#it’s weird realizing some of those boxes I’ve been unable to open or even look at for a decade

[egregiousderp]

A week’s vacation starts tomorrow. Minus Halloween, of course, because I love working Halloween at the store enough I requested to work it. I’m up to two kids who already are clearly living in their costumes: one in a Sonic Onesie with matching yellow crocs decked in sonic-themed jibbitz, and one Batman with the built-in foam muscles on a maybe…seven year old and five year old respectively? Best part of Halloween for me, honestly, seeing the kids who are going to *be* Spider-Man or whatever until Thanksgiving when their parents finally go TAKE THAT OFF WE HAVE COMPANY COMING.

Got cleared for the Jedi costume as long as I’m bladeless and the saber stays on the belt, so that’s…honestly, easy, but also feels a little weird because it’s like “oh cool what do I do with the time, now?” Like, I debated making a togruta headdress for it but decided not to just in case it’s “scary” for the real little ones.

Car’s still needing to go to the shop because it won’t start and the hood latch is broken, and my sick time from the Week of Mystery Dysentery has come up mysteriously short a hundred bucks from my already not so great paycheck, and car insurance had to be paid.

So it looks like I’m spending a week inside cooking two big meals to make use of the pantry stuff that just got cleared, with MAYBE a third if mom feels like eating chopped liver with me if I make it, and seeing how many paper cranes I can make to contribute to the thousand.

…It’s so weird working so hard to get full time for so many years, and now the benefits are slightly annoying and way less helpful than the guaranteed hours—especially since the home situation is so toxic and I’m trapped, unable to go anywhere.

[rezzyromance]

Cute mini fic idea☺️

You know those love heart sweets with the messages on? Y/n gets her hands on some from the Duke.

Y/n leaves some on Heisenberg’s work bench to share with random messages she pays no mind to.

These are the messages on each one

Kiss me

I’m yours

I love you

Email me (the himbo doesn’t understand because why email when y/n is right there??)

Heisenberg finds them + gets confused thinking y/n is trying to tell him something.

After some mental gymnastics and back + forth he bites the bullet + kisses y/n.

Imagine how confused y/n would be but rolls with it because she wants him too? Especially when he mentions the email one 🤣🤣

This is so creative thank you!

The Duke never failed to disappoint when it came to new items you've never seen before. Whether it's a new collectable that you have no clue how he got his hands on, or a fun foreign snack, he always had so many surprises. During your visit today, you were simply picking up some stuff for Karl. Of course, the Duke had everything he was looking for. But, he made a new offer as well.

"(Y/N), I have something you may be interested in.", he said. "Oh? And what would that be?", your curiosity got the best of you. "I've acquired these little candy hearts. They're meant to be a sweet treat you share with a loved one or someone you care about. I'm not sure who I work with that would like this other than you. Perhaps you could put them to good use." He handed you a box of little heart candies and you put them in your pocket before saying your goodbyes. You would've discussed them more, but Karl was eager about some new supplies that he wanted you to pick up so you didn't want to waste any time.

On the walk home, you opened the box and took one of the candies out. You only observed it a little before trying it. It wasn't overwhelmingly sweet and the texture was soft but chalky. You knew he'd probably like them.

You make it back to the factory and quickly make it to Karl's office where he was hunched over at his desk, busy at work. "I got your stuff. How's the work going?" You place his supplies near his desk and wait for his answer. "Well, it's work. It's not gonna get itself done." He said bluntly. "Well, sounds like it's going well." You put your hand in your pocket and grab one of the heart candies, quickly pulling it out and placing it on his desk before leaving the room. He looks over at the candy, confused of what it was. He took the small item in his hand and scanned each side of it. One side was blank while the other said "Kiss me". "What's this?" He tried to be a little loud so you could hear from outside of the room by now. "Just a little treat." With curiosity, he put the candy in his mouth and continued working as the pleasant taste filled his mouth. The taste didn't last long, but the words did. "Does she want me to kiss her? I mean the message was pretty straight forward." He thought.

A few hours passed and you were bored. Since there's not much to do around the factory, you sometimes take up small chores to help out Karl. You walk back into his office with a broom and begin to sweep the floors. They weren't particularly dirty, but it gave you something to do. Many of the candies still sat in your pocket. As you swept around the room, you quietly placed another candy on his desk. Without a word, you pick up all the swept up dust and other junk from the floor and left the room. When you're gone, he takes a look at the new candy. "I'm yours." It read. A smile grew on his face. "Hm.... guess she knows what she wants."

A few more hours pass and now he's in a different room. His workshop room. He was trying to design a new, elaborate weapon to attach to some new experiments. You peek inside for only a bit, cautiously avoiding the weapon that was being built. "You're doing great." You say as you place another candy on a table beside him. You left without another word. Normally, you wouldn't be checking on him so many times a day. But, you liked the idea of congratulating him on his hard work. After all, he does put so much of his energy into his work.

He became eager to read each new message. He quickly checks the words on this candy. "Call me." "Call me? But I'm right here. " He says, but you've already left the room. "She must be playing hard to get." He stopped working on the intense weapon in front of him and began to think. He was feeling so many new things that confused him, but he wasn't against it.

He was finally done with his work for the day. With a lot of confusing and new thoughts on his mind, he walked out of his workshop. You weren't too far away and you could hear the door opening and closing. You make your way over to where you heard the noise so you could give him another treat. When he saw you walking towards him, he froze. It was a feeling he had never felt before in his life. He felt nervous and was worried that if he were to speak, it would come out all stuttered and weird. "Hey! Done for the day?" You ask and hand him another candy from your pocket. He held it and stared at it for a bit which confused you. Why wasn't he just eating it? You glanced at the candy and noticed something you had been oblivious to before. There was writing on it, but you were unable to read it from where you stood. But, he could read it. He could read the words very clearly. "I love you."

He swallowed anxiously and looked at you for a second. "Are you alright?" You ask. Suddenly, after taking a deep breath to prepare himself, he brings his body even closer to yours. He places his hand on the back of your neck and pulls your face closer to his as he leans into a sudden kiss. You nearly gasp against his lips at first, but loosen up under his touch. It wasn't expected and it was confusing, but you didn't mind it. You even placed your hands on his chest for support, worried you may melt into the kiss so much that you'd fall over. He pulls away and looks into your eyes, unsure of everything at that moment. It scared him to feel so unsure about something. But, the smile on your face and glimmer in your eyes helped ease his stress.

"What was that for?" You ask softly, still resting your hands on his chest. "Well, you did tell me earlier to kiss you." His words caused you to tilt your head in confusion. "What?" "The candies. The ones you've been giving me all day. They said stuff like 'kiss me' and 'I'm yours'" He held out the most recent uneaten candy for you to see. Low and behold, the words "I love you" were printed on it. "One of them even said 'call me' which I thought was particularly strange considering we're never too far apart." You had no idea what to say. Your face grew hot and red with embarassment. He realized what had happened. "You had no idea they said anything, did you?" He too felt incredibly embarrassed now. You began to laugh at the comically bizarre situation. He didn't know whether to be mad or laugh along with you. "I had no clue they said anything!" You pressed your forehead to his chest as you continued to laugh.

His confusion from earlier only grew stronger. "So, you weren't secretly hinting at your love for me?" He felt like a fool for thinking anyone could feel that way about him, especially you. "No, but I'm glad I was even if I didn't notice it." "What? But, I'm sure you didn't actually want me to kiss you, right?" You broke the eye contact with him by looking at the floor in attempts to hide your newfound bashfulness. "Well, I don't mind. I mean.. I didn't mind it..." The room was quiet which only made you more nervous. "I really liked it actually. I really... like you." You felt his thumb rub your chin as he held it gently. Your breath hitches at the touch as he slowly cranes your head up so you can see his face once again. His classic grin had paved its way back onto his face. You smile and pull him into a kiss once again. This time you both melted a little as this one helped ease the tension. You pull away and giggle at the bizarre situation.

"Call me?" "I'd love to."

[writing-in-a-chipotle]

Unbearably Mortal (Part 2)

(Alcina Dimitrescu x gender neutral reader)

Part 1

Words: ~2.5 K

Summary: In which a lot of things happen and none of them are good.

A/N: Hey, y’all! Back at it again with another chapter! Hope you enjoy!

“Nope nope nope nope… no way in hell…” You shook your head violently, unable to process what Mary had said. “This is… this is all some sort of elaborate prank, right? You’re messing with me. Yeah.” You swallowed. Your saliva felt like acid.

Mary grimaced. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t a game. This is very much reality.”

“So… what are they then?” You began pacing the floor, anxiety clinging to the pit of your stomach. “You expect me to believe that they’re some sort of weird, blood-sucking vampires?? You must be out of your mind… they don’t exist! They can’t be real!”

Mary stood up and walked over to you, gently placing her hands on your shoulders. With her blocking your path, you were forced to stop pacing and look at her.

“Listen,” She began, eyes gleaming with fear “I have no need to lie to you. Believe whatever you want to believe, for the only thing on the line right now is your head. Jane and I risked our lives to save you. If we were caught, all of us would have died. So, are you going to freak out and get yourself killed, or are you gonna listen to me?”

You were stunned into silence. Mary was being deathly serious. You nodded shakily.

“Good.” Mary breathed a sigh of relief. “If you had a mental breakdown and they heard…” She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to either; the implication was horrifying enough as it was.

“Thank you, by the way,” you sighed, sitting back down on the bed, “you really didn’t have to save me.”

“Honestly, I’m still scared out of my mind,” she admitted breathily, “but I’m glad you’re better now.”

“Thanks.”

She hummed, then pursed her lips. Her frown deepened even more. “Well… now what do we do? The Dimitrescu family is notorious for slaughtering any trespassers they find.”

Your eyes widened and your stomach dropped. “Oh no… oh no, no, no…”

You were stuck. You were stuck in a terrifying castle with horrifying, blood-sucking monsters who would gladly turn you into a mangled corpse on their living room floor. You had no way to call for help, and your parents probably didn’t even know what was happening…

Your phone.

You patted your pockets and fished through them. Let’s see: some dirt, a crumpled flight itinerary, your house keys… aha!

“...what’s in the box?” Mary asked, “I don't think I’ve seen anything like it before.”

You blinked. Box? “Oh, this? It’s my phone.” You rotated it slowly in your fingers so she could easily see all its sides. “It’s a bit larger and blockier than your average iPhone because it’s designed to connect directly to the satellite, making it easy to call anyone from anywhere in the world. It cost me a lot of money, but since I was planning on traveling the world after I graduated, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to have it a few years early.”

Mary gave you a completely confused stare. “What’s an… iPhone? Or a sad-del-light? Did you make those up?”

You frowned, your eyebrow twitching in confusion. “Uh… no? I wouldn’t make anything like this up. You… you truly don’t know what modern technology is like?”

She shook her head. “I’ve… never been outside the village. I have no idea what the rest of the world is like.”

“And you don’t have a phone? Internet? Anything??”

“I’m afraid not,” She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, “the Lords don’t allow anyone to leave the village or write letters to the outside world.”

A chill shot up your spine. “That’s… terrifying…”

Mary nodded, then tilted her head, thinking. She pursed her lips and motioned with her finger for you to come closer. You lean your ear to her.

“What is it?” You whisper.

“There are rumors of a girl who escaped the Lord’s wrath,” she began, “apparently, she managed to leave the village unharmed. There was an old hag who used to moan about how her daughter left her for a new life. She sounded half mad, so no one bothered listening to her.”

Your grandmother. She was talking about your grandmother.

And your mom.

This meant that… your mom knew about these crazy monsters? That she let you come here, to a place where you would most likely die? Alone??

Nothing made sense anymore.

You realized you had zoned out of Mary’s story. You shook your head, bringing your attention back to the present.

“Is that a good idea?”

“Uh, sorry, what?” You blinked. Mary was staring at you like you were an idiot. (Which you were, but that’s not the point.)

“I said,” she repeated, “you need to blend in until we can figure out how to escape.”

“That’s… that’s a pretty good idea. And wait….” you repeated her words in your mind. “We? You want to come too?”

“Goddess, it’s like you’re dense or something.” Mary muttered under her breath. “Of course I want to leave! Are you out of your mi-“

“I get it, I get it,” you huffed, interrupting her, “What do we do now?”

“Now,” she folded her arms, “we need to get you a disguise.” She walked over to a tiny dresser in the far corner and pulled out a neatly-folded maid’s uniform. “I hope you’re my size.”

————————

Turns out you weren’t Mary’s size.

You couldn’t help it; your new friend was practically a walking stick. Your shoulders were too broad, your legs too long; but with Mary’s excellent sewing skills, you were able to make it work… sort of.

“Damn, this uniform is itchy,” you complained, scratching at the neckline.

“You’ll grow used to it after a while,” Mary replied. “Now we need to get to work or-“

“We’ll be made into wine. Got it.” You straightened out your sleeves.

She nodded. “Just follow my lead.”

The two of you walked quickly and quietly out of the servant’s quarters. Your heart was racing. Every time you turned a corner, you half expected a bloodied monster to jump the both of you and tear out your arteries.

You rounded another bend and nearly walked into Mary. She had stopped suddenly and immediately fled to the side of the hallway, bowing deeply at the corridor. You quickly followed her lead.

The moment you bowed your head, a steady buzzing filled your ears.

Swarms of flies flitted through your vision as they flew down the hall, buzzing excitedly. Maliciously. You don’t know how they managed to convey such emotions, but they seemed…. off.

And then, they changed.

The insects spiraled and spun into a large, buzzing mass, sewing themselves into a completely different form; one with a deep black cloak, ghoulishly pale hands, wild blonde hair…

And blood-stained teeth.

Mary curtsied deeply and you were quick to follow suit. “Good evening, Lady Bela,” she said softly, refusing to look up, “how may we be of service?”

Bela gave a bored wave of her hand. “We’re a bit... short-staffed in the kitchens at the moment,” she drawled, “Mother doesn’t want dinner to be served a second too late. She-” Her eyes fell on you and she stopped dead in her tracks. “You smell familiar, human…” she growled.

Oh no, you were dead, you were dead, you were dead. Cold sweat fell from your neck, and your heart raced. Bela stepped closer to you, brows furrowed and hungry eyes glinting.

“They’re new, Lady Bela,” Maria said quickly.

She raised an immaculate brow. “New, you say?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“... I see.”

It was only a moment before she leaned away, but to you, it felt like hours. The Dimitrescu was a terrifyingly deadly whirlwind, one that seemed to stare directly into your soul… maybe even smell your fear. Bela’s lips twitched, giving you a glimpse of sharp fangs.

“Well then, newcomer,” she hissed, amusement dripping in her voice, “if you’re so eager to serve us, I want you to pour the wine.”

Your heart raced in panic, your hands shaking. Pouring the wine meant seeing these monsters at their most bloodthirsty. It meant you would get caught.

I won’t survive, you thought fearfully.

You quickly dropped into a clumsy curtsy before you forgot yourself. “A-as you wish, Lady Bela,” you choke out.

“Hm… we’ll see, won’t we.” She dissolved into a sea of flies and flew down the hallway and out of sight.

You breathed heavily. Your heart was still going a mile a minute. Before you could say anything, Mary grabbed your arm and tugged you along.

“Wha-“

“Shh,” she hissed. “Not yet.”

You followed her silently to the kitchen. This whole situation was too hard to process… you’d barely been in Romania for a day and you suddenly had to face the reality of your imminent death.

You felt lightheaded. Your vision swam.

“Where are you, draga mea?” A smooth, enchanting voice swirled in your mind. You felt your pulse hammering in your temples. The voice sounded so close, yet so far away. It was familiar and warm… but it was too hard to tell if it meant anything. You were too woozy, too lightheaded…

“It’s time to wake up, darling,” the voice continued dreamily, “Open your eyes for me?”

“...hey… hey!” A familiar voice hissed, “hello? Are you alright?”

Your eyes snapped open.

Mary stood in front of you, her hands on your shoulders. Once she saw you move, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you alright? You haven’t blinked for the past few minutes, nor have you responded to anything or anyone around you.”

“Yeah, I just…” you swallowed thickly. What was wrong with you? “... I just spaced out.” Mary frowned, giving you a suspicious glance, but didn’t push.

You were in the kitchen. Cooks and maids bustled around in an organized fashion, whispering instructions to each other while slicing, cooking, and plating bright red slabs of meat. You definitely didn’t want to know what kind the Dimitrescu’s were eating tonight.

Someone grabbed your arm and you flinched, turning around. It was one of the older cooks, a salt and pepper haired woman with soot-stained clothes and greasy calloused hands. She shoved a a bottle of wine into your hands so fast, you nearly dropped it. She glowered at you.

“As soon as the meal is served, you pop open the bottle and pour for everyone.” She hurriedly rattled off instructions. “When they finish their drink, pour them another. You do not look at them, you do not touch them or their glasses, you don’t even breathe around them. And for the love of the Goddess: Do. Not. Spill.”

You gulped and nodded. You just had to do your job, then leave. That’s all. You could do this.

Or so you told yourself.

The old woman gave you a quick look, and for a moment it seemed she gave you a twinge of a sympathetic smile. But just like that it was gone, replaced by her signature scowl.

“Alright, we go in three…” she held up three fingers covered in burn scars. One second passed. Then another.

The kitchen maids smoothly entered the dining room in one sweeping motion; a flurry of skirts and iron serving trays. You followed them close behind. The maids placed the trays in front of each Dimitrescu before fleeing to the kitchen single file.

And then it hit you.

You were the only maid who was supposed to stay throughout the entire meal.

Without you even knowing it, Bela had assigned you one of the most dangerous jobs at the castle; one where you had to stay, alone, in the same room as four hungry, bloodthirsty vampires.

You quickly began pouring the wine.

You walked around the massive mahogany table, trying your best not to spill the blood-red drink. You poured for Bela first, and you tried your absolute best not to look her in the eye. You didn’t know what you would do if you saw her grinning.

You moved on to the next Dimitrescu: a redhead with glistening fangs. As you poured, she suddenly hissed. In your surprise, you fumbled the bottle. But you didn’t spill.

The last sister (you assumed all three of them were sisters based on their similar appearances) was a brunette with mischievous eyes. You didn’t mean to look at her… you really didn’t…

Based on her low, rumbling cackle, you knew you were doomed.

The last Dimitrescu, the Lady Dimitrescu, was much different than the other three. She was incredibly tall, with a flowing white dress that fell to her ankles, a wide-brimmed hat…

And pearly-white satin gloves.

Why did that seem so familiar?

You shook your head. You had to stop thinking and just pour the wine! You only had one more glass to fill, after all.

The brunette stuck out her foot, and you went down.

You landed on top of the bottle, and it shattered under you. Glass and wine flew everywhere, piercing your clothes, slicing your skin, staining the rug…

And completely drenching the front of Lady Dimitrescu’s immaculate dress.

The air cracked with electricity. “You...” she hissed, in a stranglely familiar voice.

Before you could even beg for forgiveness, the towering terror of a woman stood from the table and grasped you by the collar before you could even blink.

She growled, breath smelling of blood. “You will pay for your insole-“ her breath hitched. Her death grip on you loosened and faded, till you dropped to the floor like a rag doll.

Fearfully, you looked up at her.

Her demeanor had completely changed. Where once stood a cold-hearted monster was a shocked, crying… woman. Tears streaked down her face, dripping from her chin as she sunk to the floor. She didn’t look like a monster, she looked… human.

The lady reached out a gloved hand, then flinched as if burned. She looked lost and confused and sad; unable to process what she was looking at… or rather, who she was looking at.

A chill ran up your spine, fearful tendrils snaking through your system as you both stared into each other’s eyes.

And then, Lady Dimitrescu uttered a single word, barely a whisper at all, and your stomach dropped. Your world spun.

“Y/N?”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Everything you had ever known was completely useless, and your life would end at any moment, you were sure. You felt like crying, you felt like throwing up.

She said your name.

Lady Dimitrescu, one of the most powerful supernatural beings in the world, who couldn’t possibly know who you were, had said your name.

It was too much. There were too many strong emotions, too many near-death experiences in one day. Your body was bloody and exhausted, your energy spent.

You collapsed on the dining room floor, and your vision faded to black.

[diavolosthots]

Hey, I'm here again requesting the continuation for yandere!Belphegor, in which the reader almost scapes from him, but is caught by him in the very last second, like in those very dramatic movies?

Im so sorry it took literally forever for this. I aint gonna lie when you requested that second part and even messaged me about it before, I STILL forgot and now this has been in my ask box for ages, too.

Anyway this is a DIRECT continuation of "Can't You See" so i suggest you read that first.

Warning: mentions of non-con/r*pe, kidnapping, manipulation, yandere

You'll See (YANDERE!BELPHEGOR X GN!READER)

He kept you there for what felt like forever. The dark, cold look of the shed brought you little to no comfort. Where even were you? You vaguely remembered being dragged down the Devildom streets into this… abandoned structure. Had he planned this out? You used to ask him these questions, and he would always laugh at you. “I’ve had you for a lot longer than you realize, (Y/N).” Is what he would always say. The way he said it would keep you up at night, unable to sleep, not that you could even if you wanted to. He’d whisper constant reminders in your ear about how he is the one keeping you alive and around, he is the one caring for you, and he is the only one you could rely on. Belphegor tried, as much as he could, to be with you, but he can’t be too suspicious. Yet, when he did leave, you still couldn’t let out a sigh of relief. He tied you to the old, rotting couch on most days and you’d lay there in an uncomfortable position for hours until he decided to return. You didn’t know what was worse, seeing his face all the time, feeling his hot breath on your skin as he simultaneously mocked and comforted you, or being alone in an unfamiliar location, never fully certain that not some random demon would drop by and have their way with you too. 

Belphegor forced himself on you a lot. He’d satisfy his needs, exclaiming love and passion for you, but you knew better. Every once in a while, when he deemed you well behaved, he would drag an orgasm or two out of you as well, and yet, you hated the feeling. Something that is supposed to be pleasurable and exciting only brought you tears and hate toward yourself. How could your body betray you like this? You never once thought that Belphegor learned from you, although he was using all your techniques. Punishment from him was the worst, in your opinion. He’d give you scraps instead of a real meal, barely any water, or sometimes he would play a prank on you. But the worst was when he just left. No words. No disgusted look toward you. Nothing. Just silence and then you’d watch as his silhouette disappeared into the dark of the Devildom, leaving you to yourself with your thoughts. 

That’s also where he made a mistake, though. You see, being alone used to make you cry. You used to beg for him to stay because being alone was worse than being with him, in a way, but that was before you figured out how to undo the rope. Somehow, someway, after a lot of pulling and tugging, you found a way to slip one of your hands out and after that, everything else was easy. You only needed one hand to untie the other one, but there was one problem: You didn’t know what time of day it was. For the past few months, you tried to remember when Belphegor came back but your internal clock was off and you just didn’t know. The room was mostly dark and even when Belphegor opened the door to come in, you couldn’t see anything outside. You even begged him one, “Belphie please… I don’t like the dark….” but he would gently mock you and cradle you up in his arms, “awe… poor baby…. I’ll keep you safe.” Running out would be a risk and you actually didn’t leave the first time you got the ropes untied, instead pushing your hands back in. You needed to at least try to figure out when he comes and goes, and thus you started to count, in intervals of 100, and if he didn’t come back by 500, well, that’s when you knew he would be gone for at least 100 more. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. You did this for a couple of days to see if you were correct, and on the 3rd day, when he still didn’t come back, you took that opportunity, and you ran. 

You ran out into the streets, carefully checking behind you and making note of every noise you heard. It’s been weeks, at least, since Belphegor dragged you down these streets and you couldn’t remember the way back to the House of Lamentation, “Lucifer…. I need to find Lucifer….” but you couldn’t. No way. The risk of getting lost, or caught, on your way back to the house was too big and what if Belphie was at the house? “No… he’s surely there…” So you took the back alleys, trying to sneak your way to the castle instead. All of this would have been easier with a phone but Belphie took yours and destroyed it right in front of you, which still makes you mad, but it’s whatever. “Maybe they have a payphone…?” If they do, it would be downtown and you don’t know if you can risk that. 

“I have to…” You ran around for a while, out into the main street where you saw a bunch of demons. There were street lights and you’re not quite sure if this is a smart idea on your part, but you needed to try and call Lucifer, or Diavolo, or literally anyone responsible and sane enough to safe you. “Here goes nothing…” You took a deep breath and then started walking, hoping the shredded clothes and tousled hair wouldn’t let you stand out too much. You tried to stick between bigger groups of demons, getting weird looks, but you didn’t care. “The payphone….” there was one ahead, you can see it, and a small sliver of hope rushed through you as you tried to remember Lucifer’s number. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” You didn’t notice but you ran into some demon and he didn’t appreciate it, glaring down at you, “I-I’m sorry…!” And quickly ran off. He didn’t look very friendly and if you were to die today, it surely would’ve been by his hands, “scary…”“I know.” You paused, a cold shiver running down your back. That voice…. “Belphegor…”

He didn’t sound happy, either, but you didn’t dare turn around, keeping your eyes on the payphone ahead. Quick. Run. That’s what you thought, and that’s what you did. You ran ahead, pushing through more people and mumbling more sorrys while a deep growl erupted from behind you, “a few more steps….” You could get there and then lock yourself in. You could, you really could. “Oh no!” But you really couldn’t. Belphegor’s tail pushed out and wrapped around your neck, tripping you and you fell face first on the ground. Before you knew it, he was on top of you too, growling right next to your ear, “I know you didn’t think of running away, (Y/N).” Fear rushed through you and hopelessness, too. You were so close. Even now, you could still see the payphone; it was right there! Tears started forming in the corners of your eyes and you heard Belphegor’s familiar chuckle, “awe.. Are you sad it didn’t work?” You nodded slowly, wishing the earth would just swallow you up. 

