#just an AU just doesn’t quite scratch the itch anymore–

[silk-bullet]

I reallllly need to just make an OC to be with Dante, just having Cynthia be with him in an AU is great angst but it literally no longer makes sense with tweaks in her story,, so new girl it is?.

Thinking the name Cassidy maybe?, I’m not set on it yet but I think it fits

[strange-lace]

I've been meaning to write something in response to the spider Wukong design that @winterpower98 and @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off have drawn for my Spider Monkie AU! Also features my ship with this AU of Wukong/Spider Queen/Macaque. So here you go!

But content warning for body horror and brief descriptions of blood! Also has brief spoilers for the season 2 finale.

It felt almost like the end of era to Spider Queen when she and the others ventured back down to their old home to start cleaning things out without the threat of the Lady Bone Demon looming over them all. It was one thing for her to start living on Flower Fruit Mountain with the idea in mind that it is a temporary arrangement but this made it feel all the more permanent to her. The idea of never having to live in the ruins, the constant reminders of her fallen reign, and instead live surrounded by greenery, sunlight, and fresh air…

Well, it made the scars, angry and red from where her skin met the scalding liquid of the brazier, not as difficult to look at.

It was enjoyable in a sense, going through her things for moving. Old spell books, faded robes, half finished blueprints. Having Wukong and Macaque there certainly helped, the two monkeys providing their own brand of commentary that never failed to get a chuckle or exasperated groan from her.

Though that changed once they inevitably had to start clearing out the lab.

Syntax, understandably, chose to start transporting things back to the mountain at that moment, Goliath and Huntsman making the decision to go with him. The former because he was concerned about leaving Syntax alone with how shaken he looked and the latter… well even now, Spider Queen couldn’t quite understand those two’s dynamic. They certainly weren’t as antagonistic towards each other like they used to but that didn’t leave them bickering any less than before.

Even though Spider Queen had long since adjusted to the constant gnawing of guilt, it definitely felt like a jab to the gut to see Syntax as he hurried to leave and be back above ground. Far away from the lab and the memories that came with it.

He was in such a hurry that he had not noticed the screwdriver which he had left on the ground.

A gentle prod from Macaque snapped her out of it.

“Hey, c’mon, let’s get through this old junk quick before someone else gets any ideas, okay?”

She could still hear his screams when the experiments were at their worst. How he was barely coherent afterwards, looking so small and vulnerable as she did her best to make sure he was comfortable. How the pain persisted despite the experiments being a “success” and the burning hatred in the Monkey King’s eyes as he glared her down with Macaque in his arms.

“Right, yes, of course,” she mumbled. Macaque was about to say more before all four of his eyes went wide at the sight of something behind her. Spider Queen turned as quickly as she could with her mechanical spider legs and nearly had a heart attack at the sight of Wukong picking up an unused glass tank of her venom that was twice his size.

“Wukong, for all that is heavenly, be careful with that!”

“I got it, I got it! Don’t worry, I’ve carried heavier things than this,” he said as if that actually made either of them feel any better.

To his credit, he kept his balance and grip on the tank well enough that Spider Queen and Macaque felt like they could breathe.

Until he stepped on the same screwdriver that Syntax had accidentally left behind in his rush to leave.

And try as he might, Wukong couldn’t right his balance in time.

Spider Queen swore the world had gone into slow motion in that moment.

The Monkey King landed flat on his back, eyes going wide in horror at the sight of the tank right on top of him. Before he could even move, the tank landed on his body with the glass casing shattering on impact. Without thinking, Spider Queen grabbed Macaque and leaped until they were on the ceiling, far from the reach of the spider venom as it spilled all over Wukong and the lab floor with nothing to contain it anymore.

For a brief moment, they were both silent in horror as Wukong remained motionless before jolting upwards, coughing up a storm.

“Oh gross, I think it got in my mouth!” He sputtered in outrage and Spider Queen let out a sigh of relief. He was still cognizant and not a mindless slave, that was a good sign that the venom didn’t work that way without the spider robots. Perhaps it had become less potent, simply left down here without anyone to maintain it?

That didn’t stop her from insisting that she or Syntax look him over for any possible side effects back on Flower Fruit Mountain, despite the Monkey King’s protests that he was fine. Though, eventually, he caved in.

And to her great relief, there didn’t seem to be any.

“See, what did I tell you? Everything’s fine and I’m fine. You don’t gotta worry about me, that energy is better spent somewhere else.” His eyes wandered towards Macaque as he said that. The monkey demon in question was trying and failing to hide the pain on his face as he rubbed at his back. Spider Queen conceded on that as it looked like she was going to have to brew another muscle relaxer for Macaque and just her luck, they just ran out of the last batch.

“Fine, then help me expend that energy by helping me get the herbs for Macaque’s medicine,” she grumbled, running a hand through her choppy hair. It was still strange, having her hair cut so short to what was a pixie cut, but it was… a welcome change. It also being that way MK did for her while she was recovering and extremely uncomfortable with her hair touching her burn scars helped but… no need to say it out loud.

Wukong followed her lead without any complaint, yet stopped for a second when he felt a weird twinge in his sides. The call of Spider Queen snapped him out of it and rushed to follow her. Yet in the back of Wukong’s mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if that wasn’t just a random pain in his sides.

Almost felt like…

Like something was squirming underneath his skin.

‘Eh, it’s probably nothing to worry about.’ He thought to himself, reaching behind him to scratch at a sudden itch on the back of his neck.

Days passed like normal after that, the permanent move to Flower Fruit Mountain a success, much to his monkeys' chagrin. They were just beginning to warm up to Goliath and were able to be around the others without Wukong having to stop them from pelting the spider demons in fruit. Typically by reminding them that, like it or not, they were also MK’s family and asking them if they wanted to make MK upset by throwing fruit at his mother and “uncles”. That usually did the trick.

Good thing too since Wukong was starting to notice he was feeling… off.

The twinging at his sides had only seemed to worsen in the following days, the sensation escalating from only happening once every two days to it happening three times a day. And while they didn’t become painful, each time it felt like there was more… force behind them every time they happened.

The ignored voice in the back of his head compared it to something almost trying to poke its way free.

Eventually, these “episodes” were enough to stop Wukong from whatever he was doing to try and catch his breath once his sides calmed down. He figured it was only a matter of time until one of his partners confronted him about it. This time being Macaque.

It helped that he had caught Wukong during another one of his “episodes”, this one enough to make him stumble his footsteps and make Macaque rush to catch him before the Monkey King fell ungracefully to the floor.

“Alright Wukong, what’s going on with you?”

A part of Wukong wanted to insist that it was nothing but a passing thing. But passing sensations don’t last this long.

Something was wrong.

“Remember when I dropped that vat of Queenie’s spider venom on me and she didn’t find anything wrong with me?” Horrifying realization came to Macaque’s face at that question, all four of his eyes immediately looking over Wukong for anything out of the ordinary.

“I don’t like where this is going Peaches.”

“Well… a bit ago I started feeling something odd in my sides. Like somebody was poking me. It didn’t really hurt so I thought it was no big deal and would go away on its own, y’know? It… it hasn’t gone away. In fact it’s been happening more often and getting stronger.” As he spoke, Wukong lightly rubbed at his sides, not looking directly at Macaque out of guilt.

“Peaches, I love you, but why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I thought I could handle it on my own! And we have more important things to worry about than me, like you and Queenie, y’know the people who aren’t indestructible and-” He was cut off by a light smack behind the head from Macaque, the demon looking exasperated and frustrated more than anything else.

“You idiot, just because you’re indestructible doesn’t mean that you should have kept this from SQ and me. God, you sound like the kid. We have no idea how the venom could impact your systems compared to me and now who knows what we’ll find. C’mon, we’re having Queen look at you again, no arguments.”

Wukong couldn’t find it in himself to protest. Only hope that it was merely them all being paranoid and stressed.

Those hopes promptly went out the window when Spider Queen had him take off his shirt.

On each side of his torso underneath his arms were two pairs of lumps, each the size of his palm and seemed to almost twitch when she had cautiously prodded at them to feel for bone. He was worried for a moment that everyone was going to see the peaches he had just eaten as nausea squirmed within his stomach.

“This is not good, pretty sure these same exact kind of bumps developed too when we…” Spider Queen trailed off, eyes lingering on Macaque who didn’t need to say anything to show that he understood what she meant. “But this doesn’t make any sense, it took weeks for them to develop at this stage and yet it’s been little more than a week, barely two.” She looked extremely frazzled, trying to make sense of this. Syntax didn’t look any better himself, lime green hair a tousled mess compared to its usual put-together appearance.

“It could be a case of biology, my queen. Wukong’s biology is… incomprehensible to put it politely. With all the methods put into extending his immortality and Macaque’s own biology, it would be pointless to try and compare them and their reactions to the venom. And with how fast these limbs seem to be developing in comparison, it may have already been too late to use the antivenom the moment his skin made contact and he ingested the venom,” he rambled yet Wukong didn’t miss the look of sympathy sent his way at that final statement.

Wukong felt numbness, not sure how to process knowing it was too late for him from the get go.

The sensation of something squirming hitting him again and knowing that it was new limbs developing right under his ribs only made his nausea worse.

He barely noticed Macaque gently pulling him into a hug until his face was buried in coarse purple fur, four arms holding him while the monkey demon nuzzled his cheek.

“Hey, look on the bright side, Peaches. It’s looking like you won’t be growing any new eyes like me. Can’t get any worse than that, right?” Wukong could only give him a small, fond smile that could not even begin to communicate his exhaustion, fear, but relief that Macaque was at least trying to comfort him. For a brief moment, he felt a bit calmer and wasn’t bathed in dread about what was inevitably about to come.

That temporary peace was shattered the moment Wukong felt a stabbing sensation in his sides.

A pain which only seemed to intensify by the second.

He had to leave. Now.

“I-I’m so-sorry, I have to-” Wukong cut himself with a scream of pain as it spiked for a brief moment to a level that his mind was only white hot agony. He stumbled out of Macaque’s embrace and ran off, no clear destination in mind except that he needed to be away.

He could faintly hear Macaque and Spider Queen calling for him to come back, yet he didn’t listen.

The trees blurred as he ran past them and he stumbled into the first temple, nearly tripping on the stone steps and slamming the door behind him. In his blind, pain-filled panic he was able to pile the dusty and old furniture in front of the door to keep anybody out before the pain left him to fall to his knees. Wukong struggled to breath, his lungs feeling like they were on fire.

He couldn’t breathe. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Wukong could only open his mouth in a silent scream of pain, writhing on the floor in a poor attempt to alleviate his suffering. White hot pain ran down his spine as it felt like someone was pulling at it like taffy, skin stretching and organs rearranging underneath his flesh. He gasped in air once the unbearable heat seemed to recede only to let out a groan as it traveled down to his legs. Wukong swore that he could hear the bones in his legs creaking as they grew and thickened, muscles following their lead to fortify them as if ready to carry a great weight.

He sighed, feeling like he could breathe again while noticing that his clothes didn’t feel right anymore.

The brief moment of peace was shattered as Wukong was overtaken by pure agony as he felt something trying to push through his sides.

This time, he couldn’t hold in the screech that bellowed from his lungs.

Spider Queen and Macaque, desperately searching for Wukong, nearly jumped out of their skin as a roar of distress echoed through the forests of Flower Fruit Mountain. They two shared a silent look before running off in the direction of the sound’s origin, his ears leading the way as they twitched to and fro to track their idiot partner down.

“It came from here, I can hear him inside,” Macaque said yet the grim look on his face told her that that wasn’t all. The door didn’t budge when she attempted to pull it open, something heavy on the other side. Rapidly losing patience knowing that Wukong was on the other side and already in the throes of the transformation, Spider Queen felt she could be forgiven about what she needed to do next.

She stepped back before charging at the doors, her shoulder taking the brunt of force.

The fact that she caused the makeshift barricade on the other side to go flying across the temple was of no concern to her. The sight of Wukong curled up in a fetal position on the floor was.

“Peaches!” “Peachykins!”

They were both at his side in an instant, Macaque gently taking the Monkey King off the floor. Immediately he could feel something had changed. Wukong was taller, heavier in his arms.

Gods if that didn’t bring back memories he’d much rather bury.

“You shouldn’t… you two shouldn’t be here,” Wukong wheezed, voice raspy for obvious reasons.

“Quiet you, if you think for a second that we were going to let you deal with this alone, then it seems that venom messed with your brain too. I wasn’t alone for this, so neither should you.” Spider Queen nodded in agreement, running his fingers through his fur in her best attempt to offer him comfort.

Wukong whimpered as the heat and pressure against his sides seemed to grow and grow. Faintly in the back of his head, he could feel that wasn’t the only thing changing. Peach fur darkened as it grew thicker and longer into what was practically a mane. His claws became longer and sharper. For a moment, his entire world was bathed in green instead of gold before his vision returned to normal.

He should feel horrified, to feel himself changing, shifting without any sort of control or way to stop it in front of his partners to add salt to the wound. Feel helpless, powerless, weak.

Yet all that remained on the forefront of his mind was the pain.

“You’re doing amazing Wukong, I promise it’ll be over soon.”

“You just need to hold on a bit longer.”

Just when the pressure and heat had become borderline unbearable and Wukong was on the cusp of passing out, he could just barely hear the sound of ripping past the pounding in his ears.

Cloth ripping as well as something else. Something wet.

Macaque and Spider Queen were knocked back by the force of something punching its way out of the Monkey King's sides, their backs meeting the opposing sides of the room.

Wukong could feel blood dripping down his sides and his entire being ached, not too different from when he had been freed from under the mountain after 500 years. And yet all he could feel was sweet relief, body already working over time to heal his wounds and stop the bleeding. Letting himself a moment to breathe, he cautiously pulled himself up into a sitting position.

Or at least tried, as he fumbled back to the floor the moment he saw just how much his body changed.

Evidently even his “biology” felt the need to one up Macaque as Wukong tested his four new arms. He couldn’t help but mourn the fate of his clothes as it was obvious they were a lost cause, his shirt nothing but scraps of cloth barely able to contain his broader chest and orange stained with red. His pants, while not torn, were now much too short to cover his legs entirely. He could feel that his phoenix feather headdress had managed to get tangled up the much thicker fur which trailed from his head.

Cautiously, he began to move his new appendages. His limbs were clumsy but he slowly began to get the hang of it, belatedly noticing that the fur of his new arms got progressively paler. The second pair more closer resembled his old fur color while the third pair was pure white, all the colors converging around his sides. Or at least it looked like that, since the fur of his sides was sticky and caked with dried blood which stained it a dark red.

Groans of pain pulled him back to focus to see Spider Queen and Macaque pulling themselves off the floor, nursing bumps on the back of their heads from colliding with the walls.

“You… two alright?” His voice was still scratchy and now he had exhaustion weighing on his eyelids.

“Bit of a bump but we’ll live. Shouldn't have been so close honestly. What about you Peachykins?” Spider Queen asked, offering her hand to help him up while trying not to stare at the dried blood crusting his fur. Without hesitation, Wukong took her hand and let himself be lifted back on to his feet. He winced, muscles aching both old and new ones and started to try stretching out the new kinks in his spine.

Spider Queen meanwhile blushed at the fact that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes now, doing her best to not stare at his muscled and bare chest. Macaque was no better as his eyes looked over Wukong's form, though he had the benefit of fur to hide his flushed cheeks. Their eyes met and they both came to a similar conclusion.

They were doomed.

"Feels weird and I ache all over but…" Wukong gave them both a slow grin once he noticed that he had to look down to see them both, "I think I could get used to this. Got a feeling you guys don't have a problem with it either, am I right?"

Oh they were so doomed.

[bluejayblueskies]

For the kiss prompt thing, could you do 34 and/or 66 with Jontim, please?

kiss prompt list!

34 - Returned from the dead kiss | 66 - Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In 

i did both! set in an au where tim survives the unknowing. additionally, in this au jon and tim were together in research and season one but then broke it off in season two for canon-typical reasons

cw for mentions of injury and grief, mentions of death, suicidal ideation (mild), mentions of hospitalization, mentions of paranoia and stalking, and swearing

Ao3 link in source!

.

Jon’s been awake for two weeks and three days when Tim finally works up the nerve to see him.

 (He’s not nervous, he tells himself. It’s not nerves twisting his stomach and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and making his hands shake ever so slightly where they grasp the doorknob on Jon’s office door. It might be guilt, but he dislikes the thought and discards it immediately. Hatred? That doesn’t feel right either. He’d shed that anger a few months prior, body still aching from being crushed underneath a building’s worth of brick and mortar and holding Martin while he cried at Jon’s bedside, hiccupping into the fabric of Tim’s shirt, He’s not waking up, Tim. He's never waking up.)

 He opens the door and sees Jon sitting at his desk, hair pinned up in a haphazard topknot and a jumper that’s much too large swallowing his body whole. Jon looks up at him, his eyes widening a bit, and oh.

 It’s relief.

 Tim lets the door swing shut behind him and leans against the wall next to the doorframe, hands coming up to grip his elbows as he hugs his arms close to his chest. One arm is still mottled with angry red scars, spiraling patterns of shrapnel laced along his skin. He rubs a thumb over one of the larger scars near the crook of his elbow absently as he says, “Hey. I… I heard you’d woken up.”

 Jon just stares at him for a moment, like he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at. Just as it’s bordering on the edge of annoying, Jon finally says, “Yes, I… I have. A- a few weeks ago.”

 “Right.”

 There’s another long moment of silence between them, this one tenser than the first. Jon’s avoiding Tim’s eyes, his face pinched and unhappy. His hands are fiddling with the cuffs of his jumper nervously, and something within Tim knocks loose at the sight. “I’m not here to yell at you, okay?”

 Jon startles, his eyes finding Tim’s for a moment before darting away again. He’s never liked direct eye contact, Tim remembers, but this is something else. Tim gets the distinct feeling that it’s at least partially his fault. Maybe a bit more than partially. Then, quietly, Jon says, “Why not?”

 Great. With a weary sigh, Tim steps away from the wall and drops himself into the ratty armchair that faces Jon’s desk. “Because it’s been six months, Jon. A lot has changed.” He makes a humorless noise. “I mean, it’s all the same shit—spooky monsters and fucked-up situations and a job I can’t get rid of. But, you know.” He rubs his thumb over the scar, shrugs his shoulders. “The Circus is gone. Thought I’d be gone with it, but I’m not. And you were gone, which made things easier for a while. Less complicated, because I didn’t have to look at you and feel—”

 Tim makes a sharp, irritated noise. He doesn’t know how he felt. “But you were just… there. Dead or- or asleep or whatever, it didn’t really matter. You were there, and I was here, and we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”

 “Tim—” Jon starts, the pity in his voice palpable.

 “No,” Tim says, giving Jon a firm look. “I don’t want an apology or- or pity or whatever. That’s not the point of this.” He sits back in the chair, takes a deep breath, and says, “I don’t remember when I stopped feeling angry. I didn’t visit you at first, in the hospital, but when I did, I… I don’t know.” Tim shrugs and looks at the floor. “I guess I just decided that you wouldn’t have chosen that. To- to be half-dead and dreaming while the rest of us lived.”

 Jon’s quiet for a long moment. Then, he makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. “No,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “I didn’t. But I did choose to wake up. I made a choice, and I- I think it was the wrong one.”

 “What,” Tim says, “because you chose to live rather than to die?”

 Jon shakes his head, just once. “Because I chose to be this.” He gestures at the desk, at the room around him. “The… the Archivist.”

 Tim takes a moment to consider. Then, he says bluntly, “Fine. Let’s say you did. You chose to go full monster, give up the mantle of humanity entirely, and then—what?”

 Jon blinks at him. “What?”

 “What are you going to do now?”

 Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times before finally saying, “I- I suppose I’ll just… work?”

 Tim can’t help letting out a short, clipped laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

 Jon makes an indignant noise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “Nothing. I just—” Tim pauses, looks at his hands. There’s a worm scar between his middle and ring finger on his left hand that never healed quite right, that’s now a twisted knot of scar tissue. He focuses on it as he says, “You’re still you, you know? Even before, with all the shit you pulled—the stalking and the murder accusations and the questions—it was… it was still just you. And whether or not you’re still human, you’re still Jon.”

 “Oh,” Jon says, the word empty and hollow. “Is… is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

 Tim doesn’t know yet, not really. The relationship between them is still flayed open and raw, ripped apart by months of poor choices and hurtful words. But he meets Jon’s eyes, sees that familiar brown that he used to wake up to in the mornings, takes note of the small cluster of circular scars just beneath Jon’s temple, and decides that if it’s not good, it’s certainly on the way there. The thought leaves him feeling a bit weightless, and he realizes with an aching in his chest that he’s missed Jon. Not in the physical sense, because Jon’s always been here, conscious or not, and his presence has been burned into the back of Tim’s mind like a brand, an itch he can’t quite scratch. But still, there had been an empty space within him that he hadn’t been able to cover or fill, shaped like warm sunlit mornings and shared bottles of wine and kisses on foreheads and noses and lips. And it had ached, as much as Tim wished it hadn’t. That that Jon was gone and this Jon had taken his place. The resentment Tim felt at the fact was bitter and heavy and painful.

 It’s still not the same Jon, sitting in front of him now and worrying his ring between his fingers in a familiar nervous tic. But he’s not the same Tim either. Affection doesn’t come easy for him anymore and everything hurts and there are so, so many things he can’t forgive Jon for. That he doesn’t know how to. But at some point, the blanket of revenge-fueled anger had melted away and he’d just been tired.

 “I don’t know,” Tim says, because it’s true. But it’s also true when he continues, “But I want it to be good. It might take some time, and I- I can’t just forget about what’s happened between us, but…” Tim’s chest tightens, and his next words come out choked and a bit forced. “I missed you. And I’m glad you’re not dead, okay? I don’t know if you’ve convinced yourself that I wouldn’t be, but I am.” Quieter: “God knows I’ve already lost enough.”

 “Oh,” Jon says again, barely more than a whisper. Then, hesitantly: “I… thank you, Tim. I’m also glad that you… that you’re still here. For what it’s worth.”

 “You don’t have to…” Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, lets out a long breath. “Never mind.”

 “I know,” Jon says, something terribly vulnerable in his voice. When Tim opens his eyes, Jon’s looking at him, a faint ghost of a smile on his lips. Tim can’t stop looking at it. “But I want to. I… I still care about you, Tim. I always have, even if I- I didn’t always show it.”

 The Tim of six months ago would probably have laughed at that. Would have said that it didn’t matter if he cared or not, or that if he really cared he wouldn’t have spent half a year tracking his every move and thinking that Tim was even remotely capable of killing him. (That bit had hit particularly hard. Tim had gone home afterward and scrubbed every reminder of Jon from his house, every picture and favorite mug and lingering jumper and that one souvenir from his trip to Spain that Jon had once rambled about for two hours. It had hurt, and when he was done, he’d felt hollowed out and empty. Enough room for the anger to begin to creep in, he supposes.)

 Instead, Tim sighs and says, “You know, that was the worst part. The fact that after everything, even when I hated you, I still couldn’t stop myself from caring.” He digs his fingernails into the soft skin of the inside of his wrist. “It hurt to care, so I pretended like I didn’t. But all the shit that happened to you—Christ, Jon, I’m not so much of an asshole to think that you deserved to be tortured and kidnapped every other week. I don’t know if anyone ever told you that you didn’t deserve it, so there it is.”

 Jon’s looking at him with wide eyes and lips slightly parted, and Tim feels something in his chest ache at the sight. “Don’t look at me like that.”

 “Like- like what?”

 “Like I’ve—” Like I’ve hung the fucking moon. “Look, that’s just basic human decency, okay?”

 “Okay,” Jon echoes quietly. He’s still looking at Tim and his lips are still slightly parted and the ache in Tim’s chest amplifies until he can barely stand it. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’s reminded of the first time he asked Jon, standing halfway inside the doorframe of his house after their third date, if he could kiss him. How Jon had looked startled, all wide eyes and parted lips, and after a moment had nodded wordlessly. How Jon’s hair had been soft beneath his fingers as he’d cupped Jon’s cheek and how Jon’s lips had been warm against his and how Jon had inhaled slightly at the contact, like even though Tim had asked, he was still surprised that he’d followed through.

 Tim looks at Jon, at the still-familiar shape of his lips save for a small circular scar near the left corner, and tries to convince himself, just for a moment, that he doesn’t want to kiss him.

 He’s never been very good at self-control.

 So he stands, braces one hand on Jon’s desk, and reaches forward with the other, stopping just shy of Jon’s face. When Jon doesn’t move away, he rests his palm lightly against Jon’s cheek, his thumb coming to rest just underneath Jon’s eye. “This doesn’t fix things,” Tim says quietly. “But I’d still like to kiss you. If you’re okay with that.”

 Jon hesitates. Then, barely more than a whisper, he says, “Okay.”

 “Okay.” Tim pauses a moment more before tilting Jon’s head slightly up, leaning forward, and kissing him.

 It’s still as easy as breathing.

[slytherinsnekxvii]

hi, remember that murder snily au i'm always talking abt but never have anything to show for? yeah, i've scrapped it like six times now and i finally have a version of it i'm marginally satisfied with. so, here you go, this is the first part of maybe three or four, i think? have fun:

anger

/ˈaŋɡə/

noun

noun: anger; plural noun: angers

1. Normal anger does not split open one's ribcage and wind itself around their heart. Normal anger does not coat itself in venom and sit behind one's teeth and hide under their tongue and lie patiently in wait. Normal anger is not cold and slow and remorseless. Lily thinks that what she calls anger is normal. Lily does not realise that she is extraordinary.

Lily's brand of anger is decidedly... different. What, exactly, makes it so different isn't exactly obvious to her, but she knows that it's not like anyone else's. At least, not as far as she's aware. Hers is a cold sort of anger, an all-encompassing thing that bites and burns and hurts. It's patient, too, winding in and around her ribcage and clawing its way upwards to settle behind her teeth, waiting for a reason to show itself. It's protective, aiming to eliminate a threat before it has a chance to do further damage.

She's... aware of her anger. Not very much so, but it's seen the light of day often enough to be familiar to her. She doesn't know it, though, hasn't made herself properly acquainted with the more... unfortunate spectrum of her emotions, and that is what makes it truly dangerous.

When she feels something scratching at her insides and festering beneath a vindictive sort of justice at seeing Black and Potter and Lupin and Pettigrew suffer the displeasure of the Slytherins, she thinks it's anger. She finds herself in a dusty, unused classroom in the dungeons, helping to refine a brutal spell designed to rend the flesh of anyone unlucky enough to be on the wrong end of it and she thinks it's anger that curls around her and whispers into her ear, "Make sure it hurts."

It isn't. She calls it anger, claims it a necessity, insists that she's protecting her best friend, but she doesn't realise she's mistaken.

The story of the "Prank" gets out—doctored, of course, to keep Black out of Azkaban, and Lupin away from execution—and Lily titters into the back of her hand when she hears it told in bits and pieces throughout the corridors.

"Did you hear?"

"Who would've thought—"

"—bloody idiots went into the Forest! At night! What kind of—"

"—ll five of them, yeah. Can't figure out for the life of me how they managed to get Snape to go—"

"—must've dragged 'im kicking an' screamin', I'm telling y—"

"—Gryffindors, my left tit! Damn cowards just ran off and left Lupin and Snape to deal with—"

"—no clue what happened, but have you seen the scars?"

"—out of the Hospital Wing, already? How—"

"—down fifty points! All because that lot wanted to play jokes aga—"

She smiles, a tiny, smug thing that she doesn't notice, and moves on. The Slytherins are properly riled up now, Rosier and Mulciber and Wilkes and Avery hovering around her and Severus with expressions she can't describe as anything but sadistic. At some point, she realises that their presence makes her feel much less uncomfortable than it did a week ago. She doesn't dwell on it, ignoring the small part of her that worries and shivers in favour of leaning over Severus's shoulder to read about the sort of magic that appears in nightmares.

She grips her wand, idly twirling the twelve-and-a-half inches of willow and dragon heartstring as she skims over detailings of ancient, arcane magic. It's always about blood, she thinks, staring a diagram of a pricked finger dripping red into a cauldron. Potion for Transferring Magic from One Wizard to Another, the heading proclaims. She shakes her head, accidentally knocking into Severus's in the process. "Ow."

He winces a little, and then tells her, "I'm turning the page."

She hums, eyes glued to a book she wouldn't dare look at not even a week ago, and says, "Okay."

It's fascinating, Lily has to admit. Gruesome in some cases and horrific in others, yes, but there's something... mesmerising about it, something hideously captivating in the way that the diagrams seem to eagerly demonstrate their attached spells. On the page, a young wizard is neatly flayed alive, the entire process precise. Her stomach rolls, but Lily can't seem to tear her gaze away for even a second. She doesn't think about it.

She doesn't think about a lot of things, actually, staunchly refusing to acknowledge the way she finds herself drawn away from her Housemates and friends, instead choosing to orbit around her best friend and the seemingly endless rotation of Dark Arts tomes he's somehow gotten his hands on.

Mary's sick of her excuses, she knows, responding to every one with a nod and an, "Oh, alright, then," in that tone that lands somewhere in the middle of disappointment, exasperation and concern.

