walk towards the main door to open it.

An attendant with a kind smile stands with a letter over a box of chocolates in his hand.

"Invitation from Miss Potts and Mister Stark," he announces ever so politely, inclining Loki to take a few steps towards the door but not come any closer for that man to directly hand him the letter.

"Oh, what for?" you ask excitedly.

"Welcome dinner in honour of all the guests gathered here in the name of the brighter future with Stark Industries," he responds with a little bow.

You are looking in the plain yet elegant invitation in your hand- clearly Pepper's choice- too overwhelmed by the thought to finally meet her after such a long time.

"We will be awaiting your presence at dinner tonight," the attendant seems to conclude, again with a bow, "Mr and Mrs Odinson."

You hear your soul scream while it dies and rises from its grave simultaneously.

"W-ha-no-uhhh...I-we are...no...uhh..."

Words have abandoned you in the forest drowned in the thickest blanket of snow. The animals are all looking at you with pure judgement in their eyes while you're trying to explain that one arctic monkey you are not made for an ice-water lunge as he continues to look at you in confusion.

And through all this chaotic silence, Loki is that one sane fox who lets go of a tired breath and steps forward to close the door in that monkey's face, finally putting a stop to the verbal stroke you just suffered.

.

"It is supposed to be dinner!"

"With the most influential people in the world!"

"So?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...hello?"

"You and Loki truly deserve each other-"

"Gustav!"

"-s company!"

You look at your phone screen with the urge to break through it and shake Gustav by his collar.

"I am not wearing that thing to dinner tonight."

"So you're letting all those hours of sweat and tears of mine go to waste?"

"This is pure blackmail."

"Is it though?" you can clearly hear that rusty teasing edge in his voice.

"Come on, man, this...this thing," you hesitate before lowering your voice to a whisper, "it's too revealing!"

The knock on your room's door is slight but that doesn't mean it isn't enough to make you jump where you sit in your bathrobe, nearly throwing your phone away.

"Kira, are you decent?"

I'm fucking terrified if that matters!

"Y-yes," you declare, letting Loki turn the handle to your door and step in.

You have to catch your breath in order to not blurt out what all you feel when you see him at that moment.

Loki has cleaned up nicely. The three-piece suit- sheen black over the smaragdine shirt- fits him a bit too perfectly. The pants around his long legs are just the right length to complement them. The shirt is loose enough to look comfortable but not loose enough to feel shaggy on him. His hair has been swept back quite thoroughly and his presence smells of jasmine wrapping a street in a village that sells its freshest herbs and spices.

"You...are not ready yet," he mentions after a quick scan of you, head to toe.

"You look nice," you are finally able to speak, now realising what he just said. "Oh, yeah. I'll um...don't worry. You go ahead. I'll catch up at the villa," you assure him, trying to breathe in between words to keep your brain working.

Loki gives you a thoughtful look before turning around to go towards the door. "Don't get lost on your way."

Just this once you excuse his insult and go back to the call you were concerned about a few seconds ago.

"Uhh..."

"He looks riveting, doesn't he," Gustav states in the most casual way.

"...that would be an understatement," you whisper, fearing he might be hearing you from somewhere close by.

"You don't have to fight with me, dear. Just ask yourself what you would like to feel tonight."

Feel? Feel.

And like the unforeseen monsoon winds hitting smack in the middle of a hot summer, your wet dream starring you and Loki flashes right before your eyes.

You look at yourself in the full-length mirror next to the bed, thinking what you are already feeling right this second.

"I want to feel..." you do not realise you are thinking out loud saying the words as they form.

"I want to feel that dangerous spark tonight," you conclude.

"Well...?" Gustav's voice reflects all shades of excitement.

Filling your lungs with air, you straighten your back, watching those callow eyes turn a shade darker to reveal something that has been long asleep.

"What footwear do you think would look great with that dress?"

[caandlle]

NALU Store Clerk AU. Pt.1: “L-U-C-Y!”

Lucy’s sick of fight after fight with her father and goes to wallow in a parking lot where Natsu’s just a cute store clerk who’s really too sunny for a girl who’s breaking down.

Lucy rests her forehead against the wheel of her car, eyes fluttering closed. Her chest heaves with the effort of choking down the sob that’s begging to be released but she won’t. She can’t.

It’ll just stack another piece against her father’s board, swiped from her until the whole game threatens to topple over. A lonely chessboard with one empty, blank side.  

A game she’s tired of playing.  

Tears form in the corner of her eyes but she squints, fighting them off. Crying will get her nowhere and she’s already too lost. Lucy clutches at the golden key strung around her neck by a thin, old chain; a familiar comfort that makes fighting the tears a little easier. A mother’s last gift to her daughter who held it between her tiny fingers in awe, not yet knowing exactly the worth of the treasure in her grasp.  

The last gift that she’d ever receive.  

God, she’d give up anything to just hear her mother’s voice, to be embraced by the arms of the woman who loved her with her entire being. Lucy hasn’t been hugged in years. That fact, so small yet so shattering, breaks her self-control into a million little pieces. The dam breaks and Lucy sobs, alone, in the middle of an empty parking lot of a grocery store that’s she’s never been too.  

She feels pathetic, so, so pathetic, but she can’t stop it. The tears fall and her heart aches with every gasping breath, and all she wants to do is curl into a ball and let the world just slip away. Just watch it dissolve until she can’t feel how lonely, how tired of pretending, she is.  

There’s a knock against her window which startles her so much she snaps upright with a loud shriek, knocking her head against the wheel painfully, the seatbelt digging into her neck. Her eyes snap over to the culprit: a man with a pink apron to match his – pink? - hair, knuckles raised against the glass pane. He mouths something she can’t understand, words muffled between the barrier separating them.  

