#mourn what you had and so stupidly threw away
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"Ha! Bucktommy bones! WE WON! We told you Tommy was just a plot device! He was horrible and didn't care about Buck AT ALL and now we can get Buddie so Buck can have a REAL relationship–"
#literally what language had ryan guzman been talking in for u to not understand#if i get buddie congratulations#but the odds of that are real low#this was an actual canon queer ship with healthy and caring romantic feelings#mourn what you had and so stupidly threw away#911 abc#911 spoilers#911#bucktommy#evan buckley#tommy kinard
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Dreamling Bingo E2: Role reversal! Angst and Fluff ahead <3
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“He, um-” Matthew says from the windowsill, shifting awkwardly. “He says he'll come back as per your previous agreement. Whatever that means.”
“Yeah, okay,” Hob says faintly into the curve of his arms where he's slumped over the table. He's too numb to feel the heartache. “You can go.”
“Uh,” Matthew says, with a flap of wings that brings his voice closer. Dream's friend, not Hob's, he has to remind himself, even as his heart pangs as the other doesn't leave. “Did you two… fight? You don't sound good, man.”
“Yeah, we fought,” Hob says vaguely, staring at the kitchen tap. “I'll be alright.”
“Buddy, what the fuck, you really don't sound good,” Matthew sounds alarmed. “Look, is there someone we can like, call over for a bit, I don't think you should be alone-”
“I'm not going to kill myself over a bad breakup, Matt,” Hob sighs. “And no, we can't call anyone. I just made half the faculty watch Professor Rob skid over a cliff and burst into flames.”
“Dude,” Matthew says after a moment. “That's fucked up. You do realise people are gonna fucking mourn you, right?”
“Wow, really? Thank you for teaching me, Matthew, I couldn't possibly know this at six hundred years old,” Hob rolls his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet. “And no, I had to fake it, before you ask. Got too attached here, set too many roots down… people would come looking.”
“Like that guy from Megamind,” Matthew offers weakly, and Hob snorts. “But, like. What if the boss comes looking and you're not here?”
“He'll survive,” Hob packs up the last of his books and kicks the remaining ones under the bed as a fun surprise for the next tenant. “Find another human to amuse himself with, I suppose.”
“What on earth happened?” Matthew asks, baffled.
Hob pauses and looks down at his packed box. Shrugs. “I don't know. One minute we were talking, next minute we were arguing and then he… said that-”
His throat closes up and he shakes his head, grabbing the last backpack. Everything else is sent ahead, except this one bag of essentials and items he can't afford to lose. Eleanor's locket is in there, and Dream's bracelet was supposed to be there too- the only gift he'd ever gotten from the other, the only physical proof that he actually existed- except he threw it in a box in a moment of spite and let it go on with the other things.
“Dude, uh, listen, I don't know if-”
“Bye, Matthew.” Hob closes the door and steps out into the night, grabbing his bike as he goes. It probably doesn't warrant all that much of an intricate, convoluted getaway, considering most people don't really go looking for a dead person- but he'll feel better covering his tracks. Especially since he no longer has a mysterious, powerful stranger on his side that he can sort of rely on to eventually come for him.
Hah. On the bright side, though.
He's always wanted to try lycanthropy.
-
He smells the newcomer before he hears him.
The wolf’s ears prick up, turning to stare out at the night sky, lit up by the stars. He breathes in the scent on the wind to be sure, then springs out the den, breath misting in the cold winter air.
The newcomer is loping around aimlessly, looking droll and tired as he trots by the riverbank, looking this way and that. Whatever he's searching for, he won't find it- not this late in the season, when everything's asleep or dead.
Still. It's his territory, so the wolf jumps out of the bushes with a growl and charges.
The strange dark wolf doesn't yelp or scramble away at the aggression like he'd expected, instead freezing in shock, making him crash full force into the intruder and sending them both to the ground.
The intruder still doesn't run when he's down and incapacitated, just lies there and stares up stupidly. The wolf bares his teeth, growling, and that seems to finally get some reaction, a hint of a tail going between his legs, ears going back in fear.
Good. He's the bigger wolf amongst the two of them, the other should-
Hob Gadling.
He stops, ears pricked up as he scans around for another creature. Feels his own ears go back in unease when no one else is there, only the odd stranger, staring at him silently.
He snaps his teeth, unsettled, and finally the stranger reacts like he should, scrambling out of his way as he chases him off, growling and snarling all the while.
He stops when he reaches the edge of his territory, chest heaving. The black wolf is still there, slinking between the trees, staring at him.
Good enough. He doesn't have energy to waste. The wolf trots back to his den and goes back to sleep.
AO3
#dreamling#dream of the endless#hob gadling#dreamling bingo#my fic#matthew#the sandman#it took all fucking day. bone apple teeth jfc
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finally. it is done
jonny angst fanfic incoming this is a prequel to this fic you can read it below the cut or here on ao3
Jonny buried his face in Brian’s chest, and cried, heaving sobs wracking his body as his tears left a growing damp spot on Brian’s shirt. Cautiously, Brian draped a heavy arm around him. Jonny looked so much smaller like this, curled up into Brian’s side.
“Jonny,” Brian began, speaking softly. “What’s wrong?”
Jonny’s reply came between gasps of air as he cried. “She’s gone, and- and she’s not coming back.”
“Who, Jonny?”
“Nastya,” he whispered, like he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Oh,” Brian said stupidly. Nastya was gone, and she was never coming back. Okay. He would deal with those emotions later. He stroked Jonny’s hair lightly.
“It’ll be alright, Jonny,” Brian said, the words sticking in his throat. “She’s moved on, and that’s okay.”
“N-no it won’t be fucking okay, it’s- it’s never going to be fucking okay again, nothing will be the same and everything’s going to be- it’s going to be different, and wrong, forever.” Jonny’s voice was muffled by Brian’s shirt as he spoke. “Who’s going to play viola? Who’s going to fix Aurora when she breaks?”
“Marius can play violin, and I’m sure if there are any problems with the ship, we can figure something out between us.”
“I don’t want stupid Marius to play his stupid fucking violin,” Jonny stood suddenly, pulling away from Brian, his voice cracking slightly. “I want Nastya to come back.”
Jonny stormed out and Brian hastened to follow. Jonny reached his room and slammed the door in Brian’s face, a lock clicking into place. He knew he was easily strong enough to break through, but that would be wrong. Brian felt his eyes growing damp with oil as he desperately scrabbled to reach his switch. As it always had been, always would be, it was just tantalisingly out of reach.
Brian pressed one hand against the door. “Jonny, please-“
“Fuck off.” His reply was muffled and strained with emotion.
Brian stood there for a very long time.
Everyone mourned the loss of Nastya in their own way. The ship seemed so much quieter now, most of the crew choosing to isolate themselves, processing their grief alone. Raphaella threw herself into her experiments with renewed fervour, killing all who dared interrupt. Ivy powered through stacks of books like her life depended on it. Ashes just sat and stared out of the ports and into space, chainsmoking for hours on end.
Gunpowder Tim was not quiet though. Fire. Reload. Fire. Reload. The silences between shots were heavy and oppressive, threatening to choke the breath out of him. Even the whirring and humming and clicking machinery of the Aurora seemed to have fallen silent in a strange requiem. Fire. Reload. Tim’s hands shook, though his shots hit the bullseye every time. Somewhere in the ship a mournful violin melody began. It cut off with a scrape of discordant notes as a volley of gunshots went off. Fire. Reload. Fire. The sound of stomping and smashing approached and Jonny flung open the door, still soaked in a spray of scarlet. Tim reloaded slowly as Jonny stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, gun in one hand, bottle in the other. Jonny took a swig of vodka and fired vaguely in the direction of the target.
“Hello,” Jonny said sullenly. Tim said nothing, squinting at him warily. Jonny swayed dangerously, his knees buckled and he sat down, hard. “I… wanted t’ask you somethin.”
“And what’s that?”
“How… how didya cope when- when you lost Bertie?” Jonny spoke haltingly, his words slurring together.
Tim flinched slightly.
“You know what I did, Jonny. Murder. Lots of it.”
“An’ did it make you feel better?”
Tim considered for a moment.
“Not really,” he admitted.
“Oh,” Jonny replied. He looked so forlorn Tim worried Jonny might start crying, and Tim did not have the emotional energy to deal with that.
“I, uh, do have something that makes me feel a little better,” Tim crouched to be at Jonny’s level and reached beneath the collar of his shirt, pulling out a necklace. Jonny squinted as his eyes struggled to focus. Military dog tags, emblazoned with the name BERTIE. “It’s like a kind of totem, I guess, like as long as I have these I can keep his memory close to me. It’s kind of stupid, but it helps.” Jonny nodded slowly, then, apparently satisfied, stood and stumbled out. Tim looked at the empty doorway. Please stay, he thought. But Jonny was gone. And Tim was alone in the silence once more.
Jonny laughed manically as he let out a spray of bullets, the people before him twitching and jerking in a morbid dance as they fell dead to the ground. His metal heart ached in his chest as he cast around for more victims of his wrath. He held his gun loosely as he wandered vaguely down the centre of the street, the barrel of his new toy dragging across the road behind him. Tim had given it to him, a gun not designed for elegance or precision, a brutal weapon made purely for the sake of indiscriminate violence. But what was the fucking point of it if there was no-one to shoot? They kept hiding from him, but he knew they were there. He was sure of it. The air was silent, but heavy and tense. With a terrified wail, a man rushed from his hiding spot behind some bins, and on instinct Jonny drew his sixgun and shot him dead. The victory felt hollow and unsatisfying as Jonny continued to stalk down the road, gun scraping the ground behind him.
He stopped abruptly. Had he seen something… familiar? He retraced his steps carefully, his face screwed up in concentration. A soot-covered shop window, and a coat. Nastya’s coat. The gun fell to the ground with a clang of metal as he raced into the shop, barging through the door with his shoulder. A bell tinkled warmly as he entered and he stood there for a moment, breathing heavily and staring at a rack of identical blue coats. Not Nastya’s coat. Similar though. Perhaps similar enough? He stepped forward and reached out a hand to brush against the fabric, then flinched back slightly, seeing his own hand, dirty and blood-soaked, in stark contrast to the pristine coat. After a moment of hesitation, he picked one up. It fitted him. He tossed it aside and picked up a bigger one. Nastya had always been taller than him. Clutching it to his chest, he left, the bell jingling as he did so, and walked back.
Jonny boarded the ship, resolutely ignoring the various questioning looks of his crew, and Tim, watching curiously, his metal eyes softening with sympathy as he saw what Jonny was holding. Jonny didn’t want Tim’s stupid fucking sympathy though, didn’t want to be seen as something weak, and before he knew what he was doing he was gripping his sixgun tightly and Tim’s brains were splattered across the wall. He ignored the faint pang of regret and went to his room, locking the door firmly behind him.
He laid the coat out carefully on his bed, inspecting his prize. It didn’t look that much like Nastya’s, now he got a good look at it. It didn’t have the same detailing on the cuffs, of course, and the shade of blue wasn’t right, and the collar was completely wrong. Hot, angry tears started to well in his eyes and he wiped them away furiously, but he couldn’t stop and suddenly he was curled up against the wall sobbing and gasping. And then with a cold determination he cocked his gun, pressed it to his temple and pulled the trigger.
When Jonny awoke, he felt much calmer, though when he tried to open his eyes, he found them glued shut by his own blood. Prying them open with his fingers, he stood. An Aurora patch, that’s what he needed. That was what would make it look like a true Mechanism’s coat. Maybe he had one under his bed. He crawled onto his stomach and rooted around, cursing as he knocked over a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
That was fine. That was fine, and he didn’t even care. He didn’t mind the wet patch on the floor or the fresh stink of alcohol or another sticky liquid on his hands. It was fine. He was fine. With a scream of frustration, he smashed the bottle against the bedframe, and the neck shattered in his hand.
He lay there, breathing heavily. Marius had once told him how to count out his breaths to keep him calm and breathing deeply. Jonny had punched him, but now as he swept his hand under the bed, ignoring the accumulating sharp cuts, he counted. Inhale for four counts. He shoved aside a pile of rubbish. Hold for seven. He dug through the layer of random items coating the floor. Exhale for eight. Spotting a dust-covered patch, he grabbed it and clambered out from underneath the bed, hitting his head against the bedframe as he did so.
He sat on the bed and rocked gently, brushing the dust off an ancient Aurora patch. Yes, this would do nicely. He fished some sewing equipment out of a drawer, and set to work. His palms had tiny shards of glass stuck in them and his fingers bled from dozens of tiny wounds, but he didn’t care. The needlework was clumsy and uneven, but that didn’t matter.
When he was finished, he brushed the needles aside and buried his face in the coat. Jonny froze. It reeked of newness and artificial shop smell, and Jonny reeled back from it. It smelled wrong. He stared at it for a moment, before cracking open another bottle of whiskey and taking a deep drink from it, before unceremoniously pouring its contents over the coat, then throwing the bottle across the room. It smashed against the wall. Lighting a cigarette, Jonny picked up the coat and walked to the vent shaft in the wall. No cover - he’d left it open so Nastya could drop by his room whenever she liked. Not that she ever would again. Jonny crawled into the vent and curled up with the coat, and tried very hard not to cry. He would not succeed.
#the first half flowed easily writing the second half was like pulling teeth#done now thiugh#jonny d’ville#the mechanisms#do not archive#fanfiction#my fanfiction#doors.txt#btw I love it when people tell me their thoughts in the tags would be interested what you guys think of it
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INCARNADINE.
CHAPTER 03.
He watches Y/n quench her thirst, her physique becoming fortified, beautified, along with her change. Her hair, her complexion, her fingers become stronger, her features…she is so, so beautiful…gasping her first breath of life as a vampire.
It's not enough: she throws the glass away and takes his hand.
The older vampire has the sudden urge to kiss her and shove his tongue into her mouth, to taste the cooper that coats it at the action of her licking the spilt blood. She's too fast though, one second she's with him and the next she's gone: as expected of a new one of their kind.
The curtains settle from an aftermath gust of wind.
She may not know but she is the first female vampire he has ever created in over a century. The sire bond occurs between individuals of opposite sexes but it brings a lot of misfortune due to its tension and closely knit romantic implications, that's why all his creations before her, untill now, were males, because he used to keep females a long time ago and things got very bad, very quickly. Jimin preferred it that way because it caused less trouble, both for himself and their race. So far, he had turned three other girls: Genevie, Honoria, and Anetta.
Genevie was a servant at a farm back in the 1540's, working tirelessly on the land of a noble family. She was more of an accident but Jimin considered her his most loyal covenant, eventhough he freed her so that she could go explore the world and she couldn't bear the sadness their separation caused, knowing he chased her away due to her clingy attitude, so she threw away her sunlight ring and walked in the sun on her own volition. Honoria, on the other hand, had been the daughter of a deceased marquis in 1689, whom he turned because she came to Jimin offering her life in exchange for immortality. She held a burning hatred for her uncle, an abusive, greedy and unfair man, thus after stumbling upon him feeding on one of their maids at a banquet, she stupidly yet courageously confronted the vampire. She was the hardest to deal with, with a capricious temper, and the only one Jimin had to end himself because she was so attached to him to the point of harming anybody and everybody around him. And last but not least, the youngest, Anetta, proved to be the timid, obedient offspring with her kind heart and shy humour, and the newest addition to his collection due to Jimin rescuing her from a lake a little too late in 1863. As a request, she asked that he let her mourn her lost lover and allow her time to adjust, which Jimin agreed. She too, however, was finished by her own lack of resistance. Between her love for her lost husband and her bond to him, she got conflicted enough that she picked to be gone.
She resembled Y/n's situation but Y/n's nothing like her. She is much better.
He zips through the trees like a blur, expecting the worst. Sweet Y/n might have her feeding now, maybe she's terrorizing the town or she's stirring up a bloodbath. Anything could happen. With being new comes the heightening of her senses and the desire for blood, tethering on a thin edge of control.
Once he gets near a clearing where the moon's not covered by the folliage, he finds her, surprisingly tame. She's not raging, not killing someone, she's simply sitting on the grass, her arms drawn around her bent knees. Acknowledging his arrival, she looks to him...peculiarly calm. She isn't upset with him, or the opposite, she's just being neutral.
"I don't like this..."
"What?" he halts, tilting his head to the side, one elegant eyebrow arched.
"I feel strange...I feel...like there's something inexplicably deep tying me to you."
"It's called sire bond. But you're fighting it, aren't you?" walking closer, Jimin adds: "If you wouldn't, you'd be kneeling at my feet."
The notion infuriates the female. She sneers, "I will not."
"Yet, you can't deny the pull." he smirks, holding his arm to her. "Come, Y/n."
Y/n rises and touches his hand, realizing her compliance. She tries to retreat, to no avail: he catches her back in his grasp.
"Let go of me."
"This is the price you have to pay."
Truthfully, she wishes she would've rotted under the cruel moon tonight. But she already chose her path.
"Does it ever stop?"
"No, but it fades over time. The older you get...the stronger you get, it will. Why, are you that eager to get rid of me?" Jimin laughs. "Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, that'll take centuries."
. . .
From midnight to sunrise, he teaches her everything she needs to know about her strength as a vampire. She learns to pace her breakneck speed, her throws, her punches, she learns to climb trees, to differentiate potent scents, to hide. She's a fast learner, and seems to be an even better newborn with a powerful sense of hearing and smell, capable to tell a rabbit apart from a stag miles away from their spot. Jimin's impressed by her abilities. He'd seen vampire females but there's an appeal to her that almost makes him regret turning her...because she's distracting him.
He also tells her about a vampire's weaknesses: the sun and silver.
"I'm not staying here."
"Yes, you are. You can't go anywhere out in the sun without a piece of jewelry containing a bloodstone gem."
Which is how he convinced her to remain home at his mansion while he goes out in town to buy her things and procure the item she requires in order to have more freedom.