Marlene has given up entirely, the whole of their interactions reduced to simple greetings in the hall and nods when they pass each other between classes.

Dorcas is nice about it, still catching her arm on the way to breakfast, still offering to study with her when they're all together in the Common and she doesn't want anyone to feel left out. It's undeniable, though, that her smile isn't near as warm as it used to be and it's tinged with worry at the corners.

No one makes it a secret of what they think about her recent activities. And as for the company she's keeping? Well, they'd always been particularly vocal about that.

Things must come to a head eventually, and they do, not even ten minutes after Professor Sprout has dismissed them from the classroom on Wednesday afternoon. She hears the whispers first, half of them from students she doesn't even know, has never said a word to.

"—conspiring with snakes—"

"—think it's the first time I've heard of a Gryff going Dark—"

"—ck was right about her, she's got no—"

Something ugly twists in her chest, and she forces her feet to turn and move, one step after the other. She can make it to the Common Room reasonably quickly, she thinks, and then she catches the self-proclaimed Marauders outside the Great Hall. Or rather, they catch her.

"You can do better than a bunch of slimy snakes, Evans," Potter crows, and she stops dead in her tracks. "Why bother with them when you've got a fine piece of Gryffindor right here?"

"Get lost," she says, the words ground flat between grit teeth.

Potter does not get lost. "Come on, Evans," he continues. "You're not acting like a proper Gryffindor. Where's your House loyalty? I can guarantee that chivalry and bravery are much better than whatever they're offering." It sounds... like a taunt, and this is when Lily realises that what she's been feeling isn't anger.

"Chivalry? Bravery? What would you know about any of that? It's not very chivalrous to corner students four-to-one, now, is it?" She hisses her words, each one more scathing than the last, and as she spits them out, every last one dripping venom, she realises that she wants it to hurt. "And it certainly doesn't seem brave to leave behind someone who needs help because you got cold feet! I'm not a proper Gryffindor? No, I think you've got it wrong, James. If you want to see an improper Gryffindor, the whole lot of you can go right ahead and look in a bloody mirror! I will not be talked down to by the likes of spiteful little cowards like you! I'm more Gryffindor than all four of you put together, but if you're what our House is supposed to look like, then I want nothing to do with it!"

Her ears are ringing when she's done, the whole world narrowed down to one singular focal point, the group of boys headed by the one who'd been desperate to get her attention and regrets it now that he has it. She looks at each of them in turn, summoning a contempt she didn't know she possessed until now. "Save your breath," she snaps, when Black's jaw unlocks, and she turns around and walks away.

Something slots into the place at the back of her mind, and she thinks, oh, her fingers itching to wrap themselves around her wand and whisper the words that will turn them inside out, call the blood from their pores and make it sing. Something clicks, when she thinks about she felt just then, and she can tell the difference quite clearly, very easily, between pure, white-hot, blinding rage and what she's been calling anger. She doesn't know what it really is, and she doesn't want to. She doesn't think about it, either, simply pushes the entire realisation to the back of her head and thinks, oh.

It changes... very little. Something inside of her has changed, and she finds herself growing steadily more unbothered by the voice in her that tells her about old, forbidden magicks of the body and the mind and the blood. It's always about blood.

She doesn't bother reading over Severus's shoulder anymore, the two of them scribbling notes as the pages flip on their own once they've both finished reading.

What does change things is when Rosier corners her after Defence one day, a sealed envelope held in his hand.

"What's this?" Lily asks, eyeing the pristine letter suspiciously. She might get along with the Slytherins much better now—especially after the incident with the Marauders that Rosier had found particularly amusing—but she can't say she truly trusts them.

"An invitation," he says, and before she can speak, he continues. "Every rule has its exceptions. We'd thought there was only room for one Mudblood prodigy, but it looks like there's space for two."

"Don't call me that," she bites, and he waves the envelope at her.

"Think about it. As it stands now, men like Potter and Dumbledore are holding too many of the cards. Men who would let people die and then cover it up to save their own hides. Don't you want to see them get what's coming to them?"

"There's no difference between you and them," she says.

"Isn't there? We've never claimed to be good."

She stares at him, silent.

"It's a new age, Evans. Don't you want to change the world?" he asks.

She takes the envelope.

anyways, i hope you enjoyed that! thanks for reading :)

[sideblogformindtrash]

Aduhsfgh self indulgent pet whump with Orfeu as a Whumper AU. This made me so sad :’)

It’s not canon ofc. 

CW:  NSFW/NO-CON/Dubcon; Pet whump; Dehumaniziation; beating; mentioned knife play; dislocated bones; collar; creepy/cruel whumper; teeth/biting; mentioned starvation; manhandling; degradation; 

 The thin shape of Haru stands in the doorway, doing his best not to shiver. Master wouldn’t like that. He knocks on the wood to call for his attention, as he slowly lifts his head from the book. Haru realizes, way too late, that he has a knife in his hands, candle and herbs spread all around him. He whispers a few words and shuts the book.

“Hello, songbird” And Master gives him a wide smile. He hates that nickname. It made sense in his old house, when he was still good and pretty and useful. Now he can’t sing anymore, he never has for this Master. But… He knows Master’s patience with him is running out “…What is it?”

…He lets his head fall down, takes a few steps in and falls to his knees besides Master’s bed. He stares, fluttering his eyelashes, trying to look good – seducing? – for Master. It was never something his trainers thought him. He had to learn. And he is a little clumsy at it, as he moves his hands and rests them on Master’s knees…

Master grabs him by his collar. He barely has time to yelp, as Master throws him over the bed with him. At least he gets a few seconds to recompose, before leaning forward, laying his head between Master’s legs…

Master starts to pet his hair, and that’s the best sensation in the world. This is the one thing he loves about this home. At least, there is some sort of affection. Even if he gets hurt, if he cries and if he can’t quite follow the rules… At least the had pats will be there when he is good, and Master will praise him.

Today, he isn’t being good.

“M-mm-ma-mas-“ He breathes. Speaking is so, so difficult. He is making some progress, but his stammering is annoying. He is afraid Master will decide it’s not worth the trouble and silence him again “Please…”

“What is it, Haru?” His voice is amused. At least he isn’t getting impatient yet…

Slowly, he lifts himself back to his knees, prepared to be punished for it at every turn. It doesn’t happen, so…

‘Please. Allow me to give Blue some pain killers? Please. Please, Master’

“Painkillers, hm?” Master smiles, and pulls Haru into his lap “Why should I? Are you saying it didn’t deserve the punishment, little bird?”

…His eyes widen. He tries to calm down, he knows Master isn’t really angry, he is just teasing, just seeing if Haru will fall for it…

But it’s still a dangerous game to play. He has to be careful with his words.

‘Of course it did Master. Master deemed the punishment necessary, and Master knows what Is best for us’ he closed his eyes for a second. Just a second. He wasn’t allowed that luxury for long. When he is talking to Master, he had to look into the cruel cold green eyes. Master knew how powerless it made him feel. He was naked under that stare, more naked than just without clothes: It was as if his soul had been stripped bare ‘It hasn’t slept since yesterday. I’m sorry for assuming it was okay for it to rest’

…Master’s smile just widened. Haru rolled his hips slightly, offering himself up. Master is already hard under him. He will claim that Haru has to ‘pay’ for whatever he is asking… But of course that’s arbitrary. Nothing stops Master from taking him either way. Still, is a way for him to ask for things they need. To at least pretend he is working for it, instead of just relying on his Master’s mercy.

‘Please?’ he risked gesturing again, swinging his hair around a bit, acutely aware of the knife in Master’s hand…

His other hand went inside his shirt. Cold. It was cold. He felt the tip of the nails scratching his skin, his fingers tracing over scars on Haru’s chest, both his and from his old owner, until they settled on his nipples, pinching toying with them.

Back on his old house… All he had to do was stay still and let it happen. He was just like a ragdoll, tossed and used and then thrown off the bed, and what he was thinking or feeling never mattered. He hated it, but at least it allowed him to just… dissociate. He would stare somewhere, and get lost, as far from his body as he could. But this Master liked when he took initiative. He wanted Haru to be active… to be there the whole time.

So, he unbuckled Master’s belt. That was one of the scariest, full of pointy spikes. He prayed Master never used that one on him or Blue – he once was beaten with one covered in gemstones. It ended up leaving hundreds of small squared wounds on his back, all itching and stinging awfully, costing to heal. And those had been nearly flat stones. He didn’t even want to wonder how much the spikes would hurt.

This wasn’t important now. He opened the thing, and pulled Master’s shorts down, all the while giving nervous glances to see if he had permission to continue.

Slowly, He took a step back, lowering himself to Master’s crotch and taking Master’s dick in his mouth while his fingers idly played with Haru’s hair.

He tried not to think of anything. Just do it. Just get it over with. At least Master’s touch on his hair is soft, at least it doesn’t hurt.

Master lets out a soft moan, as Haru takes his head to the shaft and swallows. He closes his eyes, forgetting for a second that he shouldn’t.

“Look at me” Master scolds. His voice is deep, soft. But it’s an order, so he does, trying to hold back the tears, back and forth, back and forth.

And fuck, staring into his eyes is one of the hardest things to do. Cold. Cold fucking eyes with something slightly inhuman about them. But at least he seems satisfied, so Haru must be doing a good enough job. Master’s grip on his hair turns vicious. He pushes Haru down, nearly making him choke, as he comes. Haru struggles to swallow the load, but he has too. Master would not be happy if he spilled any, and he needs Master to be happy. At least enough to let him help Blue.

He licks Master clean and pulls his shorts back up. He is playing with the knife, spinning it around his hands, no doubt thinking of how he will cut Haru later. But for now, he hopes this will suffice.

Master smiles, maliciously.

“…Get your painkillers, bird”  

‘Thank you Master. Thank you so much’ he says, nearly jumping out of the bed. The sooner he gets out of the room now, the better. He searches through Master’s bedroom cabined and runs back downstairs, as Master goes back to his reading.

Haru walked back to Blue, still trembling, and crouched near the dog bed, where Blue was curled up in pain and softly whimpering, nuzzling Bonnie. A heavy chain around his neck as if he was going anywhere.

He had done his best to patch up the wounds, but Blue’s shoulder still seemed dislocated. Haru didn’t know how to fix that, and he was afraid of hurting him more, so Blue was at Master’s mercy.  

“H-ha-haru…” Blue cried once he saw him, a big cup of water and the pills “…It…It wants back. It wants W-warren…”

He stared at Blue with pity. He said that all the time. He missed his old Master, who treated him nicely, he said. Haru shushed him. But he had to let that go. Holding onto nice memories only brought them more pain.

‘You need to stop saying it out loud. It’s why Master beat you in the first place’

“I-it knows but… ngghn… it hurts. It hurtsss. It, it, it wants back. Wants fluffy bed and, and the treats, and, and going out m-making photos…” Blue kept sobbing, the movement of his chest causing him more pain, as he grieves for the brief moments of happiness he had.

Haru gestured to the pills, and offers him the water. He kept holding the cup even as Blue took it to his mouth, knowing that if he let go, Blue might drop it… And then they would be screwed.

…They both fell silent, hearing the steps coming downstairs, Haru’s heart skipping a beat. They were only hearing because Master wanted to give them a heads up. He was deadly quiet when he wanted to be. Haru set the cup down, putting his hands on the floor and his head over them.

Master found his two pets quiet and behaved. Blue tried to kneel as well… But he seemed in too much pain to do it properly, leaning on Haru for support. He hoped Master would forgive that.

Without a word, he walked up to Blue and grabbed him. He barely managed a yelp, as Master snapped his bone back into place, and then let him fall back into the dog bed, barely containing his sobs.

“Watch your mouth from now on, doggy” he smiled, awful little sharp teeth. They had left plenty of scars all over Haru’s body.

“S-s-s-sso-rry Master” He yelped, trembling. Master smacked Blue’s cheeks twice, as affectionate as that gesture could possibly be.

After that, Master went out. He and Blue waited in tense silence for around ten minutes. They never knew where Master went, when he would go out or when he would return. But it felt a little easier to breathe when he wasn’t around. It was like a ghostly presence was removed from the house.

“Yy-y-y-“ Haru closed his eyes. This was still so hard “S-s-sna-snack?”

Blue quietly nodded. This was one point where Master was merciful, at least. They weren’t starved.

“O-o-oatmeal?” Blue pleaded. Well, they were both allowed to eat but only Haru was allowed to cook, so Blue was dependent on him for that, too. However, he still only had a limited amount of options to cook, as Blue could barely eat any hard food.

He nodded, blue giving him the smallest smile, hiding the broken teeth, as Haru pulled up his little blanket and wrapped him on it.

‘Try to rest a bit, ok?’

Blue whined softly, laying back to hug his little bunny. At least they had each other, Haru thought. He hoped he and Blue weren’t separated again.

[jungwooisms]

gekokujō | k.dy | official teaser

pairing: kim doyoung x female reader members: suh youngho (johnny), lee minhyung (mark), nakamoto yuta, lee jeno, kim jungwoo, jeong jaehyun genre: historical au (early 1900’s)/historical fiction, angst, fluff warnings: smoking, language, alcohol word count: 13k/? summary: kim doyoung left his home in search of himself; yet when a collection of both familiar and unfamiliar faces surface, he finds that he may just be a a part of something much larger than he anticipated.

| this will be a part of @puppywritings’ historical collab |

[1909.04.01. Boston, MA] ‘John,

I feel enough time has adequately passed to allow me to write to you. Although, there is not much news from home to tell you of. 

The snow is fast disappearing now. I came across an article in the paper the other day about Boston and it said that 14 or 15 years ago bears used to roam around the northern end of the city, but there seems to be nothing around now except the wild fowl, and an uncountable number of deer. 

How are your hands now? I know that the winter air dries yours as it does mine. Mine are very cut, so scattered with paper trails that I fear I should bleed ink from all the books that you left me. Have you been able to acquire any more on your travels? I find that the supply you gave me is running rather low now. 

You left for Munich inquiring after Daniel Lim if I recall the name correctly, I hope you found him in good health on your arrival. I also hope he does not overwork you, you said as much happened the last you worked under him in London.

I am very pleased to say I am keeping very well, and I trust you are the same. If anything happens, know that I will gladly storm my way across the sea and give your wrongdoers what for.

I miss you, John. And I hope you return soon, you know I love to hear about your travels.’

A short chuckle to yourself as you pull the pen away from the paper after signing your name, ink stains settling into the grooves of your fingers as you aren’t cautious enough with the writing implement. Short blows over the thin paper as you try to dry the ink as quickly as possible, although this isn’t the sweltering heat of the summer you’re unsurprised the ink hasn't run but so much. Carefully standing from your seat you begin your search around the room for an envelope, fingers brushing over various stacks of papers and novellas lying around your workspace. Eventually you find a weathered, but perfectly usable one underneath a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. You address the letter to his newest residence, some boarding house in Germany, but you aren't sure if he was even staying there anymore. If that doesn't work out and one of your letters was stamped “Return to Sender” once more, you’d just have to wait for him to send you something first. It seemed like you were always waiting after John. Not that you mind much, you had been as thick as thieves as teenagers and that had hardly ever changed, even after he’d decided to go abroad and study, then go onto some teaching stints wherever the wind blew him.

As you return to your seat you hear a gentle meowing outside, head peering over your desk and out of the glass panes into the garden below you spot a small black and white tabby looking up at you. A sigh escaping your lips as you move to grab your pen once more, beginning to write a post scriptum,

‘p.s. Your lovely feral cat has now decided that I take ownership of her in your absence. Is there a name you prefer I call her?’

You hope he can understand your tone, it’s an issue of yours that the words you write sometimes don't hit their mark. Regardless, you’d send the letter and hear his thoughts on it whenever he has the gaul to write back. You straighten your back from your hunched position and move through the house, your fingers tracing along the smooth walls until you reach the door leading into the garden, it lay nestled in the corner of the kitchen. There’s a faint scratching as you approach, only opening it to find the same tabby waiting for you, it barrels inside once it sees an opportunity.

“You wretch,” tsking as she begins brushing up against your leg. “What am I going to do with you?”

[1909.04.30. 今出川, 京都] The ground crunches underfoot as Doyoung walks; the pavement, covered with a thin layer of grit from a small windstorm that had picked up an hour or so prior, feeling as if it’s shifting as his leather soled shoes move over it. Storm having left its mark and not going to disappear until a rain shower decides to wash it away, he breathes in the particles still floating through the balmy weather. A small frown as he fans his jacket, allowing some air to circulate under the thick fabric. Had it not been impolite, he would have shed the garment as soon as he stepped out of the train station only minutes ago. His hand still wrapped around his bag he looks to the signs adorning the tops of businesses along the road. Doyoung was never great at learning hanja, so when it came time for him to begin learning the already different kanji and further hiragana and katakana that would come along with his trip abroad, he thought he might set out to find a tutor during his time here. Hand moving to rummage around the inside of his jacket, he procures a worn letter from its depths. ‘今出川 居酒屋,’ it is the only thing foreign to him within the contents of the scripture, the sender had asked to meet him there for lunch on the second day of Doyoung’s arrival to Kyoto.

Doyoung finds the bar after walking a few more blocks, north from the station and hidden away behind a bookstore in a back alley. Before he enters, he pauses. His grip on the letter tightening, the parchment creasing from the increased pressure as the slight tingly pervasiveness of guilt begins to wrack him from the inside out. A look to his left, and then to his right, a ghost of a figure in his peripheral, deterring him from running from the drinkery. It drives him closer, away from an inevitable future and towards the uncertain present. 

A haze of smoke blankets the air as he enters, that of tobacco intermingling with the small fire stoking in the back of the bar. It invades his nose rather viciously, itching the back of his throat and causing tears to form in the corners of his eyes as he greets the hostess with a small ‘Hello’ and ‘A table, please.’ She guides him and he settles down at a chabudai towards the front of the building, almost with enough of a view so that he can peer past the two small curtains at the entrance and into the street.

The letter now resting atop the table and his bag by its side, he reaches into his jacket yet again to procure an almost empty pack of cigarettes and a newly bought lighter. He had run out of fluid during his journey across the sea and he thought that buying a new one would be a novel idea to commemorate his trip. Doyoung’s eyes wander around the enclosed space as he scans the faces of the patrons. Most were men but there was the occasional woman mingling among the crowd as well. Cigarette placed on his lips, lighter spewing to life and igniting the end as he takes a deep breath in. Doyoung hates smoking, hates the way it pierces his lungs with its inky black vapors. It leaves his breath smelling awful, but it is just something people do to pass the time. Fingers finding the cigarette, he removes it for a moment, tapping it against a small silver dish atop the table, the ashes pooling at the bottom as he continues to look for someone he hasn’t met yet.

“Did you want to order anything else?” A voice to his right calls out, he jumps slightly before turning, only to find the kimono clad waitress at his side. She sets down a tray of dishes, some foods he recognizes, and some he thinks to be the local cuisine.

“Oh, no thank you.” As his eyes look over the food he moves to rest his cigarette in the ashtray to come back for later.

The woman gives a short smile and brief nod before speaking again, “Please let me know if you need anything.” Even after she had walked away, Doyoung could feel her eyes lingering on him like a child seeing some sort of marvel for the first time. This is not to say that he thinks that highly of himself, just that he knows that he is an outsider in a foreign place, his accent could tell anyone as much.

“I think she likes you.” A voice speaking up when Doyoung goes to take a bite out of the onigiri on his tray.

Mouth half full and brow furrowed in confusion, Doyoung turns to face wherever the voice had come from, “What did you say?” Chewing his food and swallowing rather harshly, he almost chokes as he thinks he’s going insane after hearing what sounded like Korean. This time it was a man who spoke, he was sitting at another table across from him, a shifty grin on his face. Something about him seemed different from everyone else in the bar, but the man couldn’t quite put a finger on it in this dimly lit room.

“She’s still staring at you.” The other man answers, now standing up and proceeding to walk over to him. “But it’s not like she’s hearing me say that anyway,” He laughs, brushing his hands against the lapels of his jacket.

Now in a better light, the man can get a better view of this stranger. “Are you Korean too?” He asks in his native tongue, feeling much more relieved that the burden of speaking a different language is momentarily sated.

“No,” Another laugh as the man settles down in the seat adjacent. “Just familiar with the language, is all.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes staring into Doyoung’s as if he’s trying to memorize his facial features. “You wouldn’t happen to be Kim Dongyoung, would you?”

“Doyoung, actually.” He clears his throat. “I am,” Eyes glancing at the letter still atop the table, Doyoung comes to a realization, “Are you Nakamoto Yuta?”

“I am,” A smile as he extends his hand. Less practiced with western formality Doyoung looks at the greeting for a moment before raising his own to formally address him, “It’s nice to meet you.” After a moment they drop their hands away from each other, Yuta’s gaze shifting to watch the hostess move his food from his old table to the one he now shares with Doyoung. “With an accent like that you must be from the south, Daegu, maybe?”

“Guri, actually.” He returns to his food for a moment, Yuta taking this time to also take a few bites from his own bento. “Where did you learn Korean?”

“Did Youngho not tell you?” Youngho is their mutual friend, he’d given Doyoung Yuta’s contact information to inquire if he had any availability to tutor him. “I studied with him when we were in college, I moved back here a year after we graduated, my mother fell ill and wanted to come back from living in Hanseong.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Doyoung frowns, shifting as he sets his chopsticks down. The two must have met after Doyoung had left his schooling to return to his family, per their wishes. 

A smile, “She made a perfect recovery, but now that she’s home she never wants to leave again.” Yuta reaches for the porcelain flask of sake the hostess had brought over, pouring himself a small glass then offering one to Doyoung. The younger politely refuses, still not accustomed to the savoriness of the drink, as Yuta nods and knocks back his own cup before speaking again. “When can you start classes? We typically meet for an hour or two every day if we can.”

“We?” Doyoung’s caught up on the word, he thought these would be private lessons, not an actual class. He leans forward, somewhat anxious at the thought of his abysmal language skills to be put on show for more than one audience member.

“Just a handful of other students from all over the place,” Shoulders shrugging Yuta leans backwards, hands placed atop his knees as he stretches his back. “We have a few Korean and Chinese kids, even a Canadian student as well. Not everyone’s at the same level so you shouldn’t worry too much about it.” He smiles, toothy and carefree as if there wasn’t an unhappy thought that had ever crossed him, Doyoung somewhat resents the uncertain assumption he made. “The schoolhouse isn’t too far away from here actually; did you want to stop by?” Hand motioning towards the doorway, Yuta’s head tilts inquisitively.

“I actually have to check in at the hotel I’m staying in, my parents told me to write whenever I got here and I’ve been putting that off for a while,” A sigh escaping him. Doyoung had been thinking about what to pen for the past day and a half but couldn’t muster the strength to go through with it. He’d left on rocky terms and was expecting to be hounded whenever they responded. “I’ll stop by tomorrow when you have class if that’s alright?”

“Fine by me,” He’s now searching his own pockets, finding a pen and reaching out for the letter near Doyoung. Yuta scribbles down something, a few kanji that Doyoung can’t decipher, and hands him the paper back, “Classes start at ten, when you’re in the area just ask someone if they know where this is and they’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks,” Doyoung looks down to the paper, seeing in his periphery that Yuta was already on his feet, straightening his jacket as he begins to head over to the waitress.

Doyoung sees him say something but can’t make out what, it’s only when Yuta turns to him and speaks that he can ascertain the meaning, “Don’t worry about paying this time, you’ll have to treat me to lunch some other day.” And with that Doyoung finds himself alone once more in the tavern.

 [1909.04.30. Boston, MA] The letter had arrived early in the morning, but you had been out in town with your mother attending some group function that you didn't want to be a part of in the first place. So, when you walk into your own little study and see it lying atop your things you race over and tear open the seal adorning it.

‘When I arrived in Munich, my work left me so urgent that I could not write in time before I left again. I thus deferred it to a point where I once again found myself with solid footing. It rains heavily in Seoul today, my travels have taken me here instead of crossing the Atlantic.

Currently I am holding a tutoring position for the American consulate’s son. I expect to hold this position for some time before I return home to Boston. 

Tell my mother not to fuss over me too much, if anything I implore her to look after you. Of all people, other than your own family, she knows of the antics you pursue.

I was able to sneak out a few books from Munich, upon my return I swear to you that you will have the greatest library in all America- no, the world, even.

If I were a better artist, or wealthy enough to photograph, I would show you how beautiful my journey across the world has been. Although, so much has changed in Seoul since I held my studies here. I cannot help but have the inklings of melancholy eat away as I recall the memories and compare them to what I see now. This will come to pass, I hope. 

I hear the boy calling for me now— My writing will have to cease here, I fear. Send my affection to your family, I know they miss me as much as you do.

With all the love I can muster,

x John

p.s. I think I have decided to call her Minnie, please refer to her as that accordingly.’

While scattered with his familiarities and humor, the letter seems all too short, all too hurried. Your lips purse as you read over it, brow furrowing as a small knot in your stomach begins to form. Thumb rubbing over the x marking his name the worry only grows ever more prevalent, you pull your eyes away from the words and begin to rummage around for your own writing implements and paper, wanting to respond to him as quickly as possible.

‘John,

Your letter left much to be desired. Seoul? Your mother anxiously awaits your return any day now, before you left you said you would only be gone until early May at most. I hope that nothing unsavory has happened, God knows you find yourself in trouble more than any other man I know. 

Please let her know that you are safe, I fear that she may follow after you should you be gone any longer. A son should never burden his mother with his absence for an extended period, I can only keep her company for so long before her weariness sets in and she longs to see you. 

She also knitted you a pair of gloves, seeing as you left your moth-eaten ones behind. I know the air is growing warmer, but it is somewhat endearing to see how doting she is over you. Please, ease her mind by writing.’

[1909.04.30.-1909.04.31.  今出川ホテル, 京都] Doyoung eventually finds himself standing at the small entrance of a hotel, the name written in cursive English on a wooden sign above the doorway. Youngho had recommended the inn, saying that it would be one of the more accepting places to stay at as a foreigner. It has a somewhat Victorian looking façade, contrasting the traditional Japanese styled buildings around it, he wonders why that is as he ascends the handful of steps to the door, struggling ever so slightly while lugging his bag behind him. As the door swings open, he’s greeted by an elderly woman with a rather round face, “Good evening,” she smiles and ushers him inside. “Did you need a room for the night? Or do you have a reservation?”

Mind fogging as he struggles to keep up, “Apologies, my Japanese isn’t—” The stone floor clicking underfoot as he follows her to the main desk.

“Ah, Korean?” It’s accented, but he appreciates it nonetheless. “Do you have a reservation?” Her hands dance along a worn leather book atop the desk, flipping it open as she looks down a list of names, some of those which are crossed out and some of which are not.

“I do,” He nods his head with a short smile, “It should be under Kim.”

Humming as she runs her finger down the list, as her head turns upward it causes Doyoung to return his attention to her, “Kim Heesung or Kim Doyoung?”

“Doyoung,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, mentally hitting himself as he should’ve been more specific. Eyes scanning the list, Doyoung takes a short look around the interior of the inn.The space is smaller than he imagined, but rather cozy. A glowing fire going to warm the chill of the night, large armchairs beside it and the largest bookshelf he’s ever seen built around the hearth.

“Wonderful,” She smiles, turning her back to him to find his room key from a small drawer behind the desk. Before she faces him again fully, she shifts through a small stack of papers atop the desk, “This also came for you,” The woman reaches to pull out a thin card from the stack, it has both hangul and kanji printed on it so it was easy to assume it’d come from his homeland.

“Thank you,” He smiles back before taking the telegram and tucking it into his jacket pocket. She hands him the key and he’s off to find his hotel room. It lays up the staircase and down a winding corridor, as he passes by some of the rooms, he can hear the muffled voices of a few of the other patrons, speaking languages he can mildly understand and others that sound alien. Once he finds his room, he’s all too giddy to throw himself onto the bed. Door locked, shoes and suitcase strewn aside he falls onto the plush bed, his eyes watching the ceiling as the weight of sleep begins to take over his vision.

Broken sunlight filters into the room, the shades drawn enough only to allow sharp slants of light to come through. The city outside is bustling whereas the hotel room seems almost vacant of any form of noise, save for the sound of soft breathing as the occupant sleeps. Kim Doyoung continues to snore  softly, dreaming of something sweet enough to add a slight curvature to his lips. He rolls in his slumber, the telegram received in the night folding under his weight, unbeknownst to him.

Three swift knocks awake him from the depths of slumber. He bolts up, raising a hand to run through his hair as a frown of confusing forms on his lips, wiping away whatever essence of his dream remained. “Are you awake?” A voice rings out seconds after the rapping. It’s the woman from the night before, Doyoung was too tired to connect the dots quite yet.

“Yes,” He responds groggily, moving to allocate his footing onto the floor. He hears soft footsteps leading away from his door, he supposes his wakeup call is completed. Rummaging around his wrinkled jacket-pocket he pulls out his timepiece, the clock reveals that it is seven forty-five in the morning, he has two hours before his lessons begin. Letting out a soft groan, he places the watch away and pushes himself onto his feet. His knees creaking and cracking as he rises and stretches out his arms, signaling that his sleep must’ve been docile. Once again, his hand moves to his jacket as he recalls the telegram, now crumpled in the crevasses of his pocket. Doyoung pulls out the letter, walking to draw open the shades to allow more reading light in.