He laughed louder, pushing your face hard against the ground before leaning in to whisper, “you’ll never escape me, (Y/N).... You didn’t think I didn’t see what you were doing, did you? Undoing the ropes… calculating how long I’ll be gone…” No… how could he know? He wasn’t there… How? He could sense your questions and he hummed softly as if he was thinking about them. His tail slithered up your leg before moving around to caress over your face, all while his hand patted through your hair roughly, mockingly, almost as if he was praising his pet. “You see… the good thing about the Devildom is that it’s always dark, and don’t you know…..

Monsters hide in the dark.” 

[mynumberfivethings]

I Heard A Rumor...

They land back in 2019, which is a relief, of course, until it’s not. 

“What the fuck even is the Sparrow Academy?” Diego grouses. “Lame ass bird fucks.” he chucks one of his knives across the cramped motel room they’re currently occupying and watches it get lodged firmly into the tacky wallpaper. 

Allison grabs the second knife Diego’s about to fling out of his hand and glares  daggers at her brother. “We’re staying here for free, because I rumored the motel staff into not noticing we exist, so maybe don’t wreck the place?” 

Luther nods in agreement. “Allison’s right, we need to be as inconspicuous as possible right now.” 

Diego rolls his eyes. “Whatever. So Five, now what?” the siblings all go to turn to Five for the answers they’re so desperately seeking, only to be met with the sight of the pseudo thirteen year old laid curled up on one of the beds, sound asleep. 

Luther frowns. “How in the hell can he seriously sleep at a time like this?” 

Allison leans over Fives still form and not so gently shakes his shoulder, jarring him awake. She feels a little guilt upon seeing the initially panicked look on his face as he comes to awareness once again, but damn it, she just wants to see her kid again, is that too much to ask? 

“We need to figure out a way to get back to our timeline.” she tells him, arms folded over her chest.

Five scratches the sleep from his eyes, unaware he’d even passed out in the first place, wincing as he sits up fully on the mattress. “This is our timeline.” he informs all of them, his voice coming out scratchy and thin. God, he’s exhausted. And practically everything aches. 

“What do you mean?” Klaus shakes his head. “In our timeline Ben is very much dead-not some weird emo douche who flocks with a crew of birds-so please do explain how the actual hell this makes any sense.” 

Five sighs, “We changed the linear time of events and the order in which they were supposed to originally occur when we were in the sixties and now this is, for all intents and purposes, our timeline.” 

“Screw that. We need to reestablish our actual timeline.” Allison counters. “I’m not staying in this weird alternate bullshit dimension any longer than we have to-we still have the suitcase, right? Let’s go back to the sixties and fix what we broke. Easy.” 

Five looks at her like she’s lost her mind. Which, she very well may have, he thinks briefly. “Look, I know you want to see Claire again, but you need to consider-”

“No.” Allison interrupts angrily, tears starting to fill her eyes. “You don’t understand at all. How the hell could you? You haven’t had anyone for years, but me? I’ve had people, people I care about-which might be a foreign concept to someone like you, but-” 

“Right,” Five cuts her off in turn, unwilling to linger on the sting her words have caused. “I just need time to-” 

“Time? Haven’t you had enough of that, already?” Suddenly the room is engulfed in complete and utter darkness and the Hargreeves go into high alert, trying to figure out where the hell that voice is coming from. 

Could it be one of the Sparrow Academy heroes? Could they have followed them to the outskirts of town? 

“Show yourself, you coward!” Diego shouts, knives at the ready to attack their intruder. 

A flash of thunder illuminates the room for only a split second before the lights come back on and the Hargreeves find themselves frozen in place, unable to move even a muscle, try as they might. 

Save for one: Five. 

“What the hell...” he mutters, as he watches his siblings struggle to try and move from their positions. 

“Now, Allison.” that same disturbing voice commands. 

Allisons eyes go wide as her mouth begins to move without her permission and out come the words, “I heard a rumor you killed your brothers and sisters.” 

They watch with dawning horror as Fives eyes roll to the back of his head and turn an off shade of blue before he seamlessly plucks Diegos knife from where it was embedded in the wall earlier and faces his family, where they stand, helpless. 

“Shit!” Diego curses, trying in vain to move even a single digit. 

Vanya tries to conjure her own powers but finds that she can’t for some reason. “Five...” she calls out, knowing it’s futile. 

Five blinks over to Klaus first, who yelps in surprise, he barely has time to beg Five to reconsider when Five brings the knife down-

There’s boisterous screaming and panicked yelling and general chaos and Klaus is so sure this is it, that Five has plunged the knife straight into his heart and done away with him, until he opens his eyes and realizes nothing is protruding out of him...

Instead, Five has thrust the knife into his own leg. He’s breathing hard, his trembling fingers still hovering over the hilt of the weapon. 

The disembodied voice booms, “Allison!” 

And Allison curses, but she can’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “I heard a rumor you stabbed me in the jugular.” 

Fives eyes go pale blue for a second time and without even flinching he takes the knife out of his upper thigh and blinks so that he’s facing Allison this time. 

They can all see him struggling, perspiring, fighting against the rumor as he brandishes the knife in one hand, raising it up above his head slowly. 

Allison tries to let out another rumor, a contradicting rumor, perhaps, the way she had done when Five had been in front of Klaus, but again, the words get stuck in her throat. 

Whatever being is in the room is in total control of her powers... 

Allison feels something collide with her neck but it’s not the sharp sting of a knife she’s expecting. It’s Five’s forearm against her, protecting her from his own attack as he shoves the knife directly into his flesh. He’s panting now, with the force that it’s taken him not to obey her mind control. 

“Kill them.” the voice demands angrily. 

“Fuck you.” Five bites out through clenched teeth. 

As if those were the magic words, the voice departs and the Hargreeves can feel their limbs and move about once again, the tense atmosphere dissipating. 

“Holy shit!” Klaus gasps out, “What the fuck, Jesus!” 

Five grunts as he removes the knife from his forearm and wields it threateningly. “Allison,” he practically begs, his voice strained. “Unrumor me. Now.” 

Allison is more than happy to comply, hurriedly saying, “I heard a rumor you didn’t want us dead.” 

The knife clatters as it hits the floor and Five collapses next to it a second later, exhausted and hurting something awful. 

“Shit,” Diego grabs a bunch of hand towels from the bathroom and kneels down. “We gotta stop the bleeding.” He presses two towels against the stab wound on Fives forearm and Vanya grabs the rest to press against the one on his thigh. 

Five tenses up beneath them, his face scrunching up in pain. “Fuck!” 

“I saw a first aid kit in the lobby by the front desk, I’ll go get it!” Allison calls out, already halfway out the door in her haste. 

“Should we move him to the bed?” Luther asks, hovering over his siblings, concern and anxiety eating away at him. 

Diego curses. The hand towels are drenched in blood already. They need to stop the bleeding and soon, or else. “Elevate his leg.” he orders, letting Luther help Vanya try to stem the bleeding there. “Klaus, go get more towels from one of the maids if you can.” Klaus scurries to obey while the others continue to put pressure on Fives multiple injuries. 

Klaus and Allison arrive back at the motel room almost simultaneously, one with a stack of clean towels in their arms and the other with a giant red box in hand. 

With the extra towels and the supplies from the medical kit, they’re somehow able to stop the bleeding long enough to move Five up to the bed. Luther’s extremely gentle as he transfers him from one spot to the other. 

When it’s time to stitch him up, Vanya and Klaus volunteer to do it. Five is too exhausted, both mentally and physically to pretend to be stoic about any of this. He throws his good arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the light. 

“What do you guys think that was?” Luther asks the room at large, when the silence stretches on too long. 

Klaus doesn’t look up from where he’s threading his needle on Fives thigh, replying dryly. “Yet another person place or thing that wants us dead?” 

Diego scoffs. “It’s gotta be one of those Sparrow fuckheads. Who the hell else? I bet it was that goddamn cube-I still can’t believe dad adopted a fucking cube-Christ.” 

“Whatever it was, it was in control of my powers.” Allison frowns deeply. “When I tried to unrumor Five nothing came out-even when I tried rumoring one of you into being able to move again, so that at least we would stand a fighting chance against our little serial killer over here, nothing.” 

Vanya nods, “Same here. I tried to use my powers but it was like there was some kind of a block or something? Like when I was still taking those prescription pills.” She looks at Fives pale face-what she can see of it, from underneath his forearm-and risks the question, “Five, how did you manage not to....you know...?” As someone who’s had first hand experience being unwillingly rumored by their sister, she knows it’s not something one can easily brush off. 

Quite frankly, it’s a miracle they’re all still breathing... 

“Yeah, I thought for sure we were dead.” Diego walks over and playfully ruffles the top of Fives messy hair. “Good job not making yourself an only child.” he jokes, freezing entirely when in response to his teasing Five lets out what can only be described as a faint whimper. 

“Five?” 

“I almost killed everyone.” Five struggles to get the full sentence out, his breath hitching. “Fuck.” he curses, unable to stifle a sob. It’s a pathetically sad little noise, but it brings the rest of his siblings to his side immediately. 

“Hey,” Allison kneels down beside the bed and places a careful hand on his knee. She feels him flinch underneath her. “You resisted my rumor-twice. Do you know how rare that is? You saved us.” 

Five scrubs his face with the sleeve of his white button up shirt and finally uncovers his eyes. They’re red and puffy from crying, eyelashes wet with his tears. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” he admits brokenly. “I can’t lose you guys again.” 

“Shit Five,” Diego leans down and briefly touches their foreheads together, the palm of his hand cupping Fives head. “You’re not alone, we’re right here. Not going anywhere.” 

Vanya nods determinedly. “That’s right. You’re stuck with us.” 

Luther towers over the group with a faint but genuine smile. “You know, I always figured you loved us, but I guess I didn’t realize the extent until today.” 

Five sniffles, wiping away more tears he can’t seem to stop from coming. “I would trade you all up for a decent cup of coffee.” he lies, feeling more exposed than he has in literal years. 

Klaus smirks. “Nuh uh, no take backs, Fivey. You loooooove us.” 

Five rolls his eyes but it doesn’t have quite the same effect it normally would, considering the fact that he is still very much crying. 

Allison clears her throat, squeezes his knee again, this time to get his attention, and says, “And we love you. I’d ask if you know that, but honestly I think the answer would make me too sad.” she sighs. “Five, I’m really sorry about what I said before-I was taking all my frustrations out on you and I spoke carelessly, without thinking.” 

Five shakes his head, overwhelmed. “It’s ok.” 

“It’s not.” Allison insists. “Five, I don’t know if anyone’s said this yet, but I think it’s long overdue. I’m so happy to see you again. I missed you, you know. A ton.” 

Five didn’t think he was childish enough to still need to hear such silly sentimental things. He’s not the type, he’s tried to convince himself. It’s not as though he was expecting some big tearful family reunion upon his arrival, after all. So he wasn’t crushed or anything when his return was met with little more than perhaps confused contemptment. He had things to do, apocalypses to stop and all that jazz. 

That’s what he told himself, of course. 

But it doesn’t ring very true now, not when he can’t help but let out another sob. 

He’s too old for this, he thinks, as Diego pulls him gently to his side and Allison grabs hold of his hand. 

He doesn’t need them to love him back, he thinks, as Klaus finishes taping up his wound with a tenderness only reserved for those he loves, as Vanya wraps gauze around his forearm with care. 

He’s been fine all this time, he thinks, even as Luther says, “Good to have you back, Five.” 

It’s good to be back, he thinks, turning his head so that it’s buried against Diego’s shoulder when he lets out another sob. 

.

[heliads]

Goodbye in C Minor

Luke Patterson was dating this incredible girl, Y/N, until he died along with Alex and Reggie. Now that he’s been stuck in the present day, he doesn’t know how to move on from the girl he left behind in the 90s.

masterlist

A girl leans against an open doorway. She takes in the band playing around her, the black and white Sunset Curve banners streaked with color. Her eyes flash over all members of the band in turn, but they tend to linger on the lead singer, a boy with a shock of brown hair and enough passion for an entire band of his own.

In fact, he doesn’t even notice that the girl has arrived until the song ends and he looks up, finally snapped out of his reverie. Instantly, a smile shoots across his face and he jogs over to her, unslinging his guitar strap from around his shoulders and setting the instrument down on a nearby stand. He picks her up and twirls her around in the air. The girl laughs, and her eyes meet his again once her feet touch back down on the ground.

One of the boys from the band shouts something to her from across the studio, his voice hopeful. “Did you bring us lunch?” The girl turns to face them, attention finally diverted from her boyfriend. She holds up a plastic bag full of boxed containers. “I did! Takeout, hope you don’t mind. And yes, Bobby, some are vegetarian.” A light-haired boy, Alex, does a silent fist pump. “You’re the best, Y/N. Honestly.” 

Y/N hands the bag of food over to the hungry bandmates, and all except one hurriedly dig in. Luke stays, interlacing his fingers with Y/N’s. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Y/N waves his concern away. “I absolutely did. You’ve gotten me into the Orpheum for your upcoming show, the least I can do is make sure you’re all properly fed. If I can’t help with music, I can at least help with this.”

Luke grins. “Trust me, I think the food is the best thing ever. By the way, Reggie wants me to tell you that we’ll invite you to every show on the planet if it means he keeps getting free lunch. Although technically you don’t have to worry about that- I want you by my side every step of the way, lunch or no lunch.” Y/N laughs. “That’s one of the most romantic things I’ve heard all week. Maybe you should put that into a new song. ‘I’ll love you even if you don’t bring me takeout.’”

Luke pouts, and Y/N giggles at his mock sadness. “I’m kidding. Mostly.” Luke leans forward to kiss Y/N. “You had better be.” From across the room, Alex yells something at them. “If you guys keep making out in the middle of practice we’re going to ban you from the studio.” Y/N waves her hand at him. “I brought you food, you can’t ban me! I’m too important to the future of the band.” Reggie shrugs. “She’s right, you know. We might starve.” Alex swats him on the shoulder, and Y/N turns back to Luke with a slight smile.

“I can’t believe you’re playing at the Orpheum in a week. That’s so exciting!” Luke nods fervently. “Sometimes it doesn’t even feel real. Like I’ll wake up and find out we were actually booked to some other place, not the actual Orpheum.” Y/N smiles at him. “You’re going to do great, and that’s final. I can’t wait to see you guys perform.” Luke absentmindedly runs his fingers over Y/N’s knuckles, tapping out the beats of half-written songs. “I know we’ll do great. I’ve got my muse. All of my songs are about you, you know that.” Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Even ‘My Name is Luke?’” Luke groans. “Okay, maybe not that one. Almost all of my songs are about you. How about that?” Y/N beams at her boyfriend. “That sounds perfect.”

Luke jolts back to reality. He’s still standing in that same studio, but he’s back to the present day. He’s not in the 90s anymore, and it’s been decades since he was writing songs with Sunset Curve, preparing to take on the Orpheum for the first time. He’s standing in the exact same place as that one memory, when he’d been talking to her. They’d both been so happy, so exhilarated at the prospect of Sunset Curve’s Orpheum performance. Neither of them had known that Luke, Alex, and Reggie would die that night, permanently taking Luke away from everything he knew best. Away from her.

There’s a slight motion next to him, and Luke freezes before remembering that he’s not alone in the studio. Alex has just walked up beside him, although his friend’s gaze softens when he sees the troubled look on Luke’s face. “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you? You’re thinking about Y/N.” Luke sighs. “Yeah. I just- I can’t believe that all this time had passed. She isn’t here with us, and she didn’t eat those street dogs, so she must not have died. That means she grew up and she’s probably older now. I don’t know what to think about that.”

Alex nods slowly, placing his hand on Luke’s shoulder in a show of comfort. “We left so much behind that it’s hard to think about. If you ever want anyone to talk to, you know we’re all here. Julie too, although that might be more of a difficult conversation.” Luke blows out a slow breath. “That’s the problem. Things are going so well with Julie and the new band and everything that I feel like I should be happier, and I am, and then-” His voice trails off. Alex finishes the sentence for him. “And then you remember what life used to be like.”

Luke walks over to a photo tacked onto the wall. Julie had found some old snapshots of Sunset Curve and set them out in the studio. They were nice to see, but sometimes they tended to hurt instead of inspiring fond memories. One in particular catches his eye- the band and a couple of friends, mere hours before the Sunset Curve show at the Orpheum. It’s a faded Polaroid, showing a group of beaming teenagers pointing up at the Orpheum’s sign glowing in neon lights above them. Look what we’re about to do, they seem to say, look what we never got to finish.

Luke’s eye strays on the far right corner. He’s standing there, arm wrapped around a girl. Y/N. They’re both smiling, although in this shot neither of them are looking at the camera. Instead, they’re both turned towards each other, as if delighted by the simple fact that both of them are together. Luke remembers the details of that night in perfect clarity. They’d all arrived at the Orpheum and taken the photo, and then the boys had headed back to begin their sound checks. Y/N had watched them perform, making friends with a girl who worked at the venue. Rose, who Luke now knows is Julie’s mother.

Y/N always had this easy way of making friends. One smile, a few words, and it was like she’d known a stranger all their life. She and Rose had both cheered when Sunset Curve had finished their warmups, and then looked down at her watch in surprise. She’d said something about how she had to run and do some final checks with the venue staff, and she’d be right back. Y/N had kissed Luke quickly before dashing out the door with a promise that she’d be back in a second. Luke, Alex, and Reggie had disappeared down the block to get some street dogs. By the time Y/N had gotten back, papers and signatures held triumphantly in her hand, it was too late.

Luke doesn’t know what happened after that. He’s not positive that Y/N was there when he died, maybe arriving a few minutes after the fact. He’s not sure if that makes it better or not- although she’d be furious with herself for not being there to save him, Luke knows there was nothing she could have done. Would it have hurt more to be next to him, unable to do anything but watch as he breathed his last, or to have missed the entire thing? He supposes Y/N has had years to think the issue over.

Luke turns away from the photograph. His legs are itching to take him away, his heart racing to find something to do. The band doesn’t have practice today, so there’s nothing to distract him from the awful loneliness beating against his chest. He has to do something to get away from all of this, from the memories and the photographs and the knowledge that he had left the girl he loved behind and there was nothing to do to get her back. Luke mumbles something to Alex about how he’s going to take a walk, then poofs out of the studio, no clear destination in mind.

Luke reappears in the middle of a path. At first, he’s not quite sure where he is. There’s a line of pavement under his feet, leading away in front of him. Spring green boughs wave overhead, framing the way before him. The trees eventually clear out to form a clearing, and only then does Luke realize where he is. It’s the local cemetery, the place where all of Luke’s family have been buried. The place where surely he, too, lies at rest. His head must have some twisted sense of humor to bring him here.

Luke wavers one last moment, then decides to take off down the path. He’s never actually visited his own grave, as it seemed too morbid an activity to actually set out and do, but if he’s already here he might as well see it. There’s some sort of curiosity affixed to seeing your own headstone, weird as that may be, and at least now he can glance at it once and forget about it.

Luke passes between the long lines of gravestones, reading through the names. It’s late afternoon, and there’s almost nobody here at all. At least, there isn’t anybody here except one woman, who’s crouching before a headstone in the middle of the cemetery. On second thought, she appears to be around the place where Luke’s family is buried. As he walks over, he realizes that this woman is actually next to his grave. 

She’s speaking quietly. “Nothing much happened today, but it’s a Saturday, so I had to drop by anyway.” Her head drops. “You’ve been gone for 25 years. Can you believe that? 25. I miss you still.” A bittersweet smile cracks her lips, and Luke’s heart twists at the pain in her voice. “I have children now. They’re just beginning to enter double digits. At some point, they’ll be older than you. I wish you could have met them, Luke. I think you’d like them a lot.”

Luke’s head flies up when she says his name. The way she said it sounded so familiar, like he’s heard this woman before. Like he knows her, and knows her very well. The woman freezes slightly- she must have seen his small motion out of the corner of her eye. But that doesn’t make sense, because lifers aren’t supposed to see ghosts like Luke. Yet the woman still stands, lightly brushing dirt off of her legs. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your way. Didn’t see you there.”

The woman turns to face Luke, and her eyes widen. She stands for a moment, staring, and then her voice comes again, faltering and weak. “Luke?” She looks away from him, studying her own hands as if expecting them to be ghostly and translucent. “But you’re dead. How can you be here- Am I dead?” Luke shakes his head. “No, you’re not dead. I mean, I am, but I’m a, uh, ghost. You’re not a ghost. At least I don’t think so.” Luke’s voice trails off when the woman looks at him again. When she’s finally turned towards him, her face seems so familiar. It takes him a moment, and then he realizes who she is. “Y/N.”

It has to be her. There’s no way around it. Indeed, the second her name passes through his lips he knows it’s true. The Y/N standing before him is far older now, maybe in her late thirties or early forties. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? They were teenagers when he died, and if it’s been 25 years since then, she would have to be older. A slight lump forms in Luke’s throat. What would it have been like if he hadn’t died? Would he have been like this too? Would they have grown old together?

Y/N rubs a hand over her face as if in shock. “This makes no sense. I mean, you sound just like yourself and everything but-” Luke laughs quietly. “But ghosts aren’t real.” Y/N gestures loosely with her hand. “Exactly.” Her eyes flicker over him again, taking in every detail of his face as if committing it to memory. This small action itself is so strange to see- Luke remembers Y/N doing this at shows and practices, and it doesn’t feel right to see this similarity in a version of Y/N that is so much older, especially when Luke himself is still a teenager.

Luke’s voice is quiet. “Do you always visit my grave?” Y/N nods. “Every other Saturday. I think your mom and dad come all the time too. I try to give them some space.” She looks back at him, as if she can understand what he’s thinking. “We haven’t moved on so easily. There was a time right after you died when I thought we never would. I didn’t see how the earth could keep turning without my boys. And then the years kept passing by, and although the pain never got any easier we learned how to be happy too, how to keep the grief but remember you with brighter memories instead.”

She smiles, although her eyes are tinged with pain. “I’m married now.” She holds up her hand, and Luke’s gaze is drawn to the ring on her finger. “I think you’d like him a lot. We have two children, a boy and a girl. They know your parents well, we get together all the time. They supported me when I was in over my head, they pulled me out of a well when I was drowning in grief. I check in on them, and they check in on me. We were trying to do right by you.”

Luke feels like his legs are about to collapse underneath him. To see Y/N like this, so much older and calmer, feels like an earthquake tearing him apart. He doesn’t know why, but some part of him had almost assumed that she wouldn’t grow old either, that if he looked hard enough he could find her and they could be the same again. He knows now that he was wrong, although the sight of Y/N is still so reflexively exhilarating that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Luke forces himself to speak. “Are you- are you happy? Now, with your family?” Y/N nods, a radiant smile breaking out across her face. “I’m incredibly happy. Things are good now, and they’re going to keep being good for a very long time.” She looks at him, seeing the questions he’s too afraid to ask. “I’m sorry that things happened the way they did. I would have liked nothing more than to see you shine on that stage and have your star career the way that we always planned. I have a feeling that you’ve got a new chance now, a way to move on. I’d take it. You’ve always been able to stay on your feet and keep running forward. Don’t let that go.”

Luke nods. “Thank you, Y/N.” They exchange their goodbyes and then Luke disappears back into the trees. After a moment or two of walking, he poofs back into the studio. Luke walks on leaden limbs towards his songwriting notebook, flinging it open and reaching for a pencil. He turns to one page in particular, a song he’d begun writing for Y/N a few days before their performance at the Orpheum. He changes some lines, adds new chords, transposes the song from a major to a minor key. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but when he looks up at last, the song is finished.

The title sits at the top, a blurry gray after recent erasings. ‘Goodbye in C Minor.’ The beautiful start to a love he never got to see through.

[sylvies-chen]

Can you do 64 or 67 for brettsey please?

Prompt 64 can be found here!!

67. “If you don’t want to talk about it then say so. Don’t lie and pretend to be fine when you clearly aren’t.”

Matt should have seen this coming.

His mom's not exactly young. He doesn't know where she's been or how she's been doing these past few years, frankly. He's had no record of whether she's been staying healthy-- through no fault of his own, seeing as how his mom's always been less than reliable since getting out of prison. Hell, even before getting arrested she'd been letting him and Christie down in smaller ways.