"What do you want? A necklace? A bracelet? Maybe we should get you another ring..." he smiles wickedly, rubbing her engagement ring.
She slaps his hand away. Although insensitive, his comment isn't as caustic as it would be should she still be human. "A necklace. And a small jewelry box, I will keep this ring forever."
Hours after bathing and changing, she has no other occupation than wandering his lonely mansion that hosts an opulent decor, inspecting his fascinating shelves with countless books and walking through each room with the exception of one. It's locked, and the knob burns her hand upon trying to force it, made of silver complete with a lock.
"For awhile, you will lay low. I don't want any of the townspeople to see you walking around in daylight. To them, you died with your family and Taehyung."
With her thoughts racing, Y/n doesn't notice a foreign presence untill she goes downstairs into the livingroom.
A woman dressed in a rich dress must have infiltrated the mansion but she doesn't smell like a human: she's a vampire. Instinctively, Y/n runs to her quickly and grabs her by the throat, but the woman's far stronger, tossing her across the large room like she would a rag doll; vases break, and she falls to the floor.
"Why are you here?" her painted lips twist. She is older by a decade yet exceptionally beautiful for her age.
"Who are you?" Y/n questions, phasing back to her full height.
The front doors screech and Jimin enters his domain, just in time to prevent a bloody fight between the two women.
Y/n perceives how his eyes gravitate to the other woman with a glint bordering on scorn and intimacy. A confusing mix...
"Mirene."
"Hello, Jimin."
"I haven't seen you in years."
Y/n's half intrigued - half annoyed. "You know her?"
"She's the one who turned me."
So he was locked in a sire bond too, once upon a time.
Only, he broke his...she can tell.
. . .
a/n: IMPORTANT! this story is now exclusively on my kpop membership tier : http://ko-fi.com/psyche_/tiers, where you can have access to all my stories and content for only $2 per month! you will not regret it as INCARNADINE and other popular stories of mine have chapters in advance and will have a lot of interactions to come! here are all the benefits you get by joining:
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#park jimin#park jimin x reader#park jimin x y/n#bts jimin x reader#bts park jimin#bts jimin#kim taehyung#kim taehyung x reader#bts taehyung x reader#bts v x reader#bts taehyung#bts v#jeon jungkook#jeon jungkook x reader#bts jungkook x reader#bts jeon jungkook#bts jungkook#min yoongi#bts yoongi#bts suga#kim seokjin#bts seokjin#bts jin#bts#dark romance#dark fantasy#vampire#bonds
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Wild Returns
Hey, so, the trailer for BotW 2 dropped...
And I was think like, everyone assumes Wild will get pulled away to do his second adventure and then return. And I saw the trailer and thought “Twilight is going to take one look at that arm and lose his mind.”
So I channelled all of my losing of my own mind into creativity. This was supposed to be cracky but then the boys decided feelings had to happen instead. Anyways, enjoy!
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“So, rations again?”
Everyone in camp groaned.
It had been a few months since Wild had been called back to his own Hyrule for another adventure, and the entire group had been mourning the loss of his cooking since the moment he left.
They missed other things Wild brought to the table, of course they did, but the cooking was the thing that was most universally missed.
“I really want Wild back,” Wind groused as Warriors began counting out some of the dried military rations his Zelda had been kind enough to supply them with the last time they were in his Hyrule.
“Want me back for what?”
Twilight jumped and barely stopped his arm in time to avoid striking the source of the voice with his sword when it piped up near his feet.
He blinked stupidly for a long moment as he took in what he was looking at.
Wild, their missing friend and his protege, blinked back up at him. This would be fine, except only Wild’s head and shoulders were visible, and the rest of him was in the ground, a faint bit of mist-like green light swirling around the place where Wild and ground met.
“Cub?!” He finally managed after a long moment.
“Hey Twi!” Wild grinned, fully pulling himself out of the ground once Twilight stepped back and sheathed his sword.
A glance around said no one else knew how to deal with this development either.
Wild, looked different. His hair was down, and he only had a bit of fabric pulled over his scarred left shoulder in place of an actual shirt. The sandals definitely were new, and he looked vaguely like he’d just tied a sheet around himself to act as clothes.
Then he lifted his right arm to wave, and Twilight’s brain broke for a second.
What happened to his arm was that recent or not why is it glowing what happened to his real arm why does he have a new arm
“Cub, your arm,” was all he managed to get out through the mess his thoughts had become.
He stepped forward hesitantly, reaching for Wild’s arm but pausing when he thought maybe Wild wouldn’t want him touching it. Wild reached out and wiggled it a bit, inviting him probably, and so Twilight stepped up and grabbed it.
Warm, smooth metal met his hands, and he could feel the pulsing of magic just below his fingers. Soft, rolling waves of gentle magic under metal, and what was clearly a mix of sheikah tech and something else made up the limb. Ignoring the ridges and metal and magic, it was a near perfect copy of Wild’s original arm. But it wasn’t Wild’s original arm, that much was obvious.
Wild had lost his arm.
A soft, flesh hand landed on his, and Twilight hadn’t realized he’d stopped breathing until Wild made a show of doing so when he looked up.
Twilight breathed in, tightening his grip on Wild’s new arm a bit in doing so, and did his best to swallow the wave of emotions rolling like thunder clouds in his chest.
“Cub,” he managed, his voice strangled and uncooperative.
“It’s not that big a deal, Twi,” Wild tried laughing it off, but sobered up when he must have realized Twilight was having a bit of an internal crisis. “I lost it early on, so I’ve had a lot of time adjusting to the new one. And this arm has so many cool new features! Like, I can phase through stuff now! You saw that just a minute ago. And it can use the runes just like the Sheikah Slate can, but there’s more to it all now. And it can shoot fire! Just like the fire rods Legend and Warriors have! And I can still feel things with it, somehow, so really it’s mostly just positives. I can barely tell it’s not the original sometimes,”
Twilight swallowed again, breathing harshly through his nose and glancing between Wild and his arm. He gently turned the arm over in his hands, trying to wrap his head around it being there, before his thumbs finally came to rest in Wild’s palm.
He opened his mouth to say something, but everything got stuck in his throat, and he had to close his mouth to swallow again, like the words that wouldn’t come would choke him otherwise.
“No using your new powers to scare us,” Time said, the first of the group to speak. “We don’t need to stab you because someone thought you were a floormaster or something,”
Wild shot him a thumbs up with his free hand. “No phasing close enough to be stabbed, got it,”
Time sighed, well aware Wild misinterpreted what he said, but not feeling like fighting him on it.
“Can you cook for us?” Wind asked, glancing between Wild and the rations Warriors still had out but had stopped splitting up. Warriors was also looking at Wild hopefully.
“Sure,” Wild shrugged. “I’ve actually kind of missed cooking for you guys,”
That elicited a cheer, and Wild carefully pulled his hand from Twilight’s fingers in order to take his place at the cookpot.
Twilight spent all of dinner (goddesses, he’d missed Wild’s cooking so badly) doing his best not to stare at Wild’s arm. His best evidently wasn’t good enough, if the look he got from Time was any indication.
He offered to take the first watch when things winded down, well after Wind had talked Wild into telling them about what he’d been doing while away for so long. No one argued with him, and they shuffled around just a bit to let Wild set up his own bedroll.
He specifically decided not to think about how Wild set up right next to his own.
Twilight was glad this was Four’s era. There wasn’t a lot to worry about in the forest here, which worked well with the fact that Twilight was doing a crappy job of keeping watch.
His mind kept pulling back to Wild’s arm. What happened? Why did he lose it? Was it because he wasn’t prepared enough? Had Twilight not passed on enough of his own skills that Wild could have prevented this? What if he’d been there, like on Wild’s first adventure? Could he have prevented this? What if-
“There wasn’t any way to avoid it,”
Twilight’s head snapped up, twisting to look at where Wild was curled up on his side, wide awake and flexing the fingers on his prosthetic arm, watching the digits move.
“Wild, what,” Twilight trailed off.
“You're thinking about my arm,” Wild said, like he knew. Twilight privately hoped ‘mind reading’ wasn’t on the list of Wild’s new abilities. “You’re feeling guilty about it,”
“I’m not,” Twilight tried to argue, but stopped when he realized how much even he didn’t believe himself.
“It’s okay,” Wild said, setting his arm down on his pillow, finally twisting to look at Twilight somewhat. “I figured you would. But there wasn’t anything you could have done,”
“Cub,” Twilight faltered, face screwed up as he fought internally about arguing that point.
Wild sat up then, looking at Twilight head on. “Twi, you couldn’t have saved my arm. I couldn’t, Zelda couldn’t, no one could. It didn’t matter how prepared I was, or who was with me. I would have lost it anyways. There wasn’t a way to avoid it,”
Twilight looked away, eyes on the fire that he’d neglected so far. He threw another log on, waiting for it to catch before adding another.
“You’re sure?” He asked, probably right when Wild had decided he wouldn’t answer. He ignored how small and unsure he sounded.
“Unless you have a cure for pure Malice,” Wild shrugged. “Yeah, I’m sure,”
Twilight nodded, watching the fire crack.
When he crawled into his own bedroll after waking up Legend for second watch, he wasn’t surprised to find Wild still awake. He was a bit surprised by Wild basically insisting they shared a bedroll by reaching out to cuddle into him, but he didn’t object. He just wrapped an arm around Wild’s torso, pulled him close, and tried his very, very best to ignore the soft whispers and hums from the magic in Wild’s arm.
Twilight struggled with guilt over Wild’s arm for a few days, even as Wild continued to assure him it was fine.
Everyone was pleased by the return of Wild’s cooking, and for the levity he added to the group. Even Twilight couldn’t complain.
Well, he could actually. And did.
Whichever goddess decided it was a good idea to let his already chaotic protege be able to ignore walls was going to get an earful from him eventually.
#linked universe#lu#twilight#wild#this is me contributing to the freak out#behold i've written more things#i have like#2 or 3 other random writings i might post later#but for now you can have this
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we’re dancing under the rain
canon compliant juke | fluff! | inspiration: rain // ben platt
Julie wondered if one day, she could stop loving. Because damn - it hurt. It hurt to love so much and continuously have her heart be broken. Love and heartache cycled through her life like a never ending train and the girl was in a constant battle of wanting to shut down or give it another chance.
She always chose the latter, obviously, but that hurt too. The price she needed to pay to have such meaningful friendships. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have become a family with a trio of ghosts and an adjacent skater ghost. The problem of caring so much was when the heart got involved, when that heart beat a second too fast, too willingly, too adoringly.
It made her vulnerable, her heart jumping out of her chest to sync with the other person and then getting crushed instead. This time, it cut her particulary deep.
Nick broke up with her.
A puffy-eyed Julie sat huddled in the studio under a blanket. He did it during lunch. All of a sudden, he pulled her aside into the hallway, told her they didn’t quite fit together and that it was better if they broke up. He pretended like she had a say in it, though it was clear he already made up his mind. Which was even worse, Julie found. Nick had thought about it before, probably more than once. His words made her feel like a fool. There she was, thinking their relationship was going smooth, getting squashed a minute after that: no, actually, it’s not going smoothly and you’re probably in denial so let’s end it now.
Later, she’d probably thank him for ripping the band-aid. She was now allowed to be heartbroken.
Outside, rain was slamming against the pavement. That was the only good thing about the situation; the weather deciding to match her mood and mourn with her.
Luke poofed in with his signature grin, lips shaping to blurt out a story and then crashing into a frown when he saw the state she was in.
“Jules?”
Wordlessly, she covered her tear-stained cheeks with the blanket. She hated it when people - especially Luke - caught her at her lowest. The boys were dead, she couldn't really complain about minor inconveniences when the only reason they were breathing was out of habit.
The couch dipped at her feet. A careful hand patted her calf. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled.
“Yes, cause that’s what I do when nothing’s wrong.” His voice was light, though a keen ear like hers could sense the hint of concern. “I cry.”
Julie huffed, pulling the blanket back to scowl at him. “Nick broke up with me. But it’s whatever because it clearly wasn’t as big of a deal to him as it was to me, so-” Shrugging, she sat upright and wiped her runny nose with the sleeve of her sweater. “It is nothing.”
Her fingers combed through her hair, trying to relieve the heat bugging her skin. God, she just wanted this day to be over with. She didn’t want to rehearse and do homework and eat dinner and pretend everything was dandy. She just wanted to cry and sleep and not have Luke’s stupidly green eyes drown in pity.
“That sucks though,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Her lips rolled inwards, a smile forming despite her mood. “Not your fault.” Their gazes met. It felt new, somehow. “My heart is just… too open, I guess.”
Luke tapped her calf again, mirth lilting his tone. “Still not a bad thing. It was cool in the 90s and it’s cool now. He’s an idiot for not going crazy over it.”
“My open heart?”, she chuckled.
“Yeah.” A beat. His eyes haven’t wavered. “Or you. In general.”
The smile bloomed to a full grin, a sliver of levity easing the ache in her chest. Why did he always know what to say? Granted, he used to be horrible at cheering her up, when she was fifteen and sadness lingered in her every move, but he got the hang of it after two years. A reassuring kiss on her temple before a stressful gig, a particularly uplifting speech during band circle, a new tune he came up with when he knew she didn’t feel like talking. Her teenage girl melodrama unfazed him.
Luke met her halfway for a tight hug. It was the most comfortable place to be; her cheek on his shoulder and his arms holding her so securely and how, after all they’ve been through, his 90s cologne smelled like home.
“Thank you,” she mumbled. “Some ghost girl is going to be so happy you’ve had practise dealing with me.”
He snorted. “Ah, yes. My harem of ghost girls. The, uh, market is really big for me.”
It wasn’t something they often discussed. It became clear that the boys weren’t going to cross over any time soon (if crossing over was even a thing, or the thing they thought it would be) and had time to settle into a long afterlife. Willie had been wandering around since the seventies and only now found Alex, so who knew how long Luke and Reggie would have to wait until they met their ghost-mate. It was a sad thought, but at least they had each other and music and the band.
There was also the minor problem that Luke sometimes had this look on his face, usually fixed on her, that left little to the interpretation. It hasn’t happened in a while, but every so often…
It kind of made her breathless. Whatever. It was dumb. Those feelings have long been buried. The point was that he should look at ghost girls like that - not her.
(A month after The Orpheum, they sat side by side behind the grand piano as they belted out a new song they’ve been working on, her fingers expertly gliding across the keys and slamming on those that needed that extra power. Julie was fully entranced, head thrown back and smiling through the lyrics as their voices reached a beautiful harmony no one could compete with. The last note drifted across the studio. When she turned to look at him, she expected to see the same grin. Instead, Luke gave her such a tender look, close, and let his doe eyes wander past her nose. Had Reggie not poofed in, she didn’t know if she would’ve had the restraint to not give in. To not be selfish. It was years ago, but she thought about it each time he joined her at the piano. It was the price for friendship, Julie often reminded herself. For an eternal bond.)
Rain kept drumming into the ground. It sounded like a million ping pong balls fell onto the roof at an incredible speed.
Luke pulled away and shot a look outside. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” Julie nodded. “I made a deal with God today. If I cry, the world does too.”
He rolled his eyes. “Dramatic.”
The smile stuck to her cheeks. Luke only needed a few minutes to lift her spirits. Tears didn’t even well up anymore. Was that bad? That one the same day, just in the afternoon, she already felt a bit better? She decided to not mull on the why.
“Wanna dance in the rain?”
She blinked. “What?”
He matched her smile, throwing his thumb at the doors. “Do you wanna dance in the rain?”
It was as if her brain wasn’t processing his words. “What? Why?”
“Why not?”, he shrugged. “You feel like shit, it never rains in LA and it’s fun.”
Quiet excitement coursed through her veins, the thrill pushing energy back in her bloodstream. Why not? The expectant twinkle in his eye brought colour to her face, jumping off the couch pulling him up with her. His whooping got her to laugh. It almost surprised her; she hasn’t properly laughed at all today.
They each pulled one sliding door open, their ears instantly bombarded with noise. It was the hardest downpour of the year!
“No running for cover!”, he yelled above the loud rushing of rain.
She stuck her pinky out. “Only if you won’t!”
And then they stepped in the rain. They were drenched straight away, a squeal erupting from her lips as the coldness crept between her clothes. He laughed, raking his hair back and leaping into a puddle. Water splashed around him.
His voice bellowed through the sound. “C’mon!”
It spurred her into action, his laugh replaying in her head over and over again, as her head lolled back and began to twirl in circles. Faster and faster, giggles tumbling out as felt herself becoming one with the rain. This was exactly what she needed. A moment of silliness and unconditional joy!
Luke was dancing like a maniac next to her, feet kicking and arms outstretched. She found herself staring at his profile, how bliss broke the lines in his face and caused a crescendo of glee to overcome him. It was mesmerising. Julie found herself slowing down, taken aback by the hope rising in her chest at the mere sight of him.
What she hoped for, she didn’t know. (She did. She just couldn’t admit it just yet.)
As if sensing her thoughts, Luke caught her eye with and yanked her into the dance without a second of hesitation. They spun around, hands intertwined and arms outstretched, daring to see how long they could keep going before one dropped from dizziness. Julie wasn’t afraid though. Luke would never let her fall.
They let go just as they were losing balance, snickering like fools and trying to find footing again. Julie jumped onto his back, him instantly jostling her around until she got chucked off like a sack of potatoes. Each grin and laugh and crack of thunder mended her heart, slipping the pieces back together and allowing it to bloom once more. Keep on breaking, keep on loving, keep on hoping, keep on hoping for-
Luke locked his hands around the small of her back. “Ready?!”
He didn’t have to ask twice, their steps speeding up as she threw her arms beside her and then, at their fastest, pulled one leg up to swing in his hold. How she didn’t slip on the soaking wet ground was a miracle.