“Kim Dongyoung,” He mumbles out, reading over the first, short line as the sleep is rubbed from his eyes. ‘Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you continue to ignore them. For my sake, please write. - Donyun’

An audible scoff after he’s finished reading, he can almost hear his brother’s tone. Doyoung does care about his family, but his brother is as much on his parents’ side as he is against it, it is a giant rift in their already teetering relationship.

The telegram tossed onto the bed as Doyoung takes off his jacket, he’d been avoiding his familial issues for a while now and it seems as if they’re coming back to bite him in the ass. It wasn’t entirely his fault for doing so, his father was never a good listener and Doyoung’s ideas were always pushed asunder.

A few moments later he finds himself in a fresh set of clothes, ready to face the day. In truth, he is dreading his lessons but at least it will provide some relief from thinking about the drama happening back in Guri. His shoes drag along the wooden floor as he steps out of his room, locking it with the small gilded key behind him. Once in the hallway, his posture straightens as he begins to make his way towards the staircase that would lead him into the main lobby. The crushed emerald green velvet railing runs under his fingers as he descends, swiftly moving into his pockets once his feet land on the granite tiles splaying out an ocean of deep gray below him.

A thin beam of light shines in through the slit in the door of the entranceway, the windows attached to the door are covered in the same crushed velvet encasing the staircase via curtain. It feels like he is in a black hole with how dimly lit the interior of the building is. Eventually he makes his way through the lobby, past the plumes of smoke belonging to the lackadaisical men resting in overly decadent armchairs smoking out of their kiserus.

Doyoung shuffles his way to the front desk, a younger woman manning it instead of the elderly woman from the night prior. “Can I help you?” Voice sullen sounding, or maybe tired, Doyoung still isn’t awake enough yet to dissect it fully. 

Reaching into his pocket, pulling out the letter from Yuta with the name of the school, “I’m looking for this?”

The girl leans over the desk, it’s easy to tell the yukata she wears is inhibiting her from her full range of motion. Eyes reading the characters carefully, “Whoever wrote this has awful handwriting,” She mutters under her breath and Doyoung can’t understand it entirely. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk that way,” Hand raising to motion southward, “When you see the sweets shop you should turn right, and it will be a few buildings down on your right.”

A nod of his head as he thinks he caught most of her instruction. He takes the paper back and tucks it away, thanking her as he makes for the door. The heat greets him with a gentle breeze, an inkling of warmth as to what’s in store for later in the day. Doyoung looks to the sky, to see where the sun is positioned so he is able to gauge the direction he was supposed to go. He sets off, pace not brisk or lax, merely at a stride to absorb what’s around him. It’s still early in the morning, plenty of time before the school day begins to wander the streets for a bit.

The street’s crowded, thinning in places where it seems more residential than not, it reminds him of home. Different feel, different language but it has a strange nostalgic aura about it. A sweetness hitting his nose as he approaches a small wooden building, he can’t read what it is but by the smells emanating from it he supposes that it’s the sweet shop the girl at the hotel had told him to turn at. Head tilting to peer down the street, it looks like nothing of note. As he stands there, presumably looking more confused than the average local, he feels a finger gently tap on his shoulder, “Are you lost?”

The voice comes as a surprise, turning Doyoung on his heels to come face to face with a stranger. Eyes wide as he looks the boy over, “A little bit... I’m looking for,” reaching into his pockets as the other stops him.

“Are you Kim Doyoung?” It seems as if everyone here knew of him before he could introduce himself. Before he can speak, a nod of affirmation rattles through him and the other smiles, “Yuta said that we’d be getting a new student in today.” Hand outstretching, Doyoung’s a little more practiced with the greeting now, “My name’s Lee Minhyung, I can show you the way to the school if you want?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” He gives a brief smile before another nod of his head, “I’d really appreciate it.”

[1909.05.05. San Francisco, CA] If anything were to be your downfall, it would be that of your impatience. You’d been sitting down with John’s mother, a woman you likened to your own family when the one back home was too involved in her own business, when the news broke. She was kind, offered you tea and as always had the little tin of biscuits you loved when you were a child sitting atop the tea tray, and then graciously divulged to you that her son was currently under police custody in Tokyo when the last you’d heard he’d been in Seoul. It would explain the absence of letters, or inability to write. Upon questioning her further you realize that maybe he was in far greater a circumstance than he left you off thinking.

It isn’t a matter of asking your parents to ship you off to a foreign land, it’s a matter of when and how soon you can leave. The money sitting in the dank vault of your late grandmother’s account had laid in wait for some sort of use, and she had wanted you to use it to fulfill some sort of errant dream of yours after her passing. You couldn’t find it within yourself to touch it, seeing it as too prized and too treasured a thing to take away from for some frivolous means. But your grandmother had liked John, the late one on your father’s side and not the vile one from your mother’s. She had treated him kindly whenever he had stopped by, sometimes even saying that she had wished him her grandson more than the monsters that were your cousins. You think that is reason enough to pull from your funds and splurge on a rescue mission to Japan. There were several people you’d known that had been there before, detailing it as a curious place but had neglected to tell you why; you don’t think of the language or cultural barriers separating you until you’re standing on a pier in San Francisco, waiting for your ship to dock.

The brine of the sea had never settled well in your stomach, salty on your lips and your cheeks as the coastal winds torrent towards you. Your ship doesn’t leave for a while yet but the queasiness felt on the decks of other ships returns to the pit of your stomach with a ghostlike vengeance. Perhaps it is anxiousness that riddles you instead of the fear of the sea.

 “Im-a-de-ga-wa Gai-ko-ku-jin Ni-hon-go Ga-kko” words falling from your lips in strange and oblong vowels and consonants that were almost completely incorrect. John had mentioned it in the letter to his mother, detailing that should she not hear from him for another month to contact the school and ask for the aid of a Mr. Yuta Nakamoto, a friend that he’d talked about in passing a few times. Apparently, he is a persuasive sort that would most definitely help him out should the occasion arise. Or so John had put it, you aren't really sure what to think of him.

John’s mother had insisted that it had been a mix up at customs but a bitter taste in your mouth and gut wrenching feeling in your stomach told you otherwise. He was a rebellious spirit and had probably said a few choice words that had gotten him in trouble, he had said his Japanese wasn’t great but he had learned a handful of colorful phrases from the aforementioned friend in University that could definitely be taken the wrong way by unknowing ears.

If the seas were steady and your luck good, maybe you can reach him within a month. If not, a week or so longer but you’re not sure if the anticipation of it all would let you, you might jump ship and hope to swim there faster should such a situation arise. Again, impatience being your downfall you can barely stand just watching the large metal steamship land at port and empty its passengers before you were to board.

The air is salty, the gentle spray of foam from the shore landing on your cheeks carefully as you look towards the ship that is to be your dwelling for the next portion of your life. Maybe you shouldn’t have come alone, taken a chaperone or a friend with you, but you were worried, too crunched for time to even entertain the thought as you packed your bags and told your mother you were taking the first train out of town. Your face still stings with the remembrance of the slap she’d given you in her frenzy, calling you something along the lines of a girl too thoughtless to know her role. By no means a heartfelt way to leave her, but your father had said to go, knowing a little more than your mother how much John means to you.

Your bags, brown leather and worn from the days when your father was still youthful enough to travel, lay at your feet as the thin paper ticket folds under your grasp. The chatter from the crowds around you mixing in with shouts of vendors and merchants lining the docks over the squalls of seagulls overhead. It’s all too much when your mind is racing with concern, not too much though to deter you from a gentle tapping on your shoulder.

“I think you dropped this?” Deep voice causing you to turn on your heels and face the perpetrator. When you do, you’re greeted with your passport being held out to you and a dimpled smile to go along with a rather dashing face.

“Oh,” Eyebrows raised as you reach out to gingerly take your own booklet from the other, you hadn’t realized its absence since you had thought it stowed away in the depths of your handbag. “Thank you—?” A pause as you wait for an introduction.

“Jaehyun, or Jeffery, whichever is easiest for you,” he nods and then you offer your name before he speaks again. “It was really no problem,” he continues with a smile as he looks down to the bags at your feet, “Did you just get back or are you going somewhere?”

The innate curiosity of the stranger mildly perplexing, “I’m off to Tokyo.”

“Tokyo,” his tone faltering as his hand drops down to his side after you begin stowing the passport back away in the small purse slung over your shoulder. “What business is taking you there?”

You pause as you think, it isn’t exactly family troubles or business matters that are taking you across the Pacific, stubbornness, and inability to take your friend for everything he said, more like it. “A friend settled there a little while ago,” a nod after a moment of silence, “it seems that he has gotten himself into a little trouble so I am going to make sure everything is alright.” Absentmindedly patting the bag as you can see the other mull it over in his head, “What about you? Are you heading in or out?”

“Out,” The answer is almost immediate, a shift on his feet as he straightens his posture. “I’m heading to Korea; I haven’t seen my family in almost seven years.”

“Seven years?” The most John had been gone was the three years he spent studying abroad; you can’t imagine someone gone from your life for that amount of time. “What were you here for?”

“I was staying with a group of missionaries as I went through college,” Hands in his pockets as he turns to the blue horizon overlooking the ocean you were both meant to traverse, “Now that I’ve graduated there’s nothing keeping me here.”

“What will you do when you’re-” you begin to speak when a loud whistle blares from the port your ship had saddled up to. Growing quiet as you begin to hear the general buzz of the people around you grow as they begin to shuffle towards the bridge that linked the port to the steamship. “I guess it’s time,” Reaching to pick up your bags, the leather against your palm somewhat soothing your nerves, “are you boarding too?”

A shake of his head, “My ship doesn’t leave until the afternoon.”

“Ah,” the sound leaving your lips as the thought of, perhaps, having someone to accompany you on your journey was swiftly diminished. “Well,” A small smile gracing your lips, “It was nice to meet you, Jaehyun.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” smile returning, “Safe travels.”

“And to you,” You nod as you begin to walk towards the front port, looking down to your hand to make sure that your ticket is still in hand.

[1909.05.16. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] “It’s not kūremashita it’s agemashita.” writing on a chalkboard, the dust from the small white stick clinging to the ends of Yuta’s jacket as he scrawls out the hiragana. “Unless you’re thankful that Doyoung’s parents give him money?” A smattering of laughter echoing the room as he tries to teach the handful of students how to show appreciativeness and the reporting of it to others. “Try one more time.” Doyoung sits back in his chair and looks at a pink-cheeked Jungwoo who leans over his notes in an attempt to reconcile his verbal mistake.

There’s another try from the dark-haired man, it sounds good enough to Doyoung but apparently, the structure of the sentence needs more tweaking, as seen by Yuta giving out a small sigh before walking to Jungwoo’s side. Doyoung takes this time to look around the small, confined classroom. It was in no means shabby, but one could tell this building wasn’t meant to be a school, Doyoung thinks Yuta told him that it had been some sort of distillery prior to the deed falling into his hands.

From eleven in the morning, when the sun slants in through the two glass windows of the classroom just enough to see the dust flying through the air, to noon is when Yuta teaches the native Korean speakers basic Japanese grammar and vocabulary. It’s only a handful of students; Minhyung, whom Doyoung had met on his first day, Jungwoo, who is somewhat timid but roaringly confident at times, Jeno, a kid on some sort of exchange trip who hopes to build up his language skills before his university classes start in the fall, and of course, Doyoung himself. It is an intimate learning experience, perhaps that’s why Doyoung now feels miles more confident in his speaking ability now than he did a month prior. Hell, he could now converse freely, albeit somewhat confined in his topics, to the front desk woman at the hotel he still resided at.

There’s a knock at the classroom door, pulling the attention from the room’s occupants away from their work and now to the dark wooden door that leads out into the small foyer where the next group of students is presumably waiting for their lecture. “The next class doesn’t start until noon,” Yuta looks to the clock placed atop his desk, “You’ve got five minutes.”

The door opens with a small creak, shadows from the entranceway spilling in as Doyoung catches a familiar face standing there to greet the class. “I was actually hoping to sit in?” A voice Doyoung hadn’t heard since his university days accompanied the creak of floorboards underfoot as Youngho strides into the room. “I think my Japanese is a little rusty.”

A small laugh from Yuta as he recognizes his friend, “There’s the jailrat.” Yuta returns to the front of the room to stand in front of the taller, no doubt feeling the confused gazes of the students behind him staring past him and to the stranger. “I’m surprised they let you out that early.”

“You know I’m persuasive,” Smile lingering on his lips as his head turns and he catches sight of Doyoung looking at him quizzically. He is still caught up on the word jailrat and the connotation behind it, when had Youngho been incarcerated?  

“Well,” Yuta turns on his heels to address the class, “Why don’t we end early today?”

Minhyung’s already leaned over his desk to get Jeno’s attention, Doyoung thinks he hears him say something about grabbing lunch at the nearby market, but his interest is far too deterred to be paying full attention to the younger men. The class packs their bags, Doyoung taking the longest time of all as he tucks away his books into his makeshift bag. In all earnest it was a bag he’d borrowed from the reception at the hotel, he’d neglected to bring or buy a suitable bag for school when he left home and arrived in Japan. The worn canvas of the thing almost wearing through at the bottom, he slings it over his shoulder and makes his way towards Youngho and Yuta, who look to be in deep conversation.

Youngho spots Doyoung approaching in his periphery, turning to greet him with a jovial smile. “I see you made it here in one piece?” His eyes looked tired, his face gaunter than the last time he’d seen his elder, but he wasn’t going to question, it was neither the time nor the place.

“Mostly,” Doyoung replies, “Yuta’s been a great teacher.”

“Thanks for the ego boost,” Yuta’s fingers dance on the lapels of his jacket in mock vanity, only then moving into his jacket pocket for a lighter and his infamous pack of Chūyū cigarettes. He offers one to Youngho and then to Doyoung, to which they accept, pulling their own lighters out of their pockets and lighting the butts of the sticks.

“God, these are shit,” a grit through Youngho’s teeth after he pulls in a drag. “They confiscated my Lucky Strike back in Tokyo.” Doyoung’s brow furrows as the other begins to speak again, “Let me know when you’ve got a free night. I’d love to grab dinner and catch up; it’s been a while.”

“I should have time this Saturday?” Doyoung thinks of his schedule, it’s not that he had massive time commitments here, but he was making a point to travel around the city in his free time. “If that works for you, of course.”

“It sounds doable,” A nod as Youngho moves his hand to tap his cigarette against an ashtray atop Yuta’s desk, the wood around the tray stained with the ashes of past smoking ventures. “Are you still staying at that hotel I told you about?”

Doyoung shifts on his feet, “I am, are you staying there too?”

“Yuta has offered me residence in his home until he is sick of me,” Youngho nods to the aforementioned, “I can meet you in the lobby around five then?”

“Sounds good,” Doyoung agrees, looking at the clock hanging on the wall, “I think Jungwoo wanted to go over the homework together so I should go and help him out.” It’s something of an excuse but Doyoung could feel as if there was some sort of pregnant secret looming over the heads of the other two.

“Would you mind sending Sicheng and the others in?” Yuta asks as Doyoung snubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and makes his way to the door.

Metal knob in hand, Doyoung turns and gives him a brief nod, “Of course.”

There’s something that doesn't sit right with Doyoung. Youngho had noted that he’d planned on staying in Hanseong for a while in the letter he’d sent to Doyoung a few weeks ago. It’s not as if plans can’t change or anything of the sort, yet he’d seemed vehement about it, detailing something about a someone he was going to visit before heading home to America. He isn’t one to question where questions aren’t due, if his friend was to stay in Kyoto for the time being, he’d be nothing more than appreciative of having a familiar face around.

[1909.05.18. 今出川ホテル、京都] When Doyoung ascends the staircase, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, he can immediately tell that Youngho sits in one of the large armchairs by the hotel’s unused fireplace in the lobby. Although his face is obscured by the wings, with the way his hand taps in rhythm with the song wafting through the air, the excitedness of the movements are a telling sign that it is his friend. 

A glance to the victrola that lies in the corner of the room, the audio scratchy and soft as it emits a tune that Doyoung does not know. He strides over to the plush chair, glancing down to its occupant before speaking. 

“Good afternoon,” the words escape him and Youngho turns to him with a jump and widened eyes before he realizes who it is. 

“Dongyoung!” Youngho smiles from the armchair, rising to his feet to greet the other with a quick embrace, “Long time no see.”

“Actually I go by Doyoung now,” he nods awkwardly as Youngho steps back from him, his hand rising to scratch the back of his head, “helps me forget myself for a bit.”

“Still having family issues?” Youngho’s brow furrows as they break their embrace, “I thought you wrote that you had sorted that mess out?”

“More or less,” another awkward smile, “But enough about me— I thought you were supposed to be in Hanseong?”

“Change of plans, there was someone I was meant to meet in Tokyo, but they left during the time while I was imprisoned.”

“Yuta mentioned something like that when you first came in, what happened?” Youngho’s holds out his hand, motioning to the door, as Doyoung questions. The latter begins to walk forward, towards the entrance of the hotel as his friend trails behind him, “Were you really taken into custody?”

“They thought I had ties with Homer Hulbert,” A laugh as the two make their way out the front door, trapezing down the steps and onto the sidewalk, “Which is correct, but they had no grounds to imprison me on the idea that I know him alone or had one of his books in my possession.”

“Hulbert— is he the one that—?” 

“The very same,” he nods, “But that is more than contrived at this point, let me know how you are. It sounds like things are the same with your family the last I saw you.”

“If things were okay then I would have stayed home,” A huff of heated breath leaving him in something of a passive laugh. “My father is still trying to set me up with that girl, the past runs deep, I suppose.”

“I cannot agree with you more,” Youngho agrees with a nod, “Have you even met her yet?”

“The last time I saw Seungwon was when I was thirteen, even if I saw her I cannot say I could point her out in a crowd if you asked me to.” Doyoung's hands find purchase in his pocket, hidden away from the sunlight that falls onto his head and burns the back of his neck as Youngho and he walk further down the street, through the masses of people.

The older nods solemnly, almost as if he understands the situation, "I have a friend who's nearly in a similar situation as you. Although her parents haven't found her a match or approved of anyone she's liked, I'd say her feelings mirror your own."

"Is that right?" Doyoung questions rhetorically as Youngho digs through his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, "Is that the girl who you spoke so much about during our classes together?"

Youngho sputters, his hands failing to ignite his lighter at Doyoung's words, a cigarette dangling from his lips, "Did I really talk about her that much?"

"So much so I feel like I know her," Doyoung smiles and shakes his head, a familiar pang hitting his stomach once he looks back to the street before them. "Do you want to grab something to eat? I don't think I've eaten since lunchtime yesterday."

"Too busy studying?"

"Something like that..." In actuality, he'd received yet another telegram, this time from his mother, scolding him for staying away again.

"You always were more studious than me," the other nods and looks to a small restaurant they begin to pass on their left before stopping in his tracks, "What about this place?"

"Soba?" The intensity of the sun once again baring down above him as he looks to the sign on the door, he nods quickly, "Sounds great."

The pair make their way inside, settling down at a small table in the back corner of the shop as they wait for their food to arrive. Doyoung moves his hand to unbutton a few fastens from the front of his jacket to allow some of the shop's cooler air to hit him. His hands then move to rest atop the table, his long and slender fingers tapping as Youngho smokes the last of his cigarette, snubbing it out on the ashtray settled at the end of the table.

"How's your family doing? Is your father's business going well? I saw a few copies when I was in Hanseong.” Lackadaisical in question, Doyoung can hear something edging behind his friend’s tone that tinges upon suspicion. 

“It’s going well,” a silent nod as a server comes to their table, the two order quickly, leaving little room for questions before Doyoung asks, “What about your family?”

“Willfully ignorant as ever,” Youngho frowns, shifting in his seat. It looks as if bitter words reside on his tongue but he swallows them down with a redemption of a smile. 

“About what?” Doyoung pauses as he reaches for the pot of tea the server had brought on her arrival, his hand hovering over the handle. 

“Everything.” Youngho’s shoulders shrug as Doyoung eventually pours himself and his friend a cup of tea. “Korean politics, American politics, hell- even the politics of their own inner circle. I refuse to believe they aren’t intelligent, they refuse to accept anything that isn’t affecting them personally.” 

“I see…” He winds off his acknowledgement with the abating of his words, woefully aware that his parents are of the same mindset. His own father being the worst of all of them, claiming that any interaction or deals with unsavory business men were for the benefit of the family, not to the detriment. 

“My father’s own brother died in ‘07 and he seemed unfazed by it at all,” Youngho huffs out, “At the hands of the Imperial Army, and yet, still, he said nothing.” 

Doyoung’s eyes widen and he raises a finger to his lips as if to tell the older to lower his voice, unknowing if anyone within the shop understands Korean. “Even if he did, there would be nothing your father could have done about it. Not only is he in America, he holds no authority in Joseon.” 

“No one wanting to do a damn holds any authority in Joseon anymore, you know better than me what the yangban have gone through, what everyone’s gone through.” Youngho leans in closer to Doyoung, ceding as he lowers his tone, “It may be easier said than done but I believe we have the ability to change that.” 

“How would-” Doyoung begins but is interrupted when the server comes back with their food, carefully setting each dish atop the table before retreating back into the depths of the kitchen. “How could ‘we’ possibly do that?” 

“There are ways, I know there are. I just need time to think of a proper solution,” Youngho nods as he reaches for his chopsticks, eager to sate his own hunger that had risen during their conversation. “If you’re interested I’ll tell you more when I have an idea.”

[1909.05.27. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] Doyoung’s mind doesn't return to that conversation with Youngho until a Wednesday afternoon about a week later. The sun begins to sink down in the sky as Youngho, Minhyung and himself were cleaning off some blackboard tablets in the main room of the school. Yuta was busy teaching a class and Doyoung’s fingers were pruned from what felt like endless scrubbing with a rag and vinegar ridden water.

“You know,” Youngho speaks up after what feels like an eternity of silence, brushing his hands on his pants after setting down a board onto the floor below. “I think we can really change something here.” His shoes quickly tapping on the floor in some sort of anxious apprehension, “Yuta and I have been talking and the resistance effort in Korea seems to be strengthening again.”

“What are you implying?” Doyoung asks, confused at the sudden statement. His brow wet with perspiration, even having the windows cracked open doesn't allow for much wind to travel throughout the building.

“I am saying that we can try and do something to change the… trouble happening back home,” Youngho shows no anger but a passion resides in his voice that remains hard to mask. “Do something before something more is done to us.”

“That is…” Minhyung begins, looking up to Youngho from his task of drying off the boards.

“Idealistic?” Doyoung interjects, biting his lower lip before continuing, “Youngho you do realize if someone hears you talking about that you’ll get thrown in prison again?”

Eyes trailing around the space as if he hadn’t already known they were alone, “Every one of us are sitting ducks. You know that,” a point to Minhyung and then a point to Doyoung, “and you know that. Is fighting back against that such a bad thing?”

“How do you propose we do that? Drop everything now, hop on a ship back to Korea and just roam the countryside looking for this supposed group?” Blood rushing to his ears as it sounds like waves crashing on a beach’s shore. 

“Not at all,” A shake of his head. “There are ways of resisting that do not rely on fighting, think peaceful, diplomatic.”

A nervous laugh escapes Doyoung, it’s involuntary but he can’t help it. “Suh Youngho I knew you were insane, but this is another level.”

“I— uh— I’m going to get some chalk refills from the storage room,” Minhyung excuses himself from the conversation, a glance at him as he walks away tells Doyoung that he doesn’t know how to interact with the situation and was looking for an easy escape.

“Doyoung if you would just listen to me and get that stupid doubt out of your head you might just be able to make some sense of it all.” A sigh from Youngho as he stands, reaching into his jacket to rummage around for a pack of cigarettes. “Can I bum one off of you?”

Cheek bitten as he grabs his pack out of his pocket and tosses it to the other, “Do you have any idea what they would do to my family if they knew we were having this conversation? Your family and Minhyung’s are across the world and have no worries about what they say or do. The other student’s and mine are not privileged with that.” Cigarette carton tossed back, the sound of a lighter igniting and the smell of smoke pervading through the air as he tucks the pack away into his pocket.

Youngho thinks, an exhalation of smoke through troubled lungs as his outward breath intermingles with the dust thick in the air. It dissipates without a sound, quietly invading the space as Doyoung is overcome with a sense of trepidation from the other, he picks his words meticulously, trying to string them together as carefully as possible, “This is not just about you or me or my family or yours. It is the fate of a nation on the line, is that so hard to understand?”

It causes the younger pause for a moment, his hand falling to his pocket, hovering there before he pulls on the fabric as if he’d meant to straighten the coat all along. His throat clears, thinking of his parents and brother he’d left behind in Guri, what any actions that Youngho’s ideals cause may entail for them. Even if he was trying to get away from his obligations back home, he’d never want to intentionally put them in any sort of danger. 

Doyoung opens his mouth to speak, before catching a bright glimpse of color passing by one of the front windows, followed by the school door opening with a large slam against the wall. Silhouette standing in the setting sun for a moment, not looking at all familiar to Doyoung. An equally confusing circumstance when the words, “John Suh,” spill from your lips.  It’s a confounded expression that crosses your face, standing in the front door of the school as the taller leans leisurely back against one of the walls. 

Cigarette in hand, Youngho turns at the call of his name, nearly falling over in surprise to see you standing there. No, not surprise- bewilderment, shock or some form of abject horror as you take a few long strides to stand in front of him. It’s as if a child’s been caught by his mother and Doyoung is playing witness to it all.

Doyoung watches the scene in a state likened to childlike curiosity, he understands not one word that falls from either of your or Youngho’s lips, but he can tell you’re angry and him beyond apologetic. Hand movements gesticulating, he catches the words ‘Seoul’ and ‘Tokyo’ at some point as you huff something out under your breath. Voices raising, Doyoung’s surprised Yuta hasn’t come out to tell them to be quiet, but if he were in Yuta’s shoes he wouldn’t as you sounded royally pissed. When you turn on your heels Doyoung looks to Youngho for some sort of explanation, but his gaze is solely locked on you leaving.

“Shouldn’t you chase after her?” Minhyung asks, the two others not realizing he had returned, box of chalk in hand as the three men watch you storm out into the crowded streets.

“She needs to calm down before I talk to her again or she might really kill me.” Youngho sighs, bringing the cigarette to his lips before taking in a long drag. A hand runs through his hair as it looks as if all of the blood had drained from his face upon your arrival.

“Is that the friend you mentioned a while ago? You showed us a picture I think.” Doyoung questions, somewhat relieved at your intrusion into their previous conversation.

“It is,” the answer not coming from Youngho, but from Minhyung. “And by the sound of it she’s ready to pack you into her suitcase and take you on the next boat home.” Head nodding as he looks to the space you once occupied, “You really didn’t tell her you were coming here?”

“You understood that?” Smoke leaving him he turns to the younger, “You didn’t tell me you speak English.”

“It never really came up.” Shoulders shrugging as he sets the box of chalk he’d been fiddling with down onto a nearby chair. “And I am from Canada, after all.”

“Son of a bitch, Yuta told me you were from Hanseong.” Youngho muses, tossing the cigarette from his hand and smothering it with his shoe. “But yeah, that’s her. I may have neglected to mention that but I was a little held up,” he looks confused as he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way to the door, peering out in the street. “I just don’t know how in the hell she found me.”

“She probably used the wrath of God to do it,” Minhyung suggests, “That’s how my mom says she knows everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” A shake of his head as Youngho turns to Doyoung. “She said she’s staying at the hotel you’re in. Would you mind meeting up with me tomorrow morning in the lobby to talk some sense into her and get her to go back home?”

“I don’t even know her though?” Hands dried on a nearby towel, Doyoung stands and reaches for the bucket of now dirty water. He walks past Youngho and into the street to dump its contents out, “I don’t even speak that much English.” 

“It’s more of moral support than anything,” Youngho steps aside to let Doyoung back in, “I wasn’t joking: she might actually kill me if she gets the chance.”

“Fine,” Doyoung sighs, walking to pick up his bag from the corner of the room. His hands smell of vinegar and he rubs his still pruned fingertips together as he thinks of what the next morning would hold. “You owe me, though.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Youngho breathes a sigh of relief as Doyoung makes his way to the front door once again, this time with the intent of leaving. “Nine work for you?”

“Nine works for me.” A nod as he walks down the two steps and onto the dirt road below, the indentations from your shoes leading off down the almost empty road. He glances back to Youngho with a, “See you tomorrow,” and then to Minhyung with a question of “Do we have a quiz on Friday?” before waving it off and beginning his trek back home.

The night descends on Kyoto quietly and without noise, the stores closing long after the sun has fallen behind the western mountains in Arashiyama, lanterns aligning the street as Doyoung shuffles his way to the hotel. It’s quiet, the city typically is at this time of night, he’s learned over the course of his stay in the ancient former capital.

Before he goes inside, he stands outside of the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he stares up at the night sky blooming with stars. His bag lays at his feet, more worn now than it had been on the first day of class. Crumpled in his fists, buried away into the depths of his coat lies a letter, the ink that had adorned it far too smudged and water damaged to read now. Doyoung hadn’t meant to ‘accidentally’ drop it into a puddle when it had arrived that morning, so the contents lie unknown. However, on the corner of the envelope, a blurred name, ‘Seungwon’ stays virtually untouched as if to remind him of former obligations. 