So when he gets the call that Nancy Casey has passed away from a heart attack at the ripe age of 68, he thinks it's just one more way in which his mother has let him down; one more member of the Casey family carrying their overwhelming amount of secrets to the grave.

He should feel sad, he knows that, but all he feels is numbness and a slight annoyance at having to deal with the funeral and all her belongings.

Her belongings aren't actually all that numerous, he realizes soon enough, which he assumes is a perk of being so flakey. All he gets is a box of things. He doesn't know what things, exactly. He'd gone to her place, shoved everything he could find into a cardboard box without paying attention to any of it, and left before he had the change to boil over with rage at all the things she'd kept from him and Christie-- the apartment included.

He should book time off or something. Or maybe visit her grave. He hasn't been there since the funeral a week ago (at which he, Sylvie, and Christie had pretty much been the sole attendants), maybe it'd do him some good in theory. But right now, every normal way of grieving flies out the door for him. He feels himself reverting back to the Casey family tradition: internalizing your feelings and keeping them secret until the day you die. Literally. It's not fun, not pleasant, and certainly not healthy. But in some weird way, it feels like his own way of honouring his mother, so he doesn't fight it. He should, but he doesn't.

Until Sylvie notices, and manages to tear down his walls in one fowl, beautifully agonizing swoop.

She picks up on it pretty quickly. He drifts off a lot during shift, he looks even more serious than usual, and he refuses to talk about it all that much whenever she asks how he's feeling-- which isn't for lack of trying, but how the hell can he put every complex little emotion he's feeling into words? Doing that will take time.

She's over to the loft one night, petting gently at his hair with her legs sprawled across his lap as they mindlessly watch TV, when she notices the box of his mom's things collecting dust by the by the basketball machine. Stella and Severide are out and Sylvie knows he's not paying attention to what's on anyway, so she turns the TV off. It manages to get his attention and he looks to her, confused.

Her attention isn't on him though, only on the box. Its flaps are taped shut at the top, his mom's name in black sharpie fading slowly. "You still haven't opened the box of your mom’s stuff?"

"No," he admits.

“Matt…” she sighs, taking her legs off his lap to sit upright on the couch. “You’ve been retreating into yourself ever since your mom passed away. Please don’t shut me out. I’m here, you know that, right?”

“I do. But Sylvie, I’m fine,” he insists. “My mom knew exactly what she wanted in life once she got out of prison and I wasn’t exaclty a part of that. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her, I probably don’t know half of what’s in that box anyway. She hid her new life from me and Christie. She’s just next in a long line of people in my family who’ve taken their secrets to the grave, that’s all.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it then say so. Don’t lie and pretend to be fine when you clearly aren’t.”

Her tone is sympathetic but has a slight edge to it. She wants him to open up, he knows that. That’s, along with the surprising frustration in her eye, is enough to make Matt want to. So he tries.

“I want to,” he assures her. “But there’s nothing to say. She was gone before, and she’s gone now. It’s just more permanent now.”

“But don’t you think opening that box will give you some— I don’t know… closure?”

“I know it probably will, but I've been busy with contracting work and the firehouse has been busy and... I don't know, it just slipped my mind."

She gives him a look as if to say she doesn't buy it for a second, only it turns quickly into a look of sympathy. Because it always does. Sylvie, through thick and thin, good and bad, just always understands him. That goes both ways, which makes it even better, but it also means he knows exactly what she's thinking right now.

"What's keeping you from doing it now then?"

"Now?" His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his arm stretching out against the back edge of the couch and rubbing at her far shoulder. "Well for one, I'm having a relaxing night with you, and I'd rather not ruin that with memories of my less than reliable mother. And second, I just... I'm...."

Matt finds himself choking on his words, unable to admit to himself the one word he's looking for. He doesn’t know where this sudden seriousness comes from, this abrupt inability to keep things in. It’s like an old habit, and normally those die hard. Except Sylvie’s lifting a gentle hand to caress his face, is giving him that warm and comforting look, and he knows exactly why it’s hard.

It’s hard because it’s her. It’s Sylvie, and trying to internalize things around her at this point is pointless— even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to. He’s stripped of all his walls when he’s around her and honestly, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Scared?” She finishes his sentence for him, giving him an expectant look.

He nods, because yes. Matt Casey, a firefighter who’s faced blazing fires and near-death experiences, is scared of opening a tiny little box. It takes a lot for him to admit that but he’s with her, which makes it ten times easier. “Yeah,” he confirms. “I know it sounds silly, but I can’t bring myself to look at all the things from her life that she left me and Christie out of. I’m scared I’ll look in there and realize just how much of a stranger she was to me— and of how much I miss her anyway.”

Sylvie exhales quietly, eyeing him achingly for a moment while she gnaws at her lip the way she only does when she’s thinking hard. Then, she gives his knee a comforting squeeze before standing up. He shifts on the couch, elbows moving to his knees as he scrunches his brow in a pensive and painful train of thought of his own. He thinks Sylvie is just getting a glass of water or a tissue or something else, honestly. But when he looks up from his brooding, he sees her over by the basketball machine, picking up the box and bringing it over.

“Here,” she says, placing it on the table in front of them and sitting back down in her spot next to him. Their legs press together, leaving no space between them on the couch.

“No,” he shakes his head as he responds. “No, I can’t do it.”

“You can,” Sylvie assures him. “We can do it. Together. You don’t have to go through any of this alone, Matt. So if you have to sit here for a minute before opening it, or ten minutes, or an hour even, then you can do that. I’ll be here the entire time.”

Her eyes twinkle kindly at him and Matt swears, in that moment, that he’s the luckiest man alive. Something about everything she just told him strikes him harder than usual, acting as a sharp and wonderful reminder that they’re meant for each other.

“I am so in love with you,” he utters softly.

Sylvie lets out a quiet giggle, moving to hold his hand and lace their fingers together. “I love you too.”

She presses a tender kiss to his cheek as he sucks in a sharp breath, his attention now turning to the box in front of them. The box looks back at him, almost as if challenging him. Only now, miraculously, it seems more manageable to him. It’s still scary, still carries a lot of emotional weight for Matt. But he feels Sylvie’s hand in his and it gives him the strength to do this.

He lets go of Sylvie’s hand for a moment to tear the flaps of the box open. His hand finds hers again as soon as its done, relying on her for more strength as he moves to peer inside the box.

His heart stops.

With his spare hand, he pulls out the first thing in the box, at the very top— the very thing that made his heart stop. Nothing else in the box matters now, he thinks. Because sitting there, in the palm of his hand, is a picture of him, Christie, and his mom. Nancy Casey sits in the center of the picture, with Matt and Christie at her sides. He remembers the day well; it was his fourteenth birthday, after all. There’s a cake in front of them in the picture to prove it. Matt doesn’t ever remember looking and feeling so young. Admittedly, he doesn’t remember being that happy around his family either. Normally, birthdays were sort of a mess for him, a constant struggle of battling with his father over how they should celebrate it that alwaus left Matt grumpy and hurt. But in the picture, his mom’s hand is tickling his side, as well as Christie’s, and the moment captures the exact moment that he and Christie reflexively lean into her chest from the laughter. His mom’s smile is bright and wide— something he rarely saw around his household.

They were happy once. They were a family, no matter how messed up everything got between them. Maybe Nancy Casey wasn’t such a stranger to him after all. That fact alone sends those million complicated little emotions swirling around in his chest.

Only this time, he doesn’t bury them. This time, they all come pouring out at once and the dam breaks. He doesn’t know when the tears started, but they flow now with a painful ease.

Sylvie lets go of his hand and pulls him in, holding onto him tight and close as his head rests on her chest. He feels tears of her own drip on the back of his head as she strokes his hair gently. He so rarely cries like this and yet now that he’s started— now that he has someone like Sylvie who lets him be vulnerable— he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop.

Only she tightens his grip on him, whispers soothing hushes and gentle reassurances that everything will be okay, and he knows that he’ll stop soon enough.

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Eleven

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: first chapter after acosf!! im sorry for how short this one is, but acosf wrecked me and writing this put me back together. i hope it does something similar for you ❤️

***

“You say you’ve been doing better lately?”

The therapist’s office is plain, a little gloomy, but big windows overlook the center of town that make Nesta feel less suffocated.

She nods, “Yeah.”

“How would you describe ‘better’?” Dr. Bond— Lana, she insists on being called— has been endlessly patient with Nesta’s non-answers so far. Nesta almost feels bad and decides to throw the woman a rope.

“I’m not alone anymore,” she says. “I used to be alone all the time, but now I have friends, sort of… and a boyfriend.” She still loves that word. It’s never tasted so exciting before.

“You were always alone before this, then? Or were there just people that you didn’t consider noteworthy?”

A scowl rises to Nesta’s mouth. Damn, she works quick. “I was raised with two sisters in a one-bedroom apartment. I never got to be alone, but then I grew up, and…” Her mind wants to skip over the time she spent in college. “For the last couple of years, I holed up in my own place. Never wanted to talk to anybody or see them. If people took an interest in me, I shut them down because I didn’t have an interest in them.”

“You missed a few years,” Lana notes.

“What?”

“You’re twenty-four, and you moved out at eighteen. Where were you before getting your own place?”

Numbness seeps through Nesta at the question. She knows she can ask Lana to change the topic, but that will only bring it back later. “I had a boyfriend in college,” she says flatly. “I lived with him for a few years, but like you said, it isn’t noteworthy.”

“As a fellow lone wolf, I disagree.” Lana’s clinical polite face is unchanging. “Any person who you trust enough to let into your life is noteworthy.”

Nesta says nothing.

“I’m interested in these people you’ve chosen to trust,” her therapist continues after a beat of silence. “Why don’t we start with whoever you trust most?”

Nesta snorts. This she can talk about.

“His name is Cassian. I’ve been living with him ever since my apartment got flooded a couple of months ago, and he’s always been a good friend to me.” She sits there, thinking about what else to say. “I think I like him more than I’ve ever liked anybody.”

“This is the new boyfriend?”

Nesta nods.

“Do you compare him to the old one?”

Nesta doesn’t know what this lady’s angle is, but she answers carefully, “I used to. Back when I first moved in. I haven’t done it in a long time, though.”

“Why not?”

The answer is simple. “There’s no need to. He’s not comparable to anybody.”

“Is that why you opened up to him after two years of self-imposed isolation?”

Nesta looks away. “It wasn’t isolation,” she defends. “It’s just… after a lifetime of being subjected to the gaze of strangers, I wanted to hide. I liked hiding.” Mostly.

“What does that mean, the gaze of strangers?”

Question after cool question, this one. Nesta struggles to find a proper answer.

“You know how,” she starts slowly, “as soon as you start school, you’re placed into this bubble with a bunch of people who don’t know you and have no reason to care about you? There’s a shift in how you view people, and how people view you. And I thought I could leave it behind once I graduated high school, but it followed me to college and to parties and into everyday interactions.”

“What is it?”

“It’s this—” Nesta waves her hands, “judgment. It’s that thing you do as soon as you meet someone, and you try to determine whether they’re worth your time or not. Whether they’re above or below you in this made-up social hierarchy in your head.”

“Explain that more,” Lana says.

“We want to hang around people we find cool. And when we meet someone new, we inspect them, look them up and down, to see if they fit our definition of cool. We take them apart. Everyone does it, even you. And with me,” she shrugs, “I’m pretty, I wear the right clothes, I do my makeup. So at first glance, people think, ‘Oh, I can see myself getting to know her better. I can see myself liking her.’ But then they take a closer look at me, and it’s like…” Her fingers flutter in the air, trying to support her thoughts. “I can see their minds changing. ‘Nevermind, I was wrong. Nevermind, there’s something off with her. She’s a little quiet, a little weird, a little bitchy.’”

Lana narrows her eyes. “And Cassian doesn’t look at you like that?”

Nesta looks away. “He doesn’t look at anyone like that.”

It’s what used to make her so uncomfortable about him. She was incapable of fathoming his honesty, his genuineness, his kindness. She thought he was even weirder than her for it— she placed him beneath her on her social hierarchy for it.

Lana frowns thoughtfully. “And now you two live together?”

Nesta nods, then shrugs. “For the next twenty-four hours, we do. He’s helping me move back into my old place.”

Because that was another conversation she and Cassian had on Thanksgiving night. It was a long time coming, but also the perfect time.

“You’re saying your apartment has been ready for weeks? Why are you just telling me now?”

Nesta pillowed her face on his chest, not as upset at revealing the news as she would have been some days ago. “Because I was scared that if I moved out, I would lose my friendship with you.”

“That never would have happened—”

“We wouldn’t see each other every day anymore. Even if we didn’t go back to being complete strangers, the closeness would be lost.”

“You must not know me, then. I would’ve texted you every fucking hour. You’d never hear the end of me.”

“I couldn’t guarantee that back then.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “I can now.” She crawled higher up his body, lowering her voice to a secretive pitch. “Want to know why?”

“Why?” he whispered.

“Because you’re mine now. And that’s what I was waiting for while I made Lorene hold that shitty empty apartment for me. I was waiting for a catalyst, a revelation.” She pressed a kiss to his sternum. “And I most definitely got it.” The pleasant ache between her legs was proof enough. “Also,” she added, “it would be weird if you lived with your girlfriend before even having a first date with her.”

Cassian huffed a laugh. “You have a point there. We have been moving backwards, haven’t we?”

Nesta nodded into his skin.

He got a little quiet. “Still,” he said after a moment. “I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll see me every day. I’ll be fifteen minutes away.”

“I’ll still miss you.”

“I know.”

“What does talking about guys have to do with my therapy?” Nesta squirms, getting restless with the topic.

“Lots of things,” Lana says, putting down her notepad. “It gets you comfortable with expressing your feelings to me, and it teaches me about how you view the world. Besides, therapy isn’t just a rehashing of past traumas, you know. We can talk about whatever you want here, especially if it makes you feel good.”

“Well, I want to talk about something else.” She’s not spending this much money by the hour just to talk about how much she likes Cassian— she can go to Cassian for that for free.

“Like what?” Lana asks smoothly.

She’s offering an opening, finally, to the real reason that Nesta’s here.

Nesta pulls at the sleeves of her sweatshirt, wondering where to start. “I feel like I’ve been growing up lately,” she says carefully. “I have all these new people in my life to be responsible for, and I’m— I want to do it right. But I’m worried I won’t have room for new things until I pack up some of my old shit, so that’s why I’m here, I guess. I don’t want to hold on to all of my old shit anymore.”

At Lana’s encouraging silence, she continues, “I spent my whole life stuck in a suffocating town, and as soon as I left, I got stuck in a relationship. By the time I knew what freedom felt like, I— I’d been left behind. Everyone I knew was moving onto bigger things and all I had was this shitbag of a past. So I got a new place and started law school and called it a fresh start, but now I’m here and I’m not sure if I ever got better.”

She takes a sharp breath after everything that’s spilled.

Lana purses her lips, letting the room absorb Nesta’s words. After a long moment, she says, “Just because bad things stop happening to someone, doesn’t mean they instantly get better. It’s a good thing that you’re recognizing that before stepping into new relationships, Nesta.”

Lana glances at the clock on the wall. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today, but this was a productive first session.” She offers a small smile. “Same time next week?” She says it as if it isn’t already a done deal.

Nesta nods gratefully anyway, unable to say anything else. As soon as she’s out the door, a pent-up sigh escapes her. That wasn’t so bad.

***

Later that night, Nesta doesn’t miss Cassian’s wistful stare as he takes down the painting he got her from the fall festival. Nor does she miss how slowly he packs it away.

Once the bedroom she made her home is as sparse as the day she moved in, all her things packed away neatly in boxes, Nesta wraps her arms around Cassian and pulls him to the bed. There, she lets him hold her close, their breaths and limbs intertwining as they lie in thoughtful silence.

“I can’t believe I’ll never see this room again,” Nesta says quietly.

Cassian’s eyes widen in alarm. “What do you mean, never again?”

“I’ll be staying in your room whenever I visit, remember?” Her underwear already occupies a drawer in his closet.

Cassian visibly relaxes when he remembers, then smiles. “Right. Of course.”

She lets herself sink deeper into his embrace. “I just realized you’ve never seen my apartment before.” He was waiting at the front door of Lorene’s place while Nesta collected her things all those weeks ago, but she cringes at the thought of him visiting now. The clear wealth gap between her and Cassian doesn’t usually show, but it’ll be undeniable with the cramped room she calls an apartment. “Maybe it’s best if I move back in without your help. There might not even be space there for your huge body.”

“Sounds more appealing by the minute.” He’s not joking. He tilts up Nesta’s chin so she’s forced to meet his eyes. “I can’t wait to start partaking in your life the way you took over mine. Spending nights at your place, meeting your friends, riding in your car instead of mine.”

Nesta swallows.

“I’m gonna miss you like hell, but it’ll be for the best.”

He’s right: this is what’s best for their budding relationship right now. Moving out, creating even a little bit of distance— all of it is so they can finally learn each other as lovers instead of roommates. So when they do come back together, which Nesta firmly believes they will, it’ll be stronger than ever before.

Some of their shared sadness flits away at the truth of it. She only places her hand on his cheek, content to appreciate this view— this beautiful, hazel-shaded view— without further chitchat or goodbyes.

Cassian is not as fond of the silence. “I need to tell you something,” he says seriously after a few minutes.

After only a handful of days dating Cassian, Nesta knows what he’s going to say. “Don’t,” she warns, unamused.

He grins conspiratorially and leans in even closer, until their mouths are almost brushing. “You’re my everything, Nesta.”

“Oh my god, stop it.” She squirms out of his hold and gets up, tossing the blankets off herself.

“No, come back!” He makes a grab for her sleeve. “We have to use the bed one last time—”

But she’s already running off.

***

Cassian carefully arranges the canvas painting on the wall, taking a step back to determine if it’s hanging straight. The ruby and amber leaves of the landscape stand out against the dull teal walls of Nesta’s basement apartment, but he’s just getting started.

The rest of Nesta’s things are half-unpacked from their cardboard boxes, but instead of going for the important shit first, he finds the box he specifically marked FAVES in bold letters the night before.

While Nesta wrangles to get her clothes back into her old closet in the background, Cassian crouches and rips open the small box. There, lying atop his girlfriend’s favorite trinkets and personal items, is the framed photo he snuck in without her noticing.

It’s of the two of them at the fall festival, taken mere hours before their first kiss. Nesta is pressed up close to Cassian (her excuse being that it was cold), and a genuine light fills her eyes, one that Cassian never thought he’d be able to capture on camera. Cassian himself isn’t looking at the camera, but down at Nesta with wind-flushed cheeks and a distant smile. Making sure she’s having a good time, that she truly wants to be there with him in that moment.

He never realized how close they looked in that picture until he had it printed and framed, not long after Nesta announced she was moving out. He can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner.

Standing up, he places the photo on Nesta’s wooden dresser. Nesta still has her head in the closet, moving things around, but Cassian makes no announcement of his gift to her. She’ll notice it sooner or later.

He clears his throat. “Wanna take a break and order Chinese?”

Nesta pops her head out of the closet, her ponytail ruffled and eyes narrowed at him. “Have you even been helping this whole time?”

“Standing here and looking pretty is harder than it seems, but I don’t expect any credit from you,” he jokes. “Just let me buy you lunch.”

Nesta grumbles something he chooses not to hear, but straightens up and rubs her spine with a wince. “I need a fucking chiropractor,” she mutters.

Guilt shoots through Cassian at that small wince, and he resolves to finish organizing Nesta’s closet for her before the day is over. Nesta goes on, “So? Still determined to split your time between here and the cabin?” She gestures to the apartment with an arm.

It’s really just a glorified single room, with a rusty kitchenette in the corner, a hallway near the stairs that holds the bathroom, and Nesta’s bed pushed against one wall. It’s nothing special, but Cassian loves it. Mostly because he can already envision each new nook and cranny to take Nesta against, and how he wants to wake up in that too-small bed on days that he’s too lazy to drive home.

“It’s perfect,” he says simply. Thank you for sharing your home with me, is what he really means. Speaking of homes—

Cassian digs around in his pocket, finding and pulling out a newly-minted silver key. “I almost forgot to give you this.”

Nesta frowns, coming forward to take the key from him. He uses the closeness as an excuse to wrap his arms around her waist while she inspects the object.

She glances up at him, eyes softer than they were a moment ago, lips slightly parted. “You’re giving me a key to the cabin?”

He shrugs casually. “You should’ve gotten one a long time ago.” She used either Cassian’s key or the spare while she lived there.

Her mouth is still open, and she closes it once, twice, before finally saying, “I don’t have a key to my place for you.”

“But I can get one,” she adds quickly. “If you want it, that is.”

Of course he wants it, but he keeps his face carefully neutral. “Only if you want me to have one. We’re still new, and this is your personal space.” He emphasizes your.

Nesta purses her lips, then says, “I’ll think about it.”

Cassian’s shoulders slump in relief— relief that Nesta is being honest with him instead of doing something she isn’t yet ready for. He’ll take her honesty over an apartment key any day.

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he smiles brightly and shoves her toward the bed. “If we’re getting dumplings again then you can’t steal mine.”

***

a/n: fair warning that ive never been to therapy, but in stories therapists are usually a mode for character exploration and development, which is what nesta's therapy will be for.

also im so glad i got to meet gwyn in acosf and im so excited to introduce her into this fic too!! if you have ideas for her origin story feel free to share because nothing is planned yet

taglist: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @swankii-art-teacher

[cali-holland]

Nightmares- Tom Holland One Shot

Pairing: Tom Holland X Reader

Prompt: After watching The Devil All the Time with Tom and the boys, you have a nightmare and Tom comforts you.

Word Count: 1300

Warnings: The Devil All the Time spoilers (nothing explicitly graphic though); swearing; lots of talk about Tom’s ass in those jeans; slight discussion of abuse

A/N: This is a part of @hollandsrecs ‘s 1k fic bingo for the trope “Slice of Life”... Also, at the time I wrote this, I had not seen the film.

Masterlist   Tom Holland Masterlist

*Gif is not mine*

~~~

“Popcorn’s ready.” Tom announced, coming into the living room with a few bowls of the favored snack food, handing them out to Tuwaine, Harrison, Harry, and Sam who were all scattered about the couches, before he sat down on the loveseat with you. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, and you snuggled into his side, stealing a couple pieces of popcorn from the bowl. 

“And now to watch you run around and kill people for two and a half hours.” Harrison laughed as he picked up the remote to start the movie.

“That’s not all I do.” He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, you smoke cigarettes too. Can’t forget that.” Harry teased. “It’s like Peter Parker joined the dark side.”

Tom grabbed a few pieces of popcorn, throwing them across the room at his brother, who opened his mouth and managed to catch one of the pieces. Calling his attention away from Harry, you pressed a kiss to Tom’s cheek as the movie began.

“I can’t wait to see your ass in those jeans.” You whispered to him playfully, making him chuckle.

“Darling, you see that ass in jeans all the time.” He joked, and you turned away from him to face the movie.

“Maybe I just can’t get enough of it.” You teased. You didn’t even have to look at him to know he was smirking proudly.

When you had agreed to watch Tom’s newest film, The Devil All the Time, with him and the rest of the boys, you thought it was a good idea. You had even been on set with Tom for a majority of the film, so you thought you had a good understanding of the violence in the film. Key word: thought.

It was a cinematically beautiful film, no doubt, and, of course, you loved your boyfriend’s performance in it, but some scenes were intense. While you felt comforted in Tom’s warm embrace, there was still an uneasy pit in your stomach as the movie played on.

“So, thoughts?” Tom asked, almost nervously while the credits rolled.

“Very badass.” Harrison acknowledged.

“Still can’t believe you killed Edward Cullen.” Tuwaine commented, and Harry nodded his head in agreement.

“And Bucky.” Sam added. Tom rolled his eyes at them and turned to look at you in his arms.

“I always knew you were secretly team Jacob.” Harrison teased.

“What’d you think of it?” While Tom genuinely cared what the others thought of his movie, your opinion mattered the most to him.

“It was great.” You reassured him, biting back your discomfort, “Your accent was pretty hot in it, too.”

“Why, thank you, darling.” Tom said, switching into his southern accent with ease and making you roll your eyes at his cheesiness.

The film talk continued for another hour with the boys argued over characters and themes and accents, just everything. Meanwhile, you sat there, cuddled up to Tom, as your mind silently played over a few select scenes, unable to get the unspeakable images out of your head. You reasoned that it was all fake; hell, you’d even seen most of those scenes be filmed.

That night, your mind kept returning to the film, replaying the scenes over and over in an even more dramatic and gruesome way. You weren’t sure how long you laid there, trying to focus on Tom’s soft snores and steady breaths to calm your mind, but, when sleep finally overcame you, it did little to help your mental battle.

Tom woke up with a start when he heard you let out a yelp. He was about to jump into action and (very blearily) fight off whoever was harming you, but he softened as he realized you were asleep right beside him. Not only was your yelp alerting, but you were also clutching onto the pillow for your dear life, not peacefully cuddled up to Tom. As he looked at your face, twisted up in distress, he felt his heart sting with worry.

“It’s not real, it’s not real.” You kept mumbling to yourself over and over in despair.

“Y/N, baby, wake up.” Tom started to shake your shoulder gently, trying to pull you from your nightmare. After a moment, your eyes fluttered open. As soon as you registered that you were awake and that Tom was in front of you, you let go of the pillow and hugged him tightly. Rubbing your back soothingly as you cried into his bare chest, Tom comforted you, “It was just a nightmare. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He kept repeating his words until he felt you begin to breathe steadily again. Feeling the slightest bit calmer, you pulled away from him and slid out of the bed. Tom watched as you maneuvered around the dark room, the only light coming from the alarm clock on his bedside table. You went straight for the box of tissues to wipe your eyes. Leaning over to turn on the table lamp that sat upon the nightstand beside him, he asked, “Do you want to talk about?”

“Not really.” You answered quietly as you climbed back into the bed. “I’m fine, just go back to bed.”

Refusing to believe your words, Tom softly took your hands in his, his thumbs grazing over your skin mindlessly. 

He didn’t particularly want to ask his next question, but he was far too concerned about you to care, “Was it the movie? Was it me?”

“It wasn’t you.” You reassured him, but when you saw the worried frown still etched on his lips, you let go of his hands and shuffled into his lap, wrapping your legs around his waist. His hands rested on your hips, pulling you closer to him. “Tom, I promise I didn’t have a nightmare about Arvin murdering me.”

“Why’d you put that thought in my head?” He asked in disbelief and you laughed lightly, shaking your head at him.

“I don’t particularly remember what my dream was, but it wasn’t you. I was already on edge because of the Carl and Sandy scenes and then Lenora—“ You shivered a little, trailing off, and his thumbs began tracing soft circles on your hips through the thin material of your sleep shirt.

“If you didn’t like the movie, why didn’t you say?”

“No, I did like the movie.” You moved a hand up to push his loose curls off his forehead, running your fingers through his hair, “It’s a really good movie, and you should be proud of yourself because you were phenomenal. It was just too intense for me, and my subconscious got the better of me while I was sleeping.”

“You know I’d never hurt you, right? Never.” Tom said, seeking his own comfort now as he still pondered on your previous comment about his character.

“I know.” You smiled at him, leaning in to kiss him. As your lips moved against his, it took him a minute to actually kiss you back.

“We should probably get back to sleep.” He mumbled, groaning a little as he pulled his lips away from yours. He looked over at the clock to see it blindingly tell him it was nearly 1:30 in the morning.

“I’m still a bit shaken up. I don’t know if I can fall back asleep now.” You answered truthfully. Tom’s hands made their way down to the hem of your sleep shirt.

“I can think of something to distract you.” He smirked, and you playfully rolled your eyes at his cheekiness, “You spent two and a half hours ogling my ass in jeans.” He switched into his southern accent again, “Don’t you wanna see this ass in person?”

“You’re so weird.” You laughed, cupping his cheeks to bring him in for another kiss.

