#ill finally be able to convince my hand to move the knife

[shaddy-bee]

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[marvelsbanner]

Ohh!! Could you do prompt number 40: “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?” with Natasha maybe? You don't have to if you don't want to, it was just an idea 😊 love your work btw❤️

Word Count: ~950 

Warnings: Minor cursing, suggestive language 

A/N: All mistakes are my own. Likes, reblogs, and feedback greatly appreciated <3 Thanks for the prompt darling, that was a cute idea to write! 

You groaned as you looked at the training schedule sheet outside of the Avengers gym facility. 6:00 am-9:00 am: y/f/n y/l/n, Natasha Romanoff 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Nat, in fact, the problem was that you liked Nat a little too much. You couldn’t help it, and how could you? The fiery redhead had captured your attention since your first day on the team. She was a badass spitfire of sarcastic comments and playful banter; she looked as sweet as candy but you knew if you pissed her off she could have you pinned to the ground with a knife at your neck in seconds, no matter where you were. It was kind of hot. 

So yes, you had feelings for the woman. You didn’t actually plan on doing anything about them, you were teammates and she was closed off with everyone but Barton and Rogers. You didn’t want to cross any lines and scare her off, losing the little progress you had made with her over the months you had been at the compound. 

At least, you think you had made progress. You weren’t exactly sure what to consider your relationship- coworkers? teammates? friends? The two of you had an interesting dynamic when you were together. 

The first time you had actually talked was during your first one-on-one training session. She was cold and reserved at first, but that left you intimidated and giving a subpar performance when she knew you could do better. To get you more comfortable she began to warm up a little bit, throwing you sarcastic banter and even some suggestive comments that left you bushing as she was finally able to push you to your physical limit. She was harder on you than any of the other trainees that you could see, and it could make her seem harsh at times but you didn’t believe her to have ill intentions. 

Sometimes with her playfulness you allowed yourself a slimmer of hope that she could actually reciprocate your feelings, and other times you were certain it was just the way she was with everyone. She was still quite cold and snarky at times, especially when you would hit a sensitive spot with a joke or you weren’t performing as well as she wanted you to. 

You walked into the gym to find the redhead already warming up with stretches. Typical, you still weren’t entirely convinced the woman actually slept. You had only ever seen her in the gym or at meetings, and you almost believed she existed only in those spaces. 

“I was wondering when you would show up” she quipped at you, rising from her stretched out position on the mat. “Well Natasha, not everyone is naturally gorgeous like you. Some of us actually need some beauty rest,” you remarked- immediately cringing at yourself as the words left your lips. You don’t know what came over you. 

Her eyebrows raised in what could only be her muted version of shock before she quickly composed herself, “Cute, but flattery isn’t going to get you out of training” she remarked.

“Wouldn’t dream of it” you replied cooly, smirking as you watched her brow slightly furrow. You had never been this bold with her before, but you had a burst of confidence and you were going to roll with it. 

You shifted into your sparring stance and she quickly mirrored you, seemingly reading your mind as you went for a torso shot and was immediately blocked. She grabbed the arm you tried to strike with, twisting it before hooking a leg around your knee and pushing you front-first into the floor. 

“Well this is new, you usually like to have me on my back,” you remark cheekily, slightly out of breath as she cleared her throat and moved off of you. “Well.. it’s good to try out different positions. You never know what kind of situations you’ll be dealing with” she replied, and you could feel a warmth rising up your neck that was definitely not from the exercise.

“Yeah, makes sense. I appreciate that you’re looking out for me- and the team, of course. You make a great teacher” you said, and you could swear you saw those pretty pink lips of hers curve into a small smile as she turned her face away from you.

“Woah woah woah, have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?” She rolled her eyes at you, lips falling into her natural tell-tale smirk before she was sweeping your legs out from under you and pining you to the mat again.

She quirked an eyebrow as she loomed over you, body pressed dangerously close against your own.

“You tell anyone I’m not as scary as I look and I’ll kick your ass” she half-heartedly threatened. 

At least your hoped it was half-heartedly..

“Oh but I’m hoping you do” you teased back, making her roll her eyes at you once more as she tried to hide a slight smile and moved to stand. 

She offered you a hand and pulled you to your feet before quickly flipping you onto your back on the mat once more.

The wind was knocked out of you and you didn’t even have the air to make a sarcastic comment at her. “Just don’t forget who’s in charge around here,” she said with a wink, turning and walking towards the exit with what you were sure was an emphasized swing of her hips.

“Close your mouth and stop staring at my ass. If you like what you see you can join me for dinner tonight. 7, don’t be late” She called back at you, neither turning around nor giving you a chance to respond. 

But she knew you’d be there, of course, you’d be there.

Maybe training with Natasha wasn't so bad after all.. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Misread Details: Robert

CW: Dehumanizing language, BBU blanket warning, serial killer/death talk, descriptions of death/abduction/murder, blood, whumper death, some real vague implied noncon references, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper

Part One: Nanda | Part Two: Brute | Part Three: Robert

The Dark Discovery in Robert Weber’s Basement: Box Boy Killer, Part 3

r/LetsTalkTrueCrime

•Posted by u/oshaycanyousee

3 days ago

After Part One, where we learned about the mysterious, but possibly entirely natural, death of Nathaniel “Nanda” Benson, and Part Two, where we saw Henry “Brute” Hanlon’s double life lead to his untimely gruesome murder, you see the single thread that connects these two men who otherwise never met, interacted, or even shared a single person in common… a nameless Box Boy, present at the death of Nanda even if he isn’t responsible for it, and the proven killer of Brute.

It’s my theory that this Box Boy may have accidentally killed his legal owner, Nanda, and then picked up a taste for the act and moved on to taking shelter with those he turns into his victims.

With Brute, he simply didn’t know the man had a wife and children and entire other life, and may have assumed no one would come looking for him or recognize his death. With our third individual, Robert Weber, it seems like our Box Boy Serial Killer got in over his head.

I give you… the Accidental Vigilante death of Robert Weber.

You decide if our unknown killer is simply the unluckiest guy in the world or a killer who even now may be somewhere living with - and earning the trust of - his next victim.

-

One bright and sunny day in the quaint, old-fashioned California town of Rancher’s Rest, Robert Weber was late for work.

Weber worked in a vehicle repair business owned by lifelong “RR” resident Randy Niles, who had known Weber since his childhood and had been his boss since Weber was eighteen years old and fresh out of high school.

Niles, who is now nearly seventy-five and still spends his days in the shop with an Australian Shepherd named Cody and a blind pit bull named Sue keeping him company everywhere he goes, stated that Weber had no living family he knew of beyond his sister in Vermont, and he was just about the closest thing Weber had to a relative just from having known him so long.

“He didn’t have too much to do with his sister,” Randy said in an interview with Unsolved Mysteries. (You can see the interview on the new Netflix reboot of the show! It’s a really good episode, definitely recommend. It’s how I got into this case in the first place.) “Or nobody, really. Just us at work, the guys at the bar, that kinda thing. He was quiet, kept to himself really. You’d never just strike up a chat around town or anything. But he got on just fine with the boys here in the shop. He was a bit of an egghead, too, always going on about this thing or that he’d seen on the news. Little… odd. Little bit off, you might say. But really, who isn’t? In any case, you know, I’d known him since he was a little boy, so he was just Bobby Weber to me.”

Then, of course, one day Robert Weber didn’t show up to work. Randy Niles immediately felt that something was very wrong.

“When nine, nine-thirty came and went and he wasn’t there,” Niles said, “I knew someone needed to go check on him. Bobby showed up for work right on time or ten minutes early, rain or shine, for twenty years. My first thought was maybe he’d had an accident at home, or some kind of, you know, health thing. Almost never called in sick, took one vacation a year, that kinda thing. So I drove right on over there. This would’ve been, oh, probably ten or ten-fifteen when I got to the house. Had my dogs with me, and they never did like Bobby much, but as soon as I opened my door and got out of my truck they just lost their damn minds. Barking, growling, Cody’s hackles were up like you wouldn’t believe. I know it sounds damn crazy, but I’m sure those dogs could smell that evil had been done in that house.”

On camera, Niles goes quiet, here, his gaze slipping away from the interviewer as he scratches at the side of his nose. When he looks back, the hint of good humor that seems to be an eternal part of his expression is gone.

“I didn’t know what Bobby had been up to all this time. None of us knew. I’ve known Bobby Weber his whole life, and I… I had no idea.”

Randy Niles was unable to convince his two dogs to exit the truck, and eventually rolled down the windows to give them some air and a way out if they chose (he is insistent on this point in the Unsolved Mysteries episode - “don’t you dare say I left my dogs locked up in a truck on a sunny day, I sure didn’t - Cody even knows how to pull a door handle if it’s the right kind”) and got out to knock on Robert Weber’s front door.

No one answered.

Niles knocked again. Still no response.

The front door was locked, but Niles was able to locate an unlocked back door into the garage, where he found Weber’s car neatly parked and nothing out of place. However, once he used an interior door in the garage to enter Weber’s home, what he found was so shocking he still struggles to describe it today.

“The, uh. The first thing I saw,” Niles says in the Unsolved Mysteries episode, wiping at his mouth with a handkerchief, “was a cage. Big old cage in the living room. Like a kennel for a big dog, Great Dane or something, except… except, you know, kennels’re usually mostly wire, not that heavy. You can fold ‘em up, put ‘em away. This was… geez. This was pure metal. Bunch of blankets all piled at the bottom, too. Here’s the-... you know, my mind just didn’t want to even make the thought, but I just, I looked at it and-”

In the episode, Niles has to take another moment, here. His eyes grow wet, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks again. “People cage. Bobby had a damn man-sized cage in his living room. That’s when my stomach just fell out. Even then, though, I couldn’t-... I just thought, oh, well, what people get up to in their own homes is their business. But still, I just. I just decided, find Bobby, figure the rest out later. So I kept walking around looking for him.”

Randy Niles continued to call out, hoping to hear Weber’s response, but received none… at first. The radio in the kitchen was playing a local public radio station (“Bobby always hated the country western and classic rock we played at work, he was a big news man, big into classical, jazz, you know.”)

Niles noticed, he says, that the cage next to the couch had a wooden top, as though it were meant to act as a side table, and on that table was a small woven basket. Inside the basket appeared to be several State IDs and Driver’s licenses. Niles took note of this but his first assumption was maybe that Robert Weber had stolen some IDs or something.

Which was technically true, just… not quite the way he thought.

The kitchen, hallway, and all three bedrooms were equally empty of life. Every room was clean, everything neatly in place. Empty bottles of Jameson whiskey, Weber’s favorite brand, were lined up like décor along the mantel, and one half-full bottle was next to two clean, empty glasses on the kitchen table.

Even the beds were perfectly made.

The only thing missing was any sign of Robert Weber himself.

The question of Weber’s whereabouts was answered when Randy Niles heard a sound coming from the open door to Weber’s unfinished dirt basement.

“Like a ghost,” Niles said in his interview. “Just this low moaning sound. Hardly even thought of it as human, you know. But I just-... I called out, ‘Bobby? That you?’ and the moaning got a little louder, like whoever it was was tryin’ to answer. I could still hear my girls in the truck just going nuts, probably worried about me knowing what they maybe could smell even out there. I figured… I figured I’d best call the cops and get them out here. Seemed like a plan. So I picked up my phone and dialed, and then I headed down those basement steps.”

What Randy Niles discovered in Robert Weber’s basement was a dying man, battered and stabbed eight times, lying in a half-dug grave.

Robert Weber had been beaten with the very shovel that had done the digging. The shovel lay off to the side, caked in dirt and blood. Police would find some of Robert Weber’s hair on it, too. Then, the individual who had beaten him had gone back upstairs - blood smears were found on the railing to the stairs - and taken a kitchen knife out of the knife block on the countertop. A bloody fingerprint was found on the side of the knife block. They had then returned to the basement where Weber was stabbed, almost entirely through the stomach and chest, twenty-six times, until the cheap knife simply broke from the force.

Randy Niles admitted in his interview that he became very ill at this time. “From the shock,” He elaborated. “I haven’t been able to smell much since I was in a car wreck when I was young, so I didn’t smell what-... what my girls prob’ly smelled from outside, and what the cops smelled. To me, it was just… just a little off, is all. It was the sight of it that got to me, not the smell. The sight of the-... the hand.”

Behind Robert Weber’s body, the hand of another person was sticking up out of the loose dirt, as though someone was trying to dig their way out.

“I remember… I remember her nail polish was pink. That’s when I got sick, actually, was when I saw that hand with the painted nails. That’s when it just hit me all at once what Bobby had done.”

Randy Niles went back up the stairs and waited for the cops to arrive. Rancher’s Rest is a small town where everybody knows just about everybody else, and Niles was on a first-name basis with every single police officer he spoke to that day and in the days after. He would learn alongside the investigation that Robert Weber was not simply the quiet, intellectual car mechanic he had always seemed.

Instead, Robert Weber was a serial killer whose potential final victim had managed a miraculous, deadly escape.

Robert Weber never answered a single question about his own murder - he never fully regained consciousness and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. His injuries were simply too severe. His autopsy showed that the cause of death was a stab wound that went deep into his chest and that he was first stabbed only after the beating with the shovel had taken place. Like Brute, most of his stab wounds were applied post-mortem in a rage rather than as part of the killing itself.

Medical examiners also found scratches on Weber’s face and arms, indicating that he had attempted to defend himself - or someone else had attempted to defend themself from him.

So why was Robert Weber killed, and why was there already a body in his basement? Investigators would piece together the story over the following days and weeks from a crime scene that only seemed to become darker and more baffling as time went on.

Excavating the basement was originally thought to be something that would be brief, but after the first body was removed, another one was found beneath it. Then another off to the side of that. And another, although this was simply bones.

Every time the forensics team thought they’d found the last human bone, they dug a little deeper or in a new spot and found more.

Eventually, the remains of twenty-two individuals would be removed from the basement of Robert Weber’s home, not including Weber himself. The oldest located victim was identified as Melinda Traxson, an Iowa woman reported missing by her family after she ran away in March of 1996… more than two decades before Robert Weber didn’t come to work one day.

Investigators are still working to match up every body with a missing persons’ case. For nearly all of them, the cause of death could not be easily ascertained due to the deterioration of the remains, but some showed signs of skull fractures. Identified individuals so far include:

Melinda Traxson, 19, from Iowa, ran away from home in 1996.

Billie Mortimer, 21, disappeared from a day out with friends at Lake Tahoe one year later in the summer of 1997. Her friends went to get lunch from the car after a swim and when they returned, she was gone.

Matthew Ranger, 22, went missing during a road trip to Yellowstone National Park in 1997 (only five months after Billie). His car was found abandoned by the side of the road with a flat tire.

Karl Janssen, 24, a tourist from the Netherlands who was also visiting Yellowstone, disappeared a month after Matthew. Last seen by an employee of the park who witnessed him speaking with another young man and getting into the man’s car. The employee said that the two seemed to be friendly with one another and did not seem like strangers.

Hannah Pointer, 26. She was reported missing in 1999 by her mother after failing to return home from work in Reno, Nevada. This disappearance occurred more than a year after Karl Janssen’s. Investigators would later discover that during this time period, Robert Weber dated a young woman from his hometown and he may not have wanted to risk her finding out what he was doing.

Isaac Jackson, 26, a Rancher’s Rest resident who disappeared after going out to a local bar to see his friend’s band play in 2000. His car was found submerged in a small pond two years later. This is the first time Weber apparently killed anyone close to home. He was actually briefly suspected in Jackson’s death, as he was the last person noted to see Jackson alive, but was cleared of suspicion at the time.

Dustin Swill, 21, who was driving from Colorado to California to visit his sister who had moved to Berras to work for WRU in 2001. He was last seen in a gas station near Yellowstone, where employees noted he spoke to a man who was smoking outside, who gave him a cigarette. When Swill left, employees saw the man put out his cigarette and leave shortly after. They did not find this unusual or noteworthy at the time.

Maria Vargas, 25, a Rancher’s Rest resident who was reported missing in 2002. Her family is intensely private and have shared few details about her, but it is known that her boyfriend at the time suspected Weber, who had attempted to convince her to leave the boyfriend for him and had apparently threatened her. He remained a suspect but there was never enough evidence to charge him.

Jennifer Striker, 28, from who never arrived for an appointment with a realtor in 2011. The long pause between Maria Vargas’s murder and Jennifer’s appeared to be due to Weber keeping a man named Finn Schneider within his home for more than a year after abducting him, as well as Weber serving five years in prison for a violent assault on a man he believed had sold him a defective vehicle. (Schneider was no longer in the home before the assault and prison time.)

Riley Nievelt, 25, was staying at the Big Meadow Campground with six friends during a weeklong vacation in 2012. She vanished while on a trip to purchase supplies. Her cell phone was found on the ground in the parking lot of the Food Lion in Rancher’s Rest, a short and easy drive away. At this time, with multiple individuals vanishing after being seen in Rancher’s Rest or being residents of the town, police begin to suspect and start hunting for a possible serial killer.

Alexander Peterson, 29, was a long-haul driver who vanished while working. He was last seen at a rest stop in 2014 on the California/Nevada state line, and would likely have passed right through Rancher’s Rest on his journey. He was reported missing by his ex-wife in South Dakota when he did not return as scheduled for a custodial visit.

The most recent victim, and owner of the hand that Randy Niles saw sticking up out of the dirt, was Yolanda Pierce, 26. She was a Rancher’s Rest resident with a troubled relationship with her husband, who had stormed out after an argument and was never seen again. She is believed to have died the same day as Robert Weber.

More remains exist but have not yet been identified. If you or anyone you know has a friend or family member who went missing during this time period in or near Rancher’s Rest, Yellowstone National Park, or Death Valley, it may be worth looking into, as those appear to be Robert Weber’s “hunting grounds”.

Disappearances in Yellowstone and Death Valley almost always matched up with Robert taking one of his rare weeklong vacations from work.

When investigators located three large diaries hidden inside a locked box in Weber’s closet, the first two fully filled up and the third nearly two-thirds finished, they found an exhaustively detailed record of Robert Weber’s crimes.

In these records, they discovered Weber’s first three victims were killed within 24 hours of abduction, with the rest being kept alive for longer and longer time periods. It is believed all of them met their end in Robert Weber’s basement.

Diary entries included records of two victims who were not a part of the bodies buried in Weber’s basement, both of whom may still be alive:

Finn Schneider, 19, a German tourist who disappeared in 2003 during a visit to Death Valley. Until Weber’s journals were found, it was believed he had perished in the park and had simply never been found. Robert Weber also visited Death Valley during this time. No one linked the two together. Evidence found in Weber’s home after his death, including the aforementioned diary entries and photographs, shows that Schneider was alive in Weber’s home for nearly sixteen months. It is believed Weber purchased the “human cage” that Randy Niles noticed around this time. The last diary entry that mentions Schneider states that he was “traded” on June 16th, 2005, to an individual only referred to as “Mouse.” What Weber received in exchange is unclear, but he was seen driving a new, custom-painted truck around this time, which he said he bought “from a personal ad” when asked by Niles about it. Schneider has never been found. However, his mother did receive a phone call in 2013 from an individual she believes to be her son, telling her that “Finn” was okay and to stop looking for him.

Our Box Boy, 334235, purchased by Nathaniel Benson years prior, whose whereabouts had been unknown since he murdered Brute Hanlon. Weber believed the Box Boy to be in his early twenties, according to his diary entries, and mentioned that he had picked the Boxie up hitchhiking and had intended to kill him before seeing the barcode on the inside of his left wrist and changing his mind. His diary suggests the Box Boy remained in his possession for roughly a fourteen months prior to Weber’s murder. Police have not released the details of what the Boxie was subjected to during this time, stating only that it is not the public’s interest for this information to be known, and they would like to locate the missing Boxie and interview him about certain details.

Four murders occurred during the time the Boxie was kept by Robert Weber. Weber noted that “the dog helped” with either murder or burial, suggesting that he may have worked as Weber’s accomplice in his terrible crimes.

Is it possible that they bonded over a shared urge to kill? Did the Boxie start a captive and become a companion?

Weber’s diary contained other disturbing facts, as well:

Weber also noted three failed abduction attempts in detail, in 1998, 2004, and 2017. In each he described with incredible precision of memory the appearances and descriptions of each person he failed to capture. He also appeared to do intensive research using their license plates and other information to find out where they lived and who they were. The names of these individuals have been kept quiet for privacy reasons.

Other failed abductions were noted, about one per year, without much detail. Or at least not enough for police officers to know who they were. Nearly all these failures were in one of three locations: Yellowstone National Park, Stanislaus National Forest and nearby campgrounds, and in or near Death Valley.

The last entry in Robert Weber’s diary was penned the day of his death.

NOTE: Weber referred to the Boxie as “the dog” in nearly all his journal entries. His last entry went:

May 6th, 20XX: The dog is pissed about something again. He’s always pissed about something. I think the thing in the basement probably kept him up all night with her caterwauling. He never gets used to the noises they make. God knows I can’t sleep either, at least not well. I’ll handle her tonight, have a drink with the dog after, see if that shuts up his nonsense for a while. Note: missed NPR interview with Senator Carlotta Grant on new leg. about the bb prohibition act. Find that on website later.

Found in Weber’s home, in boxes under his bed, were a series of restraints made of leather, high-quality items that appear to be custom-ordered to specific measurements. These included “gloves” intended to keep someone from being able to claw or scratch in their own defense, five sets of cuffs, a body harness, a leather half-face-mask that police referred to as a “muzzle”, several gags, some of which were deemed to be “designed to cause injury to the inside of the mouth”, and “other assorted items for use in torture and torment”.

You can find some leaked police docs online that go into more detail, but suffice to say they pretty much match the kinds of “toys” found in Nathaniel Benson and Brute Hanlon’s homes, too. And apparently, if you really know where to look, you can find some blurry low-quality photos Weber took, too.

While the items are a bit salacious, they aren’t entirely uncommon in consensual relationships, too, so it’s really not clear if they’re evidence of the Boxie being held against his will or not.

The investigation of the crime scene suggests that at some point after writing his final diary entry, Robert Weber made himself a pizza, which he ate half of and put the rest away in the fridge. His shaving cream and razor were found out on his sink, and Weber’s body was clean-shaven, suggesting he shaved shortly before his death.

He then watched three episodes of Law & Order: SVU. We know this because he texted during this time with his only living relative, the sister in Vermont. Little is known about Weber’s family and childhood, beyond his sister’s recounting of a quiet, strained home life with an overbearing mother and her mention that Robert endured several head injuries as a child and adolescent, including one that hospitalized him for days.

After he finished watching TV, Weber entered the basement and murdered Yolanda Pierce. It is believed he took the Box Boy downstairs with him, either as accomplice or witness. At some point while he was disposing of Yolanda Pierce’s remains, the Boxie became enraged for one reason or another, beat him with a shovel, got the kitchen knife from upstairs and stabbed him to death, and then left the house.

A neighbor remembers hearing odd noises around 3:30 AM and looking out their window to see a shadowy figure walking quickly down the road, but they weren’t able to see well enough to say whether or not the individual matches the description and WRU-provided photos of the Boxie. It does seem reasonable, though, to assume that the neighbor witnessed the Boxie fleeing the scene of the crime.

The Box Boy has never been seen again.

Police are pretty mum about the active investigation into the Box Boy’s whereabouts. I was able to get ahold of one source closely related to a member of the investigative team who said that there’s just not a lot of urgency. “Weber killed nearly two dozen people, just that we know of,” The source said. “The cops are a little bit ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ about the situation. Unless the Boxie comes back to RR, they’re just inclined to let sleeping dogs lie.”

The sense of “let it be someone else’s problem” would be understandable… if this Box Boy weren’t responsible for one other direct murder, possibly two.

Police believe the Boxie has not left California, and is likely to be continuing to survive by engaging in prostitution or perhaps panhandling or some other hidden way of making money. Unconfirmed sightings have been located in three cities in central California, but all of these are unverified and should be taken with a grain of salt.

It’s also possible he hooked up with a pet liberation movement group, in which case he may be hiding out in a safehouse, protected from the consequences of his actions by the pet lib movement’s understandable insistence on total secrecy and anonymity for the Boxies they take in.

If he’s an innocent victim of circumstance, that’s fair.

If he’s a burgeoning serial killer with three victims under his belt and a taste for inflicting terrible violence on those who take him in… well… anyone who gives him shelter may be next.

Is our Boxie a purposeful killer or just supremely, almost incomprehensibly unlucky? Will he kill again? Was he Robert Weber’s accomplice or his victim?

Will he strike again?

Should there be an audit of WRU’s psychological testing on potential sign-ups to see if, perhaps, a Box Boy-wannabe with an urge to kill slipped through the cracks?

What do you think?

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary

[mongoosecroft-alt]

Song lyrics as writing prompts Wintersberg edition

Prompt: "I'm always tired, it's just a habit."