It’s as if there’s a clock ticking in his chest, counting down to a day, a time, when he’s meant to take up the holstered responsibility of his family and place it onto his own shoulders. A burden not yet ready to bear, he sighs out into the balmy night and makes his way inside of the hotel. 

[1909.05.27. 今出川、京都] Doyoung wakes to the knocking on his door, his head burrowing into the tangled blankets and pillows from a restless night’s sleep. It takes a moment for him to find himself, writhing around the sheets before pulling himself out of his own stupor. Feet hitting the floor with a dull thud, he drags his lethargic body to the small bathroom, running his hands under the cool water of the faucet before splashing some onto his face to wake himself further. He meets his own gaze in the reflection, tired eyes and the slightest shadow of stubble beginning to darken on his jaw and upper lip. He’d have to visit the barber at some point in the coming days before he becomes totally unkempt.

He dresses himself in casual attire, a white linen button up, the most breathable thing he’d wear today, before he dons the dark blue of his three piece suit, a light gray and black one still residing in his wardrobe. He notices the threadings are nearly worn as he buttons the bottom half of his jacket, the things threatening to fall off should he exert too much force. The soles of his shoes too lie in disarray, wearing thin from endless wandering the streets of Kyoto after his classes have finished. It’s not that he’s searching for anything in particular, maybe a solution to his current situation. But he can’t find that at a merchant’s stall.

The route to the dining hall located on the first floor is a path easily tread, remembered in his first few days of arriving in Kyoto. The carpeted floors giving way to a wooden expanse the further he delves into the hotel, the scents of varying breakfast foods calling out to his aching stomach. 

His hands keep busy with the morning paper, perhaps yesterday’s or the day prior to that one. It takes a while for the Korean post to arrive in Kyoto, the postage system seems to take years for important things to arrive, yet the letters from home seem to be weekly. A sigh as he sets down the news, reaching out for the carafe of coffee situated some ways away from where he’s seated. He begins to pour himself a cup of coffee, only pausing when he catches something out the corner of his eye. 

A few darkened drips from the coffee pot settle into the white linen of the dining room tablecloth as he spots you stalking towards him. His eyes go wide and his breath hitches when your gaze narrows on him, almost causing him to choke on coffee he’d just brought to his lips.

The way you saunter over to his table reminds him of his mother when she’d be out to scold either him or his brother. Doyoung doesn’t know you but can easily tell that you’re not a force to be reckoned with. 

“Where’s John?” You ask, standing before him, arms crossing over your chest as you look down at him expectantly. “You were one of the men with him yesterday, right?”

“What?” Doyoung asks, trying to make some sense of what you were saying. When he was a young boy, his parents had allowed him to take English lessons with a handful of the Christian missionaries that had drifted through Guri, but seeing as he understands nothing of what you just said, it’s obvious he hadn’t retained much, if any, of his vocabulary. “What are you looking for?” He sees no glimmer of understanding in your eyes as your brow furrows, probably trying to decipher what he’d just said. “Youngho? Are you looking for Youngho?” It’s the common connection the two of you seem to have, it’s his best bet on trying to figure out what you want. 

You nod at the name, recalling that his mother shouts that at him whenever he’s angry. “Where is he?” If you’d taken up John on any of his invitational Korean lessons, you may have had much better luck in this situation. But you’d gone off to learn French because you were enamored with one of your classmates at the time, you could almost hit yourself seeing where it’s gotten you. 

“Whe-” Doyoung pauses, lips pursing together as he thinks of the word. Youngho was meant to be in the lobby when she came downstairs, but it’s now clear he’s nowhere to be found. 

 “School.” It’s one of the words he can pull from memory. “He’s probably at the school,” he says again and gestures in the general direction of Yuta’s academy. 

“The school- Imadegawa Gaikokujin Nihongo Gakko?” You’ve said the name of the institute hundreds of times to yourself that you think it’s the only Japanese you know. Not that you fully understand what it means, just knowing that it’s the name of the place. 

Doyoung nods, somewhat surprised that you know the name. 

“Can you take me?” The question falls out quickly and you see he’s confused, so you repeat it again slowly in hopes that he comprehends it. It seems that he does, reaching for his coffee and finishing the cup before rising to his feet, motioning for you to follow him as he heads towards the exit.

The walk to the school is painfully awkward, drenched in a silence that neither of you want to address. Both of you are not confident enough in the other’s mother tongue to make small talk as the two of you begin to walk the streets. 

“Hey!” Doyoung hears Minhyung call out as the schoolhouse nears, “Took you long enough, you’re almost late.” When the younger sees that you’re accompanying him he gives you a small wave, “You’re Youngho’s friend, right?” 

“I am,” You say after a moment, not having expected to hear English today. But with the company that John keeps, you can’t be too surprised at anything now. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, he’s not here yet,” he shakes his head and turns to Doyoung, “Didn’t Youngho say that you’d meet him at the hotel?”

“He did,” Doyoung’s lips curve into a frown as the three of you make your way into the school. “She’s been interrogating me about him, I think. Although I can barely understand what she’s saying.”

Minhyung laughs at the older and then turns back to you, “My name’s Minhyung, but you can call me Mark if that’s easier for you.” His demeanor has a lightness to it that descends onto you as something of a godsend. It’s an ease that you’d probably find with John if he were here and you aren't still angry at him. 

“It’s nice to meet you Minhyung,” you offer him a smile before your eyes go wide and you turn to your partner, “I uhm, I never asked him what his name is.”

“Doyoung,” Minhyung answers, another chortle leaving him and the elder looks confused as to why his name’s just been called out. “What’s your name?”

You respond quickly, glancing over your shoulder to see if John is on his way in, to your misfortune, he isn’t. Minhyung quickly introduces you to Doyoung, probably so he has a gist of who you are. It’s hard to tell if John’s said anything about you to these men, but it doesn’t look as if he’s said much.

“We’ve got class soon,” Minhyung’s voice pulls you from your search and you turn back to him, “I’m sure Yuta would let you sit in on the class if you wanted to, although I’m not too sure that you’ll understand much, I don’t even get all of it.”

“It’s alright,” you shake your head at him, “I’ll just wait out here for Joh- Youngho.”

The man in question strolls into the school around thirty minutes later, the local paper tucked under his arm as his brow raises in surprise to see you, “I thought I said I’d meet you at the hotel.”

“I got impatient,” a frown as your gaze flickers over to him. “Jail John? Jail?” You fume, storming over to the taller, “Do you have any idea how worried I was, how worried your mother was? God- If you don’t write to her today and tell her that you’re okay, I'm stuffing you in my suitcase and taking you back with me.”

He laughs heartily, despite you glaring him down, “I wrote to her as soon as I got out. I wrote to you, too, but it doesn’t seem like you got the message.” A few more chuckles escape him as he holds his arms out, “I missed you.”

You sigh, falling into his embrace, “I missed you too.” After a moment you pull away, stepping back from him, “I’m glad to see that you’re okay, but if you ever do something like this again-”

“I’ve missed your hollow threats,” John smiles and glances around the school’s empty halls, “Do you want to get out of here for a while? I know a good cafe nearby.” 

“Don’t you have class?” You question with a tilt of your head, the gentle murmurs from the classroom some ways away drifting out into the hall. “Minhyung said that Doyoung was already late, I wouldn’t want to stop you from your lesson.”

“I’m not a student,” John shakes his head, “I’m just… in town for a while and Yuta’s putting up with me for a bit.” He flashes you a grin before you have a chance to ask him exactly what he means by that, “Now come on before they run out.”

The two of you walk out into the dense heat of August, passing by a group of students as you do so. John recognizes some of them whereas you don’t, him saying something to them that elicits a laugh or two before you’re both back on your way to the city center. 

“Why were you arrested?” You can’t stop yourself from asking the question as you turn onto the main road from the alley in which the school is situated. There are only a handful of people perusing the streets, but none look interested in what you’d just said. “It wasn’t serious, right?”

“Of course not,” he reassures you and looks to a few buildings ahead, “We’re almost there.” John walks in silence for a moment, his fingers rubbing against his palm as he looks back to you, “I lost my passport, can you believe it?” You recall when you were leaving San Francisco and you had lost your own passport, if it hadn’t been for the man that found it for you, you’re not sure where you’d be.

“Well, actually, I didn’t lose it, it fell between the pages of one of the books that I bought, which reminds me- I have a few for you, I wrote you about them, just remember to tell me to give them to you,” John says quickly as you approach the building he’d been eyeing earlier, walking into the opened door confidently and heading to the nearest open table. 

You can tell he’s lying. You’ve only known him since you were children and he’s the closest person to you, you know almost every little quirk about him. And one of the first things you’d learned was that he talks quickly when he’s not being truthful. Yet, you don’t question him on it, seeing as you’d just calmed the tension between you, you don’t want to ignite it for the second time today. So, you just nod and follow him inside.

More oft than not, you hide your feelings behind a veneer of snark, of a bite that seems to sting but never lasts. It’s a sham way to hold yourself together, for if you let the dread of reality seep into your veins any longer than you allow it, you may just become the person you’re trying to hide. A vulnerable being who longs for the company of others but finds errant ways to keep them close instead of just outright saying it. 

John offers out a seat to you and you sit, hands folding neatly atop the tabletop as you look to the menu scrawled onto a chalkboard near the cafe’s counter. You’re not sure why you do, the mix of Japanese alphabets is still foreign to you.

“I’ll go grab something, just wait here,” he says, noticing your confusion, still standing before he turns on his heels and strides over to the counter. You turn away before he begins to speak to the barista, looking out of the glass window at the front of the shop, 

“How long were you planning on staying in Japan?” John’s voice stirs you some time later, the gentle sound of two cups being placed on the table making you turn in his direction as he sits down across from you. 

“As long as it took me to find you.” You smile at him, reaching out for the small cup, “I guess that means I can pack my bags and leave now.” The smile placated on your lips is joking, but you hold a sincerity in your gaze as if to ask him if that’s what you should do next. He was the entire reason you were here, to find him, to make sure that he was okay and to bring him home if you could. 

John’s finger traces the rim of his own coffee cup, gently lifting after a moment to tap along the surface of the tabletop. He hums, low and obstinate, as if to ponder the significance of you being here. 

“I guess you could,” a slow nod of his head, “You know, you were never obligated to chase me half-way across the world to try and get me back home. I’ve been detained before-”

“You have?” eyes widening as you look from your coffee to meet his eyes, “You’ve never mentioned that.”

“I’ve been detained before but,” he continues, gaze hardening at you as you interrupt him, “I really thought I had lost my papers so I sent my mom a letter saying I may need my official documents back home to get me out of the mess I found myself in. This was a little more serious than the others.”

“What happened the other times?”

“Well, in London they stopped me for taking too much tea out of the country, I guess they thought I’d run them dry of it,” a teasing smile twinges on the corners of his lips, “and in Cairo, I tried to sneak off with a few things from Cleopatra’s tomb.”

“You know,” you lean back in your chair, a snide frown on your lips, “lying less might help you out in the future.”

John laughs, reaching into his jacket pocket to procure his pack of smokes, it isn’t until he’s got a lit cigarette dangling from his lips that he speaks again, “Where’s the fun in that?”

He suddenly gasps, the smoke he’d been inhaling filtering into his lungs and causing him to sputter for a moment. You reach for and hand him his cup of coffee  so he doesn’t choke on himself. After a moment of hitting his chest and extinguishing his cigarette into the ashtray on the corner of the table, he speaks up, “You didn’t use your grandmother’s money to get you here, did you?”

“Well, technically it isn’t hers anymore,” a guilty exhalation of a chuckle, “but yes, I did.”

“Oh,” He’s crestfallen in the most faux of ways, “You said you’d take me to Italy with that.” It’s a joke, but you can see his concern wavering behind the sincerity of his words. 

Your hand falls to run over the textured brocades of your dress, a wavering smile delicately tugging at the corners of your lips, “I was just worried about you.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” brow softening as he reaches for his coffee, voice still a bit hoarse from his earlier choking. “But you don’t need to throw everything you have away for me, I know the trip probably wasn’t cheap.” 

John’s not wrong. It had taken quite a large portion from your deceased grandmother’s account to get you here, and the subsequent stay in the country. 

“I had to make sure you were okay,” you shrug your shoulders with a coy smile, reaching out to pick up your teacup and bring it to your lips. It’s then you realize something, setting the cup back down and looking around the shop, eyes wide.

“What is it?” John questions, noticing your shift in demeanor. 

“I haven’t ever been abroad before, I thought maybe I’d travel to Paris or London, Milan, even… Never…” A small hum as you turn to look back at him, “Never to Kyoto.”

“I’d have loved for you to see Seoul,” John smiles softly, his fingers tapping along the sides of the cup, “It’s beautiful this time of year.”

“You make it sound as if it’s impossible to go,” a tilt of your head. John had told you stories from his time studying abroad, of the antics he and his friends would get up to and of the history he’d learned. 

“It would be a little difficult to go back right now,” the smile lingering on his lips looks sad now, almost wistful in a way, “I’m sure we could go in the future if you want to.”  

“I’d love to,” you nod, glancing out of the window once more to watch the passersby walk up and down the crowded street.

[agent-cupcake]

Imagine having a child with a guy named Jimmy. Cursed.

OTHERWISE you all pretty much echoed what I was thinking, bless you.

cw pregnancy / forced pregnancy

(As ever, this is all in the context of dark personalities. I hesitate to say yandere, although that’s kind of become synonymous with dark personality AU’s and an obvious argument can be made that a darker take on the characters could lead into a yandere scenario) 

Ferdinand von Aegir

~While I don’t think he’d go out of his way to have a baby, he definitely wouldn’t take any steps to avoid it, either. That is, he wouldn’t really stray into breeding kink territory or anything of that kind but he’s not gonna pull out either. 

~But, yeah, if you were to get pregnant, Ferdinand wouldn’t be displeased by any means. He’d legitimately think it was the best way to “fix” things and out of a misguided attempt to ignore any negative aspects of the relationship and cling to the idealism of a happy marriage. 

~Just a side note, but I def see him with a body worship kink and I can only begin to imagine how that would intensify with his weakness for the softness and so-called beauty of motherhood. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.   

~Honestly, I don’t see him overtly leveraging  as a manipulation tactic. No, he’s good enough that his genuine feelings could do the job for him. Like, it’s not just you anymore. You’re responsible for another life so don’t you think you just trust him and let him take care of you? Oh, sure, he’d humor you (on account of the hormones) and say that he understands why you’re upset, but please just calm down. Everything will be all right, he’ll take care of you. 

~I think that Ferdinand would want a family even without the whole dark personality aspect. The way he’d see it is that children are a natural result of a union and love. He’d absolutely cherish your children if for no other reason than the fact that they’d be half you, although you can’t tell me that he wouldn’t have a horrible weakness for kids.  

~You’d be barely showing and he’d be picking out baby names and getting opinions on how to decorate the nursery and occasionally freaking out due to anticipation and nerves. He’d be really, disastrously, over-the-top protective, too. I just assume white magic would greatly lessen the infant and mother mortality rate but that doesn’t entirely remove the risk of complications so he’d be cloyingly careful about everything you ate, keeping tabs on any possible oddity going on with you. And, you know, I think he would enjoy emotionally taking care of you. Like if you were scared or sad or anything, I think he’d enjoy comforting you in a way that’s definitely not healthy. He’d enjoy being needed, I suppose.

~Yeah, so overall I view any sort of darker personality take on Ferdinand to be him, but with his sweet and noble and protective traits dialed up to an eleven without any sort of self awareness to make him pause and consider that maybe you don’t feel the same so having a child like this, as an intentional act of manipulation to make you stay or not, would be within the realm of possibilities.

Sylvain Jose Gautier (Bastard Man)

~Sylvain is pretty easy to imagine with a dark personality. I mean, assuming you have no pity in your heart and are willing to write him in a way that he never was able to get over his myriad issues, self hatred, severe distrust of people’s true intentions, and familial trauma.

~Assuming all that, and entertaining the idea that he could never find a good balance of repression and escapism, I think Sylvain would create an unhealthy emotional bond to a single person he believed to be exempt from his overall dismal regard for people and do this fun little thing where he’d chaotically flip flop between extreme emotions of distrust, blame, and anger and adoration, need, and a desperation to be seen as he was and still loved. 

~But it’d be a brutal cycle because he’s not the delusional type. Sometimes he could be, both with the good and the bad, but those would be kind of episodic. There’d be bad days where he’d be utterly convinced that you were just like the rest and he’d pick little fights and generally just be pretty pissy. But then sometimes he’d be blinded by love and so caught up in it that even if you told him no, he’d take it with a cheeky wink because of course you loved him and everything was so good. But, mostly, it’d just be a lot of dysfunction and Sylvain trying to lure you into a nice, good relationship with him by being mostly normal and decently charming and even, occasionally, being vulnerable (and tricking you into being vulnerable with him). 

~Anyway, back to the point. With all that context, why not bring a baby into the mix, right?    

~How many times does Sylvain bring up crest babies. Please, someone do a hard count and get back to me because damn son. So, may I just say, if anyone of these three were to have a breeding kink it’d be him. Is that controversial? Just think about it. Every girl ever wants him mystical crest cum, right? So, mentally, the whole thing would have a lot of weight and significance. Also Sylvain just strikes me as the type who’d be self aware enough of his dark and unhealthy needs that staking as intimate of a claim as that would be erotic. Unlike the other two, the act of forcing an irreversible and tangible change in your body and mind would be interesting. Not that he’d tell you any of that, or even dwell on it himself. 

~I’m torn between Sylvain saying it was an accident and him using the argument that since the two of you were in love, it was only natural that you’d start a family together. How could you not want to have his children? Better yet, how was he supposed to know that you wanted to wait. 

~But if you continued to be unreasonable, he’d go on the defensive. Like, what are you going to do? Leave him? For what? To raise his baby on your own? Or, worse, abandon your child? If you thought he’d voiced unfairly negative opinions about women before, the way he’d talk about a mother who abandoned her child and such a good, happy life with a loving husband would be infinitely worse. After all, he wanted to make a change in your relationship and be happy together. He wanted to be a good, loving father. He wanted a family with you. After everything, what kind of person would you be to throw that all away?

~So that’s... a lot. 

~But Sylvain’s the type to be awful in the moment then regret it after the heat dies down. Knowing he’d hurt you would genuinely tear him up inside. All of that adoration and desperation to keep you with him because he’d feel like he needed you to be happy would kick in and he’d break down under the guilt and tell you how much he loved you, how happy it made him to think that the two of you could have a family, that he knew you would be a great mother, that he knew he’d messed up but he would make it up to you, that you really could be a happy family. 

~Just saying, I can see him taking a perverse sort of pleasure in the physical effects of pregnancy. Also, he’d definitely be a lot softer with you. Guilty conscience, anyone?

Dimitri (Dimi) (Jimmy)

~You, dear anon, said it better than I could have myself. I agree SO HARD that Dimitri would be terrified of being a parent, but at the same time I think, if it were to happen, he’d be utterly enamored with the idea. There’s a lot more that I think about how he’d regard fatherhood, but that’s the gist. 

~Funny thing is, darker Dimitri is just like... More needy... unbearably protective... Paranoid... less stable... bad at managing his emotions when it comes to you... But, like, the same general emotions about fatherhood would apply because that’s already pretty complex. Only, this time, with an obvious emphasis on how it would effect you and your relationship. 

~I was going to say that I can’t see Dimitri purposefully impregnating you, but that’s not entirely true. In a fit where he’s feeling especially raw and paranoid, I think he would do it very purposefully and even almost-kinda-sorta relish in the idea. 

~I view his obsessive feelings to be like an itch he can’t quite scratch because he knows better than anybody how easy it would be to lose you and doesn’t know how to manage both his own instability with the unpredictable world because at any moment it could all spiral apart. 

~So, this in mind, he could believe that having a baby would make things different. More than just vows or words or rings or anything, it would be a concrete and absolute tie between the two of you. He would have an unquestionable claim over you that would go beyond the scope of just your relationship, you’d be carrying the royal heir which would give Dimitri even further valid excuses to be suffocatingly overprotective.

~It would be... So messy... On the one hand, I think the concept of fatherhood, of being given another chance, of being needed that much more by both you and the child, would really appeal to him. It could even sand off some of the rougher edges of his darker traits, now that he had this assured security in keeping you with him. Sure, the itch wouldn’t be scratched entirely, but it would be easier to ignore, there would be a solid way to reassure himself that you were his.   

~But Dimitri’s got this awful middle ground of self awareness. Anything that would come off delusion would be a result of his endless attempts at rationalizing his unhealthy feelings and trying to make sense of it all without having to actually confront the issues. But that wouldn’t mean he wouldn’t know, on some level, that what he was doing wasn’t healthy and how bad it was for you. The guilt would be intense, which would be apart of the reason he needed to keep you so close all the time because then he could pretend that you needed him just as badly, that everything was all right because he could take care of you better than anyone else. 

~Dimitri’s self aware guilt would allow a part of himself to understand that he should let you go. He could even, on the bad days, convince himself that maybe, one day, he would allow you to leave him because he loved you, because what he was doing was wrong. As long as you were near him, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, he would always hurt you. 

~But using pregnancy to force you to stay with him would, perhaps even in an intentional subconscious way, cut off that last-ditch contingency to ease his own guilt and pain of what he was doing by keeping you with him. Now that you were going to be having his child, the royal heir, would mean that you could never leave. He’d know it. You would probably know it, too. 

~After that point, Dimitri would double down with proving his affection, proving that he was capable of taking care of you and his child and that you could be a family and everything would be okay. 

[gukyi]

remembered / forgotten | ksj

summary: you and kim seokjin were school sweethearts. fifteen years later, you wander the halls of hogwarts as a professor, and realize that you are not the only one seeing the memories that you shared. 

{hogwarts!au, (sort of) friends to lovers!au}

pairing: kim seokjin x reader genre: fluff word count: 1k warnings: allergic reaction to magical potion ingredient a/n: a huge thank you to @andshewasperfect for commissioning this piece and donating to blm!! oh, how i miss writing hogwarts aus. 

It takes something remarkable to be remembered. 

Simply walking the halls of this hallowed castle is not enough—you must do something extraordinary. 

The beauty of Hogwarts is that, with centuries of students and a rich, complex history, every corner that you turn is a memory of what has happened within these walls. From the golden plaques in the trophy room, names etched into gold, to the paintings lining the cinderblock walls, to the ghosts that stroll the corridors and sing Christmas carols in the winter, there are so many moments to be reminded of. 

The danger is that, with so many students, so many professors, and so many years, being forgotten is just as easy. 

You remember walking these halls when you were younger. Memories flash before your eyes of you and your friends chasing each other on the staircases, hiding out in the greenhouses, and studying in the library. But now, as a professor, it feels different. It feels like you’re looking back on a past life, on a past version of yourself that hasn’t translated to the present properly. The person in those memories doesn’t feel like you. 

Every year new students come and old students go. And they, too, will look back on their memories at Hogwarts fondly, as reminders of who they were when they were young. 

The past is, and always has been, haunting. 

Today, what bubbles in your students’ cauldrons is the beginnings of veritaserum, in the hopes that by the next lunar month, the potions will be ready for potential use. You don’t suppose many of your students will volunteer to drink it and reveal their deepest, darkest secrets, but at least one of them definitely has nothing to lose.  

Unfortunately, your students are still students, which means that flawlessness is but an empty dream. 

“Professor! Macdermot is having an allergic reaction to the figworms!”

You whip your head around to find Macdermot, a scruffy brown-haired boy with a beard the size of St. Nick’s, breaking out into hives, red patches decorating his skin as he scratches at his arms, wincing. You immediately head over to him, instructing his brewing partner to dispose of the extra figworms and sanitize the area immediately. The good thing about veritaserum is that it isn’t inherently harmful, and your students are in their last year, so you reckon that they can handle a few minutes of your absence as you deliver Macdermot to the Hospital Wing. 

“I’m terribly sorry for not knowing, Macdermot, but you must inform me if we are brewing a potion that requires ingredients you’re allergic to,” you instruct him firmly but sympathetically. “I can give you an alternate assignment, if necessary.”

“Sorry, Professor,” Macdermot says as you round the corner and walk into the Hospital Wing. “But I had no idea I was allergic to figworms.”

“Fair enough, I don’t suppose you encounter them very often.”

As you enter the Hospital Wing, you are immediately reminded as to why you typically have another student escort anyone who needs medical care. Standing by an empty patient bed, white coat sitting neatly atop his shoulders, is Kim Seokjin, the head of the hospital wing and an old schoolmate of yours. And he is as handsome and charming and terribly friendly now as he was back then, back when you would sit in the gardens together and gaze up at the clouds. Back when he would meet you outside after class to teach you how to throw around a Quaffle or two. 

Back when you were more than just schoolmates. 

His brown eyes widen when he sees you. “Professor, what can I do for you?”

“Macdermot’s got himself an allergic reaction to figworms from class,” you tell him starkly, doing your best to avoid eye contact. Luckily, Seokjin’s attention has largely been focused on the red patches on Macdermot’s skin, sparing yourself from meeting his gaze. 

“Ah, not a problem,” Seokjin says with a flourish, holding out Macdermot’s arm to inspect it. “Should be fixed with some good old itch cream and perhaps an ibuprofen or two. Thank you for bringing him to me, Professor. You know, we can’t do these things alone.”

A flash. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to eat that entire Honeydukes lemon meringue pie at once!” You say with a groan as Seokjin pulls the pastry out of the box it was packaged in. It looks positively delectable, light and airy and divine. 

“Me?” Seokjin says with a laugh. “No, of course not.”

“We came out here to study, Seokjin,” you say, motioning towards the textbooks and parchment spread out on the picnic blanket. At this hour, the garden is empty, all of the students choosing to spend their time in the Great Hall or their common rooms for dinner, leaving only the two of you. “Not so you can eat until you pop like a balloon.”

“Who said anything about me eating by myself?” He poses, digging a fork stolen from the Great Hall into the pan. 

“We have a Transfiguration exam at the end of the week,” you remind him. It’s on a topic you are terribly unfamiliar with and that he has mastered, and, call you naive, but you were genuinely hoping for him to teach you a thing or two. 

“And never fear, we will study for that as well,” Seokjin promises you. He holds out the pie-covered fork in front of you, imploring you to open your mouth. You do so obediently, the sweet frosting filling up your mouth, bursting with flavor. “But we can eat together, too.” There’s a bit of frosting on the side of your lips, and Seokjin leans in to kiss it away. “You know, we can’t do these things alone.”

You look up at Seokjin, pained and wistful, wondering if the memory has struck him like a lightning bolt, the same as you. Lit up a part of your heart like a firefly. But you don’t have to ask. You know it has. 

After all of these years. 

“I shall see you around then, Professor Kim,” you tell him curtly, turning on your heels the moment you are able to. 

“Yes, I suppose so, Professor,” his voice trails after you as you dart out of the Hospital Wing as quickly as you can, the rhythm of your footsteps along the empty stone corridors echoing the beating of your heart. 

After your final Potions class, you wander out into the garden, the sun slowly beginning to set over the distant forest horizon, painting the sky with pink and orange and purple. Sometimes, you wonder if memory is more of a curse than a blessing. 

“I had a feeling that I’d find you out here.”

You turn around to see Seokjin a few stones back, hands in the pockets of his white coat as he kicks a pebble along the pathway. He’s looking down at his feet, but he’s smiling. 

“Seokjin,” you say, wordless. How can you explain yourself to him?

“I wish we saw each other more often, Y/N,” he says, slowly making his way towards you. “I mean, we did go to the same school, did we not?”

“It’s different now,” you tell him. 

He reaches you, and it makes you look up at him. In the evening light, you can see yourself reflected in the deep black ink of his pupils. He is right there. 

Almost as if he never left. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” he tells you, yearning. “We can remember who we used to be without letting it affect who we are now.”

“We were just school children,” you say dismissively. School children that could never quite untangle themselves from each other. 

“We aren’t anymore,” he says, and, in a daring move, takes your hand in his own. You gasp at the feeling but almost immediately relax at his touch, at the warmth of his body, how it radiates onto yours. “What I felt then and what I feel now are no different.”

“You mean that?” A whisper. 

“I do. Do you?”

You look up at him, and you smile. Though the years have gone by and plenty has changed, what remains is as concrete, as solid as ever. It is simply time to take old memories, and turn them new again. 

“Always.”

It takes something remarkable to be remembered, but it takes something meaningful not to be forgotten. What you and Seokjin shared was not extraordinary nor groundbreaking. It did not change students’ lives, nor did it alter their futures. But it etched itself into the walls, and followed you along your paths, until all of the roads began to link up with each other, and everything began to make sense. 

After all, memory never forgets.

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget that i’m still taking commissions!

[dwaynepride]

this is a masterlist for all my DWAYNE PRIDE x READER fics from NCIS: NEW ORLEANS. it will be updated with each new fic i post. this masterlist may not contain any headcanons or drabbles i’ve posted. for those, you might want to search through the tag itself.

this list contains nsfw stories. do not interact with those fics if you’re under 18.