~~~

Tag List: @viagracex @theamazingtomholland @Hellomoveonby @heyitsshrez @harrisonosterfieldhazmyheart @joyleenl @t-o-m-hollands @lonikje @sleepybesson @sunkisseddreamer @hollandsamor @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh @gorrillaglue23 @petersoftboyparker @musicalkeys @duskholland @biebsmylife95 @dummiesshort @perspectiveparker​

Tom Tag List: @quaksonhehe @tomkindholland​

[musette22]

Drunk in Boston

Pairing: Chris Evans x Sebastian Stan (Evanstan)

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: A week or so ago, I saw this post. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I decided to write a ficlet, a little Evanstan AU. It’s a bit late maybe, since Christmas has already been and gone, but it’s still technically the holidays so just indulge me? :p 

Also, I hit 3k followers this week, so this is also a sort of thank you to all you amazing, wonderful, beautiful people for getting me here. Love you all as much as I love these boys as much as they love each other 💘 Hope you enjoy!

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

It’s 3 p.m. on 17 December, and Chris is a little bit drunk. Maybe even a lotta bit.

In his defense, he is currently in Boston for a bachelor party and they did just do a tour of the Samuel Adams Brewery. It’s not like he makes a habit of daytime drinking. Not this much, anyway.

Chris stumbles out of the bar that’s attached to the brewery, surrounded by a dozen or so old school friends, all of whom are in a similar state of inebriation, when they pass the gift shop and a familiar image catches his eye. Chris stops in his tracks. On closer inspection, what he saw turns out to be a photo, displayed in a stand outside the shop, of a park in Concord near where Chris grew up.

No, not a photo.

A postcard.

He plucks the card from the stand, swaying on his feet a little as he peers at it. In the image, the park is covered in snow, much like it would be right now, and stamped across it in a red, gothic font are the words ‘Happy Holidays’.

Instantly, Chris is hit by a wave of nostalgia. No doubt the feeling is heightened by the alcohol – he always tends to get a little sentimental when he’s drunk – but it’s not just that. It’s also the fact that Chris and his friends have been reminiscing about the good old days all afternoon as well as the sudden, depressing realization that despite all he’s achieved in the past decade or so, his happiest memories are probably those of childhood Christmases spent in Concord.

These days, Chris lives in on the West Coast. He’s kind of a superstar now, after all, and superstars live in LA – everybody knows that. Chris doesn’t usually let himself dwell too much on how lonely he is there, or how he misses the comforting accents and the real winters of the East Coast. Tonight, though, whether because of the booze in his system or the ghosts of Christmas past, he allows himself to feel the stab of homesickness.

Without conscious input from his brain, Chris finds himself buying the postcard. When the cashier asks him if he’ll be needing he stamp, too, he hesitates. “Yeah, why not,” he decides, on a whim. It’s a Christmas card, after all, and Christmas cards are supposed to be sent.

There’s just one slight issue with his plan, Chris realizes as soon as he puts the borrowed pen to the card.

He’ll need an address to send the card to.

Frowning, he taps the pen against the counter, thinking as hard as his beer-addled brain will allow him, but the only address he can think of off the top of his head is that of his childhood home, back in Concord. But… that would be weird, right? He has no idea who’s been living there, since his parents sold the house after the divorce. Then again, Chris tells himself, this could be his good Christmas deed. Sending a postcard to a total stranger just to wish them happy holidays, that’s totally in the Christmas spirit, isn’t it?

With a decisive nod of his head, Chris puts his pen to paper and starts to write. It’s just a few lines, because there’s only so much you can say to a total stranger, but when he signs off with his initials, he feels good about it. He asks the cashier for the nearest post box, which happens to be just outside the building, so he thanks the guy and heads outside.

Pulling his pea coat tighter around him against the glacial December air, Chris spares the card one last look, and drops into the post box. It feels significant, somehow.

He doesn’t get time to dwell on it though, because the moment his friends spot him, he’s immediately and enthusiastically subsumed back into the group and dragged on to the next boozy destination.

Three drinks on, Chris has forgotten all about the postcard.

***

On the morning of 18 December, Sebastian Stan opens his postbox to find a postcard with a photo of the park near his house on the front, and a hastily scribbled message on the back:

Hey,

I used to live in your house.

I’m drunk in Boston, and it’s the only address I know.

Happy Holidays,

C.E.

Even after re-reading the message three times, Sebastian is none the wiser as to who sent it.

It makes sense other people used to live in the house Sebastian’s been renting, but unsurprisingly, he has no clue who they were. It was only last year that he’d decided to relocate from New York to Concord, craving a change of pace and more peace and quiet than the Big Apple had been able to offer. He’d visited Concord on a research trip for his third novel the year before and had immediately taken a liking to it. So when, after asking his estate agent to put out some feelers in the area, the guy had found him this beautiful place to rent within a day, Sebastian had taken it as a sign.

It’s a big old house – more appropriate for a family than a man living alone, perhaps – but Sebastian can afford it, and it has a lived-in vibe that makes it feel intimate, somehow. Its location on the edge of a large park, peaceful apart from the joggers and young families that frequent it, suits his needs perfectly, too. Despite being a successful author, Sebastian prefers to keep himself to himself. He’s not one for ostentatious book tours or photoshoots, doesn’t believe in social media beyond its promotional potential, and he’s found that he blends in perfectly in this picturesque little town.

In addition to being a private person, however, Sebastian is an inherently curious one.

It’s why he became a writer in the first place, and it’s also why the random, slightly mysterious postcard instantly fascinates him. Someone who decides to send a Christmas card to the stranger living in their childhood home has got to be an interesting person, Sebastian figures.

Unable to resist the temptation, he finds the landlord’s number and presses call.

“The initials C.E.?”

“C.E., that’s right,” Sebastian repeats patiently. “I received a postcard from someone with those initials who said they used to live in this house and wished me Happy Holidays. I’d like to thank them for the card, maybe tell them they’re free to come by the house anytime, if that’s something they’d like.”

“Well,” the landlord says, clear hesitation in his tone. “I wouldn’t usually give out this kind of information, especially not about this particular person. But seeing as he approached you first, I guess it should be alright…”

Chris Evans.

Famous Hollywood actor Chris Evans used to live in Sebastian’s house. The house he’s renting. Whatever.

The point is, Chris Evans sent him a postcard. Sebastian would be lying if he said that knowledge didn’t make his heart beat a little faster. He isn’t one to get star-struck, normally, knowing full well the rich and famous are people just like anyone else, only with an added layer of expensive, sparkly veneer.

Chris Evans, though. Well, let’s just say Chris’s blue eyes, his dazzling smile, and his chest – god, that chest – had helped along Sebastian’s gay awakening considerably, all those years ago.

So even though he realizes what he’s about to do could be considered slightly unethical, the next number Sebastian dials is that of his agent. There’s no harm in asking if there’s any chance she could use her industry connections to pass on a message to Chris Evans, surely?

“Chris Evans?” his agent repeats blankly. “The British radio DJ or the actor?”

Sebastian huffs out a laugh. “Actor. Definitely the actor. Why would I want to send a message to a British radio DJ?”

“Why would you want to send a message to the actor?” she shoots back. “Apart from the obvious, of course.” 

Touché.

Once he’s explained the situation to her, his agent hums thoughtfully. “Alright, I’ll admit that’s pretty amazing,” she says. “As it happens, I know someone at CAA who owes me a favor. I’ll see what I can do.”

Sebastian thanks her warmly, and then he waits.

***

That afternoon, Chris gets a phone call from his agent.

“Thank you for the postcard,” she reads aloud. “If you're ever in the neighborhood, you’re welcome to stop by the house and have a look around, for old time’s sake. Happy Holidays, Sebastian Stan.”

“Sebastian Stan?” Chris asks, eyebrows shooting up. “The author?”

“Oh, you know him?”

“Well, no. Not exactly. I’ve read one of his books, though, the one that’s shortlisted for the Pulitzer price, I think? He’s very good.”

His agent hums. “If you say so. Do you want me to pass a message back to him?”

Chris opens his mouth to say yes, then closes it again. “Actually,” he says, making a spur-of-the-moment decision, “I’m still in the area so I think I’ll just pay him a visit. Do you think you could you cancel my flight back to LA this afternoon?”

His agent grumbles at him for a bit but eventually concedes, though not before she’s made Chris promise he’ll be back in LA on Tuesday, for the Christmas special he’s due to appear in. Fun.

For a few moments after he’s ended the call, Chris stares out of the window of his hotel room. It’s snowing again, big flakes fluttering down from the sky, slowly turning the grey, slushy roads white again. He wonders if Pulitzer-finalist Sebastian Stan likes to make snow angels in the backyard too, like Chris used to do.

Putting his phone between his shoulder and his ear, Chris starts to put his things in his overnight bag, and calls an Uber.

It’s almost twilight, by the time the cab come to a stop in front of the house. Chris thanks the driver and steps out, booted feet sinking into the freshly fallen snow. It’s piling up quickly, he notices distantly.

It’s odd, being back here, after everything that’s happened since he moved away, so Chris gives himself a moment to just stand there, in the middle of the deserted street, taking in the sight of house he grew up in.

The house that holds countless memories, many of them good, some of them not so much. His first dog and his first kiss. Scraped knees and snowball fights. Raucous laughter and hissed arguments.

The house looks the same but different.

Chris walks up to the front door, snow crunching under his boots, and rings the doorbell.

***

Chris Evans is on Sebastian’s doorstep.

All blue-eyed, bearded, gloriously muscled, six-foot-something of him.

“Uh,” Chris says, blinking at him in something like surprise before his gaze sweeps up and down Sebastian’s body in a blatant once-over. “Sebastian Stan?”

“Oh wow, you actually came,” Sebastian blurts by way of reply.

Chris’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m sorry, I just thought- ‘cause you said-”  

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sebastian interrupts. “I did say that. I just- I guess I wasn’t expecting you to really turn up – or not this soon, at least. But it’s no trouble at all, I live alone so it’s nice to have a visitor. Especially, y’know. You.” Forcing himself to stop talking, Sebastian runs a hand through his messy hair and wishes he’d worn something better suited to meeting one’s celebrity crush. “Sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “Let’s try that again. Hi, I’m Sebastian Stan.”

“Chris Evans.” Chris smiles back warmly as he shakes Sebastian’s extended hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Lovely,” Sebastian repeats, holding Chris’s gaze. There are tiny flecks of green mixed in with the blue of his eyes, and his lashes would put any Maybelline model to shame. It takes Sebastian longer than it should to remember to let go of Chris’s hand, but fortunately, Chris doesn’t seem to be in any rush either. Huh. Sebastian clears his throat. “Would you- would you like to come in?”

“I’d love to, if you’re putting out,” Chris replies. There’s a beat, and then he freezes, eyes widening in horror. “If I’m not putting you out – not- not if you’re- I wasn’t, I didn’t mean- oh my god, Chris, stop talking you meatball,” Chris groans covering his face with a large hand. His next words come out a little muffled. “I am so sorry. Just ignore me. I have a horrible hangover, I promise I’m not usually this much of a disaster.”

Sebastian laughs, equally charmed by Chris’s helpless chattering as he is by the blush coloring his cheeks, just visible above the line of Chris’s well-groomed beard.

“You’re fine, I’m not easily offended,” he assures him, stepping aside to let Chris into the hallway. “I can take a lot.”

Oh.

This time, it’s Sebastian’s turn to wince at his choice of words, but when he tentatively glances back at his visitor to see if he noticed, he stills. The look on Chris’s face instantly makes him forget all about feeling embarrassed.

Still standing by the door, melting snow forming puddles around his feet, Chris is watching him intently. There’s something curious in his gaze, something sharp and searching.

It makes Sebastian’s breath catch in his throat. He swallows, resisting the impulse to avert his gaze, play it off as a joke. Instead, he makes himself stare right back. Lets the tension build, lets it simmer and crackle as it stretches out between them, growing stronger with every second they spend looking at each other in heavy silence.

“That right?” Chris asks finally, his voice a low rumble that settles in Sebastian’s bones like smoldering embers. Chris takes a careful step forward, slowly, giving him every chance to back away.

Sebastian stays where he is. 

“Mmm,” he hums, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down lightly, experimentally, on the soft, plump flesh. When Chris’s eyes flick down to his mouth instantly, homing in on it like an eagle on its prey, Sebastian decides to take a chance.

“Tell you what,” Sebastian says huskily, stepping closer under Chris’s dark, watchful gaze. “Why don’t you give me a tour and show me which bedroom used to be yours-” he comes to a halt right in front of Chris, looking up at him through his eyelashes, “and maybe you’ll find out just how much I can take, hm?”

For a moment, Sebastian holds his breath, praying he read this thing right and didn’t accidentally sexually harass a virtual stranger – but then Chris growls and surges forward, and Sebastian knows his gamble is about to pay off.

Big time.

Merry Christmas to me, Sebastian thinks wildly, just before Chris claims his mouth in a searing kiss. After that, he stops thinking altogether.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

[lucyintheskywithxanax]

Lionheart

Pairing: Cordelia Goode x Fem Reader

Request: “i can’t breathe” with cordelia?? “

A/N: so this prompt screamed ‘panic attack’ but GUESS WHAT?? I cannot write about panic attacks without having one myself so bear with me. This story was inspired by the scene in Apocalypse when Cordelia tells Michael she’s ready to help him if he’ll let her. Thank you anon for the request, and have a good time reading. x

Word count: ~ 5 500

Warnings: panic, anxiety, more or less accidental attempt at murder (idk what to call it)

You opened the door to the little antique shop and walked in with a happy spring in your step. The place was dimly lit and smelt of nag shampa. All kinds of objects were displayed on shelves nailed to the walls. In the middle of the room, more objects – colourful candles, statues carved in rosewood or kingwood or stone, dusty porcelain plates with a rim of gold – were randomly piled on top of each other or on small tables.

The shop had opened a few days ago and its window had drawn your eye. You were on your way back to Robichaux’s, where you had lived for the past five years. Life at the Academy was blissful. You had found yourself, finally embracing your being a witch; and then a few months later you had found love, and with it a new kind of happiness. Contentment you had read about in books but never thought could happen to you. Love had ripped fear and hatred off the world and painted it in softer colours: pink, yellow, brown, colours that reminded you of Cordelia. The constant weight in your heart had changed: it did not drag you down anymore, but supported you. It was not fear and loneliness you carried, but warmth and curiosity.

In the shop the woman behind the counter was scrutinizing you with attention. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue that reminded you of ocean depths. She wore a beautiful, intricate brooch in the form of a tree with the words ‘Anna Morgana’ – her name, probably – engraved on the trunk. A single red rose drooped in a vase on the counter in front of her.

You did not notice the strange look – half fear, half anger – that flashed on her face as you walked up to her.

“I know you”, the woman said as a greeting. “You’re one of the girls from Robichaux’s Academy.”

You beamed at her.

“I’m here to buy a gift for my Supreme,” you informed her happily.

Here it was again, that strange look, and this time you did notice it, but you didn’t think anything of it. The mention of witches – especially powerful ones – still made most people uncomfortable.

“Birthday?” the woman asked.

For a second you considered lying. Cordelia was adamant that you tell no one about your relationship, for she didn’t want the girls at the Academy to think she favoured you over them. But it wasn’t exactly a secret. Cordelia’s face had always been open, and you weren’t particularly good at hiding the joy that spread over your own every time your eyes met hers, every time someone mentioned her, every time the thought of her crossed your mind. Anyone who had spent more than five minutes with you and Cordelia knew you were in love. Most people were too polite to tell either of you how bad you were at hiding your feelings – except Madison, who seemed to think there was no greater joy in the world than to criticize “Foxxy” in front of you so that she could laugh at whatever new insult your “poor unimaginative brain” would come up with. But you didn’t mind Madison. She was a friend – an extremely annoying, unreliable friend, but a friend still. Movie nights with her were the best.

“Random act of kindness,” you told the woman, trying to keep your voice as neutral as possible. “She works so hard for us,” you couldn’t help but add.

The woman curled up her lips and ran one hand through her dark, thick, curly hair. The bracelets that hang off her wrist jingled.

“Well, I could let you look around, but it would take hours. And I think I’ve got just the thing you need. Simple, but beautiful. Not too showy, elegant.”

She went through one of her drawers and drew out a small rectangular box. It contained a necklace – a thin silver chain, a curved bail, a round-shaped moonstone with a blue sheen in the middle. Your heart jumped at the sight. It was perfect for Cordelia.

“And look here!” the woman went on, her voice rising almost to a squeal. You were so lost in thoughts of Cordelia and how beautiful that necklace would look on her, that you did not notice the sudden shaking of the woman’s hands as she drew out another box. “I’ve got another one, exactly the same! So you can match.”

“I’ll take them both,” you beamed.

The woman looked incredibly nervous. She gave you a tight smile as you fumbled in your bag for your wallet.

“I like it,” you said, nodding to the rose in an attempt to help her relax. “Very Beauty and the Beast.”

You paid for the necklaces, then clasped one of them around your neck and stared at your reflection in a small mirror perched on top of a pile. Your fingers gingerly touched the stone. You flashed a grin at your reflection, then sang out “Goodbye!” to the woman. She didn’t say it back.

It was a beautiful spring day, the sun splayed out low in the sky, the air crisp, the branches of the trees overloaded with blooming flowers, but you didn’t linger. Your heart and mind were filled with Cordelia. She had been more tired than usual those past few days, what with the arrival of half a dozen new girls who were very young and very scared of their powers. And she had been bugged by a “weird, tingling feeling”, as she had confided to you two days ago, late in the evening, her head resting on your lap and your hand running through her hair: “I think a new witch might be in town. And I think she doesn’t know who she is. I can feel her confusion, her fear.” You had dropped a kiss on her forehead, offered to run her a bath, but she had let out a tired groan and sat up, rubbing her eyes as if she had a headache, and said she still had paperwork to go through.

It worried you, sometimes, how hard she worked. Too many nights you had had to drag her out of her office and tuck her in and kiss her until her faint protests had turned into sleepy giggles. You and Zoe and Queenie had offered, multiple times, to take over some of her classes, and she had relented after several refusals. As it had turned out, you were quite possibly one of the worst teachers on the planet. Cordelia had attended your first class, wanting to make sure she was not entrusting her girls to an incompetent fool – for the rest of that day you had been unable to meet her eyes, your face red with shame. When in the evening she had finally managed to corner you in an empty room she had burst into uncontrollable laughter, peppering your face with kisses, pausing to try and whisper an apology when she noticed the outraged look on your face. The word “sorry” did not make it out past the first syllable before she was doubled up with laughter, tears running down her flushed cheeks. So it had been decided that you should help Cordelia with daily matters and paperwork, and let Queenie and Zoe do the teaching.

The Academy was very quiet when you reached it, as most of the classes weren’t over yet. You did some cleaning in the kitchen, made yourself some tea, then decided to take a nap. There was approximately thirty minutes left before classes would end and Cordelia would take her usual evening break before dinner.

You ran up the stairs to your room, changed into more comfortable clothes, tip-toed to Cordelia’s room to steal one of her pillows, tip-toed back to your own room, and collapsed on your bed. Your fingers played with the chain of your new necklace, a goofy smile spreading over your face as you thought about the moment you would offer Cordelia her gift. Surely matching necklaces would not be too obvious. Friends did things like that all the time. You were sure to be teased by Madison, though. You lay on your right side, clutching Cordelia’s pillow against your chest and burying your face in it, and closed your eyes. You were not feeling particularly tired, but sleep soon overtook you.

You woke up a few minutes later with a jolt. Your heart was pounding in your ears and your chest was incredibly tight. You remembered when you were in junior high and a brute who kept bullying you because you were “too weird” had unceremoniously thrown you to the ground and decided it would be fun to sit on your chest. The boy was twice your size. He had laid both his hands on your shoulders, pressing your back into the cement, breathed in your face and flashed a cruel smile at you as he shifted his weigh to crush you. “I can’t breathe,” you had managed to get out, your hands coming up to smack weakly at his arms, “get off, I can’t –“

Now the feeling was exactly the same. There was a heavy weight pressing down on your chest as if a demon were sitting on it.

You abruptly sat up, panic shooting through your veins. Instinctively you reached out for Cordelia, for warmth and protection – your hand landed on the cold sheet.

You managed to hiss in a breath, desperately patting the mattress, your other hand coming up to press against your chest. Your arms were shaking. And the sitting position didn’t help. Your chest still felt like it was being crushed.

You threw back the cover, made to stand up, fell back on the bed as the room around you started to spin. Your ears were ringing and you could hear terrifying noises like that of a monster’s rough, raspy breathing in horror movies – your breathing, you realized in terror.

You had to get up. You had to get up and call for help before – on shaky legs you stumbled out of your room and into the empty corridor, leaning against the wall for support, and croaked out: “Delia,” but it was too weak, too low, the words flopped at your feet. The corridor was spinning so fast you could no longer tell where the ceiling was. Cold sweat coated your skin as you took a few steps forward, calling again, “Delia,” a pitiful sound, barely above a whisper.

Your gaze fell on the railing of the stairs. So close, just a few more steps – so far away, too far away.

You wheezed out a breath, tried to inhale. There was no air left in the corridor. Your hand closed around the collar of your shirt. You tried to call out, tripped on nothing, and passed out.  

**

The first think you noticed when you came to was a hum of worried voices. Your head hurt too much for you to even consider opening your eyes. So you focused on the voices, tried to separate one from the others.  

“Step back, Millie, step back! Girls, give her some space!”

This voice was too panicky for your liking. It made your heart speed up. But there was something familiar about this voice, something comforting, so when it faded back among the others you groaned, straining to focus on it again.

“Ooh shit, she’s alive,” said another voice, young and jaded.

“Y/N?” The panicked voice again, louder, clearer. Something hot on your face. You let out another groan. “Y/N, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me.”

Now, that you would not do. You were pretty sure if you let the light in your skull would crack.

“Y/N, please.” The voice broke, and something in your heart broke with it. “Please, please sweetheart, come back to me.”

The thing in your heart that had broken kicked and ordered you to obey. There was no way, your heart screamed, no way you would lie here and do nothing to comfort her when she sounded that terrified.