Song: I'm Always Tired by Weathers

Rules: meh, some lyrics maybe?

Theme: exhaustion

my response:

It's a quarter to three, Ethan is still rolling in bed. He's been staring at the digital clock on the nightstand on and off since he lay down. Rose is on the other bed, surrounded by pillows in a makeshift crib. Ethan would prefer to keep her within arms reach. But he knows she wouldn't be able to sleep next to him in this state, she’s barely out now, shifting and fussing every few minutes in her sleep. It may have something to do with the traumatic events of the past few days, but he knows it's at least partially because he's so tense. Kids are intuitive like that, and Rose has been ill at ease every since Miranda came into their lives masquerading as Mia. Ethan feels guilty that his inability to calm down and rest is keeping Rose from doing the same, and that's probably only making it worse.

Ethan sits up on the bed, he sets his booted feet down on the floor and leans forward on his knees. He still has his jacket and jeans on. The bed creaks but Rose doesn't seem to notice. He takes a moment to review his surroundings, the door is locked with a chair propped under the handle, a lot of good that will do if the bsaa shows up with a battering ram. He's positioned himself between Rose and the door, his gun is in the top drawer of the nightstand, safety's on. His knife is in it's holster tucked under his pillow. And now he's sitting in the dark, staring at the closed door, waiting for something to come crashing through. There's not much more he can do than that.

He rubs the back of his neck and takes as deep a breath as he can. Holds it for a few seconds, and lets it out in a heavy sigh. For a moment the room feels dead silent, all he can hear is Rose's shaking breaths, she's clearly having a bad dream. Ethan contemplates picking her up, but decides it would probably just upset her further. His body seems to grow heavier at the thought, he hangs his head listening closely to Roses breathing in the quiet of the motel room, until he hears a sound that nearly makes him jump out of his skin

It sounded like someone knocking on the door, but who could be looking for them at this time of night? or at all for that matter? Ethan instinctively pulls his knife from under the pillow and looks around the darkened room, breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, until . . .

*knock knock knock*

The sound repeats, it's just a soft thudding, like it was barely meant to be heard. Ethan’s eyes land on the sliver of light coming from under the door and he realizes that the sound isn't coming from the front door, it's the door to the adjoining room. Ethan takes another deep breath and tries to settle his nerves, he had almost forgotten that the door was there. it hadn't even occurred to him to worry about it as he surveyed all the potential threats and points of entry a few moments ago. he stares at the sliver of light under the door, he can see the shadow of the man on the other side, he's not moving and he's already knocked twice, so it seems unlikely that he's just going to go away. But what could he possibly want at this hour?

Ethan stands up slowly in an attempt to minimize mattress creaking and pads quietly to the door, he considers for a moment before clicking on the lamp on the far side of the room, Rose has never had trouble sleeping with the lights on before. he gently unlatches the door and opens it slowly.

Karl Heisenberg stands on the opposite side leaning casually on the doorframe as he waits, like Ethan he only has the clothes he was wearing when he left the village, though he's looking far more put together now. The smell of overly scented hotel soaps and shampoo along with the errant air dried curls and waves of his hair give away the fact that he's freshly showered. Ethan was caught a little off guard by the sight, Heisenberg's hat and trenchcoat were conspicuously absent, his unkempt hair and relaxed stance seemed so humanizing, almost endearing.

Ethan was so taken aback by the sight that for a second he failed to notice that the Lord was looking at him over the rim of his glasses with a raised brow.

"Are you trying to outmaneuver a lycan or a small child? because I'm pretty sure her hearing isn't nearly as sensitive as mine"

Heisenberg spoke with an expressive yet soft voice.

If Ethan hadn't been paying attention, he wouldn't have even known he was being insulted. Still, he looked over to where Rose was to check on her, but she didn't seem bothered by the other mans voice at all. He sighed inwardly and decided not to press the issue.

"it's late Heisenberg, what do you want?"

Ethan's words lack venom and betray his exhaustion as he speaks.

"I'm here to offer some respite"

the Lord states matter of factly.

"what?"

"The past three nights you've been awake, either pacing the room or tossing back and forth on the bed, not to mention the kid starts screaming every few hours, so, I know you're exhausted. Because you're making be exhausted."

Ethan scoffed.

"Well, if my daughter and I are so disruptive them maybe you should ask for a different room so you won't have to listen to the lasting effects of an infants psychological trauma."

Ethan knew his response was overly harsh as soon as it came out of his mouth. Heisenberg was paying for their current lodgings with the small fortunes worth of crystals he'd had in his truck when they'd made their escape, and now Ethan was lashing out at him for pointing out that he wasn't sleeping. Ethan shook his head and opened his mouth to apologize but Heisenberg spoke before he got the chance.

"I didn't come here to complain, I came to offer my help, it's been over a week since the crash and the most you've slept since was when you passed out from bloodloss. You must be tired."

"I'm always tired, it's just a habit at this point."

Ethan’s shoulders hung heavy

"But, I can't sleep, not with everything I know now. Besides, who knows if I even need sleep to function anymore anyways."

"You do, I can tell by how bitchy you are without it."

Ethan looked back up from the ground to meet Heisenberg's eyes, he smiled and Ethan had to fight the urge to either laugh or cry, he didn't know which.

"This is your idea of 'helping'?"

"No, my idea was for you to let me watch the kid for a few hours while you get some shut eye, then hopefully you'll be in a better mood when you wake up."

Ethan shakes his head again, he's feeling more exhausted by the second since the start of this conversation

"I get that you want to help, but I can't just leave my daughter alone with someone I barely know."

Heisenberg mulls the fathers words over for a moment before he speaks.

"fine."

he shrugs and pushes past him into the room without another word.

Ethan is swung aside as easily as a door on its hinge and for a moment he isn't quite sure what just happened.

"What are you doing?"

Heisenberg walks past the beds and over to the table. He pulls out one of the chairs and spins it around.

"If you need to watch me while I watch her then fine"

He sits down backwards on the chair at the foot of Rose's bed with his arms folded on the backrest.

"I can keep an eye on her from right here."

Ethan stands in the middle of the room, he tries to find his words but nothing is coming out.

Heisenberg leans forward a little more

"Get some rest papa, who knows, tomorrow might be the day that everything goes to shit all over again, and when that happens you won't be much good to any of us in the state you're in now. So, just let me stand guard for a while."

Ethan can feel his fatigue gripping his bones now, yet there's still that screaming in his head that keeps telling him not to let his guard down. Words come toppling out of his mouth before he’s even stopped to think about them.

"Every time I close my eyes I see all the things that have already tried to come and take her from me, and just as may more that haven't tried yet."

"Do you even know how eyes lie?"

Ethan perked up immediately at the sound of the other mans voice, he hadn't been expecting a response to his musings.

"I spent my entire life surrounded by monsters that most sane people couldn't even fathom, and yet every night when I tried to sleep I'd be convinced that something far worse was coming for me."

Ethan’s not sure how long he stared at Heisenberg after he spoke, but it seemed to be long enough to make him regret sharing.

The Lord rolled his eyes and flicked his wrist with a dismissive showmanship

"Which is to say that you're not special, you just have the luxury of knowing you're not completely paranoid. Since people and creatures like that are in fact out to get you."

Ethan smiles and a soft laugh escapes him. As the sound reverberates through him he starts to realize just how deep this full body ache has sunk in. He takes a seat on the foot of his bed, too tired to stand anymore. He leans forward on his knees again weighing his options.

"Okay."

He finally speaks

"But no smoking around Rose, if you want to light up then go outside."

Heisenberg nods.

"Noted. But I'm not going anywhere"

Ethan falls back onto the bed as quietly as he can muster and doesn't bother trying to move from that spot.

"Night Heisenberg"

He mumbles as he quickly drifts off.

"Good night Winters"

Ethan wakes a few hours later to the sound of Rose fussing, it's still dark with the single dim lamp in the corner serving as the only light source. It's a slow process to dredge his consciousness out of the deep dreamless slumber he'd fallen into. He sees movement as he starts to crack his eyes open, for a man his size, Heisenberg can move in complete silence when he wants to.

Ethan watches through heavily lidded eyes, lying perfectly still as the man moves from his chair to Rosemary's bedside and sits down beside her.

He looks at her pensively and starts to reach with both hands like he's going to pick her up, but seems to think better of it. He sits and watches Rose as she starts to sniffle and wine louder. He starts to rub his hands together slowly, his gloves make a muffled scrubbing noise. They speed up as he leans down over Rose's fortress of pillows.

He reaches out again slowly and presses the palm of his gloved hand down gently on her chest. He waits a moment for her to react and then starts to rub slow circles on her chest. He begins to hum softly and Rose's fussing seems to taper off slowly back into silence

Ethan wonders to himself how Heisenberg could have known or guessed that this gesture would work. But as the soft rumble of Heisenberg's voice drifts into his thoughts he drifts off again.

Ethan doesn't wake again until a streak of sunlight from the crack between the curtains reaches his eyes. He stretches out on the bed and feels the soreness in his muscles, it's still there, but a little less now. He looks at the clock and sees its past noon. He can't remember the last time he slept this long, let alone without being woken by nightmares, either his or his daughters.

Wait, where's Rose then?

Ethan pushed himself up on the bed and looks around the room, he feels an unexpected rush of relief wash over him at the sight of the scruffy rough and tumble Lord stationed at his daughter's bedside.

Heisenberg was asleep, leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the bed, his glasses hung on the neck of his shirt. Apparently at some point in the night he'd moved his seat to position himself between where Rose slept and the door.

Ethan was surprised to see that Heisenberg was still here after at least nine and a half hours, it certainly wasn't the kind of timetable they'd agreed to last night, and who knows how much of that the Lord had actually stayed awake for. Ethan certainly wasn't expecting to sleep for this long, though it wasn't uncommon for Rose, in fact she might sleep another couple of hours if she can.

Which was also surprising, even before the events of their recent history, Rose normally only slept this soundly when someone was holding her. As Ethan turns to face them and his eyes adjust to the modicum of light in the room he realizes why.

Heisenberg's arm is rested on the mattress, one of his leather clad fingers gripped tightly in Rose's little hand.

Ethan feels the corner or his mouth twitch at the sight. The two seemed content the lie. He looks back at the clock, Heisenberg usually slept half the day away anyway. Ethan gets up and walks around to the far side of the bed, he pulls his gun out of the nightstand and checks one more time that its loaded and that the safety is still on. He walks back down to the foot of the bed and sits with himself between the two of them and the door.

He can keep watch until they're ready to get up, he can thank Heisenberg when he wakes. For now he'll wait, he'll make sure their both safe.

[seoracle]

DRIVERS LICENSE; i

Pairing: Bang Chan x Idol! Gender Neutral Reader

Genre: Fake Dating! AU, Angst, Lovers to Enemies(?), Occasional Pining, Comedy, S for potential smut(??)

Summary: Y/N has become an overnight sensation with ‘Drivers License’, Breaking records left and right...But what if the press gets wind of the ill-matched lovers and their company decide it’s the perfect attention ploy?

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Swearing (a lot near the end), Drinking mention

A/N: this was meant to be a drabble... now it’s becoming a series...i’m sorry

“...and the winner of Inkigayo today is...Y/N with ‘Drivers License, Congratulations!”

You step towards the center of the stage and take the trophy and bouquet from a rookie idol, who flashes a bright smile at you, but you can see the envy in his eyes. You once had that same hunger and ambition that he seems to reek of, it’s a reminder of how far you’ve come.

Taking the mic, you begin to sing a more sultry and edgier vibe than usual, which seems to gather more screams from fans than usual. You remember what Seulgi taught you and gaze at the camera lens with a subtle pout, trying to capture the angst of the song in your gaze.

It feels ridiculous, feigning emotions you no longer feel, singing a song you begged the company not to put out in a corset fitted shirt that’ll leave your ribs sore and reddened. It’s pathetic and cliche, you quite literally sold your soul (well, heart) for fame. 

“Yeah, you said forever, now I drive alone past your street…”

Everyone behind you waves at the camera, signalling the show is ending. You leave last, taking several confetti bits for your scrapbook, which is the only thing keeping you from remembering this is all real. 

Backstage, Iris and San are waiting in your dressing room, they greet you with proud grins and slaps on the back. 

“Well, if it isn’t miss twelve...no, thirteen wins in two weeks.” San praises, enveloping you in a hug.

“Could be thirteen by tomorrow~” Hums Iris in a sing-song tone.

A groan leaves your lips, while slumping into an uncomfortable chair. You tune out their excited plans for your makeup and hair tomorrow, San says something about an end of year Award show.

All you want is to go home to your empty dormitory and sleep.

When you finally arrive to the ‘comfort’ of your ‘studio apartment’ (box room), it isn’t long before you strip down to your pyjamas and aggressively rub off the layers of makeup that seem to cling to every pore and fine line of your face. The cold air from the fan soothes the aching of your body from your strict workout routine. You stay awake until 4am, reading comments from netizens and replying to fans on your fancafe, it  was hard not to become obsessed with checking what people thought; whether they loved or loathed you.

[+184 -93] Y/N is talented, but they look devoid of emotion since last week...maybe singing a song so personal isn’t a good idea….what if the person it’s about hears it…..

User FYL**8 was right, it had become draining trying to convey emotions you’d long let go of. Your debut song was fresh and fun, it didn’t garner much attention but at least you hadn’t had to fake emotions and relive your first heartbreak.

Although the memories of the breakup didn’t hurt as much, the happiest ones were the most painful. The feeling of ignorance, thinking he meant forever and believing him completely...it was all so distant yet felt a fingertip away.

That night you slept with a heavy heart, remembering what it felt like when he’d hold you close and right and kiss you on the head to soothe your worries. Why did it have to end? Why like that? You try to drift into a nice sleep after another exhausting day but to no avail, thoughts of him are flooding every thought. Has he heard it? There was no way he hadn’t, he loved to check out every ranking song for inspiration or for another artist to add to his monthly playlist. 

Would he get angry? Sad? Laugh at your pathetic feelings? He was right in the end, when it came down to it you only shared your feelings when it was too late.

Stupid Christopher fucking Bang.

It wasn’t often you’d refer to him as Chan, you had met him when he only saw it as another name for himself that he hardly used. Back when his hair had been fluffed up curls that he couldn’t contain and his light freckles weren’t covered by BB Cream. When he didn’t belong to the world and only loved you.

After months of forcing yourself not to, you hastily search “Stray kids Bang Chan + Y/N”, Then “Stray Kids Y/N” and finally “Skz Y/N”. The results are minimal and far inbetween, mostly tweets from fans wishing for a collab and oddly enough one person making edited photos of you and them, which are so convincing you have to remind yourself you hadn’t met them.

Thoughts drift to his friends, the ones who didn’t know Chris was even seeing someone and had been for over a year. They tried to sugarcoat it, say they forgot, it’s hard to keep track when you’re training and all that. 

The sinking feeling you felt when Minho asked how long you’d been together, guessing a month at most. When you did reply, ears burning with embarrassment he coughed and muttered “Oh.’, That had stung.

Everything had seemed so perfect, until you opened your eyes and saw it for what it was.

You don’t end up sleeping much, two hours at most, Then it’s time to get ready and head to the Broadcast Studio for today’s event. All you know is it’s a show about giving advice, the reviews aren’t great but you aren’t allowed to turn anything down because fame is a double-edged sword that you can barely grasp as is.

Iris and San are already waiting for you when you get there, within minutes makeup is being patted into your skin and your outfit is laid out on the chair next to you.

“Sleep more, Y/N-ah, I had to use a double coverage concealer to hide your dark circles.” Iris said in a fretful tone.

“I try, it’s hard being famous.” You reply jokingly, flipping your hair the best you can. Iris smacks your hand away and frantically finds her hairspray.

Within twenty minutes you’re dressed and not one hair is out of place, San pulls you aside with an uncharacteristically stern face. 

“The company have specific goals for sending you here, they want you to delve into a story of heartbreak to comfort today’s victim, while keeping anonymity and remaining as vague as you can.” 

Of course, even a show about helping others is fictional.

You nod solemnly and prepare to go on air, sitting on a cushion next to a popular comedian who doesn’t bother to even look at you. A well-known Streamer is on your other side and you begin polite small talk, which seems to irritate the host.

“We’re on in 3,2….1!” A sharp click follows the director’s queue and the host bursts right into the introduction.

After you’re introduced it’s easy to tune out, you couldn’t give a shit about that stuck-up comedian and the actress to their right. Instead you think of how the fuck you’re supposed to conjure up an emotional performance with little to no time to prepare.

‘My ex-boyfriend hid me for almost two years’ no, not even worthy of a cheap gossip magazine. ‘I thought my boyfriend loved me, turns out he loved his career more’ Maybe...but you sound too needy. 

“Today’s guest is Lee Chaeun of Suwon! Tell us your story, please.” 

You turn to look at the guest who walks onto the set and sits at the head of the pillow mats. She’s clearly a young girl, her baby face is covered by face-framing layers of shiny black hair and her eyes are already glassy.

“Last year, I began dating my crush after years of admiring him from afar...Everything seemed so perfect until last week….He dumped me by text message saying he needed space and now he’s with someone new..” Chaeun bursts into tears and the host fakes a sympathetic face and passes her a box of tissues.

“Ah, you’re young...you don’t know anything yet. This is a normal phase for teenagers, men realise themselves and break girls down so they become beautiful women. It’s just a case of a little girl not wanting to grow up!” Chimes in the Comedian, who talks about his falsities as if they’re facts.

The audience erupts into laughter and the heartbroken teenager lowers her head in embarrassment. Which only makes you more enraged, Who told that guy he was funny?

“Chaeun has every right to be upset!” You exclaim, cutting through the laugher like a hot knife. “When a relationship ends when everything seems alright for one person, it's cruel. Being blindsided isn’t a joke. It hurts and she deserves closure, and to move on someday to a better person..What happened to her shouldn’t happen to anyone!”  You barely register a gentle hand on top of yours, far too surprised by the fact there are tears dripping down your face. Crying wasn’t an option, so you pull yourself together and apologise to Chaeun and the host you cannot stand.

“Y/N, You seemed personally moved by Chaeun’s story, have you experienced a painful breakup?” The host asks curiously.

“You could say that,” You begin with a wry smile. “I was with someone who lived a double life, they were completely different when they were with other people...Things ended when I was still planning for future dates...it made me realise how fake they were.”

The guests all nod and you squeeze Chaeun’s hand, she smiles at you seeming relieved that she isn’t the only one who has felt this kind of pain. 

Everything goes smoothly after that, other guests chime in and the actress that seemed snobby is openly discussing her ex vomiting all over her Valentinos. You can’t help but wonder if the company really suggested this, or if it was divine intervention (Choi San, your manager). 

You don’t feel so alone anymore, everyone is guaranteed several things, two being love and heartbreak of some kind. 

“Thanks to singer Y/N and actress Sojung, Chaeun was able to feel a little better...Thank you for joining us on ‘Help No Counsellor!’, Join us next week when…’

“Choi San, you sneaky bastard.”

He tries to act surprised but a shit-eating grin soon overtakes his acting, Iris shakes her head and zips her makeup bag closed. It isn’t long until you’re all at The Min’s enjoying red bean bread and warm tea.  “What does inept even mean? I’m assuming it’s a good thing because Wooyoung kissed me after saying it.” San mentions, his lips curving upwards at the fond memory.

“I’d have to agree with Woo, it fits you perfectly.” You reply, circling around his question while Iris tries not to choke on her food.

Fits of laughter die down when you spot a familiar face, Lee Mijoo. 

Her blonde hair flows down her back in loose curls and her soft eyes seem to enchant everyone, admittedly even you for a short time.Behind her is a slightly taller figure dressed in all black and your stomach drops.They don’t seem to notice your presence, so you decide to use this valuable time to hide behind a menu. 

San and Iris try to play along best they can, but it is quite distressing that all of this has happened so suddenly, with no prior warning. But he did bring you here, a lot. So it’s amusing to see his date ideas haven't changed. 

As he’s walking past you he pauses, and you want to shrivel into a hole and die, He’s clearly recognised you but can’t be 100% sure due to The Min’s menu covering your entire face. 

“Y/N?” 

Shit. You cannot hide from this.

Slowly taking the menu away and placing it down on the table you smile at him, maybe a little too forced but it’s the best you can do. His hair is blonde now, his curls are long gone but his smile is as genuine as ever. 

Stupid Christopher Bang and his stupid ‘I-totally-didn’t-break-your-heart’ attitude.

“Chan, nice to see you. Still obsessed with their double shots?” You humoured, he seemed grateful for that.

“Oh, absolutely...and I see you’re still not saving any bean bread for anyone else.” 

You laugh, it’s a bittersweet one at best but nevertheless it’s a laugh.

'Well it’s great to see you again, I’d love to exchange numbers if that’s alright?” 

Without thinking you nod and oblige him, much to your friend’s disappointment which is evident by their glares. Mijoo exchanges smiles with everyone, who could hate her? She was funny, kind hearted and beautiful in every aspect. 

When they finally leave to their outside seats you breathe a sigh of relief and sink into the chair.Iris strokes your hair and San grabs more snacks to go, the walk home isn’t peaceful. It’s awkward and silent, which only makes your head spin more. When you drop off Iris you know a lecture is coming, San hates doing it but you know he tells you what you need to hear, even if it hurts.

“Look, I’m happy you were able to brush off all the hurt today but earlier on you were crying about….this. Don’t give him the power to hurt you twice.”

“You’re right, thanks Sannie.” You reply, taking his arm and smiling at the warmth of his (Wooyoung’s) fuzzy coat. 

Once San leaves and you get inside, it’s a matter of minutes before you hop in the shower and get rid of all the hairspray and mascara that’s been making you itch all day. The warm water soothes away your nerves and the impending frostbite from being outside in the cold for far too long. 

Once you feel clean and somewhat scalded you step out onto warm fluffy towels (cheap warm fluffy towels with holes in them) and get situated for bed.

Just as you exit the bathroom your phone rings and you answer immediately, it’s probably Iris wanting you to play a new Among Us mod with her. 

“Iris?”

“Uh, no, Chris.” 

“Oh.” is your initial reply, why would he call you at midnight?

“Where you asleep? I’m sorry I’ll call back another ti-”

“No!” You interject, much too eagerly. “No...it’s fine. I’m not even in bed yet.”

“Oh” He sounds relieved, much the opposite of you.

“I just wanted to congratulate you...The song, it’s great. What’s it like actually singing one you wrote?”

“Great,” You admit with a smile he can't see, “It feels...genuine. I Couldn't stand the thought of giving the song away.”

“I can see why.” He replies in an unreadable tone.

“Did it make you uncomfortable? Me singing...about-”

“No, why would it?” He cuts in, he sounds slightly agitated.

“Look, Chan, I’m sorry. I should’ve texted you, well I did but you changed your number. But it’s my story too, okay? I needed to heal somehow.”

Minutes pass with no answer, as if he’s trying to think of exactly what to say without getting more irritated or to spare your feelings.

“When did I become Chan?” His voice comes out wavering,and it hurts you.

“That’s what everyone calls you now, you’re not just Chris the trainee anymore.” You reply in a gentle way, trying to ease the building tension.

“But to you, when did I stop being Chris?”

“Probably when you broke my heart,” You deadpan, before adding a ‘kidding’ and bullshit reason.

“You weren’t kidding, but you broke mine too. Don’t make me the bad guy.”

This had taken you aback, you had been in a perfectly happy relationship for almost two years and then he changed his mind, said he wasn’t happy and it wasn’t your fault. When the fuck did you break his heart?

“When exactly did that happen?” You query, “Before or after Mijoo?”

Chan lets out a dry laugh, “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

“Well what does it matter? You never told me shit anyways.” You snapped.

“That’s because you wouldn’t fucking listen. Maybe to you it was all sunshine and roses but I was struggling, I changed and outgrew us. I didn’t want to but you were stuck in dreamland where we’d debut at the same time and live happily ever after. I realised it wasn’t going to happen and set you free so you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” You bark,”Fucking embarrassed of what exaclty? I left that shithole you call your company by choice and worked my way up. I’m not embarrassed, but you should be. You’re a fucking sellout Christopher Bang.”

Before he can reply you end the call and throw your phone at the wall, it would’ve broken only for the forty dollar case the store assistant convinced you to buy. You burst into tears just like you had that night when it all came crashing down. He must’ve loved seeing you in pain, because he keeps doing it even now.

That night, you wish for everything to go back to a time before him and the heartbreak that followed.

It’s early on a Friday when you’re called into a board meeting with the CEO, Director and San, who looks like someone stepped on his clay masterpiece. You still haven’t been told anything and as the minutes pass by you wonder if they found out about you getting drunk at Club Suran several weeks back. What if someone saw San there too? What if–

Suddenly the doors open and in walks JYP’s CEO, followed by several others and finally Chris. He looks as confused as you, but you quickly look away before he spots you. Last night was still fresh in your mind and you didn’t need anymore reminders or conversations with him.