Julie’s smile rivalled his, grabbing onto the lapels of his shacket to get him closer. He had something else in mind, hands slipping to her waist and launching her in the sky in one fluid motion. It took her breath away, quickly grabbing onto his shoulders and yelling her lungs out. It was just like in her dreams. Was it selfish of her to have yearned for this?
(She felt it. The way her heart washed away all the troubles, how the numbing cold shrivelled to make place for someone else.)
They shouted exclaims and curses into the rain. About Nick, about music, about each other, about how fucking unfair life could be, but damn - moments like these were worth the pain.
Her drenched curls tickled his face, causing him to sputter and attract her focus. Julie looked down at him and didn’t stop the heartstopping smile growing on her face. Oh.
Her fingers swiped against the planes of his cheeks, his grin beaming up at her and letting the dormant wildfire (snug between her ribs, among the flowers and the lyrics) come alive again. For so long, she hasn’t allowed herself to feel it. But how could she not when Luke propelled her into the storm itself, unify them like the whirlwind of passion they authentically were?
They were the thunder and the lightning, the silver lining and the punch line - the dancers in the rain.
He gently set her down, feet splashing. She didn’t let him pull away, instantly wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face into his wet shirt. They smelled like wet dogs and it was better than any perfume she’s ever had.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
His head settled on top of hers, cool breath fanning her skin. “I can’t have you down in the gutter, Jules. Ever.”
I love you. “Ever?”
She felt him move, her eyes tilting to meet his. That expression she cherished deeply returned tenfold. His tender smile, the green hooded by shy eyes, an incredulous hitch of the breath.
Luke nodded, flitting gaze as if he didn’t quite know what to focus on, and carefully brushed a droplet from her cheek. “Ever.”
(Julie got a cold the next day. It didn’t matter - she had the boy of her dreams to keep her company.)
Breathe deep, let it wash over you We're slowly becoming lovers I promise you we won't be like the others We won't go running for cover
@blush-and-books @bluefirewrites @willexx @unsaid-emily @ourstarscollided @sophiphi @unsaidjulie
#juke#jatp fanfiction#julie and the phantoms#otp: i think we make each other better#nick takes the L
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Hey!! Since tomorrow is James birthday, could you post a little snippet???🥺🥺🥺. No pressure at all, it’s just that am really excited!!!!
Ahaha, well I was originally planning to post the TLE2 trailer for James’s birthday, but once again my impatience got the best of me. And I can’t possibly let my dearest darlingest James’s birthday go uncelebrated so…here, have some early TLE2 Jily. >:)
This scene is definitely spoilery (although all pretty minor in the scheme of things), so if you don’t want spoilers do not click the handy dandy “keep reading” button below.
Excerpt from The Last Enemy: Dark Marks (Coming this June!)
She was halfway through chapter one when a familiar voice pierced through the clamor of the pub.
“Dunne, you can’t do this to me. You can’t do this to Gryffindor!”
Lily looked up from her book to see James Potter a few steps from the bar, locked in an impassioned argument with Burdacke Dunne, the fifth year Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
“What do you want me to do?” complained Dunne. “My mother said I have to drop Quidditch this year to focus on my O.W.L.s. I don’t have a choice, mate.”
“Yeah, you do! You can choose to ignore her and play the match anyway.”
“You don’t know my mother. She’s…scary!”
“Dunne,” said James, clasping his hands together as if in prayer, “it’s two weeks until the first match. How am I supposed to find and train up another Beater in that time? McFarlan doesn’t know a Bludger from a broomstick right now. I was counting on you. Gryffindor was counting on you!”
“I’m sorry Potter. I don’t have a choice.” And Dunne pushed past him and disappeared into the crowd.
James collapsed at the bar with a groan. He was blocked from Lily’s view by the bearded warlock finishing his cherry fizz beside her, but she saw Madam Rosmerta bustle over and heard James say miserably: “Four butterbeers and a dram of firewhiskey, please.”
“Try again,” was Rosmerta’s dry retort.
“You’re right,” sighed James. “Make it a brandy.”
“Four butterbeers, coming right up.” There was a tinkle of glass as Rosmerta collected the tankards from behind the counter.
“Aw, c’mon, Rosie. Just this once? I’m drinking away my woes.”
Butterbeer gurgled from the tap.
“Girl trouble?” asked Rosmerta.
“Even worse,” said James. “Quidditch.”
“Well, getting drunk won’t make you fly better.”
“I fly perfectly fine, thank you very much. It’s my Beater who’s just abandoned us.”
“And in a year,” said Rosmerta above the clink of tankards being placed on a tray, “when you are of age, I will mourn with you in the appropriate fashion over a bottle of Ogden’s Old. Until then, enjoy your butterbeer, sweetheart.” And she strolled away across the bar.
“I’ll be seventeen in five months!” James called after her, and Lily could hear his grin.
The warlock beside her slurped up the last of his drink, set his glass down on the bar along with a smattering of Sickles, and shuffled away, just as James was collecting his tray of butterbeer. Lily looked quickly back to her book so as not to catch his eye, but no luck. He had spotted her.
There followed a brief pause as James seemed to debate how to proceed. Then he said: “Did you really come all the way to Hogsmeade to sit alone at a pub and read a book?”
“Maybe,” said Lily, lowering her book and giving him a single, haughty glance before turning to quickly survey the pub for Harvey.
“Always with the book sniffing,” said James with an easy grin. “How does that one smell?”
Lily narrowed her eyes. “Like roses.”
“You know, some people believe that the intimate relations between a girl and her literature should be kept to the bedroom. This is a family-friendly establishment, after all. There are third years here.”
“Oh, sod off.”
But James did not sod off. Instead, he moved over to the vacated spot beside her, leaning an elbow onto the bar as he observed her in that infuriating way he had that always made her cheeks grow hot. “So what’s it about? Must be good if you’ve decided to swear off human company for its deliciously-scented pages.”
Lily shoved the book out of sight. “For your information, I’m meeting someone. He’s just running late.”
“Ah,” said James, leaning back slightly. “Who’s the lucky bloke?”
Lily considered him for a moment, then shrugged. “Harvey Harris.”
“No kidding,” said James, looking faintly surprised. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face is saying something.”
“No, it’s not. My face is as mute as a mime.” Then: “Just never thought he was your type.”
“What do you know about my type?” demanded Lily, feeling unreasonably nettled.
“Nothing, clearly.”
“Harvey is really nice.” She didn’t like the defensive tone in her voice, but there it was, lingering and wagging a finger at him.
“Absolutely,” agreed James. “No arguments here. You look up ‘nice’ in the dictionary, you find a picture of Harris. He’s like a big, friendly golden retriever.”
Lily wanted to refute this but found she couldn’t quite. It was an annoyingly apt description. Instead, she heard herself say rather stupidly: “Some people like golden retrievers.”
“What’s not to like?”
“Well, what about you? Who’s your hot date today?”
James smirked. “I’ll have you know, I’m here with the most attractive, desired person in this school.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “I’m sure. Who’s that supposed to be?”
James pointed across the pub, where Sirius Black was seated along with the rest of their gang. Sirius, catching his eye, threw up his arms impatiently as if to say, Where’s my butterbeer, you prick? James blew him a kiss.
Lily almost laughed, but she bit it back just in time. “Well, I can’t say I envy you.”
“You might not, but every other girl in school does. Feeds my ego.”
“Yeah, because your ego is starving.”
“Anyway, enjoy your date with Harris. If you get bored, I hear the hill by the Shrieking Shack is great for playing fetch.”
For some reason, it was this comment that made Lily’s temper flare. “I thought you said you were going to leave me alone. You’ve been doing such a good job, don’t spoil it now.”
James’s lighthearted expression stiffened ever so slightly at this. Before he could respond, however, a voice cleared its throat above them. Both Lily and James looked up. Harvey had arrived.
“Potter,” said Harvey, his tone hovering somewhere between aggressive and uncertain.
James nodded at Lily. “That’s my cue.”
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Cruel Dreams (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}
Title: Cruel Dreams Rating: PG-13 Length: 2800 Warnings: Angst Notes: You can find everything about Maybe Today, Maybe Forever here. Set November 1991. Set directly after Stircrazy. Summary: Reader has a dream.
@grapemama @seawhisperer @huliabitch @beccaplaying @rogrsnbarnes@thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns @gooddaykate @livasaurasrex@ham4arrow@plexflexico @readsalot73 @hdlynn @lokiaddicted @randomness501 @fioccodineveautunnale @roxypeanut @snivellusim @lukesrighthand @historynerd04 @mrsparknuts@synystersilenceinblacknwhite @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @exrebelshocktrooper@awesomefandomsunited @ah-callie @swhiskeys @lady-tano @u-wakatoshii @space-floozy@cable-kenobi @cool-ultra-nerd @himbopoes @findhimfives @pedrosdoll @frietiemeloen@arrowswithwifi @random066 @uncomicalhumour @heather-lynn @domino-oh-damn@cyarikaaa @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @im-still-a-pieceofgarbage @ksgeekgirl @yabby-girl @xqueenofthecraziesx @punkass-potato@coredrive @pascalesque@theduchessofkirkcaldy @queenquazar @sabinemorans @buckstaposition @holkaskrosnou@yespolkadotkitty @fleetwoodmactshirt @seeking-a-great–perhaps @kochamcie @jaime1110@katlikeme
Sometimes your dreams were cruel. Sometimes your dreams took you back to your childhood, to evenings spent hiding from your mother, summer days in the park with your father… Sometimes you even dreamed of Lance, which almost always filled you with a sense of regret, because you used him to fill a hole you knew he couldn’t fill. He fell for you and you were just passing the time.
But the worst dreams were the ones that were about Javier. Because those weren’t fragmented dreams of past follies — they were almost always dreams about what could have been. A better world than the one you lived in.
There had to be something wrong with you. You kept dreaming about him and it did nothing to help that deep sense of longing you felt for him.
“You asshole!” You shouted with a laugh as you swung open your apartment door, relieved to see him waiting on the other side for you. “You gave me a fucking heart attack.” You informed him as you hobbled forward, without hesitation, and threw your arms around him.
Javier hesitated for a split second, before he curled his arms around her, running his hand up and down the length of her back. “Hey, hobble horse.” He murmured, leaving her feeling warm all the way to her core.
“Oh, fuck you.” You laughed, punching him in the arm lightly, trying to shake these new feelings you felt.
“How are you feeling?” He questioned, giving your waist a gentle squeeze.
“Better now,” You pulled back, grinning up at him. “Much better now.” It had been three days since you’d last spoken to him — he hadn’t called like he promised.
“Yeah?” Javier mirrored your grin, his gaze flickering to your lips for the briefest moment, before he shoved his hands into his leather jacket and stood awkwardly there in the hallway. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Come in,” You offered, grabbing ahold of his arm at his elbow, guiding him inside your apartment. “Sorry about the mess…” You scrunched up your nose as you gestured to the empty beer bottles and the take out boxes sitting on your kitchen counter.
“You got shot, baby… No one’s expecting you to clean your apartment for the likes of me.” Javier assured you, keeping a hand at your back as he helped you over to the sofa.
“Just don’t tell Steve… he’ll tell Connie that I’m drinking with my meds and…” You pushed your fingers through your unbrushed hair, “Well, I’m not taking the Percocet.”
Javier nodded his head understandingly, “You taking anything?”
“Ibuprofen.” You shrugged, adjusting the pillow on the coffee table as you lifted your leg and carefully placed it there. “It works well enough.”
“As long as you’re not in pain,” He said, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he sat down in the chair across from you. “So… how is it really?”
You laughed breathily, rubbing your hand over a spot above the bandage. “I’m miserable.” You admitted. “I miss work. I’m constantly tired, no matter how much sleep I get.”
Javier frowned, “When do you think you’ll be back in the office?”
“Probably after New Years.” You shrugged, rubbing at your forehead as you sank back against the sofa. “I’ve got some PT in a couple weeks. I’ll probably have a week or two of desk duty, but I’ll be back eventually.”
Javier scratched at the back of his neck, “Murphy’s great and all, but… The office fucking sucks without you.”
“I’m flattered,” You grinned. “I’m officially more important than Steve, but still not important enough to call.”
“Fuck.” He breathed out, leaning forward and resting his arms on his legs, staring at a spot on the ground. “I know.”
“Three days and only Connie has called.” You informed him, shaking your head. After waking in the hospital with Javier there, you had stupidly convinced yourself that this had been the precipice of something else. That all these stupid feelings you harbored for him would come to a head… but that meant, he had to reciprocate them, and maybe he didn’t.
Javier dragged his fingers through his hair, exhaling heavily. “I haven’t got an excuse, baby. I know I fucked up.”
“Big time.” You retorted, pursing your lips. “You’re also too far away.” You gestured to where he was sitting. “Is my hair that bad?”
He arched a brow.
“I haven’t washed it since I got home,” You admitted with a grimace. “I’m sure there’s an aroma.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Well, I’m not supposed to get the bandaging wet and I only have a shower.” You shrugged. “I could do the kitchen sink trick, but my balance isn’t the best currently.”
Javier nodded his head, resting his palms against his knees as he stared across the room at you. His expression was unreadable, but it made a heat bloom in your lower belly that you were quick to tamp down.
It was a Friday night and he was with you.
“I could help.”
“Help me shower?” You snorted. “You’ve gotta buy me dinner before you get me naked, Javi. Sorry to break it to you.”
Javier’s eyes widened and he laughed nervously, “Your hair.” You caught the way his tongue darted out over his bottom lip, the way he shifted in his seat. “I could help you with your hair.”
Fuck.
You smiled warmly at him, “I’m gonna take you up on the offer. My hair is driving me crazy.”
He rose to his feet then, shucking off his leather jacket and tossing it into the seat of the chair. “Shampoo in the bathroom?”
You nodded, “The two-in-one.”
“You’re one of those people?” He snorted, giving you a look before he headed down the hallway to your bathroom. “I don’t know if I can be friends with a two-in-one user.” He remarked as he returned with the bottle and a towel draped over his shoulder.
You flipped him off, “I like the smell.”
Javier popped the lid open, sniffing it. “Smells like cherries.”
“Precisely.” You retorted as you peeled yourself up off the sofa, “And it’s cheap.”
He offered you his arm, letting you lean on him as you limped your way into the kitchen.
“Don’t get shot. It’s not pleasant.”
“I’ll try not to,” Javier chuckled humorlessly as he sat the bottle on the counter beside the sink. “It’s not pleasant seeing your partner bleed out either.” He sighed, digging his teeth into his bottom lip as he glanced back at you.
You ran your hand from his forearm, up to his shoulder, “I can’t even imagine.” You whispered, letting your fingers stray higher so you could casually brush them against his cheek. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your quick thinking.”
Javier smiled a little, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “I’m glad you’re still here.”
Your lashes fluttered as you let your hand fall away from his face, turning towards the sink. “Try not to drown me.”
“I won’t.”
You reached out and turned the faucet on, holding your hand under the flow as you waited for it to get to the right temperature. “Thank you for this.”
“Whatever you need, baby.” He drawled out as you leaned forward beneath the water, gripping the edge of the sink to brace yourself, taking some of the weight off your leg.
Javier stood beside you, cupping his hand beneath the faucet to splash some water onto the hair at the nape of your neck, fingers playing through your hair, before he squirted some shampoo onto your head.
It felt like heaven. You should’ve prepared yourself for the sensation of Javier’s fingers playing through your hair, the way warmth fanned through every limb, making you ache in a distinct way.
A soft moan escaped you as he massaged his fingers into your scalp. It felt ridiculously good to be touched like that. You managed to stifle the sound — at least you hoped you had.
Javier worked his fingers through your hair, lathering it up before rinsing it clean. You mourned the loss of his touch the moment he shut off the faucet.
You leaned your weight against the edge of the counter as you lifted your head, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your hair. “Now I won’t be an offence to your senses.” You teased lightly as you turned to look at him.
Javier was painfully close to you — so close you could practically feel his breath on your skin. You exhaled shakily as you kept one hand gripping at the counter.
“Javi—“
“We—“
Your heart felt like it was going to beat right out of your chest. “Am I crazy Javier? I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just…” You closed your eyes for a moment, “Humor me for a moment. Pretend I’m still drugged up, that I won’t remember any of this and just…” You met his intense gaze once more. “Is this all in my head?”
“You’re not crazy.”
You leaned in to him, “I thought I was going to die in your arms and… I was glad it was you.” You admitted, “And then you were there when I woke up and I felt like maybe something had changed.”
“Nothing’s changed.” Javier told you and he reached out to curl his hand around your hip as you shrank at that admission. “I’ve always felt this way about you.”
You inhaled shakily as you looked up at you, “This isn’t just because I almost…” You swallowed your words. Didn’t people feel something profound for the person who was there with them when they almost died?
Javier gave your hip a squeeze as he leaned in closer. His nose brushed against yours, lips so close to yours that you were certain he was going to finally kiss you.
How many times had you pictured kissing him? How many times had you dreamed of moments just like this?
“We shouldn’t.” Javier whispered, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. “Work—“
You curled your fingers around the back of his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Screw work.” You tilted your head, letting your lips gingerly brush against his. It felt like sparks were tingling through your veins.
Javier canted his head to the side, his lips dragging over yours. Your arms slid over his shoulders as you rose up on your toes and sank into the moment.
He pulled you towards him, supporting your weight for you as he kissed you with a quiet desperation that made you wish your fucking leg wasn’t cramping up on you.
“Fuck—“ You tore your mouth away, grabbing at his shoulders for support. “I’ve been upright for too long.”
Javier stole another kiss, before he swept you into his arms, “I’ve got you, baby.”
You pressed your face against his shoulder and laughed as he carried you back into the family room, your wet hair dripping all over his shirt, turning the pink fabric red.
“You’re not going to run now, are you Javier?” You questioned as he helped you get comfortable on the sofa, propping your leg up on a pillow.