Your eyes fluttered open. A blurry shape was leaning over you, golden on the edges, with two dark spots in the middle.

“Hey,” the voice called shakily, “that’s it, that’s it, you’re doing so good, look at me. Look at me.”

“Delia.” Her name escaped your lips before you had time to think it.

She was very pale, and her face was wet with tears, but she let out a relieved laugh when your eyes met hers.

“Delia,” you repeated, frowning in confusion as you took her state in.

You were lying on your back in the middle of a corridor, surrounded by a group of students. You spotted Madison, leaning against the wall next to Cordelia, staring down at you with interest and just a hint of amusement. “What…”

Your face crumpled as memories flooded you. Your right hand flew up to your chest and you gasped in a breath, fear rushing up to clench at your heart.

Cordelia cupped your face, stroking her thumbs over your cheeks.

“Shh, shh, you’re alright,” she whispered as more tears rolled down her own cheeks.

You bit your lip on a sob, raised your hand to wipe away her tears. Cordelia chuckled and kissed your palm.

“What happened?” you hiccupped between two sobs.

Madison held out something in front of her. Your heart skipped a beat.

“The necklace,” you stammered. “Oh my God, the – Delia I was about to –“

Cordelia shushed you again, leaning forward as if to kiss you before she checked herself. Madison rolled her eyes.

“Please, we’re not stupid, or blind,” Madison said, but you spoke over her, your breath coming out too fast as panic threatened to overwhelm you again: “Delia I was about to offer you the same necklace I was about – “

“Hey hey hey, Y/N, it’s alright, love, it’s alright.” Cordelia slipped one arm around your waist and pulled you up to her. You buried your face in her neck, breathing her in, letting her familiar scent and warmth wrap around you like a blanket. She gently ran her fingers through your hair, supporting you with her other arm.  

“How did you find me?” you whispered into her chest.

“I heard you,” she answered, her voice barely louder than yours. “I heard you calling in my head.”

You closed your eyes, confused, angry, and most of all afraid. Afraid of what would have happened if Cordelia had not rushed to you. Afraid of what would have happened if you had offered her the necklace and she had – you wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, planting a kiss on her chest as you gulped back tears. You were trembling in her arms, your heart beating too fast, feeling like you couldn’t breathe again as images of an unresponsive Cordelia flashed in your mind, asleep but with her chest not moving, her heart not beating, a small moonstone shining pale blue on her skin that was as white as a corpse’s.

Before you knew it you were sobbing again, hanging on to Cordelia for dear life as she whispered words of comfort in your ear and stroke your back in a circling motion. You didn’t hear Madison ordering the girls to scatter, didn’t hear their confused footsteps, barely registered Cordelia pulling you up to your feet and guiding you back to your room. Gently she tucked you in bed, brushed your hair off your face, ran a hand up and down your arm as she wiped your tears with the other. You mumbled something, incoherent and sad, and she lay down by your side and wrapped you up in her arms safely. You pressed your ear to her chest, let the sound of her heartbeat lull you as you counted in your head, one, two, three, on the fourth beat a fond “I love you” murmured by Cordelia with a kiss on your head.

**

You had rarely seen Cordelia as mad as she was the day after when you explained to her where you had bought the necklaces. Anger burst from her like a snake opening its mouth to sink its fangs into flesh. Cordelia always looked powerful. Now she looked terrifying.

You stammered out short, anxious answers to her questions, instinctively leaning away from her. She noticed, and that seemed to make her angrier still.

She stormed out of the house and you stood nervously waiting for her on the porch. New Orleans would hold a funeral in a day or two. A corpse would be found but no clues as to its murderer would ever be discovered. Anna Morgana would be buried under the eyes of a curious crowd, camera flashes reflecting off her coffin.

You nervously shifted your weight on your feet, your eyes scanning the street in front of you, your teeth sinking into your lower lip. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed, and then Cordelia walked through the gate to the Academy. But she wasn’t alone.

Your heart did something weird. It jumped up your throat in fear, then swelled with warmth and pride and love. Anna Morgana was walking by Cordelia’s side, clutching a small backpack to her chest, her eyes avoiding you. She looked younger, somehow, and even though she was only a few inches shorter than Cordelia her body was like that of a child next to your Supreme.

Cordelia stopped in front of you, squinting in the sun. You tried to scowl at her, but the nervous grin you had been holding back crept up your face and your eyes lit up with love and adoration for this woman.

“Of fucking course,” you said.

Cordelia shrugged.

“What?” She cocked her head to the side, watching you. There was a hint of nervousness in her eyes as she studied your reaction. You reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. “She needed help. That doesn’t mean there won’t be consequences for your action,” she added, shooting Anna Morgana a cold, hard glance.

As it turned out, Cordelia’s intuition had been right: there was a new witch in town, and she was confused and lost. Anna Morgana must have known, deep down, that she was a witch, but the thought was so terrifying, so utterly unacceptable that when she saw you in her shop, when she heard you mention the Supreme, she freaked out. Her magic seemed to be powerful: all she did was wish that the necklaces would harm their owners, and she had quite succeeded.

Anna Morgana kept working at her shop, but she also started attending classes at the Academy. She profusely apologized to you and to Cordelia, bought you countless gifts, did all kinds of nice things for you, adamant that she right her wrong. She had a lovely personality, and quickly became part of the coven.

You knew she had been confused and terrified of who she was; you knew what fear was capable of doing to even the best of people. But you couldn’t help it: every time your eyes fell on Anna Morgana, every time you heard her voice, something in you awoke that you could not control and that had the terrible, pungent smell of panic. It grew in you like a seed, taking root in your stomach, spreading its branches into your chest to wrap around your heart and squeeze, tight.

You could tell it was hard for Cordelia, too. You had never heard her snap at any of her girls but Madison, and now Anna Morgana was added to the list, especially in the first few days of her settling in at the Academy. There often was an edge to Cordelia’s voice when she spoke to her, a flash of anger in her eyes, her arm extending protectively in front of you whenever Anna Morgana entered the room you were in. But Cordelia’s heart was endlessly kind, and she was brave, and believed people could change when given the opportunity to. Soon her attitude towards Anna Morgana softened. And Anna Morgana, like all the other girls in Cordelia’s care, opened up like a flower and blossomed and started healing.

And you felt trapped in a corner. Guilt about not being able to move on and forgive gnawed at you like a dog gnaws on a bone and doesn’t let go. Guilt about not being able to be the brave person Cordelia deserved. And the fear that would clench your heart every time someone would so much as mention Anna Morgana, grew so strong and invasive you were sure it had settled permanently in you like a new organ your body had grown. This organ was ill and worked poorly. It kept you up all night, made you fidgety. The faintest of noises – someone coughing in the room next door, footsteps in your back – boomed in your ears like the detonation of a gun and made you jump.

It became hard to focus on daily tasks. You isolated yourself from the other girls, saying you had too much to do for spare time. You snapped at one of the younger girls, once, for no good reason at all. And then you isolated yourself from Cordelia. You pretended to be too tired to wait up for her on the nights she worked till late. You avoided her at lunchtime, hiding in your room with whatever food your stomach could hold.

That week was particularly busy for Cordelia. She had to fly halfway across the country to bring back a new girl who was too panicked to leave her room. When she came back she had barely slept for three days and did not allow herself to rest until she had gone through the paperwork you had neglected to deal with. She nearly collapsed into your arms that night, and you gently tucked her in and dropped a quick, distracted kiss on her forehead before you all but ran to your own room. You thought you heard Anna Morgana’s voice in the corridor, which nearly drove you crazy with fear and had you mutter a protection spell behind your locked door. You whispered one for Cordelia, too, just in case.

You thought, you really did, that you could carry on living in a constant state of fear.

You woke up one night and everything around you was dark. Terror shot through you as something suddenly pressed all of its weight upon your chest and dear Lord, you could not breathe. You sat bolt upright, gasping for air, your shaking hands coming up to your chest to try and get rid of the necklace, but all you could feel was skin, hot, clammy skin, so you clawed at it desperately but the pressure would not go. It would not let you breathe. So you tried to spring out of the bed, wheezing now, your legs tangling up in the cover, but something closed around your arm to hold you back.

“Let go!” you screamed – and it was angry, it was an order, but above all it was terrified.

“Y/N what – “

You tried to hit whatever was holding you back, but it seemed you had lost your bearings for your hand only slammed air. And then there was light, and you realized it was Cordelia, only Cordelia, sitting up with her eyes wide with fear and worry, and there was nothing, no necklace around your neck.

You had one leg still on the bed, the other dangling out, and your nails had clawed so hard at your chest that the skin was red and scratched.

“Y/N are you alright? What happened?”

You ran a shaky hand through your hair, avoiding Cordelia’s eyes. Her hand that was holding your arm slid up to your shoulder to pull you towards her, but you resisted, trying to blink back the tears that were burning your eyes, humiliation and fear battling to take possession of your brain.

“Hey,” Cordelia called, her voice gentler now. You felt the mattress dip as she moved closer to you. Her warmth pressed against you. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

“It was nothing.” Your voice was too small. You closed your eyes and squeezed them tight. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Cordelia let out a sigh. Gingerly, she pulled you back into bed. This time, you let her. But you were still too terrified to lie down, so you sat with your back against the headboard, one hand still pressed against your chest, your breathing still too fast, too shallow. Cordelia hummed, rested one hand on your thigh.  

“Bad dream?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You shook your head. Your throat was too tight.

“I woke up and I couldn’t – “ you croaked, tears spilling down your cheeks, your chin trembling as you let out a sob.

“You couldn’t breathe,” Cordelia finished for you. You met her gaze, her eyes so big and brown and shining with tears but so brave, and so kind, and so forgiving.

“I’m so sorry,” you sobbed, hiding your face in your hands. Suddenly it was all too much, the fear, the guilt, the anger that had plagued you for the past few days washing over you like water released from a dam and threatening to carry you away in its force. Your body shook and caved in; but Cordelia’s arms met you, and held you tight.

It took a while for you to calm down. When you eventually did, you lay limp and spent with your body sagging into Cordelia’s. She stroked your back in a circling motion, as she always did when you needed to be comforted.  

“I’m sorry,” you repeated in a breath.

“Don’t apologise. I’m the only one to blame. I should – “ Her voice faltered, and you felt her swallow hard. Automatically your hand came up to stroke her cheek in comfort. “I’ve been too busy to even notice you were struggling.”

“I can’t –“ You closed your eyes, clutching at Cordelia’s nightdress. “My brain can’t seem to stop associating Anna with danger.” You paused, swallowed hard. “She could have killed me. She could have killed you.”

“I know.“ Cordelia inhaled deeply and dropped a kiss on your head. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice wavering. “I can’t kick her out. She hasn’t done anything wrong since she’s been with us, and she has no home, nowhere else to go. She’s just coming to terms with her powers. I don’t…” She shook her head, bit her lip and pulled away to look into your eyes. Hers were big and watery and desperate. “I don’t know what to do,” she finished in a breath.

Something in her eyes, something in that confession – the helplessness, perhaps, that was so unlike her – made your heart roar in protest. You thought you could take a lot of things in this world, but this seemed to draw the line: there was no way on Earth, Heaven or Hell you’d be the one to paint that look on Cordelia’s face – your brave, kind, sunlit Cordelia.

You cupped her face, and when you next spoke your voice surprised you both. It was firm and confident and coated in a newfound determination that chased the demons out of the room. “You don’t have to do anything. You’re right, we can’t kick her out.” You tried for a smile. “So I’ll get a grip on myself and get over this.”

You tried to stop avoiding Anna Morgana. You sat next to her at breakfast, initiated a conversation at lunch, laughed at a joke she said at dinner. It sounded and looked too fake, but at least it was a first. You felt too nauseous to sleep that night, so you stayed up in the living room to watch movies. A little after midnight Cordelia joined you, carrying a blanket and two pillows. She snuggled up to you without a word, rested her head on your shoulder and made some sleepy comments about the movie. You fell asleep within the next half hour, lulled by Cordelia’s soft breathing.

The following days were scary, and some too hard when you felt like giving up and fleeing the city. Anxiety couldn’t be reasoned with. But Cordelia seemed to be everywhere with you, lingering in a corner of the room where you and Anna Morgana had a conversation, handing you a cup of coffee in the kitchen when you and Anna Morgana said good-morning, resting a hand soothingly on the small of your back when one time you considered wrapping your own hands around Anna Morgana’s neck and choke her for revenge.

On a Friday afternoon two weeks later, you and Anna Morgana went to get tattoos together. She held your hand during the entire session. Later that day as you met Cordelia in a corridor (dressed in one of her beautiful long floral dresses, stealing all the lights and colours from the sunset), you waved your arm in front of her face with a giddy smile and she gently grabbed your hand, flashing you a grin. The look on her face grew from amused to surprised to moved. When her eyes met yours, they were shining with love and tears.

“A lion’s heart,” you said softly, smiling down at the tattoo on your wrist, then back up at her. “It’s the meaning of your name, it’s what you have, it’s what you gave me.”

Cordelia bit her lip, gave a teary laugh and kissed you passionately in full view of everyone (she freaked out about it later, of course, and held an emergency meeting with the older girls during which Madison lost her cool and cried out, “surprise, bitch, everyone fucking knew”).

**

On the first day of summer you were awakened by a soft knock on your door.

You groaned, pressed your face closer to Cordelia’s chest as she stirred. Her skin was warm and soft and smelled like safety. You planted a lazy kiss between her breasts.

Another knock, louder. You opened your eyes groggily, and were met with the sight of pale skin, freckles sprayed over the swell of Cordelia’s breasts, a strand of blond hair curling just below her collarbone. Your mouth watered and something excited fizzed in your stomach.

“Your room,” Cordelia grumbled sleepily as another knock sounded.

You considered ignoring the goddamn intruder to worship your Supreme instead, but Cordelia – ever the responsible one – poked your knee with hers. You lifted your head, meaning to scowl, but her eyes were closed, a lazy smirk spreading all over her beautiful, messy morning face.

With a groan you got up, your legs heavy with sleep. You snorted as Cordelia mumbled, “Being the Supreme means I get to have nice boobs,” – because of course she knew exactly what was in your mind.

You opened the door with a rough “What?”

Anna Morgana flashed you a shy smile. She was dressed in a black lace blouse, black pleated skirt, and her hair was braided with pink flowers and sunkissed by the early rays slipping through the window.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said with another shy smile. “I thought you’d be up by now.”

Her gaze slid sideways and stared at something behind you. You pulled the door closer to you.

“I thought you’d be alone,” Anna Morgana went on. Her eyes met yours, amused. You tried to glare, but a smile betrayed you.

“I come bearing a gift,” Anna Morgana announced. She extended both her hands. In the middle of them sat a small rectangular box that looked way too familiar. Something unpleasant rose in your chest. You glanced up at Anna Morgana worriedly, but she nodded encouragement.

“Come on, open it.”

You’d rather not. You’d really, really rather not. Why was it suddenly too hard to breathe? For a second you were about to slam the door in Anna Morgana’s face. But then from behind you came the sound of ruffling sheet, of a warm body stretching in a lazy summer morning light, the sun bright and shining and still going strong, still welcoming every new day.

With a shaky hand you opened the box and lifted up the thin, delicate moonstone necklace. Your heart was pounding, and the room was too hot.

“It matches the colour of your eyes,” you heard Anna Morgana say. “And this one won’t try to strangle you.”

“It’s beautiful,” came Cordelia’s voice. One of her arms slipped around your waist and drew you close to her. Your body relaxed. You glanced up at her for courage, like plants stretch towards the sun for life.

You managed to offer Anna Morgana a smile. “Thank you,” you said, your fingers closing around the necklace.

Cordelia’s fingers playfully tickled your hip and your thigh bumped hers in retaliation, just as something in your chest you had not really known was there loosened and took flight and disappeared out of the window to melt in the summer heat.

[gallavictorious]

Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It / Rewrite

Right, so fix-its aren’t so much my jam, but there is this one weird, weird, weird thing that I’ve (so far) been unable to meta into any sort of sense. Namely, Mickey looking like that in season 11 while apparently not working out. It’s just… uh… he… what? At one point I hypothesized that he’s been bitten by a radioactive spider or the like, leaving him magically super buff, and to be honest, that’s still the most reasonable explanation I can think of, soooo…

Today I'm back at my nonsense to bring you, everyone and especially our dear @gallavichthings, 2,711 Very Serious words about Mickey being a secret superhero. Well. Except for the hero bit.

Read it below or on AO3.

---

In Which Mickey Milkovich Does Not Save the World

Afterwards, he would always refer to it as the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell, but the truth is that Mickey never saw the thing that got him.

He was going about his business (namely poking around the Gallagher basement for any forgotten shit he could sell for beer money now that all the cash from the wedding had been surreptitiously replaced with I.O.U:s) when he felt a sudden, sharp pain just above his ankle. Cursing up a storm, he desperately waved his foot around and lost his balance and stumbled straight into one of the many piles of boxes that littered the basement. By the time he was back on his feet whatever creature that had dug its nasty little teeth/pincers/claws into his tender flesh had scurried off, leaving Mickey with a throbbing ache and a halfway impressive puncture wound on his left leg.

Muttering darkly about fucking Gallaghers being so used Frank they didn’t know how to keep goddamned monster vermin out of their shitty house Mickey limped up the stairs to pour some Jamison on the wound, and then pour some down his throat because he had the bottle out already so he might as well. He borrowed one of Franny’s colourful pirate-patterned band-aids, and when his nosy as fuck ex-EMT of a husband asked about it later that evening Mickey said he’d dropped a can on his foot, it’s just a scratch, man, no you don’t need to take a look at it, just put your fingers back in my ass, please.

Mickey didn’t make a habit of lying to Ian, but he figured that telling the truth would lead to all sorts of questions about why he was in the basement and having to come up with plausible explanation for that when he should just be focusing on getting railed wasn’t part of his plans for the evening. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to Ian, who’d been getting so worked up over money lately, to distract him with that sort of unimportant stuff while they were banging. Mickey was a considerate spouse.

Thankfully, Ian dropped the subject and proceeded to do his husbandly duty. Mickey went to sleep deeply satisfied.

He was almost as satisfied the next morning when he woke up to realize that the pain in his leg was gone, as were all traces of the wound itself. Mickey had always healed pretty fast, but this was quick enough to have him questioning whether or not he’d really been bitten/stung/whatever at all. Maybe he’d had more beers than he thought and imagined the whole thing… ?

It didn’t really matter, and if that had been the whole of it Mickey was likely to soon have forgotten all about the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell. However, in the next few weeks he started noticing stuff, weird stuff. For instance, it wasn’t just the (possibly imagined) bite/sting that healed far more quickly than normal; it was all the little cuts and scrapes he tended to acquire. A big bruise from running into the table while playing with Franny; faded to nothing the next morning. A cut from the razor; gone within the hour. For the first time he could remember, Mickey looked at his naked body in the mirror and saw not one single wound (though there were still scars aplenty). It wasn’t a bad thing, per se, but it was weird.

Then there was that thing with his muscles. Mickey had been in decent shape for most of his life and whenever he got locked up for extended periods of time he made a habit of hitting the gym on the regular. Really wasn’t much else to do in the joint, and having a decent bulk reminded the other inmates that you weren’t someone they could push around; letting people know that you could beat the shit out of them often meant you didn’t have to actually do it, which saved everyone a lot of time and energy and trips to the prison quack. But on the outside, exercise wasn’t very high on Mickey’s list of priorities, meaning he tended to slim down a bit after a while in freedom.

Not now, though. Almost a year after being out of prison, and he was still as built as ever; if anything he seemed to be developing more muscles, in spite rarely engaging in anything more taxing than vigorous fucking. (Okay, so there was a lot of vigorous fucking, but still. If anyone ought to be building their biceps from the sex they were having, it should be Ian.)

Mickey didn’t mind being inexplicably ripped, though. He felt great, looked great – and Ian seemed to be pretty into it, too. Then again, Ian seemed to be pretty into Mickey whether he wore dirty clothes, sported a beard, sported a dress, or hadn’t showered in a week, so maybe that wasn’t saying a lot.

But even given all that, maybe Mickey still wouldn’t have thought too much about it (he was, after all, very busy being on his honeymoon, which required lots of determined sleep-ins, dedicated beer-drinking, and – obviously – lots and lots of banging) if there hadn’t one day come a knock on the front door. At first he ignored itm in the hopes that someone else would get it, but when it became apparent that a, he was alone in the house, and b, whoever was at the door wasn’t giving up anytime soon, he grabbed the family baseball bat (even big soft ass Larry would react to Mickey opening the door with an extremely illegal gun in hand) and went to answer the insistent knocking.

Outside stood two women, looking an unsettling mix of sober and apprehensive and eager. One of them reminded him vaguely of Angie Zago; the other was taller and darker and quite possibly brooding.

“Can I help you?” he demanded, not quite as rudely as he might have. He didn’t think they were social workers, but one never knew; they’d been checking up on Debbie and Franny ever since Debbie pleaded guilty to statutory rape.

“Mr. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich?” Not-Angie inquired in a polite sort of tremble. 

“Who’s asking?” Mickey demanded, feeling a little thrown by the use of his full name. The only people who pulled that out was law enforcement, and neither of these ladies had that feel about them. Especially since they seemed to be… excited to meet him, which wasn’t a reaction Mickey was used to getting. Particularly not from ladies looking like they ought to be out collecting for the fucking Red Cross.

They better not be asking for donations for the Red Cross.

“I’m Tania and this is Dreamweaver,” Not-Angie said. “Can we come in? It’s really best if we talk in private.”

Mickey didn’t move. “Dreamweaver? You kick your mama too many times in the kidneys before you were born or something?”

The women glanced uncertainly at each other. “Mr. Milkovich,” the one improbably called Dreamweaver began, but Mickey cut her off:

“You with the police?”

They quickly shook their heads. “No, we— “

“You here to give me money?”

“No, you see, it’s— “

“Okay, thank you, bye.” But as he moved to close the door, Tania – displaying more spunk than he’d have given her credit for – took a step forward and blocked the entrance.

“Have you been experiencing any strange body phenomena lately, Mr. Milkovich?” she blurted. “Wounds healing very quickly, perhaps, or increased muscle mass?”

Mickey stilled, eyes darting between the two women. Small, small smiles on their faces now, as if they knew they had him. There was a hint of hunger to those smiles, making Mickey feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The urge to push Tania back and slam the door shut was strong, but…

“Fine,” he said at long last. “Come on in.”

They better not be fucking cannibals either.

---

They called themselves The Guardians, and they wanted him to save the world.

Mickey asked what numbers they were talking and, after getting bored of their uncomprehending stares, clarified: “How much is it gonna pay? What’s my cut?”

Dreamweaver frowned. “You mean… money? As in a… salary?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s my salary?”

“Mr. Milkovich, saving the world is a higher calling and a duty, it’s not something that– “

“Uh-huh. So, just to be clear, you’re not gonna pay me?”

They weren’t. Mickey laughed in their faces, stood from the couch, and told them bye and good luck with that and don’t let the door hit ya on the way out.

They reasoned with him. They pleaded. They explained, again and again, that after the evil society USCH destroyed The Guardian’s headquarters in a devastating attack, the two of them–and Mickey–was the only thing standing between the world and utter destruction. Surely, he must understand that it was nothing less than Fate that had brought the one remaining Bestower Bot into the Gallagher basement and his path? Admittedly, injecting Mickey with the bio enhancer might have been the result of a malfunction – Tania and Dreamweaver had found the bot dead down the street a couple of nights ago – but didn’t he see that he had been called to serve as a warrior in the fight against evil?

“Yeah, no thanks,” Mickey told them, and then he picked up the bat and waved it around until they took the hint and left.

When Ian returned home a few hours later, Mickey carefully didn’t mention the curious visit or any of what Tania and Dreamweaver had told him. Ian was pretty into saving people and had all these lame ideas about service and honor, and Mickey found it more likely than not that his husband would both be upset that Mickey, rather than Ian himself, had been called as a warrior (it’d be Lip and West Point all over again, Mickey just knew it), and demand that Mickey answer the call and run off like some loon to get himself killed by evil technomancers.

Mickey didn’t particularly feel like dying and he didn’t like the idea of hurting his husband’s feelings either, so he kept his mouth shut and skillfully derailed all of Ian’s attempts at asking about his day by giving him a blow job, teasing him about being a grunt, and allowing himself to be wrestled to the floor when Ian decided he’d had enough of teasing. It was a good evening.

As he lay in bed that night, back against Ian’s chest and with those strong arms wrapped around him, Mickey wondered if it would be worth risking Ian’s reaction by going public. Okay, Tania and Dreamweaver had mentioned how he’d probably gotten a pretty small dose of the bio-whatever-the-fuck, lending him nothing more exciting than enduring muscle mass and enhanced healing, but that should probably be enough to turn him into a cut above the rest, right? He could hire himself out to the highest bidder and make a fortune doing private security or collections or stuff like that. Fuck, he’d even consider taking on jobs for The Guardians, if they just agreed to pay him.