“Dispatch has sent us several photos of you two together, spanning several years.” Your CEO announces, an Executive pulling the photos up on the screen behind her. “Including one from yesterday.”

“That was a coincidence, we broke up a long time ago.” You admit, she seems satisfied with your answer and nods, which makes you remember that damned dating ban you have.

“Usually, we’d shoot down these rumours immediately...but this could be quite beneficial to both Stray Kids and Y/N.” JYP’s CEO adds, “Stock prices have shown a rise for both of your albums, and real time searches are at an all time high.” 

“I have a girlfriend.” Chan states, arms folded. “So that’s out of the question if you’re implying we fake a relationship.”

“Look Bang Chan,” Begins one of the Advisors, “It’s all for show, we’ll plan every detail and your girlfriend will keep her mouth shut if she knows what's good for her. Frankly, our sales aren't what they used to be and you need this, if you want complete musical and artistic control.”

Chan takes a while to think, you know this is all he’s wanted. Control over everything he and the boys put out there, with no censorship or edits by anyone else. Your CEO assures you you’ll also benefit from the agreement, including your debt fully cleared and money in your bank account as soon as you sign on the dotted line.

“How long does this last?” You ask, pen in hand.

“Twelve months, then you’re free again.” 

Chan looks to you for conformation and you ignore him, signing it and standing up to leave. You only stop to sign more formalities and then you and San head back to your local coffee shop. 

“Well, you sure have a funny way of moving on.”

[angst-fairygodmother]

Work of Art (Diego Hargreeves x Reader, Kinktober

A/N: Rather than try and finish 2 more fics this week, as would be necessary to finish the original Kinktober list I posted, I played a little shuffle, and combined the two remaining ones, tossed some stuff, added new stuff. Because frankly I’m running out of steam[iness], though really, this is further than I ever expected to get on this project. Anyway...the final fic. Hope you enjoy. Word Count: 2440 Kinktober Prompts: bondage, knife-play, marking Rating: E(xplicit) Content Warnings: dom/sub (dom reader), bondage, knife-play, marking kink, pain kink, begging, teasing, praise kink, oral (both male and female receiving), biting, blood, overstimulation Cross-posted to AO3 here.

“Stop squirming so much,” you laughed, dropping the soft cotton rope to start over. “You’d think I was torturing you or something.”

“You’re sitting there, dressed like that, looking that gorgeous, and not letting me touch you,” Diego pointed out. “Find me the part that isn’t torture.”

You rolled your eyes, finally securing the last knot to keep Diego exactly where you wanted him, despite his continued wriggling.

“Unless you want actual torture, stop complaining.”

“Actual torture? You couldn’t if you tried.”

You raised a challenging eyebrow and smirked. He swallowed, instantly regretting his words. 

“Well then, you wouldn’t mind if I just…” you walked over to the bedroom door, pausing dramatically in the doorway to look back at him. “Left you there then?”

“Wait, no, Y/N,” he called after you, voice straining with ill-concealed desperation. “Please. I promise I’ll behave.”

You waited a few beats longer, until you heard his faint whine, pleading for you, before you returned to the bedroom, satisfied that he knew your threat was serious. When you returned, he gave you his best penitent expression, which was admittedly, just a little bit ruined by the way his eyes trailed hungrily over your figure in the lacy, nearly see-through negligee you wore when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

“I could do whatever I want to you like this,” you observe off-handedly, still standing near the end of the bed, studying his bound form. 

He wasn’t completely immobile, though you had originally tried to convince him to let you trap him in that way. But he was tied enough that he wouldn’t be going anywhere or able to pull his usual stunts to try to take control. And he looked so pretty: stretched out on the bed, hands bound above him with just enough slack to be able to twist and grab the thin wrought-iron rails supporting him, another thin set of ropes wrapped around his waist and secured to the underside of the bed. If you were being honest, it was a bit like the damsel tied to a railroad track in an old silent movie, but it was a look that worked for him, especially the way the blue ropes stood out against his skin. 

“And you’d like that wouldn’t you,” you purred, taking a few steps closer. “You like to act tough but really, you’re just craving to be used and controlled. Isn’t that right baby?”

His cock twitched at your words and you couldn’t help but smirk, enjoying the visual evidence of your effect on him. He nodded in answer to your question, even as he strained against his binds. You stopped, waiting expectantly for him to use his words. It had taken a long time to convince him to let his guard down and be vulnerable like this, and you wanted to be sure that he was both capable and willing to bring it to a stop if he needed to.

“Yes,” he finally panted. “Please, use me, do whatever you want to me. Please, Y/N.”

“You look so good like this, like a work of art. What would you do if I decided I wanted to just sit here,” you plopped yourself down on a stool in the corner and folded one leg over your knee, leaning forward so you could still see his face. “And admire the art?”

He shook his head. “No, please, please touch me, hurt me, fuck me. Do anything, just please, do something.”

“You’re so right.” You stood again, sauntering to the edge of the bed and staring down into his face, gently running your nails down the side of his face, swiping them across his lips, drawing back harshly enough that they caught when he tried to suck a thumb into his mouth.

“My pretty boy.” He shivered bodily, as much as the ropes would allow, at your words, throwing his head back against the pillow.

“Do you like that? Being called pretty or being called mine.”

His face flushed and you repressed a giggle.

“Both,” he admitted shyly. 

“Do you want me to keep doing it?”

“Please?”

“Of course, my pretty boy, all mine, all laid out and gorgeous for me.” A dangerous glint crossed your eyes as he tried to buck upward, a bead of pre-cum welling from your words alone. 

“Maybe, I should make sure everyone knows that you’re mine. Make it clear that they can look,” you ran your fingertips down his sternum, “but they can’t touch. Would you like that?”

You suspected that by the end of the night, he would grow tired of your prompting. And yet, if he paid attention, he would see that through this, he had more control than he ever did otherwise. 

“Yes, Y/N. Claim me.” There was a hint of frustration and desperation in his voice, and you decided not to push him any further before giving in. 

Slowly, making sure his eyes were trained on you the whole time, not that he had dared to look away for a second so far, you straddled him, just above where the ropes crossed his mid-section, moving at a pace that made tectonic plates look like speedboats. 

Settling comfortably, you leaned down, pressing your body against his, only the gauzy layer of your dress separating you. You let your breath ghost over him, teasing at the sensitive spots behind his ear and beneath his jaw. And then, sure that he wouldn’t be expecting it, you dipped your head lower and bit down harshly on the soft spot where throat met clavicle. Diego cried out, thrashing under you but unable to move, and just as importantly, not seeming like he was actually trying to get away from you. You felt the slightest hint of blood welling up and laved your tongue over the spot, soothing the worst of the sting but maintaining enough pressure to draw the blood toward the surface, ensuring a heavy, dark spot would be left behind.

“Mm,” you purred, pulling back to look at his face once more, the blissed out look on his face sending a jolt to your core. “You mark up so well for me Diego, but I don’t know if that little spot’s going to be enough.”

He gulped nervously. “Will you leave another?”

“I had a better idea, if you trust me…” you forced him to meet your gaze. 

“Absolutely.” It was the firmest his voice had been since you began. 

Hesitantly, you reached over to the nightstand, picking up one of the tiny precision blades that he used sometimes, though never in this way obviously. Palming it, you held it up for him to see. His eyes widened. 

“I promise, I won’t hurt you, not really,” you explained, dropping any act or pretense. “Lightest touch only. Just enough to leave a mark that will heal over without a trace. Or I can put this away. It’s up to you.”

His eyes flickered back and forth from the knife to your face. 

“Do it,” he said, voice gruff with desire. The muscles of your cunt clenched and fluttered at the sound, but you tried to ignore the feelings and focus on him. “...please?”

You kissed him passionately, trying to pour into it all of the thousand feelings coursing through you: how badly you wanted him, how much you loved him, how grateful you were that he trusted you like this. 

You rocked backwards, letting your ass brush teasingly against his straining erection as you inspected your canvas.

“Now, my pretty boy,” you taunted, “where shall I make my mark. There are so many options…”

You trailed the flat of the little blade along the column of his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob, dangerously close to the point. You traced outward, first over one side of his collarbone and then the other and then down over the taut muscles of his chest. He hissed as you turned the blade so that the needle-sharp point was against his flesh as you traced circles around his nipples with just enough pressure to create a sting. Finally, you stopped, poised just above his heart.

“Shall I write my name right here?” you asked, “label your heart and lay my claim to it.”

“It’s yours,” he countered, “already yours.”

“Well then, let’s make it official.” 

You turned the blade again so that the full edge was pressed his exposed skin, biting your lip as you watched the little specks of red well up in the shape of your initials, tracing over them once, twice, thrice. He moaned louder with each pass, high and needy and threatening to overwhelm you, but he held himself perfectly still, one wrong move potentially spelling his end. You admired the endurance and discipline it required almost as much as you admired the patterns of pain you were tracing around the letters now, little hearts and swirling shapes. You followed behind the knife with open-mouthed kisses, as you wanted him to experience the sting and ache at the same time as you wanted to draw them away and spare him any suffering.

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, haven’t I been good?”

You looked up, a little startled at the question. 

“Of course you’ve been good. You’ve been so good. Perfect, obedient, beautiful. You’ve been all those things Diego,” you assured him. 

“Then please, I can’t take anymore. Please stop teasing me, no more games.”

You frowned. It wasn’t the safeword you had agreed to, but maybe…

“Please, don’t I deserve a reward?”

Oh.

“Of course you do baby. Do you want to cum now?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“No?” you startled. 

“No. I don’t want to cum yet. Not until I taste you. I know you’re wet, I know you. I want that sweet little pussy all over my face.”

“Well who am I to refuse you whatever your heart desires?” You said, eyes sparkling with mirth before you rose up on your hands and knees, crawling over him until you were poised, hovering just out of reach of his tongue, which was already darting out to run across his lips. 

His hands strained at the ropes, and you knew that if his hands were free, something you could have given him with a few flicks of the little knife if you wanted to, they would be gripping your hips with bruising strength and holding you down while he pleasured you. You closed your eyes, letting the image dance across your eyelids while you sank down. 

Diego’s tongue flicked through your folds, tasting your gathered wetness. The groan that followed vibrated up through you, and it took all of your willpower, and the sharp bite of your nails into the palm of one hand, the other braced on the headboard, parallel to Diego’s own arms, not to break from that sensation alone. He sucked hard on your sensitive clit and you keened, grinding down on his face just as he moved his attention, tongue diving into you. You continued to move, hips bucking in rhythm with the thrust and flick of the wet muscle inside you, his name falling from your lips like a prayer and then in a primal scream as he flicked and sucked at your clit again, alternating back and forth faster than you could keep track of. He answered each sound you made with one of his own, groans and moans and hums mixing with his clever mouth to drive you over the edge, and then again without warning as he refused to let up. 

“Oh fuck!” you cried out, “Fuck, Diego, yes! You make me feel so good baby!”

As a third orgasm tore through you, you pulled from him, trembling in the aftershocks as you tried to catch your breath.

“That was so good baby,” you panted. “You always know how to make me feel so good. But now it’s your turn.”

You slowly slunk down the bed, trailing kisses and little nips along his skin until you reached your destination. Looking up to check on him, and because you knew how much he loved the sight of you making eye-contact as you sucked him off, you wrapped your lips around his dick and slowly lowered your mouth onto it, taking him as deep as you could until he bumped at the back of your throat and tears stung at the corners of your eyes. Curling your hand around the base of him, the other bracing yourself against his thigh, you set an unstable pattern, working him rapidly, twisting your fingers and bobbing your head up and down only to suddenly slow, so that you were all but still, holding him in your mouth and the length of his cock with your tongue and then resuming your motions, trying to keep him on his toes. He bucked his hips as far as the ropes would allow him, trying to match your patterns with thrusts of his own, and crying out your name over and over. 

“Oh, Y/N,” he moaned. “I’m so close. I’m so fucking close.”

You squeezed gently on the base of his cock at the same you hollowed out your cheeks, taking him as deep as you could and he came with a feral growl, his cum filling your mouth, hot and salty and you swallowed down as much of it as you could, fighting the urge to gag. 

Slowly, you slid him out of your mouth and stood. Your own fluids were rapidly cooling on the insides of your thighs as you made your way shakily to the bathroom for some warm cloths to clean you both up.

As you returned to Diego’s side, you noticed the way he shivered and sweat. Concerned, you quickly slit the ropes, freeing him to curl in on himself.

“Diego, baby?” you asked softly, stroking the damp fabric over his skin soothingly. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, sounding hoarse and slightly out of breath. “That was just a lot…”

“Too much?” 

“No. No,” he shook his head, reaching around to grab one of your hands in his. “It was perfect, I’m just…I’ll be fine.”

You bit your lip, not sure if you believed him and concerned that you’d gone too far, all in the name of showing him how amazing he was.

“How can I help?” you asked, wanting to follow his lead and speed his recovery.

“Just, hold me, please.”

“Let me finish cleaning us both up, and then I can definitely do that,” you said with a smile, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Diego.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

[twoidiotwriters1]

June, 1976 (WITT One-Shot)

A/N: If you want to remain in the taglist pls interact with this one-shot even if you haven’t read book 4-5 yet. A like or a comment is fine, the people who don’t want to continue reading obvsly do not interact and I’ll delete from the taglist :) -Danny

Words: 2,590

Series’ Masterlist

Emily was tired, but she'd spent all day overthinking and she was done, it was time to grow up.

She could hear Lily Evans' voice ushering Severus Snape away, he'd been coming around for several hours during the day trying to apologize, but he'd finally crossed a line.

"It's not your fault, you know?"

Matthew's voice caught her attention, he'd stopped at the foot of the stairs, one hand propped on the wall.

"Snape and Evans have been fighting for months now, I think it's because of what he's been doing with the Slytherins... you know, the cult stuff."

Emily averted her gaze to the fireplace.

"I know..."

Matthew hesitated, he'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back to being Emily's therapist, but something was different this time, it wasn't her usual kind of sulking.

"Are you okay?"

She looked at him over her shoulder and frowned.

"I'm not the one who got called 'mudblood' by a close friend."

"No, you weren't," He admitted. "Which is why it's so strange to see you all sad."

"I'm not sad."

"Is this about James?"

He didn't want to know, but alas, he'd asked.

"No," She made a face. "I don't think I care about him that way anymore."

"It's easier said than done," Matthew crossed his arms, his shoulder now leaning on the archway of the stairs.

"What do you want, Ruddy?" Emily groaned.

"I don't want anything from you," The boy replied. "But I have the feeling that you need to talk."

"I do," She said. "Not with you, though."

Matt nodded, he sighed.

"Good luck, then, have a good night."

"'Night."

Emily watched him disappear up the stairs, she didn't know why, but the memory of his burning gaze before he kissed her came back then, his intense determination as he held her closer... That moment Emily had found herself unable to move away, to say no. She wished she had his courage to just do stuff even when he was intimidated by them, she needed that kind of bravery tonight.

Lily Evans entered the tower two minutes later, Emily stood up abruptly and the redhead came to a halt.

For a moment none of them spoke, then Lily's face showed tons of fatigue.

"What now? Is it your turn to call me a stuck-up bore because I didn't agree to go out with Potter?"

Emily shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"Can we talk?" She asked shyly. "I promise it's not a trick... I'm sorry."

Emily's behaviour towards her was usually hostile, tonight her voice was gentle, and even a little afraid.

"You're sorry?"

"I don't expect you to believe me," Emily continued, lowering her gaze. "I know you and Snape were close — I don't understand how can you like him... listen I suck at apologies, can't you just say it's alright so we can go to bed?"

Lily crossed her arms, standing straighter.

"No, I think I want you to try harder."

Emily groaned, she sat down heavily and started to think her words carefully, Lily inched closer.

"Boys can be cruel when they're not thinking — Anyone, really... I've been brutal myself — Matthew and I almost stopped being friends a few months ago, because I don't like talking about my feelings," She laughed dryly. "I don't know what is it about today that it just... I don't want to be a tormentor my whole life, let alone to someone who is... tolerable. I'm sorry for making your life a living hell these past few years."

Lily sat down, although she kept the seat between them empty to keep some distance.

"You didn't make my life a living hell," She replied. "I... can admit you're a bit clever... even likeable — that last match when you threw Lewis a bludger after he called you a midget... it was kind of funny."

"The boys walked me everywhere that week, they thought Ernest was going to try and get back at me," Emily bit her lip, but she was now smiling. "I mean, I lived in fear for days! Thinking he would spike my drink at some point with poison or something... Until Matthew cornered him outside D.A.D.A. class one day, poor Lewis... he looked so small in comparison..."

"Anyone looks small next to Matthew, he's a giant," Lily grinned. "Well, if it's any consolation, I was planning on murdering you in a much classier manner than poison, but since you've apologized, I guess I won't have to kill you after all."

Emily snorted, her eyes lingered on Lily, who looked like she'd been crying for most of the day, and yet still had enough energy to sit down and talk with the girl she'd detested for the last four years.

"Why are you being nice?" She asked in annoyance. "I mean I'm glad you're kind of accepting my apology, but I thought you'd be a bit colder, walking away before I could even finish..."

"What kind of person do you think I am?" Lily raised a brow, with the orange light coming from the fireplace her green eyes looked far more intense than usual. "If I'm honest, you should thank Remus... he's tried to convince me that you lot are far better than you look..."

Emily sighed, when she was young she'd do mischief for fun, but now that she was older, and considering all the weird stuff that was happening outside the school, she was starting to think that maybe her group of friends were indeed changing for the best.

"I'm going to be honest with you too, Evans," The girl took a deep breath. "Being the only girl in my friend group is turning out to be pure torture. I'm in desperate need of a girlfriend."

Lily's mouth twitched a bit, but she didn't laugh.

"What makes you think I want to be your friend?"

"Oh, I don't think you want to," She raised a brow. "But maybe if we're on good terms I'd be able to ask you for a tampon without having to swallow my pride first."

Lily did laugh at this, she shook her head. "Holy Merlin, Sultens, you're loopy."

"You would be too if you were seated next to Sirius every day!" She paused. "So... are you willing to make peace?"

Lily examined her carefully, four long years of quarrels sat between them, but a lifetime of friendship could be ahead if Emily was truly sorry. She was a nice girl, and really smart too, she was annoying only when she was taunting Severus, and he was no longer her friend.

Lily stretched out her hand.

"Very well, but if you go back the deal is over and we'll be less than strangers, understood?"

"Sure."

She retreated her hand before Emily could grab it.

"Hang on — this is not Potter's idea, right? You're not trying to be my friend just so I date him later?"

"Lily, if anything I hope you and James never date," Emily snickered. "Nothing personal, you're just way too good for him."

"...Alright."

They shook hands, she'd meant what she said about it not being personal. James was a boy, a very silly one at that, and even though they were really close friends, Emily was no longer a blind supporter of his doings.

Funnily enough, this seemed to be related to Matthew, she couldn't stop thinking about that kiss! Merlin, he was a good kisser...

She shook the thought away, now was not the time for nonsense.

"I'm very honoured to be your acquaintance, Evans," Emily grinned.

"Call me Lily. Only Professors call me Evans... and Potter, but you know I hate that."

"Got it, Lils."

July 1996

"...I don't think this is right," Mel tilted her head. "Brownies are mean to be brown... not pitch-black."

"You burned them," Harry was standing behind them with his arms crossed, clearly upset.

"How could you burn them, Erick? They were in there for five minutes!"

"Are you sure..." Erick stabbed the mixture with a knife and made a face. "Ugh — they're still liquid in the middle!"

"How the fuck did you do this?"

"I thought it would work just the same if I doubled the heat and put less time," Erick sulked. "Ovens are weird."

"This is why we told you to stay out of it," Harry replied. "You don't know how muggle stuff work."

"I do know!"

"Then why did you burn the brownies?"

"Don't fight," Mel intervened, grabbing the platter and throwing its contents away. "Oh well, at least we ruined my birthday cake and not someone else's..."

"That's not okay," Harry frowned. "You should have a proper cake."

Mel looked at him and grinned. "I'll eat yours, then."

"How's everything going in here?" Emily walked in, behind her Lupin followed.

"Uncle Lu!" Mel rushed over to his side and hugged him, the man chuckled. "You came!"

"Well, hadn't been around for your birthday in a long time, I thought you'd like it," He said, lovingly patting her back.

"I do," She beamed. "We kind of ruined the cake, though, so we should buy doughnuts or something."

"It's a good thing I brought this, then," Lupin lifted his bag and placed it on the table, inside there was a beautifully adorned red velvet cake.

"You just saved my birthday!"

Harry and Erick shared a moody expression and grumbled complaints, Lupin laughed.

"The kids insisted on doing the cakes this year," Emily explained. "I told them it was not an easy job, but they insisted."

"Mel and I have done this before, Erick was the one who wanted to be in charge when he can't even make tea without magic," Harry glared at him.

"Muggles stuff are too complicated, alright?" He huffed.

"I don't mind," Mel said without paying attention to them, she was still beyond happy with her uncle's presence. "I wanted to give my mum a break, Leggie's been a bit hard to handle lately..."

"Is he?" Lupin looked at the little boy Emily was holding. "Is he ill?"

"No, he just cries a lot," The woman sighed. "Wakes us up every night."

"I thought that forcing my mother to bake when she's clearly too tired to be doing anything apart from feeding a baby was a crime," Mel stated. "So I took care of it."

"Then Flint messed it up," Harry taunted.

"And then you fixed it, Uncle Moony," The girl smiled. "So there's no harm done, right boys?"

She looked over her shoulder, raising a brow as if urging them to stop bickering before they embarrassed her in front of Lupin. Both mumbled their agreement, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Lovely," Mel looked back at the adults. "Who wants lunch?"

Mel and Erick were in the kitchen talking in hurried whispers, she appeared to be upset, the young man too. Emily and Remus were in the drawing-room, Harry was upstairs changing Reg's diaper.

"Do you know why they're arguing?" Remus asked, staring at the pair.

"Dumbledore came by this morning before breakfast," Emily sighed, leaning her head back on the couch. "Talked about this mission he had for Erick — you know how eager to help that boy is... so of course the old man came and put his offer on a silver platter, and Mel won't let Erick go on his own, so being the generous soul Dumbledore is," She said sarcastically, "He said she could go too if she wanted to."

"Really?" Remus frowned. "Well... he's been giving her lessons for years, Mily, perhaps he knows she can handle it."

"I don't care," She said bluntly. "That's my daughter, my daughter. Matt's daughter. How can he continue to risk my family's life like it's nothing?"

"You know Matthew did all he that because he wanted to, Dumbledore had nothing to do with his decisions."

"I know," Emily took a deep breath. "But he's got a lot to do with Mel's... she idolizes him."

"You think so?" The man looked over his shoulder again, staring at his goddaughter.

"I don't see why else she'd be so keen to follow his orders..."

"Maybe because she feels guilty?" Remus offered. "After what happened in the ministry..."

Emily pressed her lips together, she didn't want to talk about that.

"That's not her fault and she knows it. I told her it wasn't."

"You weren't there," He said gravely. "She went out of control. I had never seen anything like it, her magic was dark— I mean that literally. All the spells she did came out pitch-black. Dumbledore was the only one who could put a stop to it."

Emily's eyes grew worried, she looked over her shoulder as well and her gaze landed on Mel.

"You think it could be the same thing that Ariana Dumbledore had? That disease?"

"No one knows what happened to her," Remus said. "Not even Matthew knew, and he was part of the family... but it could be. Maybe Dumbledore knows something we don't, maybe this will help her... perhaps she needs this."

Emily stayed silent for a moment, then she groaned.

"I hate that we're always meant to trust him blindly."

"He's lived a hundred years, he might be wiser than all of us, don't you think?"

The woman scoffed, she looked ahead, deep in thought.

"A hundred years... Matthew couldn't even make it to twenty-one! James and Lily barely did... Sirius spent twelve years in Azkaban — But at least we all knew how the war looked like then, Remus. We fought for years... my daughter just turned sixteen, she still goes to school!"

"And yet she's already done her fair amount of fighting," The man raised a brow. "We didn't have the experiences she's gone through when we were her age. I stand with Dumbledore, she can do this."

"I'm not saying she can't," Emily grabbed the empty plates to take them to the kitchen. "I'm saying she shouldn't have to sacrifice her youth. Dumbledore asks for too much, I'm sure he's got someone else that could help him with the mission, but he's obsessed with making Mel his perfect copy."

Remus didn't try to argue back, little could convince Emily at this point, she'd never been a fan of Dumbledore, and after Matt's death it was no secret that she openly disliked him, but she still followed his orders, because she knew Dumbledore was the only chance they had to win this war.

Mel and Erick entered the room, neither of them angry, which made Remus think they had reached an agreement.

"I should leave," The man stood up. "Leon's been quiet, maybe Harry managed to make him sleep."

"Or maybe he's just playing with him," Emily stood up as well. "Really, I never thought Harry would get so attached to a baby..."