Javier hesitated, “Do you want me to stay?”
You gave him a look, “If you know what’s good for you, you should stay.” You patted the sofa beside you. “Please.”
Javier scratched at his jaw, hovering above you for a moment before he sank down onto the sofa beside you. “I don’t know how to do this.” He admitted, rubbing his hands together.
“I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be in the office for the next two and a half months.” You remarked, scraping your teeth over your bottom lip as you studied him. “What do you want?
Javier cleared his throat, his eyes flickering towards you, “You.”
Your heart skipped a beat, “Good.”
“I don’t…” Javier sighed heavily as he reached out and curled his fingers around your hand, rubbing his thumb along the side of your hand. “You know I’m not a relationship type, baby.”
“Did I say anything about a relationship?” You arched a brow. “But I’m not going to keep pretending that I don’t have feelings for you.”
He squeezed your hand. “Yeah?”
You grinned at him, nodding your head. “I don’t need a relationship, but I think we should atleast see what’s here.” You gestured between you.
Javier’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, “I think I can do that.” He rubbed at the side of his neck, shifting on the sofa. “It’s why I didn't call. I didn’t know…” He looked away, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “I clammed up.”
“Well, no more clamming up.” You laughed softly, trying to mask a grimace of pain as you shifted yourself closer to him, turning your leg wrong. You turned towards him, brushing your fingers over his jaw as you nudged him to face you. “No one has to know.”
His eyes searched yours for a long moment before he leaned in and kissed you again. That first kiss hadn’t been a fluke, you felt like every nerve in your body was reacting to the feel of his lips against yours.
You curled your fingers around the back of his neck, practically crawling into his hold — it was awkward and uncomfortable, but worth every second of it.
Javier reluctantly pulled away, breathing heavily as he pressed his forehead against yours. “You’re hurt.”
“I know.” You brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, grinning at him. “But if you only knew how long I’ve waited for this…”
“I bet I could guess.”
“Oh?” You snorted. “Try me.”
He gently dragged his knuckles over your cheek, meeting your gaze, “Records room… after you broke up with Lance.”
Your brows shot upwards, “Then why didn’t you kiss me?”
“We were at work… Steve was right there,” He shrugged a shoulder. “And you were sad and it felt like… I didn’t want to take advantage.”
You rolled your eyes, “You are a good man, Javier.” You told him, stealing one more kiss before you readjusted yourself so you could lay back against him. “I think you’re sitting on the remote.” You told him.
“Sure you don’t want me to leave and give you a call instead?” He teased as he fished the remote out from beneath him, turning the TV on. “What’s been on?”
“The Past Does Not Forgive has been on every night.” You told him, tilting your head to look back at him, “I’ve been dying to hear your thoughts on it.”
“Last time I checked in, I thought Esteban should cut his losses and get the hell out of that situation.” He curled his arm around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.
You turned your head and kissed his cheek, “He’s a fool blinded by love.”
“Aren’t they all.” Javier murmured, nuzzling your shoulder. “This feels right.”
You rested your hand over his, sliding your fingers in between his. “I don’t know what took us so long…”
A phone started ringing, preventing Javier from responding to you. Jarring you awake.
Awake.
You groaned as you pulled yourself upright, your neck aching from the awkward position you’d been laying on the sofa.
You twisted around and grabbed the phone off the cradle, pressing it to your ear, “Hello?”
“Hey—“
“Javier.”
“Did I wake you?”
You grumbled, “Yeah. It’s fine.”
“You should sleep.”
“I’m awake now.” You snapped, squinting your eyes as you looked across the room and glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost midnight.”
Javier cleared his throat, “Yeah…”
“Asshole.” You huffed. “Did you have fun?”
“No.” He sighed, “Went for a drink and came back home.”
“At midnight.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
You pinched at the bridge of your nose, “Nothing. I’m just jealous that I can’t go out.” In reality, you felt a spike of jealousy go through you that was centered around the idea of anyone else being the one to kiss Javier.
That dream had done a number on you.
“Are you coming over tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear. “Maybe.” You parroted back. “Can’t give me a definite?”
“I’m gonna try.”
“Alright.” You wished it didn’t come off so harshly, but the undercurrent of annoyance was there. Your stupid dream had left you wanting something you couldn’t have.
There was nothing you wanted more than to be curled up on your sofa with Javier. To spend the next few weeks recuperating with his arms around you. Stealing kisses, savoring moments, and having what you wanted.
You stuffed those emotions back into the box they belonged in.
“Sorry.” You offered gently.
“It’s all good, baby.” Javier murmured. “I’m here for you.”
You smiled to yourself, “I’m here for you too.” And maybe you wouldn’t always be, but at least you were right now.
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all the things they might have said to you
Summary: Della went to the moon and wondered how much of it was wanderlust and how much of it was her heart screaming terrified screams over the children she chose to bear but wasn’t ready to.
Donald broke his relationship with the man he thought of as a father and raised his nephews, mourning for a corpse that was still alive.
Scrooge shut himself off from the world. He built glass castles of routine and cold detachment and glue them all together with nothing but spit and spite.
Della comes back from the dead, and the glass castles shatter.
Also available in AO3.
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Sunlight seeped through the gaps of the curtains, shining a light in the otherwise dark room. Mornings were slow in the McDuck household, but something about this felt leaden, heavy and stifling despite the lazy ease that the household always carried, even in the excitement of adventures and treasure huntings.
Della’s eyes fell onto the three eggs gleaming in the sun. She knew why.
Why did she even have them?
A wave of guilt rushed into her like sudden hot wind before a storm. She wanted them. She wanted them. Why else did she even choose to have them? She wanted them, and she was happy and nervous and excited and scared, but wouldn’t anyone? Wasn’t parenthood, in itself, a gift and a challenge in one?
She left the room. The eggs would be fine; they were eggs. The time to worry and lose sleep over babies wasn’t upon her just yet.
It was easy to plaster a smile and assure everyone she was fine, her eggs were fine, everything was fine, she just wanted to walk around because she’d been cooped up in the manor for a long time and she needed to feel the wind in her feathers. It was as fine as fine could be.
She found out about the space ship and every cell in her being vibrated in excitement, in a way she hadn’t felt in a long while. It was easy to steal a look of the Spear of Selene, it was easy to sneak into the cockpit, it was easy to power it up and let it rise to the atmosphere. Just a quick trip, just a test flight, and she would be back to earth. After all, Uncle Scrooge had this made for her to celebrate her children. Wasn’t it in her rights to check if the ship was right as rain, if she, if Uncle Scrooge, wanted to give the little ones the stars?
And then the cosmic storm happened, and she wondered, oh. Was she wrong to have stepped foot in the Spear, when there were kids not even hatched back on earth and a brother she would dump them on and an uncle she basically robbed from?
Why was there a teeny, tiny, guilty part in her heart that was relieved she could get away from them all?
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Della shot off the orbit, got lost in a cosmic storm, and disappeared off the face of the planet, the manor where they grew up, the lives that she had touched with feather light laughter and whirlwind excitement.
Uncle Scrooge did all he could to search for her and bring her home, but to no avail.
Donald decided he had had enough, took the eggs, and made a life out of pennies and anger and too much demand for too little reward in order to prepare something for three children he was in no way prepared for and should never have prepared for in the first place. He built cradles out of wood and sewed swaddles out of muslin and laid himself in patch-sewn hammock and dreamed of a life he wished he could give the kids. As the hatching approached he stocked all cabinets with formula milk and baby food and hoped the gentle sway of the sea could rock the babies to sleep as he glanced at rows and rows of dirt cheap ramen and greeted hunger like a new friend – they would see each other for a long, long time spanning over years and years.
He managed to keep himself together until the week after the babies hatched. He had scrapped the names Della had chosen for them, worried they would give them troubles with bullies later when they’ve gotten to school and worried he couldn’t pronounce the names correctly (worried their names would remind him of a sister long gone and worried he would break in front of them and worried they would one day follow her footsteps and disappeared into the orbit, worried, worried, worried) and instead called them Huey, Dewey, and Louie, color-coding them according to the colors they were drawn to the most. It had been a long day at work, and the kids hadn’t been cooperating, and Louie kept crying and that set off Huey and Dewey and they would spiral and spiral and spiral as they reached an unending feedback loop and Donald was so tired.
Whatever higher being out there decided to take pity on him, and somehow he managed to calm the triplets enough to get them to sleep. He matched his breath to the gentle rush of the waves slapping the hull of his boat, got into his room, and sat on his hammock.
Something ugly that he had been holding back since Della disappeared tore through his chest.
This wasn’t fair.
None of this was fair. He wasn’t supposed to be taking care of children that wasn’t even his, he wasn’t supposed to sit in an empty room cradling his hunger like a lover, he wasn’t supposed to be alone and feeling like half his soul had been stolen and scattered to the wind. Della wasn’t supposed to be gone and he wasn’t supposed to be a parent for her kids.
It was all Della’s fault, so stupidly brazen and reckless and thoughtless, going up to space without even a shred of preparation. It was all Uncle Scrooge’s fault, so arrogantly excited over the prospect of exploring the unexplored and forgetting the danger and the mortality of their blood and bones. It was all his fault, for not being able to convince Uncle Scrooge to stop constructing the Spear, for not being able to tell that Della was about to do something stupid, for not stopping any of it from happening the moment the gears began to turn.
This wouldn’t happen if the kids weren’t here at all.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, Donald choked on a breath that he took in and coughed until his throat felt raw. Once the coughing subsided he went out to get a glass of water, saw the boys sleeping peacefully, and broke down in tears.
His sister was dead, he had cut off all communication with his uncle, and he had three babies he had to care for. Lack of proper nutrition had stripped his feathers from all shine and he was sick of ramen and egg, sick of getting baby milk, sick of choosing what other thing he could do without so he could sell it for money to pay for more baby milk.
But Huey, Dewey, and Louie were what he had now and the last chain to remind him of a sister he lost to the sky, and he would tear heavens to pieces to keep them safe and sound even if it was the last thing he could do.
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Della shot off to the sky and the great expanse of the stars swallowed her whole.
Donald blamed everything on him, took Della’s eggs, and built a life out of cardboard houses and baby supplies and refused to answer any of his calls.
His board of directors forced him to stop his search and face the facts (not facts, not facts, there was no body to be found and no ship to bring back and he refused to accept it until he saw her skeleton) and had him return to his work in a company he built for his glory and planned to gift to her family, but there was no more family, now. There was no family in missing niece and estranged nephew and little babies he didn’t even know the names of.
Fine, if that was how it had to be. Family was nothing but trouble. Family was poison, and he refused to drink poison when he could drink wine, and he shut himself in an empty house and an empty empire and built, built, built until he could build no more.
His life used to be one of blood rushing into his head as his adrenaline spiked, reaching for treasures and breaking curses and escaping crumbling temples. It was the twins laughing and joking and poking, pulling him into their circle of joy, hushed words fondly whispered over a cup of hot cocoa in the gentle glow of the fireplace, brutal game nights that always somehow ended in them hugging each other and tumbling over giggling. Now his life was a cold empty routine with a bumbling driver that tried so, so hard to bring him out of his shell – but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not anymore. Not when his newly built castle was one of fear and cold and brittle cracked glass barely held together, and he would hold it together even if he bloodied his hands in the jagged edges of the shattered glass he pretended was brick.
Beakley brought in a toddler, later. Her granddaughter, a wee one she called Webbigail lovingly, and Scrooge absently noted that she was the same age as Della’s triplets and wondered if the soft, fierce look in Beakley’s eyes would have been the same as his if the triplets were in his life.
He quashed the thought away and resumed his cold routine of going to the Money Bin, work, get back to the manor, and sit silently picking over his mistakes and pointing out what he could have done to keep Della on earth, safe and happy and alive, or what he could have done to keep Donald in the manor, breathing in the same air as him and talking to him, even if it was nothing but callous words and spat curses. He wondered what it would be like, to have the triplets here and grow up together with little Abigail, who had taken to peek through corners to steal glances at him whenever she could, but kept her distance from him.
Those were all what-ifs, useless in the end. He threw himself back into his work, grit his teeth and lied to himself that family was nothing but trouble, and drowned himself in poisoned wine of his own making.
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Della tasted licorice on her tongue, ignored the phantom pains at her stump, and tried to build herself a ship to bring her back home. She tinkered and patched together a way to transmit videos to tell anyone, anyone at all, that she was still alive and as well as she could be and she was trying to get back home. She didn’t know if it would work, but it was her only hope.
(She ignored the ugly elation that she dodged her responsibility to her children and swallowed the guilt whole and tried to convince herself that the only way she could be happy was to go back home and be by her children’s side and be the mother they deserved to have.
She ignored the fact that the word mother terrified her more than the prospect of not being able to go back home.)
It was all so different, on the moon. The silence was deafening, the black sky was dark and bright and blinding, and as lonely as she was, she felt a freedom she hadn’t felt since she realized she was pregnant. She slapped that away and doubled down and screamed to herself and would continue screaming until it stuck; she wanted her kids, she wanted her kids, she had to go back and be with them because they deserved a cool mom and she had a freaking robot leg, of course she counted as a cool mom.
She built the rocket into being from the scraps and garbage she still had in the crash site she had been stuck in for so long, and wondered if the clench in her heart was from anticipation to go back or from dread to face a life she wasn’t sure she wanted to have.
It made her weep, how much relief flooded her lungs when the ship fell into ruins once more.
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The triplets grew, and learned, and laughed, and Donald decided there was no treasure more precious than the three children that had practically turned into the lights of his exhausting life.
There were so many milestones they had passed. He never missed a single one, and he never failed to eternalize each and every one of them in the form of pictures. A part of him wondered if he was doing this purely for documentation purposes, to use to embarrass the triplets later when they bring their dates to meet him, or if there was still a tiny part of him that wished that one day Della would get to see the photos, that one day Uncle Scrooge could be in one of them.
But that was absurd. Della and Uncle Scrooge were parts of a life he no longer led. His life wasn’t treasure and weird magical shenanigans and bizarre spats with mythical figures anymore. It was unfulfilling jobs and PTA meetings and the triplets, laughing and crying and dancing around each other like the world was theirs to conquer and smiling at him, pulling at his hand and bringing smiles into his face until he forgot the scolding he got from his boss or the annoying customers or clients or whatnot or the last time he got fired for the umpteenth time. Huey, Dewey, and Louie was Donald’s whole world and he was theirs, and he was so lucky he had them in his life.
Of course, that thought was always accompanied by a crushing guilt and a sob that threatened to wrench itself out of his throat. It made him feel like he had traded Della for the triplets and it made him angry and sad and so, so helpless in the machinations of fate.
It didn’t mean he didn’t ache for the times well past, still. It didn’t mean he didn’t miss his sister’s feather light laughter and whirlwind excitement, didn’t miss Uncle Scrooge’s arrogant excitement and his ignorance over the mortality of his own blood and bones. But he had Huey with his meticulous planning and note-taking, Dewey with his reckless abandon of rules and safety as he jumped straight into the ocean without a safety jacket, Louie with his keen eyes for details and talent to wring money in any opportunity he could grab. It didn’t mean he didn’t miss what he had years ago, but this was what he had now, and he would cherish it with every single strand of feather on his body and each beat of the stubborn heart that refused to fail with each passing danger he had faced over the years of his life.
He hadn’t realized how stagnant his life had become. It was a routine and a dance, going to work and fretting over himself worrying over the kids, having some unfortunate accident or other, and losing his job over it. It was routine, to go to sleep exhausted and hungry and mourning for a life long lost and building a dam to contain it away, letting it build higher and higher as the water continued to trickle and accumulate as he pushed it away as far as he could because he had so many other things to worry about, so many other things to do, so many other things to take care of.
The boys managed to dupe him halfway, the babysitter wouldn’t be coming, and the houseboat was jumpstarted as the triplets ran him in circles trying to go to Cape Suzette.
Donald decided enough was enough and answered the coos of the rain dove that had sang its song for years and years and drove to the hill he once called home and hoped he could trust his uncle and his ignorance of mortality, and, despite his better judgement, allowed Uncle Scrooge to hold the light that had kept him alive and hoped they wouldn’t burn.
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Scrooge met Della’s three children at last and felt part of his glass castles crumble. That cold façade he’d held on to stubbornly, as if scratching a mosquito bite believing to relieve the itch only to create welts, had been shattered with a laughter and a smile from the boys. He held on to the broken pieces and felt them dig into his flesh and tried to distance himself from them, but they stubbornly clung to him and pulled out each and every jagged piece with each word they spoke.
Family was nothing but trouble, and Scrooge missed trouble, terribly, terribly so.
A part of him ached still, seeing the boys – it was so easy to see Della in them, and her presence was blindingly bright in them that it eclipsed the very boys that they truly were at their core. But he looked on, watched them as they bickered and played and pulled Webby into their orbit and circled around each other as if they had been together since birth instead of the mere weeks they’d known the girl, and he could see Huey, Dewey, and Louie at last, and could see Donald in them just as easily as he could see Della. It wasn’t as obvious; Donald was the moon to Della’s sun watching over the triplets’ earth.
He wondered if he could see Scrooge in them, too, but he dismissed the thought. He didn’t deserve that, not after failing to keep Della safe, not after failing to bring her home like he vowed he would do. Once upon a time he might have dared to claim to be the stars for the moon and the sun, helping them raise the earth, but not anymore. Not after failure after failure after failure and wrapping himself in spite trying to prove that he didn’t need the sun or the moon.
That was stupid of him, he realized now. Donald and Della were the moon and the sun and when it was only the three of them he was the earth under their mercy, and he couldn’t live and laugh and thrive without the light they shone and the pull of their gravity. And who was he kidding? He was never the stars. The stars were the kids, Webby included, shining brightly in the night sky and dancing around each other creating changing constellations that had him pointing and wondering what they would form next.