It was a fun thought to play with, but in the end a long life in the shadows made Mickey wary of putting himself out there like that. Besides, he’d seen enough movies to know that it’d probably wouldn’t be long before he mysteriously disappeared to some secret government facility to be experimented on. He’d had enough of the state’s hospitality to last him a lifetime, so thanks, but no fucking thanks.

And that could have been it. Should have been it, but of course Tania and Dreamweaver wouldn’t leave well enough alone. They started showing up at the Gallagher house at all hours, whenever they knew they could get Mickey alone. They accosted him on the way to the Alibi, they sat down next to him on the L, and they left him pictures of puppies with little notes saying stuff like “Only YOU can SAVE him from BURNING. Have a HEART”.

It was exhausting. Fearing the retribution of the cartel hadn’t anything on fearing seeing Tania and Dreamweaver’s disappointed-yet-still-somehow-hopeful-and-terribly-determined faces appear in a crowd, or round a corner, or on the porch when he went out for his evening smoke.

Mickey began to lose sleep. He’d spend the nights tossing and turning, which led to him staying in bed half the day to catch up on much needed rest, and he was often so tired he couldn’t bring himself to put on proper clothes or go outside the door the whole day. 

Ian was on his ass about getting a job; he didn’t get that Mickey had a job, and that job was not getting lured into sacrificing his life for the greater good. If Ian didn’t like the prospects of being a prison widow, how offensive wouldn’t he find the prospect of being an actual widower, after his husband got blown to bits by some big bad villain?

It got to the point of Ian initiating a sex strike to force Mickey to get “a real job”, which struck Mickey as really fucking unfair, considering how all he was trying to do was make sure Ian even had a husband to refuse to fuck.

Enough was enough. Something had to be done. Fortunately for Mickey – and unfortunately for Tania and Dreamweaver – Mickey had a guy for everything. As annoying as The Guardians were, Mickey didn’t have the heart to see them killed, but he figured that having them kidnapped and shipped off to some sweatshop on the other side of the world would serve the same purpose. He felt a little bad about it, sure, but he had given them plenty of chances to fuck off. Not his fault they couldn’t respect a fucking boundary.

Mickey called Johnny, told him the score, and a few night later Johnny called Mickey to tell him it was done.

It was done. Over. Mickey would finally be able go about his life in peace again, giving all his attention to his husband and doing his outmost to make him the happiest man alive every single day, even when Ian was annoying as hell and started asking pointless fucking questions about how Mickey was in such great shape even though he never did as much as one single curl up.

I see. So… you’re telling me that you have secret superpowers.

Yeah. Except, not actually secret anymore. ‘Cause, you know, you told me we shouldn’t have secrets.

… yeah, that was three months ago.

Guess it must have slipped my mind, huh.

Must have. But let me get this straight: you couldn’t get a real job because you were busy dodging secret agents, and your muscles are the result of you getting bitten by some magic robot—

Radioactive motherfucker bug from hell.

—and not you sneaking down to the basement to do weights and cardio almost every day?

… oh.

Yeah, oh. Carl told me about it, asshole. He noticed you using some of the stuff down there. Don’t get why you’d wanna keep that a secret though?

…

Mick. We have to be honest with each other, remember?

Jesus Christ, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.

Okay.

Guess the first time was back when you had that dip a couple of months after the wedding. Few times after that, if we had a fight or whatever and I needed to let off some steam. Then you started working and sometimes I got bored watching TV all day but you were all mopey about your shitty job and me not having any and you have this thing about your body—

I don’t have a thing about my body.

­—so I didn’t really wanna rub your face in me having all that time to work out when you could barely squeeze in dozen push-ups in the evening. And I guess I didn’t really want anyone to know that I… cared, or whatever.

Cared? About what? Being healthy? Looking good? Being strong?

Whatever, man, I told I don’t fucking know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, ‘cause it was a radioactive motherfucker bug from hell that did it.

Of course it was. Come here. Show me what that bio enhanced body of yours can do.

---

Ahahahahahaha, would you look at that. I tried to meta it anyway. 😭😭😭

You might reasonably ask about Mickey’s visit to Kev Fit – how does that fit? WELL, I rather imagine that whatever Mickey does in that basement is enough to keep him fit but still not SUPER hardcore? So when he starts worrying about Ian thinking him weaker than, he decides to take it up a notch and do it properly in a real(ish) gym? And his comment about “not remembering how much working out sucks” is part of the whole “not wanting anyone to know this is something I care to do on the regular”… Yeah, it’s pretty weak. All in all, I’d say the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell is still our best bet. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This is probably the last time I have one of them tell the other a story this week, but I make no promises. These little ficlets don’t tend to go as planned. (Ha! She said, as if there was a plan to begin with. Oh, well. I guess it’s working out so far.)

[aiden21]

A Universe of Coincidences Present Mic x gn!Reader

Word count: 4k+

You’d moved into this new apartment expecting nothing other than a change in scenery. You’d initially fallen in love with the view that your balcony provided. You were on a high enough floor that no other building nearby really got in the way, and if you closed one eye and stretched out one hand, it kinda looked like you were holding some of the city in the palm of your hand. You didn’t even care about the fact that the apartment itself was a little small, and you spent most of your free time out on the balcony in a small garden chair, just gazing out at the world happily.

You only went out a few times a week for anything that wasn’t work, this afternoon being one such case, for groceries or other necessities. You had a small list in your hand, not trusting your memory, and got in the elevator. The doors were about to close when you heard someone running and you instinctively pressed the button to keep the doors open. A man trotted inside the elevator, a charming smile on his face.

“Thank you~” He told you, in clear English, and you smiled shyly back at him.

You shook your wrist out of pure instinct, the charms on your bracelet clinging together. It was a black bracelet with red roses and you realized the man was staring at it with cheerful eyes.

“Did you just move in? I don’t think I’ve seen you around this venue before.” He asked, green eyes sparkling behind a modest pair of glasses. He was cute, you told yourself, with his long blonde hair and little mustache.

“I’ve been in 1407 for a few days.” You said, offering your last name and a polite smile. He hummed, nodded, and then when the elevator reached the ground floor all too quickly, he pointed at you with a finger gun.

“Welcome to the building! Enjoy the show!” He said before walking out while whistling happily, his strides much longer than yours. You waved at his back dumbly, already getting the feeling that you knew him from somewhere. You pondered upon that as you walked to the store, feeling like you had the answer on the tip of your tongue. But, alas, you didn’t think you’d ever seen that man face to face before and so you pushed the thought out of your mind for a while.

The following morning found you in comfy clothes, the sliding door to the balcony wide open to let the breeze in. You were unpacking a few things, hanging some decorations, while your favorite album played in the background. You had one of those modern vinyl players along with five of your favorite records, all a gift from your family last Christmas, and you liked to listen to them like that, even though you had the songs on your phone. It’d be a shame to just let the vinyls gather dust, after all. You sang along, placing things on shelves and stacking empty boxes on top of one another. You were far from being a good singer, but being home alone gave you the confidence to try and hold longer harmonies or reach higher notes, all things you wouldn’t be caught doing out in public.

You half danced your way around your living room, putting things in their new places. You stepped out into your balcony, still singing happily. You looked at your plants, reminding yourself that you had to water them once the sun went down.

You stretched, butchering the high note on the song but belting it out regardless, and then you stopped dead when another, much more harmonious voice joined you. Apartments on the same floors technically all shared one long balcony, but it’d been divided by walls on either side so everyone could have their privacy. Thus, you couldn’t actually see who was out on their balcony. But the voice—male, for what you could tell—sounded impossibly close. They kept on singing along to your music, clearly not caring about being heard, and you ran back inside with a hand over your mouth, blushing like crazy.

You tripped on the rug and cursed out loud, knocking over a stack of books. Outside the voice laughed cheerfully and you wanted to bury yourself alive out in the garden. Thankfully, they said nothing after that and, not having seen their face, you managed to swallow down your embarrassment. You pushed back the feeling that you knew that voice, not wanting to even think about what neighbor had caught you singing like a teenager.

You came back from work one day feeling exhausted. You wanted nothing more than to climb into bed, listen to some music, and go to sleep. You stepped inside the building and immediately the guard stopped you in the lobby. He pointed you towards some boxes—at least ten boxes big enough to fit a medium-sized dog inside—and told you that they were yours. Of course they were. During your move a few of your things had gotten lost, you having moved from one end of Japan onto the other, and the moving company had promised you that the boxes had simply gotten mixed up in someone else’s move. You half believed that you’d never see those things again, but lo and behold, you got your things back. Now to get them up to your apartment all by yourself, since the guard couldn’t leave his post at the gate. Wonderful.

The first box was easy.

The third one felt a little heavier.

The seventh one had you gasping and you were honestly considering just leaving the rest of your stuff in the lobby until the end of times. You were tired and annoyed and hungry and still in your work clothes.

The elevator opened with a cheerful ding and you sighed, dragging your feet and taking another box with the word ‘books’ written on top. You attempted to lift it, the air leaving your lungs on that first attempt before you got a better hold of the box. Your back was killing you and your arms hurt, but you carried on towards the elevator. Unable to use your hands, you attempted to balance on one leg so you could free one hand just long enough to call the elevator, but no such luck. You lost your balance and, while you caught yourself in time, the box was heading straight for the floor. But then, fast as lightning, a hand reached out and caught the side you’d lost your grip upon.

“That was close! Almost missed a beat!” He said and you immediately smiled in relief.

“Thank you,” You said, a nervous laugh escaping you. You tried to take the box back, but the blonde man easily took it from you with a friendly smile. He was wearing a flattering red jacket and stylish black pants, his hair pulled back into a messy bun.

“I got it.”

You felt a little awkward, a little dumb, a thousand things, “I don’t wanna bother you.”

“No problemo. Happy to help!” He responded cheerfully, anchoring the box with his hip, and easily calling for the elevator himself. You felt hot under your shirt and you weren’t sure if it was because of the effort of the past boxes or what.

No, fuck it, you knew what it was.

“Hold on, let me get another one before the elevator gets here,” You said, practically running away. There were three boxes left, and you read over the words written on them to try and decide which one would be the easiest one to carry. Or should you take a heavier one? Which would be less embarrassing? You finally picked one that said ‘pictures’ and made your way back, getting inside the already open elevator. He looked over your head, chuckling at the sight of boxes still left behind. He put his box down and told you to wait and you watched in absolute dismay as he stacked the two remaining boxes one on top of the other, easily—easily, the smooth bastard— carrying them over.

You were beet red when he got in the elevator with you, his happy-go-lucky smile threatening to burn you.

“Not to pry, but what’s all this?” He said, almost teasingly, and you had to look away.

“Some boxes went missing during my move. I already got everything else in my apartment.” You said shyly. He hummed, nodding. When you got to the 14th floor, he got off the elevator with two boxes while you carried the other two, thankful that he’d allowed you to help him. He was the one helping you, you knew that, but you still felt embarrassed at the fact.

He’s just a normal neighbor, he’s being friendly.

You got to your door and you pushed it open with your hip, wincing internally at how plain and messy your place was. You lived alone and many of your things had been missing, so you hadn’t bothered with some of your things. Your favorite record was on the counter, right where he placed the boxes he’d helped carry. You turned to steal a glance at his face and you saw him pursing his lips together, trying almost in vain to bite a smile back and you wanted to jump out the window. Still, you inhaled slowly and pushed your embarrassment back, offering him a smile.

“Thanks for the help, really.”

“My pleasure. I’m here all week.” He shot at you with finger guns, almost posing as he did so, and you giggled. He was a little goofy, but you liked that.

“Do you want some help with unpacking?” He asked but you shook your head immediately. “N-no, I’m okay. Thank you, though, I really owe you one!” You gave him a wide, bright smile, and he stared at you for a second. His brows raised a little beneath his glasses and you looked down on instinct, thinking you’d made a weird face. Then you perked up, turning towards your kitchen.

“Oh! Would you like some water? I can also make some tea or coffee if you’d like!” You sounded nervous, you couldn’t help it, but you knew it was the polite thing to do now that he was inside your house.

“I’d love to, but I gotta bounce.” He said, smiling apologetically. You stopped to look at him and then, almost embarrassed, you walked towards the door by his side. “Duty calls, the crowd is cheering, you know how it is.”

You nodded, not really understanding what he meant but smiling regardless. He gave you a small salute and started walking away, you already closing your door behind him. Then, right before it locked,

“It’s Yamada, by the way.”

“Huh?” You asked, reopening the door and peeking your head out. He had another easy-going smile on his lips.

“My name. You told me yours but I haven’t told you mine. I’m Yamada.” With that, he left.

You closed your door with a dumb smile, pinching your cheeks to try and stop yourself from blushing like a teen. You were a grown adult for crying out loud, your cute neighbor helping you out shouldn’t be something to fluster over. Still, you smiled.

You sat right in the division between your balcony and your living room, wanting to feel the night breeze but also wanting to listen to your radio. The device was inside and the volume was low out of respect for your neighbors, and you sighed contentedly as one song ended and another began. Your breath blew away the steam coming out of your mug and you smiled, taking a small sip of your drink. It was a beautiful night, the view of the city looking as if stars had landed on the ground, lights twinkling everywhere.

You always had trouble falling asleep, no matter what you tried. Tea and music helped a little, but at your core, you were a night owl. Most days were the same, you working into the early morning just to make the most out of your nights, but Friday was different. Because on Fridays Present Mic did his radio show and you absolutely loved it. Three hours of music, both foreign and local, only interrupted by one of the most charismatic, funniest heroes out there. What wasn’t there to love?

And now that you had your new place, with that gorgeous view, well, you could’ve stayed out there forever.

“And we’re back! How did you like the new song, listeners?” A familiar, animated voice flowed out of your speakers.

“Tonight, my lovely listeners, I’d like to pose you all with a little situation.” He said, something he did every week without fault. He would ask something to the audience and then, after a few more songs, he’d read a few of the responses he got online. It was sweet and fun and a nice way to interact with his audience, not to mention the only way you had to even speak a word to the guy. For as long as you’d watched the show, your responses had only been read twice thus far and, while frustrated to not get your favorite hero’s attention more often, you were still happy with those two little shoutouts.

“Pardon if I get a little cheesy, but sometimes the melodies of the soul grow tender and you can’t help but wonder a few things.”

You took another sip of your tea, Twitter open in your phone just so you could answer as fast as possible.

“Do you think sometimes life works in our favor?” He paused, chuckled, and then cleared his throat. “See, I think we attract things our way. We write our own songs, if you will. But sometimes I’ll have these moments, where the universe really seems to be trying to get my attention and I won’t be able to tell if it’s really a sign as much as it is a coincidence, you feel me?”

You listened to him intently, your phone forgotten by your side. It was… odd. Really odd. You’d heard this man’s voice over the radio for years but something felt different at that moment. Maybe it was the tone of voice, or the subject being discussed, or who knows what, but you got a different feeling this time. But what was it?

“See, I’ve gotten a few this last week. And I’m sure you all get them all the time. And now I’m thinking that, maybe, if the universe sings to you, it’s only polite to join in, harmonize.”

Something crossed your mind, a quick flash, but you shook your head out of pure instinct. No. There was no way.

“My question, or challenge more like it, to you this week is this: if you think you’ve heard the call recently, answer it. Cause you never know who might be listening to you.”

You saw a flash of green eyes, you remembered two elevator rides, but you kept shaking your head. You even laughed, thinking yourself a total idiot. It was impossible, right? I mean sure the voice was eerily familiar, but that was just a coincidence...

Right?

“Of course, as the dutiful host that I am, I can’t ask you to jam out without a proper beat, so I’ll start. Here’s my attempt at seeing if this week has been anything other than coincidences.”

He went silent and you held your breath for a moment, your expression stuck somewhere between mocking and panicked. Then the next song started playing and it took you about two seconds to recognize it. Was the record sleeve still on the counter? Was the vinyl still beneath the needle, waiting to resume that same, exact song?

A few things crossed your mind at that moment. The superficial, more impulsive side of you kinda wanted to toss the radio out the window. The more intense side of you wanted to scream, because Goddammit, HOW HAD YOU NOT RECOGNIZED HIM AT ANY POINT!? Sure, the few times you two had crossed paths he’d been dressed in civilian clothes, he’d been wearing seeing glasses, and his hair had been held together by a simple bun, rather than the crazy updo that he usually wore. But still, you chided yourself, you’d shared an elevator with him twice already. You’d talked to him, face to face. He’d been inside your home, for crying out loud!

How? Hoooooow?

You groaned, letting your back hit the ground while you covered your face in absolute shame. You stayed down until the song was over and, as other songs played, you started going through every stage of grief, in order.

There was no way, absolutely no way. It was just a coincidence, that was all. Your neighbor just happened to be blonde and handsome and also happened to make a few musical references as he spoke, but that was normal. Anyone could do that. Besides, you’d never seen him in costume; there’s no way a respectable hero would go out wearing casual clothes. What if they ran into danger?

How had you not put the pieces together earlier? You were such an idiot, just talking to him as if he was a normal, cute guy. How had you let him carry your boxes for you!? He probably thought you were so dumb by now. How could you be so blind, so DEAF!? HE’D EVEN TOLD YOU HIS LAST NAME! Why had God cursed you with such stupidity?

At this point he started talking again, reading out some of the responses he’d gotten and encouraging people to ‘go for it!’

Oh God, there was no way you’d ever be able to look him in the eye again. You’d never be able to listen to that song again without thinking of how badly you’d messed up, how badly you’d probably offended him by not recognizing him. You’d just moved in, too, and you didn’t think you’d ever be able to step foot outside again. Why had he even played that song? Had he been the one to sing with you and then laugh at you? Oh great. He knew you were an idiot. Wonderful. It was over. Your life was over.

No, wait, maybe there was some way to fix this. Maybe he hadn’t been the one to sing and laugh, maybe he’d just listened to that from his own balcony and found it funny. Maybe this ‘sign’ was meant for the other person, the one that sang so much better than you. Maybe you were making all of it up in your head, a stupid fan moment where you really wanted him to know you, really wanted to be that close to him without even knowing. Besides, you could still sell the apartment and move somewhere far away.

You groaned again, pulling at your hair. You stared at the ceiling as the music stopped, as he gave his audience his usual, animated goodnight, even as the night air grew colder. It must have been sometime past midnight when you finally decided to act like a normal adult once more. You got up, switched the radio off, and closed your balcony door. You heaved a sigh, suddenly craving another cup of tea and a nice, long bath.

You shoved a mug full of water inside the microwave, not in the mood to boil the water properly. You watched the cup go round and round, the loud humming of the appliance giving you a crumb of comfort. You had to relax, you told yourself. Everything would be fine.

The sound of the power outage mimicked a sad sigh, the absolute silence of your apartment slapping you in the face. You sighed, resting your forehead against the counter. If the universe really did send out signs, then you wanted to slap the universe smack dab across the face. You glanced outside and, sure enough, all of the buildings and houses in your area had been plunged into absolute darkness.

“Anything else?” You asked to the heavens, slightly annoyed.

From the hallway, you heard a loud crash and a high-pitched yelp, and you sighed as dramatically as you could. You grabbed your phone, turned on the flashlight, and ventured out.

It was kinda creepy, you weren’t gonna lie. You hadn’t lived in there for long enough to grow familiar with anything, so the pitch-black hallway made you shiver. It was like a horror movie set up, you thought as you turned. You’d look down the other end of the hall and a monster would be waiting for you, ready to strike you down.

Except, it wasn’t a ghost or a ghoul. It was Yamada—should you call him Present Mic? Which would be less awkward to you?— with his green eyes wide and his hands outstretched. He’d knocked over one of those silver cylinders where buildings hide their fire extinguishers and you blinked a little at the sight. Why did he look so guilty?

“You okay?” You asked, stepping out of your apartment. You were glad that the light was aimed away from you, cause you knew you looked flustered and dumb.

“My phone died.” He offered as an explanation and you nodded as he placed the metallic container back in place. You shined your light down the hall, landing on the elevator and shivering.

“Thank God you didn’t get trapped in there.” You murmured. He looked up at you, then at the elevator and you saw him shivering. When he turned to face you, he looked sheepish.

“That would have been quite the show ender, huh?” He chuckled and you kinda smiled at him in the dark. This wasn’t awkward, why were you making it awkward on yourself?

You shone your light on the ground so he could make it over to you without tripping again, not that there were any other obstacles in the way. He gave you a disarming smile and suddenly you wanted to run back into your apartment and never come out again. Still, with the power out, your nice side won the battle raging in your chest.

“Which one’s your apartment?” You asked, almost a mumble. Yamada looked at you, blinking a few times, and you waved the light around a little. “I’ll walk you over. Wouldn’t wanna leave you in the dark.”

“Thanks!” He said, in English, and you nodded. He guided you down the hall into apartment 1403, which was on the same side of the hall as your own. Remembering your improvised little concert from a few days ago, you blushed madly. Of course you shared balconies, why wouldn’t you.

“Home sweet home,” He said, looking for his keys amongst an endless amount of pockets. He finally found them and you couldn’t help but smile at the keychains dangling from his set of keys. He had a little black cat, a rose, a little cloud, and a rubber duck, the last one making you giggle quietly. He looked at you in the dark for a moment, not even trying to find the right key. After a few seconds he snapped out of it and he unlocked his door in a flash. He pushed it open a little and neither of you moved.

“Aren’t I lucky you of all people were awake to shine my path,” He joked, sounding more nervous than you’d ever heard him, even from his radio show.

“It’s okay,” You smiled kindly, fighting back your emotions. “I did own you one, after all.”

He chuckled, nodding and rubbing the back of his neck. There was a moment of silence, both of you trying to figure out just what you should do next. You moved your phone, the light illuminating the wall.

“Why are you up so late, anyway?” He asked you. You had to bite back a panicked laugh, the events of the night replaying in your head. Not too late to sell the apartment, you told yourself.

“I was making some tea,” You said lamely, hands fidgeting. It was such a dumb thing to say since it didn’t actually answer his question, but it was all you had. “But then the power went out and, I mean, my stove’s electric anyway. I guess I’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”

You added that last part as a segway, a crutch of sorts that would allow you to excuse yourself before you could say anything else that might make you look like more of a fool. It was a shame, really. If you weren’t so embarrassed right now then you might try to keep the conversation going. He was handsome and polite, after all. But no, you had too much in your head, songs and signs and vibrant green eyes and you should probably go now, you told yourself. You mumbled a polite ‘goodnight’ before turning on your heels, already set on going home. Behind you, Yamada hesitated. He swallowed thickly, cursed his dumb brain, and then,

“My stove’s not electric.”

You stopped, frowning.

“Huh?” You turned back, raising the light a little just so you could look at him without outright blinding him. He was playing with his keys, his eyes on the ground. Was that… a blush on his face?

“My stove works even without power,” He explained dumbly, eyes only focusing on you for one second at a time as he spoke. “And I have tea. I mean, I’m not… Do you wanna come inside?” He held out his hands, a quiet and shy offer now between you. It was an invitation, a question and a hopeful wish all in one and his face reflected that perfectly.

You blinked, feeling numb for a second before a warm, tingly feeling crawled up your arms. You wanted to bite back your smile, wanted to convince yourself that he was just being kind, but there were too many coincidences by now.

If the universe is calling, then it’s only polite to respond, right?

“I’d like that. A lot.” You said. His eyes opened wide, forest tones enclosed by a ring of lovely, pastel green, and you smiled. He grinned from ear to ear, finally opening his door fully and stepping aside to let you in.

You hummed for a second, feeling a lot braver than you had in a long while.

“By the way,” You said teasingly, “That’s not my favorite song in the album.”

He blinked, watching you walk into his home with an almost shocked expression. He finally laughed, closing the door behind you both.

[harknesswife]

It was you all along (Agatha HarknessxFemale reader)

Summary: This is a sweet self-insert love story between Agatha and a Westview citizen. Everything that happens follows the original events of "Wandavision" and MCU, like a parallel.

Chapter: 05/10

Word count: 1.450k

The phone rang and I was pretty sure who it would be before I even picked it up.

"So, when you say early, you really mean it, don’t you?", I said, with my eyes still closed.

"Well, I assumed you’d be up already", Agnes replied and I knew she was smiling just by the tone in her voice.

"You don’t know me at all", I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. "So, what's up?"

"I also assume you don’t have any plans for today, so I’m inviting you to some trick or treating."

I got the calendar right next to my bed. October 31st.

"Oh, I see. Agnes, dear. I’m so freakin tired these days."

"Well, I think you need to live a little", I heard a door closing on her side of the line.

"I don’t even have a costume, and I’m not sure if there’s time to buy one..."

"Well, then he’s late."

"Who's late?", I asked when my doorbell rang. "Agnes, who’s at my door?"

She giggled.

"See you at eight. Don’t you dare keep me waiting."

Dennis, the mailman, was right at my doorstep.

"Do you guys always work that early?", I yawned while signing the paper he gave me.

"Well, don’t shoot me!", he raised his hands - "I’m just…"

"The messenger. Yeah, I’m familiar with that quote."