Lucy sucks in a sharp breath, turning her head to not-so-subtly wipe away the tears and their trails. A quick glance in her mirror shows that she looks like a wreck; make-up smeared, black smudges under her eyes, blonde hair all frizzy and out of place. Lucy closes her eyes and gathers up the last bit of courage she has left, and rolls down the window of her car.  

“Y-Yes?” She sniffs, wincing at how hoarse and strained her voice is. It’s so obvious she’d just been sobbing her heart out. Crap.  

The shop clerk – at least she thinks he is, by the apron and the name tag. Natsu (if his tag is to be believed) scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, averting his gaze. “Been told by the owner to check out ya car, since it’s been here for a while. He gets all suspicious when a car hangs around late at night.”  

Lucy blinks and is mortified to feel a tear slip. “Oh, uh, I’m so sorry – yes, yes of course. I’ll just – I'll get going now.”  

Natsu clears his throat and steps back as she turns the engine back on, hands shaking. She anchors herself on the wheel, feeling the weight of it underneath her fingertips, to hold her together long enough that she doesn’t have another breakdown before she’s out of the parking lot. Lucy’s not sure where she’s going to go now – she has nowhere to go. She’s definitely not going to her house, where her father sits at his desk, sterile and cold. That house is no longer her home (and hasn’t been for a long time), lacking the warmth and love that once resided within its large walls.

She’s about to press on the gas when - “Shit, uh, wait.” A hand is placed on her door, the words hurried as he leans down to peer into the window once more. “Look, I know I’m a stranger but I can’t just let a cryin’ woman drive off in the middle of the night. My old man’ll kill me.”  

Lucy freezes, eyes locked in front of her. The single street light flickers and suddenly she’s crying again, tears flowing nonstop. She must look so wretched that even the store clerk was trying to soothe her. That only made her cry harder, gasping as she struggled to keep breathing under the sobs wracking her body.  

Natsu tenses, looking like he has no idea what to do with a crying random girl (which he likely doesn’t), and swallows audibly. “Uh, lady? D’you wanna... I dunno, come inside? I can get ya some water.”  

“L-Lucy. The name’s Lucy.” She manages to get out somehow, still crying. The words are shaky at best but Lucy’s just proud that she was able to speak at all. Once she got passed this catastrophe, she was never going to live it down.

“Natsu.” He grins, showcasing fanged teeth with his too-large smile. It’s so bright and it nearly blinds her. She hasn’t seen something to open and free in what feels like years, so the sight of it burns her. Lucy hiccups, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.  

“I know.”  

Natsu takes a step back, eyeing her warily. “Are ya a stalker or somethin’? Look Luigi, I’ve never met’cha before."  

“What? As if I’d stalk you -”

“Hey! What’s wrong with me?” Natsu yelps, hand held to his heart as if betrayed.

“- You’ve got a name tag, idiot! And the name’s L-U-C-Y!” She huffs, crossing her arms irritably under her breasts.  

“There. Gotcha to stop cryin’, didn’t I?” Natsu smiles, softer this time, and rests both his elbows against the door of her car. Lucy’s eyes widen in surprise, fingers reaching up to brush against the corner of her eyes. She swallows another hiccup and offers him a tiny, wobbly smile of her own.  

“Thank you.”  

“Hah! I was right.” Natsu smirks, triumphant. She tilts her head sideways, confused and utterly lost. “You look better when you’re smiling.” Her cheeks bloom into a dusty pink, most likely intensifying her pitiful appearance, skin still blotchy and flushed from her crying.  

She rolls her eyes at him although it’s just for show. “Bet you say that to all the girls who’s cried in this parking lot.”  

“Nah,” Natsu breathes, voice light and underlined with amusement. “Just you.”

Lucy’s rendered mute at that, eyes blinking furiously, not exactly sure what to do now. She’s saved, ironically, by the culprit of her sudden loss of words. Natsu glances back to the store where an elderly looking man has his face pressed up against the window pane of the store, eyes peering into the dimly lit parking lot.  

“Aw, I gotta get goin’ otherwise he’ll make me sweep the floors for hours.” Natsu shudders, nose scrunched in disgust as if that’s the worst punishment he’s ever heard. Lucy snorts at that before covering her mouth, horrified at the sound that just came out of her.  

Natsu only gives her an amused look, snickering quietly under his breath. “I’ll see ya around, Luigi!” Her jaw slackens, hanging open in disbelief. Natsu turns away, walking towards his workplace with a wave of his hand.  

“MY NAME’S NOT LUIGI!” She shouts into the dark parking lot where only she, a girl whose heart ached with loneliness, and Natsu, an odd pink-haired store clerk remained.  

The smirk Natsu shot over his shoulder told her that he'd done that on purpose.

-

hiya everyone! I present to you the first part of my three-shot! I’ve yet to come up with a name (sue me) so for now it’s just going to stay as Store Clerk. This lil story was based of 16. in this prompt list by @thewritingstar  

Thanks for letting me use it, Star! Hope you guys enjoyed part 1! The other two will be up very, very soon :) Let me know what you think!

if you liked this, you can check out my other NALU work here!

[sachigram]

Blood and Coffee Chapter 18

((click here to read on ao3!!!!))

You're Dave Strider, but you honestly wish you weren't right now. You're still trying to make sense of what just happened, but you think you might be in shock. Caliborn is gone, you know that much. You don't know how, but you know Jake saved you all. And you know Jake is dead.

John is wailing beside you. He's on his knees, covering his face and wiping at his eyes with angry swipes of his hands. He glares at Dirk periodically, and then at you for not letting him attack Dirk.

Dirk is in the same spot, arms limp at his sides.