The glass castles didn’t crumble completely, of course. It was built of work routines and work was work and he had to do them to maintain the empire he had built, because for once there was something to come back to and something to leave his legacy for.
That didn’t mean his life was all sunshine and rainbows later. He – they – still faced many trials, still learning how to be a family, still nursing old hurts that had become infected after ignored for too long, but they were learning, and they made progress, inch by inch, second by second. It still broke his heart to see Donald without Della, and it broke his heart further to know that the weight of the children’s safety and wellbeing robbed him of Donald’s own health, physical or otherwise. It was almost a relief to send Donald to relax on a cruise, but he needed it, he needed it, he needed to slow down and rest up and remember that Scrooge was more than willing to bear the weight with him, as clumsy as his hands were.
And then Della came back from the dead, as bright as she was before she went away, her shine blinding him of what he had just regained as he held the sun in his hands and hung it for the children to see.
The moon had always been far less bright than the sun, but Donald would be fine. He needed his downtime, Scrooge could tell him of Della’s return and made it a surprise later. He closed his eyes and ears from all signs that something was wrong, told himself it was only the new moon, and basked in the warmth of the sunlight.
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Della managed to build her ship back from scratch with the help from the Moonlanders, swallowed her fears and convinced herself she was ready to assume the role she all but abandoned a decade ago, and ran back home fueled by nothing but the rising bile in her throat and the beating of his terrified heart.
Uncle Scrooge was older, but of course he was. Despite that he was still the same bleeding heart that covered himself in a shiny armor to hide the fact that he was a sap that would trade everything for the safety and wellbeing of his loved ones. Donald wasn’t there – on a vacation, she was told, and even as her heart pined for a missing half she had been denied from for far too long, she swallowed the longing and plastered on a smile. Donald was always so prone to stressing out. He could do with a relaxing vacation.
The kids, however. There was a brief burst of anger when she realized Donald had changed their names – she had prepared cool names befitting of her cool kids, how dare he change them. But they were who they were, and names didn’t matter as much as long as they were here and she was here and that was all that mattered. She plunged herself into a role she had no idea how to do and took the mantle of a mother and convinced herself again and again that she was ready, she was fine, she could do this.
She realized she was out of her depth when the Gilded Man began rampaging, and that realization was only deepened with more and more blunder she made. Dewey was forgiving of it, too ecstatic to have her back to really consider them blunders the way Della did, and Huey was patient with her, assuring her that it was as much a learning curve for her as it was for them, but Louie was… aloof. He inched forward to her increasingly frantic attempts to mother them with wariness that reminded her of Donald’s caution. Something in it stung her, how they were as much his as they were hers. Something in her screamed that Donald was stealing her place, but she shut it down as fast as she could. She left, and she came back, and she would regain her spot, one way or another.
So she tried, and tried, and tried, with Dewey and Huey and Louie in particular, but her efforts only seemed to push Louie further into his shell and they bottle everything up pretending it was all fine and dandy, and eventually the bottle was too full to close properly and she shook it up and down by yelling at Louie when he broke time and everything exploded.
She wanted this, she tried to convince herself again that night as shadows creeped and the stars winked. She wanted this, and she could do this, and it was all she had ever hoped for, blunders and all.
She slept with a bed of lies and a blanket of mistakes and convinced herself it was the most comfortable she had felt in her life.
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Donald shot himself off into the orbit, crash-landed on the moon, got taken prisoner, and broke out with the help of a Moonlander. He shot himself back into the orbit, crash-landed on earth, got himself stranded on an island, and spent his days trying to keep himself alive while trying as best as he could do sail back home.
He couldn’t, of course. He didn’t even know where he was, so navigation was basically impossible, and there was no way to get himself off the island. He tried to build a raft but it kept falling apart, and he had spent so much time building it he wasn’t even sure he could rid his hands of splinters anymore.
And then Della crashed into the beach, bringing Huey, Dewey, Louie, and Webby along with her.
Cracks had appeared in the dam he had built over the years. They always do; cracks, appearing. But it was harder this time to hold them back, with thoughts fleeting too fast for him to catch and the realization that his long-dead sister wasn’t so dead after all and that she had taken her place back while he was gone. Something about her was jagged and callous; he wasn’t sure what.
“If you had been home you would have known I was stuck on the moon, which by the way is invading,” Della accused.
“I know, I warned you,” he hissed back.
“We didn’t get any warning,” Della threw back. “And just because I missed you, doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you!”
“You think I don’t miss you too?” Donald yelled. “You think I don’t spend hours every day just wishing you weren’t dead? You weren’t, but you weren’t there!”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. At least Uncle Scrooge tried to search the sky. What did you do? Sat on your hands doing nothing?”
The cracks grew bigger, and bigger, and it leaked.
“I sent transmissions, and you didn’t even try to intercept them! Instead you’re just there taking the role of a caretaker and then just went off to a vacation while the Moonlanders attacked.”
The dam broke. Years upon years of accumulated grief turned into anger and hurt and flooded his whole being until he could no longer think.
“I thought you were dead!” he screamed, and he could barely understand his own words in the wake of the sob that threatened to wrench itself free from his lungs. “I thought you were dead, and Uncle Scrooge built that ship for you and it brought you to your death, and you left behind children that hadn’t even hatched. What was I supposed to do, leave them to die along with you? Let whatever of you I have left die?”
“You took my place!”
“You weren’t there to take your place. You abandoned your place!” He threw the words like a slap and it made Della stagger as if there was a physical weight to it. “You took that rocketship, and you went, and you were gone, and you were declared dead. You went on your own. No one forced you to go!”
“I – the ship needed testing!” Della defended, but her voice shook.
“Uncle Scrooge had test pilots!” Donald snarled. “You’re a pilot, but not an astronaut, and not a test pilot. It wasn’t your job to test the ship. Just admit that you were just running away!”
Della stiffened. “What do you mean.” It was a demand, not a question.
Donald scoffed. There was a tiny part of him that wanted to stop, stop, shut up, but years of letting grief fester and ferment had made him angry and ugly and he wanted to make Della hurt. “You think I didn’t pay attention back then? You think I didn’t see you grow more nervous as hatching time gets close?”
Della’s eyes widened. “Stop.”
“You think I didn’t hear you ask for just one more adventure, one last time? You think I didn’t notice you getting more scared by the day?”
“Stop!”
Donald had always had a talent to voice Della’s ugliest thoughts in one way or another. “How much of it was because you wanted to explore, and how much of it was because you didn’t want to be a mom?”
There was a choked sob, and Donald turned to see Huey staring at them blankly, Dewey holding on to Louie, and Louie trying and failing to contain his tears. By then, Webby scooted away in discomfort, but seemed reluctant to leave the triplets.
“Did you not… want us?” Huey asked, voice worryingly toneless.
“No! No, no, I wanted you! I wouldn’t have had you if I didn’t want you!” Della hurried to answer.
“But then you… got on that ship,” Dewey said softly.
“It – it was a mistake I made,” Della admitted. “But I’m back here! I’m back home, and I’m here.”
“But you weren’t there, before,” Louie breathed. “You chose to go and you didn’t come back until recently.”
Della reached out to him and he dodged her hands away. He made a beeline to Donald and hugged him tight, gross beard and all. Donald hugged back just as tightly, determined to give one of the boys that had given him joy in the darkest moments in his life any sort of relief that he could offer.
“This is getting nowhere,” Huey broke the tense silence after long last. “We need to go back to Duckburg. Uncle Scrooge is facing Lunaris alone.”
Dewey frowned at him. “But how? Uncle Donald hasn’t been able to leave the island.”
“I’m sure Uncle Scrooge will be fine,” Della said. “He’s a capable man! He can deal with Lunaris on his own!”
“Like you can handle one last adventure, Della?” Louie asked, callous. The use of her given name instead of the title she had adopted had Della flinching, and Donald held Louie tighter.
Gladstone and Fethry arrived atop a giant krill, and any sort of familiar confrontation was put aside in favor of fighting the Moonlanders, but it hung back in Donald’s mind like a shadow that refused to fade.
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Against all odds, they managed to defeat Lunaris and welcomed peace back on earth.
Peace on earth. Not in their household.
Scrooge found out belatedly that Donald was never in the cruise. The crush of guilt as his failure to keep his family safe had to be put aside to handle Huey, who had spent all their time together stubbornly reading his guidebook and ignoring all words spoken to him, Dewey, who had been oddly subdued, and Louie, who had refused to call Della mom and insisted on calling her by her name, and Webby, normally so sure of her position, hovering uncertainly by them like a boat untethered.
And he found out what had happened in the island, and his glass castles crumbled to pieces at last.
He directed the children to their rooms, deciding that the discussion that he would soon have with the twins was something they didn’t need to hear. The kids obeyed without much fuss for once and he herded the twins to his study.
It wasn’t a storm that he had been dreading, but it was… something.
“You took my place,” Della accused, and it sounded like a repetition.
“You abandoned your place,” Donald threw back. “And don’t you tell me I was doing nothing. I was raising your kids for you. I was raising the kids of my dead sister who thought it was a good idea to go to space without preparation.”
“I’m not dead!”
“I thought you were! I thought you were, and there was no one to raise the kids!”
“Oh, that’s rich. It wasn’t like you raised them alone, Uncle Scrooge was there,” Della bit.
Scrooge shook his head. “No. I wasn’t there.”
Della turned to him slowly, uncertainly. “What do you mean, you weren’t there?”
“Donald took the kids and raised them on his own,” Scrooge explained. “I built the Spear for you and the kids. Donald didn’t want me to end up hurting them that way.”
“But you didn’t mean to get me stuck on the moon!” Della protested. “You raised us well!”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I had the ship built,” Scrooge pointed out. “I should have known you were never one to sit contently. I should have made sure you didn’t get into the Spear. I shouldn’t have built it in the first place.”
Scrooge had built many, many castles out of glass and held them together with pretense and stubborn denial, and wondered if Della did the same. He knew what it felt like to have his castles shatter, and he way Della stared at him reminded him of it.
“But… why?” she asked, turning to Donald.
“Because they’re yours,” Donald answered quietly, “and you weren’t there anymore.”
When Della failed to respond, Donald sighed and turned away, walking out of the room and closed the door with a soft click.
When Della truly crumbled at last, Scrooge was there to hold her together and take out the pieces of jagged glass she stubbornly clung to until they dig into her flesh. There wasn’t much he could do, but he would take her old hurts into his own heart if he could.
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Donald was sitting at the pier when Della found him, much later on, watching the sun dip into the waters and letting the red of the sky wash over his feathers. Della sat by his side, and when he didn’t move away, she took it as an invitation to stay.
They sat there, silently watching the sunset. After a while, Donald spoke up, “Did you ever really want the kids?”
Della breathed out. “I did,” she said. “I do. I wasn’t ready when I had them, and I’m still not ready now, but I’m not sorry I brought them into this world.”
“Then why did you leave?”
She blinked into the red light. “Because I do want them, but I didn’t want to be a mother, and I was scared.” She took a shaky breath. “I still am.”
“You have time to learn if you want to,” Donald pointed out. “And if the kids are okay with it.”
“No,” her answer was quick and steady. She wrung her fingers together. “They have had better and they deserve better than me. I’m… still not sure I want to be a mother at all, right now.” She turned to Donald and wondered how much growing up he had gone through in all the time she fled to the sky. “Donald, they’re so much more yours than they are mine.”
Donald stared and took her hand, letting his warm fingers curl around hers. It was forgiveness in all but words, and Della would weep if she still had tears to give.
“I still want to be a part of their life anyway,” Della stated.
“That’s not up to you,” Donald pointed out.
“I know.”
“It’s up to them.”
“I know.” Della closed her eyes. “Louie’s so mad at me. But I still want to be by their side, even if I can’t give them a mother.” She peered at Donald. “Does that make me selfish?”
“Yes,” Donald answered readily. “But everyone is, one way or another.”
Silence fell. After a while, Donald spoke up again, “I’m not sorry, either.”
“What?”
“That you brought them into the world,” Donald elaborated. “I’m not sorry, either. They’re the best thing that have happened to me.”
Della’s smile was small, and soft, and true. “That’s more proof that they’re yours.”
Donald returned the smile. “I’ve missed you.”
She closed her eyes and pressed their foreheads together. “I’ve missed you, too.”
They sat together silently, basking in the dying light of the sun, resting in a stagnant moment as long as it could last. Soon they would go back home to the stars of their sky and sweep away the broken glass and torn boards of the glass castles and cardboard houses they stubbornly held on to. There were still conversations to have, difficult ones with the triplets, but they would build another cottage soon, out of bricks and mortar and stones this time. It wouldn’t be a grand but brittle castle or a façade of a house; it would be a home, warm and loving and strong enough to withstand any hurricane, either from outside or in.
Della closed her eyes and breathed. She was selfish, and greedy, and not at all ready to take responsibility she decided to take on a whim and then fled from over a decade ago, but she was lucky in all the way that mattered, and she had so much more than she rightfully deserved. She curled her arms around what she had all the same and made them hers, and she would fight tooth and nail to keep them, and she would not flee again this time.
#ducktales#ducktales 17#fanfic#della duck#donald duck#scrooge mcduck#huey duck#dewey duck#louie duck#webby vanderquack
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Birds of a Feather- Hawks pic Pt 6
Summary: After a tense week Finch is ready to throw in the towel on her new position when Hawks confesses to everything and gives her a proposal that has her head reeling.
A/N: wow this chapter really took it out of me lmao, hope you guys enjoy!
Warnings: Angst, mentions of NSFW
The weeks going on were ridiculously tense. As Hawks filled his day with work to try and forget about his feelings, Finch was getting annoyed at how he was avoiding her. It was nearly impossible to get anything done at this rate
“H-Hawks sir..?”
Finch panted, finally catching up to him in the lobby. It was mid day and Finch hadn’t seen him all day. After call after call looking for him and people asking for him she was relieved when she finally caught sight of his red feathers walking away from her.
As he turned to look at her he noticed her reddened face. She panted, her lips slightly parted as she held out a notebook to him. He took it silently and read it over as she caught her bearings. It wasn’t too great of an idea to wear such high heels today but, she didn’t realize she’d be chasing him around all day.
“What’s with all the meetings?”
“S-sir... There’s been an issue with another one of the Pro’s agency and they want to send some student interns here.”
He looked her over with a grimace. She was wearing her usual pencil skirt and blouse, only this blouse had a waist cincher laced up around her. the black cincher was in stark contrast to the white flowy house under it and he practically had to tear his eyes away.
“So what do they need me for exactly?”
He grumbled. Finch looked a little taken aback as she smoothed down her hair and took back the notebook.
“They need you to sign off on them coming here sir-”
“Just sign it for me.”
He dismissed her with a wave and she felt her face heat with mild annoyance.
“I can’t just sign it for you sir, this happens to be your job, these kids are your responsibility-”
“Then they just won’t come here then huh?”
He cut her off, turning to give her a stern look. She was offended, shocked into silence before he stalked off. She was fuming as she made her way back to the office, slamming the notebook down on her desk. She was so exhausted trying to keep up with him and he was by no means making it easier.
Next time she saw him was at the end of the day, she was packing up her things for the night. He chuckled as he came in, some intern following behind closely, giggling with him. She stopped when he stumbled in, looking between the intern and her before turning to his desk.
“Ya, haha, just hit me up tomorrow, maybe we’ll even grab lunch.”
The girl giggled and agreed before waving him goodbye and making her exit. Finch wondered if she had interrupted something and she tried to smooth her puffy plumage before making her way to Hawks’ desk without a word. She threw down three papers stapled together before turning to go grab her things.
Hawks picked up the packet, spying the title that read ‘Formal Notice of Resignation’. He could only stare for a moment before blinking and looking up as she made her way to the door. He shot out of his chair, the leather spinning in a circle behind him before he rushed forward to grab her forearm and stop her from leaving.
“Whoa, whoa wait- you’re resigning?!”
“Looks like it sir.”
She sneered, emphasizing the sir. He knew that he had made it stupidly difficult for her to do her job but, for some reason this never crossed his mind as an outcome.
“Why? Why do you want to-”
“Hawks, you’ve literally made my life hell, trying to do my job is literally so stupidly hard that it’s not fucking worth it!”
He flinched at the curse word and the blood drained from his face. He had messed up. He just wanted to get over her but, it seemed that wouldn’t happen. His silence only pissed Finch off further.
“Have fun at lunch tomorrow.”
She sneered, ripping her arm out of his grasp.
“Finch please don’t- I really wish you’d stay, I’m sorry-”
“Hawks, it’s not worth it!”
“J-just listen to me for a second, hear me out!”
He begged, willing her back into the room. She was silence but planted her feet, a sign she was staying.
“I-I...”
“Out with it Haw-”
“I just really like you Finch. I can’t get you out of my mind and I’ve been trying to but I can’t-”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
He was frantically waving his hands, trying his best to convince her to stay.
“I’ll stop being a brat I promise!”
She shivered at his tone when he said that but couldn’t figure out why. Something was heating her body up against her will and she felt a twinge in her lower stomach.
“A brat?”
Her voice lowered slightly and he swallowed. He was expecting to be chewed out big time but was surprised when she only huffed and looked away.
“I-I promise I’ll stop being difficult and I’ll stop avoiding you...”
He hated how meek he sounded when he said that, a blush crawling onto his face. It was embarrassing a little house finch was putting a red winged hawk in his place right now.
While he was wallowing in self pity for allowing this to happen she was feeling slightly sick all of the sudden. He liked her. Something in her was squealing like a little girl in excitement while the adult part of her was mourning her job. This would only be even more complicated now. She advanced on him, walking him back till he hit the edge of his desk, her face coming pretty close to him, his eyes set on the ground in front of him.
“You’re telling me... All of this, was because you have some stupid little crush?”
She growled. He gulped and reached out, his fingers grazing the front of her waist cincher.
“I-I’m sorry..?”