He handed me a package before running back to the van.

It was a big silver box with a purple bow on it. I opened it and found the most beautiful dress inside. It was all white, and I could see some tiny crystals attached to it. When I turned it in front of the light, they twinkled in so many different ways. It ended right above my knees, and I had the perfect heels for that. When I was about to go upstairs and try it on, I realized that there was one more thing inside the box.

Wings. Translucent and… magical. So it was a fairy costume. I took them out and boy, they were big. That’s why the box was almost double the dress size. How on earth had Agnes found that on such short notice? Or maybe… she kept that for a while? And was waiting to give it to me?

Just like that the fatigue was gone.

It took me hours to get ready, but it totally paid off. My hair was all curly and I had some glitter in my eyes. My makeup was all white and silver, except for my red lips. I was deciding either to take a purse or not when someone honked in front of my house. The wings were already attached to my dress (which took me forever to do it on my own), and they kinda flapped around me in a lovely way.

Agnes was inside her car, in a full witch costume, with a hat and a wig. Her mouth dropped a little bit when she saw me.

"You look amazing!!", she said, while I closed the door behind me.

"You too", I said, opening the car’s door. I struggled a little bit to get inside with those wings, but I refused to take them off. "So, do you really think people are gonna give us candy? I mean, I don’t think we’re young enough for this."

She grabbed a bag full of sweets from inside the glove compartment and gave it to me.

"I’ve got the treats!", she started the car.

"Which takes us to the tricking", I replied, biting a tiny piece of chocolate. "So, where you’re taking me?"

"I thought that maybe we could escape this town for a while. What do you think?"

She actually waited for me to answer.

"Drive!",  I said, getting my seatbelt on. She did.

I couldn’t help looking at her while she drove. The way she’d look at one side and then to another, before going through the next street corner, squinting her eyes and biting her lower lip…

"So, how long do you live here?", she asked me, still looking ahead.

"Well, since I can remember", I replied, looking at her.

"No family, then?"

"No one close...", I said, sighing.

"Don’t you have any friends? Anyone?"

"I’ve been alone for a very long time", I suddenly felt really sad.  And I had no idea of why my eyes were tearing up.

"You’re a lovely girl", she looked at me while saying that. "I’m pretty sure you could make lots of friends if you try."

"I don’t feel like trying."

She stopped the car right after we passed through Ellis Avenue.

"Why did we stop?", I looked around, but there was nothing to see. The lights were out in every single house.

"Why did you keep looking for me from your window?", she said, turning her whole body to look at me.

She was, again, expecting an answer. But I didn’t have one.

"I wanted to be friends with you", I said, my eyes unable to reach hers.

"But why? You don’t even know me."

She seemed to be accusing me of something.

"What are you trying to say?", I took my seatbelt off, so I could also turn to face her. My patience was all gone. "Tell me what’s wrong! One minute you treat me just fine, and then…"

Agnes gently touched my face. I stopped talking.

"What makes you so different?", she whispered, more to herself than for me.

She moved her hand from my cheek to the back of my neck. I shivered with her touch and closed my eyes for a second. Enough time for her to let me go.

"I need to... think!", she said, getting out of her car. Something between screaming and shushing. "Please, stay inside. Ok? Stay in. I’ll be right back."

Agnes took off her witch hat and tossed it on the ground. She seemed mad and confused. Nothing about her even resembled that lovely neighbor I once knew.

I opened the door and stepped out. No way in hell I'd watch her freak out like that and do nothing. I was on my way to her when something else got my attention. It was like a glitch right in the middle of the sky. I looked again, to be sure. Without even realizing it, I kept walking towards that strange thing that reminded me of a TV with a bad signal. The closer I got, the more I could see. The details were… so weird. Like a bubble. But with some kind of energy around it. It made me wanna touch it, so I lifted one of my fingers and, feeling kinda foolish, pressed against whatever it was. I felt a little shock, but it didn't hurt.

What if I tried to cross it?

"DON’T MOVE!"

My whole body went cold. I tried to turn my head but I couldn’t move a muscle. My finger still in the air, my eyes locked on that energy field right in front of me. If I could speak, I’d have shouted. But my voice was trapped inside my throat.

Her hands burned my waist when she touched me from behind. I knew it was Agnes because there was no one else in there.

"Trust me", she whispered again, right into my ears.

She held me tighter while my body just collapsed on top of hers. We both fell to the ground. My voice was back, but I was speechless. She pulled me away from where we fell, just trying to get me as far as she could from the glitch. Then we heard it before it actually happened. A blast. The barrier got bigger, swallowing houses, cars, and people. Agnes held me, and I kept my head down on her shoulder, with my eyes closed. There was so much wind, I could feel her hair whipping my body while she kept both of her arms around me. Protecting me from whatever was happening. It ended as suddenly as it started. We stood there for a few more seconds before she made me look at her. I didn’t want to.

"Hey. HEY!", she insisted when I tried to look away. "We need to get out of here."

She got up, taking me with her to the car. I had glitter all over my face, and her hair was all tangled.

"You don’t need to be afraid", she said when we got inside. "I’m not gonna hurt you."

"Agnes… ", I tried to tell her that I wasn’t afraid, but I simply asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"It's time to set you free", she replied, speeding up.

That made no sense to me, but I buckled up.

[hufflepuffhollander]

apocalypse: tom holland imagine

a/n | this is my second submission for @hollandsrecs​ 1k bingo event! truth be told i hardcore fell in love with this as i wrote it and lowkey want to dedicate more parts/lil featurettes to it... 👀

summary: a toxic storm that has wiped out most of the world’s population has you taking shelter and fighting for survival with an unexpected ally.

tom x fem reader | contains alluded family/pet death, mentions of depression, angst, language, and generally morbid themes, but also fluff, love and hope so there’s that | word count: 2.7k | enjoy!

Ever since the rain, you’d lost everything.

That dammed day the skies turned black, your family had been one of the Burned. But you’d been stuck inside with a cold instead of going out with them that morning, and you didn’t know then that you’d never see them again. You’d woken up to earth-shaking thunders and faint shrieks, opening the windows to find torrential rain that resembled pure tar pouring from the sky. The power had gone out, and without any streetlights, you couldn’t see anything in front of you past your windowpanes, even though it was only noon. Without a clock, anyone would’ve looked outside and thought it was midnight. The only thing you had was a crank-powered radio your family kept for hurricanes, and you listened and learned through static and horror that the rain falling wasn’t rain at all — it was acid. And nobody caught in the first storm had survived.  

It rained black for a week straight, and you had to ration what food and water you had as you glued yourself to the radio, hoping to hear that maybe, just maybe, somebody had turned up saying they’d survived the rain, and that there were other survivors taking shelter elsewhere until they could safely come home. But the whole of England had been swallowed by the storm, and there was no hope for clear skies ahead. Yes, you were safe, but you couldn’t go outside. You couldn’t see outside. And you were completely, entirely, and wholly alone.

With each passing day you spiraled down further, darkness of the earth encroaching deeper within you, realizing that your family wasn’t coming back. Nobody was. You fell asleep in the dark listening to the thrashing of the rain that you had gotten used to, tears streaming down your face, and cursed your unsteady heartbeat for mimicking the rhythm of the weighted raindrops hitting your roof.

On what would’ve been day eight of the rain, you awoke to a dull orange light bathing your bedroom walls. You shivered under the pile of quilts you’d amassed as it was autumn in London and electricity was a luxury of the past. Confused at the image of your own hands in light, you bolted upright at the complete silence and stillness in the air. You moved your curtains aside to see the world painted in a bleak tangerine mist—and there was no black rain falling from the sky.

Your breath hitched in your throat and you clambered over your bed to reach your radio, tuning station to station, disbelief ringing in your ears.

“...it appears that the rain has ceased...”

“...the storm has lifted over London-”

“Officials have yet to deem it safe to go outside as we continue to track where the rain could have possibly gone, and if it is coming back...”

You felt unable to take your stare off the outside as your mind raced. Could you finally open your door, try to find other survivors? Was it safe? Did you even care? The stiff air in your house had you going stir crazy, depressed, out of your mind with delirium. Your heart was racing with no hope of slowing down; you had to try to go outside.

Without thinking you opened the front door, holding your breath. Your eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the light and you felt blinded, falling against the doorframe. Taking uneasy, slow steps onto the street, you shivered into your sweatshirt and peered through blinds of unmarked houses to see if anyone else had made it through, knocking on doors and waiting on silence. Cars were left with doors open, remnants of daily activities frozen in time in front of you, and just the sight sent another wave of chills through you. Was there anyone left?

Only a few houses away did you hear faint footsteps, getting louder and louder, were they...running? You whipped around in all directions but couldn’t see past a few feet in front of you due to the lingering mist in the air. The footsteps became increasingly menacing, and within half a minute you heard a voice.

“Hey, are you fucking crazy?”

Who was that?

You felt a strong pair of hands take hold of your shoulders and pull you into an empty garage, closing it behind them, shining a single beam of light in your eyes so you so all you could see of them was their orange-inspired silhouette.

“Gotta take cover...” he muttered in the chaos.

“Hey, you can’t just grab-”

“What do you think you’re doing wandering around outside?”

“You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“...I’m sorry.” his voice became a thousand times softer. “I...I haven’t seen anybody else in a week.”

Your own heart sank further in your chest than it already was.

“Neither have I.”

“You don’t have any family?”

“They were burned.”

“...right.”

“Sorry, who even are you?” you asked, shaking, the reality of the situation hitting you with a bolt of fear.

“Right, I’m Tom, Tom Holland. Sorry. I live a few streets down.” Strangely, you didn’t feel at all threatened by him.

“Why are you outside?”

“I’ve...I’ve been by myself, my dog was in the yard when the storm came. When it was quiet this morning, I thought I heard him bark...I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t go looking. It’s stupid, I know. He’s gone.”

“Where’s your family?” you mirrored his weary interrogation.

Tom looked down, stifling back a soft whimper. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and quickly changed the subject, trying to regain his composure. 

“Look, I don’t know who else has made it through the week, but from what I’ve gathered, there aren’t many survivors, at least not around here. And since we’re both alone and the rain is coming again, I think we should stick together-”

A pang of fear. “Wait, how do you know it’s coming again?” A pulse of trepidation. “I don’t know you and I don’t trust you.” Tom grimaced at the inevitable struggle this was going to be—he didn’t care about who you were, he just wanted to survive—and flashed the light up onto the ceiling so you could see each other better. 

Synchronously you both let out a breath of relief that you were likely the same age, neither of you looking too much like a serial killer, both of you...well, beautiful, actually. But he’d never tell you that. 

“Does it matter? Half the world is dead. And you found someone else who survived, accidentally, and you’re about to turn around and flee back to face whatever comes next alone?”

You pondered what he said and reluctantly realized he was right. You would be absolutely crazy to willingly go back to where you were before and keep on going alone. How long could you survive like that?

“Okay, fine. But there will need to be boundaries.” You felt a sense of relief thinking about having another body nearby if another wave of darkness ever came, but you tried to push that thought out of your head before it could manifest.

“Whatever. Can you grab some of those batteries over there? The roof of my house is starting to give, so we’ll have to go to yours after I pick up some things.”

You nodded and found a box to fill up with anything you could find that looked useful. Tom opened the garage door again, eyebrows scrunched together in worry, and looked back at you. 

“Stay on my left so I know where you are if the mist gets in the way. Try not to get any water droplets on your skin. If you hear or see anything, tell me.” And with that, he was off. He seemed much more suited to the survivor lifestyle than you did.

You started walking with a huff. “And my name is y/n. Thanks for asking.”

~

You made it back to your house a long time later, and you were exhausted, feeling as though your lungs had been filled with toxic fumes from being in the mist.

Tom set his things down and walked around your house, weaving in and out of rooms like he was on a mission.

“What are you doing?” You stared at him puzzled as he stood on the couch and moved his hands in weird patterns along the ceiling.

“Trying to see if there are any cracks that water could get through,” he said, deep in concentration.

“Can you get off the couch?”

“Sorry.” he coughed.

You spent the next two days mending any loose boards or fixtures in your house, running into a lot of awkward conversation and sleeping at opposite ends of the house at night. The headspace you were both in was a hard one to shake, but you couldn’t deny that having someone else to navigate this new meager existence with helped tremendously. And you could tell Tom had a soft side that would show itself the more that you both sat on the couch together, wrapped in your own blankets, listening to the radio static for the hourly news updates on the storm tracking. In those moments, you would look at each other when you heard the voices come on, a glint of hope passing between your eyes, growing closer in the cold, pale air of your living room.

One night, the broadcaster put on a song in between updates, letting Nocturne No. 2 by Chopin flow through the speakers, and you and Tom danced to the simple melody together, just content to feel that warm feeling of a smile again. The change of pace was more than welcome, and you held each other close and spun around the living room as if it were a regular evening in a regular life; as if you hadn’t collided running from the apocalypse.

“You never told me you could dance,” you smiled at Tom.

“You never asked.”

On the fifth morning that Tom woke up in the guest room across your house, you were the first thing he thought of as his eyes fluttered open. Being in your presence had been his only refuge since the rain had come, and he had been on the brink of mental collapse before he ran into you wandering the streets that day. In a way, you had saved him from himself, and he still barely knew you outside of a few soft moments you’d shared. 

He noticed you were still in your room with the door shut instead of out on the couch, listening for news and reading like you usually were, and went to knock on your door when he heard muffled cries from behind it.

“y/n, are you okay?”

You sniffled and hurriedly wiped away the streamlines of tears that had streaked down your cheeks.

“Yeah, fine. Sorry.”

“Can I come in?” He opened the door without waiting for a reply. You were sitting against your bed on the floor, with a photo album spread open on your lap, looking at pictures of your family. You looked up at Tom through blurry eyes. “I miss them.”

His whole expression softened and he came to sit on the floor next to you, moving closer than he’d ever been to you. You took a leap and leaned into his chest, and he put an arm around you, pulling you in closer. You let out another silent cry, and he lightly rubbed your arm up and down with his hand.

“I know.” 

You reveled in his embrace and warmth, and tried to close the album, but he held it open.

“Tell me about them.”

“You don’t want to hear about that,” you sniffled.

“Yes, I do.”

He took a blanket off of your bed and wrapped you both up in it, sheltering you from the cold in the air, and you pointed at each picture and gave him an anecdote about every one that was taken, already feeling like they were stories of a past life. You smiled and laughed and even cried together, sitting for hours exchanging stories about your childhoods that weren’t really all that different. Before you knew it, it grew dark.

The house felt more sultry then, with the lantern you used at night burning its oil and the connection between you growing more palpable with every passing second. But you were both shortly jolted out of your trance by a loud alarm screeching out from the radio. It was choppy and hard to decipher.

“...there appears to be activity-”

“Reports are flooding in-”

“Red alert; we repeat, red ale-”

You and Tom stared at each other shell shocked for a moment before he hurried over to the windows.

“It’s dark, y/n.”

“It’s nighttime,” you tried to reason.

“Look at the clock for me,” his voice was shaky.

You felt your blood run cold as you did.

“It’s...3:30 in the afternoon.”

You both thought it was nighttime, but it’s only because the sky had turned black.

“Tom...”

The radio tuned on again.

“If anyone is out there listening...it appears....that the rain has returned. We do not know how long this second wave will last, or when we will be able to broadcast again. We urge you all to stay sheltered and not to go outside. May god be wi-”

Another loud beep, and the signal had disappeared.

You let out a panicked whimper and Tom ran to and hugged you like he would lose you if you didn’t.

You heard a clash of thunder, and your windows shook. Then, the unmistakeable, dreadful sound of a torrential, violent rain. A tornado siren tolled in the distance, filling the watery noise with an abysmal blare. You could see nothing but the lantern in front of you; your body going into shock as your outside was warmed by Tom’s embrace but chilled to the core with fear.

"We need to go take cover,” Tom said quietly, lacing his fingers with yours. The storage room attached to the garage was the only one without windows, and you had set it up days ago with blankets, pillows, candles and food just in case you needed it, all while praying you wouldn’t.

Your legs barely carried you to the small room and Tom helped you to settle down on the mattress inside. He went to sit on the floor next to you, but you refused to let go of his hand.

“Tom...stay with me. Please.”

He silently obliged and laid down next to you, covering himself with the same blankets, pulling you close into him and wrapping his arms around your body, and he smelled like home. You closed your eyes and tried to take in every molecule of him, felt your whole chest sink down, the pressure that filled your head dissipating. Wrapped here in his arms, you could’ve almost forgotten that, on the other side of this wall, the world was ending all over again.

He breathed you in all the same, thanking anything that was left that he had you to cling to.

"We’ll be safe here,” he almost whispered.

“I’m scared, Tom.”

“I know.”

You took a breath to speak, and he pulled his head back just enough so that he could look into your eyes. They searched yours frantically, like he was just seeing you for the first time, only by the light of the lantern.

“But I’m a little less scared with you.”

He let out a slow sigh, attempting to steady his pulse, and rested his forehead against yours, bringing a hand up to idle in the crook of your neck. You didn’t know it, but he needed you as much as you did him in that moment.

“We’re in this together, y/n. You and me.”

A window shattered somewhere outside, followed by what sounded like a loud, shrill scream. You looked away in horror.

“Hey, hey. Look at me. Focus on me.” he spoke softly and turned your chin back with his thumb, rubbing your cheek in slow, calming circles. “We’re gonna survive this.”

“H-how do you know?”

“Because I’ll be damned if I was only given a week to know you.”

“Tom...”

There was another vicious rumble of thunder, and your body shook involuntarily. It sounded like the heavens themselves were opening up onto your ceiling. Tom squeezed you tighter and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Talk to me, love.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

You stayed that way for countless hours, until the lantern ran out of oil, until you both were lost in dreams of days where the sun shone again. Maybe, one day you would be able to see it together.

tagging some mutual pals :)

@peterspideysstuff​ @living-life-underoos​ @chloecreatesfictions​ @londonspidey​ @parkersroses​ @marvelhoesworld​ @tomhollandsmut​ @sad-thinker-over​ @marvelousnat​ @bunbun9396​ @thegreatestlovesofalltime​ @spideysquackson13​ @photoshopart15​ @sailingintothenight​

[s-creations]

I Saw Uncle Under the Mistletoe

During the holiday celebration, José and Panchito arrive to the McDuck manor as a surprise to Donald. During their visit, the kids come across their uncle being more than a little friendly with the other two birds. Now the holidays have become a little more stressful when the triplets believe the person that's cared for them their entire lives is going to leave them behind.  

Fandom: Ducktales (2017), The Three Caballeros.   Rating: General Audience   Relationships/Pairings: José Carioca/Donald Duck/Panchito Pistoles  Other Tags: Secrete Relationship, Misunderstandings, Angest with a Happy Ending, Christmas Themed, Use of Google Translate, Long One Shot.

It was a small request for the holiday season. But there was a hope that this year would be somewhat quiet for the McDuck/Duck family. Sure, there was still the annual ‘Set up the traps to keep Santa away’ day. It was more of the thought of not having to deal with evil plans or ne'er-do-wells that would rain terror down on them. No on breaking down their door. No one trying to steal from the McDuck fortune. No one being kidnapped and held for ransom.

 So, it was a bit worrisome when a large box, wrapped in shiny red wrapping paper with a white bow resting on top suddenly appeared in the foyer. The only person who seemed unconcerned with this was Scrooge. Which, at the moment, no one could really tell if that was a good or a bad thing. It wasn’t going to be a surprise created by some enemy, which was the original worry. But there was a curious thought as to what could be inside and what Scrooge could possibly be planning.

 “Are we...going to approach it?” Louie asked, trying to sound casual as he eyed his great-uncle.

 “It might be best if we look for a tag.” Scrooge helpfully suggested.

 Dewey instantly sprang into action. With a call of “I’m on it!” he was scrambling around the wrapped box. The necessary discovery made at the very top. “It says it’s for Uncle Donald! Oh, and that he needs to open it immediately.”

 Said duck was confused by this. Going over in his head what he could have possibly bought recently to need this kind of fanfare. Or even what else someone could have bought for him. Apparently Dewey wasn’t going to wait for his uncle’s confusion to take up further time. The duckling pulled Donald forward, the older unable to do more than to unwrap the large present.

 There was a collective outcry of surprise when the present bursted open. Two familiar birds jumping out and tackling Donald onto the polished floor.

 “José? Panchito?” Donald voiced in absolute shock.

 “¡Hola amigo!” The red rooster beamed pulling the baffled duck into a tight hug.

 “What- but how?”

 José could only chuckle, placing a hand on Donald’s shoulder, “Blame your uncle. He arranged all of this.”

 “Merely an early Christmas present,” Scrooge quickly intervened, “I know how much you’ve missed them. So, they’re my- ah, your guests until the new year. As long as they stay in line.”

 Neither José or Panchito were worried about the soul crushing glare the multi-millionaire duck was given them. The green parrot even letting out another chuckle as he greeted Scrooge properly. “It is wonderful to see you again  Senhor Scrooge.”

 “You really paid to fly two people to Duckberg? Two people from two different parts of the world.” Louie casually commented to Scrooge as both watched Donald be pulled up from the floor and pulled into a proper group hug.

 “Don’t be daft. I had Launchpad pick them up.” Scrooge scoffed, ruffling the top of the duckling’s head.

 The triplets were not quite sure what they thought of the flashy birds. After all, the last time they were in their lives, they were liars and were talking about taking Donald away. So the ducklings were cautious around José and Panchito. Even with each bird making their personality known and clearly trying to no longer be strangers in the younger’s lives.

 José was the calmest of the two, that was for sure. More than not, you could find him sleeping the day away in different parts of the mansion. Mainly in areas that had the sun beating down. Huey was a little shocked to find the green parrot bundled up one afternoon and resting poolside. José only seemed ‘awake’ in the evening and into the night. Pulling whomever was near into a quick dance, which Dewey happily participated in, until dinner was ready. Then he would happily regale stories of his travels and the numerous people he’d met along the way. Webby taking full advantage of this and asking as many questions as she could.

 Panchito was...loud. And overly energetic. He was up before anyone else and was the last to settle down for the evening. He seemed to sing wherever he went, no matter what activity he was doing. It would be accompanied with some random song that just popped into his head. It was rare to see him sitting still, which didn’t happen until dinner was ready to eat and he seemed to finally relax. The triplets also learned that the rooster was one for physical affection. Louie swears his back had broken and was then put back together after two different morning hugs he’d received from Panchito.

 Both birds seemed okay, but the triplets were still reserved about the entire situation. Even if Webby was chattering about how great they were. But, despite their reserve, it was clear their uncle was thrilled to have his friends there. Constantly smiling, constantly laughing, tossing stories around as easily as the other two.

 Seeing this caused Huey to worry. Which he voiced one evening before dinner to the small group.

 “Do you think Uncle Donald regrets taking us in?”

 “What?” Dewey sat up quickly. Almost banging his head on the bunk bed above him. His eyes narrowed on Huey, who winced. “Why in the world would you say that?”

 “Because he’s so happy right now.”

 “We’ve seen him happy before.” Louie casually argued back.

 “But not like this. He’s been happy for us. I’ve never seen him happy for himself.”

 “Okay, so, why are you blaming us for this?”

 “Because when he took us in, he pushed everyone away. Even close friends. So maybe...if he hadn’t taken us…”

 “He would be happier?” The duckling dressed in green voiced weakly. Now looking as worried as Huey.

 Dewey let out a snort, however, and waved his hand. “Okay, before we panic too much over this, why don’t we just ask Uncle Donald. Easy solution.”

 “He’s just going to lie,” Huey argued, “He’s going to do everything he can to keep us happy.”

 “Well it’s a better idea than just moping around about it. If you’re both so worried, I’ll go ask.”

 “I’ll come!’ Webby bounced up, “I’ve been meaning to test my ‘lie detecting’ skills.”

 “Perfect. Sit tight you two. We’ll be back with information.” Dewey took Webby’s wrist and they raced from the room.

 They already knew that they should start with the kitchen first. Panchito and Mrs. Beakley had agreed to trade off on evening cooking duty while the rooster was visiting. Panchito saying he wanted to share his family favorites with his growing family. Mrs. Beakley happily passed those nights over, enjoying her evenings off as an early gift to herself.

 This was Panchito’s evening, so there was a chance that Donald was with him. And in fact, he was. Both ducklings paused to peek around the corner. Peering into the kitchen from the hallway doorway.

 Panchito was moving around the kitchen at ease. The stove on full force as he worked on the large meal. Donald was sitting on the nearby countertop, his legs slowly swaying as he watched on. They were talking quietly. Dewey eventually realized they were speaking Spanish.

 “I didn’t know Uncle Donald could speak Spanish… Weird. Oh well, let’s go talk to him.” The duckling in blue was quickly pulled back into place by Webby. Dewey released a choked quack as it happened.

 “Hey-”

 “Shush.”

 “But-”

 “Shush! I’m listening.”

 “You know Spanish?”

 “Yes, now hush.”