IMAGINES

fluff

babysitting

nothing special

moral support

need some peace

enjoying the view

too excited

diversion

first opinions

insomnia

too drawn away

clean up

silent night

too early

not quite ready

favouritism

twilight

the books

taking care

a cure i know that soothes the soul

the one to pluck that fleur

sights to give you shivers

these hearts adore

just a growing irritation 

somewhere only we know

angst

healing painfully

recklessness

night worries

a rotten case

open your eyes

bedside silence

should be sorry

shame

better dreams

blue jeans

the night off

troubled water running cold

smut

put it to voicemail

collab with specialagentmonkey

bruises

french whispers

color in your cheeks

ONESHOTS

fluff

lady in red - pride surprises you with a dance in his new, run-down bar.  (785 words)

see her smile - reader takes the case hard, and dwayne has to help pick up the pieces. (1,910 words)

vulnerable - dwayne pride is hurt, lonely, and needs affection when he comes to your home late at night. one thing leads to another, and a mistake turns into the beginning of his healing process. (2,611 words)

over my dead body - when reader is dwayne’s s/o and hamilton’s longtime friend, tensions arise when you’re kidnapped. (1,221 words)

some kinda voodoo - after the reader is struck with a curse, there’s only one way to reverse it. (4,139 words)

taste test - dwayne needs a little help sampling some dishes. (946 words)

after hours - clean up in the bar after hours lends its own brand of danger, thought not the worst kind. (2,038 words)

out of the dark - a one-night stand should’ve ended any semblance of a friendship between you and pride. (3,926 words)

angst

worry - reader is upset, and pride is there to comfort them. that’s when new, unsure feelings that are stirred up inside him. (2,509 words)   PART 2

cold shoulder - couples fight. and some fights result in a cold shoulder. but sometimes, it really isn’t worth it. (2,883 words)

it will rain - pride can’t wait anymore. If he doesn’t spill his guts, he may lose you forever. (3,602 words)

icarus, point to the sun - reader is afraid to know if she’s pregnant. a lot can change in five minutes. (2,416 words)

staring out at the setting sun - dwayne sees how close reader is getting to hamilton, and it worries him. (3,845 words) PART 2

slippin’ through the cracks - after a fight, reader drives off into a thunderstorm. (2,526 words)

smut

close quarters - when you and pride check out on old building while looking for a suspect, the two of you end up trapped in close quarters. (3,067 words)

dirty thoughts - pride’s thoughts get away from him, so the poor agent has to remedy the situation. (1,372 words)

devil’s backbone - crime!au. king decides to scratch the reader’s itch. (2,933)  PART 2

car ride - pride gets all wound up during an especially long and brutal case, so reader has to fix the problem. (3,703 words)

baby, it’s cold outside - a snowstorm would put a damper on most people’s vacations. but you, pride, and gibbs find a way to make the most of it. (9,122 words)

it’s worth it - it’s divine - omega!reader is in heat and is in need of an alpha to help them. (8,378 words)

won’t you let my darling know? - after a long week, dwayne takes care of reader. (4,243 words)

SERIES

already a world away

part 1 - after an emotional and intense night at the bar, pride and the reader must deal with the aftermath of a hasty decision.

part 2 - feelings and emotions become even more confusing when reader’s ex-boyfriend shows up, wanting to patch things up. pride thinks going back to him will be a mistake, but can he really stop you?

part 3 - dwayne is determined to show reader that he’s the one who can make them happy. and to do that, he’ll need to be completely honest.

today or yesterday (crossover w/ ncis)

chapter 1 - reader is an agent in the new orleans field office, and they start a relationship with dwayne pride. But all highs have their lows, and nothing is more true than when reader is called to dc for a case. working with gibbs again after so long? this’ll be interesting.

chapter 2 - after years of being away from dc, reader is finally reunited with gibbs. but their first conversation is rocky, at best. this is going to be a very long case.

chapter 3 - it’s been five long days of working the case. when reader and gibbs finally get a solid lead, things don’t turn out as hoped.

chapter 4 - the reader’s injuries are much more bothersome than just some pain and annoying bandages. and dwayne’s arrival in dc leaves a lot to be desired.

chapter 5 - tensions between reader and gibbs finally erupt, and reader confesses something big to dwayne.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

that thing with feathers

[Wing AU]

[Tour]

Word count: 3000

TW: Vomit

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

Monday was when it all began, Howard believed. She hadn’t been the first to realize something was wrong, but it was the first day that things started happening.

  “Oh my god,” Anne groaned, rubbing her temples. “She has been crying ALL MORNING. WHY WON’T SHE SHUT UP?”

Cleves laughed slightly at her frustration. “Who knows at this point,” She said.

  “So much for rehearsals,” Jane muttered.

  “Who cares?” Maggie piped up. “We don’t need her!”

There were a few scattered agreements, but Aragon just frowned. She quietly slipped out of the room and followed the sound of crying until she found the source.

The girl inside was the definition of an eyesore. Her wings were a mess, with the outsides being the sleek green-blue of a bee hummingbird and the insides being a smooth expanse of skin and membrane like on a Honduran white bat. Golden brown barn owl fluff was ruffled on her chest and stuffed in her big yellow bat ears. Tiny white, deer-like antlers peeked out from her forehead and red-orange crest feathers were folded back against her head.

She was a hybrid, but everyone just called her a freak.

There were feathers everywhere, red and green and blue and golden brown all clashing horribly together on the floor. Joan was slumped against the wall, bawling her eyes out, shielding her weird body with her strange wings. Her head snapped up when Aragon cleared her throat, and Aragon could see that she was missing several feathers on her cheeks and inside her ears.

  “Why are you crying?” Aragon asked.

Joan sniffled. “I’m sorry,” She whispered.

  “That’s not what I asked.” Aragon said. She stepped closer, peering at the girl below her. “Are you molting?���

  “I-I don’t know,” Joan answered, her voice hoarse from crying. “It hurts…”

Aragon furrowed her eyebrows. “It does?”

Joan nodded and then wrapped her wings around herself again to sob. She looked absolutely pathetic.

  “I don’t feel good,” Joan mumbled. 

  “Well, a lot of people feel that way when they molt,” Aragon said with a light chuckle. She stopped laughing, however, when Joan sobbed once more. She frowned. Something was seriously wrong with this girl.

  “Joan?” Aragon knelt down in front of the hybrid. “Are you alright?”

  “No,” Joan whispered. “M-my stomach--it hurts.” She looked up from her wings, and her eyes glowed with tears, “S-something’s wrong, Catherine.”

  “Maybe it’s just a premature molting,” Aragon said dismissively. “I once had one of those and it--”

  “It’s not!” 

Joan’s voice was so shrill, like a barn owl screeching, that it made Aragon jump slightly.

  “It’s not! Something--something is wrong, Catherine! I don’t f-/feel good/! Why don’t you believe me?”

  “I do,” Aragon said. “Calm down, okay? I believe you.”

Joan whimpered feebly. She reached out, grabbed tightly onto Aragon’s sleeve, and whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

------

Tuesday.

Joan’s fingernails felt like they were shooting out of her fingers. They only stopped hurting when she grated them against a solid surface. Jane dealt with the sound it made when they were sitting together in the rehearsal room waiting for the others to arrive until she couldn’t anymore and politely asked her to stop. Joan obeyed.

Twenty minutes later, Joan started again without even realizing it. 

Jane doesn’t say anything this time.

------

Wednesday.

Joan felt itchy and achy all over. First, it started at the plumage over her chest she accidentally made it bleed when she scratched desperately, then it spread to other parts of her body until it felt like she had rolled in poison ivy. 

  “Uhh... Joan?” Howard said during show preparations that day.

  “Yes?” Joan replied.

  “Are you okay?” 

Joan blinked at her. She lowered her hand from where it had been itching her neck for at least five minutes straight. The marks it made glowered a seething pink in the open air.

  “Yes.” She said again.

  “Joan has fleas,” Anne said helpfully. 

  “I do not have fleas.” Joan growled as she scratched behind one of her ears like an itchy dog. 

She didn’t have fleas, but there was something under her skin, making its home in her body. She wanted to claw her flesh open and rip it out, and such a lust for that violent alternative scared her.

------

Thursday. 

Fangs are growing in over the teeth that are already there—flat teeth, normal teeth. Those have to go. 

Her joints ache from kneeling on the cold hardwood floor of her bedroom; even the thin cloth of her pajamas dress did not dispel the chill.

The scales don’t come in right, growing into her skin, itching and scratching. She raked her long, hooked nails over her ribs until she ripped her shirt and drew blood and pus.

Feathers bristled beneath her flesh, as itchy as the scales.

There are bruises on her wrists and wasted biceps, purple and yellow. No fault of anybody- her skin has become so delicate that even the gentlest bump against a surface left a mark.

Fever chills, seizures, blood from her bitten tongue, staining her blankets and drying in a crusty mess on her face.

She hid in her room and told the director over the phone with the most human voice she could muster that she would not be turning up to work that day.

———

Friday.

After the show, everyone got out of the theater as quick as possible to get to the dinner they all had planned. Howard lingered behind for a few minutes to find something she had left, which allowed her to see the one other person still remaining inside the building.

Joan leaning against the wall with her head pressed firmly against its surface, eyes squeezed shut. Her ears were pinned back against her scalp and the feathers on her tightly folded wings were broken, messy, and in disarray. Most of the green-blue color, which usually looked quite beautiful, was splotched with baby down and ugly fledge feathers. Her chest plumage looked a lot patchier than usual.

  “Joan?” Howard circled around in front of the girl, keeping her own wings tucked in close. If this was Drop Feather, then she certainly didn’t want to touch Joan. “Are you alright?”

No answer besides a tiny twitch of one of Joan’s ears.

  “Joan? Love? Can you hear me?”

Howard noticed that Joan’s cheeks have an odd color tinting them. She also noticed her eyes are kind of glassy when she pried them open and she’s…hot. Like, fever hot. Howard bent closer and set her hands on the girl’s shoulders to steady her, and she could feel her shaking slightly. Joan opened her mouth and panted like a tired animal, and her teeth looked really sharp. Glinting.

Joan reached out and gripped her arms for some kind of grounding, and her nails started tearing her sleeves. 

  “I think something is wrong with me,” Is what Joan whispered hoarsely right before she went unconscious in Howard’s arms.

------

There’s an unconscious girl in Howard’s bed and claw marks on her neck and back.

The rumbling, fire breathing sky was pouring out rain, and the wind was howling as if the city was falling beneath its elemental talons. Raindrops that had to be as big as oranges pattered against Howard’s bedroom windows loudly, making her worry that they may break, but she quickly turned her attention to the bigger issue at hand. 

Joan looked like death itself. Her skin was paler than usual, except for her cheeks, which were dark red from fever. Her face was soaked in sweat, plastering tendrils of damp white-blonde hair to her forehead. She was breathing harshly and blinking her eyes rapidly, fighting to keep away black spots from her vision—or maybe it was to keep back tears. 

  “Joan, can you hear me?” Howard called out. She sat down on the side of the bed, carefully brushed back Joan’s sweaty bangs, and placed a wet cloth on her forehead. Doing so elicited a small noise of relief through grinding breaths and feeble whimpers. “What happened to you?”

  “I don’t--I don’t know,” Joan panted. Her eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, but she forced them back open. “I-I’m sorry--”

  “Shh, shh,” Howard shushed her. “It’s okay, sweetheart. No need to apologize. I’m not mad.” She tentatively reached out and rubbed behind one of Joan’s ears, earning a hoarse sigh of contentment. “I think you may be molting, honey. But since you’re a hybrid, your body doesn’t really know what to do with all the different genes. The old feathers and scales still hanging on could be making you feel ill.”

  “Oh,” Joan whispered. “Wh-what do I do?”

  “I’ll give your wings a nice brushing,” Howard said. “Then, if you’re up to it, maybe you can take a shower to try and wash any old scales off. The hot water may help.”

Joan nodded. “Thank you, Katherine…”

Howard smiled warmly. “No problem, sweetheart.”

But there was a problem. Two hours later when Howard was cooking dinner for herself and Joan, since they had both missed the plans with the others, and Howard heard heavy thumping coming from her shared bedroom with Anne. When she ran in there, she found that the window was wide open and Joan was nowhere to be seen.

Howard flew after the girl immediately, beating her wings through the rain and swooping low over the ground until she finally found her.

Joan was over a pigeon she had apparently killed, the smell of its blood and flesh and guts a putrid perfume. What exactly did Joan think she was doing? Her jaws ripped at the feathers covering the body, its insides exposed to the cooling rain that continued to drench their bodies.

  “Do you know what you’re doing? Don’t you dare!” Howard yelled, running up to her.

Joan turned and, lowered on her legs, growled insanely at her figure. She spread her wings like an owl did when it was angry, ruffling her feathers, and Howard halted mid-step, backing away a few paces. The girl had become deranged or something. Her eyes said that alone--glazed and wide and blown way out of focus.

Then, Howard realized, this all may have been caused by Joan’s conflicting instincts as well. Being a hybrid didn’t just make molting difficult, it made the emotions that came with molting difficult, too.

  “Stop that right now! You’re not like this! This isn’t you!”

Joan ignored her presence and dug her mouth back into the flesh. She tore at all her shard dragon teeth and bat fangs could reach, feasting upon the dead bird with a passion that scared Howard. How would she ever….

  “Joan, do you understand what you’re doing? You have to stop right now. If you don’t, you’ll just be a monster, just like the one people saw your kind is.”

Howard didn’t mean for her words to come out like shards of glass, but maybe the harshness of her tone would make Joan realize what exactly she was scarfing down and bring back her regular avian mind.

It didn’t.

No, instead, Joan snarled like a wild dog with rabies. She flexed her claws in the dirt before rising up to her feet. She may have been scrawny and shorter than Howard, but with her feathers all puffed up and her mouth covered in blood, she was quite intimidating. Even in the dull, grey lighting of the rainstorm, her eyes still glinted with the ferocity and hunger of a feral beast.

For a long moment Howard wondered who she was even looking at anymore. Was that Joan? Or was it the mutated beast? Had she lost herself to the creature within? It seemed that way, with her claws primed for blood and her jaws dripping with gore.

And yet? She held out her hand. She held back a flinch as blood dripped to her fingers and palm, held tight Joan tight to her body even when she thought she would be eviscerated for it. She held Joan’s face, held her breath, and held tight to all the courage she could muster.

The mutant she was clinging onto let out a long, inhuman snarl that vibrated Howard’s rib cage as she was pressed against the thing. Hooked, barbed black claws raised up and hovered mere inches away from her back. She felt blood and drool and maybe some foam drip onto her head and run in gooey trails down the back of her neck.

Her neck.

Fear poured through Howard when she realized how easy it would be for her to meet the same fate from her first life, but she did not let go.

The deadly talons flexed, just barely tore the fabric of her shirt, and then fell down limply to the mutant’s side.

Joan, and Howard was sure now that it was still Joan, pressed her head to Howard’s chest, horns bumping into her collarbone, flicking her ears back and then drooping them in a deeply anguished gesture. Her wings fold in tightly to her back and her feathers resettle. 

Howard gently stroked one of her quivering hands over the top of Joan’s head. She murmured to her softly and it doesn’t matter how softly she spoke because she knows Joan will always hear her.

For a long time, avian and mutated stayed tangled in an embrace. 

  “Are you all right?” Howard finally asked. The rain is beginning to lessen its brutality as it lashed against their bodies.

Joan did not respond. Instead, her face became rather pale, which was impressive given that she was already ghost white. More concerned than curious, Howard raised a hand as if to draw her attention up to her eye level. However, in that moment, Joan buckled to the opposite side, a line of vomit splattering from her lips. She sank to her knees, clutching her stomach. As she rocked herself, Howard placed a hand against her forehead.

  “I’m not feeling that great,” Joan gurgled through cringing lips.

  “Oh, sweetie. You’re not kidding.” Howard said, “Must have been...”

She stopped because Joan retched again, so she most likely didn’t want to be reminded of what exactly she had done in her feral instinct state. It didn’t help that her mouth and hands were still wet with blood, gore, and goop from marred pigeon. Joan vomited once more.

  “I’m just gonna...sit here for a moment.” She panted.

  “That’s alright.” Howard assured her, rubbing her back and quickly pulling her messy hair out of the way. “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay. Just get it out.”

She was trying. She was trying really hard but it came to a point where her body felt like it didn’t need to throw up anymore and was ready to start feeling normal again. But she wasn’t ready. She became so desperate to purge the bird flesh from her stomach that she shoved her claws down her throat just to make herself vomit again.

  “Joan!”

Howard grabbed both of her wrists. Joan was crying, struggling to breathe over an oncoming panic attack that’s taking over her mind, just like the instincts had.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. It’s over now. Nobody is going to hurt you, I promise.”

Joan whimpered and shook her head as tears spilled over.

  “Other people aren’t going to be the ones doing the hurting.”

Howard stared at her in disbelief as she sobbed below her.

  “It’s like I was hallucinating,” Joan started softly, “I couldn’t control myself anymore. I smelled meat and thought I saw something, so I went after it. Howard, I was hunting it.”

Joan put her head in her hands and shook it miserably. Her ears drooped and she wrapped her wings around herself to hide her body.

  “Oh god, Katherine, I’m a monster. Just like everyone says!”

  “Don’t say that.” Howard said firmly, “You are not a monster.”

  “I chased the people I thought I saw,” Joan whispered hoarsely, “I chased them to the ends of this city and they ran from me. They were scared of me.”

  “You won’t be like that.” Howard assured her. “It’s alright. I promise. It was just your instincts, sweetie. It’s happened to Bessie before.”

  “No,” Joan croaked, shaking her head. “No, no it’s…s’not alright, is it? For you to be--”

  “Joan, honey,” Howard interrupted softly with a sigh.

Howard cupped Joan’s cheeks and the poor thing flinched, like she thought her neck was going to be snapped. Instead, Howard lifted her chin until the girl made eye contact with her.

  “Whatever you’re going to say, save it.” She said. “There’s no use, because you’re not going to get rid of me.”

  “But--”

  “But nothing.” Howard stopped her. “If you think this is going to be the defining factor that ends our friendship, then you must be crazy.”

Joan blinked up at her, eyes sparkling. “I-I…” Her words caught in her throat for a moment. “I’m your friend?”

Howard’s heart simultaneously broke and melted. “Of course, sweetheart!” She said, sliding a hand back to scratch behind one of Joan’s ears. Joan cooed happily and leaned into her touch. “Of course we’re friends!”

  “I’m--I’m happy that we are,” Joan said shyly.

The little hybrid curled against Howard, nuzzling into her like she was her mother bird. Howard smiled down at her, wrapping her up in her fluffy wings.

  “We’ll get through this, Joan. I promise.”

  “I’m just-- I’m so glad you’re okay,” Joan whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do if I--”

  “It’s not going to happen,” Howard answered definitely. “I’m okay and you’re going to be okay too, darling. You’ll see.”

Maybe, just maybe, one day Joan would be able to see herself the same way Howard saw her. But for now, with the help of Aragon, who would surely want to pitch in once she was told about the incident, the best thing that could be done with Joan was to raise her right and teach her about her mutated body, since nobody else seemed to ever care enough to do so. Starting with molting.

[solynaceawrites]

SMEARED LIPSTICK

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, Lirael Thorne (OC) Rating: Explicit A/N: The one-shot is set sometime during my upcoming fic, Memory of the Waters, and features my OC, Lirael Thorne, who some of you might recognize from the AU story Promise Me Forever. @lickitysplitfic​ and I were talking about how she tries to get under Dante's skin and knows that he's got a thing for messy blowjobs featuring smeared lipstick, and this one-shot was born. It's 6k words of pure smut with just enough plot to justify it, and we hope you have as much fun reading it as we did writing it!

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Lir knows exactly what she's doing when she takes a photograph of herself with artfully smeared lipstick and sends it to Dante.

Two weeks ago, and at Nico's urging, she'd bought her second ever tube of lipstick, a dark, sinful red named Lust, and she'd worn it while going to help Dante at his branch of the Devil May Cry. He'd gotten a strange look on his face when he'd seen her, and it hadn't taken much prodding on her part for him to say that he really, really wanted her to give him a blowjob while wearing it because the idea of making a mess of her mouth was incredibly hot.

Of course, she hadn't agreed right away. While Dante is, perhaps, the most considerate lover she's had in terms of her always having the reins, so to speak, she'd never seen him that desperate, and aren't all good things worth waiting for? So, she'd continued to wear the lipstick around him, and sent him selfies of her wearing it and not much else, and, given the fact that she hasn't really seen him in a week due to the sudden influx of jobs on both ends, she knows that what she's done is just adding fuel to the fire.

Doesn't stop her from grinning as she carefully wipes the smudge away and reapplies, though.

Behind her, Nero taps his foot impatiently. "You ready or what?"

"You driving?" she asks, stowing the tube in her shoulder bag.

"Yeah. Let's go."

They head to the job site with little conversation. The portals around Fortuna had been getting little rips despite having been sealed four years ago, probably someone messing around with some unaccounted-for Order stuff. That's why Lir had been sticking around the city and helping Nero out rather than working with Dante: until they figured out why the rips kept happening, it was way safer.

Her phone buzzes and she swipes the screen, adjusting the brightness now that the sun had gone down. Lir snorts when she reads: Where are u?

Working, she replies.

A moment later: Are you coming here tonight?

No, don't know when we'll be done. Fortuna’s still crazy.

Lir smiles to herself knowing why he is asking. Truthfully, she's itching to get her hands on him too, it being days since she got her fill of Dante. What had started out as a bit of fun had turned into a full addiction, but one she didn't mind too much.

I need to see u babe!

"What are you laughing at?" Nero asks from the driver's seat.

"Dante's whining about the workload," she replies, and he snorts and drapes an arm out of the open window.

"Tell 'im he shouldn't have let a bunch of wackos open gates, then," he says, but there's no real bite to his tone. "Speaking of, can you ask him if he's plannin' on comin' out anytime soon? I wanted to ask him about this new demon we've been seeing."

"Sure." Unlocking her phone, she types: Nero wants to see you about a demon. After a moment's debate, she adds: Do you think it'll dye your skin if I go down on you?

His response is immediate. Don't care, that mouth is going around my cock.

"He said he'll swing by when he can."

Nero nods, then jerks his chin towards the radio. "See if that thing's workin', will ya? I want some music before we kill these fuckers."

She sends off a kiss emoji before stashing her phone, deciding if he answers she should leave him on read. Lir is glad they are headed for a fight, because her heart is racing now at his last text, and she is definitely going to need to work out some of this adrenaline.

The demons are easy enough, not powerful at all but so many that it keeps them busy enough. Nero gets more kills than she does, which kind of bothers Lir, even though she was busy finding the tear and sealing it up. Her knack for opening doors that was unlocked during the Order incident has extended to closing things up as well, so once she figures out where they are slipping in it's easy work.

Once the demons are gone and the hole plugged up, they are sweaty and dirty and trudge back to the van. It's coming up on 11 already, and as Lir flips down the visor to look at her smudged hair and the smeared red on her lips, Nero asks, "Want to get a drink?"

"No, I want a shower," she sighs. "Drop me home?"

"Sure." They pass the rest of the ride in their usual post-fight silence, which is comfortable and much needed for the both of them. It's not until the van is idling outside of the garage she shares with Nico that he says, "Kyrie's making meatloaf tomorrow and wants you to come."

"Tell her if she puts that special sauce of hers in, I'll eat the whole thing."

"Not if I eat it first," he fires back.

With a grin, she leans over to punch him lightly on the shoulder. "See ya tomorrow, loverboy. Give Kyrie some kisses from me."

He waves her off, though he's smiling too, and she climbs the steps to the second floor, fumbling for her keys. To her surprise, the door is open a crack; with a frown, she carefully draws her revolver from it's holster and clicks the safety off, gently nudging the door open with her shoulder. The sight of Dante sitting at her small kitchen table is almost comical since he's so damn large next to it, but the humor dies when she catches sight of the positively ravenous expression he's wearing.

"Good way to get yourself shot," she greets as she flicks on the light and leans White Queen next to the door. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Came to see you." He nods to the revolver in her hand. "You had any trouble?"

"Nope." Lir slips the gun into its spot before unhooking the holster and hanging it up.

"Good. Where's Nico?"

Lir chuckles to herself. "She's gone until Thursday. Went to see a vendor about some material."

"Good." There is movement behind her, and when Lir whips around Dante is right there. She sucks in a breath as he crowds her, stepping forward until she steps back and presses on the door. "You ready?"

"Ready for what?" she asks innocently, smiling up at him.

"For me to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours."

She blinks, then stifles a chuckle. "Sorry to disappoint, but you're gonna have to wait. I'm sweaty and covered in demon blood, so I'm gonna shower. You can sit on your hands if you're worried about keeping them to yourself."

"Nope." He leans down, one arm braced on the wall beside her head while he cups her chin with the other hand. "You can shower after. You know I can't stand being teased."

Lir grins and gives him a little shove, not at all surprised when he doesn't move an inch. "Poor thing. Leftie not cutting it for you anymore?"

"Leftie and rightie have retired," he murmurs. This is his thing: flirting, jokes, a sweet bit of self-deprecation . . . but tonight it's different. It's like there's no humor in his tone, and when Lir swallows, his eyes go to her throat.

"Like I said, I need to shower," she replies, her mouth dry.

"Ain't got nothing to do with your mouth, babe." His thumb smooths over her bottom lip, dragging hard across her flesh. Then he holds up his hand and glances at the light red streak on the pad of his thumb. "You still got that lipstick?"

She nods, fishing the tube out of her pocket, and he studies it for a second, his lips curling up in something that's not quite a smile. "Put it on."

Without hesitation, she pops the top off and runs the cream over her lips, rubbing them together to make sure it's applied as evenly as it can be without using a mirror, and then she closes it and deposits it back in her pocket. "You're a fiend," she tells him, only partially teasing.

Dante doesn't reply to that. Nor does he step back. His hands settle firmly on her shoulders, and Lir lets him guide her to her knees, her heart thrumming in her chest at this new display of dominance from him. Can't handle being teased, sure, but that usually ends with him beneath her, growling her name as she rides him. It's never caused this sort of reaction, and she'd rub her thighs together if she weren't kneeling with them apart, because there's an ache that's quicker and fiercer than the ones she's had before.

She runs her hands up his thighs, looking up as he unbuckles his belt. "I haven't stopped thinking about you," he growls as he yanks his jeans open.

Lir smiles and scratches the denim. "Must have been hard."

Dante laughs as he pulls out his cock. It is fully erect, and he pumps his hand a few times as he adjusts the waistband around his hips. "It's hard alright."

He aims the length towards her, and Lir opens her mouth and runs her tongue over her lips. Then she carefully licks the tip, playing with it gently, softly pressing kisses to the head. She slurps a bit around the opening, playing up her lips around his flesh, her eyes steady on his. He tastes like sex, plain and simple, and her body clenches when he rubs his thumb to the tip and reveals that it is already dripping.

Dante winds a chunk of her hair around his fist, using the strands to pull her forward, his cock sliding slowly over her tongue until it nudges the back of her throat. There's already a strain from his girth, and having his eyes focused on her mouth makes her feel a bit awkward, and the tug on her roots is just shy of painful, but all of that is worth it when he rumbles deep in his chest before drawing back. The first few passes are almost gentle, and she appreciates the fact that he's trying to let her adjust. After his behavior, though, the sweetness is almost a letdown, so she reaches behind him and digs her fingers into his backside through his jeans.

Dante huffs a laugh as he cups both sides of her face, his fingers curling under her chin. Then he begins to move in earnest, fucking into her mouth, the sharp jerks of his hips giving her just enough time to draw in short breaths. It's hot as hell, and already she can feel arousal slipping from her to soak her underwear.

He fills her mouth until it almost chokes her, the head pressing into her throat. Lir swallows around him, taking a deep breath as best as she can, tears pricking at her eyes. "Feels so good," Dante groans, his thrusts shallow enough to keep him buried.

This isn't what she normally likes; Lir likes to be on top, in control, but Dante is still somehow as gentle as he is demanding, and it makes her want to please him all the more. She had started out wanting to drive him wild enough to fuck her, but now she only wants to make him come. Lir closes her eyes and sucks his length repeatedly, shivering when he lets go another deep groan.

She drops her hands to brace them on his thighs, trying to ground herself in the solid feel of the muscles beneath his jeans. The sensation of his thumb swiping a line of spit and fluid from her chin makes her moan, the sound muffled to a whine around his flesh, and he curses as he pauses with his cock buried in her throat. "Should've put you on my face," he groans. "Nearly forgot how good it feels when ya do that."

Lir's breath stutters, and she tries to pull back to speak, but the hand in her hair tenses. "Nuh uh, babe. You gonna finish what you started."

Her eyes flash when they meet his, and she moves on her own, her head bobbing up and down with renewed effort. Lir adds a hand, grabbing the base and moving with her mouth, twisting a bit as she works him. 

Needing a quick rest, she slowly pulls her mouth off. Dante frowns, but she smiles at him flirtatiously, dragging her tongue along the underside. "You have something on your cock," she says; Lir tries to sound sexy, but her voice is as raw as her throat.

Dante grins. He tugs her hand away and grabs his length, stroking himself quickly. The other hand in her hair tilts her head back, and he presses the head to her lips. "Open up," he says, his tone a clear order. "I want to give you something."