He tried pitifully.
“Hawks you’ve made my job a living hell for the past 3 weeks and your excuse is that you like me?”
“Y-yes...”
He almost thought she was going to explode on him but he was surprised when she reached up, grabbing the hair at the base of his neck and forcing him to look at her. Her face was reddened, her eyes half lidded as she looked at him. She couldn’t help the lust filling her. It was like she suddenly just had to have him, regardless of how shy she usually was.
Finally she pounced, pressing her lips to his, surprising him even more before he set his hands on her waist, pulling her closer to his chest, pressing her into him. When she pulled away she was panting slightly, her blouse slightly open, just enough for him to see the way her rosy skin was rising and falling, her breasts look so soft, he thought. The room felt hot all the sudden, Hawks pulling off his jacket hastily as he kissed Finch hard, his muscular arms traveling up to her face, on hand taking her chin and the other going behind her to her back, pressing her into him again.
He leaned back against his desk, pulling at the tie on her waist cincher and undoing it, loosening her blouse enough to sneak his hand under the hem, groping her breast and causing her to pant out a sweet moan, only loud enough for him to hear her.
Just then there was a knock on the door, breaking them apart.
“J-just a second!”
Hawks called, grabbing up his coat as Finch redid her cincher and smoothed her hair, hoping that her blushing face wouldn’t give them away as she fixed her lipstick. Finally, Hawks pulled open the door to find a commission representative tapping his foot impatiently. Hawks let him inside hesitantly and looked down speaking.
“Thanks for everything today Finch, you can go now, I’ll get the signatures taken care of.”
He reassured her before ushering her out of the room quickly. When the door closed behind her she was flabbergasted, absolutely confused, and a little upset. Who was that guy anyway? Was he going to get in trouble, is that why he made her go? She tried to brush it off but her body was still burning for her boss. Now she had to contemplate if this well known bachelor was worth her job or not.
^^^
When she got home she was buzzing, the energy in her body nearly killing her as she dialed Asami’s number. They hadn’t seen each other since that night at the bar and she only recounted the details of it over the phone to her best friend. It was about time they had another girls night.
“Hey-”
“Asami, girl emergency, we need to get together.”
Asami laughed on the other side of the line before replying.
“Ok, when and where?”
“Meet me at that little cafe on Vine street in an hour ok?”
With Asami’s confirmation Finch hung up the phone and quickly changed into a pair of regular jeans and a cute striped navy shirt, grabbing her cross body and making sure to lock the door before she left. She planned to walk to the cafe so it would take her a minute, but give her enough time to think.
When she finally got there Asami was waiting for her and they were seated quickly before Finch explained everything that happened in the past weeks, not sparing any detail of the latest day.
“Oh wow... Well, are you gonna date him?”
Finch sighed and slumped back in her seat, her wings moving out of the way.
“That’s the only thing. I’ve been with the agency since I graduated. If I got with him then I would potentially be throwing away my whole livelihood. I’ve only ever had that job, I can’t risk it.”
She explained. Asami hummed in thought.
“Well, then you guys could always keep it a secret. Like one of those freaky friends with benefits things!”
Finch shushed her quickly before looking around to see if anyone had heard.
“Asami! You can’t just yell that!”
Asami laughed in response but left Finch to think as they ate their dinners.
^^^
Finch groaned as she flopped back onto her bed. It had been nearly a month since her and Hawks started ‘seeing’ each other. She had worked hard to make sure their work was completely separate from their real relationship in order to avoid suspicion but it was getting increasingly hard. The amount of women throwing themselves at the winged hero daily was sickening. It wasn’t like they were official but man was it hard to watch.
After a long day at the office she was finally home, lounging in bed since Hawks was busy. She was drowning in jealously and she wasn’t sure what to do. Finally she decided, typing out a quick text to her best friend asking for advice. Asami was quick to respond, pushing her like she had already been, to tell Hawks that she wanted something more serious.
Countless nights were spent in her boss’ bed and she was killing to be public but she really was afraid of what would happen to her job wise. Would they terminate her? Demote her?
Later that night, as she curled up on her couch watching tv, there was a knock on her balcony and she got up, quickly pushing the door open for Hawks to sneak inside, chuckling at her expression.
“Not funny, you scared me!”
“Aw, c’mon birdie, it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
She slapped his arm as he laughed before pulling her into a chaste kiss.
“Uh can we-”
“I have something great to tell you!”
He cut her off in excitement. She looked at him expectantly, swallowing the urge to ask for more of a relationship.
“So, I’m sure you know even I have higher ups, right? Well we had a meeting today right?”
She nodded along, remembering his schedule for the past day.
“They have taken my advice, and are officially asking you to become my sidekick!”
She was silent, her face pale.
“What?”
She mumbled.
“They want you to get your wings fixed and train to become my sidekick instead of my personal assistant. They like how we work well together, and think you’ll be a great hero.”
Finch’s mind flashed back to her UA days, failing out of the hero course. She was mortified.
“I-I dont-”
“It’ll be great! We’ll be able to spend a lot of time together publicly without any suspicion at all y’know-”
“Hawks please.”
She stopped him. His face fell and he went silent, looking at her with hope in his eyes. She didn’t want to crush it.
“I’ll need some time to think...”
There was silence before Finch met his eyes as he replied.
“Y-ya of course gorgeous, take all the time you need...”
He looked away before asking what she knew he was thinking.
“Why wouldn’t you want to be a hero?” She sighed and fidgetted, moving around the room.
“I-I just don’t know if I’m cut out for that, I mean, i’ve been an office worker for years and I’m good at that-”
“Finch, babe, I know you’ll be great at this, I wouldn’t have put in the idea if I didn’t think you could do it.”
“Hawks, I tried to become a hero before, it didn’t work out-”
“Ya but, if we fixed your wings you’d be able to fly, kid.”
She was silent. Every time Hawks’ giant red wings lifted him off the ground she was stupidly jealous. It was a dream of hers that she had thought was in vain but it could come true. She looked at her hands, wringing her wrists. What was she supposed to do?
“I-I just need some time.”
She concluded. He nodded at her and made his way to the balcony.
“Well, take all the time you need lovebird, just let me know. I’ve gotta get back to night patrol.”
She nodded and he rounded back to kiss her forehead before taking off out the window, leaving her with her thoughts.
#hawks#bnha hawks#mha hawks#hawks angst#hawks fluff#keigo takami#bnha keigo#my hero academia#boku no hero imagines#boko no hero academia
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Tell me what you’ll do, please
So, Michael, dripping like a wet mop on the restaurant’s tile floor, stood silently as he looked between the sister of the girl whose murder he covered up only two months ago, and his lover who would rather be sent off to war than be with him. Great. He swallowed, figuring he may as well break the silence.
“Sorry, I wasn’t sure if-”
“The kitchen is closed,” Liz interrupted, looking him up and down before saying, “but you can stay until the storm lets up.”
Or, in which Michael gets caught out in the rain while sleeping in his truck, and ends up taking shelter in the last place he wants to be.
also on ao3
title (from phoebe bridger's demi moore) precedes the lyric "I dont wanna be alone" which is kind of a central theme in Michael's mindset in this fic
warnings for mention of Michael's injury, very brief and vague mention of toolshed incident near the end, lots of talk about rosa's death and liz's mourning, michael has self worth issues, michael and alex say mean things to each other bc they’re sad and scared and just like a lot of angst
(3054 words)
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When Michael woke from his drunken nap, he sobered up immediately at the feeling of his blankets being drenched and the sky being far too dark for his liking.
He knew it was going to rain that night, and had even felt it in the joints of his mangled hand. What he didn’t predict, however, was that he was going to sleep for a few more hours than he intended, waking up in the middle of a storm rather than to the late afternoon desert sun.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he hissed, scrambling out of his truck bed and attempting to gather his linens. As he piled the soaked pillows and blankets he realized that he’d stupidly kept his bag of clothes beside him as he slept, leaving him with nothing dry to change into. He shoved his belongings into a sopping pile on his passenger seat before rushing to the other side of the truck cab and turning on the ignition with shaking hands.
Safe from the weather outside, Michael cranked up the heater and stripped off his shirt, huddling against himself for warmth. He ran his fingers through his curls in an effort to squeeze the water out, but to no avail. He sat like this, shivering and pathetic, for about 20 minutes before deciding that he needed a plan B. He didn’t have enough gas to use his heater for any extended period of time, and he wouldn’t have enough money for a refill until Sanders paid him for his work that week.
So, he decided to head into town to see if he could find somewhere that would let him stay inside for the duration of the storm without expecting a dime out of him. Normally he would try the library, but that closed at 8 and according to the clock on his radio, it was around 11 pm. Damn it. Hardly anything in this sleepy town was open past 10 on a weeknight other than the bars, and the storm wasn’t helping his chances.
Monsoon season was probably the most detrimental time for his beloved old Chevy that he called home, and tonight was no exception. He could hardly see through his windshield with the mix of dust and rain smattered across it, the high-velocity winds forcing his wipers to barely keep up. He was able to see enough to drive, though, as well as to recognize the signs on the shops and restaurants. They were almost all closed, as he’d suspected, except for one - the Crashdown still had its lights on and as he pulled into a parking space in front of it, he could see two figures inside. Liz Ortecho was wiping the counter as she spoke to the person in front of her, whose back was turned to Michael.
Only a few months ago, Michael would be too embarrassed to walk into the Crashdown at half-past 11 looking like a drowned rat and ask for a favor from his academic competitor. Now, though, Liz was going through her own living hell, which Michael felt partially responsible for, and had no room in her life to pity some punkass kid that lived in his truck. So, he swallowed his guilt and pride and shame and made his way out of his car and into the pouring rain. Without giving himself a chance to rethink this decision, he threw open the diner’s door, bringing attention to himself far too dramatically.
And, well, shit. Maybe he would’ve been better off using his fake id to spend his night with the racist alcoholics at the Wild Pony.
The first thing he noticed was that Liz looked rough. She clearly hadn’t been sleeping, as her eye bags were dark and evident, and her skin was paler than usual. She stood stock still at his cinematic entrance, her face full of annoyance and exhaustion. She no longer looked like the nerdy girl-next-door that Max had a crush on. She looked older than her age, and, in a sense, she was. She was going through more sadness than most had in their entire lifetimes, and that thought sent a spike of pain in Michael’s chest.
It reminded him of that selfish anger he’d been repressing since that night; anger at Isobel for killing the girls, anger at himself and Max for covering it up, anger at whatever entities left the three of them on this planet in the first place. He usually tried to shove those thoughts down before they ate away at him, but that was impossible when the consequence of their actions was quite literally staring himself in the face.
He glanced at the figure sitting on the stool across from Liz and his stomach dropped. Of course, it just had to be the very person Michael had been avoiding for the past two weeks.
He watched as Alex’s face morphed from confusion, to brief concern, and finally an annoyance that rivaled Liz’s. The last thing Michael wanted was to relive the fight they’d had after Alex told him he was enlisting in the air force.
Alex called Michael a violent alcoholic that was wasting his life.
Michael compared him to every birth and foster parent who had abandoned him.
Alex said Michael was no better than his abusive father.
Michael said that was funny seeing as he was following in his daddy’s footsteps.
It wasn’t pleasant.
So, Michael, dripping like a wet mop on the restaurant’s tile floor, stood silently as he looked between the sister of the girl whose murder he covered up only two months ago, and his lover who would rather be sent off to war than be with him. Great. He swallowed, figuring he may as well break the silence.
“Sorry, I wasn’t sure if-”
“The kitchen is closed,” Liz interrupted, looking him up and down before saying, “but you can stay until the storm lets up.”
Michael nodded, flinging water from his hair. He sat in the nearest booth, looking at his hands. He didn’t exactly have a plan for what he’d do if someone were to let him in. Maybe he could sleep? He didn’t think Liz would appreciate having to wake him up to kick him out once the rain stopped, but making conversation didn’t seem like much of an option.
When he looked back over to see that Liz had bent down to clean below the counter, Alex was still staring at him. Michael glanced back down at his hands, but it was too late. Alex approached the booth and stood over him.
“Hey, Alex.”
“What happened?”
“I fell asleep and when I woke up it was raining and all my shit was wet,” he said, still looking down.
Alex furrowed his brows. “It started raining around 8.”
“I guess I went to bed early.”
“Is that your way of saying you passed out drunk?”
Michael raised his gaze to glare at Alex. Alex glared right back.
“Can we not do this right now?”
Alex huffed a sigh and sat across from him. Michael leaned back and turned his head, watching the downpour out the window. They sat in silence for a minute until Alex spoke up.
“You need to change your splint.”
For someone that “wouldn’t be Michael’s medicine”, Alex sure liked to act like his doctor. But, he wasn’t wrong. Michael’s splint was soaked, making it functionally useless.
“I have some gauze in the truck, I’ll fix it later,” he replied, still staring at the rain.
“Just grab it now, I’ll help you do it.”
Michael turned back to Alex. “What? No, I-”
Alex stood up. “Get the gauze and I’ll meet you upstairs.”
As Alex turned away, presumably to ask Liz if she was cool with him bringing the personified version of a stray dog found in the gutter up into the small apartment she shared with her grieving father, Michael conceded and ran back to his truck to grab the gauze. He could never really say no to Alex. He rushed back in, covering the gauze with his body to prevent any rain damage and, with a quick “bathroom’s on the right” from Liz, he ran up the stairs to meet Alex in the tiny restroom that Liz used to share with Rosa. Used to. Michael shuddered at the thought. He was too sober for this long night.
Except, Alex wasn’t in the restroom. He was nowhere to be found. Regardless, Michael closed the door gently and began peeling the gauze off his hand, the feeling not dissimilar to applying a strip of wet paper-mâché to a surface. He winced at the pain, which he’d been ignoring until then, and wished he had some acetone to take the edge off.
He glanced at the medicine cabinet. Maybe…He opened the cabinet and there it was, half a bottle of kroger brand nail polish. Jackpot. Once he finished his second swig, the door handle started twisting. Shit. He used his telekinesis to put the bottle back in the cabinet and close the door, all while rinsing his mouth to cover the evidence. He didn’t want to think about what Alex’s reaction would be to finding him drinking Liz’s nail polish remover straight out of the bottle. “Seriously, Guerin? Alcohol not enough of a buzz for you anymore?”. Alex always called him “Guerin” when he was disappointed or mad at him. Lately, that seemed to be more often than not.
Alex peeked his head in slowly, as if to give Michael privacy, which was frankly adorable, seeing as how many times they’d seen each other at least partially nude. When he saw that Michael was decent, he opened the door completely, revealing that he was carrying a pile of clothes and towels.
“Here, change into these,” Alex commanded, handing him the clothes. His clothes. Michael’s ears turned red against his wishes at the thought of wearing Alex’s clothes.
“”You always have a stash of clothes at the Ortecho’s, or is this just my lucky night?” he asked, removing his wet t-shirt. Alex turned away, making Michael roll his eyes.
“I would usually come here when things got ugly at my place. Arturo didn’t mind me sleeping on Liz and Rosa’s floor, so I kept some of my stuff here. Tonight I’m here for Liz, though,” Alex explained.
Michael removed his pants. “You know you don’t have to turn away when I’m changing, right? We’ve seen each other naked, like, a hundred times.”
Now it was Alex’s turn to blush. “I think a hundred is a little hyperbolic,” he said as he turned around to face Michael.
Michael ran the towel down his body before finally ruffling his curls dry. “Well there was our first time... “
“Obviously.”
“And the time in the cab of my truck just a few days later…”
“That was just uncomfortable.”
“And then a week later when we had that picnic out in the desert at midnight…”
“Ugh, that was just gross. Do you know how many spiders and scorpions are out there? Definitely wish I’d kept my pants on for that.”
“And then add a few more in the back of my truck and that should add up to one hundred!”
“Still a hyperbole. I’d say that’s 8, total. The rest at least one of us kept our pants or shirts on.”
“Sorry, I forgot to add the ones from my dreams.��
“Oh god, please shut up,” Alex said just a little loudly, making Michael snort and put a finger to his lips.
“Shh, Alex, c’mon. No need to wake up Arturo by discussing our epic sexcapades.”
Michael was now fully dressed in Alex’s clothes, wearing a burgundy sweater that felt softer than anything he’d ever worn before and black jeans that were just a little too tight. He looked at himself in the mirror and cracked a smile.
“Maybe I could pull the emo look off, huh? What do you think, darlin?” He added the “darlin” as a test. When Alex was actually pissed, the pet name only ticked him off even more. When Michael was starting to get back on his good side, he brushed it off and pretended he didn’t like it, even though he definitely did.
Alex suppressed a smile. Score.
“I think you’re ridiculous. Now lean against the sink and hold this washcloth.”
Michael raised an eyebrow but did as he was told.
“Here, hold the washcloth like this,” Alex said before gently moving the fingers on Michael’s left hand around the cloth. It hurt like hell, but Michael did his best to hide it. He didn’t like Alex seeing him in pain, especially when he knew Alex blamed himself. Michael didn’t want him to have another reason to feel guilty.
“It’s good of you to come over here and be with Liz. She seems…” He trailed off, not sure of what he was planning on saying. She seems, what, bad? Exhausted? Depressed? Like she’d just had her favorite person in the world taken from her, and now the entire town was spreading lies about her? He just let Alex finish his thought.
“It’s just what friends do. She needs support right now,” Alex murmured, wrapping the gauze around Michael’s fingers. “She’s leaving town, too, soon. Which is a good thing, I think.”
Michael stiffened at that. He already knew Liz was leaving, of course. He was just as responsible for that as he was for Rosa’s postmortem defamation. It’s that “too” that hits. Maybe it was the buzz from the acetone or the thrill of Alex watching him undress, but either way Michael was able to forget for a second about the coldness that had been between them just a few minutes ago, and the reason for it being there. That little word, “too”, was a painful reminder that hurt just a little more than the feeling of his disjointed bones being squeezed too tightly by Alex’s makeshift splint. Michael inhaled sharply to indicate this.