Nothing is left of Jake. You can't even smell him anymore.

You take a few deep breaths and then force yourself to calm. You can't stay here. It's early in the morning, and the sun is bearing down on you all.

“We need to get out of here,” you say, but no one even acknowledges you. “Guys, c'mon, we need to get out of the sun.”

Dirk's head tilts slightly towards you, and then he lifts his gloved hands and removes his hood, letting the sun burn him.

“Fuck!” You tackle him, forcing his hands down and covering his stupid head with the hood again. “You idiot! What are you—!”

“Jake...” Dirk says so softly you almost miss it.

“Jake wouldn't want you to off yourself, and you know it.”

“I'm supposed to...supposed to be with him.”

You sigh and slowly stand up, pulling Dirk up by his arm and supporting his useless weight. Dirk has a point. Mated vampires usually die if their mate dies. They usually reunite in Derse.

“Jake wasn't a vampire yet,” you say. John's head whips up to glare at you through his tears.

“Yes, he was! He wasn't human! He could come back! He could!”

“He was in the sunlight without a hood. He wasn't a vampire.” You feel like it's cruel of you to say these things, but you don't want either of them clinging to false hope. Somehow, that seems even crueler.

“He was burning...” Dirk says softly. You jostle him.

“What?”

“The sun was burning him slowly. He asked... Baby asked me to not let the sun kill him. Or that holy.”

You've never heard Dirk sound so defeated, but it's to be expected, honestly. Dirk was never happier than when he met Jake. Dirk would've done anything for him, has been killing himself every day trying to care for him. You'd do the same for John, and thinking about John having the same fate...

No. You can't think about this now. You have to grab John and then get all of you out of here.

“His body turned to dust,” John says, scrambling to his feet so he can look Dirk in the eye. “If he was human, his body would still be here! Does that mean he can come back?”

Dirk doesn't respond. John huffs and tries again to reach for Dirk, but you stop him.

“Babe, leave Dirk alone. You aren't getting' answers from him right now.”

“Jake is alive. I know he is. And fuck both of you for saying he isn't!” John is quickly devolving into hysterics. “He saved us! He saved us and took care of me all our lives, and now you're saying he's dead?! He wouldn't dissolve like a fucking lozenge if he was just some stupid human! He wouldn't!” John covers his face again. “What am I supposed to do without him? What do I tell Dad and Gramma?”

You think of Jake and his bright presence. You didn't like Jake's interactions with John, not one bit, but for the most part, you liked Jake a lot. He was always nice to you when he was in his right mind. You know he would've done anything for all of you, just to make you happy. It's just the kind of guy he was. He had a presence that attracted people like moths to a light-bulb, and demons were just as helpless to that light. The Midnight Crew loving him was proof of that.

You have to practically drag Dirk, who refuses to walk for himself. Thankfully, John trails after you, because you don't think you could carry both of them very comfortably. You notice Dirk's feet dragging limply on the ground, making a small trail in the dirt behind you, and you sigh softly.

“You can't quit on me here, Dirk,” you say. Jake might be gone, but you're still here. You don't know if you can live alone here without Dirk. You don't really want to try.

Dirk doesn't respond, but you didn't really expect him to anyway.

***

Days pass.

Nothing changes.

John is still a complete wreck. He's been working a lot, insisting that if he doesn't take all these shifts, he and Jake will both be out of a job. You tried to tell him even if Jake comes back as a vampire, he won't be able to work in the harsh sunlight of the store, surrounded by humans, but John refuses to listen to you.

Dirk is curled onto his side in the floor of your basement bedroom. He hasn't moved or spoken. He refuses to feed from you, though you've offered more than once. You've been trying to divide your time between Dirk and John, who are grieving in very different ways, but honestly you're scared to leave Dirk alone for too long. You don't trust him not to follow Jake, and while it's true he would reappear in Derse, neither of you have ever died before, and you've only heard awful things about Derse. There's a reason you and Dirk live among the humans. Dirk wanted you to have a better life.

Jade is still in the hospital, healing nicely. She says she should be released soon. John has visited her alone every day, though he hasn't mentioned Jake. John only keeps telling her Jake is too sick to visit.

You're currently on your couch, barely paying attention to the TV in the background. John is working, barely answering your texts. He's been pushing you away, and you know it's because he's focusing on being in denial instead of letting himself process what happened, but you miss him. Still, you'll wait for him to come to you, because you don't think you could handle him telling you to fuck off in actual words.

A pinging noise draws your attention.

It's Dirk's shades, flashing red.

You stand and move to Dirk's corner, picking up the discarded sunglasses off the floor with careful fingers. Dirk is motionless as he has been, but you can see his face is wet again. You wish there was something you could do for him, but you're at a loss. Dirk lost his mate.

You wonder if begging Dirk to stay alive for your sake is cruel.

Instead of focusing on that, you put the glasses on and talk to Hal, who you haven't spoken to in years. When Hal was alive, he was insatiable and had ways of getting what he wanted. Sadly, you've slept with him before, too. In your defense, you didn't know Hal was involved with Dirk at the time.

Dirk barely even cared when he found out.

“Hey, Hal,” you say softly, moving back to your couch.

He can't really be dead. Immediately the red text accosts you.

“Jesus. Don't tell me you love him, too,” you say. It takes a few moments for the response.

It's impossible not to love him.

You can't help it. You laugh. Even Hal. Fucking Christ, even Hal loved Jake.

You hear the door open upstairs, and then hear John's quick footsteps coming towards you. Carefully, you set Hal on the table, and you barely have time to react before John is launching himself into your arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

“John? Babe, wha—“

“I think... I t-think he might really be dead...” John's voice is muffled. You hold him tighter.

“Yeah,” you say softly. John cries harder.