"I'll miss you, Uncle Lu, I hope to see you soon," Mel said, her eyes avoiding to look into Erick's direction.

"Me too, little Em," Remus hugged her tightly, he whispered in her ear. "Be good to your mother, alright?"

Mel looked at him with confusion, but she nodded anyway.

"So?" Emily crossed her arms. "What are you going to do?"

The young witch stared at her mother, Remus knew that expression. It was true and very strange, how she could have her dad's gaze even though her eyes were exactly like her mother's, but he knew that look, he'd seen it in Matt the last time they had spoken. Mel was done being a kid.

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @wlwmaximoff @reverse-hxlland @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @21bruhs @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @dielgonacoffee​ @thelastpyle @hamiltonwc

[itsuki-minamy]

“K SIDE: PURPLE 07”

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

K - Side: Purple (Chapter List)

Autumn has passed and winter has arrived.

Around that time, Hase began to realize that Yukari's sky was the certainty of "eyes".

It is much faster to learn by showing an action than by wasting words to describe it. Yukari's sword became clearer by the day as he switched to real practice instead of routine practice.

It was only in the first two weeks that he was able to adjust the "guess". He challenges Hase by hitting his whole spirit, and by the end of the lesson, he was exhausted to the point where he couldn't stand. By repeating that daily life, Mishakuji began to see Hase's habits and gaps, and what Mishakuji calls "not beautiful." There was no other way than to hit him squarely at Yukari, who was sharp, precise, and obsessively defiant like a beast.

The day ended with a stab wound.

As he tried to sneak into his chest after throwing "three quick steps", the end of the sword caught Yukari's chest.

When he backed away and still tried to stay, he finally reached the limit.

He put his foot forward just one step and hit his knee on the spot. He gritted his teeth as he endured the pain, and he still had his sword, but this was probably the limit.

"Okay! That's it for today!"

Upon declaring that, Hase exhaled heavily. Steam comes out of the whole body in the cold of winter. Hase smiled slightly, wondering if he was exhausted by the opponent Yukari.

"Many thanks."

Yukari's appearance was quite terrible. The whole body was covered in sweat and many bruises floated. As he could no longer "hit", he couldn't help but suffer trauma, but the problem is that he was still on the beat in this cold weather. Hase took a garment from his luggage and hung it over his head.

"Sensei? This is ...?"

"Umm. It's cold these days. If you catch a cold, you won't be an enemy, put it on."

That said, Hase is pleased with himself. Hase himself has never had a cold, but recently many acquaintances from "Niibangai" are ill, so he prepared him because he thought he should take care of the body of his disciple.

He lived bored, but when he was immersed in self-satisfaction that he could make a good feeling, he noticed that Yukari was looking at the garment with a strange face.

"What's wrong? Can you use it without hesitation?"

"Oh, sorry, when did you wash this?"

"You can still use it for a couple of days."

"Thanks for your feelings."

Mishakuji said that quickly and pushed the garment back.

After rushing to catch him in midair, Hase sees Yukari as if he is injured.

"Yukari. I don't think it's a good idea to look down on people's favors."

"I think it's better to wash what you wear for days."

At Yukari's icy gaze, he shook his head. He wondered about this kind of thing. Hase's idea of ​​hygiene, who has lived alone for a long time and has sometimes lived on the street, seems to be quite different from Yukari.

Yukari sighed deeply at Hase.

"If you have a lot of clothes, should I wash them?"

"What? No, I can't get you to that point."

"If the teacher is dirty, I'm in trouble because I'm forced to do something like this."

"Uh..."

"After you take a shower, you visit the teacher's house. By then, please prepare the washes. I'll get rid of them quickly."

"Well, yes. So... well... I left it to you."

Hase dominated vaguely after being instructed by his disciple. There was no standing water.

At that moment, a voice echoed out from outside the vacant lot.

"Mishakuji-chan!"

Yukari's shoulder swayed. When the two of them rolled their eyes together, Sayuri stood behind the fence that separated the wasteland. She put her hand on her waist and furrowed her brows. Even Hase seemed to see anger rise from her.

Sayuri came to the vacant lot at some point. She saw Yukari's sweaty appearance and bruises, and got even angrier. Grabbing Yukari's wrist and surely looking at Hase, she said in a shrill voice.

"Hase-san. I should have told you not to do this."

"Hmm, no, well, it's true. That…"

"This kind of thing" is practicing for Yukari. Well, it's true that a boy who never does this kind of thing, if he comes home with bruises all over his body, it's something a parent should be concerned about.

"First of all, Hase-san, your job is to solve problems in Niibangai, right? Why are you hurting Mishakuji-chan?"

"But, Sayuri-san. There are some injuries associated with sword training."

"That's why! I'm telling you to stop practicing!"

Sayuri screamed fiercely, and Hase involuntarily backed away. He wasn't scared in front of the opponent with the knife, but Sayuri's anger was even more powerful. Hase wanders as if asking for help.

Suddenly, Yukari held Sayuri's hand and said softly.

"Sister. Let's go home."

Sayuri turned her hard gaze towards Yukari. Yukari continued with a calm smile.

"I'm drenched in sweat, so I want to take a warm shower. If nothing is done, I'll catch a cold."

"Yukari, you…"

"Sensei. Please gather your clothes. I'll stop by later."

Sayuri opened her mouth to say something to Yukari's soft voice, but then shook her head as if she had given up.

She looked back at the valley, reminded him that "this story will end later" and left the wasteland as if she was going to approach Yukari.

++++++++++

After getting out of the shower, Sayuri was sitting in the "Hanawarabe" bar seat.

"Let's do something?"

While he was cleaning his hair, Sayuri looked at Yukari and shook her head slowly. She motioned for him to sit with her chin. Yukari obediently sat down next to her.

There was silence for a while.

Yukari had an idea of ​​what Sayuri meant. So far, has smelled it subtly. He knew for the first time that she had made such a complaint to Hase, but he was not particularly surprised.

She wants he to stop his practice with the sword.

And his response to that was decided without thinking. Sayuri already understands. No matter what she says, she can't change Yukari's decision.

Sayuri finally opened her mouth.

"Isn't it a club activity?"

Yukari blinked slowly.

"You're in school, right? Kendo club or something like that. I think it's hard to get in after the second year, if it's okay for Mishakuji-chan, then I'm convinced, because that's better."

Sayuri said that and stopped talking.

Yukari thinks. How can he convey his feelings without hurting this person?

But he soon he gave up the idea. No matter what he says, when he gets hurt, he gets hurt. So he must be honest, accurate and tell the truth. She already imagined it.

"I'm not interested in school swords. I'm learning from that person because the sensei's sword is beautiful."

Sayuri's expression turns cloudy. She looks away from Yukari, she elbows the counter, like a soliloquy.

"But, that's strange. Every day, you come home with a lot of scratches. Without making the assignment easy, it does the same damage the next day. At this rate, Mishakuji-chan's body will be damaged."

Mishakuji wonders if that's the case. Could be like this.

High school students who put all their energy into practicing with the sword are not that common. He also understands why Sayuri feels worried. However…

"But I like this."

Sayuri looked at Yukari with a tearful face.

Yukari had the painful feeling that it was none other than herself who made her look like this. They don't have a blood connection, but they have spent time together, like a real mother and child, or even worse. He has rarely made a mistake or argued. This was the first time that there was a decisive disagreement.

Yukari looks into Sayuri's eyes and slowly begins to speak.

"Sister Sayuri. I have my own future, although I can't quite imagine it."

When he was invited to leave "Niibangai" and go to "a small high school", he was not moved. Although he had better abilities than humans, Yukari didn't know how to use them. With his own talents, he opens a better future, it seems that Mishakuji is a human who cannot be interested in such things.

"That's why I only want to do what interests me right now. Beautiful things. Radiant things. How can I be like this? Is it beautiful? That's my main concern."

"……"

"I don't know why, but for me now, it is a sword. It is very important to me now, how much I can draw the correct sword and how sharply I can go through. That is why I can get absorbed in it."

Having said that, Mishakuji cut off his words, thought a bit and then continued.

"Sorry, big sister. I can't stop the sword."

Sayuri intensifies her expression and then exhales.

She turned her body towards the counter and closed her eyes as if she was thinking of something. Yukari looked at her profile in pain. Yukari could fully understand Sayuri's feelings of not wanting to see her family hurt.

"I've been thinking for a long time."

Eventually, Sayuri leaked a word.

"Maybe Mishakuji-chan one day can go somewhere far away."

Yukari widened his eyes in surprise. Sayuri glanced at him and laughed weakly.

"Because it's true, isn't it? Mishakuji-chan, you're cool, smart, and you can do anything. I've always thought you're a good boy to be in a place as imposing as 'Niibangai'."

"That is to say…"

"It's the same with everyone else. Mi-chan, Seiya-san, Taka-san, everyone who knows Mishakuji-chan says so. This is not suitable for Mishakuji-chan. There must be a better and brighter place. Why…"

Yukari blinked several times. He clenched his fist and slowly opened it. Although he was aware of the dissatisfaction before his eyes, he was unable to do anything about it.

Seeing that, Sayuri laughs again. She touches Yukari's cheeks to tease him.

"But by no means a sword. I never imagined it would come in that direction. Well, that was to be expected of Warabe-san's son, wasn't it? You are free as she was."

Sayuri's eyes were a bit nostalgic when she spoke Yukari's mother's name. Yukari doesn't know in detail what kind of person his mother actually was, who died when he was young. Then he couldn't say anything.

However, if so, they may be similar.

He feels no restriction in doing what he wants. If it's a natural quality, it may come from his mother.

"Yes, sorry. Forget everything I said. I will apologize to Hase-san later. I'm sorry I made a strange statement."

After a little hesitation, Mishakuji hugged her. Sayuri giggled and pinched his cheeks lightly.

"But promise me one thing."

"A promise?"

"If possible, don't hurt yourself. Mishakuji-chan must stay clean all the time."

Yukari holds her hand. With his abilities now, it's hard to come out unscathed with Hase as his opponent. He knows that well.

Still, he didn't want to hurt this person any more.

"Yes, I understand. I promise."

Breaking the promise is not beautiful, thinking about that, Yukari answered clearly.

[lucas-koh]

Stitches - Bryce Lahela x MC II

Also uploaded to Ao3! Go check it out there if you’d like my user is margotmuses

Doesn’t follow canon, but elements of canon. FWB.

Song: Feel Real - Deptford Goth

Rating: M

Word Count: 3409

Please check out chapter one first if you haven’t already!

Taglist: @lahellacute @tyrilsnightbloom @bubblelaureno

Chapter Two: Suki’s Flip-Flop, Intensive, Very Long Day

On a pretty big whim, Sienna, Jackie, Aurora, and Elijah had decided to look at apartments and move in together on the walk home from Donahue’s. Turned out none of their current living situations were ideal, and as crazy as it sounded, Suki felt like this might just work out. Weirder stuff had happened, right? She’d lived with complete strangers in college, so this was no huge thing, really. Over the following week they scored themselves an absolute bargain of a stunning top level apartment which overlooked the classic Boston skyline. Somehow, they’d managed to convince the landlord to rent to them for cheap, and soon enough everyone started to move their stuff in.

To celebrate their gorgeous new apartment, the group decided that they would throw a housewarming party at some point in the next few weeks. Planning was immense - everyone wanted to do something different, plus finding time where everyone would be off work was difficult. Elijah had never thrown a house party before, so he was overlooking most of the planning, while Sienna and Suki did tasks such as stocking up on cheap booze. Aurora didn’t really want to get involved in the planning side of things, too focused on her studies, but was looking forward to the party all the same. She was crazy grateful to be able to move away from her overbearing aunt. Jackie also wasn’t so involved in the planning, but more out of lack of interest in making plans. After a week or so, they’d decided on a date. All that was left to do was to invite everyone. And, yeah, that pretty much meant everyone.

Suki’s mind had been pretty occupied, mostly by a certain sun-kissed surgeon who’d swayed her to The Stone Roses. Since that first night, Suki had only seen Bryce in passing in the corridors, always taking lunch breaks and the like at different times due to the different demands of their jobs. He’d wink or grin at her and for a moment she’d be completely focused on only that. Not to mention the all-consuming sexual chemistry they had with each other being sparked each time they merely passed by one another. She was continuously bothered by the strange familiar feeling she felt with him, increasingly frustrated that she couldn’t pin it down.

About two and a half weeks in, Suki was suffering from an absolutely awful day. None of her patients were looking at a positive outcome, and she was feeling utterly helpless about it all. Existentialism: Doctor’s edition. She’d shut herself away in a supply closet to be alone with her thoughts. And to cry. What good was being doctor if you couldn’t save lives? And everything felt like a minefield. One wrong move and it could all implode. Misdiagnoses were so easy to make and so incredibly dangerous, she could prescribe someone a medicine they were allergic to and make their symptoms broaden, or even just upsetting someone because there was nothing she could do. She worried she wasn’t ready for this job. It was all very well reading up about illnesses and treatments, but actually putting it into practice? Dealing with real life people? So incredibly intimidating.

Abruptly the door creaked open and Suki jumped back.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t… think anyone was in here.” It was Bryce. Of course it was. He looked just as good as ever, framed in the dark by the light from the hall. “I just needed to get some suture kits...”

“It’s fine, just shut the door,” her voice cloyed but she tried to subtly wipe the tears from her eyes.

He did as she asked and came closer towards her. Even though it was dark, he noticed the red rings round her eyes and wet cheeks.

“Hey, hey. What’s going on?” His voice was soothing and gentle, his usual cocky demeanours put on a shelf.

“It’s just… I feel like I have too much power. I pretty much get to decide who lives or dies. I get to decide which words to use to ruin someone’s life I-“ she couldn’t help it as the tears began to pour out again. She wasn’t sure why she was baring her soul to Bryce, but something in her knew he would know what to say. He stood and listened, watching patiently. Bryce stepped in so he was closer to Suki.

“If I tell someone I’ll save their life, but I can’t, how am I supposed to live with myself? How do I tell a parent their six-year-old will never see it to seven? Bryce…” she continued, her eyes were wide and glassy as she stared up at him. Hearing her say his name like that stirred something in Bryce he wasn’t quite comfortable admitting.

“I know. But you’re damn good at your job, Suki. If you tell someone you’ll save their life, and you do, how do you not believe in yourself? How do you tell an old man he’s in remission? There are so many good parts to this job. It’s hard as shit, yeah, but we knew that. It was never going to be easy.” He lifted up his free hand and ran his thumb softly along her eyes to clear her tears.

“But it’s my fault. If I fail a patient... Maybe I shouldn’t be here.”

He laughed a brief hearty chuckle. “You made It through med school, climbed your way to the top of the medical interns at Edenbrook, and you really think you’re in the wrong place? I’ve seen those rankings, Moore. You’re good crop.”

She gave him a lopsided smile. His confidence had a way of rubbing off on her.

“Every doctor has their moment of doubt. It’ll pass.” He continued.

“How do you do it?”

He shrugged. “I just know I’m damn good at what I do. It’s still early days, Suki. Just let it come and go.”

She nodded and felt the desire to hug him. Lucky for her, he held his arms out to her and she collided with his hard chest, again. She still had her arms crossed in front of her, but moved to cradle her head into the crook of his neck, shifting her body so she was leaning into him. Bryce’s arms enveloped her, like a large, hard, teddy. She felt like a baby, cocooned and cooed at by the light soothing motion Bryce was drawing down her back. It felt like the most natural thing.

“Shit. I guess you are damn good at what you do,” she said. Her voice was muffled by Bryce’s scrub top, but he heard her all the same, and couldn’t help but grin at the girl in his arms.

“I told you, I’m a talented guy.”

She pulled her head back after a minute, looking up into his brown eyes, which were honey like his skin usually, but deep and alluring in the dimmed light of the supply closet. His arms still cradled her.

She suddenly wanted to tangle her fingers into his hair and kiss him passionately. Because despite the snark, the ego, the cockiness, he’d made her feel better after an incredibly difficult day. And there was definitely something scandalous about being in a supply closet together. The thick sexual tension that had been whirring for two weeks now was at an all time high. Her eyes flirted down to his plump lips, still ghosted with a smile. Her heart was pumping right out of her chest, she was surprised he couldn’t feel it against his own. The chemistry could be cut with a knife. She tightened her arms around herself as she made the flash decision. Without giving him too much time to back out, Suki swiftly moved forward and pressed her lips to his.

He hesitated at first, still as stone, giving Suki a moment to freak out – shit, he doesn’t want to be doing this. I made the wrong call - before he pushed his lips back into hers with fervent want. They reacted to each other like it was something that had been simmering for way longer than just two and half weeks. Their mouths clambered almost clumsily around each other. Bryce’s hands moved up her back and to her neck with a caress, before he steered her round and pushed her up against the shelves. A few bits of equipment fell down, but they didn’t care. Suki pulled him as close to her as she could, hands gripping his waist. She could feel his muscles move under her fingers as they kissed, which sent a jolt through her stomach. She was actually kissing him. For some reason, the idea felt unattainable and the fact that it was happening felt fantastical.

His lips were soft but applied pressure, his tongue demanding and dominating. Suki let out an unintentional moan, causing a gruff noise from Bryce’s throat, and she could feel him smiling against her lips. Caught up in the passion of the moment, and wanting to savour every part of this, Suki lifted up a leg and wrapped it around Bryce’s hip. He responded by pressing his body tighter against hers and removing a hand from her neck to support her leg, copping a feel of her backside on the way there.

Suki didn’t even care that the shelves were digging into her back. All she cared about in that moment was getting as much as she could out of Bryce. Because, god, was he hot. His kisses were practised and skilled, clearly something he’d done a lot. She pulled him closer towards her, and he removed his lips from hers to burrow his face into her neck and suck at that sweet spot. She gasped at the sensation, earning a cocky chuckle from Bryce. If he gave her a hickey, she was dead.

To avoid that possibility, she pulled his face from her neck to meet her lips again, deepening the kiss, and finally threading her fingers through his floppy hair in the way she’d wanted to before.

A loud creak and unexpected light falling on her shut eyelids indicated that the door had been opened. Suki opened her eyes wide and looked over to the door to see an older Doctor. Oh god. She knew this guy. Dr Zaid Mirani – her attending. The leg which had been round Bryce’s hip dropped immediately.

“Can you give us a minute?” Bryce asked, frustrated, eyes shut and forehead against Suki’s, not giving a single shit that they’d just been caught in the act, not even bothering to see who it was.

“I need some scissors. Don’t let me stop you,” Zaid snapped.

At this, Bryce sighed and stepped away from Suki. Suki tried turning away coyly so that Zaid didn’t see her face, moving away from the shelves to give him access. There was a deafening awkward silence as Zaid rummaged through the shelves to find what he needed, Suki looking anywhere but at either of the men in the room. Bryce’s eyes watched her, flattening her hair down on her head and smoothing down her clothes.

After what felt like far too long, Zaid left without a word. The door shut behind him and Bryce and Suki were sent back into dim light. She looked over to Bryce finally, who was leaning against a cupboard with his hands in his pockets, a humorous smile playing on his lips. Even in the dark he looked good, hair ruffled from her fingers and lips swollen from relentless kissing. Ah, shit. He looked so good. Unlike Suki, he hadn’t taken the time to refine his appearance. But, she kind of liked it that way.

“That kinda killed the mood,” he said, pushing off the cupboard.

“…yeah. We should get back to work, anyway,” replied Suki. She was hot from embarrassment, again. This boy sure knew how to get her flustered, both unintentionally and intentionally. That kiss sure had some intention behind it. It had been a nice distraction, and admittedly she felt much better, but it was time to get back to reality.

He chuckled and scratched his thumb over his chin. He didn’t seem embarrassed at all. Then again, asking a resident to leave so they could continue their steamy make-out didn’t strike Suki as something someone who was easily embarrassed would do. Unluckily for her, Suki was a stickler for humiliation. Maybe hooking up with Dr Bryce No-Fear wasn’t something a blubbering blushing mess should repeat.

Bryce walked toward Suki, and she almost jumped back, worried he might try again. For a couple of reasons: worried they’d be caught again, and Suki would never live it down with herself, but also worried she wouldn’t be able to stop at a sensible place. He was too sexy, and too experienced. But he reached behind Suki to grab a suture kit. The whole reason he’d even been here in the first place. He held it up to show her, before making his way to the door.

“You’ll kill it out there, Dr. Moore,” he reassured before opening the door, letting the light flood the room again, and shutting it behind him once again leaving Suki in the dimness.

She crept out of the supply closet, not looking where she was going and accidentally ramming straight into Jackie.

“You look a mess!” Jackie laughed, noting Suki’s scruffed up hair and creased scrubs.

Suki cursed herself internally as she once again started to sweat.

“Oh! Long day, is all. I’m only halfway through, too!”

Jackie side-eyed her blustery response. “I’ve got to get this shot to this patient. You’re lucky this time, Moore.”

—-

A couple of hours later, Suki was finally grabbing a bite to eat when she received a page from Aurora.

Suki rushed into the room, where Aurora was already debriefing the resident. Shit. It was Zaid. She prayed that he hadn’t caught her face before, that it had been too dark and she’d turned away quick enough that he hadn’t recognised her.

“Hey, Aurora. What’s the situation?” She breathed out, exhausted from speeding up there. Aurora looked grateful as she turned to Suki.

“Moore,” Zaid greeted tightly. Something told her that he had definitely seen her face earlier. He didn’t seem like the type to bring it up, though.

“Ms. Redford was admitted for a broken neck, but her blood work looks incredibly strange…”

—-

“So, Dr Mirani’s a pretty grumpy guy, but why do I feel like there was a reason he was short with you earlier?” Aurora asked as the walked down the corridor to their next patient. Damn her for being smart and perceptive.

Suki weighed up whether or not to tell Aurora. It might be quite nice to have someone on her side, to tell all the awkward stories. She hadn’t done the whole secret make-out since college, and back then, she had a roommate to gossip about it with. At the end of the day Suki still barely knew Aurora; sure, they lived together, but they hardly even had a chance to be at the apartment together with their different shifts and the like. And when they weren’t at work, they were sleeping or eating. Maybe that meant telling her would feel like less of a big deal? Then again, even the idea of saying it was making her cringe. Plus, Aurora was great but she might not be too impressed that Suki had been taking time out of work to make-out with a surgical intern. In a supply closet which anyone could walk in on. And, had walked in on. A senior attending. She decided against it.

“I don’t know. I just don’t think he likes me much,” she wasn’t a very good liar, which Aurora seemed to glean; but she didn’t push further.

—-

After what felt like the most exhausting day ever - having difficult patients, a mental breakdown in a supply closet, a hot make out session in the same supply closet, being caught by her attending, and then having hours more of gruelling work – Suki threw herself onto her bed dramatically. It felt like her whole body, including her internal organs, was on fire. She eventually got up to change into her pyjamas, clean her face, and brush her teeth. There was a knock on her door. She opened it to reveal it was Elijah.

“Hey, what’s up?” He asked, it looked like he’d been home a while. Suki was happy to see him nonetheless.

“Just winding down after work, you know.”

“Yeah, today was a long one,” he added awkwardly.

“Tell me about it.”

He seemed like there was something he knew, or wanted to say, but didn’t.

“Movie?” Elijah asked.

“Sure, I might pass out though.”

She followed Elijah to the sofa and let him load up Netflix. She pulled off the fluffy blanket from the arm and snuggled into the crook of the sofa, next to Elijah’s chair. They put on a classic romcom and settled in to watch it, everyone else either asleep or working. Suki and her other roommates had become close quickly, but she still felt she wanted to bond more with them, get to know them better. She truly loved each one of them, and they each had their own personal qualities which enriched the group.

“So-“ Elijah finally came out with about a quarter of the way in, only to turn and see Suki had passed out.

Elijah tucked her in on the sofa and shut the TV off so she wouldn’t be disturbed. He would have to talk to her again another time. He wheeled away into his own bedroom.

—-

Around an hour later, Suki woke with a stir, taking a moment to recognise her surroundings. She must’ve fallen asleep here, and she noticed how she was tucked into the blanket. Elijah. How was she ever going to bond more with her flat mates If she couldn’t even stay awake to watch a movie with them? She sighed, folding up the blanket to place on the sofa arm again, and made her way into her own bed.

In the dark of the night, Suki’s thoughts wandered to Bryce’s lips on hers, his hands on her neck, his lips on her neck, his body close to hers…

She thought about that smirk and that laugh, the way his hair felt under her fingers, his taut stomach muscles under her hands. The way he tasted clean, faintly minty, the smoothness of his lips on her own. The feeling of her leg wrapped round his hip. If Zaid hadn’t interrupted when he had, Suki wasn’t sure she would’ve been able to stop. Truthfully, it had been a while since she’d slept with anyone, and a while since she’d actually been so sexually attracted to someone.