“Shit, sorry, let me make this a little looser.”
Michael looked down and shook his head a tad bit too violently, trying to indicate that he didn’t give a damn about the stupid splint.
“What? What is it Michael?”
Michael squeezed his eyes shut, knowing he was diving headfirst into the argument he was trying to pretend had never happened.
“You can’t go.”
Alex dropped Michael’s hand, which he’d just finished putting the last piece of tape on.
“Goddamn it, Michael, did we really not spend enough time talking about this already? I’m sick of my father looming over me, and, let’s face it. I’m not like you. I can’t just waste my life in this garbage town forever, sustaining myself on whiskey and bar fights.”
Michael opened his eyes back up and realized he had tears welling up. It wasn’t because of what Alex had said, words and insults didn’t phase him anymore. It was that his deepest anxiety was becoming his reality. Michael was going to be left behind, yet again.
He was used to pushing his fears down, but right now he didn’t want to repress. He wanted Alex to understand exactly how he was feeling, no matter how childish or pathetic he sounded in the process.
“I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t want to be alone.”
He looked up to meet Alex’s eyes. The other boy’s face melted from the defensive hardness he’d held before to something much softer. It wasn’t piteous, it was just… sad.
“I don’t want to leave you Michael. I definitely don’t want you to be alone. You’re the only reason I’ve ever even considered staying.”
Michael looked down again. His words were sweet, but they held no meaning. It didn’t matter how much Alex cared about him, he was still leaving.
“You know this doesn’t have to be goodbye forever, right? I’ll be coming back after basic, and then I’ll be coming home on leave whenever I can.” Alex cupped Michael’s face with his hands, forcing him to look up at him. Memories flooded in of their first kiss, when they cradled each other’s faces in the UFO emporium. Michael mirrored the movement and leaned in to Alex’s space, but didn’t close the gap. Instead, he watched Alex closely, reading the earnesty in his eyes. It seemed like he truly believed they could still be together, even through hell.
It was Alex that made the move, pressing Michael into the sink behind him and tenderly kissing his lips. Their movements were slow and gentle, much different from their usual sexual intensity. This was a different kind of intimacy. They touched each other lovingly rather than lustfully, their focus not on rushing to make each other come, but instead on patiently memorizing every detail they could. They were so enraptured with their shared space that the outside world seemed to melt away, including the door that was being pushed open behind them.
“Oh shi-” they heard behind them, shattering the moment. Alex jumped away, terror in his eyes. Michael’s heart was in his throat. Of course, it was just Liz, who didn’t actually care about their romantic involvement, just that they didn’t have sex on her bathroom sink. Still, the last time they were interrupted like this wasn’t a night they wanted to relive.
“I just wanted to let Guerin know that it stopped raining,” Liz said, her eyes turned to the floor uncomfortably. This was her polite way of saying “please get out of my home it’s past midnight and I’ve been waiting for you to leave for half an hour”, so he took the cue for what it was and headed out the door with a nod.
“Hey, Michael?” he heard from behind him. He turned back around.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving in a week. I’d like to see you before then, to say goodbye.”
Michael gave another small nod, and headed down the stairs at twice his usual speed, not wanting either of them to hear him cry.
When he got to his truck, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep anytime soon. So, instead, he devised a plan to ensure he wouldn’t be around whenever Alex decided to schedule that goodbye.
And this plan required Kyle Valenti’s hubcaps.
#malex#malex fic#michael guerin#alex manes#roswell new mexico#roswell nm#roswell nm fic#liz ortecho#malex angst
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burn
Summer Omens: Day 3 (on AO3 here if you prefer)
(Or that time I showed up to my own challenge with 1 minute to spare and 1,000 words of angst for you.)
Firedrops rained down around him, fading to flecks of ash in the tangles of his hair. Figures wrapped in blankets were huddling together in alleyways. Chaos. People rushed past, dragging carts and carrying belongings, heading for the frantic mass crowded around the closest gate. The sun had set, but the streets were cast in a flickering, harsh amber glow that threw ghoulish shadows on the walls of the buildings fortunate enough to still be standing. London was burning.
The air hung, thick with smoke and the cries of the desperate, in the narrow cobblestone streets of the city. To his left, a man tripped and fell. Another shouted something about foreigners. Raised his arm above the fallen figure, iron bar in hand. No time, he thought, but he veered left to grab the bar from the man’s hand as he strode past. Tossed it in the nearest broken window. Up ahead, he could see the towering rooftop of his destination: St. Paul’s.
If the rumors were true, there was not much time, maybe an hour before total collapse. And he knew he’d be there. “A kind gentleman,” they’d said, welcomed them to the safety of the church. Comforted their children. Tended to their burns. Fed and clothed them. In a city slowly smoldering closer to extinction, brawling with itself in the burning streets over gold and papers and blame while the Lord Mayor turned his back on the firemen’s advice, only one person could be that stupidly selfless. And Crowley knew that he’d need convincing to abandon ship.
“This was no accident, no sir,” a man spat, holding open the door of a shop to argue with a militiaman. “It’s the damned French. You should be out hunting them, ‘stead of trying to tear down my property.”
“But it’s moving this way, and if we can’t create a firebreak–” Their conversation faded into the noise of the street.
He fought against the tide of fleeing people until he reached the ornate doors of the cathedral. After holding the door for a crying woman carrying a swaddled infant, he stormed inside. “Aziraphale!” he called, and he followed his reverberating voice into the vast, dark space.
He found him deep within the building, where few people remained. Something in him burned at the sight: Aziraphale leaning over a prone figure, the silver-blue of his outfit darkened with soot, tights scorched and ripped, holding out his hand. “It’s not safe here anymore,” he was telling the woman. Looking out for the unworthy and doomed, as always. The sight brought forth the memory of a white wing extended toward him, as if he had been deserving of shelter. Of the kindness in his blue eyes. Of something close to love.
“Where should I go?” she asked, struggling to her feet.
“Beyond the wall is the best bet now. Be careful.”
She thanked him quietly and shuffled off toward the door. Crowley noticed her arms were bare. Nothing left to carry.
“Crowley? Why are you here?”
He forced his mind back to the present danger. “Because someone has to tell you the same thing you just told her. Let’s go.”
“There are more, down in the crypts with their things, and there are books– If you follow me, we can–”
“Miracle them to safety as we leave? Deal.”
Shoulders sagging, Aziraphale shook his head in silent answer.
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “No miracles?” He stepped closer. “You’re telling me all this,” he hissed, “is supposed to happen?”
“I was directed not to interfere.” A second passed after the admission, Crowley reading the pain and anger in his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean… I had to do something to help them.”
“Well, you did. Saved a lot of people. Now it’s your turn.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s arm.
“No, not while there are–”
A sharp crack overhead. Stone crumbled and fell with a sound that echoed through them. Flames followed, a wooden beam tumbling in and igniting a section of pews with stunning swiftness.
Crowley tightened his grip. “We’re leaving. Now.” And as they disappeared, the people still scattered throughout the dark recesses of the cathedral heard an urgent, breathless whisper in the air: run.
They reappeared in total darkness. A snap of fingers illuminated the country road they stood on and the surrounding fields. Crowley had briefly considered the room he kept in Rome, but he knew Aziraphale would resent being taken so far away from the crisis.
“Where are we?” he demanded, wrenching his arm out of Crowley’s grasp.
“Just outside the city.”
“Those people–”
“I warned them.”
Aziraphale shot him a reluctant glance of appreciation, then gazed around at their surroundings. “I can’t just stand in a field while people burn. I need to get back to the city. If you won’t help me, I’ll… I’ll have to find a horse, and–” His voice broke, then, and he turned away from Crowley.
Rage burned inside Crowley’s chest. As if it weren’t disgusting enough that the powerless humans had to suffer in the name of God’s ineffability, he knew Aziraphale felt it all: their fear, their anguish, their loss of faith. Just as there was nothing Aziraphale could do to save them, there was nothing Crowley could do to end his grief. The cruelty of Heaven, Crowley knew, was something he’d have to come to terms with on his own. So Crowley did the only thing he could do to help: he reached out a hand and placed it timidly on Aziraphale’s shoulder.
Shakily, Aziraphale looked up at him with reddened eyes. “How many times,” he started softly, pausing to choose his words carefully, “must they suffer such immense atrocities while we look on in silence?”
Having no answer to offer, Crowley turned his gaze to the earth beneath their feet. They stood like that for a while, until Aziraphale’s breathing evened out. “I do… appreciate you coming to look for me.”
“If you still want to help,” Crowley said, lowering his hand, “there’s a bit of grass down the road where they’re setting up once they make it past the gates. Could wander over and see what they need.”
Aziraphale tilted his head, blinking slowly, processing. “I… Yes, I’ll do that.” His eyes lit up with a spark that Crowley supposed was hope. “Good idea. Look after yourself.”
He started to walk down the road and Crowley followed, earning himself a curious glance. “Yeah, well, I’ve got nothing on for tonight. Might as well come along.”
The two of them spent hours in that field: cobbling together shelters, lighting burning torches, healing, listening. The stream of refugees arriving from the city, exhausted but too scared to sleep, continued well past midnight. To cover more ground, they worked separately. Crowley didn’t mind. It wasn’t proper demonic work, and it would be a tad tricky to explain away if Head Office questioned it, but it felt right. If the powers that be order destruction, then helping becomes an act of rebellion, something Crowley had always been fond of.
The night air carried a hint of smoke. When the sun began to rise, he’d thought it firelight for a frightened second. Across the field, he caught Aziraphale’s eye and nodded toward the road. Some humans had begun to help as well, under Aziraphale’s direction. He wasn’t needed anymore. Aziraphale smiled warmly at him, then returned to his work.
Their resilience did not surprise him. Seen it before, he thought as he headed for the road. Give them some time to recover, and humans always found a way to pick up the pieces of what had been thrown at them and continue on. Their city burned yesterday. Today, they would rest. Survey. Mourn. And very soon, they would begin rebuilding.
(Previous days: sand / ice cream)
#good omens#summeromens#ineffable husbands#burn#the great fire#london#day 3 and i've already gone full angst#my writing#spot any parallels to the current pandemic and you win a prize#good omens fanfiction#good omens fic#good omens fanfic#feel free to reblog
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Words Unspoken
A Kellila fic.
Thank you to @forthegenuine for betaing this for me :D.
Find it here.
Or read below the cut if you want. It’s your life.
Kell and Lila had been in Grey London for the better part of a week. Not to exchange letters with King George the Fourth. No, those days were over. Rhy had sent them there for a different reason: see if there were any magically inclined people. And make sure they weren’t able to nurture that inclination.
Lila hadn’t wanted to come back to her home that was no longer her home. Far too many bad memories to mix with the taste of ash on the air. But she hadn’t wanted Kell to leave without her, and he would do anything for his brother. Really, there should be limits as to what brotherly love would do, but Kell agreed right away. So here they were, back at the recently renamed The Stone’s Throw again. Kell trusted Ned to help them with this as well, as the young Enthusiast no longer had a desire to see if he could muster control over elements.
It still hit her, the sense of sadness and loss over Barron. He had been a part of The Stone’s Throw for so long that his absence was something she could feel. Then again, as he had unwittingly become a member of her small family, maybe his absence was just something she could feel anyway. He wouldn’t be there to look at her sternly, telling her she would find trouble if that’s all she went looking for. And he wouldn’t ever get to see what she had become. And that saddened her most, she supposed.
She looked up as Kell came back into their room, once her room, after spending some time downstairs with Ned. He looked at her face, then opened his arms to her. She settled in, leaning against his chest. “You still miss him?” he asked softly. She didn’t say anything, just nodded briefly. He kissed the top of her head, and pulled back to look into her eyes. Blue on brown, black on black. Truthfully, it was getting easier to be there. Easier to accept Barron’s death. And that worried her. If she wasn’t mourning him anymore, was there anyone left to do so?
“What were you and Ned talking about?” she asked, trying to take her mind off of the confusion surrounding her emotions concerning Barron.
“Oh, this and that,” he hedged. She narrowed her eyes at him but before she could say anything he distracted her by kissing her. It shouldn’t have worked as well as it did, but she leaned into the kiss, into him. Before she could deepen it, he pulled away, concern furrowing his brow. He always was too perceptive of what she was feeling. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She exhaled, nodded. His fingers traced her jaw.
“So, how much longer do you think we’ll have to be away from home?” Lila asked. “And how many people does Rhy think could use magic here anyway?”
“Well, his concern isn’t entirely unfounded. I mean, look at you.” She just looked at him. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I haven’t been able to pick up on any signs of magic, even small ones. But my eyes ended up missing you entirely, so who knows what we’ll find. You haven’t seen anything yet, have you?”
Lila shook her head. “No. Though I’m not as used to looking for the signs as you are.” Kell nodded, considered this.
“If we haven’t seen anything by the end of tomorrow, we’ll head back then. I know how you hate to be away from your ship for so long,” he teased. Lila just threw her pillow at him. He laughed, laid down beside her.
“Do you think we should fix the wall before we leave? You know, so Ned can use this room for other patrons aside from us.” Kell looked at the patch of ruined wood where he had trapped Lila the night they’d met. It seemed like a lifetime ago, when really it was only a year and a half.
“If you think so. Personally, I think Ned likes the remnants of magic. But we can fix it before we go.” With that, he pulled her close to him, hands brushing over her dark hair. “Come on. Let’s go to sleep.”
Lila let the feel of his hands brushing over her hair lull her into sleep. Strange to think about, but she still slept the best when Kell was next to her.
The next morning they rose with the dawn, the reds more muted than in Red London, but still bright against the dark blue of early morning. They left The Stone’s Throw once more, still looking for signs of anyone who could sense and use magic. As they continued to wander the streets of Grey London, Lila let her mind wander. She was still watching for more muted versions of what she supposed was like the door Kell had made the night they’d met, but she was also thinking about what it would have been like if she’d never met him. She didn’t know if she would have ever unlocked her magic.
She looked up and caught sight of a tall, slim man leaving a tavern. He had dark hair and a narrow face. She stiffened and froze at the sight of him, and Kell noticed. He turned to follow her gaze as it met the brown eyes of the man. He was shabby, and had the scraggly traces of not having shaved for a couple days. She hadn’t noticed that she’d started shaking until Kell put his hand on her shoulder and whispered, “What is it?” She blinked and took a deep, steadying breath.
“Mr. Bard,” she said coldly by way of greeting. Thomas Bard. Her father. The man who had sold her for some coin when she was fifteen and whom she hadn’t seen since that night. She had killed the man who bought her, of course. And then she began her life of always watching out for herself. It had been four years since she’d last laid eyes on him but he looked the same, eyes bloodshot and teeth yellowing from too much drink.
He frowned as recognition seemed to take over. Of course, she now had a black eye as she was meant to, but he still frowned. “I took great care to make sure your sign of devil possession was removed. Even stole the regular looking one. Why’ve you gone and put it back?”
Lila shook with anger and a little bit of sadness. She willed him to stop in the street. He gasped as he couldn’t move his limbs.
“You see, Thomas,” she began, “it turns out I went and found what that mark really was. And hello to you too, you bastard.” She ended on a growl.
“You’re Lila’s father?” asked Kell incredulously. “I thought you were dead. She alluded to that anyway.” Thomas couldn’t hear the subtle shift to anger in his voice but Lila heard it loud and clear. “Don’t,” she whispered softly, but Kell continued. “What kind of man sells his own daughter to a sleazy man just so he can get a few coin? What kind of man cuts out his daughter’s eye.” His teeth were clenched now, both in anger and in pain as the ground rumbled and he used his magic. He could still feel Lila tremble, but with what he wasn’t sure. He was too angry. He thought he knew all about not great fathers, growing up with one who favored his biological son over his adopted one, but seeing this man here in this London, where Lila had starved and stolen and frozen just to get by made him angry.
Thomas opened and closed his mouth repeatedly like a fish. “And who might you be?” he finally managed. The shock of not being able to move combined with the tremors in the ground had him a little spooked. And then he frowned upon looking into Kell’s eyes. “You’ve got the same affliction she has,” he said, rather stupidly in Kell’s mind, considering Lila had willed his body still and he could feel magic rising in his blood, demanding to be used. “Unhand me. What the devil is wrong with you two?”
Kell scoffed. “What’s wrong with us? I’d say you’re ahead in who’s more messed up. Thomas, was it?” Thomas nodded briefly, that being all he could do, with Lila’s hold still on him. She had gone very pale, and was still trembling. Kell could tell she no longer wanted to be here with the man, so he strode forward and punched him in the jaw. He crumpled to the ground, and Lila hurriedly strode away to the next street. Kell leaned down over the man, saying in a low tone, “You are lucky we are leaving your world behind. You didn’t deserve anything as good as her, ever. You bastard.” He turned and walked away, trying to catch up to Lila. He knew she wasn’t far away.
He found her in an alley, crumpled against the back of a shop, arms wrapped around her stomach. He strode next to her, crouching down so he could see her face. She was still shaking, and breathing hard. “He shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t fucking matter,” she said, voice breaking a little. “Why does he fucking matter?” she asked, a couple of tears slipping passed her control. Kell reached out to cup her cheek, brushing them away with his thumb. And then he pulled her into his arms, offering his shoulder if she needed it to cry into.
“He doesn’t matter,” he whispered into her ear. “Nothing about that man in that street matters. The only thing that matters is you and who you have become.” He rubbed her back, and wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed softly. “Lila,” he whispered in her ear. They stood like that for a few minutes, before Lila pulled away, angrily swiping the tears from her eyes. She sniffed.
“I thought he was dead. I thought he had died long ago, long before I held a piece of Black London hostage so you would take me on an adventure. I never went looking for him after that night, and I never gave him a second thought. Barron was my only family. Why is he alive while Barron is dead?” She looked at him with eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her brown eye impossibly dark under the sheen. He held her face in both hands, and leaned his forehead on hers.