She parts her lips obediently, and the warm rush of his seed coating her tongue has her insides clenching deliciously, as does the guttural moan that tears from him. Lir does her best to swallow every drop, but with her mouth open and how much of it there is, some of it spills over her chin, dripping along her throat. His knuckles brush her face as he milks his cock; by the time he's done, she's certain of two things: one, she probably looks utterly debauched.

Two, if he doesn't fuck her soon, she's gonna wind up begging for it.

Dante strokes her face with one hand, continuing to pump his cock with the other and, while he's moving leisurely, she's startled by the fact that he's still hard. They've gone more than one round before, but there's also been a bit of rest period between, and her mouth waters as he pulls her to her feet. "That's one," he says, his eyes alight with a dark mirth. "Now, when I'm all riled up, I've usually got about six shots in the chamber, so to speak, and I think you've earned some payback for winding me up like this."

He gathers some of his come from her chin, pressing his fingers between her lips until she sucks them clean. "So, what we're gonna do is get in the shower, and I'm gonna fuck you there. Then I'm gonna eat your cunt until you forget everything but my name before fuckin' you until you can't walk straight."

His words are crude and his voice is rough, and Lir can't stand the effect he has on her. Her mouth hangs open as he tugs her to stand, but before she can move to obey he presses her back against the door and kisses her. She grabs his shirt but he pulls her hands away, trapping her wrists over her head against the wood with one hand; the other drags down her front, massaging one breast, then the other, as his tongue fills her mouth.

Lir's jaw is aching still from taking his cock, but she responds when he tilts his head to force the kiss deeper. Their lips slide together as she whimpers, completely under his spell. Where was her sweet, funny Dante? He really is a demon tonight, she thinks, and when he finally lets her go she is panting and looking at him in a daze.

Dante smirks at her, and she sees the lipstick now smeared around his own mouth. She licks her lips, making his eyes narrow. He jerks his chin towards the bathroom, and Lir leads the way, feeling his presence behind her like a great cat on the prowl.

The click of the latch as he closes the door behind them has her swallowing thickly, and she doesn't have to turn to see the way he's watching her; she can feel it, as absurd as that is, as heavy on her skin as his hands had been moments ago. She leans into the stall to turn on the water, setting it scalding like she prefers, then begins to undress, keeping her back to him. There's a low, satisfied hum from Dante when she pulls her shirt over her head, before she hears rustling that means he's taking his own clothes off.

He comes up behind her, his chest pressed to her back as he herds her into the shower, and she's barely got time to say anything before he has her pinned to the wall, the cool tile sending goosebumps up her arms. "I want to actually bathe," she complains, and he laughs as he kisses just below her ear.

"Don't worry, I'll get ya nice and clean," he teases.

Lir bites her lip, loving and hating how much he's affecting her now, and the faint pop of a bottle being opened nearly makes her jump. The scent of her body wash fills the air as his soapy hands land on her shoulders, massaging the knots out. She relaxes with a moan, and he answers with a chuckle as he shifts to cup her breasts, his palms and fingers slippery and wonderful.

"You always feel so good," he murmurs. She feels his cock nudging her backside, the soap that streams down her body now making it slick as he grinds against her. Lir presses her palms flat on the tile to keep herself steady, her eyes closing as his cock pushes against her seam as his hand drags through the hair on her pubis.

Lir gasps when his touch presses to her hood. Her body is soaked in more ways than one and the glide of his fingertips against the sensitive bud as her legs shaking. "Yeah," he groans, thrusting up against her, and Lir gives a choking cry when his cock pumps against her hole.

Dante laughs and turns her around, pushing her back against the wall. "Maybe I'll take you there later," he murmurs, his voice dark and dangerous as he covers her. "Right now I need to be inside your pussy, so open up babe."

She spreads her legs and he grabs the backs of her thighs, hoisting her up with ease and pulling her down to impale her on his cock, smothering her cry with a kiss. They've barely gotten started, and already there's the familiar tightening in her core that leaves her breathless; when he grinds against her, her head spins, her fingers scrabbling against his shoulders for something to grip onto. Has it ever been this quick, this raw? She can't remember and, as he starts to thrust in earnest, she doesn't care.

"Baby, you're so tight," Dante pants. 

She turns her head to capture his mouth, groaning around the kiss as his cock batters in and out of her. The orgasm builds faster than she can keep up, and after another minute she pulls back with a gasp, gripping his shoulders and dropping her head back.

Her mouth drops open as the pulsing starts, sharp and intense. "You coming already?" he growls.

He leans in as if to bite her neck, his teeth gripping her skin but not closing. Then he sweeps his tongue across her skin, sending another shudder through her, the contractions continuing on. "Dante!" Lir yelps, yanking on his hair.

He groans in answer, his hands sliding up to knead her backside. "God, I love it when you say my name like that."

His hips slow, and she moans helplessly as he rubs leisurely over her walls; because he doesn't stop, neither does her orgasm, and soon the overstimulation draws a whine from her throat every time he thrusts into her. It's tender, and sweet, and entirely too much, a pleasant sort of torture that drags on and on and on until, with a hoarse whisper of her name, the first waves of his release turn the friction of his cock silky.

Lir is trembling when he finally slips out of her body and sets her down. Her grip on him stays tight to keep herself standing, and Dante presses his forehead to hers, leaving dotted kisses on her lips. "Fuck you are so hot."

She smiles and huffs a laugh, dragging her palms down his chest. "You got me dirty again."

"Easy fix." He eases back, the spray of the water aiming between them. Through lidded eyes she watches him soap her sponge and then gently he washes her body. It's almost charming as he lifts one arm, then the other, then draws large circles around her breasts, before finally dragging the sponge in a long stripe from her chest downwards.

"Don't forget your dick," Lir jokes as he washes her thighs.

Dante looks up with a wink. "If I wash that lipstick off you're gonna have to replace it."

"Don't tempt me," she warns. "Now that I know you've got a fetish, I'm gonna wear it every day."

He grins, a little sharp. "I'm not gonna complain about fuckin' you every day."

Lir snorts and relaxes as he continues to scrub her before turning the sponge to himself. As he soaps up, she sets about washing her hair, sighing as the grime rinses down the drain, her scalp feeling much lighter once she's done. Dante nudges her, and she lets him rinse off, wondering if he's planning to stay. Threats about fucking her until she can't walk are all well and good, but she knows they'll either just go to bed or, if he's got somewhere to be in the morning, he'll head home, and she's almost sad to think about it.

Which is ridiculous.

He turns off the water and steps out, looking around for a moment before he spies the shelf with the towels. He grabs one and she leans against the tile to enjoy the sight of him drying off, his muscles covered in droplets of water that flex as he works. "You like something, sweetheart?" he jokes, peeking through his bangs.

"Fuck yes." Dante tosses a towel to her, then holds out a hand to help her from the shower. They crowd together on the bathmat, and after a quick sweep over her body, Lir winds the towel on her head to squeeze the water from her hair.

"Sexy," he teases, tugging at the end of the towel, and she swats at him with a laugh. "Hope you enjoy the break, darlin', 'cause there's a lot more to come."

She peers up at him. "Thought you were just talking big."

"Now, you know I never make a promise to a lady I can't keep." His arm snakes around her waist to pull her flush to his body, and he grins at her as he carefully pulls the towel from her hair and runs his fingers through the damp strands. "You got somewhere to be tomorrow?"

"Dinner with Kyrie."

"Guess I better get started, then."The kiss this time is more playful, but just as forceful. It does give Lir's head time to clear a bit, though, and by the time he is walking her back to the bedroom, his hands roam her body and his lips and teeth tease her mouth. This is a Dante that is more familiar, and she reaches around to squeeze his backside before snaking her hand over his hip. "Let's get you ready."

"Not yet," he replies.

Lir frowns, but he lifts her easily, half-carrying and half-dragging her to the bed. He flops on top, pulling her easily and lifting her by the hips until she is over his face. Lir leans forward to brace herself on his stomach as she feels his lips graze her slit. In the corner of her eye his cock twitches, and she gasps when his tongue nudges her clit.

Normally, he takes his time, making sure to kiss every inch of her sex until she's a writhing mess. This time, his attention stays focused on her clit, his tongue rubbing over it firmly, and she scratches over his stomach when her hands curl into fists, her head dropped as she pants raggedly. He's relentless, his thumbs keeping her folds parted to expose her pearl that throbs; it's not until his own hips roll the tiniest bit that she realizes that his cock is stiff and weeping, and Lir leans forward to lap at the fluid dripping from the tip.

Dante gives a deep groan. She feels his lips slide along her sex and then his tongue enters her, pressing deep inside. Lir pants as she rocks her hips, her movements restricted by his grip on her waist, but she manages to ride his tongue slightly, forcing the tip to press against the front wall.

She mouths at his cock, not taking it into her mouth, but tracing her lips with the tip and flickering her tongue on the opening. Too distracted by the thrust of his tongue inside her body, Lir opens her mouth to let the head sit on her tongue. Dante pumps his hips to fuck in and out of her mouth as he laps at her until his lips return to her hood and wrap around her swollen clit.

Her back bows with a keen that's choked by his length as her orgasm snaps along her spine, sharp enough that her toes curl. Dante yanks her back so she's seated firmly on his face, his tongue flicking harshly over her clit, keeping her pinned by his hands and his hips so that all she can do is endure, even when the pleasure gains a thin edge of pain.

Finally, he stops, and she slumps against the blankets when he carefully slides her off of him. "Damn," he sighs. His hands smooth over her backside, his fingers teasing along the seam of her body. "You got a choice now, doll, though it ain't much of one."

She turns her head to stare at him. "What?"

"Where I'm gonna fuck you." Dante nudges her legs apart and settles between them, leaning over her. "See, I figure I've had your mouth and I've had your cunt, but this?" He squeezes her rear. "Haven't fucked this yet. But I know it ain't really your favorite, so it's your call."

Lir peeks over her shoulder. "How do you know what is my favorite?"

He laughs and presses a kiss to her shoulder. "I can't stand how goddamn sexy you are."

His mouth moves across her back, pressing kisses against her shoulder blades before trailing down her spine. She sighs and settles into the mattress, her limbs heavy and her body relaxed from the orgasm. When Dante reaches the small of her back, he squeezes her backside again, and pushes so her hips tilt up. She feels him shift on the bed as he nibbles over her flesh until reaching the back of her thigh.

Lir gasps when she feels his tongue at her sex again. Dante pushes her up on her knees, her ass in the air as he licks her slowly. She grips the bedsheet with a groan, unable to help herself as she tilts back to open herself for more. "Greedy girl," he admonishes.

"You can't keep your hands off, and I'm the greedy one?" she mutters. He bites her thigh, drawing a yelp, before returning to her slit, where he laps at her lazily. "You're an ass."

She feels him shrug before he says, "Might wanna choose before I do it for ya."

Her lips press into a thin line as she presses her face to the quilt, thinking. Or trying to between the little jolts every time his tongue nudges beneath her hood or dips playfully into her opening; if she uses his metaphor from earlier, she's got about three rounds, and two have been used, leaving her with one to his three. She's already sensitive enough as it is, so, with a huff, she mumbles, "Next time."

"Next time?"

He moves again, and Lir feels him tug on her arms until she is kneeling, his broad chest against her back. His hands grip her hips and maneuver her to sink down on his cock, her body so wet now he glides inside with ease. Lir sighs and rolls her head back to his shoulder, and when her backside goes flush with his thighs he holds her there for a long moment.

One hand moves to her neck, cradling her chin so her head stays tilted back on his shoulder. The other moves between her legs and strokes her clit, but gentle, feather-light touches that barely register. Dante teases her as he starts to fuck her deeply, his lips dancing on her exposed neck and pressing to the juncture of her shoulder. "Next time? You realize I'm going to fill you again and again tonight?"

"Dante . . ." she groans.

He uses two fingers to open her lips, exposing her clit as his cock drags in and out of her. Then another finger begins to tease it, flicking and pressing in unguessable patterns that have her jolting. "No coming then, Lir," he warns. "I'm nowhere near done with you."

That's easier said than done. At this angle, his cock hits all the right spots, and the haphazard little shocks from her clit every time he touches it already have her in knots. But she can't find her voice, or enough of it, to do more than moan every time he fills her, so she can't warn him. His mouth trails over her shoulder, his teeth scraping lightly over her skin, and she gasps when they go sharp for a second. "Next time," he rumbles, "we'll see if you can handle all of me."

Her mouth is dry as she tries to speak, but in truth Lir can't do anything. Her body is one roll of pleasure after another, his cock pushing her closer and closer to her end, so that when she feels it becoming inevitable she lets go a whine. "Dante, please!" she gasps breathlessly.

He lets her go and she slumps forward, but his hands go immediately to her hips and yank her up and back. Dante begins to pound into her, drilling his cock inside her at a hard, fast pace so that moments later she explodes around him. She presses her face to the bed to cover her screams, her body quickly going oversensitive.

When she is sure she can't take anymore, she whimpers, and Dante pulls out. She catches sight of him looming over her as her eyes close, and then a hand covers her sex, massaging her lightly. "I'm not done with you yet," he says again. Lir feels something nudge at her lips, and when she immediately opens his cock slides into her mouth, burying into her throat.

She's too tired to do much, but that doesn't seem to bother him. He pumps his hips, the tip of his cock never leaving her mouth, as his hands roam her body; one stays over her sex, stroking lightly over her slit, while the other cups her breast and rolls her nipple between his fingers. The pleasure now is dull, soothing, and if it weren't for his touch, she'd doze. Just as she starts to, he slips a finger within her core, and her eyes fly open to find him watching her with a grin that's damn near predatory.

"Need to tap out?" he asks, the taunt clear, and she reaches up to grip the back of his thigh, urging him to keep going. He laughs, rolling her breast with his palm. "Didn't think so."

Lir shakes the haze from her mind as she purposefully begins to suck on his length. Her hand slides around his thigh to reach under for the flesh hanging there, and as she stretches to deep throat his length she strokes him gently. "Goddamn," he curses, his finger teasing her opening, and a second later he pushes his cock deep in her throat as he starts to come.

She swallows the seed as best she can, and when he pulls out there is still plenty in her mouth that she gulps down. Her head rolls to the side as she catches her breath as he lowers himself on top of her, settling between her thighs. Dante nuzzles her chest, biting along the curves of her breasts and flicking his tongue against her nipples as she sags limply under him. 

Lir watches as he tastes the pink buds, swallowing thickly when he looks at her again, his expression and his voice back to the predator he has been all night. "I want you again," he growls.

She should tap out. Probably. At least, that's what Nico would say, along with a litany of curses for her being so damn stubborn, but, fuck, he'd challenged her, and she's not going to take that lying down. Or, well, she is, but she's not gonna give in and give him the impression that she can't handle it. "What the hell are you waiting for, then?"

The moment the words leave her lips, he surges forward, and she can't even cry out when he sheathes his cock within her because it knocks the air from her lungs. They've played around with overstimulation before, plenty of times, but it was always playful, while this is rough and, if she didn't know him better, dangerous. His hands clamp around her hips to cant them off the bed, and she sucks in a breath when draws back, only for it to leave her with a groan as he thrusts back in, the pace he sets near brutal.

Lir reaches up and grips the bedsheet, biting her lip as he fucks her. Her toes curl and her knees fall back and open, holding in a scream of pain and pleasure. He is simply so powerful, and it is both frightening and exhilarating to have this man, this demon, holding her and taking her like this. Never once has Lir wanted to be toyed with, to be submissive, to give up control. But with Dante she feels as though she can, she should, and so she arches her back and wraps her legs around his waist.

He groans her name, a hand on her breast, the other on her thigh. Lir is drowning in pleasure, her sex too sensitive for this, feeling every inch that pounds in and out. Dante leans forward to brace one palm on the bed and the new angle scrapes against her clit, swollen and exposed and aching. It is an exquisite sort of torture, being so desired to the point where she may not survive.

Then he drapes over her, his mouth hot and hungry as it seeks her. "Come on my cock," he orders as he kisses her, and Lir knows she has to obey. The new angle puts additional pressure on her mound, his pelvis grinding against her clit, so when her orgasm hits she barely registers except to feel the intensity of the pleasurable contractions sharpen as a fresh wave of arousal covers them both.

Through the haze, she's dimly aware of his grip on her going bruisingly tight and the warmth that fills her, so much of it that it slips out and onto the sheets. Dante pants as he kisses her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth as he fills her, and she forces herself to drape an arm over his shoulders and hold him close until he begins to slow. Even when it's over, he doesn't pull out, instead blanketing her with his body, his cock twitching within her. "Goddamn," he sighs.

Lir makes a noncommittal noise and blinks up at the ceiling. His tone and posture mean he's done, at least for now, and she's got some new things to mull over, namely how insanely fucking hot it was to be dominated by him so completely. Despite the ache already blooming between her thighs, she's thinking over different things to try to get this reaction from again: lingerie, maybe, or, hell, just sprawling naked on his bed with the lipstick on? Him kissing her shoulder draws her back to the present, and she tilts her head to peer at him.

"Where'd you go?" he jokes.

"I'm here," she says weakly.

Dante smiles and moves up, his cock sliding out of her body. Lir stifles a moan as she tries to stretch her limbs, everything feeling sore and overused, like she had spent the whole day climbing. Her eyes open and close as she hears his footsteps on the carpet, and a minute later he returns with a glass of water, nudging her to sit up.

Lir gulps it down gratefully, the water cooling her sore throat. She grabs the bottle of aspirin next to her bed and pops a few before finishing off the water and handing him the glass. "Thanks," she sighs, wiping her mouth with her hand.

Dante studies her face, his brow drawn down. "You want me to go?" he asks.

She considers it. "Nah," she says, after a moment. "Might as well stay. You've still got a toothbrush stashed in the cabinet, right?"

He has the decency to look sheepish. "You know about that?"

"Yeah. And the duffel bag kicked to the back of my closet." With a yawn, she lays back, wrinkling her nose at the wet spot on top of her quilt. "Nico's not due back for a few days, and Nero doesn't come over unannounced. Though if you stay, I'm dragging you to dinner tomorrow."

Dante grins and stands again, heading into the bathroom. Lir takes the moment to admire his backside before he disappears behind the door, and then she stares at the ceiling again, wondering what the hell she is doing. Sleeping with him is one thing; but these overnights are ridiculous. They are gonna get caught, and every time they sleep together Lir promises herself its the last time. It's important to keep the sex just sex before it becomes not just sex.

He returns a few minutes later, turning off the lights before climbing onto the bed. Dante flops in a now-familiar way, using her like a pillow with his head on her stomach. Lir laughs to herself, too tired to protest as her eyes start to close. His fingers trace nonsense patterns on her thigh that lull her into sleep, his strong body solid and sinking against hers.

[tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors]

Snowmelt

a/n: hi! this is my take on the what if Eirween had kept logan au! i am hoping i can make at least one more chapter of this because i do have a plot thought out, but i am not amazing at sticking to projects fdjhal. either way i hope this is enjoyable 

warnings: child abuse/neglect, hypothermia, death threats, just eirweens A+ parenting in general.

———————————————————

Leith Snowmelt’s life so far had been fine, really.

Well, OK maybe not.

Maybe that’s just what he wanted to believe.

Maybe it was more along the lines of horrible.

He spent most of his time at the edges of the forest; hidden, in the warm months between the bushes. He had learned to be quiet, still and unseen.

He only saw other faeries when his mother decided she wanted to bring him out, like a shiny piece of jewelry for special events. He had learned to be quiet when that happened too, to behave and play tricks when asked.

There always is an anger building in his chest, a tiny part that knows. He knows he was born on the equinox and only if they let him, if someone only taught him, he would be able to bend the forrest to his will. 

Instead he grows silly little flowers and catches sunbeams to amuse bullies who mock him to his face.

Unseelie thought of him, at worst, as a mistake who shouldn’t have been granted with the gift of seeing the light of day, at best they thought of him as The Banshee’s pet, funny silly little thing. 

Most Seelie thought of him as a lost cause.

The only time he ever did anything for himself was nicking books off school children. It wasn’t even stealing really since he usually gave something in return. Children were easy to bargain with, if you were persuasive enough and you looked childish, they often wanted stupid little things in return for their books: a charm, good luck on a test, health. 

It would be so easy to trick them.

Lieth didn’t.

How pathetically Spring of him.

His mother always cast him a half amused look when she found out he was “tricking” humans.

 It was the fondest look she ever gave him.

But all in all Summer and Spring were bearable, but Autumn and Winter were a whole other story.

It’s so cold and miserable, and it’s pitiful how much he missed the sun.

Some Seelie hibernate, or at least stay inside, cover themselves. Snowmelt’s mother will not let him, as if he could learn to be Winter purely by her stubbornness.

So it was his 12th year of life and he has his worst month yet.

His mother seemed to become more unhappy with him by the day. The other Unseelie seemed to lose interest in her little pet, he was not sure what they would do to him if they got bored. Worst of all he had, although only fleetingly, caught the attention of the Serpent King. Only brief amused glances at revels, but Snowmelt knew very well that could bring him nothing but trouble. 

Then a blizzard hit’s Wickhills, covering everything in a thick layer of snow. 

Snowmelt is downright miserable, and very aware of the bitter irony of his name.

His mother fought with him, well it wasn’t really a fight, mostly she was angry at him.

Somewhere deep down there is a growl in him, “I could take you”, that part of him says. 

But right now he is paralized, right now there is a blizzard outside and the sky is dark.

“I gave you life, Lieth,” she said.

He was sure that is the first time she has called him that, the first time anyone has called him that.

“I can take it too, Snowmelt.”

She had never been quite so direct, she bares her teeth in a mockery of a laugh, and suddenly he feels so very small.

So Snowmelt runs, runs through the cold forrest, through the snow. He runs until he can’t feel his legs anymore.

He runs until he is not sure what precisely he is running from anymore, but he can’t stop, he can’t even think about going back.

He runs all the way to the edge of the forest, where he usually reads books, hoping no one will find him.

He stops, his body giving out from underneath him.

He is immortal, he knows this, he does not remember whether or not the cold can kill him. He is, pitifully, Seelie after all.

It doesn’t really matter, he can not go either way.

How stupidly weak of him.

  ——————–

Thomas Sanders had a relatively average life, or well, as average as it can be growing up in Wickhills.

His mom was maybe a little more protective than was strictly necessary, but really with fae all around, who could blame her.

Anyway, on this particular day she had let him go out in the snow, she had said she was coming outside to join him in a second and for now he should stay in the street.

Thomas was absolutely delighted with all the snow, it was the most he had seen in his life, it was just too pretty.

Then he made a turn at the end of the street, suddenly he was at the edge of the forest. 

Which was definitely not were the edge of the forest should be.

To his credit Thomas only panicked a little bit, mostly he was annoyed he had been pixie-led from his own street, and quickly started turning his coat inside out.

And then he saw him.

A Faery, or well a child.

He looked only a little older than thomas, 14 maybe? But he was also small, and a frankly alarming shade of shade of pale blue.

And Thomas just could not shake the feeling that he was frozen and surely hurt.

Thomas could say that what he did next was because leaving the fae there certainly would have left him with some terrible curse.

But something had brought Thomas there. And seeing his face his heart broke.

So he ignored all common sense and logic, finished taking his coat off and wrapped the boy in it.

He lifted him- he was so light it could absolutely not be healthy- and he sprinted home.

Only later he will be concerned about whether or not the rest of the town saw him.

In the moment he could only think that the boy in his arms might be seriously hurt or dying.

He, somehow, clumsily rang his doorbell.

Only when he sees his mother’s baffled face logic rushed back to him and realised that this was so terribly foolish.

He looked down at the boys placid face.

With the best puppy dog eyes he looked back at his mom.

“He is hurt, moma.” he said pleading.

She sighed and shook her head.

“Get inside Tommybug it’s cold,” she looked at the fae boy in his arms and looked back at her sons pleading eyes, “get them inside too, quickly.”

Thomas smiled and they gently carried him inside.

———

Dot Sanders was considering she might have made the worst decision in her life.

She should have been panicking, or be furious at her son or something.

She certainly shouldn’t be gently tucking the fae in the makeshift bed they had made for them on the couch. 

She had called Larry immediately, he had been somehow slightly more rational about the whole situation, but ultimately decided they could not kick out an ill child.

She was in no way a medical professional, or prolific in anything magic. She wanted to call Abby, but she had picked this weekend to go on a short vacation with Roman. The idea of calling May Gage made her stomach churn.

So she did her best and wrapped the boy in slightly oversized warm clothes and turned on the heater.  

She knew, although she did not know much about fae, the boy was hurt. He was quite literally frozen a dull blue gray pattern of frost implanted on his skin and he was dangerously motionless. Aside from that there were bruises, scratches, scars and something that looked suspiciously like a burn.  She couldn’t help the profound ache in her chest as she added a blanket, she was a mother after all.

He made a soft slightly inhuman noise of pain.

“It’ll be alright,” she cooed, because she had gone just absolutely insane. 

He groans again, and he looks so much like Thomas.

Just like her son when he gets the flu, or he scrapes his knee, or when he stayed up too late.

He looks like her students at school too. 

Somehow, even if she knows he could be hundreds of years old, she knows he is just a child.

She runs her fingers through his hair gently and sighs.

“It will all be alright.”

——–

Snowmelt woke up in a place he did not recognize. 

The room has a strange hum to it, he also had no idea what everything inside it is, except for the books. He is in clothes that are not his and give him a strange itch like feeling. 

Somehow the room was hot, but he was not, he felt frozen from the inside.

He only has a few seconds of utter confusion before his thoughts were interrupted by a cheery voice.

“Oh gosh you’re awake!”

He turned to look at the human child, who smiled relieved and bright at him. 

Snowmelt wanted to yell, or run, or something. He could not. Why?

The child frowned a bit.

“It’s alright if you don’t wanna talk, you must still be hurt, mom says you got some form of hypothermia.”

Fantastic, hypothermia.

“Well anyway, I am-”

“No” he manages, his voice rough.

The human shaked his head.

“Right, faery, sorry.”

Snowmelt wondered what his mother would think of him, refusing a mortals name like that.

Pathetic probably.

“You can call me Bug, my mom calls me that sometimes,” he said somehow still upbeat. “Is there anything I can call you?”

He stayed silent, baffled at this child’s lack of manners and common sense and just the entire situation really. 

The child nods anyway.

“Ok,” he said, “do tell me if you need anything, mom and dad will be home in a second, they just went to get stuff for dinner.”

He wondered what kind of parents left their child with a fae, but then he tried to stand up and his body felt like he was being stabbed by needles. He went lightheaded and he noticed his body was littered with something that looked like frost.

He was completely harmless. 

Great, perfect really.

————

The parents did come home soon, and they were…kind?

He did understood less about the whole situation by the second.

They explained that they had found him, and saved him, for reasons Snowmelt really did not understand.

The mother, who told him she could call her Dory, something Bug seemed to find endlessly amusing, well she was fussing over him, she even brought him flower tea he was petulantly refusing to drink, she seemed to not be aware of food rules in fairy courts, and generally seemed to be trying to care for him.

The dad, who the child insisted he called Merlin, was just a little bit weary, but still offered no protest to there being an actual fae in his house.

There must be something, Snowmelt thought, something they want. A blessing? A gift? Simply to keep him imprisoned?

Whatever it was, they had not asked, yet.

After a while they left him to rest, and with much pain he reluctantly drank the tea, which was very good and seemily did not curse him or imprison him further.

From his place on the couch he saw the snow still falling outside and wondered in just how much trouble he was.

---

V: oh! my!! goodness!!! GRACIOUS!!!!! this is so SWEET and the Dory-and Marlin joke was an adorbale little cherry on top of this wonderful sundae that i absolutely love

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

It’s The Avengers (Halloween)

Loki x Reader Avengers The Office AU (Slowwwwww Burn)

Halloween Special

For @devilbat ‘s Halloween Saga

Warnings: spoopy stuff?

Word Count: You ever have one of those days when you feel like ‘okay, I can live with my mental ailments. I’ll try to work on them and make the most of everything one day at a time.’ I had that. But then you know what my body did? It did ‘darn it! She’s gonna live normally through this? Oh noooo. We should do something! How about we make her tooth hurt incontrollably for the next one year! *cheer in a stadium* (-_-) Yeah. that happened.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

The camera found Bucky walking out of the Dorms and into the lounge, his eyes on his phone as he walked right into a cobweb, his fight response suddenly bursting out as he flailed his hands to get rid of this cursed thing.

"WHAT THE HE-"

Bucky: *looks at the camera with a very tired yet deadly stare* Halloween.

Another camera by the entrance to the lounge caught Scott and Sam strutting in, a chortle leaving their lungs on watching Bucky struggle with the web. "Aha!" Sam clapped his hand in pure delight. "Looks like the web took its first victim."

"What the hell is this?!" Clearly, Bucky wasn't finding any of this funny, trying to jerk away remnants of the web stuck in his hair and on his metal arm.

"Your personal hell," Sam quipped.

"Shut up, Sam," Bucky hissed, while Scott tiptoed back to grab a ghoul mask from the kitchenette counter and put it on and come back to scare an unaware Sam.

Bucky furrowed his brows at Scott but didn't say anything, clearly wanting to see how it unfurled.