Somehow, you never knew how important Jake was to all of you, but the reality of the situation is beginning to dawn on you. Jake is dead. He's dead, and he's not coming back.

In the end, you and Dirk were helpless to save Jake from Caliborn.

You feel a wetness on your cheeks.

***

All you've known is darkness for a long time, maybe forever even. And then shades of purple made themselves known to you, though you don't have enough sense of self to call them purple. Finally, you're on your feet, confused as hell, nothing in your mind except for fog.

You don't know your name. You don't know where you are. But instinct carries you forward, so you walk, and you spend a long time walking.

You pass others, but no one speaks to you, and you don't speak to them. In the back of your forming mind, you know you don't belong here, and you don't feel safe. You also don't know how to remedy this, or even how to leave to go back to where you do belong.

There are buildings in the purple haze, and you move towards them, wondering if anyone might know you here. This seems like a large city. Surely someone can help you.

Some of the others here are so big. Or are you just small? There are smaller things than you, so at least you aren't at the bottom of the barrel. You watch with interest as some small, fuzzy black creatures fly past you in a group. Some part of you wants to keep them. Maybe feed them fruit.

A group of four approaches you, and one of them is huge. You feel yourself gawking openly and then you decide maybe it wouldn't be wise to draw their attention. There are more of them than you, and you don't think you know how to fight very well.

Despite your attempts to make yourself smaller, all four of them watch you closely, and then one of them, the big one, catches you around the middle, lifting you. The others lean in and smell you.

“Hey, kid,” one of them says. He has an eye-patch. “What're ya doin' in Derse?”

“Derse?” you ask. Your voice sounds strange to yourself.

“He doesn't smell human at all anymore,” another of them says. He regards you with cool eyes.

“How'd ya become a vampire anyway?” Eye-patch asks you.

“I...don't know?”

“Where's Strider?”

“Who?”

“Oh!” The little one puts a hand on Eye-patch's suit and pulls. “I bet they broke up! He's pretending Strider doesn't exist.”

Eye-patch nods. “I see, I see. Dat's how it is, eh? Good lookin' out, Deuce.”

You're terribly confused, but it seems they know you, and they don't seem to want to hurt you.

“Wanna stay with us?” Deuce asks you.

“Course he does,” Eye-patch says. “He's part of da crew.”

***

A couple more days pass. Nothing has gotten better. You're Dave Strider, and things are worse than they were before, somehow.

Now you're dealing with two people completely in despair. John's launched himself straight out of denial and into a depression so deep you don't know who to be more worried about. Dirk still hasn't moved, and still hasn't fed. He seems determined to waste away.

John has called in the past two days. He's been in your bed, refusing to move.

“Babe, c'mon,” you try, sitting on the bed beside him. “This isn't healthy. Jake wouldn't want you to do this to yourself.”

“Jake's gone,” John says. Then he rolls over to face you. “I feel like garbage, anyway.”

He does look a little sick. You've chalked it up to the lack of caring for himself.

“You probably need food. Want me to order somethin'?”

John shrugs. “Nothing really sounds good.”

You pet through his hair soothingly. He closes his eyes and sniffles a bit.

“Try to eat anyway. For me.”

John agrees, and you end up ordering a pizza. John only nibbles at it, but it's progress anyway.

You look over at Dirk and huff, marching towards him. You bite into your wrist and put it up to Dirk's lips.

“Drink, you asshole,” you demand. Dirk doesn't drink. You know he's ravenous, but he only pushes your wrist away and curls further into himself.

“Want me to shove some pizza in his face?” John asks when you reluctantly lick your bite closed. You swear you hear Dirk growl a little at him.

“Don't think it would do much,” you say, moving to sit beside John again. He leans into you.

“Jake died for us. I know we shouldn't waste it. But how the hell are we supposed to just accept it and move on? He didn't have to die. Caliborn could've just kept going to Derse, and we could've kept killing him.”

You put your arm around him.

“Jake was dyin' anyway, babe. You know that. He knew it, and he decided to protect us. It was noble, what he did.”

“He didn't deserve to die,” John says. He looks over at Dirk, his eyes narrowing a bit.

“He didn't,” you agree. You make John look at you, not wanting him to launch into your brother again. Dirk isn't in any condition to take it. “But he did. And we're still here because of what he did.”

“I thought I was going to die, too,” John says. “Caliborn came into the store, and Jake was...already dying. He asked me for Dirk. And then Caliborn came in. All I could think was all the things I didn't get to do.” John looks at you shyly. “I love you, Dave. And I want to be with you. But...what happened to Jake. That would happen to me too, if we bonded. Wouldn't it?”

You feel cold inside. But you nod anyway. The truth is, a human can't possibly host a vampire's soul. Unfortunately, Jake has proven that once and for all.

John sighs. “Is it weird to still want to try?”

Your arm tightens around him.

“I can't do that to you.”

“It's starting to feel like less of a choice, don't you think?” John asks.

Your jaw sets determinedly. You won't give into these instincts. You love John, and you want him alive. You won't bond with him, even if it's what you crave more than anything in the world.

You'd rather be incomplete than all alone.

***

You still have no idea who you are, but the men in your group call you “Jake”, so you suppose that's who you are, or who you will be, when you remember. You've got a suit to match theirs, and you've been following them around, conducting “business”, which mainly consists of dropping things off, picking up money, and looking threateningly at anyone who opposes you or your boss.

The Midnight Crew is formidable, but they've been good to you. You feel right at home! Well, almost. You still feel like you're not at all where you need to be.

“Ya hungry yet, kid?” Slick asks. It takes you a moment to realize he's talking to you.

“Hungry?”

“Yer a vampire. Surely ya gotta feed soon.”