 Dewey huffed but kept quiet and watched. He wasn’t sure what Webby was waiting for. They just seemed to be chatting about random things. Like what he and his brothers did when Donald would cook on the boathouse. Except it was just old friends catching up, so nothing that should keep Webby’s interest like this. He was about to complain once more when Panchito turned to face his solo audience. Boldly stating something that caused Donald to turn red and Webby to gasp softly.

 “What happened?” Dewey asked. All he got in response was a pat on his face and another “Shush!”.

 His argument died on his throat when Donald, still flushed, pushed at the rooster’s lower back with a foot. Panchito, in turn, grabbed the extended ankle. Easily pulling at it to bring Donald right to the edge of the counter and stepping between the duck’s legs with a raised brow. Hands resting on Donald’s hips and bending forward. Donald, on his part, took it all with ease. A smirk on his own bill as he draped his arms over the rooster’s shoulders. There was a small mutter of something. Nothing that either duckling was able to catch but could tell it wasn’t malicious. It was almost (Dewey panicked slightly) loving. But, whatever was said, was enough to fluster Donald once more before he pulled Panchito into a kiss.

 Dewey’s mouth dropped in absolute shock. Webby had to clamp her bill shut to keep the squeal of absolute joy from escaping. But she did let out a small noise as she was forcefully pulled away. Dewey leading the way back to the bedroom. Eyes wide and frantic.

 “Whoa, what happened?”

 Dewey jumped at Huey’s voice, not realizing they had arrived back. His mouth opened and loaded a few times. But nothing came out. He was still in too much shock to properly explain what happened.

 “Dude, just spit it out.” Louis huffed.

 “Your uncle and Panchito are secret lovers!” Webby answered, ending with a  small scream of glee.

 “What!” Huey exclaimed, Louie dropping out of his bed and onto the floor in shock.

 “They’re...in the kitchen,” Dewey voiced weakly, “and they just…”

 He created ‘mouths’ with his hands to press them together. Huey and Louie both let out small noises of distress.

 “You can’t be serious.” The duckling clad in red voiced weakly.

 “I just saw it happen! It’s burned into my retinas and my memory. I wouldn’t make this up.”

 “Wait, wait,” Louis recovered, “Was this just a recent development?”

 “I mean, based on everyone’s reactions, I would say no one else knew.”

 “No! I mean, did they just start ‘dating’ or have they always been in a relationship? And if they have been together all this time, why would Uncle Donald hide something like this from us?”

 “We could just ask him?” Webby offered.

 Dewey shook his head. “I’m not going to back down until the food is ready and I can focus on that.”

 “Plus, if this is a secret relationship, calling it out could be damaging. We know Uncle Scrooge isn’t...too wild about them. He might not like Uncle Donald dating. We’ll need to talk to Uncle Donald alone some time.”

 “Which won’t be happening anytime soon,” Louie huffed, “He’s always with those two until he goes to bed.”

 Webby shuffled her foot nervously before she quietly added. “Unless Panchito shares the bed.”

 The outburst of disgust was almost defining.

 ___________________

 As the days passed, the four were still unable to figure out how they were going to approach Donald. It was getting closer to Christmas and there were still a multitude of tasks to accomplish. Baking, shopping, wrapping, decorating, setting traps; the kids were too exhausted at the end of the day to worry about anything else. That doesn’t mean the issue ever really left their mind.

 It was in the middle of a decorating day when the next surprise was dropped.

 Huey and Louie were traveling through the one of the last few undecorated hallways. The duckling in red going down a list of the remaining decorations. Discussing, more to himself as Louie was barely paying attention, about what should go where and why. Eventually reaching the dead end, Louie leaned against the wall as he continued to slowly nurse a can of Pep. Lazily watching as Huey wrote down a few more notes.

 “So, that’s the tentative plan,” Huey concluded as he closed the guidebook with a snap, “What do you think?”

 “Yep, sounds good.”

 “...Were you even paying attention.”

 “Oh sure.”

 Huey glared at Louie, who only smiled innocently back. “Well, no matter. We can start setting up when Uncle Donald and José get here.”

 “They are taking their sweet time.” Louie grumbled.

 “Do you think something happened?”

 “Don’t stress, we would have heard something.” As if on cue, there was a loud ‘thump!’. Which was followed by a loud and familiar quack that was undoubtedly their uncle. “There they are.”

 “Let’s go see if they need help.” Huey ignored the small noise of complaint that Louie gave as he rushed by.

 He was about to turn the corner to confront the new arrivals. But faltered hearing an accented voice softly say, “You need to be careful meu amor.”

 That caught his attention.

 Huey instantly pressed himself against the well. Pulling Louie close and covering his bill before he could let out a noise of surprise. His glare didn’t deter Huey, who merely replied with a shake of his head and a pointed look to the corner.

 After an understanding to remain quiet, they peered around cautiously. They found Donald leaning against the wall, holding his no doubt injured foot to check it over for any damage. José was running his thumb over the slowly reddening area. The boxes of decorations laying nearby.

 “I really wish Scrooge would move that Grandfather Clock,” Donald grumbled, “It’s too close to the corner.”

 “Or you could remember that it is there and not hit it.” José offered with a smile.

 “Hush. You’re not the one with the throbbing foot.”

 “Oh, pobrezinho. Would a kiss make it better?”

 Donald merely rolled his eyes, but didn’t resist as he was pulled close. Both duckling’s mouths dropped as the adults shared a kiss. One that went on longer than either Huey or Louie were comfortable with.

 “Wait, wait,” Donald laughed softly as José moved to nip at his neck, “The kids are nearby.”

 “Is your foot feeling better?”

 “If I say yes, will you let me go?”

 José sighed dramatically. “If I must.”

 “You must. Let’s get the boxes delivered before the kids start to worry.”

 Huey began to panic. Knowing he and Louie couldn’t just abandon the hallway without a good reason and they couldn’t flee fast enough. But he really didn’t want to face his uncle after that. He also really wanted to talk to Dewey and Webby about what happened because this was getting crazy!

 Huey turned to whisper frantically to Louie, with a plea for help.

 Only to be sucker punched in the gut by the youngest triplet.

 It wasn’t a hard enough hit for Huey to blackout. But he doubled over in pain, having difficult breathing as Louie gave him support on his weak knees. The duckling in red let out a weak groan of pain just as Donald and José entered the hallway.

 Rightly so, Donald panicked. “Huey? What happened?”

 “Oh gee Uncle Donald, I think Huey has a little stomach ache. I think all this Christmas excitement is a bit overwhelming. I was going to take him back to our room to rest.” Louie laid it on thick, making sure to wrap one of Huey’s arms around his shoulders.

 José frowned, placing his box down quickly. “Do you want some help? I can carry him.”

 “No, no, you two carry on with the merriment. I can get Huey to bed easily. Don’t you worry.” Louie didn’t drop the act until they were a few hallways away. He leaned his brother against the wall, the older triplet glaring at him. Huey holding his stomach in some way of comfort.

 “You...couldn’t...have warned me?”     

 “I panicked. Now hurry up and catch your breath so we can report back to the others.”

 ___________________

 “So, wait, is Uncle Donald dating both?” Dewey asked weakly.

 “Apparently? It’s the only explanation I can think of for why José was so...lovey dovey.” Louie choked out with Huey letting out an agreement groan from his bed. Dewey was not showing the same discomfort. In fact, he looked more frantically worried than anything.

 “Is he...cheating-”

  “Whoa, whoa, let’s take a step back,” Webby instantly took control over the situation. The triplets now held the same level of concern from the single word Dewey almost uttered. “Now, I’m  one to always offer ‘the sneak way’ to find information. But that’s normally used against the enemy. This is your uncle. Why don’t we just go talk to him?”

 Huey and Dewey looked nervous about the possible confrontation. Louie, however, stood up, appearing angry and agitated.

 “You know, I want to talk to those two. We know next to nothing about them. Maybe they’re playing some game with Uncle Donald.”

 Webby frowned. “Do you really think that...low of them?”

 “I don’t know what to think of them because I don’t know them! But we know Uncle Donald and he wouldn’t pull this kind of stunt. Those two however…” Louie didn’t finish that sentence. Instead, he stuffs his hands into his hoodie pocket and stomped his way towards the door.

 The other three had no choice but to quickly follow after. They made their way down to the backyard pool. Knowing the green parrot, he was out by the poolside soaking up some sunlight. Even with snow laying on the ground, the cold didn’t really seem to bother José.

 Louie was first out the back door and marched his way over to where the parrot was currently resting. Only to falter when the boathouse opened and Panchito stepped out. The rooster shivering from the cold, even with a heavy coat on. Louie was quickly pulled into the bushes by Webby. Huey and Dewey already hiding back there.

 “How can you just lay out in the cold? ¡Está helando!” Panchito exclaimed.

 José barely cracked open an eye to regard the shivering bird. “I have been to colder areas. This is actually rather mild.”

 “Pavonearse.”

 “Is Donald still tinkering away at the heater?”

 “Si. I had to get out of the way or else I would have become an unfortunate victim.”

 “No heater and you are standing in such freezing temperatures? Venha aqui, let me warm you up.” José opened his arms and they were quickly filled with a shivering rooster. The parrot merely laughed, gently preening the red feathers he could reach. “If you are so cold, why don’t you just go into the mansion?”

 “Because being in there alone is so unwelcoming.”

 “...Scrooge invited us.”

 “I know.”

 “But years of animosity does not just go away.”

 “...Si.” Panchito let out a small noise as he was moved to sit up. But he didn’t complain when José kissed him softly.

 “It will be fine… We will be fine. And soon we will not have to worry about leaving Donald ever again.” José laughed as Panchito’s mood instantly rose.

 “Do you think the papers will arrive on time?”

 “Oh, I doubt it. But we will just think of it as a late present.”

 Both fell quiet when the boathouse door opened once more, Donald walking out. Wearing an old, plain white shirt that was stained from numerous years of use. Spots of oil could be seen clumping his feathers.

 “It’s fixed,” Donald announced, “It’ll be a bit until the entire boat is warm again. But it’s going to be better than out here.”

 Panchito let out a cheer and raced up the ramp, pulling the duck into a quick kiss. “You know where to find me!”

 And down into the boat the rooster went.

 José quietly strolled up the same ramp, clearly in no hurry to leave the sun. “Have I ever told you I am quite enamored with the working man?”

 “Every time I fix something.” Donald rolled his eyes, but his feathers ruffled in embarrassment.

 “Then you know it is true.”

 “Would you just get in here. I need to shower before my feathers are stained black.”

 “Would you like to save on water?”

 “Just get in!”

 José was not offended by the sudden outburst as Donald’s feathers puffed out further. The parrot claimed his own kiss before he entered the boat, pullin the flustered duck in as well.

 As soon as the area was clear, Louie quickly stood. Heading back into the mansion. Not looking back to see if the rest were following. Huey was up next, not bothered when Dewey quickly reached out and grabbed his hand. Both pressing close as they followed the younger triplet. Webby brought up the rear. Realizing something was weighing heavily over them, but not fully sure for what reason.

 “So...we know no one’s cheating on anyone.” She offered weakly, giving a small smile. Which slipped away when she didn’t receive a reply. “Guys?”

 “He’s still lying to us.” Louie muttered darkly. He’d taken residents on the window seat, hood up and curled in on himself.

 “Why didn’t Uncle Donald tell us?” Dewey asked weakly. He and Huey had claimed the lowest bunk, clinging to each other.

 “Maybe to not hurt us,” Huey offered, “Maybe he had to break it off when he took us in. He couldn’t raise three kids and maintain a long distance relationship.”

 “So it’s our fault.” Louie snapped.

 “Hang on guys. You’re still just jumping to wild conclusions,” Webby interjected, “He loves you guys. He wanted to take you in.”

 “Do we know that? Every story we’ve heard, it was a sudden reaction. He just took us. Maybe it was his way to improperly grieve.” Huey argued back.

 “Maybe he just took us in so he could be close to mom in some way.” added Dewey.

 “You don’t know that. Come on, we’re going back down there to talk to Donald. Let’s go do that.” Webby waved her hand, a gesture for the trio to follow.

 “Are they going to take Uncle Donald away?” Dewey asked.

 Huey swallowed weakly. “That’s what it sounds like.”

 “What a perfect Christmas present,” Louie huffed, “Gets to run off with his lovers while he leaves the troublesome nephews. How romantic.”

 Dewey let out a small whimper, hiding himself away in his older brother. That seemed to snap Louie out of the fog he was in and he rushed over to the bed. Quickly clamoring up and joining in the small huddle. Webby could only watch. Frozen in spot as her mind raced with how she was supposed to help.

 ___________________

 Donald was close to having an episode. Because something was wrong with his boys and he had no idea what it was. He’d been so focused on José and Panchito he hadn’t really given time to his own kids. Now it was a spiraling descent of feeling guilty for his actions, but knowing he had a right to be with his own boyfriends.

  “I know that look.”

 Donald looked up from the well worn table as José and Panchito slid in on either side of him. “What do you mean?”

 “It may have been a few years. But that is a look of forlorn. One you have when you have started berating yourself.” José continued.

 “What’s wrong mi amor?” Panchito asked, cutting right to the chase.

 Donald huffed, ruffling his feathers. “The kids have been acting...strange, and I can’t figure out why. Now I’m worried I haven’t been paying attention to a problem that shouldn’t be one. And the boys won’t talk to me. They just hover nearby and run when I get too close.”

 “José and I could talk to them?”

 The green parrot frowned. “Except they have been avoiding us as well. I am afraid we are not going to be much help.”

 “What about la niña pequeña, Webby? We could ask her?” The rooster offered.

 “I have barely seen her as of late as well.”

 “Uh...Scrooge and Beakley?”   

 “Trust me, if they knew, they would have already ‘talked’ to me about it.” Donald grumbled.

 José pulled the duck closer, smiling softly as he eagerly shuffled closer. “It is Christmas, we are all a little stressed. Let us just get past all of this craziness. Then we will sit down with the kids and talk.”

 Donald really hated that was their best plan. But he also knew there was very little else they could do.

 Christmas day arrived with rather subdued fanfare. The kids were clearly excited to finally open the pile of presents that were under the large pine tree. But Donald was also aware of the numerous, nervous glaces thrown his way. Some rather hard ones given out when José or Panchito was nearby. It was worrisome to think the kids were angry with his lovers. Granted, secret lovers, but the point still remained.

 ...Did they find out and silently didn’t approve? If this was true, why wouldn’t they just talk to him? He could explain, he could talk to them and hopefully ease their worries.

 Donald jumped back to reality feeling a hand placed on his shoulder. He looked up to find Panchito giving him a worried look. He attempted to smile back, but it was clear it wasn’t comforting.

 The pile of presents slowly depleted throughout the morning. Donald’s nerves soothed slightly hearing the triplet’s calls of glee with each new gift they unwrapped. Even seeming content with what José and Panchito had given them.

 He raised a brow when Scrooge walked over to the couch he, José, and Panchito were sitting on. The older duck cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the other two before holding out an envelope for each.

 “Happy Christmas.”

 Donald watched as the two birds took an envelope, opening it cautiously. Panchito was the first to fully open his, pulling out a piece of paper and reading it over quickly. He let out such a yell of absolute joy that Donald was worried it would shatter the nearby windows. The rooster leapt up and pulled Scrooge into a tight hug just as José read over his own paper. The parrot’s beak dropped in surprise, wide eyes traveling to Donald as he passed the paper over.

 Curious, Donald accepted it. As his eyes traveled down, his own excitement grew, a wide smile breaking out. “...You’re both…”

 “We are officially legal!” Panchito cheered, finally releasing Scrooge. Who subtly rubbed his lower back when the rooster turned away. “We are now citizens!”

 “We were not expecting these papers so soon.” José mumbled weakly.

 Scrooge gave a small chuckle, giving a knowing smirk when all eyes were back on him. “You can get things moving fairly quickly when you have enough money.”

 He winced as Panchito pulled him into another quick, but still bone crushing hug. “There is not enough thanks in the world!”

 Donald could only laugh as he and José were pulled off the couch by the rooster. “We can stay, we can finally be close to each other. We can buy a home and-”

 The joyous moment was quickly cut short when a loud ‘thud’ interrupted the event. Louie had stood, the present given to him by the two colorful birds had been tossed to the side. Donald would have berated the duckling, if he wasn’t stunned by the look on the triplet’s face.

 Anger.

 Absolute anger.

 Before anyone could speak, Louie left the room, hood flipped up and hand shoved into his pocket. Shoulders up to make himself small as he stormed away.

 Shockingly, José followed.

 Confused and hoping for some answers, Donald turned to the remaining two. Only for Dewey to rush out next. With hands pressed to his beak and (Donal’s heart jolted) tears threatening to spill out. Panchito followed the duckling close behind. That left Huey with Donald. The duckling, the smallest Donald had ever seen him. No one commented as Donald picked Huey up and carried him out of the room.

 ___________________

 Louie was fast when he wanted to be. José was thankful that the duckling was heavy footed. Because there was no other way he would have found the duckling in this maze of a building. Louie had taken up residents by a large window, far away from everyone else. Hood still up and knees pulled close, glaring at the outside estate. José approached cautiously, clearing his throat to announce his arrival. The duckling didn’t move.

 “May I join you?”

 There was still no reply. José didn’t mind, taking a seat and turning so he could view the outside world as well. “I will admit, I never thought I would be one for snow. I grew up in such warm climates. I believed when I experienced sheer cold, I would hate it. But, when I gave it a chance, I found it to be wondrous. True I do have to bundle up in order to enjoy it. It is still such a thrill to see though.”

 “I’m not accepting you.” Louie replied shortly.

 “But you have not even gotten to know me. It is unfair for you to jump so quickly to such a conclusion.”

 “Well, you never got to know me. You spent all your time with Uncle Donald.”

 José let out a slow sigh and nods. “That is true. And I hope you will understand why. I have not seen your uncle in such a long time. At least in a way that I have had so much time to spend with him. Not just a day or a few hours. It has been wonderful...and I may have gotten a little carried away at keeping your uncle’s attention.”

 “Because you’re dating.” Louie stated, staring the parrot down.

 José blinked in surprise, but did not dispute it. “Yes we...we were.”

 “Were? My brothers and I have seen you and the rooster hanging off of Uncle Donald! You are dating.”

 “Were. We broke it off a short time after you three were hatched. Your uncle wanted to focus on you and we were unable to stay.”

 “And now you can. Now you’re legally able to. Now you can take Uncle Donald away from us.”

 “Ai meu deus, Louie. Where did you get that idea?”

 “Just now! With Panchito saying ‘we’ and how you all were going to buy a house!”

 “I… the ‘we’ was Panchito and I. We would only ask Donald to move in if all four of you would have agreed.”

 That caused Louie’s glare to soften. “...Four?”

 “We, that being Panchito and I, would love to have all of you live with us. I am sorry to make you and your brothers think we would not welcome you properly into our lives. I suppose a proper start would be necessary.”

 José cleared his throat and held out a hand, one that Louie gingerly took. “Hello Louie. I am José Carioca, an old relation to your Uncle Donald. It is wonderful to see you.”

 “...Louie Duck. Nephew of Donald Duck...and CEO of Louie Inc.”

 The parrot laughed jovially at that. “So young and already a businessman. Tell me Louie, have you been to Bahia?”

 “I don’t think so.”

 “Well, if you have time, allow me to regale you a few tales.”

 ___________________

 “Dewey! Dewey, please stop!” Panchito grumbled when the duckling sped up instead. Mentally berating himself knowing that wouldn’t have worked. The rooster picked up his own speed when Dewey darted into the triplet’s bedroom. Just fast enough to stop the door from closing with his foot. He only entered when he heard Dewey settle down on a bed.

 Letting out a slow breath, Panchito walked in. He cautiously stepped over the chaotic mess as he approached the beds. Dewey was lying on the second bed, covered by the blue blanket, small sniffs heard from within. Slowly climbing up the bedside ladder, Panchito leaned over and rested his upper body on the bed proper.

 “You are a speedy little guy. Kind of shocked I was able to keep up.” Panchito laughed softly. He frowned when Dewey didn’t reply.

 “...I know the want to just run away from your troubles. I have a big, big family. Seems like the only way to avoid fights was to run away. Run far and fast. So that is what I did. When I could not just smile any longer, I would run.”

 He fell quiet when Dewey shuffled, the lump under the blanket moving closer to the rooster. Panchito smiled gently as the duckling’s face appeared. Eyes red with the feathers around them damp. “Hola.”

 “...Hi…”

 “Why did you run?”

 Dewey didn’t reply. He instead sat up and asked his own question. “Is that what you did when we hatched and Uncle Donald started to raise us? That we were a problem you didn’t want, so you ran?”

 “What? No, no niño, no. José and I weren’t able to stay. We were young, had no income, no way to get citizenship. We really, truly wanted to stay… But even your Uncle Donald knew how impossible it would be for us.”

 “So you broke up?”

 Panchito coughed weakly, suddenly feeling flustered. “I, well, w-why would you say that?”

 “We’ve seen you, José, and Uncle Donald together.”

 “Ah...suppose we were not that sneaky. But, yes, we did break up. We did not want to...but our options were low or impossible to get.”

 Taking a bit of a risk, Panchito reached out to gently dry off the damp feathers. Dewey didn’t protest. He even smiled weakly, shoulders relaxing.

 “I fell in love with you three the moment you hatched. And I know José feels the same. You had such big eyes and were covered with fluffy, yellow feathers. Oh, dios mío you boys were so adorable. I am sure my heart burst with happiness.”

 “Really?”

 “Of course. I wanted to hold you all and never let go. And you clung to me, you would giggle and I would just melt every time.”

 Dewey laughed weakly at that. He inched closer until he could wrap his arms around Panchito. The rooster instantly pulled the duckling closer, beaming.

 “I am not running away. Not now, not ever.”

 ___________________

 Donald knew when Huey was upset, he needed to let the duckling lead. Don’t question, don’t prod, don’t poke. When Huey wanted to talk, he would talk. So Donald waited, holding the duckling’s hands and gently running his thumbs along the back of them. Huey was staring at the ground. The quiet was broken when a small sniff or hiccup escaped him. Other than that, it was silent between them.

 It remained this way for a few minutes until Huey weakly squeezed Donald’s hands. A non-verbal indication that he had calmed and was ready to talk. Even then, it took awhile for Huey to find his voice.

 “I’m sorry.”

 Donald shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I don’t even know what’s wrong.”

 “We know you, José, and Panchito are...together. In a relationship.”

 “Okay. Well, I suppose that’s something I should be apologizing for. I was going to tell you three. Should have done that a lot sooner. But you don’t need to apologize for finding out.”

 Huey shook his head but didn’t say anything. Donald was at a complete loss.

 “Huey...I can’t help you if I don’t know what the issue is.”

 “Do you hate us?”

 He felt as if he had been punched in the gut. It took a few seconds for Donald to compose himself before he could speak again. “No, why would you think that?”

 “You love them, but you never mention them. Never talk about them. You had to give up your life with the people you love because we… Because we were dumped into your lap. You didn’t get a choice and you had to give up so much. Because of us. How could you not hate us?”

 “Huey, Huey, I need you to slow your breathing.” Donald quickly took back control, hand slowly rising and falling for Huey to follow. He waited for the duckling to calm again before asking, “Do you want me to take your hands again?”

 That was answered with a short nod and Donald complied. “Now I want to make something perfectly clear. I am, in no way in any shape of form, angry at you or your brothers. You weren’t dumped into my lap. I willingly took you in and I don’t regret it at all. I loved raising you three and I love you three now.”

 “But...you left them.”

 “Because they couldn’t stay here. And I didn’t want them to feel as if they had to put a pause on their lives for me. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if they had spent years trying to return here to live here. We were wild when we were younger, them more so than I. They would never admit it, but it would have driven them crazy if they had to stay here. I wanted them to experience the world they had always talked about. To experience what I had when I was growing with Uncle Scrooge.”

 “How come you never talked about them?”

 “I’m not sure. If I really think about it, I think I would have broken down. I love them so much...and I didn’t want you three to worry when I began to blubber over people you’d never met.”

 “Are we going to move in with them?”

 “How about we live through this and then we’ll discuss that. All of us.”

 Huey hummed softly and nodded. “Okay.”

 “Feeling better?”

 “...Yeah. Yeah, I am,” Huey looked up with a small smile, “Thanks Uncle Donald.”

 Donald smiled back, he pulled the younger into a tight hug. “I love you and I love your brothers. Never doubt that. Now, how about we go find everyone?”

 Huey nodded once more and didn’t argue when he was picked up again. As they neared the crossroads, they unintentionally came across the missing party members. José holding Louie’s hand as the older was leading the way. Dewey was riding on Panchito’s shoulders, wearing the large sombrero that was slowly slipping down to cover his eyes.

 They all shared quick glances before Donald laughed softly. “I’ll take it, we’ve all talked and are feeling better?”

 All parties nodded, sharing calm smiles. Panchito stepped forward and pulled all into a tight hug. None complained about how crushing it was, the triplets finding it comforting.