But she tried not to think about it. He’d helped her out of a tight spot earlier, and she’d thanked him. Now, she would have to put in all her effort to be a better doctor. Not try to sleep with the other interns. No matter how sexy their body and face and demeanour was. She wondered why he’d been so kind to her, taken the time to reassure her and validate her thought. Perhaps just a ploy to get that kiss, or something more, but Suki wasn’t really sure she cared if it had been. Even so, he’d seemed genuine. She supposed he was a doctor after all, helping people was second nature to him.

Come to think of it, the way they’d kissed in the supply closet struck that odd feeling in her again. How did she know him? Did he know her? Was she just superimposing someone else on to him to make him more appealing to her carnal desires and more of a mystery to solve? Maybe it was that if she let herself get hung up in this completely farcical idea, she could ignore what she was really thinking about deep down: her failures as a doctor.

So, maybe she didn’t know Bryce at all. She just liked how he looked and wanted there to be something. They say if you desire something, it pops up everywhere. So, those feelings of déjà vu, maybe they were all in her head. Or maybe she was just spiralling, after the ridiculously lengthy and eventful day. Her eyelids started to drop unintentionally. Maybe she would think about this tomorrow, instead…

[samanthaxreed]

                                               SOLO THREAD

Locale: Sam’s apartment / Oceanside Cemetery

Mentioned: @fireinhislungs, @gracetaylorwilliams, @jessexmarino​, @naomixjones​

Dinner with her father went off with only a few conversational lulls, far less awkward than anticipated and yet not completely fluid. Like two people rowing a canoe at different speeds, both attempting to turn it in the same direction without being fully in sync. It would come with time Sam supposed and as she began cleaning dishes, bright hues caught sight of her father throwing a cursory examination of the window latches before shifting attention to the folded sweater on her couch. “Are you holding that for somebody?”

It took everything in her not to snort. “Real subtle... It doesn’t belong to some secret lover if that’s what you’re getting at.”

His chagrin at being caught was palpable enough to soften Sam’s raised brow, almost lingering on the edge of amused before he continued. “I worry about you living in this place alone, Samantha. No roommate, no boyfriend, or... girlfriend?” The blonde visibly winced then, hands resuming the task at hand to avoid discussing something so personal with a person she truly didn’t know well at all. Her father, still a near stranger. “Look, take it from me that too much alone time drives you a little nuts and it’s probably safer in numbers around here.”

The audacity to gently lecture as if his brand of advice mattered in the grand scheme when he never deemed it necessary until now. A measured swallow and breath came before she pivoted features to address him in a way that wouldn’t entirely nuke their still rather tepid relationship. The pair lingered a hair away from disaster and the only indication she managed to give was a firm warning. “Dad, I know what you’re trying to say, but I can take care of myself. I’m doing just fine and you’re forgetting that I literally lived here at one point.” With him and her mother, ironically enough. Apparently Oceanside had been worth settling in during her formative years, but once she could choose for herself it no longer suited the narrative.

“You always did have your mother’s stubbornness.” That, at least, managed to ring true and she might have been able to ignore that comment with a scoff or quick humor picked up from his side, but her father always prodded the right button. “I’m trying to keep you safe, okay?” Definitely a hothead like her abrasive mother because the knife she’d been wiping down tightened within Sam’s slender grasp. Hell of a time to start giving a shit, but she digressed. “Because Oceanside isn’t how you remember it and ignoring that fact’s gonna get you hurt if you don’t pay attention... I understand if it brings you comfort being here, but it’s not the same.”

The sharp utensil she had been cleaning finally clattered against metal as it hit the base of her sink, dropped in frustration because it wasn’t his business. None of it. He surrendered that right when the ink dried on her custody papers; parental claim relinquished unequivocally. “I’m not blind. I can fucking see that it’s worse and I’m not walking around the city with rose colored glasses.” Quite the opposite, suffocating every blossom of nostalgia before it could spring out of the dirt... Or ash, depending upon how one looked at it. “The whole me getting poisoned thing shot that down right out of the gate, but I’m not just–– I’m not giving up on this and lots of people I care about live here.” She swallowed against the vulnerability, choking it down like a bad tequila shot. “Which means there’s something worth sticking around for, so if you’re trying to talk me out of it then go ahead and call up Fletcher. Let him tell you how well that worked out the last time somebody tried.” 

“Take it easy,” he cautioned with infuriating ease against her rising temper. “I’m only trying to look out for your best interest. If something happened to you, I wouldn’t forgive myself.” The chuckle she gave in response lacked both humor and warmth, practically bewildered at his entire savior complex... And bitter, so unfathomably jaded at this ill conceived timing. Too little, too late. “Yeah, well, you’ve been asleep on the job for twenty-eight years so it’s convenient that you woke up to do it now.”

That must have cut deep because her father maneuvered out of the kitchen doorway, hands raised defensively as if she were still holding the knife. It sort of felt like that, but her tongue became the barb instead. Stabbing repeatedly when he hardly deserved it, angered more at unseen and unresolved forces. “I know I wasn’t always as involved as I could have been, but I did raise you––”

“You didn’t raise me, you avoided me because it was easier to spend time at the casino than come home to the life you picked out. And before you start accusing me of favoritism, Mom didn’t do shit either. You want to talk about romanticizing the past? Take a look in the fucking mirror.” Fists clenched against her side were blanched white at the knuckles, three decades of resentment spilling out in verbal blows that Sam knew she couldn’t take back. Nor did she want to, not tonight. “The Williams raised me. And when they were gone, I raised myself and I did a damn good job at it.” 

Some part of her would regret this moment later when his features came to mind, the shame and clear heartbreak written across them undeniable. “I didn’t realize that’s how you felt.” They had backed up fully into her living room, or perhaps she simply cornered her father with truthful criticisms when he’d only wanted to help. So much for repairing their relationship. “Yeah, well... I ruined your lives so I guess it’s only fitting that you ruined mine.” Arms crossed protectively over her middle, both avoiding one another’s gaze out of mutual hurt and then she heard the door unlock. 

“I wish you hadn’t come back here, Samantha.” 

While sounding bad on the surface, she knew full well it was meant as a last olive branch and proof that he loved her despite the vitriol, but Sam’s throat had tightened too far to respond. He slipped out into the evening air and despite how she wished to move, or scream, or burst into a thousand shards to match her internal schism, both feet remained firmly planted for several minutes. 

Then she darted across to her purse, snatching it up along with the sweater draped along the back of her sofa. No phone, she didn’t need to talk anymore. At least no one listed in there.

–––––

One bottle of some cheap rosé from the grocery store later and she was back on the road, navigating some vaguely familiar route down the coast. GPS wound up becoming necessary at some point much to her embarrassment, but twelve years away wasn’t nothing and darkness made fools of everyone. Her car pulled into the cemetery parking lot and for a minute she simply sat with the engine idled, replaying pieces of their conversation in her mind. Not just with her father, but Fletcher, Grace, Jesse, Naomi... People who existed in her former life that now began slotting into this new, convoluted one. 

The gate’s lock was either open already or rusted by the sea air, but it hardly mattered because Sam entered without much barrier. Weaving through headstones, she discovered that the path to her destination sprouted from memory which was altered by nighttime shadows and the fickle mistress of time. After getting turned around once, she eventually made it and settled into a small plot of grass, unscrewing the lid of her bottle and toasting in mock cheers to her company.

                        In Loving Memory of Brooke Williams

The sight alone was enough to tighten something imperceptible within her chest, washed away by the peachy drink and a half-hearted joke. “Sorry for sitting on you, but that should be nothing new. Kick me off if you hate it.” Talking to a ghost as if the long deceased girl were able to hear felt stupid on about three hundred levels, but Sam hadn’t been granted the privilege of catching up for so long. And after arguing with her parent, she just needed her best friend and other half. 

“I think that maybe... everything in my life is temporary now,” she admitted to the silence. “And sometimes I can even convince myself that I’m okay with it. Never attaching myself to anybody or anything.” Mostly through her own design, sabotaging any concept of permanence before it, too, could be ripped away without warning. A self preservation measure concocted when she was far too young; no kid should delve so far into their own fear that they only knew how to run. “Except here. I feel like I keep circling back to this place and these people... And you. Always you.” For someone who only an hour previous claimed to raise herself, she truly did an immaculate job at creating an adult who wound up successful, capable, and so unbearably alone.

Maybe she should have called Fletcher instead, the thought interjected itself and became quickly dismissed. Hadn’t enough trouble been thrust upon his shoulders? And Grace’s? Stripped of their entire family in the course of a single night, tossed into a system which spat them back out, and molded to fit a world that clearly didn’t give a shit. The last thing either one needed was a reminder walking back through their door, but she had with such unfathomable selfishness. Perhaps guilt brewed in the pit of her stomach over how she treated her father tonight or that continuous fear of making the wrong move, but uncertainty brought the rim to parted lips once more.

“I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore, B.” It was easier to draw honesty from her bones out here, less like pulling water from a stone with only a bottle and the faint ocean breeze answering back. Rather than eerie or unsettling, the dim light provided a quiet comfort of remaining unseen in the midst of such raw admittance. “I don’t think I belong in this city like I used to, but I’m scared––” There was that thickness in the far reaches of her throat again. “I’m afraid that if I don’t belong in Oceanside then I don’t really belong anywhere. So what the hell do I do?”

She had belonged once, in a flickering memory of happiness that remained pure despite life’s valiant attempts to extinguish it. Friendship bracelets with her name misspelled on accident. Brooke telling Fletcher he could only join their pillow fort if he killed the spider inside. Grace’s laughter from beneath the hood of an old car as she threw a grease laden rag at Mr. Williams. They were supposed to grow old together, buy houses on the same street, live out impossibly normal lives. So beautifully mundane in their cookie cutter regularity. Even after the worst overtook them, she had been naïve enough to believe in some echo of that future; a broken shell, but enough to keep her head above water.

In that alternate time, Grace taught her to drive manual and took Sam to get her license, the pair bonding in a way that she only dreamed of as a child who idolized the eldest Williams beyond words. She would have thanked the brunette for being the only stable adult in her life and the only one worth counting on. In that alternate timeline, she got Fletcher trashed on his twenty-first birthday and sat on the bathroom floor with him all night in apology. She would have told him the truth at some point, even if he didn’t reciprocate. So many what if’s that were robbed before they even began and now she grasped at smoke, unable to hold it between desperate fingers. Why couldn’t she just let things go like a well adjusted person? Why did she leave claw marks etched into every memory?

More wine, but this time it tasted distinctly of saltwater as the wind brushed over damp cheeks.

[glimmerglanger]

Your angst prompt fics are breaking my heart in the best ways :) 12 if you're interested?

OH MAN OH MAN (12 is “Can’t you see how fucked up this is?”). I went through three ideas with this one, but they weren’t so much angst as just really screwed up and dark. And also one involved a pairing I’ve not written, though it wasn’t really.... a relationship. Anyway, I decided that brutal darkness probably wasn’t the right fit for an angst meme fill, and went with sadness instead! Obikin, with a hopeful ending! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Can’t you see how fucked up this is?” Anakin asked, following Obi-Wan into the room where he was supposed to prepare for this invasion - ritual, the locals said - and scowling. Obi-Wan flashed him a look over his shoulder, chiding.

“I’m not sure that’s the best attitude to take to our new friends,” Obi-Wan said, as the doors shut behind them, leaving them in a cool, dim space. “After all, they’re only going to--”

“Look into your head,” Anakin snapped, prowling past a cistern - there was a rag over the edge of it - and lifting the gauzy robes that, apparently, they intended for Obi-Wan to put on. It looked mostly translucent, but then, the Icharians were very into openness and sharing, weren’t they? “Dig around inside your thoughts.”

Anakin shuddered, keeping his face turned away from Obi-Wan. When the Icharians had first floated the idea, he’d been horrified, and the feeling hadn’t really gone away. The thought of someone else scouring his thoughts was -- a nightmare.

He’d refused outright, probably too quickly, if the look Obi-Wan had shot him was anything to go by.

And Obi-Wan, a breath later, had agreed.

“It’s the only way they’re going to trust us enough to help us find the downed shuttle,” Obi-Wan said, reasonable in the face of an unreasonable request. Anakin frowned, reaching the end of the room and turning - pacing - in time to watch Obi-Wan pull off his outer tunic. “The lost Senators are counting on us, Anakin.”

“I know that.” Anakin looked away; he no longer remembered exactly when watching Obi-Wan undress had started feeling illicit, but it had been long enough that he was used to the heat it brought to his skin, the tang of shame in the back of his throat.

It was one of the many, many reasons he’d refused the Icharians a look inside his head. No one could ever be allowed to know the things he wanted. He cleared his throat. “I just think that what they’re asking to do to you is…” He flexed his fingers in and out. “It’s just wrong, that’s all.”

Obi-Wan sighed, stepping over to the cistern, naked save for a brief stretch of fabric around his hips, and Anakin had intended not to look - he always intended not to look - but he couldn’t help cutting his eyes to the side. Stealing glances. “It really isn’t,” Obi-Wan said. “It’s just--”

“Their way,”  Anakin said, heaving a sigh. “I know.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and blew out a breath. “Fine. Here. Give me that. I’m supposed to help.” That had been, after all, part of the instructions. In fact, one of the Icharians was supposed to be helping, but they’d managed to keep them out of the room with the promise that Anakin would assist.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, expression distracted, “that’s alright, I can--”

“Don’t start arguing now,” Anakin said, plucking the rag from his hands and frowning at the expanse of his back, the line of his spine, freckles scattered here and there, all the way down. He swallowed, immensely relieved that no one could see his thoughts at that moment, and dragged the rag down.

Obi-Wan shivered, but, then, it was cool in the room.

#

Obi-Wan got cleaned up. He pulled on the gauzy robe, the lines of his body visible right through it. He took a breath and didn’t protest when the Icharians showed up to escort him into a large chamber.

Anakin was growing to very much dislike hiveminds. He knew, logically, that they were no worse than any other people. But he couldn’t help the way they made him nervous, especially when they were shuffling Obi-Wan away from him, closer to the center of the room.

Anakin scowled and threaded his way over to Ahsoka, standing beside Cody and looking ill-at-ease. “Are we really doing this?” she asked, quietly, as the Icharians coaxed Obi-Wan to kneel. They were a tall people, with huge, unblinking eyes. They clicked, constantly, as they moved around, little noises in their throats, though they spoke galactic standard well enough.

“Seems we are,” Anakin said, with a suppressed shudder. Obi-Wan seemed calm enough, as one of the Icharians stepped up behind him, three fingered hands cupping the back of his head.

They hadn’t received much information about what was going to happen. Just that the Icharians would - as a whole, Anakin supposed - peer into Obi-Wan to determine what type of people they were.

Apparently, the Icharians had gone through some… unpleasant interactions with outsiders. The ritual was the defensive mechanism they’d developed, to find out who they could or could not trust.

Anakin frowned. If they ended up doing anything untoward to Obi-Wan, they were going to end up dealing with another unpleasant interaction. He shifted, uncomfortable, as the room fell abruptly silent. In the middle of the space, Obi-Wan went stiff, chin jerking up as his eyes rolled back.

“Master?” Ahsoka asked, quietly. Cody’s hand had come to rest on his blaster. Anakin took some comfort in knowing that no one else liked this, anymore than he did.

“I think it’s normal,” Anakin said, though he was damned if he had any idea at all. Certainly the little gasping sounds that echoed from the Icharians made the hair stand up on his neck, but nothing seemed to be… going wildly wrong. He almost relaxed.

And then the Icharian touching Obi-Wan made a sound, startled and loud. Hurt. The others echoed it, and Anakin flexed his fingers in and out, his stomach getting hard and tight. He had a bad feeling about being trapped in a room with all of these people. The feeling only got worse when he looked back at Obi-Wan, and found tears streaming from his open, unseeing eyes.

Anakin took a step forward, because enough was enough and--

And emotion hit Anakin like a wave, trying to pull him under. It radiated from around the room - from the Icharians, he assumed - not that the source of it mattered very much. It hurt, terribly, digging into him like fangs and claws.

Sadness, grief, loss, a desperation that swam up into his throat and tried to drown him. Beside him, Ahsoka went to one knee. Anakin reached to steady her even as his eyes burned and stung. Cody leaned over at the waist, retching, and still the emotion beat at them, sharp edged as a knife, cold and terrible and--

And the Icharian holding Obi-Wan jerked away from him, curling over as though hurt, the others around the room doing almost exactly the same thing. The emotions snapped off, and Anakin dragged in a wet, choking breath. Some Icharians wept, loudly. Others had collapsed, curling up on the ground, the entire place was full of noise and madness and--and Anakin shoved his way through, pushing Ahsoka towards Cody as he went. He strode towards Obi-Wan, who had fallen forward, hands braced on the ground, breathing hard.

Anakin grabbed his arm and hauled him up to his feet; he was trembling in his skin. “What the kriff is going on?” Anakin demanded, pulling Obi-Wan close; he seemed barely able to stand on his own. “What did they do to us?”

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said, sounding ragged. “I thought things were going--”

One of the Icharians lurched towards them, arms out, and Anakin swore, trying to push Obi-Wan a step back. “No,” Obi-Wan rasped, “it’s, they’re not trying to hurt me, just--”

And then the Icharian was there, throwing all four arms around Obi-Wan, crushing him closer and making a deep, thrumming noise. The rest of the crowd was converging, pressing closer, pushing Anakin to the side. 

He scowled and kept his hold on Obi-Wan’s hand, tightening his grip, staying anchored throughout the entire mad event.

#

“What was that?” Anakin demanded, when they finally were allowed to push free of the claustrophobic huddle. He felt itchy all over, like he couldn’t quite get enough air in his lungs. Obi-Wan looked dazed, his hair a mess, his face still marked with tear tracks.

Obi-Wan shook his head, and said, “Let’s just hope it convinced them we were trustworthy.” He stiffened - Anakin was still holding onto him - when one of the Icharians followed them out of the chamber.

Anakin pulled him half a step back, just in case, but the Icharian was only inclining her head. “We apologize,” she said, clicking a little in the back of her throat. “We were unprepared for your grief.”

Obi-Wan tensed, all over. He said, his voice light, “I’m not sure what--”

“We do not understand how you bear it,” the Icharian continued, shaking her head, drifting forward, hand extended, and Anakin shifted to block her. She glanced at him, but only for a moment. “Such sadness is within you. It… overwhelmed us. We grieve with you, Master Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan said, from behind Anakin’s shoulder, “That is… very kind of you, but I’m--”

“And we will help you find your missing friends,” she continued, turning aside. “We will do nothing to add to the sadness inside of you. Come.”

“Wonderful,” Obi-Wan said, and started forward, tugging against Anakin’s grip. And Anakin wanted to demand to know about this sadness, this grief that apparently Obi-Wan was carrying around inside of him, that had felt deep and crushing as the abyss of space.

He said, “Obi-Wan--”

“Come on, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, without looking back, “the Senators are waiting.”

#

Anakin bit his tongue throughout the rescue mission. He said nothing while they retrieved Senators Organa and Amidala. But he found himself watching Obi-Wan, thinking about the fact that he was, apparently, sad enough to depress an entire people. It ate away at Anakin, consuming his thoughts.

His preoccupation must have been obvious, because when he went to find Obi-Wan in his quarters - the Senators safely tucked into the medbay - Obi-Wan already had the door open. He held out a cup of tea to Anakin without speaking.

Anakin took it, grateful to have something in his hands, and said, all the careful things he’d thought to say fleeing from his mind, “Are you alright?”

Obi-Wan quirked a smile, there and gone, at the floor. He was staring across the room, at the wall. “Of course, Anakin. I know it must have been--”

“You made an entire planet cry,” Anakin interrupted, not mentioning, exactly, what he had felt. He set the tea down because abruptly he needed both hands free, though he couldn’t think what he wanted to do, really. Something, he needed to do something.

Obi-Wan shook his head. “They were merely unfamiliar with the way we process emotion, I’m sure,” he said, lightly. “Such an effect was likely, our two species are so different, they--”

“I felt it, too,” Anakin said, and, oh, what he’d needed to do was reach out and take Obi-Wan’s shoulders, stepping into his line-of-sight, so Obi-Wan had to look at him. “During the ritual. You’re… Obi-Wan.” He swallowed, remembering the exhaustion, the sadness, the sense of impossible pressure. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Obi-Wan barked a little laugh. He turned his face to the side. “What should I have said?” he asked, his shoulders slumping under Anakin’s touch. “My cares are a small concern, faced with…. All of this.”

And he believed it, Anakin realized, the center of his chest aching. Obi-Wan actually thought that it was a dismissable problem, the fact that he felt like he was dying inside. Anakin tightened his grip, and said, the words torn from him, “Not to me.” And it had been some time since he hugged Obi-Wan, but he remembered how, though they fit together somewhat differently, now.

Obi-Wan stiffened against him. He said, “Anakin, you have your own worries, I don’t want you to think that you must--”

“I know exactly what I must do,” Anakin said, feeling Obi-Wan waver and then sink against him, giving in to the embrace. “And right now, we need to talk, Obi-Wan. About everything.”

[diddlesanddoodles]

DEAD WALLS RISE - CONNAR

PART THREE

His father was grim faced and his mother clutched her children’s hands hard enough to hurt but neither Connar or Penny pulled away. Gen stood near the small hearth, watching the flames dance.

“What...what does that mean for us, then?” Arthur asked. “Now that he’s dead.”

“The war’s over,” the captain explained, cleaning the inside of his pipe’s bowl with his pinky finger. “But don’t get too excited just yet. King Warren’s mandate will take time to reach the ends of Vhasshal and still there’s no guarantee all folks will honor it. Smuggling and selling humans has become quite profitable for some. Best keep on as you have for a while.”

Gen pushed back from the hearth and turned to regard the blue coated giant. “Should I keep sending in the reports?”

“Yes. They may be more valuable now than ever. Now that the trade’s illegal, information’s going to start drying up. People will be less likely to tell you all that they have. So whatever you have, keep sending it to me.”

“But still,” Penny said, surprising most of them as she never spoke whenever Keral visited. The large man outright terrified her and she always made it a point to make herself scarce around him. “The Blood King is dead. Things will get better right? They have to...”

Keral took a moment to regard the girl. “Doesn’t always work out that way, lass. Nethrin’s dead. His last son’s King now. He’s gonna have to work hard and smart and very quickly to secure his power. The time between transitions of power is precarious and if not done right, will make more of a mess than what we had to begin with. For now, all we can do it wait and see.”

…………………………………..

Connar and his family stayed with Gen in his home for another five years. In that time, Gen continued to supply the blue coats with as much information as he was able to garner, but as Keral predicted, most of it dried it very quickly.  Connar’s skill with leather continued to grow and he branched off into metal works. For almost a year, he worked on nothing but knives. Pocket knives, axe blades, kitchen knives, etc. Gen was beyond pleased with his progress and continued to challenge the boy as his teenage years began to slip into young adulthood.

Gen’s gray hair began to turn white and his strength was not what it had been until one day he gathered them all to tell them something.

“I have been playing with the idea of perhaps moving in with my sister,” he said. “She’s already assured me you all would be welcome.”

“Doesn’t she live in the village outside the castle, though?” Maria asked. “Would it be safe?”

“With the King so near, I’d imagine the village might very well be the safest place of all,” Gen replied. “And there is also the option of the Hill Tribe if you wish to live with your own people.”

Maria suddenly sent her daughter an amused side eyed glance. “We might be able to find you a nice beau, Penny. And you can start giving me some grandchildren.”

Penny flushed red and pointed to Connar as he took a large bite of an apple. “What about Connar?”

Arthur laughed. “Oh, he’s hopeless. He’d scare any girl off.”

Connar made a muffled whine of offense at the accusation as they all had a good laugh.

In the end, they did make the move the Gen’s sister’s home. Beth was a pleasant woman, fifteen years Gen’s junior, and like her brother, was a widow with all four of her children grown and having moved away. She and Maria became fast friends and both immediately began a crusade to find Penny a nice young man, despite her protestations. Connar was simply happy that they had not began to do the same to him and he was free to continue on learning whatever Gen still had left to teach him.

A little over a year later, Penny was married and moved to the Hill tribe with her new husband and soon after, they welcomed their first child into the world and both Connar’s parents moved in to help with the baby. Connar stayed behind in Beth’s house with Gen, still eager to learn and hone his skills.  

Gen passed away in his sleep two months later.

Looking back, Connar would remember very little of that time. In many ways it felt as though he had lost a father. He and his family owed so much to Gen and with him gone, Connar felt adrift and without a moor like a boat being carried away by the current. Too tired to try and steer himself back on coarse and too numb to understand why he should even try.

His family had a new baby to help distract from the pain and as much as he tried to throw himself into his work, he just could not bare to even look at his tools. The same ones Gen had made for Connar himself. With his hands.

Gen’s funeral was attended by more people than Connar would have thought and he stayed very close to Beth and her eldest son during the whole affair. Trying very hard not to see the way some of the attending giants sneered at him. Unlike Silvaaran funerals, Vhasshals buried their dead rather than burn them on pyres. They were placed in family tombs built far into the ground and the flesh of the dead would be returned to the earth and once there was nothing but bones left, they were pushed back into the far chamber with the bones of their ancestors to make room for the next body. So a single family tomb could hold hundreds of individuals.