“Slim pickings around here, I'm afraid,” Droog says. “Vampires mostly feed from other vampires. It's more sustainable.”

“Like hell we're goin' around more of 'em!” Slick says. “Garbage, all of 'em! Except for you, kid. Ya showed yer mettle.”

“Then we should take him back to the human world,” Droog says calmly.

“We've only been here a little while!” Deuce protests. “I don't want to take him back yet!”

“Don't be dense, Deuce. Time moves slower in Derse. It's been days, where Jake is from. Pretty soon he'll start biting us.”

You make a face. Biting anyone sounds a little strange, but the more you think about it, the better it sounds. You feel an emptiness inside that's been growing the more you walk around. Is that what they're talking about?

“Wouldn't he need mate's blood, then?” Boxcars asks. He's the most quiet of the crew. Between Deuce and Slick, you don't know who is the loudest.

Slick growls. “Yeah. Yeah, dammit, he probably needs Strider, don't he?”

“Excuse me,” you say. They all look at you. “You keep saying that name. Do I know that person?”

Slick waves you off. “Know ya's got yer lover's tiff, but he's yer mate. Unless ya wanna go on a feedin' rampage, you'll go see him.”

“I think,” Droog says softly, “that it's less of a lover's tiff, and more of Jake actually not knowing who that is.”

A long silence follows. Slick leans closer to you.

“Ya gots amnesia, kid?”

“It would explain a few things.” Droog crosses his arms. “We heard word a human exorcised the leader of The Felt to Prospit. Then Jake popped up here.”

“So?” Slick asks. Droog sighs loudly.

“So his grandmother is a witch, you dense fool. Very few humans could open a portal to Prospit. And he was clearly changing into a vampire before. He died, and now he doesn't know anything about himself.”

Slick narrows his good eye at Droog. “How da hell do ya know all dat?”

“You let a human in our crew. I researched him, obviously.”

“Huh,” Slick says. Then he nods. “Well, alright. Kid's in our crew. We gotta take him to Strider.”

Deuce whines and tugs at you. “Jake wants to stay with us! We're doing way better with him around!”

“Ya want him to starve to death, Deuce? Shut yer trap!”

“It would be good to talk to the Striders about The Felt anyway,” Droog says. “They're getting bold. Surely they'll be seeking revenge for what happened to their leader. Jake will be targeted.”

It's an odd feeling, being talked about when you have no idea who you are. It all seems personal, but not, because clearly they're talking about someone else. Who you used to be.

You want to remember.

Parts of your mind seem like they're trying so hard to come back, but everything was scrambled up and it still hasn't been enough time.

You follow after your crew, because you don't know what else you're supposed to do. And they're looking out for you anyway.

***

Dirk is so hungry you can see him trembling. Again, you try to feed him, but he growls at you and pushes you away. Dirk is obviously ready to die. You don't think you can change his mind anymore.

John emerges from your bathroom after his shower, fully dressed and looking nervous. Jade has returned home from the hospital, and John plans on talking to her tonight about Jake.

“I'm comin' with you,” you tell him, and he nods while biting at his lip.

“But what about Dirk?” he asks. You look at your brother and growl, very fed up with all this.

“Dirk's comin' with us. The least he can do is tell your poor grandmother what happened to her grandson.” You move to Dirk's side and tug him up, ignoring his growling protests. He's too weak to really fight you.

“Hey, Dirk...” John says softly. He puts a hand on Dirk's arm. “I miss him too, okay? But you can't just give up like this. Jake wouldn't want—“

Dirk growls so loudly it cuts off the rest of John's sentence. He looks at your mate with hatred in his eyes, and then he goes back to flopping against your side. You sigh, and jostle him as John mimes punching Dirk behind you.

“Don't be mean to John because you're miserable. I get it, okay? I do. But you're talkin' to Jade. She should hear it from you. Don't leave this up to John.”

“Why do I have to?” Dirk asks. His voice is scratchy. You can hear how thirsty he is.

“Because your bond was what killed him, wasn't it?” You hate having to say it, but it's true. Jake was dying before he sacrificed himself. Jake died a slow, painful death, and he begged Dirk to end it for him. Dirk makes a heartbroken noise, and your chest clenches, but you don't take it back.

Some part of you is hoping when you're out, Dirk will snap and finally feed himself. You can't bear the thought of him wasting away. He's your brother, dammit, and you love him. You won't let him die.

“Let's go,” you say, dragging Dirk along. John follows behind.

***

The scents accost you as soon as you step out of the portal and into the human world. Slick showed you a secret path between the worlds that he and the crew use often. Your head whips around to frantically smell everything around you. You're desperate to feed yourself, but you don't really know how. All you want to do is bite.

“Boxcars, grab da kid,” Slick says. Strong arms wrap around you, holding you tightly. You growl and squirm in the hold, and Slick narrows his eye at you.

“We can't have ya bitin' someone and killin' em, alright? We don't need dat kinda trouble. We gotta fly under da radar.”

“He's practically feral,” Droog says, observing you. “I've never seen a vampire this hungry.”

“We're lucky he didn't bite us. Never been bitten by a vamp before,” Slick muses. He punches you lightly on the shoulder playfully. You hiss at him, and he grins, finding this amusing. “Yer still full of moxie. Don't worry, we'll get ya fixed up.”

“Doesn't drinking anything help?” Deuce asks. He's bounding alongside all of you cheerfully. “The Striders are always drinking stuff!”

You think of coffee, though you didn't even know what coffee was seconds before. You can taste it in your mouth, and something about it is so comforting to you.

“Coffee,” you say. Your crew pauses around you.

“You heard him,” Slick says, pushing Deuce forward with his foot. “Go buy da kid a coffee.”