Sam was still teasing Bucky when Scott tapped on his shoulder and made Sam turn around to scream one high-pitched scream and punch him right in the nose.

Bucky: *smiles at the camera* Halloween

The Lounge, Later

"Oh my God! Ugh!"

You walked out in your PJs still not fully awake from sleep. The camera swivelled to the seating area to show Peter showing Loki how to make spooky pumpkins and ghoul jars. Both of them looked up to watch you shake your hand vigorously to get the cobwebs off them before walking towards them.

"Happy Halloween, Y/N!" Peter announced at the same time when Tony and Nat walked in with cartons of booze and snacks for the evening.

You rubbed your eyes and yawned a 'whatever' before coming to sit down next to Loki and take his mug of hot tea- which, as usual, was technically yours.

"Don't like Halloween?" Natasha asked you as she set down the stuff on the counter and took out a bottle of Kale juice from the mix.

"That juice is definitely scary," you replied, making Loki chuckle without looking up.

You: I've never celebrated Halloween before? Like partied or decorated with such fervour? I mean, *gestures at her surrounding* it's Halloween. The dead are supposed to rise today. What is the point of celebrating if you don't even get to see at least one ghost today?

*shrugs and shakes head* *sips tea*

Loki: I thought she was scared of ghosts. She had to sleep with Natasha the day we watched that movie about that scandalously ugly doll that... for some reason, a mother thought would be a good present for her daughter. *furrows brows with judgment and looks at the camera*

You: Oh! I'm definitely scared of ghosts. I just have no sense of self-preservation and love to make myself wet my pants in fear. Demons would be cool too. *nods*

"I'd rather see the dead rise," you commented.

"Keep up that attitude and one day all your exes will rise from their graves to pursue you once again," Tony stated, clinking his Kale juice bottle with Nat's. You turned to the camera and shuddered while Peter just shared a look of pure confusion.

"What about you, Loki?" Nat sat down and pointed her bottle at the God. "Ever celebrated Halloween before?"

Loki was already busy with a knife on the pumpkin in front of him. "Well, I have had the unfortunate luck of seeing my brother and father naked-" Tony looked at the camera with eyebrows raised in delightful surprise- "and also having to find out I was adopted, so...yes! I can say I have had the pleasure of celebrating all things terrifying.

You: *surprise still colouring your cheeks* *whispers* You really saw them naked?!

Loki: *looks at you before turning to the camera* I know I shouldn't have said that out loud.

You: *gasps* Can you still recall that memory? *winks at the camera* *presses her lips*

Loki: Oh my G- *scrunches her nose* *closes his eyes*

You: *giggles* Bet it's still vivi-

Loki: It's just like you walking in on Tony naked.

You: *goes blank for a second*

Loki: *smirks at the camera*

You: Oh my God! Ew! LOKI! *frowns with disgust*

Loki: *stands up and walks away*

You: Ew! Ew! Ew! I'm gonna kill you!

"We really need to get some Halloween juice in the two of you," Tony stressed.

"Oh, I'm already on it," Peter added, "Loki's helping me carve the pumpkins. Y/N is gonna take care of the decorations here in the lounge and then both of them are going to help Scott with the punch for the evening party."

You raised your mug in acknowledgement and leaned Loki's way to see what was going on with his pumpkin. The camera did not miss Tony's dad instinct on alert when he saw the space closing between the two of you.

"Huh," you affirmed the pumpkin carving, making Peter and the camera turn to watch Loki having carved a demonic face with the most daunting details- right down to the screaming faces on the horns.

"I love it," you complimented softly with a tender smile on your face turned towards the God, who mirrored your expression.

Peter, on the other hand, had his eyes wide at the pumpkin art.

Peter: *eyes still popping out* Well, that was not scary. At all. *chuckles* I can't believe I love it. *still chuckling* Even though it terrifies me so much.

Tony was literally counting the number of seconds you and Loki had been staring at each other since your compliment. "Okay-" he broke on the twenty-first second- "Y/N, decorations. Chop-chop."

"Right," you responded, your eyes still stuck on Loki, so was that smile, "I would need a Roomba. For...for decoration purposes. Ahem."

Loki raised his brow. Peter went blank with confusion. Natasha narrowed her eyes. Only Tony was the one who exhaled and tilted his head while looking at you.

"You're not drawing an ouija board on the floor," he declared and got up to leave the lounge.

"Mm-hmm." You replied flat.

You: I'm drawing an ouija board and the Roomba is calling ghosts tonight. *evil grin*

Tony: She's definitely drawing that ouija board if she's my daughter. *smiles in amusement* *looks at a distant void* *inhales* She really got my genes. *looks at the camera* *camera pans in* We're all gonna be royally screwed tonight. *chuckles*

 Three Hours Before The Party

The camera followed you towards the dorms with the generous amount of chunky black webs in your hands that glowed in the dark. Passing Loki's room you- and the camera along with you- saw the God sitting on his bed reading one chunky book, making you stop short and reverse to his room.

"What are you doing?" You came in and closed the door behind you and threw the question on him without any warning before jumping to sit on his bed.

Loki looked at you with his arched brow, still not putting the book down. "Don't you know how to knock?"

"Nope, I was raised without the concept of privacy," you responded flatly before pulling the book towards yourself. "So, why are you not out there helping Peter with...something?"

"I think Peter is doing fine on his own-" he pulled his book back, never even flinching the rest of his lazily- yet somehow still sophisticatedly- placed body on the bed- "and besides I don't see a point in being a part of this evening."

You screwed your nose in confusion.

You: *shouts* I hate Halloween *turns to camera* *normal voice* says the guy who made freaking amazing pumpkin art, two bowls of punch, with and without alcohol which look like the most disgusting liquids on this planet yet somehow taste like punch! Not to mention, he also created the most horrendous spiders and beetles for the spooky display while adding his magic thingy to make the bowls and cups of beverages to make them brew like freaking potions!!!!

*tries to take a lungful of breath*

And he has the audacity to say he doesn't like Halloween?! What the f-

"Who hurt you?" you had to ask.

Loki: A power-hungry figure who adopted me, a mother who didn't stand up against his selfish intents, a titan who wanted to take over the world, his army with daddy-issues that called themselves his children and the green guy who stomped me into the gravel five times like a rag doll. *smiles for the camera*

"No one," Loki replied, burying himself in his book.

"You sure?"

He didn't look up.

The camera watched you look at him with narrowed eyes before turning to look at the shelf of books, getting up from the bed, picking up one and coming back to lie on the bed with a floomf.

Loki lowered his book to watch you spread out on his bed with his copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel. A few seconds of him observing you be extremely quiet went by before he could not take it anymore.

"What are you doing?" he almost sang the question like a threat.

"Hm?" you aced answering the question innocently, "Nothing just reading."

"...why?"

"Oh, no reason. I'm really tired suddenly. I don't think I'll join others at the party tonight."

The book finally dropped.

"What is it with you?"

You pressed your lips and pretended not to hear anything, flipping the page.

Loki clearly had his patience tested for he took your book and held it in his grasp to get your full attention.

"I was reading that," you stated.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I like old adventure stories!"

"Now you're just getting on my nerves," he quipped, throwing both his and your copy on the bedside table, "stop acting like a tick just to make me scratch you where it itches."

You gasped quite lewdly, much to his surprise. "Kinky," you sang, making him look at you with equal amounts of disgust and amusement.

"Sweety," you addressed him, sitting up and moving close enough to have your knees brush with his, "I’m that itch that you can’t scratch all on your own. We both know that you can’t resist it much longer. Just give in, and let me make it all better."

Loki only blinked, the camera zooming in on his face that was trying to hide the trepidation behind that mild shock he just felt. It happened for only a second but his eyes darted towards your lips- that were stretched in a tender smile- before coming back to your eyes.

"So," you whispered to him, removing stray lint from his t-shirt, "what do you say, Loki?"

Loki looked up for a micro-moment, pursing his lips before wrinkling his brows. "I say we should probably worry you didn't just give a heart attack to someone outside that do-"

The bedroom door clicked open with a strong force, barging in a sweaty Clint being held at the legs by Peter and Scott- all of them toppling onto the floor in no graceful way.

"Woah," you gasped, "what's going on here?"

Scott and Peter groaned, helping a very reluctant- and angry- Clint up.

"Lizards!"

"Rats"

"Demons!"

All three of them blurted out in unison, making no sense whatsoever.

"Who said demons?" Loki wondered out loud with pure judgment.

All three of them looked at each other before shrugging their shoulders.

"Just checking in that you guys are...okay," Clint explained with a burst of very discomforting laughter.

Loki cocked his brow at Clint, casually sitting up straight and extending his arm behind you like he was going to embrace you any moment. Clint, of course, noticed it all too well. "Why would we not be okay?"

"Yeah, Clint," Scott asked the archer, mirroring Loki with the crossed arms, "why would they not be okay?"

Clint looked at Scott with a burning bitch face that was ready to obliterate him right that second- something that made Scott back away with his tail between his legs.

"Because," he still had his eyes out for Scott, "I smelled something on fire."

"Your heart," Peter coughed. Loki snorted. You sat there trying to make sense of what was going on.

"Weeell," Peter stressed to grab your and Loki's attention, "you two suddenly went AWOL when you were supposed to help me out with the party planning so we thought we better check on you two."

"So," you intervened, looking at some distant void to make sense of it all, "why were you two at Clint's feet like you were dragging him away?"

"Oh-" Scott waived his hand indifferently- "we were getting him away from the door to give you two some privacy."

You mouthed an 'oh' in realisation while Loki looked at the camera.

Loki: At this point, I'm not sure if Y/N truly doesn't know what's going on or she just elects to ignore it. And this point I'm not sure if Clint is really that unlucky or he just waits in the vents somewhere to pop out the moment he thinks something's that's a big no-no is about to go down. *shrugs* And! At this point, I am very sure I am enjoying every bit of it. *smirks*

Y/N: I'm kinda worried about Clint. Does he miss his alone time with Natasha? Because that poor guy just tries to keep finding excuses to hang out with Loki. The other day Loki and I were trying to complete a Marlyn Monroe puzzle and we were just about to finish it. So, Loki was like, 'I'll give you the fingers, you give me the mouth,' coz we divided the whole thing in half. And I'm about to do it when suddenly *imitates explosion sounds* Clint is walking in with burning eyes, saying, 'I'll break your hand if you...' *pauses* that's it. He looked at the pieces and then looked at us and then stood there for quite some time before asking if he could play with us.

*turns her lips* *whispers* Poor guy.

 Halloween Party

The mix of orange lights and dim-lit corners truly brought up the flare of all the Halloween decorations. Wanda and Vision- dressed as Arwen and Aragorn- mixed up drinks for everyone. Tony showed off his post-workout torso in a Roman getup in gold- with the glasses. Pepper graced her swollen belly with a matching Roman dress in red- truly an eye-turner. Sam was G.I. Joe. Bucky was Jon Snow. Steve went for a serum-enhanced Sherlock Holmes- quite famous amongst the ladies the entire night. Pietro went for a Wild Wild West look while Clint was dressed as Captain America for the fun of it. Bruce chose to dress up as Fury- regretting it later that night when Fury showed up (which he did only because he was told about that dress up. Thor dressed up as one of the Valkyries. Rhodey brought in the party with his version of Hades- quite the attention grabber this one, especially with the crown made of small horns glowing like lava. Scott and Peter turned out to be huge fanboys of Captain Marvel, donning the look exactly to the star in the middle of her chest. Natasha graced the lounge with her presence and everyone howled and hooted for her take on Tony Stark- for which, Tony said, ‘he had never looked so hot and deadly ever before’. And you impressed everyone with the classic ensemble of Morticia Addams- bringing in the true queen of the darkness with your attire and that killer red lipstick.

"Ooh," Scott whistled, making heads turn towards the dorms, "and he is the Gomez to your Morticia?"

Loki was all decked up in the most perfect three-piece suit, all black with red inner lining and a tie to go with it.

"Wow," Wanda exclaimed, "you two make a great c-"

"Okay everyone," Tony announced, "time to get those spooky moves on the floor."

"Wait, no," Loki called out after Tony, "I'm Dracula. I'm supposed to be Bram Stoker's Dracula."

Silence.

"But you look more like Gomez than Dracula, man," Sam responded, earning a nod from Bucky- a rare sight for the camera. And Sam.

"No, but I am Dracula," Loki stressed, gesturing at his costume, "though I'm not sure who added this tie and took away the cape."

Scott: *looking at Peter* Did you?

Peter: *shakes head* Did you?

Scott: *shakes head*

Both: *look at each other in confusion*

Scott: Did someone deliberately wanted him to look like Gomez?

Peter: *gasp of realisation* you mean to say there's a third shipper in town?

Scott: *gasps* *looks at an already panning camera with sheer thrill*

Pepper, who was busy with her glass of Safe Sex on The Beach, looked up to see Loki, her eyes going wide in excitement. "Oh my Gosh!" she shouted from the sofa where she was relaxing with a bowl of nachos, "you guys are the Addams! Morticia and Gomez Addams!! Hohohooo!"

"Oh, for the last time-" Loki rolled his eyes- "I am Dracula."

Pepper's smile was still frozen on her face- not as much in her eyes, though- when she replied in the flattest tone, "Did I fucking stutter?"

Tony shared a look with the camera, stretching one corner of his lips in fear.

The camera panned in on Loki's face drained of all emotions.

"I'm Gomez Addams," he finally announced, getting a cheer around the room.

"That's the same man who was in the movie we saw last night, isn't it?" Loki asked you in a whisper once he had taken you aside.

"Mm-hmm. Though the real Gomez is a really handsome husband with always the right words on his tongue to charm his dear wife."

Loki couldn't help but smirk.

"Aaand he's shorter than Morticia."

"Well, then allow me to make your night worth remembering my wonderful wife, Morticia, the most beautiful thing in this horrid night," Loki announced just like Gomez as he took your hands and kissed them.

"Oh Gomez," you responded with the same subtleness and whispering moans as Morticia, mimicking her movements to perfection, "you always know what to say."

"Come, dance with me my love," Loki carried on the character, adding to your joy, "let's show everyone else how it's done."

"Oh, Gomez! You irresistible fool!"

"Only for you, my love."

Both of you passed Tony, who tried his best to smile at the two of you, never letting that emotion reach his eyes before he caught the camera on him, changing the smile to a blank stare.

 You: *tousled hair* *buzzed on cocktails made by Wanda and Vision* *smiling like a goofball* *half laid out on the chair* *chuckles* *looks at the camera* Morticia to his Gomez. *flushed with embarrassment* *chuckles into hands*

Loki's Voice: Okay, come on. Let's get you to bed.

You: *happily opens arms for Loki to pick you up*

Loki: *walks into the frame without his suit jacket or dinner jacket* *helps you up* *watches you wobble* *decides to just carry you bridal style* *walks out of the frame* By the Norns, you're heavy!

Your voice: *angrily* Oye!

Loki: I'm never letting you do shots with my brother again.

[patsdrabbles]

Shelter from the Storm

Title: Shelter from the Storm Fandom: FFXV Pairing: Cor Leonis/Nyx Ulric Rating: Teen and Up Word Count: 5934 Summary: After Niflheim attacked Galahd, only one Galahdian stays behind in the worsening storm, unshakably sure that his people will return eventually. He makes a deal with a god… and waits. People come into his life as the years go by, but only one of them becomes a constant. A Nyx stays in Galahd AU. A/N: Inspired by the title of Bob Dylan’s song “Shelter from the Storm” and line “But nothing really matters much, it’s doom alone that counts”. (For reference, Nyx is around 18 and Cor is around 23 the time they first meet.) Please enjoy ❤

AO3 & a sketch I made for this fic

“Nyx, there’s no time to stay any longer, there’s nothing left to stay behind for!”

Those were the last words from Libertus that Nyx remembers hearing before he stopped in his tracks and let his friend continue without him. Libertus had yelled, but his father had just dragged him along.

When he closes his eyes these days, years later, Nyx can still hear Crowe’s angry and desperate voice.

“Nyx!”

*

The storm had picked up as more dropships landed and houses were ground to the ground.

*

He had stayed behind, just a child in the middle of the devastation the Nifs had left behind. The ground was burning and when the fires were eventually extinguished by the rain and storm that never once stopped here in Galahd, the daemons had started to appear from the dust and ashes.

He had started to yell in desperation and anger himself then.

He shouted at Ramuh so long until the Astral had at last deemed to appear.

He hadn’t really been willing to listen to Nyx and had disappeared again mere moments later, but if Nyx was known for something, it was his persistence. He didn’t like giving up easily. Even less so if the matter was something he cared about deeply.

And Galahd was, at the moment, everything he had left.

*

Eventually, Ramuh began to listen to the kid in torn clothes covered in ash and blood that kept yelling at him. A kid who had lost everything and had decided to stay despite it all. Even though he could have followed his friends and people to safety.

They made a deal.

*

At least one person will have to decide to come back and stay here, genuinely wanting to, and make it through the next day.

Nyx thought that this shouldn’t be too hard to achieve. Someone of their people at least had to decide to come back and try to salvage what was left, even if nothing really was left. But it had never been possessions that had made up Galahd after all. It had always been the storm and its people.

*

If not, the only other chance for you and my land is if a single person is willing to return twenty times. If they do, that too will be enough for me to lift the worst of the storm and see to Galahd’s liberation myself.

It was a good deal, a fair deal, Nyx reasoned. He was certain of his people’s loyalty to their home and even if that hadn’t been enough to convince him to agree, it wasn’t like he had much else to lose anymore.

*

There is a hut, facing the rage of the storm even though it shouldn’t be able to, even though it should not have been there in the first place after the Nifs’s thorough devastation.

*

There is a hut in Galahd and none of the people who have seen it and were taken in by a kind yet weary-eyed young stranger are later able to pinpoint where it was located on a map. They wouldn’t even be able to if the storm weren’t as strong as it is these days.

*

There is a hut in Galahd and it appears to all those who need shelter, because they were willing to come in the first place.

*

Nyx isn’t allowed to tell anyone why he wants them to stay. Quite frankly, during the first couple of visits, his firm belief in his land and people has him absolutely sure one of them is bound to stay eventually.

He actively tries to convince them to stay, a few years in, but after a night of nightmares that every single one of them seems to experience, they all leave again.

All seven of them never returned.

The hut has become something of a myth by the time the third of them returned to Lucis soon after.

*

There is a tall man outside the hut. He is breathing heavily and is dripping wet, barely able to lift one foot in front of the other anymore. The storm is raging outside, but Nyx has noticed that he always hears when something or someone passes his home. Always has, over the past ten or so years since he built his hut from scratch with what he had been able to salvage over the course of weeks.

The man can’t be Galahdian, Nyx reasons. The storm seems to threaten to pull him under.

The others who had come had done so in the hope of finding something, anything, that’d make them willing to stay but hadn’t found it.

This one? Nyx doesn’t know what brings him here, but he has a duty, so he gets up from the rumpled blanket on the floor and goes to open the door to the stranger.

“Come in,” he says, trying for an inviting voice even though he has to shout to be heard over the storm. “I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”

The man practically falls through the door and collapses.

*

When the man is conscious again, Nyx urges him to strip off his soaking wet clothes and take one of Nyx’s self-made blankets to cover and warm himself.

By the time Nyx presses the second mug of hot tea into the stranger’s hand, the other man finally really meets his eyes.

“Huh.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, so Nyx decides he won’t ask, even though he’s itching to know what brought him here. He watches the man quietly stare into his mug of tea for quite some time. Nyx catches him staring at him a few times as well.

At some point during the night, the man speaks up at last. Nyx and him had both moved on to a glass of something strong and bitter that Nyx had been given by the last visitor before she had left.

The man doesn’t say much, but it’s enough for Nyx to understand.

He learns that the man lost his sister.

She was important to him but apparently important to many others as well and thus he was supposed to hold a speech about her or something.

So he ran away, before someone – it sounds like the man’s friends – would have been able to stop him.

Nyx puts a hand on his shoulder and the man starts to crumble beneath his touch.

When he stops crying, neither of them says a word, but Nyx pours them another drink.

He hasn’t cried about Selena and his mother in a long time now, but now he suddenly can see their faces more clearly again when he blinks and he feels the old wound inside him reopen.

*

The man leaves in the morning, another drink and not many words later.

*

The man returns around the same time the following year.

Nyx doesn’t have a calendar and his feeling of time is shit and Galahd always looks the same, rainy and dressed in an impenetrable storm, but he has a feeling that a year has passed since the man last visited. No one else has come here ever since. Still, he didn’t give up hope.

*

“I am hallucinating, am I not?” Cor – he has learned the man’s name is Cor – mumbles into his drink. He brought it himself, a whole bottle for him and Nyx to share.

Nyx pulls out one of his knives and teasingly presses the blunt edge to Cor’s tight.

“Nope, don’t think you are.”

He stashes the knife away again, always close to his body because that’s just what the place he lives in demands if he wants to live another day, and smirks.

“I’m very real.” He sees Cor’s raised eyebrow. “And very alive.”

He isn’t willing to cut into his finger to prove that he bleeds blood the same as he suspects Cor does unless it’s really necessary, but –

Cor’s shoulders drop.

“It’s alright, I believe you.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” Cor shakes his head. “You’re too much –“ Cor gestures vaguely before settling on a shrug. “– for my mind to have made you up.”

“Too much of a what?” Nyx smirks and leans in. He can feel the hot air of Cor’s exhausted huff on his face. Huh.

Cor chooses to ignore his question and they spend most of the night drinking in silence.

Nyx doesn’t wake up in time to see him leave, but when he does, there are two additional blankets wrapped securely around him.

*

“I never asked why you are staying here, when really any other place would be a… nicer place to stay at.”

Nyx shrugs and doesn’t explain. He can’t tell half of it and the other half he could, he isn’t sure Cor would understand.

“Alright.”

*

It’s the fourth year since he first met Cor.

“You know, I’ve been thinking you should perhaps start attending this commemoration event for your sister after all. Maybe it’d help.”

Cor leaves in the middle of the night already this time and Nyx isn’t sure he’ll see him again.

*

He arrives later in the year than usual the next time.

“I stayed, this time.”

“Did it help any?”

A sharp nod even though his eyes won’t meet Nyx’s. Then a bottle is handed to him.

Cor falls asleep leaning against his shoulder soon after. It doesn’t seem like he has nightmares, despite it all.

*

The next time, Cor arrives looking grim. He was doing better the last times he visited, but this time, his eyes look especially weary and his mouth is a thin line.

He breaks down moments after Nyx wraps the blanket that has pretty much become Cor’s by now around his shoulders.

He swears and shouts and tells Nyx about a prophecy he despises before he allows Nyx to pull him into a tight embrace on the floor.

Nyx holds on tight and doesn’t let go. He notices he wakes up in the morning that neither did Cor.

*

The seventh year, Cor doesn’t open the bottle he brought that has become kind of traditional early on.

He sits down at the table Nyx has been ornamenting with traditional Galahdian designs over the past two years and looks at him in silence for a long time. Nyx can’t stand the intensity of it and looks away before too long.

Cor sighs.

“You didn’t ask for it, but I guess I’ll tell you the whole story tonight.”

And so, Nyx learns about Aulea Lucis Caelum, née Leonis, a queen and mother to a young prince with terrible destiny. He learns about all of that and slowly, by that, about the place Cor has in his own small world. He has never heard Cor talk so much before, so he doesn’t interrupt to ask questions.

He learns implicitly that night that Cor trusts him more than anyone else or, at least, tells him more and shows him more of himself than even his closest friends.

He tells himself that it’s nothing. That he’s just like the diary Selena used to keep for things she wanted to put somewhere safe and didn’t want anyone else to know. She explained it to him once and he thinks that maybe he is Cor’s safe place for confessions.

*

He prepares himself mentally before Cor arrives the next time.

Cor can apparently tell that he wants to talk and so he lets him.

He talks about Selena and his mum and the day the Nifs destroyed everything they had.

He is a wreck of ugly sobs in the end and can feel hot tears running down his face and the wound is open again, as open and painful as it was back then.

He holds onto Cor as he tries to find himself again in the storm of his feelings.

Maybe the wound will heal properly this time.

Cor hugs him before he leaves the next morning.

“I think I am starting to understand,” he says quietly and Nyx wonders if maybe, to a surprising degree, he actually already does.

*

The ninth year, he realizes that there is a chance, so he prepares himself to ask, no matter whether it’ll turn out to be a hopeless case.

Cor and him are having yet another mug of tea and the night is drawing to a close when he finally dares to speak up, though.

“So, please excuse me for asking so bluntly, but you’re pretty high up in the Lucian hierarchy, right?”

Cor only arches an eyebrow at him, in a way that Nyx has learned means that he is willing to listen.

“I need a favor. Could you please see if you can find two people for me and tell them I’m still here?” Tell them to come back, he doesn’t say, but he can see in Cor’s expression that he understands.

When Cor stands up to leave a while later, Nyx hesitates a moment at the door before he pulls Cor into a tight hug.

He feels hands wrap tightly around him in return and it’s… nice. He hasn’t felt this kind of safe in a long time.

*

When Cor comes back the next year, it’s with an expression that has Nyx slightly on edge when he opens the door to him. He looks like someone who has to deliver the news that someone’s dog died and Nyx waits impatiently for Cor to shrug out of his clammy clothes and shrug over the clothes and blanket Nyx prepared for him as usual.

Only when they both have tea with a shot of whatever Cor brought this time, he tells Nyx.

“They told me that I must have seen a ghost.”

Nyx lets himself slump forward, resting his head on the table, hidden behind his arms.

“These darn, stubborn idiots.” His voice is muffled against the table but the anguish in it is audible. When he sits back again, he lets out a sad, bitter laugh. “I’d have reacted the same if either of them had pulled a stupid stunt like that and had stayed behind in all the destruction. Of course they think I’m dead.”

He sighs, then shakes his head.

“I just hope I’ll see them again someday.”

It’s quiet, but he doesn’t mind Cor hearing. It’s not like he hasn’t already figured that Nyx misses his friends.

He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them immediately when he feels a hand on his shoulder, lighter than he would have anticipated.

“Nyx.”

It’s the first time he’s heard Cor use his name. He cracks open an eyelid to look at him, a light, pained smile on his lips.

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t told you all yet.” Cor takes a breath and looks away when Nyx’s gaze bores too intensively into his own. “I found them fairly easily because they chose an, ah… profession similar to mine. They’re serving as part of the King’s Kingsglaive now, fighting against the Nifs. They’ve both made names for themselves as some of the best they’ve got.”

Nyx sighs fondly and nods, his eyelid sliding close again.

“Of course they did.”

“I could… tell you about Insomnia’s Little Galahd, if… you want.” If it’s not too painful, is what Nyx hears.

He nods.

He can hear Cor taking some steps away again and the other chair being lifted up and put down next to his.

“You need a couch,” Cor grouses in a joking tone before settling down next to him.

Nyx doesn’t notice when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up again, Cor and him are both on the floor, leaning against the wall, covered by blankets, and Cor has an arm around him.

There’s something in the pit of his stomach that wants Nyx to pay more attention to it, but he doesn’t dare to.

His thoughts begin to drift.

He is already grateful for Cor’s annual visits and it’s not even due to the deal he has with Ramuh. He is simply glad to have someone who is so easy to talk to come by every once in a while. He missed that.

He knows very well that Cor is someone who could easily (or, well, not so easily, but more likely than regular people) wind up dead any day and he. He likes Cor for whom he is.

He closes his eyes in annoyance.

Yes, it would be nice if Cor’s returning to Galahd would change anything, but even so.

He just wants him to come back every year and not stop.

Even when Ramuh’s and his deal will eventually be fulfilled. Even thereafter.

And that realization makes Nyx kind of want to slap himself.

He thinks he might have a name for this thing he is starting to feel.

“Fuck.”

(Of course, that’s the moment Cor decides to wake up with a confused, sleepy “Huh?”. Nyx looks at the sleep-clouded blue eyes and knows with a startling certainty that he is starting to fall for Cor. He hides his silent scream behind his blanket.)

*

The eleventh time Cor visits, he reeks of death that even the everlasting rain couldn’t wash off him.

He tells Nyx about the family of coeurls he met when he passed through Leide. A mother and her two young.

Nyx feels compelled to yell at him, but Cor holds up his hand, knowing more about Galahd these years, and doesn’t stop his explanation.

The blood no longer visible on Cor’s clothes belongs to two behemoths that had attacked the coeurls, seeing how the mother animal was injured and slow.

Cor tells him he’d have brought some of the behemoths’ remains to last Nyx for a while but that the rain was too heavy and he had to give up most of it except for a little. He hands what is left wrapped in a piece of cloth to Nyx.

“Sorry I couldn’t bring you more. It’s gotta be shit to hunt in the rain out here. …I feel kinda stupid I never thought about that before.”

Nyx nods, feeling the increasingly familiar warmth inside him resurface, and yet, he can’t help but also feel like laughing a little.

Of course the heavy rain was enough to stop any Lucian – even Cor, whom he knew to be a pretty resilient guy.

The storm has never stopped Nyx before, though. He needs to hunt to survive, yes. But he is also Galahdian. The storm is his home.

*

He makes them food and realizes he hasn’t had much to eat around to offer to Cor before. They had mostly drunk tea or something alcoholic, or both. He guesses he’ll have to change that in the future.