Connar’s family were forced to leave early as the baby began to make a fuss and Penny was worried he might catch a cold in the chilly air. Connar thought it was more to do with being nervous around so many giants and he did not blame them. But he petitioned to stay.

He couldn’t leave.

Connar stared at the large opening to the Taversh family tomb as six Vhasshalans carried Gen’s shrouded body down, feeling numb. Flowers and wreaths and ribbons were places all around the opening as well as food and gifts that would be collected after by the family. When the giant emerged from the tomb without Gen, Connar felt the tears fall heavily down his face.

We can’t just leave him down there...

“I’m so sorry, Beth,” said one of the giants, voice thick with emotion. He was very tall for a giant and his arms were thicker than tree trunks. He lowered himself to hug the much smaller woman.

“Oh, Hevian. You’re so much taller then I remember,” Beth said, smiling through tears. She patted his shoulders. “And thicker! By the Gods, you’ve grown.”

The giant smiled, but it looked hollow as grief was painted thickly upon his features. He turned to Gen’s son and shook his hand, muttering a small greeting and condolence. But his eyes dipped lower to spy Connar. Beth caught the giant’s questioning look.

“Hevian, this is Connar,” she said. “Gendril took him and his folks in during the war. The human lass with the wee babe that left earlier? That was them.”

Hevian crouched down and extended a hand towards Connar and stuck his finger out. “It’s nice to meet ye, Connar.”

He looked up at the giant and reached out to grip the tip of the large finger.

“You too,” he mumbled.

“You know,” Beth said. “Gen was teaching Connar here. You should see some of his leather work, Hevian. It’s beautiful. A wee small, but beautiful.”

Hevian’s face lightened with intrigue and he spared the human a smile. “Well, I might need to come visit ye some day and take a gander myself.”

Beth looked down at Connar. “Hevian here was Gendril’s apprentice. Took over the royal smithy when Gen retired.”

And then Connar’s brain kicked him as he suddenly connected the dots and he blurted, “Oh! So you’re Hev.”

The giant grinned. “Aye, that’s me.”

“Gen told me a lot about you,” Connar replied.

“Good things I hope.”

“Mostly he said your leather work was crap,” Connar replied and then cursed at himself. But much to his relief, Hevian just threw his head back and laughed.

“Aye, that sounds ‘bout right to me. Never was much good with all that stuff. Was always more interested in playing with fire and sharp metal.”

…………………….

The funeral came and went and Connar returned to Beth’s house. That night at dinner, she pulled him aside.

“You’re always welcome here, dear,” she told him. “But I can’t help but wonder if you might feel better with your folks.”

“I thought about it,” he replied. “And it makes the most sense. I don’t want to impose on you. I know it’s a pain having me here. Your neighbors would be happy, I guess.”

“Oh, who gives a right hooey what they think,” she spat. “Gen loved you, Connar. And until the day they lay be beside him, you will have a place here. Same as your folks and sister.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” he said finally.

“Well, however long you need to decide take it.”

“Thank you, Beth.”

………………………………………..

His father had gotten him a job as a field hand working one of the wheat fields in the Hill Tribe. In all honesty, Connar did not even know anyone in the Hill Tribe farmed at all. But it sounded like a good way to start off on his own and long hard labor might just be what his idle brain needed to snap out of his rut.

He refused Beth’s offer to escort him there, promising her he would be fine. “Besides, if anyone give me trouble, I’ve got this,” he said, pulling out a large hunting knife. Beth was very reluctant to let him go on his own, but finally convinced her by promising he would go through the woods instead of using the roads.

“Please be careful,” she begged.

“I will,” he laughed, waving back at her as he began to walk. “I’ll see you soon.”

The Vhasshal castle was an imposing looking structure set at the top of a large gentle sloping hill with the village just below. The Hill tribe was a few miles away on the other side of the castle where the hills were more pronounced. In order for Connar to get there, he traveled through the forest that made a half moon shape around the castle and since it was strictly part of the castle grounds, it was considered trespassing for anyone to use it without permission from the Crown. Which made it the perfect path for Connar to get to his destination without being spotted by anyone with ill intentions.

He was almost through the thicket part of the forest when his foot caught on something and he fell forward just as metal teeth sprung up from the earth and clamped down onto his left leg. He fell to the ground and drew in a shocked and rattling breath as the worst pain he had ever felt radiated from his leg. He gave a breathless cry and he rolled over to see what had snagged him and he felt his heart drop at the sight. A spring loaded metal snap trap was clamped onto his leg, the sharp metal teeth digging and cutting into his flesh and passed the exposed meat of leg and the seeping blood, he could see the pale white bone.

His head spun as he gave his first real scream of pain. There was so much blood. Already he felt his backside was damp with it. He reached for his hunting knife and tried to pry the teeth apart, but his strength was quickly waning.

“F-fuck!” he screamed. “Augh!”

He quickly pulled his tunic off and used his knife to cut long ribbons out of it, wrapping them around his leg just under his knee and prayed desperately that it would stop the bleeding. Oh Gods, it hurt so much…

He pulled the ends of his makeshift tourniquet with a muffled cry of pain and fell back onto the ground. With every wave of pain, he screamed; fingernails digging into the ground and racking up the earth. All sound around him became muted as every piece of his waking mind was dedicated to feeling the pain from his leg.

He felt more than heard someone approach and the ground shook as a very large someone dropped to the knees beside him. He barely registered that they were speaking to him and through the tears clouding his eyes, he could not make out a face. The end of a stick was pressed against his lips and the voice above began to speak with a little more clarity.  

“...gonna hurt like hell. Bit down on this,” the giant commanded. “Better a stick than your tongue.”

A soon as his teeth were around the stick, there was an abrupt and wholly unwelcomed pressure on his leg as the metal teeth were pulled from his flesh and he heard the shriek of springs. His whole body was shaking from the pain and he sobbed, hands reaching out blindly until they found the warm flesh of a giant hand.

“You’re gonna be fine, Connar,” said the giant. “Keep biting down, lad. Keep breathing. I’m gonna pick ye up, now. Ready? One...two...”

He didn’t wait for the count of three before picking the injured boy up and Connar screamed through his teeth. The trees above him rushed by at an incredible speed before disappearing and were the replaced by stone walls and ceilings. Unfamiliar smells and sounds passed by and he got his first real proper look at the giant.

“...Hev?” he asked just as the darkness around his vision became absolute and he passed out.

………………………….

When he woke up, his head felt thick with fog and his limbs were heavy and sore.

But he couldn’t feel his leg. Weak as he was, he lifted his head up as high as he could and looked down at himself. He lay in a human sized bed in a room that was anything but human sized. There was a collection of bottles and rolls of bandages on a small table next to his bed, but the one thing that struck him was the tell tale lack of shape next to his right leg. Just below his left knee, there was nothing. A wave of emotion roiled up from inside him and he fell back against his pillow, tears already falling.

The second time he awoke, Keral was there and was speaking to a human who he initially thought was a man, but their voice revealed themselves as a woman.

“...he’s on some pretty heavy sedatives and pain tonics,” said the woman. “But he made it through the fever just fine. He’ll be bed ridden for a while yet while he heals.”

“Beth’s all outta sorts,” Keral said. “Blamin’ herself fer lettin’ him go on his own. His folks are wonderin’ when they came come see ‘im.”

“They’re welcome to come and see him, but don’t give them the impression he’ll be awake at all. I’m trying to keep him sedated as much as I can so I don’t need to bottle feed him pain tonic. I’m not trying to make him into an addict and with the dosage he would need at this stage, he surely would be.”

Time became inconsequential as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He vaguely remembered his mother and father visiting and Beth as well, but he was unable to speak or if he did, he could not recall what he said.

And for three weeks, that was Connar’s existence.

………………………….

Sawyer handed him a small book. “Barnaby said you might enjoy this one. Funny poems and such.”

“Thank you,” he said, idly flipping through the pages.

“So,” she said, “Give any thought to what you might do?”

“I guess go back to Beth’s place for a while. Teach myself to walk again with a crutch and be the local cripple. Beg for coins at the street corner.”

“Well, what were you doing before?”

“...honestly? Mooching off Beth. Gen before her. I was going to go be a field hand, but...well.”

“I though Hev said you were a craftsman.”

Connar blinked. “He said that?”

“Yeah. That you worked with leather and such.”

“Well, yeah. I do. Gen taught me. I wasn’t his apprentice or nothing. He just showed me some stuff.”

Sawyer gave him a look. “So, why aren’t you working with the skills you already have? You’re a skilled craftsman. Go craft. You don’t need both legs to do that, do you?”

“No, but what could I make that a giant would want to buy?”

Sawyer rolled her eyes. “Just because you lost your leg doesn’t mean your life and dignity went with it.”

………………..

He had just finished the book of poems when Hev came to visit him. Even among giants, Hev was tall and broad shouldered. His black hair was pulled back into a braid and though his tunic was clean, he still smelled like the forge; ash and metal and smoke. It reminded him a lot of Gen.

When Hev entered the infirmary, he gave Connar a wide white tooth grin and grabbed a chair. “How’re ye feeling, lad?”

“Better now that I can think straight,” he replied, setting the book aside. “But I think I’m done spending all my time in bed.”

Sitting into the chair, Hev gave Connar a nod. “Aye, suppose there’s only so much peace and quiet ye can take. Manage to get around on them at all?” He pointed to crutches leaning against his bed posts.

“A bit,” Connar shrugged. “Not that hard. Just tires me out. Not use to walking with my arms.”

Hev chortled at that. “Well, reason why I wanted to come see ye was I had an interestin’ talk with Sawyer. About yer future.”

Connar furrowed his brow. “Yeah, she was talking to me about that. Thinks I should try and use the skills Gen taught me. Since I’m useless like this for any job in the fields.”

“Aye,” Hev said. “And I agree with her. Last time Beth visited ye, she came by the shop and gave me this.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a knife sheath. He had made it for Gen for a new knife he’d made. It was not long after they had first moved into Beth’s home and Connar had decorated the flat sides of the sheath with depictions of the village with the Vhasshalan castle up on the hill.

“Ye made this?” Hev asked, his tone oddly serious.

Connar nodded and stared at the sheath in Hev’s hands. “Yeah. For Gen.”

“Ye want a job?”

Connar blinked at him. “Wait...what?”

Hev grinned and held up the sheath. “This is amazing work, Connar. I showed it to Master Donal and he showed it to the King.”

Connar blanched. “You...he did... wait, what?”

But Hev just grinned wider. “Aye. He was might impressed too. Told me I should offer ye a job in the smithy. And I agree. Ye’d be a great help.”

Connar did his best impression of a fish as he gaped open mouthed at him. “You...you’re offering me a job?”

“I am.”

“Oh...well,” Connar shrugged as a wide and elated smile crossed his face. “Fuck yeah I will!”

“Don’t ye wanna know the wages?” Hev laughed.  

“Doesn’t matter,” Connar replied excitedly. “You could pay me in fucking paper coins and I’d still do it.”

“Oi, careful now, lad. If Donal ever hears ye say that he might take ye up on that offer.”

[usurpyr-a]

[ taste ] for (Mikasa) to cook for (Eren) :''^)

                             “... Huh ? What’s all this for ?”

THERE’S NO special occasion he can convince himself of: no significant date he recognizes as belonging to an important anniversary / a holiday / a reason why that would offer up a substantial enough explanation to excuse his rampant paranoia. Not that he distrusts Mikasa, necessarily, not in the way of cooking - she carries a familiarity with her into the kitchen that is indicative of a quiet childhood spent at her mother’s elbow, watching her work ( the both of them ). A far cry from the days of his careless youth, when the retort to his own mother’s asking for assistance in preparing dinner had been something along the lines of “but that’s a girl’s job” - to which he had been promptly hauled up by the ear and made out to be an unwilling accomplice, every night, for a whole month, until he knew his way around the knife and ladle. Unaware, the whole while, that even his vehement railing against the unjust ‘punishment’ he had received was all just a part of her grand design - a patient waiting game / a guiding hand: what do you want to have tonight, Eren ? How about I teach you to dice potatoes, hm ? Or maybe we could make something sweet, what do you think ? Some apple tarts, how does that sound ? Can you do it on your own this time ? Can you show me how you made it ? How does it taste ? What did you learn ? Wasn’t that fun ? I’m so proud of you, you know.

No, he doesn’t distrust Mikasa as a chef. The problem is that he trusts her almost a little too much - the smell of that vegetable stew she had just placed in front of him is uncannily nostalgic, after all. Bordering even on the absurd. He nearly convinces himself of some kind of witchcraft, a trick of the senses / memory betraying him for an idolized ideal, that’s all, that’s all. But. He finds himself picking up the spoon regardless. He falls all-too-easily back into that old habit of not asking too many questions, at least when food is involved. Fresh food, at that - more than a starving little orphan on the street could ever hope for in the depths of a recession. He’ll just have to accept the reality that this is, apparently, another one of Mikasa’s spontaneous ‘good deeds’, which have been becoming more frequent as of lately ... Restlessness, perhaps ? He has always known Mikasa to be a very, ah, active spirit. Nevermind that most of these ‘random’ acts of kindness have been dedicated specifically to him, it seems - just another facet of her coddling, overbearing, protective mother-hen nature. Though he has not quite yet reached his threshold for refusing her at every turn ( so he will forgive her this once ).

Eren takes a tentative sip of broth - she’d had the courtesy to wait for it to cool a touch before serving, knowing full-well he’d scarf down any meal too-quick to register his tastebuds melting until he was already more than halfway through. He hums, feeling a stubborn knot in his sternum finally relax under the torrent of warmth flooding through him. This is ... exactly like Mom used to make. I didn’t think such a thing was possible, after all this time ... had Mikasa really been paying that much attention ? It’s a ... not an unwelcome feeling, but ... For whatever reason, he’s reluctant to admit how much this has moved him / shifted something inside, as though a burden has finally been unshackled, the skin raw from where it had chafed against guilt. He can’t recall the last time he ever felt such a way. And Mikasa was able to do it, with a simple soup from when we were kids ...

“It’s ... good,” he finally manages, swallowing heavily. Suddenly, the idea strikes him: possibly ill-conceived, but the words are already tumbling out of his careless lips, too late to take back. “Hey,” he continues, looking evenly at her, “you should have some, too. Doesn’t feel right, me having all this for myself when you’re the one that worked so hard to make in the first place.”

Except. He already knows her answer, sees it in the nervous wrinkle of her nose: I’m alright / I made it for you / just enjoy it, okay ? He tries not to let his annoyance show, convinces himself of his maturity, the years spanning between the here-and-now. But something is inexplicably pulling him back into his past ... not that he is resisting it. And this is not a childhood of bitter arguments and scraped knees, utensils tied haphazardly to the ends of broomsticks, the ground trembling underfoot / eyes transfixed on the haunting image of some cherished someone’s last moments in the hand of a giant marauder-- This is warm summer days and carefree laughter echoing through the streets, a parent’s unconditional affection, pillowcases suspended from a clothesline / their billowing reminiscent of far-off ocean waves. These memories are cherished, yes, but have wasted away in his mind’s eye / been buried like so much else under the rubble of his old life, the life that could have ( should have ) been. How can he be sure he is remembering correctly ? How can he be sure he is recalling the correct taste, the correct atmosphere ? When he’d last thought of his mother, was she different than as he thinks of her now ? How many of her wrinkles has he smoothed over in his imagination ? How many of his angry, hurtful words has he since swept from her brow, in an effort to preserve her forever as the saint-savior-martyr of his youth ? All along, has he been the one robbing himself of resolution ?

... He’s never been good at it, talking to Mikasa. He’s never been any good at talking in general, forever to be known as the bull-headed boy that goes about spouting whatever inane nonsense that jumps to the tip of his tongue. He’s reserved himself, recently, to speaking only in whispers / small sentences / clipped tones. Perhaps that is the greatest deception he’s ever committed himself to: a manic desire to be at once suddenly unapproachable. But especially in the earliest of hours, like today’s, his guard slackens / slips off like an ill-fitting coat, too large for his slim shoulders. He’s never been good at pretending, either, but that hardly matters when any mood he adopts nowadays never seems to be able to find its purchase against the smooth rock wall of indifference that stands ( ever-present ) between them. As though he can do no wrong - as though he hasn’t been trying.

Eren abruptly clears his throat before discreetly glancing at Mikasa from behind the thick curtain of hair falling over his face. It’s getting long. He should really cut it soon. But, ah ...

“... You’ve been eating,” he states, less like a question and more like an accusation, “-right ? I was just remembering .. when you first came to live with me and my family. You didn’t eat anything for days - Mom thought you were ‘gonna starve yourself.” It’s a cheap, underhanded tactic, but it works - is likely to work, anyways. Eren leans back in his seat, turning over a chunk of potato in his dish. He relaxes his words, feigning nonchalance / his levity tentatively genuine. “First thing we got you to choke down was some soup, just like this ... but, heh, you only agreed to because I said I wasn’t going to eat anything so long as you weren’t.” A strange twitch of his upper lip warns of a smile threatening a larger grin / something showing teeth. “I was real serious about it, too,” he adds. “Thought I could go weeks without food if I had to. If it’d make sure you came around, eventually.”

Maybe it’s selfish of him, to weaponize those particular memories against her / in an contrived effort to comfort. But it serves to make its point: he does worry about her, in his own strange fashion - in a way even he himself cannot recognize as totally altruistic in nature. Though he does not leave the anecdote unscathed, either; he can’t stop rubbing his wrists, can’t stop itching them with blunted fingernails, afraid of his newfound freedom ( after all, what would an animal born in captivity possibly know of a life meant to be lived without restraint ? ). Despite how obediently he chews and swallows, at some point the reward of her hard work turns to a mass of indistinguishable mush in his mouth / sticking to his tongue, the backs of his molars. This simple action, too, is made awkward - thanks in no small part to his social incompetence. His ears start ringing as a damming blush dusts their tips, perhaps in punishment of his childlike over-eagerness ( “I can show you how to make it sometime, if you want - Mom taught me how.” ).

Eren dips the spoon in again, holding it out carelessly - though his hand does not waver. He schools his features into something more serious / a replication of his boyish self, all those years ago, caught scowling across the dining room table by a girl who could not swallow the weight of that gaze / no more than she could the meal slipped in front of her, whose smell only sickened - which only reminded her of the home now lost to her. He remembers his mother scolding him, back then - reminding him to give her space, to let her grieve, to never expect anything more than she was capable of day-by-day, always at her own pace. But he’s never been a very patient person.

                            “ ... Eh ? How about it ?” He gestures again, tilting his head to one side, as though expectant. “Come on. Try some. For me ? I mean, I won’t have any more unless you take a bite ... Fair’s fair, and all that.”

non-verbal meme.

[wafflewarriors]

A Shot in the Dark

The hallway was dimly lit. The luminosity was questionable; it forced you to squint your eyes and wonder if a shadow was a lurking foe or a fault in the bending of light. You were constantly at edge as you crept around the corridors of the abandoned hospital. You were timid, hesitating and doubting yourself at every suspicious figure. You had always been the type of child who turned off the light in the basement and scurried upstairs while picturing something behind you.

Of course, Sherlock insisted you split up.

You could chase a suspect across rooftops and fight a man twice your size, but you could not do so blindly. The assassins were waiting for one of you to peep around the corner, knife ready.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Breathing was difficult to rein as it hitched and sighed. The palms of your hands were slick with nervous sweat. Your heart rate flew when something shuffled and instinct kicked in. The gleam of a polished blade swung out, impaling your rib as you stumbled back. As your skin ripped open, an excruciating burning sensation spiked up your chest.

Through the adrenaline, you elbowed the enemy in the nose and punched him in the throat with your knuckles. You kneed him in the gut, to which he sank to the floor. In a brutal and morbid haze of fear, you kicked at his temple with the toe of your boot, expelling all motion from the newly beaten attacker.

Adrenaline drained as quickly as it’d come. You floundered your way backward until you were leaned against a pale yellow doorway. Nausea, which had been overridden by the adrenaline before, was now all that collected in the pit of your stomach. Truth be told, you had no idea why Sherlock Holmes had ever become your friend. You were scared of the dark, you froze when haste is vital, and lastly… you become queasy around your own blood. The source of your nausea came from a very specific distressing detail: it needed to be your own blood.

You regularly helped John with patients at the clinic and hovered as Sherlock observed crime scenes and dead bodies. You had no problem with blood when it wasn’t your own.

Woozy, your eyes were sealed. You inhaled slowly, failing miserably to dispel the sick feeling. You were required to look at the wound to address it, but you couldn’t without nausea boiling in your gut. Your imagination was too wild and the thoughts that sprung at you were not welcomed. Peeling your eyelids open, you stared at your battered stomach.

The wound was leaking blood that bubbled with miniature streams of crimson that trickled downward. Red soaked your cotton shirt, causing wet warmth to pool up to your neck. It reeked of copper. Half of your stomach was skinned, the belly button spared, while the excess skin hung wetly. You could definitely see tendons, possibly bone; you weren’t a doctor.

At the last observation, you felt sick. An acidic rumble twisted within your stomach, forcing you to stumble onto your shaky feet. Fortunately, there was a bin nearby. Your knees buckled as you retched with your hands clutched at the plastic siding. You heaved, your stomach rolling and contracting.

Once it was safe to open your mouth without projectile vomiting your dinner, you bellowed hoarsely for your friends and roommates. “Sherlock! John!” You cried out in panic, throat raw. You held your stomach, thankfully out of view from your eyes. It’s only a graze, you attempted to convince yourself. John will help. Sherlock will know what to do. Butwilltheybutwilltheybutwillthey-

“Hey!”

Your arms were numb; a fading receptivity of nerves causing you to feel unbalanced. Your knees wobbled, barely able to support themselves. You tumbled backward, cradling your chest while you swallowed bile. The shock was affecting your mobility and reaction time. Your judgment was cloudy with fear. By now, your vision was unfocused. You blinked, yet the two people racing toward you had taken the shape of fuzzy silhouettes.

“Oh my god.” John’s voice was concerned and disbelieving. He crouched, instantly examining your injury with a doctor's determination. He noted the wound wasn’t clotting.

Sherlock, clueless as ever, was fascinated by your work. “Remarkable. The murderer has a concussion from such a blow to the head. Consider me impressed. Where did you earn such an accuracy and brute force? Surely your physique-”

“Sherlock, forget the bloody body! She’s bleeding out!” John tugged your jacket off your sluggish self, wrapping it tightly against the open wound. John perfectly understood your state of delirium, so he pinned you as you protested. He had seen many soldiers die in a state of shock from struggling against medical help. He wouldn’t let that happen to you.

You squirmed against his firm hold, trying to escape the throbbing pain. “No- that hurts that hurts-” You whined while breathing heavily to prevent nausea from rising. You squeezed your eyes as burning tears pooled behind them. “That hurts. John, stop.” You pleaded miserably.

Sherlock, having already observed the vomit in the bin a few steps away, was curious as ever. “I never pinned you as squeamish.” His tone was low and comforting, despite the blunt comment.

You exhaled in a pained breath, “Not.” You inhaled through your teeth. “Just… my own. Can’t- handle my own… blood.” You wheezed.

“Strange. There must be a reason for it. Anxiety? Are you sensitive? Maybe shock is affecting-”

“Sherlock, focus!” John snapped, putting pressure on the wound. “Call an ambulance for heaven's sake!”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “There’s no signal. We’d have to go outside for service. Is it serious?” Finally, Sherlock inquiries had sobered into silent hovering.

“No. It’s a shallow cut, but we can’t just leave her here. It’s enough to kill in about two hours without attention. Sherlock, you’re the only one who knows the way around. See the issue? I can’t fend off an assassin and put pressure on her wound at the same time while you run off.” John growled in frustration, impelling him to press harder to the wound. You whimpered.

“Then we’ll bring her with us. We’re currently on the fifth floor, and there should be seven other murderers within this building.” Sherlock studied the poorly lit hallway and spewed out his opinion.

John looked horrified for you, doing the math. “Five floors? How are we going to get her across five floors and avoid seven killers?”

Sherlock seemed disappointed of John’s lack of observation. “With the bed, John.” He pointed to the narrow cot with a faded blue fitted-sheet sprinkled in polka dots. The fabric was wrinkled and scrunched. Sherlock tugged at it and the wheels creaked.

John gritted his teeth. “That will totally give us away.”

Sherlock scowled, glancing nervously at you. “But wasting time will do us no good. We don’t have that long.” He rolled the cot to John. The wheels shrieked at the jerky movement. “There should be seven assassins within the building. Some of which may have already left. There are eight floors, allowing us at least one floor with nobody on it. However they could all be on one floor-" He gripped his forehead. “There are too many variables. We need to take the most precautions while escaping the building as quickly as possible.”