“Well, how does he take it?” Deuce asks.

“Don't be an idiot! Da kid doesn't even know who he is, and ya want him to write ya a list of what he wants in his coffee?”

Deuce points at Slick and glares. “Don't you snap at me, Boss! We're all under a lot of pressure, here!”

“Pressure! I'll show ya pressure!”

“Enough! This isn't helping!” Droog grabs Slick's elbow and waves Deuce along. “Just get a black coffee and come back here.”

“You got it!” Deuce says, jogging down the street. Slick huffs.

“Sometimes I get da feelin' ya think yer the one in charge here,” he says to Droog, who shrugs.

“You're too hotheaded.”

“My head's da perfect amount of hot!”

Droog ignores him and looks up at the sky. “Moon's almost full.”

Slick grumbles at him but otherwise doesn't comment. You go back to squirming against Boxcars, who clearly has no intention of loosening his hold.

Deuce comes jogging back to you, a large paper cup in his hands. He holds it out to you with a smile. The label looks familiar.

“I got a peppermint flavor!” Deuce announces.

“Goddammit, Deuce,” Slick growls.

You down the contents of the cup in seconds. You barely taste the coffee itself, but it does soothe the burning in your throat. You look back at your crew with a more level head than before, but you're still not better, and it must show.

“Don't let him go, Boxcars.”

You growl, but relent.

“Now then,” Slick says. “Where are we headed?”

***

You're Dave again, and you're drawing a lot of looks from passersby. Probably because you're dragging Dirk along, who is a dead weight at your side, but also probably because Jake's imp has somehow found you, and is committed to causing a ruckus by squeaking loudly and annoying your brother, who only rouses from his brain-dead stupor to swipe at the imp every now and then.

“Dirk, dammit, use your legs!” You growl at him. He doesn't comply. You look back at John. “Tell me again why you didn't bring your car?”

“It's not my car, it's my dad's car,” John says. “Besides. Dirk has a car.”

“His car is it at his house.”

“Charlie, calm down,” John says to the imp. It helps a little, but you cringe as John pets the horrible little creature.

“How the hell did this thing find us anyway?” you grumble.

“Scent?” John offers. The imp is sitting on John's head, barely visible aside from bright red eyes. Dirk is glaring at it. It's the most lively you've seen him in days.

You pass the coffee shop and you all look at it longingly. It still smells like Jake a little. He really did spend so much time there. Dirk is the first to look away, his face twisted in anguish.

“Almost there,” you tell him, though it's probably not much of a comfort to him.

Jake's scent doesn't dissipate as you keep going. If anything it gets stronger. John can't smell it, and doesn't understand why you, Dirk, and Charlie are so on edge. All of you are putting your noses up, sniffing at the air.

“You guys okay?” John asks.

“I... Yeah. We're fine,” you say, but he doesn't look convinced. Probably because you aren't convinced either.

Suddenly Charlie fluffs up to twice his size, and the ball of fuzz launches off John's head, and forward, towards a group of men standing in front of you. You growl as soon as you catch their scents. You know these men, and there's a reason you hate them.

“Long time, no see,” Spades Slick says. “We got somethin' that belongs to yas.”

***

You're Jake, or so you've been told. You're still imprisoned in the arms of the biggest member of your crew, but your thirst is getting stronger, almost unbearable at this point. The coffee was a bandage that wore off almost as soon as you drank it, and you're starting to lose what little mind you have left.

The scents in the air are accosting you, almost bullying you into a corner. You feel like you're about to slit Boxcars's throat and flee from your crew to go on a feeding frenzy. You're running out of other options.

“No fuckin' way...” Someone says. You know that voice, don't you? You lift your head in time to be hit with a ball of squeaking fuzz.

“Is dat an imp?” Slick asks. “Squish it.”

“No!” You find yourself saying. You cradle it to yourself, feeling like you have to protect this creature. “No squishing him!”

“Fine, suit yerself, kid,” Slick says with a shrug.

“Jake?”

You look at three men standing close to you. All of them look shocked. All of them seem to know you.

And you...you know them. Don't you?

“Jake!”

The dark haired one launches himself at you. You blink in surprise, and hold him as he cries on you. He smells delicious. Better than anyone else you've smelled. You can't hold yourself back, and you bite into him.

“Oh... Oh, fuck,” the human says, melting against you, and you drink greedily.

“Okay, enough!” One of the blond men says. He comes to pry you away from the human, and you growl at him until he's cutting into his own wrist, holding it to your mouth. “Can fuckin' smell the hunger on you. You're starvin' to death.” He looks at the other man, who is standing very still, looking at you with tears in his eyes. “You just gonna stand there, asshole? Go feed! He needs your blood.”

“This should probably be done out of the public eye,” Droog says, gesturing to an alleyway. “Unless the vampire way is to alert the entire world of their agenda?”

“Go fuck yourself, buddy,” says the one feeding you. “You've got no idea what kinda week I've had. Could care less about erasin' some human memories tonight.”

“Even so,” says Droog, “move this out of the way. We don't need to be seen.”

You feel yourself being dragged, but you don't let go of the wrist in your mouth. You drink, and drink, and drink. It's helping. You're starting to feel like you might know a thing or two about yourself.

“Shit. Okay, Jake, you gotta stop, or I'm gonna pass out.”

You growl, not caring about something so trivial. Your claws go into his arm, keeping his wrist where it is. He squawks and pries himself away from you, not seeming to care that you're scratching his skin.

“Hurry the fuck up, Dirk!”

Dirk.

That name. It means something to you. It carries a weight to it.

“Your mate.” A voice inside your head says. “Dirk will fix this.”

“Dirk...” You say. You need him. You need to be fixed. You need to drink.