He drops the wooden cooking spoon he is holding when Cor leans over his shoulder to see how the cooking is coming along. Cor has the decency to snicker and Nyx really, really would like to have his blanket to scream into right now.

*

He hugs Cor goodbye automatically this time and shivers when Cor’s lips brush against his ear as he tells him goodbye until the next year. He feels the ghost of that and the touch of Cor’s hand on his shoulder after that for weeks.

*

The twelfth time Cor visits, Nyx is almost sure he’ll manage to tell Cor… at least something. He hasn’t been sleeping well recently, the storms are slightly stronger than usual these weeks, and often when he lies awake late at night, he starts seeing Cor in front of his inner eye and that really doesn’t help with falling asleep again either.

*

But Cor is surprisingly distant this time around, at least for the first few hours. Eventually, Nyx sighs and puts his hands on Cor’s shoulders, attempting a makeshift massage.

“What’s got you in such a mood?”

He doesn’t expect an answer so soon, but then again, Cor is an awfully honest person and has, with only a few exceptions, when he needed more time to mull a question over, almost always answered him directly.

“Regis found a way to perhaps stop the prophecy from coming to happen as it’s intended to.”

Nyx’s hands still.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Nyx realizes with a start that Cor is leaning back into his touch, as if silently asking him to continue his massage. So Nyx does.

“Is it safe?”

Cor laughs.

“Nothing about this whole family is safe – but then, when has it ever been?”

He makes a sound that has Nyx shiver right down to his boots and places his hand on Nyx’s right hand.

“Right here. Could you please do that again?”

And Nyx might be a masochist, because he caves and keeps working the knots in Cor’s shoulders loose and tries not to cramp his hands down when Cor keeps making all sorts of quiet noises.

*

By the time of Cor’s thirteenth visit, Nyx is angry. He hasn’t been sleeping well in months, the storm having remained worse than it was before last year, and he keeps waking up with Cor being the first thing on his mind. So yes, he is angry.

*

Cor looks at him in confusion but follows behind without asking when Nyx all but drags him inside.

He doesn’t even get the chance to change his clothes before Nyx begins, sounding oddly frustrated.

“Fuck you! Just – why – argh.”

What.

Nyx turns away from him and pulls on his hair in frustration, grumbling below his breath, before turning back sharply and accusingly pointing a finger at Cor’s chest.

“You’re the reason I’m always sleep-deprived these weeks! And I’m done not saying anything, because I only see you once every year and it fucking sucks.”

Oh.

Cor can’t stop the laugh from falling from his lips.

“I almost thought you weren’t interested after all, after last time.”

Nyx keeps pointing, his finger waving lightly in the air as he gapes at him.

“You…? Oh, fuck you, Cor, you put me through this intentionally?”

“It’s called flirting, if I’m correct. Not that I seem to be very good at it, but that was the intention.”

Nyx swears up and down more curses than Cor thinks even he has ever heard, but he delightfully shuts up when Cor steps closer and kisses him.

Only when their kisses are becoming handsier, Nyx pulls away all of a sudden.

“Oh, fuck, you’re still wearing your wet clothes. You’ll get sick if you keep them on much longer.”

Cor considers this, agrees and looks at Nyx with his eyes a shade darker than before and a tiny smirk on his lips.

“Mind helping me get out of ‘em?”

He hasn’t seen Nyx blush before, furious red creeping up his cheeks, and he vows to himself that this won’t be the last time.

Nyx just splutters in betrayal but starts freeing him from his wet clothes just the same.

*

The fourteenth and fifteenth year are similar in the respect that they find themselves making out like teenagers all through the night until Cor has to leave again and Nyx has hickeys to prove to the darkness outside that he isn’t alone anymore. He leaves Cor with some of his own, especially when Cor present him with the Galahdian talisman for good luck and safety that he got for him in Little Galahd.

*

Cor has told him that he hasn’t had much of a relationship before either, unless you count a handful of stolen kisses in free minutes he barely ever had in the years before he met Nyx, and Nyx feels relieved none of them is at a disadvantage here.

Even when Cor huffs out a labored “’not playing fair, huh?” when Nyx grinds down against him on top of their pile of blankets, hands all over Cor’s body and not in the least feeling apologetic.

He starts to apologize when Cor starts kissing down his throat, though, and Cor eventually laughs, a full-body laugh, against his skin. Nyx shivers but can’t suppress the laugh at the back at his throat for long.

“Alright, you name the place and time if you wanna take this elsewhere,” Cor says, more quietly, and Nyx names his date.

*

The next time Cor arrives, he arrives earlier in the day. It’s always dark in Galahd these days, of course, but Nyx only had lunch a few hours ago, and he appreciates it when Cor can stay a few hours longer than usual.

Cor takes his time undressing and drying himself off, this time. Then, he stands there wrapped in only his usual blanket and gives Nyx a look that has a shiver run down his spine.

“Today still stands or would you prefer –”

“Yes!” Nyx blurts out. “I mean – ah, fuck.”

Cor is still laughing when Nyx is coming closer, unsuccessfully trying to get off his boots and repeating “Yes, of course I still want this, fuck, why doesn’t this come off?” over and over again.

Once they’re face to face, Cor drops to his knees as gracefully as he can and looks up at Nyx.

“Let me help you?”

Nyx’s helpless, furious blush and nod is all the agreement he needs to start pulling on the damn shoe.

When this endeavor ends with both of them tumbling to the floor in a tangled mess of limbs, blanket and boots, Cor just snorts when Nyx buries his laughing face in his chest.

They’ll be fine.

*

The seventeenth year, Cor comes to the hut looking as close to triumphant as Nyx has ever seen him.

“Regis and the Queen of Tenebrae did… well, they did some magic shit, I guess, and the Astrals themselves apologized to them. The – the scourge isn’t gone, obviously, but they said they’d remove the threat to the prince’s life and –”

“Take a deep breath,” Nyx instructs, when Cor begins stumbling over his words.

Their gazes lock and Cor takes the advised deep breath and another.

“Noctis is safe. He won’t die for their fucked up games, after all. I –”

Cor takes another deep breath, then smiles at him wider than Nyx has ever seen him smile before.

“There’s a chance things will end up fine after all. I just wish I could tell Aulea. She always told me things would be alright in the end.”

He shakes his head and Nyx sees tears of relief and happiness starting to form in Cor’s eyes.

“Tea?” He asks and Cor nods and follows him inside.

*

It’s been eighteen years. Nobody else is visiting these years, has since Cor first started coming, and Nyx is casually leaning on the window ledge waiting for Cor to arrive. He grins when he sees the familiar silhouette approach in the rain, puts the kettle on the stove and opens the door with a smile.

“Hey there.” He leans in and pulls Cor into an embrace and down into a kiss, both of which Cor returns immediately.

“Good day?” Cor asks with a smirk dancing over his lips.

“It’s always a good day when you’re stopping by.”

“Can you attest that to me somehow?”

Nyx snorts and it’s one of Cor’s snorts, he realizes with a start. How about that?

“I think I love you.”

It was meant to be a silent thought, but Nyx finds it feels right once his mind stops racing.

Cor is looking at him and he seems so much closer all of a sudden, his eyes widened.

“I –”

“You don’t have to say it back if this is too fast for you,” Nyx rushes to say, but Cor only shakes his head.

“No, I actually – I actually think I love you as well.”

Nyx’s heart stutters and he can’t look away from Cor as he takes in his words.

Now, how about that?

“Tea?” Cor asks when he has apparently been silent for too long, just gazing at Cor with so many damn feelings.

He nods before the words and the whine of the kettle in the kitchen register. Ten seconds later, when Cor has turned off the stove and is turning to pick up some mugs, Nyx catches his wrist and stops him.

“Got the order wrong, sorry. You first, and then some tea and cuddles?”

Cor snorts and then smiles at him.

“Sure, hon.”

Nyx splutters and blushes before he hides in Cor’s chest and it’s Cor’s favorite look.

*

The nineteenth year, Cor is later than usual. Nyx knows him and his fighting skills well enough to trust him to be okay, so he tries not to worry.

He opens the door quickly when he sees him approach.

“You are late this –”

He interrupts himself, noticing the tight set of Cor’s shoulders, and steps aside after a moment of shock to let the man inside.

There are dried blood stains on Cor’s clothes and it seems like the blood isn’t only his own.

“What happened?”

Cor is quiet for a long moment and Nyx steps closer to put his arms around him. Eventually, he feels Cor’s shaky exhale against his face and the warmth of Cor’s forehead against his own.

“Insomnia fell.”

*

He has already taken care of seeing his nephew – the prince, the only heir to the Lucian throne – off safely on his journey to collect his arms. There isn’t much more he can do to help Noctis and it’s driving him crazy, Nyx can tell.

Cor is angry at himself, angry at Regis.

“I could have been there.”

“You would be dead now if you had been.”

“Regis once said that I attract danger wherever I go. And yet that idiot-“

“Is that true?” Nyx interrupts him.

“What? The danger?” Cor falls silent, mulls it over for a second. “I suppose so, even though I’d never tell Reggie- Fuck.”

Nyx can see the tears in the corners of Cor’s eyes. As he caresses Cor’s back as calmly as he can manage, a plan starts to form in his mind.

“If I told you to attract as many dropships and MT force here, to Galahd, as you can, would you do it?”

Cor looks at him like he lost his mind for a moment, and maybe he has, but if Nyx knows something, then it’s that Ramuh hates the Nifs for what they’ve done just as much as every Galahdian and Lucian does. When he doesn’t say anything further, Cor seems to consider his question.

“I would certainly try, if I knew no harm would come to you.”

Nyx laughs and it comes from deep in his belly.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. It’s the Nifs that won’t be.”

He doesn’t look away when Cor gives him an – understandably, he supposes – worried gaze. But Nyx is Galahdian and it’s not him who will encounter the Nifs. He’ll stay in the back, safe in the storm and out of harm’s way, and watch them fall. He is Galahdian – he doesn’t have to fear the storm.

*

“Promise me you won’t turn around and won’t come back until it’s over. Can you do that for me?”

“I don’t understand why you’d want that,” Cor admits. “I’d rather be by your side through this. But you have my word.”

“Thank you.”

Nyx pushes himself up and pulls Cor into a deep kiss that once again ends up with them both in a tangled mess on the ground between his and Cor’s blankets. He feels the strong urge to crawl into Cor’s skin, not ever let him go, but he needs to for the plan to work.

He just hopes that Cor will return, after it is over, and maybe, maybe stay even when the storm abates.

*

Cor leaves the next morning, wearing a talisman Nyx hastily made for him, nervous despite his faith in his plan and wanting Cor to be safe, the first and only thing he ever wanted in so many years, really.

Cor leaves and doesn’t turn around, and the storm picks up after him.

*

It takes several weeks until the first signs of MTs and other Nif military arrive, but the storm is ready.

He can hear some of them over their radios, volume turned up loud enough for them to be able to communicate over the noise of the storm.

“The prince is said to be hiding here somewhere. All trails led to this… place.”

It’s said with disgust and the storm seems to retaliate by becoming even worse.

*

Two weeks later, it’s only the storm that is howling still. A huge part – at least it looks like it has to be a huge part to Nyx – of the Nif army is destroyed, deformed wrecks on the ashes of the ground they wreaked havoc on over two decades ago. A bitter feeling of irony and satisfaction forms in Nyx’s mouth at the sight and he turns around to return to his hut.

*

Cor returns a month later, as if he was trying to make sure it was really over before he did, and as he walks, the rain around him seems to let up.

He doesn’t get around to asking Nyx about the rain or the victory, though. Because the moment the hut appears in front of him, Nyx comes running through the door and the rain and pulls him into a kiss that is both a promise and a confession.

Nyx drags him inside and out of his clothes and instead of a blanket wraps himself around him. He pulls him on top of their blankets and whispers against every part of his skin as his hands won’t stop running over Cor’s wet skin.

Cor can make out “I love you’s” and “Please don’t leave again” and realizes Nyx wouldn’t hear him were he to reply to him right now.

So he settles on pulling Nyx closer and kissing him – his hair, his face, his lips – until Nyx is willing to let Cor peel him out of his wet clothes as well.

“I love you too. And I’ll stay, if you’ll have me.”

It’s quiet, but it’s enough to make Nyx’s eyes look up sharply and there’s so much relief in them.

“…even though I attract danger.” Cor smirks, the corner of his lip lightly pulled up, and Nyx lets out a teary laugh.

“I really don’t care, as you should know by now.”

So maybe there are still dangers out there that Cor might attract, that might hurt him on some days. Hell, even Nyx has to admit he is guilty of attracting more danger than any other person he has ever known, Cor aside.

But he thinks they’ll be just fine as a lighter rain covers Galahd’s ground outside and Cor wraps his arms around him in a way that makes him feel safe and at home.

*

Cor is standing right by his side when the first group of his people arrives and asks if there is anything they can help with to make the place habitable again, and he smiles when Nyx nods enthusiastically and shows them how to get started.

The storms aren’t as harsh as they used to be for almost three decades anymore these days. They’re much more like they always used to be in Galahd, the same after the war as they used to be before it.

Before long, two figures approach over a hilltop and stop in their tracks for only a moment before breaking into a run. Cor gives him a gentle push against his back and then Nyx is running as well.

[bunnimew]

Joy and Fun

Which is a horrible title for this fic, actually. But why break a theme now?

Fandom: Rise of the Guardians Pairing: Blackice, Jack Frost/Pitch Black Except they’re POWERSWAPPED HAHAHAHAHA  Rating: Gen, tad dark themes but no more dark than like your average twisted villain, really.  Notes: This is a direct sequel to my original Powerswap AU that I titled just as lazily as the rest of these.  Thanks to the Hope Week hosts for doing this!!!

“You have really odd ideas of what a good time is, Koz.”

They were together on the edge of a mountain. One of many edges, actually. This path couldn’t be climbed without lines and they were high enough up that a climber would do well to bring oxygen in ample supply. It was cold, the kind of cold that bit into your skin and left a burn, and Jack was thankful to already be dead. 

The climbers they were watching weren’t quite there, yet. They could be, if anything went any more wrong than it already had, and Pitch was grinning from ear to ear. 

“Why do you like this?”

Because it was clear that he did. Koz was absolutely in his element. The way he looked, lounging in the snow, was the same way anyone else might look draped over a velvet pillow, snuggled in a luscious fur throw with a box of bonbons. He was comfortable, he was confident, and Jack didn’t understand at all. 

Koz looked away from the struggling humans to favor Jack with a manic sort of gaze. “Why shouldn’t I like this? The winter is my world. The ice is my home. And they must bow before it, admit that what is mine is greater than what they are. They can’t ignore me here. They can’t pretend the cold is for someone else. They must face it and they must face me!”

That made a sort of sense, but Jack had heard Koz say these things before. It put him in a weird place. Jack was sad that this was Koz’s only source of joy (apparently), and at the same time… Jack liked to see an expression on his face that wasn’t bland and neutral and carefully hidden pain.

Jack was walking such a dangerous and ridiculous tightrope, and he couldn’t get away from it. He was invested, now.

“Doesn’t it taste a little…” Jack wasn’t sure how to express his thoughts. Getting people’s attention wasn’t all Jack wanted, even if the attention Koz gave him scratched an itch that never felt soothed. There was attention he wanted, and attention he wanted to live without. “I don’t know. Sour?”

The mania eased as Koz’s brows pulled together, and Jack felt it was easier to breathe. “Taste?”

“Or feel, or… whatever word you like to use when you feed your center.” Jack waved his hand uselessly in embarrassment. He hadn’t exactly discussed centers in depth with other spirits or listened as some educated and wise entity waxed poetic about what they mean or how to nourish them. Whatever Koz wanted to call it, Jack was fine with. He didn’t know the proper words.

Koz just looked confused, though. Jack wasn’t prepared for this. “What do you mean, ‘feed my center’?”

Jack wasn’t sure what he meant. That was the whole thing. “Uh, like, when you feel… more whole?” Every word was digging his grave deeper.

Koz turned his entire body to face Jack in the snow, and it felt like nails sealing his coffin shut. “You mean like, happy?”

Jack shook his head. He was not qualified for this. “It’s different. Your center is… your drive. Whether it makes you happy or not. You need it, and it comes from you. That. Whatever that is, for you.”

Koz was staring at him blankly, but it was a new kind of blank. This was not a careful or controlled blank. This was not a chiseled and sculpted blank. Koz just looked… like he had no idea what Jack was talking about. 

Oh no. 

“Winter?” 

Jack pressed his face into his hands. He was younger, here. There was no way, absolutely no way, that he had figured out his center before Koz. No way.

“Your powers are not your center.” Jack said, muffled against his palms. “My power is darkness, my center is fear.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” Koz decided, shifting away from Jack. “Playing one of your tricks.”

Jack groaned. “I promise I’m not.”

“That’s ridiculous. All I need is my ice.”

“There has to be something,” Jack insisted. And maybe he wasn’t qualified to teach this to someone else, but he knew he was right and he wouldn’t let Koz call him a liar. “Something that fills you with more than simple joy. I know I’m not crazy, Koz. Centers are real. And you have to have one.”

As soon as he pulled his hands away from his face, Jack realized Koz wasn’t dismissing him as much as his voice pretended to. His expression was troubled. It was subtle, sure, because Koz was kind of a good actor, but he was comfortable enough with Jack not to try so hard, anymore. 

His voice was quiet, and his eyes were glued to the slowly dying climbers. “I did sometimes wonder why you craved your simple scares.”

“I need them,” Jack admitted plainly. He needed Koz to understand that. “More than shadows, fear is what I do. It eases a hunger inside of me that food or joy could never touch.”

It surprised Jack when Koz pressed an absent hand to his chest. Instantly, Jack knew Koz felt that hole inside of him and that he would do whatever it took to fill it. If Koz’s center really was death and destruction, Jack could find a way to make peace with that. You didn’t get to choose your center, he knew, and trying to make Koz live without the feeling of being whole would be too cruel for Jack to stand. 

“I… I don’t…” Koz wasn’t being careful now. He was speaking from the heart, the way he always was when his eyes went a little crazy, but he looked entirely sane right now. “Sometimes I think… but then…”

“When?” Jack pressed. “When is the sometimes?”

Koz shook his head. “When the climbers had just started, I maybe felt something. It’s gone now. Sometimes, far off in the snow, but whenever I chase it, I…”

“I’ll help you.” Jack said it before he really thought about it, but he didn’t need to think about it. He would help Koz find his center, and then maybe he could see something more than neutral pain in his expression every day. Jack wanted that. More than he really should. 

Koz looked at him with doubt and Jack couldn’t stand it. 

“Whatever it takes. Whenever you feel that something, come find me. Show me. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He must have looked so earnest. It was only after Jack’s little speech that he realized he had leaned right on over into Koz’s space and that both of his hands were clenched into fists.

But it worked, because Koz’s expression eased and he smiled again. A real smile, not one of his insane grins. 

“I’ll hold you to that, Black. You said these climbers tasted sour to you?”

Jack couldn’t follow where Koz was going, but it wasn’t hard to answer. “They taste awful,” he said, “Their fear is… thick and acidic. I just don’t like it. It fills me, but… I don’t want it.”

Koz Frost looked at Jack like he had the most fabulous and expensive prize hidden behind door number two, and Jack had just picked it. He didn’t understand, but he liked it.

He liked what Koz said next even better.

“Then Black, let’s go save some wayward climbers.”

[geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek]

the more it goes

geraskier | teen | 1.9k | canon au, major character death

witchers don’t have feelings, they say, and geralt just hums because it’s easier to agree than tell them, no, no, we absolutely do.

how do you tell someone who believes you to be a heartless beast that you’ve fallen so deeply in love with the first person to see you and accept you that you want to burst?

that your blood pumps hot and thick in your veins when he smiles at you and your slow-beating heart stops altogether when the cornflower blue of his eyes shines like drops of crystal as he looks at you like you’re something precious to him?

( read on ao3 )

Geralt has lived a long, long time.

It’s the nature of what he is, and it’s never bothered him. Being a witcher is all he’s known, a life of always being on the move, never staying still or lingering in a single place. Mainly because humans don’t want him around their towns and their cities and their homes unless they’ve got a monster problem they can’t take care of themselves—then they let him stay but only until the monster is dead and they’ve given him the coin he’s due.

But there’s also this urge, an itch beneath his skin that he can only scratch by being on the road, a sharp sting in his veins like poison that only abates when he can feel the air whip through his hair and smell nothing but dirt and himself; no unease, no fear like sour milk on his tongue or hatred like rancid meat in his nose.

When a bard joins him, inserting himself into Geralt's life like it's his place—his right—and annoying him with endless chatter and salacious songs, the urge eases, the itch soothed. Jaskier lives to move, to travel and see the world and never the same place twice. He'd just as soon sleep under the stars, odes to the gods and goddesses plucked from his lute with deft fingers, voice soft and reverent, than settle in a town where nothing new happens and his inspiration runs dry.

He smells of orange honey and rainstorms, like excitement and happiness, and he complements Geralt's lifestyle in a way Geralt hadn't thought possible. Witchers are meant to be solitary beings, alone and lonely—the price for what they are—and Geralt never disputed it: it's easier to be alone when all you have to offer is the blood on your hands from your latest kill.

But Jaskier makes it...bearable. Makes it a little less burdensome to have nothing but his own thoughts with him when the sun fades beyond the horizon.

Now there’s always a song coming from smiling lips, lyrics praising his feats and calling him a hero, and Jaskier looks at him full of trust, not a trace of fear to be found. He’s never had a friend like that before.

Loving Jaskier, though—Geralt doesn’t anticipate that. His senses are heightened and his reflexes are quick as lightning, but it takes him by surprise to look at Jaskier one day, lute in hand and singing brightly, and realize the heavy feeling in his chest is affection, it’s fondness, it’s—

—it’s love .

Witchers don’t have feelings, they say, and Geralt just hums because it’s easier to agree than to tell them, No, no, we absolutely do.

How do you tell someone who believes you to be a heartless beast that you’ve fallen so deeply in love with the first person to see you and accept you that you want to burst?

That your blood pumps hot and thick in your veins when he smiles at you and your slow-beating heart stops altogether when the cornflower blue of his eyes shines like drops of crystal as he looks at you like you’re something precious to him?

He doesn’t anticipate loving Jaskier, but it’s like breathing: natural, reflexive. He doesn’t even think about it until something tries to take it away—when Jaskier doesn’t fucking listen and follows him on a hunt and the beast nearly rips his throat out, or when he flirts with the wrong lord’s daughter and gets himself cursed by a mage for hire—and Geralt doesn’t draw breath again until he’s safe and whole and singing his songs in the next tavern they stay in.

It’s love, and Jaskier knows love like he knows the kind of poetry to break a thousand hearts, and the kind of music that will make even the most unruly backwater commoner stomp his feet and dance, and he recognizes it in Geralt with one glance of his blue, blue eyes. Geralt is laid bare before him, slow heart heavy in his blood-soaked hands, covered in scars. Jaskier sees it, and he takes it gently in his own hands—hands that are rough with callouses, strong despite their delicateness, but so, so tender with Geralt—and he cradles it close to his chest and says, I’ll take care of it.

Geralt is given the honor of holding Jaskier’s heart in return, overflowing with his love and his joy, and Geralt treasures it. He keeps it tucked away between his ribs under his armor and guards it with his life. Jaskier’s love is an overwhelming force, a storm in a bottle that nearly drowns Geralt for how strong and lasting it is.

It scares him, at first, how deeply Jaskier cares and loves. It scares him and he lashes out and Jaskier just looks at him with sad blue eyes before he walks away, and Geralt is scared for another reason—what if Jaskier takes his love back, pulls his heart back out of Geralt’s chest and replaces it in his own, and throws Geralt’s heart back at him, more torn and bloody than before? No one’s ever kept his heart this long before, no one’s ever wanted to keep his heart before, why would Jaskier?

It’s the longest year of his long, long life. Time moves on, but Geralt feels stationary, caught in a stasis that won’t let him catch up. He fights and he kills and he finds Ciri and there’s so much to do, but he’s stopped, can’t move, can’t breathe because his heart is gone—

He’s gone—

—and then it comes back, because Jaskier always, always comes back, even when Geralt doesn’t deserve it, but he’s there, playing in a tavern like the first time they’d met, except people don’t throw stale bread at him anymore, it’s always at least fresh but mostly it’s coins—and Geralt meets his blue, blue eyes and hopes when he says I’m sorry Jaskier will at least accept that even if he doesn’t forgive him.

Jaskier gives him a small, soft smile, full of relief, and says, I forgave you a long time ago. And then he buys Geralt a drink, and they spend the night talking in his room at the inn, and Geralt tastes orange honey and ale on his lips when Jaskier kisses him, fingers tangled in his hair and drawing noises out of Geralt like he draws notes from his lute.

Geralt can breathe again, and time doesn’t feel at a stand still anymore. Being with Jaskier makes the days long and the nights longer, his chattiness a balm on the roads and his hands gentle, careful things on Geralt’s skin beneath the gaze of the stars. They fall back into sync, into their routine, but it’s better, it’s good, and Geralt promises not to take it for granted again, vowing to cherish Jaskier the way he deserves to be cherished.

But time doesn’t stop. Geralt isn’t affected, because witchers are meant to live until some beast kills them, but he sees the years on Jaskier: in the way his hair begins to grey, silver mixing with his deep brown; in the way he doesn’t play his lute as often because the joints in his fingers ache fiercely and he can’t sleep on the ground because his back protests too much.

In the wrinkles around his eyes when he grins.

In the way his breathing becomes labored in the winter with cold and fever that lasts longer and longer each year he gets it.

In the way, one day, he can’t leave their bed in their little house on the coast, because at one point Jaskier asked, Will you go with me? and Geralt replied, Of course.

His cough is the worst it’s ever been. Geralt sits beside him on the edge of the bed, careful of his weight so he doesn’t jostle Jaskier needlessly. He brushes hair damp with fever-sweat from Jaskier’s forehead, fingers lingering against his skin. Jaskier leans into it when he finally settles, breaths ragged in his chest.

His eyes are still bright, still the beautiful cornflower blue Geralt noticed first about him.

“I suppose it’s about that time,” Jaskier rasps. His voice has taken much abuse the last few years from coughing fits, no longer smooth and musical. Geralt loves it regardless. He offers Geralt a tired smile. “It’s been quite the adventure, witcher.”

Geralt swallows thickly. “Don’t say that,” he pleads, softly. His own voice is rough with emotion—he’s learned to let it out, bit by bit, while with Jaskier. It was the least he could do after everything he’d put him through, and it really hasn’t ever been a hardship to tell Jaskier how much he’s loved. “Don’t leave me.”

“It’s time,” jaskier repeats, almost sadly. “You know this better than anyone, Geralt. Time stops for no one.” He manages a smile, still as teasing as ever. His hands, frail and weak now, take Geralt’s and hold them with what strength he has. “Not even for the great White Wolf’s own bard.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt blinks away the tears stinging behind his eyes. It’s not—it isn’t fair, it’s not fair that Geralt is having to watch his heart leave him again, slowly and painfully. It hasn’t been nearly long enough since the last time. It hasn’t been nearly long enough since the beginning.

Geralt has lived a long, long life, and his time with Jaskier hasn’t been long enough.

“What am I to do without you?” Geralt asks. He leans down, slowly, carefully, mindful of the pain Jaskier is in, and rests their heads together. “Who will sing me songs while we travel the world, and who will I tell to shut up because he’s so annoying?”

Jaskier huffs at that. “I suppose you’ll have to find another bard,” he replies. “Someone will be willing to sing about you.”

"I won’t want them,” Geralt admits. “You’re the one who has my heart. It’s always been yours.”

It makes Jaskier laugh, and then he’s doubled over with a wracking cough, and Geralt holds him while it runs its course. When he calms, Jaskier looks at him with watering eyes. “I’ll make a poet of you yet, dear heart,” he says, voice nothing but a fond whisper; it makes Geralt’s heart ache, a heaviness deep in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.

“Stay with me, then,” Geralt begs, and it is begging—he’s scraped raw on the inside, wanting, needing Jaskier to stay, to remain at his side, never to leave him again. It was bad enough the first time, how is Geralt to cope with it now?

He doesn’t think he will.

“You know I want to,” Jaskier soothes, “but I can’t. My adventure is done. It’s time to let me go.”

“I don’t want to. You’re my bard. I can’t be without my bard.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jaskier tells him firmly. He’s starting to drift off, eyes closing and too slow to open, finally staying shut. Geralt only holds him tighter. “Promise me you’ll move on, Geralt. Don’t linger on this. Your life is too long to waste on me.”

“You’re not a waste,” Geralt murmurs into his hair. “You were never a waste.”

Jaskier only hums, nothing more than a sigh, so soft Geralt wouldn’t have been able to hear it were it not for his witcher senses. His breathing slows, and Geralt closes his eyes, counting the rise and fall of his chest, the slowing rhythm of his heart.

It matches Geralt’s for three beats—

—then it stops.

He holds Jaskier close, lips pressed against his forehead, and lets his tears fall freely.

.

.

You were the one I wanted most to stay.

But time could not be kept at bay.

The more it goes, the more it’s gone— the more it takes away.

— Lang Leav