“Can’t we just shatter a window for service? We don’t have time for escape, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head, “Bulletproof and tinted.”

Defeated, John sighed. “Nothing’s simple when it comes to you, is it?”

“Unfortunately.”

In the silence, they observed you. Your posture was deflated. You resembled a dying spider with your limbs curled inward. Exhaustion weighed down your eyelids while they drooped.

“Hey!” Sherlock whisper-shouted as much as he could whilst murderers roamed the building. He was quickly at your side and clasped your face in his hands, shaking it. “You mustn’t go to sleep yet. It seriously declines your chance of survival.”

You groaned as your ribs panged. Your stomach felt like slippery marbles were sloshing around, causing you to feel ill. “So... t’red." You slurred lethargically. “Hurts.” You squinted up at their distorted faces above you. “John… ‘m going to die, aren’ I?” A headache, only intensifying with nausea, throbbed behind your eyes.

John’s face pinched in worry. “We’re going to get you out of here.” He licked his lips anxiously, “Sherlock,” His attention moved to the consulting detective. “We are in a hospital, abandoned or not. There’s got to be an old med kit somewhere. It won’t fix the problem, but it may keep her fighting for longer than a couple hours.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I’ll stay in the area.” And with that, Sherlock’s nimble silhouette blended with the darkness, his long coat flapping behind him.

You twisted as the wound shook against the jacket. It was rubbing it raw; the scratchy fiber brushing against open flesh. Your pained grunting didn’t cease as you eyed the wound. “It looks like a fish gill.” You sobbed in agony. “I look like a fish.”

John fidgeted at your graphic and perturbing comparison. He fussed, gingerly searching for other abrasions and bruises. “Try to calm down. Panicking won’t help you.” He soothed, brushing the sweaty hair from your face.

“John, ‘m going to die in here.” Your anxiety had always been one of your inferior qualities. In moments of weakness, you blubbered in fear. It was your worst enemy; it installed fright and based your actions off of it. It compelled you to falter and cower in the face of danger. Being a friend of an unpredictable detective, that wasn’t favorable.

“We won’t let that happen.” Sherlock had already appeared out of the dark while clutching several medical kits of varying sizes. Sherlock extended his arm to John, who reached for the kits and took them gratefully.

John leaned in carefully, pressing a damp towel across your wound. You stiffened and gasped spasmodically. A crippling sting flared and you smacked John’s shoulder repetitively while kicking and twisting. It felt like acid was pouring onto your broken skin. You stifled a wail, clamping your jaw with a sharp clack.

Sherlock kneeled beside you, patting at your hair and resting a hand on your shoulder in an effort to comfort you. “John needs to clean the wound. We don’t want an infection.”

You went slack against the cold flooring, the pain now dissolving into a simmering static. Your vision swam and your ears vibrated when you turned your head. You managed to pant, “What... was that?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Rubbing alcohol.” He pivoted, his fingertips resting on your shoulder in consideration. His attention was now veered toward John. “We’ve wasted enough time tending to her. If we don’t start moving now we’ll have wasted it.”

John nodded in doleful understanding, “Of course.” He was swift to apply thick bandages around your middle, wrapping them tight and thoroughly. “Should we move her to the bed, then?”

“Please do.” You murmured, shivering on the frigid tile.

Sherlock grasped your upper body with his palm supporting your head and spine, while John scooped up your legs and lower back. It was an effort not to yelp as they positioned you on the creaky mattress. The cushion sank under your weight like a soggy pancake.

John rotated toward the pits of the corridor. “I suppose this is it then. You think this will go smoothly?”

Sherlock’s mouth was thin and pinched in distaste. “Likely not.”

John glared at Sherlock, annoyed by his low spirits. “Can you never be optimistic?”

“Would you like me to lie?”

John stared at Sherlock a moment. “No.”

“Good. I had the impression that wouldn’t be of use.”

This moment was the tip of an iceberg, just above the surface. Sherlock and John had halted all morals to beam a glare, the silence telling of their progressing irritation. Neither man enjoyed conflict, yet here they were. Two friends unable to express to the other their logic, for the other would only counter it. They would stare, and then return to a temporary harmony. Except for this time, the contest between two contrasting minds ended without conclusion.

Sherlock’s constantly active watch for danger was a significant advantage. Within the abyss behind the doctor, a flash of a glossy shank and predator-like eyes caught into Sherlock’s peripheral vision. He dove, knocking John’s build out of harm. His martial arts kicked in, and soon he was ducking and landing blows on the snake-like assassin.

John scrambled to his toes in bewilderment, scarcely regarding the tussle between Sherlock and the nimble assassin. He wasn’t much for martial arts, but he was a soldier. Thank god he’d brought a gun.

The fighting style of the killer a far cry Sherlock’s. His moves were clean and witty, while the murderer was scrappy and feral. Sherlock had to dodge and avoid teeth from sinking into his arm. Finally, Sherlock had gotten them into a vulnerable spot. Behind him, John’s arm held his Browning steadily.

The assassin’s body shape hinted toward female, despite the thick leather jacket hugging her frame. A ski mask hid her facial features. A simple dagger was loosely gripped in her left hand, the blade glistening and sharpened. However, the assassin no longer seemed interested in stabbing the detective.

Sherlock’s frown was grim. “Lower your gun, John.”

John’s aim wavered, “Why?”

Sherlock glowered at the assassin, disapproval clear. “Mary has some explaining to do.”

An adept hand slipped the knife in their pocket as if it were a casual thing to do. “I didn’t mean it to involve you,” Mary said gently, removing the ski mask, revealing her lying face.

John was torn. It was maddening. He would have demanded answers, yet he held back his rage like a trained soldier. He grabbed the metal of bed and began forcing it to roll with a shrill scrape.

“John-"

The doctor marched on. “I really don’t want to hear it right now,” John growled, his teeth bared.

“John, it’s not what you think-"

“Then what is it?! What in God’s name, are you doing here?” John boomed. It’s livid temper echoed along the concrete walls.

Mary took a step forward, not hindered by his outburst. “If you don’t want to attract dozens of serial killers, I suggest you lower your voice.” Mary bit out evenly.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Dozens?” He inquired.

Mary spoke earnestly, “Yes.” Her eyes were mournful. “I came here to warn you and help disassemble them.” He shoulders dropped, “It’s too dark; otherwise I wouldn’t have fought you. I swear it, John.”

John looked to Sherlock, who nodded solemnly. Mary’s genuine explanation met truthful human behavior. Mary was an expert liar, but even she couldn’t have cooked such a confession on the spot. A lie would not go unnoticed by Sherlock.

“H’llo?” You mumbled, faintly aware of the conversation. You felt faint and on the verge of passing out.

Sherlock popped up onto the balls of his feet. “We must get going. We’ve wasted the maximum amount of time possible for her survival. She needs medical attention.” He was uncharacteristically anxious.

When the squealing of wheels first sounded throughout the hospital like a rusty shopping cart, John had winced. Now, his irritation was at a tipping point, and a suspected serial killer would do just fine as an outlet. His fists itched for something to pummel.

“John, I’m assigning you full responsibility over her,” Sherlock announced, striding alongside him.

John did not accept his role. “And what will you be doing? Watching?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied seriously. “Mary and I will take to disarming the serial killers along our path. You will protect her. You’re the doctor, John.”

John’s stubbornness had always been a fault of his. He hid his darkest emotions and trusted those he’d barely met. John was a doctor, yes, but he was also a soldier. He was addicted to the adrenaline. Although he ached for a fight, Sherlock’s statement put him in his place.

“Alright.” He said finally.

At his clipped and vague answer, Sherlock observed him. “You disagree.”

John pondered it. “No.”

Sherlock was unconvinced. “You’re tense. Lying.”

John bit his cheek.

“You’re hesitating, John.”

Sherlock had a knack of not knowing what good timing was, and this was one of those times. John was definitely not in a good enough mood to deal with this. John remained silent.

“...not good?” There was a pause. “Ah.”

Sherlock stayed quiet after that, looking similar to a dejected puppy. They all stepped along, dispirited and mopish, while Mary trailed behind. The ghostly halls and disfigured shadows didn’t discourage them any longer. They marched along the tile, determined to reach the stairs of the lonely hospital.

Sherlock and his long legs took the front, his sharp eyes soaking in every visible detail. Then, abruptly halted. He held a hand out from behind him, motioning to quit walking.

Sherlock’s ‘detective mode’ wasn’t like a switch. He was constantly thinking, watching, seeing- and this was a moment John was glad Sherlock was an expert in his job field. Sherlock’s head was poised, a hound on the trail of a raccoon. His metallic eyes skimmed darkly over the scene. A couple of paper plates sat on the floor, a gnawed bones from a chicken rested on the plates. “Two of them have been here.” He poked the meat of the poultry. “Still warm.”

John frowned. “Are you sure it’s only two?”

Sherlock cast his eyes about, trying to locate clues. “Two plates. It’s enough to satisfy two large men.”

Mary was behind John, dagger in hand. She was cautious, straining to detect the movements of a nearby killer. In low voice, she breathed, “John, I need your gun.” There was a rustle of a coat, and a tense hand held a gun behind his back. She took it in anticipation, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She paused, exerting her sensitive ears for the crackle of leather or the patter of an untrained foot.

Sherlock was doing the same, calculating the hospital architecture and formation of the walls. He judged the best angles for a precise bash to a head. He constructed a strategy in a mere two seconds before becoming very aware of where the men were hidden, despite his lack of vision in the murky light of the hall. They all held their breath when they heard a faint click of the tile floor against a well disciplined foot.

When Mary extended her weapon, the silence broke.

From opposite directions, two solid masses of black emerged, slamming into the trio. The largest man had taken to Sherlock’s end, muscles visible against his tight leather jacket. A slimmer man, although extensively livelier and additionally more punctual with attacks, chose Mary. They were enhanced in their talents, for they nearly matched the cleverness of Sherlock and Mary.

John had taken to you, rolling the bed with a deep screech of grinding metal. Fortunately, the hallway was broad and spacious. It allowed John to slip by, and defend the weak link.

To add to John’s growing headache, you were unconscious and the bandage he’d applied was now a damp pink. John huffed. Ditching the bed, he began dragging your limp form into a narrow hospital room doorway. He was swift, laying you across the timeworn mattress. It’s springs rattled at the new weight. He barricaded the doorway with heavy cabinets so that only a few inches of the door’s window was visible.

There was a gunshot that vibrated through the floor. Mary never misplaced her aim. She towered over the body, his bullet-blown head staring up at the ceiling. She huffed for breath, swiveling to analyze Sherlock’s work.

Sherlock had easily managed to take down the brawny man. While the man was double Sherlock’s size, Sherlock was dexterous and deft on his toes. To his perspective, it was child’s play to outwit the flying fists. Albeit capable of damage, the assassin’s aim was off by a mile. Sherlock judged that his hand-eye coordination was poor. All it took was an elbow to the throat and the killer’s trachea broke.

Now with the two murderers defeated, Sherlock exposed John’s hideout and knocked at the door. “John. They’re gone now.” He peeked in the visible window, a bush of raven hair and criticizing silver eyes sprouting up into John’s view. “If you don’t open the door, the sheep nostrils in the fridge will find their way to the microwave.”

John trusted Sherlock’s threat. He shoved at the bulky cabinets. He forced a grunt, “It’ll be open in a second-"

Sherlock propped the door open. His eyes landed on John, offering silent empathy for his troubles. John resembled a shell of a man, exhaustion clouding his eyes. Sherlock’s eyebrows dipped in concern for his flatmate, “Why don’t you sit down, John? You look rather pale.”

John did so.

Sherlock assessed his situation and judged the best plan for action. Looking out the window, a spark of hope lit him. “We need to get her out of the building.”

John was cradling his pounding headache within his palms. “We don’t have enough time. We might be able to get her out of the building, but how long will it take for people to arrive? It’s too late. If she loses enough blood, she’ll go into hypovolemic shock. I would cauterize the wound, but there’s nothing I can use except bandages right now. We’re in such an old hospital; the equipment looks like torture weapons. There was a saw in the drawers for amputation.”

Sherlock crouched down so he was eye-level to John’s slumped form. “There’s no need. We’ll get her out in time.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock pointed out the tinted window, grinning wildly. “My brother’s here.” It was true. A hazy light glowed against the chalky window as flashlights were swung about. A sleek black helicopter and armed men had invaded the grounds, already searching and barking instructions and orders. Sherlock whipped his head away from the window and glanced to John and Mary. “She will make it.”

Sherlock leapt up. His posture was confident, as if he'd already constructed a cunning scheme. He cast his eyes to Mary. “Mary, firing John's gun has brought Mycroft here, yet it has likely drawn a majority of murderers our direction. Going down the stairs, we would run into them. Barricade the doorway.” He turned to his roommate. “Now, do you have a flashlight, John?”

John did have a flashlight. In fact, he always did. It was with him constantly, as often as the gun was. However, he did not see how this had anything to do with their predicament, except for making John feel like an idiot for stumbling among the dark halls without thinking of the source of light he had in his pocket. This is why he wasn't a detective. “...yes.” He said simply, allowing the detective to explain.

“Brilliant, John. I need you to flash a message to my brother in Morse Code: ‘Room 502’. My brother's surveillance men will likely see it.”

“But you said the windows are tinted.”

“Yes, they are, but they still allow light through. What would be the purpose of a window if you couldn't see through it?” Sherlock explained, “While they cannot see us, I assure you they will see our message.”

John stood a bit unevenly and fetched his flashlight, stamping it against the window. He recalled his Morse Code lessons back in the military. He flashed, ‘.-. --- --- -- ’ and ‘..... ----- ..---’ just as Sherlock had instructed. ‘Room 502’. After waiting a few seconds, his paranoia caused him to flash the message repeatedly in fear no one was watching.

John's hope and anxiety washed away when he received a message back. ‘... .- ..-. . ..--..’ which John read as ‘Safe?’.

John gave a relieved sigh. ‘.----’ and ‘.. -. .--- ..- .-. . -..’, he tapped at the flashlight's button, ‘1 injured.’.

Sherlock calculated the trail to their room. “My brother is doubtlessly impatient. I have faith his search team will effortlessly ambush our petty, fellow serial killers. If I know of my stalking brother's habits, I expect a knock at this door in seven minutes.”

John had plastered himself to the window in a new fascination and inspiration. He continued to flash messages, satisfying his hungry curiosity. John chortled, “Count on six.”

///

Mycroft was more than impatient. He was demanding to see his brother and his condition, as John had never specified who was injured. Imaginably to encourage their rescue. And it did. He was in constant communication with his men; he commanded them to hurry and reach the fifth floor.

His men plundered and swarmed the area, arresting the serial killer gang members Sherlock had been after. They lashed out like frightened animals and they fought like barbarians. They reminded Mycroft of savage rats that ran over your toes in a bad part of the cities.

He nearly leaped out of his guarded helicopter when he recognized the humble figures of Sherlock and his friends. His security team advised him not to, however, and he was escorted over.

Oddly enough, there was no quarrel. He met Sherlock's gaze and they shared an equivalent look of fulfillment. It was a courteous appreciation of each brother. No words were expressed, just the serene murmur of silence as a thank you. That was sufficient enough for Mycroft.

Mycroft was only convinced of their safety once he’d witnessed everyone go under the hands of his personal medical team. While most of them remained unscathed, you had required transportation to the hospital, so Mycroft assigned a limo for your friends' travel.

Sherlock, John, and Mary sat awkwardly, each uncertain as of how to fill the silence and initiate conversation within the luxurious ride. Feet scuffed and tongues clicked until John cleared his throat. He seemed uncertain, peering out the window as his stomach thundered viciously. He was hesitant, “Would anyone like Thai food tonight?”

[brooklyn-1918]

Mighty Oaks

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Peggy Carter, The Howling Commandos. Pretty much everyone from The First Avenger. 

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes (Stucky)

Summary: Steve has always been told “mighty oaks from little acorns grow.” He just never knew what that meant to him.

Warnings: Language, poor written smut, fluff and angst. 18+ only.

Word count: 4550

A/N: I wrote this for @thinkoutsidethebex​ ‘s writing challenge, which I had a hell of a lot of fun with. It’s also my first time that I have posted anything that I have written for one of my ships, so I don’t know how well this is going to blow over. 

Also, I got the proverb “mighty oaks from little acorns grow”.

Anywho, enjoy.

People say that mighty oaks from little acorns grow, right? Right now, Steve’s not convinced. Alone and cornered in an alley, the date is August 18, 1942, 4:30 in the afternoon. And Steve is already on his third fight today. 

In his defence, the first one was NOT his fault, and the second he didn’t fully mean to start. This one, though, Steve damn well meant it. He stands defiantly towards the bully, chin jutted out and fists balled at his sides. The red headed man laughs, stepping forward. Steve takes one step closer and the man laughs harder.

Steve can’t for the life of him figure out what’s so funny. Until he sees the man flex his fingers, and a small silver knife falls from his sleeve, and into his grip. 

“Shit.” Steve mutters, eyes darting around for some sort of escape. 

“You really think that your life is worth it? Protecting some girl?” The slimeball twirls the knife in his fingers, taunting, toying. Steve can’t find a way out. So he does the one thing he can think of. 

He dives to the left, crashing into a pile of trash bins, and grabs a lid. Popping up, he hurls the lid with all his might. Granted, not much might, but points to him for trying. It spins through the air, and crashes into the man’s nose with a sickening crunch, making him stumble backwards with his hand over his face. Steve hurtles a pile of trash, and races out of the alley. 

The guy shouts behind him, and Steve narrowly avoids the knife as it is hurled at him with scary accuracy. Steve doesn't stop running until he stumbles through his front door, on the verge of having an asthma attack. 

Bucky looks up from his spot on the couch, untying his shoes from the day’s work. The brunette stands abruptly, dropping one shoe off his lap, and shaking the other off his foot as he trots over to him. 

“Stevie? What happened?” He puts his hands on Steve’s shoulders, and wrenches him upright, looking at all the bruises and nicks on his face and hands. Steve gives him a grumpy look and refuses to talk. Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh, and leads him to sit on the sofa. 

He leaves to grab a washcloth, running it under the bathroom faucet. Taking it back in, he wipes away the street grime and the stray drops of blood, going gently around the tender skin of his black eye. 

“What happened?” Bucky tries again, placing two fingers under his chin and lifting his head. Steve frowns again, and begins to recount the stories of his three separate encounters. And by the time he is done, Bucky has sat on the floor in front of him, staring dumbly at the little blond. 

“You’re lucky I love you, you punk.” Bucky manages to say, shaking his head and dropping the now warm cloth next to him. He pushes up with a tired arm to lean forward, his lips connecting with Steve’s. 

Steve smiles as he wraps a hand around Bucky’s nape, pulling him closer. Bucky swings around to sit on the couch, moving Steve to sit on his lap, kiss never breaking. Bucky begins to work at the knot of Steve’s tie as Steve begins to grind down, growing harder by the second. 

Steve pops the buttons of Bucky’s dirty white henley, before moving onto the buttons of his own button down. Bucky trails his fingers down Steve’s back, then slides them around to firmly grip his boyfriend’s waist, grinding up against him. 

He jumped slightly as Steve’s cold fingers slid under his shirt, working it up and over his head, their mouths only breaking apart once he needed to pass the shirt over. He tosses it, not caring where it landed, and begins to leave a trail of kisses down Bucky’s jaw, to his neck, and finally, to his shoulder, sucking at his pulse point. Bucky groans as Steve runs his hands over his toned abs and chest, then quickly moves his hands to rid Steve of his own shirt, exposing his thin frame. Bucky moves his hands back to Steve’s hips, and stands abruptly, Steve hooking his feet behind Bucky. Moving slowly, he makes it to the bedroom, shutting the door and collapsing down on the old mattress.

_____

It's June of the next year, Steve has just been denied enlistment for the fifth time, and he still somehow has found himself cornered in another alley, this time for trying to get some asshole to stop shouting out during a picture. Just his luck. His eyes dart around, and he does it again. He grabs the lid of a trash bin, holding it in front of him like a shield. 

He isn’t fast enough when the guy swings his fist around to connect with his jaw, knocking him to the ground with a grunt. 

“Hey!” He hears.

“Pick on someone your own size.” Steve knows that voice. He pushes himself up and turns around just as the guy is running out of the alley. Steve can feel his stomach drop out as he lays eyes on his boyfriend, clad in a military uniform.

“How many times is this? And really, Jersey?” Bucky is busy straightening out the medical examination card, eyes down, unsure if he would be able to take the look he just KNOWS is on Steve’s face. Steve draws in a shaky breath, then speaks. 

“You got your orders.” He doesn't pose it as a question, but he keeps his voice low, masking the brokenness of it all. Bucky finally looks up, giving a mock salute.

“Sergeant James Barnes, 107th.” Bucky places his arm around Steve’s shoulders with a little laugh, then pressed a kiss to Steve’s cheek. 

“Come on.” Bucky huffed a laugh, forcing a smile to his face. 

“Where we going?” Steve asked, trying to keep the solemn tone from his voice. It wasn’t working. Bucky bit his lip and gave a shake to the blond. 

“The future. I got us some cover tonight.” 

_____

The “date” went about as well as any cover date could have gone. To the outside world, it looked like Bucky was with the brunette, and Steve was with the blonde, not that it was two illegal pairings.

Of course, the Stark expo had not held Steve’s interest for very long. The floating car was OK, but when he had turned around, there was an enlistment sign, pointing him in the right direction. With a glance back over his shoulder, he decided that he could try his luck. He snuck off to go find it.

Bucky had caught up with him quickly, giving him a little push from behind and telling him that they were going to bring Dottie and Claire dancing. Steve told him he could go on without him, that he was going to try again. Bucky had gotten mad, getting into a little argument. 

Bucky hadn’t been able to stay mad for long, though. He shook his head and brought Steve in for a hug, wishing he could kiss him silly in public. That was the last time Bucky would see Steve for another three months, the last time he would see Steve at that size. 

Steve got into the supersoldier program that night. 

_____

Steve thinks about the phrase his mother had told him years ago.

“Mighty oaks from little acorns grow, now don’t you forget that Steven Grant Rogers.” She had ruffled his hair and sent him to bed. 

Yeah, Steve is REALLY not feeling that. He has fallen in the mud again, grunting as he tries to get his thin legs back under him. Hodges had hit him with the stock of the training rifle again, right to the gut. If looks could kill, Steve was pretty sure that he would have killed him by now. 

Hell hath no fury like an angry Steve Rogers. 

So he runs harder, barely overtaking the guy in the second to last position. He drops the gun and jumps at the rope ladder, but his leg slips through and he falls back, an annoyed look on his face as the drill sergeant yells at him and a few of the other guys laugh at him. 

“I bet Bucky didn’t have to go through this.” He grumbles to himself as he pulls back up, resuming his climb. 

It was these very events that made it hard to believe he was the one chosen to partake in the experiment. At first, he thought it was some sick joke they were playing on him. Then, when he returned to the barracks and his was the only stuff there, it sunk in. 

_____

Steve lay strapped to the table as it flipped up, the doors closing around him. Dr. Erskine had said that the serum would not only give him a pristine physical form, but would cure any and all illnesses he had. And by God he hoped he was right. He hoped that he was right when him and Bucky would sit up, talking late into the night about how neither of them thought their love was an illness. He hoped he was right that there was one thing the serum would not be able to change. 

Love was pain, and he was willing to live with the pain he sufferers every day in order to not give up Bucky. That's the one thing he doesn't think he would be able to live with. Giving up Bucky. 

The door shuts and the pain starts. Dull at first, but it grows until he feels like his bones are on fire, his vision going white. He tries not to yell out, but as it grows unbearable, he cries out. He can hear shouting for the machine to get turned off, so he shouts for them to keep going. He grits his teeth and stays quiet.

He can hear the strap around his stomach break, the thrumming of the machine deafening, the light blinding. Outside, sparks fly and the power dies all at once, leaving Steve trapped in the hot metal sarcophagus. The doors pop open and let in a rush of much welcomed cool air. He may not yet be mighty, but he certainly is bigger.

He opens his eyes as the doctor and Howard Stark help him off the mechanism. Steve thinks for a panicked moment, his love for Bucky doesn't seem to have been changed. Then Peggy asks him how he feels, reaching out to just barely touch his newly defined pectoral muscle. His skin crawls at the touch, and he resists the urge to smile because, yup, he still is very much in love with Bucky. They were right. He smiles. 

_____

Steve’s next two months fly by in a storm of dancing USO girls, and propaganda. And as he sits backstage of the latest show, in the middle of rainy Italy, he can’t help but think about how close he could be to Bucky, to his second half of his heart. 

His hand absently sketches out a monkey, riding on a unicycle and carrying his shield. 

“Hello, Steve.” He jumps at the voice, and turns to look over his shoulder, catching sight of Peggy Carter. 