You need your mate!

You feel hands on your shoulders, and you're turning to face the other man who seems so familiar. His eyes are sad, and he's yanking you against him faster than you can even comprehend. Your nose fills with his scent.

“Dirk...” You murmur. You bite him before you can say anything else.

“Baby,” he says, cradling you to him. “Waited so long for you...”

Everything comes back at once.

You're Jake English. You fought so hard to survive, and you lost the battle anyway.

But then, you did the impossible.

You came back for Dirk.

Tears fill your eyes, and you pull away from his neck to look at his face. You're suddenly sobbing, overcome with emotion as you look upon your mate, who has undoubtedly gone through hell in your absence.

“Jake,” he breathes, cupping your cheeks. You launch yourself forward and kiss him as hard as you can. You can feel the imp in your hair, tugging happily. John and Dave are laughing, holding each other and crying as they laugh in disbelief.

“Job well done, boys,” Slick says to the crew.

You're back. You're finally where you belong.

“I'm home,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” Dirk says, burying his face in your hair. You hear him growl once at Charlie, but he doesn't press it. “You're home.”

[moonbeambucky]

The Price of Gold (Part 9)

Pairing: Lance Tucker x Reader Word Count: 2132 Warnings: fluff, mentions of cancer/chemo

Summary: As a sports journalist you’ve traveled the world interviewing famous athletes. You’ve loved your job up until you find out your next article is on the last person in the world you ever wanted to talk to, Lance Tucker.

A/N: This doesn’t follow The Bronze canon though some film details are mixed with real world events. Written for @green-eyeddragonfanfiction Dragon’s 3k Follower Creative Content Challenge. My prompt was “I can’t be in love with you!” gif source (x)

PART 8 | THE PRICE OF GOLD MASTERLIST

You stormed your way through a large group of people checking in, trying to hide the tears that fell down your cheeks. Frantically, you pushed the elevator call button, almost running into someone as they were exiting once the doors opened.

Back in the solace of your room you paced back and forth, opening the doors to the balcony and breathing in the warm evening air.

Before coming here you had your mind set, find out what you needed to write your article and leave, never needing to see Lance Tucker ever again. You never planned on bringing up what happened between you. You’re an adult now, you have a great life, the perfect job that lets you travel and see the world through the eyes of many different athletes.

Somehow things had changed. Maybe it was setting foot in Spring Hill, with memories pouring down on you like the thunderstorms of your former home state. Maybe it was Lance. He had changed from the arrogant playboy back to the sweet friend you knew, or maybe that person was there all along. You wouldn’t know considering you abruptly cut him out of your life.

Yet here he was again, and somehow in the short amount of time you’d been back you had stopped fighting and opened up to each other, almost settling into a routine. It was comforting to have him back and then the storm became heavier, the wind whipped through you, everything turned into a violent hurricane as Lance brought up the reason for your fallout.

Being forced to relive the event tore at your heart, but this time you saw it through Lance’s eyes. He filled in the gaps and apologized for his behavior. He knew he was wrong and he tried many times to apologize but you never heard it. You were so focused on your own pain that you didn’t see how much he was hurting as well.

Wait, why are you making excuses for him? He’s an asshole. He acted like a stupid, selfish jerk. He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness… No, those thoughts don’t seem right anymore. For so many years you convinced yourself that Lance was the enemy. He was immature but he knew he was wrong and tried his best to make things right. It’s taken you fourteen years to finally realize you had been immature as well. You never gave him a chance, you were too overcome with emotion to think rationally. You were both to blame.

Another revelation you’ve had in the few days back is that you still had feelings for Lance Tucker. You pushed them away for so long, buried them under mounds of hate. You blamed Lance for everything, if he hadn’t done that then your relationship wouldn’t have ended.

You had thought about reaching out to him but by then Lance was too involved in his career, focused on training to go for the gold, so you forced yourself to move on, believing that he did as well. You’ve dated since, having a steady boyfriend in college but splitting after graduation, your careers were taking you on different paths. New York was full of men, some great, some awful, but none like Lance.

You questioned everything now, every interaction between you. Would Lance have opened up about his mom if Heather interviewed him? Was there something more behind way his mouth curved into a smile when he looked at you, or the gentle brushes of his fingers against yours?

You begin to type an apology to Lance but deleted everything in favor of calling him, owing him a verbal explanation. The phone rang once before he picked it up, sounding like he rushed to answer.

“I’m sorry for running out like that,” you admitted.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I do. I was really upset after what happened. You shouldn’t have said anything to those jerks but I understand your reasoning. I’m sorry that I never let you apologize, I just ended things on impulse and that was wrong. We deserved better.”

We. It stood out like a full moon against the dark night’s sky, giving Lance hope that maybe, if he was ever lucky enough to have his dreams come true, you would once again believe in the two of you.

Your conversation lasted a few more minutes, both of you coming to an understanding, finding closure to what happened and agreeing to move forward.

When Lance picked you up the next day your greeting was a little awkward. You chuckled under your breath, unsure of what to say until you wrapped your arms around him. Lance’s whole body relaxed against yours as he inhaled your familiar scent that he had grown used to over the last few days. He was overjoyed that you resolved things, tears pricking his eyes as he squeezed tighter, never wanting to let you go. After a few more moments you both dropped your arms, sharing a smile before starting the day.

Lance had an interview set up with a local reporter, who was very welcoming to meet you when she thought you were his girlfriend, and upon finding out otherwise and your position at ESPN she asked for privacy during her meeting.

You obliged her request and stepped away to check in with your parents. They were on the last stop of their cruise and telling you about how beautiful Cozumel is.

“How’s your interview going?” your mom asked.

“It was a little rocky at first but things are really good,” you said, laughing to yourself as you never imagined things between you and Lance would ever been good again.

After his interview you went to lunch, with Lance happily surprised when he noticed you gradually shifting closer to him. With his phone buzzing he looked disappointed as he checked it, he had been looking out for any correspondence about his appeal. It was weighing on his mind and rightfully so, his lawyer had told him the decision should be in any day now.

“If I win this it would mean so much.” He previously explained how being a USA Gymnastics accredited facility would alleviate some of the financial burden. Lance cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice, “I just want to make her proud again.”

Tears formed in his eyes and you knew he was talking about his mom. Your hand went over his, rubbing them gently as you reassured Lance, “She’s always been proud of you.”

“I’m supposed to see her later, I can drop you off first if–” You cut him off, adding you would love to see Dorothy if he didn’t mind. Lance smiled in response.

Driving down your old street with Lance felt weird, it was familiar and strange at the same time. You looked at your parent’s old house, seeing the exterior was now painted in a cornflower blue and you didn’t like it. Looking at his childhood home you noticed not much had changed except for the landscape design, with bright pink zinnias now growing under the window.

Shutting the car off Lance prepared you for his mother’s appearance but seeing her still broke your heart as you made your way into the large living room. Dorothy had lost a lot of weight, her skin was covered in dark splotches of bruises, a side effect from the chemotherapy. She wore a head wrap to cover her scalp, her salt and pepper hair nearly all gone though a few uneven patches remained.

She sat in an armchair, watching TV with Nadia her aide beside her, attempting to get her to drink some of a nutritional shake through a straw. Lance went in, getting her attention with his greeting as he carefully kissed her cheek and hugged her.

He turned Nadia who smiled, whispering to him that she’s had a good day so far. Dorothy’s cancer, as you had looked up, affected her memory and it was unpredictable to know when she would lapse.

“Look who’s here, mom.” You stepped forward as Lance announced, “It’s Y/N, Y/L/N.”

Dorothy smiled widely, “Y/N! Oh my I haven’t seen you in years,” she said, her voice had grown older, and now laced with fatigue.

“Hi Dorothy,” you said, bending down to gently hug her, and wiping a few stray tears from the side of your eyes after you pulled away.

She turned the TV off and you sat beside Lance on the couch so you could catch up with each other. She asked how your parents were, mentioning she had lost their phone number (or couldn’t remember it, but you didn’t say anything) so you said you would write it down for her.

She told you about her diagnosis and gushed about how helpful and supportive Lance has been. You read into her expression, the sadness she held back, trying to hide the finality of her illness, perhaps for Lance’s sake you wondered.

She complained about her hair, scratching an itch through the fabric that surrounded her scalp, and made a negative comment about herself.

“Don’t say that mom, you’re beautiful,” Lance boasted.

“I’m an old woman,” she pouted, “If you’re talking about beautiful look at Y/N. Look at you, a grown woman now!”

“She’s gorgeous,” Lance declared with a wide smile spreading across his face.

Dorothy insisted you stay for dinner. She didn’t have much of an appetite but she would sit with you all the same. Lance fired up the barbecue outside as you prepared the burger patties, along with some corn to be roasted. Dinner was lovely and Dorothy ate a quarter of her hamburger with some corn Lance had cut off from the cob to make it easier for her.

You washed dishes as Nadia helped Dorothy in the bathroom. She hated that she needed the assistance but over the last few months she had become very weak and couldn’t manage to do much without the fear of falling. You declined dessert but grabbed a dark chocolate bar for Dorothy from the pantry. Nadia broke off a small square and Dorothy placed it in her mouth, letting it dissolve on her tongue.

“I can’t…” Dorothy began, and all heads turned to face her. “I can’t remember your wedding dear,” she said, speaking to you. You side eyed Lance a concerned look. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember it but I know you looked beautiful. Lance, remember how beautiful she looked. Oh, I was so happy for you two,” she sighed.

Based on her broken details you realized she meant your Junior Prom but no one corrected her. “I’m so happy you’re still together. I always knew you were meant for each other.”

You and Lance shared an awkward smile. Making up was still so new but you tried to hide the discomfort from Dorothy.

You left shortly after so Dorothy could get to bed, promising to stay in touch. Lingering outside your hotel Lance thanked you for seeing his mom. You were glad you did, seeing the woman you considered a second mother once again after all of these years.

Your cheeks began to heat up feeling Lance’s eyes on you, looking up to see him he turned away and blushed. You weren’t sure why you were nervous but the butterflies in your stomach were fluttering around rapidly.

“I guess I’m gonna go.” The words fell from your lips a little breathless as the tension in the car grew thicker.

“Oh, okay. Goodnight Y/N,” he said, his blue eyes focused on you.

You twisted in your seat to kiss him goodbye, intending on going for his cheek. Lance leaned in as well, awkwardly turning to the wrong direction as he meant to do the same. Your heads nearly collided and you both chuckled softly, finding each other’s eyes again.

Time stood still, all of the sound around you became a quiet hum. Your gaze went to his plush lips, his tongue dragging across to wet them. Your teeth slowly grazed your bottom lip, letting go once your eyes met his again, seeing his pupils dark and hungry.

The gap between you was slowly closing until your lips hovered mere centimeters apart, feeling his hot breath fall on your lips. Shutting your eyes you pushed forward to press your lips to his. It was a slow kiss, soft and passionate with years of emotion built behind it.

When Lance opened his mouth slightly to run his tongue along your bottom lip you felt the fire that was simmering inside you ignite to a full blaze. You pulled away, knowing it would be best to say goodnight right then instead of good morning tomorrow. Sauntering back towards the hotel you turned around to wave goodbye one last time flashing a coy smile before heading inside

PART 10