“Hi.” He says, a little surprised. She smiles and sits next to him, trying to give her comfort to him. All he can see himself as is the dancing monkey. A horn sounds and it makes him jump again, looking to the commotion of people hauling wounded out of an ambulance. 

“They look like they’ve been through hell.” He says. Peggy hums beside him, and gives an explanation. 

“Your audience contained what's left of the 107th.” Steve’s stomach drops to his toes, the blood drained out of his face. He asks for confirmation, but doesn't get it as his patience has run out, and he’s racing out to Colonel Philips’s tent. 

His one goal is to get Bucky back. 

_____

Steve storms the castle. Or, factory in this case. He has unleashed his full fury, teeth grit, knuckles bloodied. He races around trying to find the prison ward, then unlocking all the cages. Hundreds of prisoners flood into the hall, but none of them the one he is so desperately searching for. He takes off in the direction that one of them points in, hoping, praying to any god there might be, that Bucky is still alive. 

He finds him strapped to a table, muttering his numbers, eyes glazed over. Steve quickly makes sure the room has no video feeds, and he rips the straps off. 

“Bucky!” He calls, placing his hand over his beloved’s cheek, smoothing his thumb over the bone. Bucky’s eyes slip back into focus, and he squints at Steve.

“Steve?” He asks, lifting his arm to grip the blond’s shoulder. He looks confused for only a minute until Steve bends down to lock lips with him. Like Prince Charming waking Snow White from her poisoned slumber, Bucky bolts upright. 

“Come on, we gotta go Buck.” Steve helps him off the table, and they hobble their way out of the factory, questions of how and why and when rattling from Bucky’s mouth. 

“I’ll explain later.” Is what Steve eventually gives Bucky.

_____

Steve doesn't leave Bucky’s side for the next few days. They sit in Steve’s dimly lit tent, rain pouring on top of them. Sitting side by side, Steve’s hand rests on Bucky’s knee as he explains things. 

“And here we are, sitting in this muddy hell.” Steve finishes. Bucky hums, tracing up Steve’s muscular forearm with one finger. Bucky leans his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder, testing out the new odd feeling of having both more muscle padding and more height. He switches so his chin is resting on his shoulder, his icy blue eyes staring into Steve’s sky blue. 

Steve leans down to kiss him, tongue tracing the seam of his lips for entry. Bucky yields, and their kiss deepens. Steve twists his body so they are facing each other, one leg on the bed, the other dangling over the edge. Hands card through hair, and breathing gets more erratic. 

This is how Peggy finds them. 

“Captain, we need to discuss--” She walks into his tent, eyes trained on the file in her arms before looking up. They had broken apart in time to not have actually been caught in the act, but their appearances were proof enough. Both wore their undershirts with casual base pants, matching disheveled hair. Steve had a hickey at the base of his neck, and Bucky was covered in little nips.

Steve stood quickly, eyes wide in terror. They were sure to be thrown out of the army, most likely put in jail or put through correctional treatment. Bucky remained frozen on the bed. Peggy’s jaw dropped, file drooping until it was at her side. Steve reached his hand out, then withdrew it like he was going to get burned. 

“Look, Peggy, I can ex--”

“I knew it.” Peggy whispers, looking from one to the other. They looked at her dumbfoundedly.

“Your secret is safe with me. I’ll just leave this here.” She says as she places the file on the end of Steve’s cot. She turns to go back out into the rain, but stops to say one last thing. 

“You may want to consider something a bit more private.” She smiles warmly at them, and exits, the flaps swinging lightly as they close. 

_____

Not a week later they find themselves walking through the woods around base, both of them having the day to themselves. Naturally they decide to spend it together. Steve holds out his arm to stop Bucky, and points up the hill to a stone outcropping, more rock forming a cave underneath. 

They haul each other up, climbing inside, where it’s surprisingly warm. Steve takes off his shirt, leaving his undershirt, and balls it up to use as a pillow. Bucky rests his head on Steve’s chest, and gripps his tank top. They can see the whole base from the cave, high on the hill above the treetops. Beyond, is a town, half destroyed by bombs, but still standing. 

“It’s nice up here.” Bucky comments, his voice echoing quietly off the back wall, sounding around the small space. 

“Yeah. Too bad we can’t spend more time here.” Steve sighs. He brings his hand up to twist through Bucky’s hair, playing with the short strands at the base of his neck. Bucky chuckles softly.

“May as well make the best of it then.” Steve is almost confused at his words, but then the brunette climbs on top of him, straddling his waist. Steve grins wickedly as he immediately goes to pull Bucky’s shirt down his shoulders. He sits up, holding Bucky in place by his hips, which have begun to grind down against him. Bucky slides his fingers under Steve’s undershirt, then up the toned stomach and chest, gathering the fabric on the way, stopping briefly to pinch at Steve’s nipples, which are hardening just the same as some other things. He finally lets go and slides the shirt off, before removing his own. 

“You’re beautiful. Did you know that?” Steve asks, a flirty smile on his face. 

“You only tell me every day.” Bucky retorts. Steve growls and flips them over, pinning Bucky to the ground. With his hands over his wrists, he begins to move his hands up slowly, a silent command for Bucky to leave his arms on the ground. Bucky twitches as Steve’s light touches tickle the skin on his arms, causing Steve to see if what he was doing was alright. Bucky gave a nod and Steve moved down, unbuttoning Bucky’s pants. He slipped his fingers under the edge of his boxers, then he quickly shoved them down, exposing Bucky’s excited member. 

Steve trailed kisses down from his navel, towards the inside of his thigh, giving Bucky a few strokes. 

“So beautiful.” Steve murmurs as he sinks his mouth down around Bucky’s length, precum drizzling out of the tip. Bucky gasps, and can’t help as his hands go to Steve’s head, holding him in place. His hips buck as Steve begins to move up and down, breathing deeply through his nose. 

He pulls off of him with a wet pop, saliva trailing from his lip all the way down. Even in the dim light, Steve can see how his lover’s eyes are almost black with lust. He’s sure his are the same. Bucky sits up, hooking his hands under Steve’s armpits, dragging him up to lay on top of him. Steve happily goes with him, but props himself on his elbows, hovering almost nose to nose. Eyes locked, Bucky snakes his hands between them to undo Steve’s pants, pushing them down his hips. 

Steve dives forward to kiss the life out of Bucky, nipping at his lip before going back down his neck. Bucky reaches around to give Steve a few experimental tugs, Steve hard and aching as he moans softly. The blond moves to prop up on just one arm, the other joining where Bucky’s hand lay. Steve pushes one finger into Bucky, bending his knuckle just slightly, enough to bring Bucky up as he arches his back into Steve, a gasp escaping his slack jaw. 

“God… Steve--” is all Bucky can manage to say, squirming slightly under him. Steve chuckles slowly, adding in a second, then third finger, twisting them to have Bucky gasp out his name the same way that he just did. 

Pulling his fingers out, Bucky wimpers, feeling empty at the loss of the touch. He is about to protest before he groans in ecstasy, Steve’s cock filling him up as he thrusts in almost to his base. 

“This feel good?” Steve asks, his voice low, thumb now rubbing slow circles on Bucky’s side. The brunette grins widely, before he grabs Steve’s free hand and presses his fingers to his lips, kissing each knuckle. 

“Shit, Steve… Please…” He whines. Steve takes that as his cue, and begins to move his hips back and forth, rocking them to the beat of each breath he took. Bucky’s breath skips, rattling as he takes the steamy cave air in. Bucky nearly breaks Steve’s hand as he grips it. 

“Please.” Bucky begs, pushing his hips up to get more force. Steve smiles and presses a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, nipping his lip on the way up. Bucky’s soft plea was everything Steve needed to start completely railing him, thrusts becoming slightly more erratic as he neared the edge. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect… And so damn tight.” Steve growled in his ear, sucking on his earlobe. Bucky’s back arched up once more, nails dragging down Steve’s back, leaving long red welts. Bucky moans as he cums, his juices spraying over Steve’s abdomen. 

Voices just down the hill make them panic. They are far, but can be made out as the voices of Falsworth and Dougan coming closer. Steve’s head snaps up, and he pulls out quickly, fixing his pants and tugging his undershirt back on, Bucky scrapes his back on the wall of the cave as he shoots up, undershirt thrown on, then green base shirt, buttoning up until the last two. 

Steve is fixing his hair, looking wildly around for his shirt, to which Bucky throws it at him, hitting him in the face just as the two Commandos pop their heads into the mouth of the cave. Steve laughs and kicks the toe of Bucky’s boot from his spot on the opposite wall, unfolding his shirt to sling back over his broad shoulders. 

“Hey, Cap.” Dougan says, pulling himself in, nodding to the sergeant sitting on the opposite wall. Steve is just managing to control his laughter, and to regulate his breathing when Falsworth clambers in, Bucky shooting him a mad grin. 

“What’re you doing the whole way up here?” Dougan asks as he slumps against the wall next to him, twirling his bowler hat in his fingers. Falsworth leans against the wall next to Bucky, looking back and forth between the two brooklynites. 

“Just getting reacquainted.” Steve says, causing Bucky to snort, reciprocating Steve’s kick with one of his own. 

“What about you?” Bucky questions, brushing some dirt off his pants. 

_____

The train rattles under the soldiers, speeding through the snowy alps. Bullets fly and beams of blue light blaze, the fight hot. Steve’s feet are knocked out from under him, and he goes crashing into the floor, his shield bouncing away from him. 

Bucky picks it up and fires at the German soldier once, twice, three times, shield held in front of him. The soldier turns and fires, blasting dead center to the shield, blowing the brunette sideways and through a hole in the side of the train car. 

Steve’s eyes widen and he throws the metal disk with everything he has, contacting it to his chest, where he picks up the sound of ribs breaking through the armour. Before the disk hits the ground again, he has scrambled to the hole, reaching out shouting over the whipping wind. 

“Grab my hand!” He cries, chest constricting. Bucky reaches out, his fingers brushing his love’s. His face is riddled with terror, hand trembling, but he can’t reach.

The bar breaks and time stands still. Steve can only stare, paralized with fear, feeling his heart shatter.

Bucky falls away with a shout.

As he’s falling, Bucky shuts his mouth to silence his scream. He can’t let Steve hear him like this. He can’t let his last memory be of Bucky’s anguish. 

So he twists to his left, enough that his arm catches on a jagged rock ledge, shattering the bone and tearing at the flesh. The last thing he remembers is landing on his back, his head hitting the ground and knocking him out. 

And as he lays on the ground bleeding out, he smiles as his life plays before him. One. Last. Time.

_____

Steve staggers out of the debriefing, barely containing his emotions. He stops in the middle of the camp, mud splashing up and over his boots, contemplating on if he should go back to his tent. 

Unknown to him, the commandos watched him as he turned and wandered into the woods. Unknown to him, the commandos followed. 

Once he got deep enough into the trees, he stopped, scanning the snowy landscape ahead of him. He dropped heavily to his knees, sitting back on his heels, hands lay palm up on his thighs. The tears fell down his cheeks swifter than rivers, his entire body shaking. 

They say mighty oaks from little acorns grow. In this moment he had never felt lower. Someone had taken an ax to his heart and hacked away until he was nothing but splinters. His head dropped so his chin hit his chest. 

With a growl growing in the back of his throat, he unclipped the shield from his back and stood. 

Hidden behind a few trees, the commandos narrowed their eyes, watching for what he would do. They were afraid to move, to make noise. They were scared that their own heartbreak would be heard by their captain. 

With a yell, Steve threw his shield toward a tree, watching as it’s edge sliced right through and lodged in the tree behind. With a crash, the pine fell, shuddering the ground. He walked forward to his shield, and removed it from the wood, staring at the slice for a moment before he wound back and sent his fist to connect with it, splintering the trunk. 

He shook his bloody, probably broken hand, warding off the blossoming pain. He twisted on his heel so he could walk to the fallen tree, sitting on the trunk. 

The tears came hot and fast once more, falling like someone had just blown the Hoover dam. 

The shield slipped from his grasp and landed in the snow. He moved his now free hands to hold his head up with his elbows propped on his knees.

He couldn’t let the troops see him like this. With the snot threatening to spill from his nose, and the irregular breathing, cheeks red and puffy. 

Slowly, the commandos made their way from behind the trees, placing their hands on his shoulders. They sat next to him, they comforted him as best they could. 

_____

The screaming cockpit filled his head. The plane was headed for the ice, and Steve was glad. 

Long ago Bucky and Steve had promised each other that they would be with each other until the end of the line. And this was it. 

Bucky had gotten off, and that left Steve still on the train. Steve was giving his life to save the lives of countless people, and if he had to go, he would choose it no other way. And as Peggy’s voice crackled over the radio, he smiled.

The plane hit the ice and the radio signal cut. Steve was thrown from his seat, and as he was struck unconscious, his life played before his eyes. 

They say mighty oaks from little acorns grow. And maybe they were right. Maybe Steve was. 

[danceworshipper]

Chiva Twins' Hogwarts Storyline

(On a separate post from their profiles because tumblr sucks)

Pre Hogwarts:

- Gracie and Tessa's paternal grandmother took care of the twins a lot while they were little, after she moved to England to be closer to her only son. She had a beautiful garden in her backyard where they would spend the day, and she cooked the best angel hair spaghetti Gracie has ever had. Unfortunately, she died when the twins were seven

- They got Ruby when Gracie and Tessa were eight. She was supposed to be put down after she got away from her previous owner and attacked a muggle, but Clarissa heard about it, stole her from the shelter, paid a heavy fine, and then kept her

- For a couple years after their grandmother died, the family would spend the month of July in Germany with the extended Chiva family, which is how Gracie and Rosalie became such good friends

- Rosalie's allure started to kick in when she was eleven and Gracie was about to be ten, though it was weak. It didn't affect Tessa (or any other girl, for that matter) so Gracie pretended she couldn't feel it until it became too much. This was her first indication that she was attracted to girls, which she ignored

- The year Vance vanished was miserable. He was expelled in January, and disappeared in February. Gracie and Tessa were almost forbidden from attending Hogwarts, but Jason convinced Clarissa to let them go

First Year:

- Rowan and Liz were the twins' first friends, but Rowan quickly favored Gracie and Liz Tessa

- Gracie and Tessa figured out their Legilimency, but they couldn't control it. Snape gave them lessons and Gracie progressed faster than Tessa, causing a slight rift in their relationship

- Other than the canon events, the only notable thing from first year was the curse, obviously

- Gracie and Tessa were alone in the hallway leading to the Slytherin Common Room, and the next thing they knew, Gracie was frozen on the floor and Tessa had fainted

- Their memories were removed, but a member of R had been trying to catch them alone for months

- He hit Gracie with three experimental curses: one to change her appearance in an attempt to ostracize her, one to cause the crazes that had the side effect of causing her to be immune to mind altering spells and poisons, and one to try and bind her mind to R, which didn't work - it bound her to her wand instead (he accidentally said "magic" and not "magic group")

- Tessa tried to stop him, but the man shoved her into the wall and gave her a concussion, which she fainted from

- Gracie wasn't able to fight back because he froze her

- Felix found them when he went to do his Prefect rounds. It was the only time they have ever seen him panicked and crying

- The twins immediately stopped bickering about who was better, because they didn't want to die on bad terms and apparently their Hogwarts career was going to be dangerous

- Tessa blames herself so hard. She's certain if she hadn't stopped to tie her shoe, they would have been just missed by their attacker

- Dumbledore analyzed Gracie and only discovered the wand connection and the immunity. There were no signs of the crazes at that point

- Clarissa flipped her shit when she found out - she broke Dumbledore's arm because she blamed him for someone breaking into the castle

- Tessa started trying to be the perfect daughter in order to redeem her family. Clarissa told her she didn't need to, but Tessa kept trying to be exactly what her maternal grandparents would want her to be. She started learning to cook and bake, though she had previously had no interest in it, and worked on her singing

- The twins were locked in the house over the summer. Jason started working later hours, and Clarissa received a strongly worded letter from her family about how two of her children were disgraces. Clarissa firecalled her mother and screamed because it wasn't Gracie's fault. It was one of the only times she ever stood up to her family

Second Year:

- The twins started developing depression

- Tessa started early Care of Magical Creatures lessons and properly met Barnaby

- Gracie had her first craze. None happened over the summer because the curse wasn't able to turn her against her family at first, but she did slip away from her family to buy a pocket knife because she felt drawn to it

- The craze happened during dinner. Gracie was so overwhelmed by the urge to take her pocket knife and plunge it into Rowan's chest that she ran out of the Great Hall. The knife was in her hand before she had been able to realize what was happening

- Rowan chased after her to help her come down, and the next few times, Rowan would study the circumstances and what exactly Gracie was feeling the urge to do

- They decided that the more Gracie cares about someone, the more likely a craze was to target them

- Nothing really triggered a craze, but they usually occurred when Gracie was excited or in some other high emotion

- Neither of them thought it would be a good idea to tell anyone else. The crazes were pretty mild and easy to break out of then, so they didn't want to worry anyone

- Even when not in a craze, Gracie's instinctive responses were quicker to violence than before

- Tessa noticed that Gracie was acting weird, but couldn't get anything out of her

- Gracie joined the Potions Club after some pushing from Penny

- Tessa joined the Quidditch team

- She quickly hated Skye, and became friends with Ravenclaw's star player Erika Rath, who helped her with both her gameplay and her methods of keeping Skye in check

- Canon events occurred

- A group of (unturned) werewolves attacked a student in their year, and Tessa hurried to make sure she was okay

- Chiara pushed her away

- When Tessa kept trying to talk, Chiara revealed that she herself is a werewolf and had been giving her potions away

- She was terrified of hurting people the next full moon

- Tessa, though not yet an Animagus, stayed outside with her to help her through it, climbing up into a tree in an undignified way to stay safe

- She and Chiara stayed friends

- Merula joined the Frog Choir and started practicing in the dorms. Gracie wondered why she got a little breathless while listening

- The summer after second year, Gracie accidentally witnessed Jason murder an old family friend. The next time Gracie went to visit his office, she turned him in to his partner Thomas and let him extract her memories to use as evidence. Jason was arrested immediately and Clarissa was legally separated within the week. Tessa refused to believe her father would do something like that

- The twins didn't have a party for their birthday that year

Third Year:

- Gracie realized her crush on Merula

- She figured out that she's bi. She doesn't hide it, but she doesn't offer the information up. She did formally come out to Tessa, who could easily say that she didn't care and she would always lover her sister

- Tessa and Barnaby started dating. Gracie hated it

- She could admit that Barnaby is cute and nice, but she couldn't get over how stupid he is and constantly told Tessa that she could do better. Tessa fully ignored her

- Throughout the year Gracie was forced to spend more time with him, and eventually admitted that he's stupid, but not in the important ways

- Tessa and Barnaby had a very awkward first kiss, and don't try again for a month

- Canon events occurred

- While in the vault Gracie spotted a small note on the floor. The note was from Olivia, prompting Gracie's research into her brother's friend. Tessa wasn't as interested in Olivia as her sister

- Tessa got attacked by the worst of the boggarts. She had a hard time differentiating between the boggarts and the real Gracie, who had to hold her and repeat that she loves her for Tessa to calm down

- This is the year that Rowan encouraged Gracie to go through with a craze just once, so Gracie cut her initials into Rowan's neck

- Gracie couldn't look at Rowan all day after she did it, but Rowan kept telling her that it's okay because they'll be best friends forever and the scars weren't even that noticeable

- Gracie became obsessed with the sight of blood

- In August, Clarissa told them that an old school friend of hers would be staying with them for a little while, because her husband tragically died from an unnoticed illness. Gracie and Tessa recognized the code for "my friend killed her husband because he was an abusive dickhead" and avoided Margaret while she was there

- Over the summer, Tessa met Kyle and he helped her decide to stop fighting the vaults for her own good

- Tessa told Gracie that she was done with the vaults, terrified that Gracie would think less of her. Gracie didn't outwardly react much, but Tessa could feel her disappointment

Fourth Year:

- Blah blah canon stuff

- Gracie and Tessa became Animagi with the help of McGonagall. The professor had hoped it would distract them enough from the vaults that they wouldn't get involved (fail)

- Rowan and Gracie fought for the role of Prefect. Snape picked Rowan, obviously, but Tessa can't figure out why Gracie even tried in the first place

- Barnaby asked Tessa to the ball

- They went and enjoyed themselves but realized they didn't want to date anymore and broke it off while there

- Gracie asked Merula to the Celestial Ball

- They went and had a great time

- One week later, Merula asked Gracie out properly

- Awkwardness ensued

- They became an official couple, and Tessa started teasing Gracue about her poor choice in romantic interests

- Clarissa figured them out over the summer when Gracie started talking about Merula the same way Tessa used to talk about Barnaby

- The twins expected their mother to be upset, but Clarissa only poured herself a large glass of wine and remarked that Merula better be smarter than "that worthless boy your sister thankfully dumped"

- Gracie finally realized why Margaret was still living with them, but Tessa did not. She was more offended by Clarissa calling Barnaby worthless

- Merula is invited over for dinner, which she initially refused. Eventually she agreed and though the whole dinner is awkward, she and Gracie got to go out to the town and have fun after. They had their first kiss in one of the shops after Gracie bought Merula a stuffed panda

- Tessa went and hung out with Kyle and some of his muggle friends that night

Fifth Year:

- During detention, Gracie and Jae became really close friends, to the point that Merula threatened Jae. He responded that he's much more into guys and she had nothing to worry about

- Merula forced Gracie and Ismelda to spend a day together because she wanted her girlfriend and best friend to get along. It was awkward, but they no longer avoid each other like the plague after that

- Tessa barely ever saw her sister between the detention and all the happenings with the vaults. It hurt more than she was willing to admit

- Gracie grilled Duncan for information about Olivia, but he didn't know anything from after he died

- Rakepick forced Gracie to cast the Cruciatus Curse on someone in Diagon Alley. Gracie hated how easily the spell came to her, and how excited it made her feel. She also despised how proud Rakepick looked

- Merula offered to teach Gracie the Killing Curse. Gracie wanted to refuse, but her morbid curiosity got the best of her and she learned it, vowing to only use it in an emergency

- Gracie and Merula gave each other their virginity

- In the Portrait Vault, Gracie lost her mind watching Rakepick torture Merula and hit her with the Cruciatus Curse, and nearly the Killing Curse. Bill, Penny, and Tessa were so upset that she almost became a murderer that Gracie blamed it on adrenaline. Charlie didn't accuse her, saying he might have done the same thing if Rakepick had targeted Bill instead. Merula was proud of her, and Ismelda found a new respect for her

- Gracie was mildly concerned about it, as it wasn't a craze, but she couldn't make herself care enough

- Vance barely recognized Gracie when she freed him, but seeing the necklace made him believe that it was really her

- He ran before seeing Tessa, and Gracie cursed his name for months

- Upon learning all of this information, Tessa focused on Gracie almost becoming a murderer, but was actually most upset about Vance not caring enough to visit her. She smashed the picture she had of him and the twins, and was so upset she had to spend the night in Gracie's bed with her, which they hadn't done since they were little

- The twins had a sleepover with their best friends (Rowan and Liz) for their birthday, while Clarissa was away on vacation with Margaret. Gracie wanted to have Merula sleep over too but Clarissa firmly said no

- Tessa and Liz watched muggle movies and ate way too much popcorn while Gracie and Rowan spent the night outside, under the stars

Sixth Year (so far):

- After overhearing an angry firecall between her mother and her grandparents, Tessa offered to be put into a contract marriage to try and appease them. Clarissa flipped her shit and said no way

- Only then did Tessa figure out why Margaret still lived with them

- When Gracie found out about it she also flipped her shit, unable to understand why Tessa would ever be willing to go through that

- As the curses got worse Tessa attempted to figure out some information about the vaults, but her friends didn't want to tell her much

- Gracie's anxiety worsened, which caused her misophonia (irrational fear response to certain noises) to worsen as well. Badeea took pity on her and invented a spell to temporarily deafen her, which she used constantly in class. Tessa also got some use out of it, though she didn't need it as often

- Erika reminded Tessa to focus in Quidditch, since it was Erika's last year and if Tessa wanted to win the Quidditch cup again she'd have to try extra hard

- Tessa tried to reconnect with Gracie as she got more and more down, but Gracie continued to shove her away

- Madam Pomfrey got petrified and Tessa started helping Chiara out with some basic medical duties. Gracie threw most of her remaining caution to the wind to try and stop the curse

- Gracie's depression reached new heights and Rowan had to physically drag her out of bed most mornings. Tessa again tried to reach out, but Gracie wouldn't let her, terrified by the thought of Tessa being in any way in danger

- Rakepick attempted to kill Ben in the Forest, but Rowan, who had been hiding, shot a stunner at her which gave them enough time to regroup

- The exchange students, Alanza and River, arrived, and Dumbledore made Tessa their guide. She immediately didn't like Alanza, but River intrigued her

- As Tessa gets closer to River, she finds out he's a vampire, but her fear does nothing to deter the quickly developing crush

To be continued