“I don’t know, Lila. I don’t know what sort of justice that is. All I know is that you are strong. You are alive. And you are so incredible, in spite of everything that he is.” He kissed her then, once. Just deep enough to show her how much he loved her. She had stopped shaking, and she sniffled once more. “Do you want to go home?” he asked softly. She nodded, and then pulled away.
They looked around, trying to gauge where they’d be in Red London. They would come out somewhere near the eastern edge of the Night Market. “Do we need to say goodbye to Ned?” asked Lila. Kell shook his head, and dug out his Red London token. Lila cut her hand, and spoke the words that would bring them home. “As travars.” They stepped through, and made their way up to the palace to tell Rhy that they hadn’t found anyone magical enough to warrant concern.
#kellila#kell maresh#lila bard#ned tuttle#shades of magic#som fic#kell x lila#also lila's dad#his name is thomas thanks to forthegenuine's thoughts#anyway enjoy#I made Lila suffer but then Kell is also there to comfort her#*flees to work to escape emotions*
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I have a sort of weird McLennon AU idea: Reincarnated!John
I got the idea from reading this interview with Paul McCartney, where he claims if he had been a girl he could have maybe gone out and fought for John to keep their very close relationship and prevent Yoko from essentially “stealing,” John away.
Then I got to thinking, well, what if, instead, John had been the girl? Which then lead to me connecting it too-- well, what if when John had been killed, on Dec. 8th, a little girl had also been born. Basically, John’s soul being reincarnated as a female.
A little girl born a few hours after John Lennon was assassinated, December 8th, 1980, in a hospital in Liverpool England, named Joan Winifred Stanley. Jo, or JoJo for short.
Now while this girl has John’s soul, heart, mind, and similarities feminized-- Joan is still an individual, with her own childhood and memories-- who’s growing up in the 80s, and is a lively, young, and lovely teenage girl in the beginning of the 90s. Her favorite rocker is Joan Jett, likes Blondie, Queen, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Bob Marley, Michael Jackson, and has a secret love for Elvis Presley... knows of the Beatles, but only see’s the band and their music as “alright, sort of antwacky.” though her mom fancies them.
Joan has fiery auburn colored hair which reaches some past her shoulders, wavy and thick, can often be a big birds nest of a mess. Milk chocolate brown eyes that appear to have specks of amber when the sunlight hits them; while softened with heavy lashes, are burning and alert, a glare could possibly kill someone. Poor eyesight, hates wearing her glasses because she thinks they make her look like a total lame.
[reference to what sort of glasswear her eyes required and the style of them]
5′5″, thiccc thighs, perky but rather small breasts, wide hips. Noticeable jawline and chin, though softened with baby fat, high cheekbones, sharp aquiline nose, bottom lip plumper than the top. Top two front teeth are crooked, slightly turned inward. It’s hard for me to describe her hairstyle during the very start of the 90s, so it’s something like this since she is an 80s child and for most of her young teens was in the crowd so;
See now, this is what I have for female John / Joan as far of what her face and hair may look like;
****[It’s still sort of rough, I know, I need to ink her in and then color her before I wanna show the full reference drawing. I honestly want to try and give her a bit more of a wider jawline, or a bit longer of a face-- but again, Joan is still her own person so she can’t look exactly like John, of course]
Sagittarius[John was a Libra], smoker of Luckies, musically inclined [perhaps sounds like a mix of Deborah Harry and Joan Jett? Though more nasally] loves to sing, learned to play acoustic guitar from her mother, and learned to play the harmonica from her grandda [the one good thing he had given to her as their relationship was generally soured since her mother’s parents saw her as nothing more than a bastard child] Could be considered a bit tomboyish but knows how to use her feminine wiles to manipulate, humiliate, and get what she wants. Tries not to be a horrible rebel as she hates to disappoint and stress out her mother, but can be a wild child and has a bit of an issue with authority and respecting rules and requests she deems unnecessarily stupid. Single child raised under a single mother as her father was never in the picture, and while her mothers’ parents were around they barely helped, so they lived in the manner of “we manage.” Coming from Liverpool, and in the poor-working class of society, her mannerisms of speaking are indeed Scouse.
Hot tempered, jealous/possessive of close friends and crush/lover, quick wit and sharp tongued, masks hurt with indifference and practically ghosting someone til she gets over it or they apologize adequately. Wants to love and own people, but does NOT want to be owned or tied down as it makes her feel caged. Freedom of self is incredibly important to her, and feeling like she’s losing it can cause her to act out and lash out.
Now, in the early 1990s, I believe Paul is around the age of 49/50. This might be just me projecting, but that makes Paul the legit Daddy in this whole thing, if ya catch my drift. Paul is, in my humble opinion, rather attractive and handsome in his late forties/early fifties. So yeah, silver fox Paul is gonna be a thing.
I have a thing for older men, alright? Let me project just a little bit here in my own AU.
I really haven’t thought much on how these two end up meeting, perhaps they meet during Paul’s World Tour during 1990? Again, Joan knows of the Beatles, and knows of Paul McCartney-- begrudgingly she does like a bit of his music-- but hadn’t the money, nor the greatest of utmost desire as many of her other female friends had, to get into to see him when he stopped in Liverpool. She thought it to be neat, but could live without seeing him.
But fate would lead to the two of them meeting, in probably an unexpected sort of way.
Anyways, right away Paul get’s this extremely strange vibe from this girl, this girl who watches him, squinting up at him, with such interest-- and despite being a well known [legendary] and talented musician, and veteran of the music industry, he suddenly feels like he’s been thrown back to the very first day he’d met the scruffy and polar opposite, John Lennon. He finds himself wanting to impress this young bird, because he feels as if despite all his credentials, they mean nothing at this very moment, and he’s stupidly nervous around some girl he had just happened to bump into [because she’s a young bird perhaps?? with burning brown eyes and a quirked, teasing mouth that reminded him of someone???], and it’s like being back to square one of having to prove himself, of his talent and passion, and in the end, the two appear to be sizing each other up, circling like predators do with prey. It’s a painful comparison when he realizes it, realizes how far this whole interaction threw him back, back into memories and feelings he had long since tried to bury, as not cry and mourn over each day.
It’s her who tries to end the first encounter, because she also gets this awfully weird aura from this old rock n’ roller, but she has no memories to connect it too. It leaves her feeling frustrated, because she really can’t find any rhyme or reason to why she feels this way, why she feels that this isn’t their first time interacting. Despite being an older man, she can’t help but think he looks rather good, and while she can’t put her finger on it again, she thinks that if Elvis had lived to be a bit older, he’d look something like this McCartney fellow. And while she tries to hide it, act indifferent and barely moved that she’s talking to the Paul McCartney, she does feel a bit starstruck, and so she simply wants to end this and keep it as a personal, favorite memory that she may recount to her friends and mother, who’ll probably think she’s just bullshittin’.
But when she attempts to leave, again this McCartney man, who insists that she call him Paul, catches her attention with a light grasp of her arm and stops her instantly. He’s quick to drop the hand the moment she whips her head around, shooting daggers at where he had touched her, then to staring right into his eyes. Paul isn’t sure why he’s doing this, why he feels like he needs to see this girl again, but as an excuse, he claims that it’s been awhile since he’s been back in Liverpool, and so, perhaps-- perhaps she could be the one to show him about. It’s a pitiful attempt of avoiding that he simply wants to meet up with this girl again-- and Joan rolls her eyes and breathes out an amused laugh at such a poor front.
“Aren't I a blind bit too young fe you?” Joan would say, and while the words are obviously a dig, a tease, Paul can’t help but feel as if she had slapped him, his face growing hot and red. Tries to explain, sputtering, almost insulted, that “No-- I mean, yes, I mean, I am not--” and Joan, at first with a relatively flat expression, raises an eyebrow and slowly a smirk begins to form as she watches Paul, the Paul McCartney, fluster and stutter about like the awkward teen boys she knows and have shot down. “Am jus’ skitt'n,” Joan would give in with smile and a laugh, that caused Paul goosebumps and his stomach to lurch, because while softer and higher pitched, reminded him of someone, someone once closer than close.
“A’rite Sir Paul, I'll indulge you.” and so, while she reasons it’s to just be nice this old rocker who probably hasn’t seen a young groupie in some time, she makes it appear she’s writing down her address or phone number on his hand-- and before she makes her get away, Paul would point out she hadn’t officially given her name to him-- “No manners these kids,” Paul might tease, and the auburn haired girl, with a smile that reached her eyes and showcased her nearly straight pearlies, told him her name was Joan, Joan Winifred Stanley, to be precise. Without giving him a chance to respond to it, she bid him farewell with a playful two fingered salute-- and for a breathless moment, Paul swore he had seen John there, just for a split second.
When he finally gets himself grounded and doesn’t feel so hot anymore, he discovers that she hadn’t written her number down, nor even an address-- just simply a street name; Menlove Avenue. If he’s so interested in continuing their little encounter, he could just go up and down the street, was her reasoning. She didn’t believe he’d go through such trouble to find her again-- anyway, he’s touring, and he has a wife and kids. Weird for a man his age to want to what, make friends with a barely 18 year old bird from old dingy Liverpool? A nobody, Joan would think, almost bitterly.
I’m still putting a lot of thought into this AU, so a lot of things can change and such, especially the idea behind how Joan/John and Paul meet and begin to interact more regularly, how their relationship starts and builds and grows and changes, and of course how it might end [I’m fiddling with the idea that Joan ends up dying too, but that’s a bit too angst-y for me to really focus on so]
Of course because I’m a fucking degenerate, I would like to have a moment where the two do end up having an intense affair-- though it’s just sensitive because, despite being not real at all, I want to give some respect to Linda and his kids around that time too, because I know Paul loves them dearly. So this AU is obviously full of fucking angst-y and complication and slow burn and miscommunication.
I can’t even have my cake and eat it too in my OWN FUCKING AU. Typical.
And yeah, there’s gonna be a noticeable age-gap in this AU, so if that’s not your thing, then that’s fine. There is gonna be a lot of coming of age shit attached to that, a bit of daddy kink, Joan having obvious daddy issues [John most likely had legit mommy issues let’s be real], first times, you name it.
In the AU, Paul is slowly going to come to the outlandish idea/theory that this girl is John, or at least John’s soul reincarnated. He can’t help it-- she reminds him of John too much, it’s eerie how alike the two are that they might as well be the same person. Paul knows he must be crazy for thinking it, and hates it because it makes him feel as if he’s gone completely obsessed over John, the idea of John still being here with him.
I will include an appearance from George and Ringo, with maybe Ringo trying to tell Paul that perhaps this is his way of handling the absence of John, and Paul, trying to justify himself, partially agrees. George ends up meeting this girl, and can’t help but agree that Paul may be right, just maybe, because even George can’t deny this girl reminds him of John too, and gives off this aura that is unmistakably John. Ringo thinks both of them are daft sods, but when Ringo meets Joan, he also finds himself seeing John in her-- though Ringo never voices it. But George is careful to not agree with Paul out loud, worried it might encourage Paul in an unhealthy and potentially dangerous way.
That is, will Paul confront Joan about this and finally tell her that he believes she is John reincarnated? Paul wants too, he wants to tell her, but he’s not stupid, he knows it would probably freak the girl out and cause their budding relationship to instantly crumble and die. But whenever Paul talks about John to her once they’ve gotten close enough that he’s comfortable to divulge such intimate stories and memories about his best mate, Joan’s face would become pensive, almost a far-away look in her eyes, and would begin to comment on how she swears she’s heard these stories before, or that something even similar had happened to her to which had happened to John [even though many of the stories are personal, and kept rather private, so how would she know???]
But Joan would simply shrug off those feelings of Deja Vu, laugh and shake her head, and just move on. She didn’t like getting those feelings, like she should have memory of something but just doesn’t.
Excerpts from a fanfic I’ll never write:
It’s a mess, really. Paul falling for this young lively bird with a mean wit and soft lips and squinting eyes that desperately needed glasses, which still managed to observe and could kill someone in the heat of an argument. A girl with auburn hair that tickled his cheeks whenever they’d hug, a girl with a memorable nose, a girl who smelt of ciggies and Liverpool and vanilla and home. “You’ve got kaleidoscope eyes,” Paul would try one afternoon, sounding like a young awkward teen again trying to impress a young but experienced girl. Joan would turn those fiery eyes to him, squinting, turning to an unimpressed glower that didn’t match the flustered smile. “Sod off, old man,” Joan would reply, snubbing him as she would do, though the smile still betrayed her.
Paul would fall, fall and fall, like Alice, except there would be no floor to catch him. He would fall for Joan, because he fell for John. It’s a mess, really-- because as things escalated, Paul’s love for Joan and John began to blend and blur, and it was bad because who did Paul really love? Joan, the wild young thing who could tear him down just as easily as build him up in the same sentence and look, or John-- who could do the same but ten times over, and had. Joan though, Joan was putting pieces back together that he had tried to bury long ago, pieces that John had left the day of December 8th.
“I’m not John,” Joan would say, blunt and straight, cigarette clenched between her teeth. Paul feeling as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. “I’m Joan,” she’d continue mercilessly, taking a long drag of the fag before ripping it from between her lips, smoke swirling out between the cruel words of reality. “I’m not some catalyst for your best mate, for whatever you and him had.” Joan’s young face twisted angrily, her eyes filled with dark hurt as she glared at the old rock and roller before her. For a second, Paul saw John again, John with his sneer and his burning glare and his words of knives that dared Paul to say something back, to engage him in war. It made Paul sick, all of it. He opened his mouth to argue, to protest what she was saying, what she was claiming has been happening all these months. But he can’t, because it’s true, it’s all true, and it burns his insides up. “You love John, and, and I’m not John,” she’d say, voice cracking as she can’t hide the hurt that comes from finally speaking these truths, bringing them to the light. Her face looks broken, tears threatening to break just as her voice had-- cigarette forgotten between two delicate fingers.
When Paul could find his voice, all that could be said was the girl’s name, soft and almost like a plea; “Joan.” “Don’t,” she’d bite back like a cornered animal, lip curling in disgust from just hearing her name come from those lips that had practically seared marks along her body. But Paul didn’t, he couldn’t stop, he’d still try-- tried reaching out towards her, a hand going to grasp at her free hand by her side, but all he got was grazing the tips of his fingers to the back of hers before she whipped her hand away, body following the violent motion as she stepped back, away. Those eyes, it’s like she wanted to kill him, especially as that had broken the dam and now her cheeks were wet and she was trying not to hyperventilate and finally she dropped the cigarette as her hands began to quiver. “I don’t want to hold your hand anymore! don’t you get it?” she might as well have slapped him, stabbed him, but Paul truly believed those things would have hurt less than what she had just said to him.
Anyways, thanks for taking the time to read all this bullshit lol I’m really invested in this AU, and so expect more of it. I will be posting the full drawing of Joan once it’s finished, or I can’t bring myself to work on it anymore and thus claim it’s finished to the best of my abilities lol
#mclennon#mclennon au#mclennon fic idea#I've put both too much and no thought into this#this is long so brace yourselves#reincarnated au
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—we’re good at bad ideas, my love;
pairing: loki x reader
4k drabble celebration: [o6/22]: “I can’t wait any longer.”
word count: 2.1k+ (what can I even say?)
warnings: nada
notes: All prompts for this challenge come from “Super Sappy Lines Prompt List” created by @tiptoe39. Sadly, I can’t link the list without Tumblr sniping this post but you can find a link to it on my tumblr.
. . .
You were surprised you managed to sneak up on him.
Either he was losing his touch (doubtful), or he was too preoccupied with whatever he was scheming (more likely).
The blade slid against the elegant curve of his neck and he stilled.
“You shouldn't be here, silver-tongue,” you hummed behind him, and pressed another dragger against his ribs when he made a move to grab his own weapon. “It’s a dangerous place for a princeling like you to venture to.”
Loki had always been fast—annoyingly, brilliantly, fast. He pivoted on his feet, his own dagger pointed at your throat in a blink of an eye before he flattered upon taking in your face. The piercing hostility melted from his features and into soft disbelief and confusion.
“(Name)?”
You heard the ring of relieved disbelief in his voice, and suppressed a smile at the immediate and calculating way his green eyes started tracing over your features.
“I thought you dead,” he spoke after another moment, and his words felt heavy despite their softness.
“Likewise,” you countered coolly, taking in how different he looked from the prince you once knew. “Last I heard you were dead. Clearly, that’s old news. Though I suppose I should have known better than to trust the word of mouth.”
“Indeed you should have,” he noted, and there was a bite to his words that made your jaw clench.
You wanted to ask him a thousand things: how he had ended up in Sakaar, what happened in Asgard, where was Thor, and most importantly, if what the whispers said about him was true.
If he had truly aligned himself with the one individual whose name no one dared to speak out loud. If he had truly tried to take over Midgard, and served under the Mad Titan himself. The Titan was practically a myth on Sakaar, yet no one dared to speak ill of him—at least not in public. His influence hung over the universe like a dark shroud, and the thought that Loki had…
“Well, it’s truly difficult to keep up-to-date with Asgard news when one is banished,” you pointed out drily, and the subdued iciness of your tone made Loki’s eyes narrow. He looked different; somehow hollowed out and torn down all at once, unmade. There was a new sharpness to his gaze—still cutting, still far too clever for his own good—that pierced you though. “It wasn’t exactly easy or pleasant news to hear—”
“Did you mourn?”
A million things were packed into the quiet question. His face had smoothed out, giving away nothing as always. He was far too good at this game of words. You had an appreciation for his methods but little patience for them. You had slowly learned how to adapt his method for your own survival. That tends to happen when you spend all your spare time around someone like him though. Or you did.
Once you had been inseparable.
But now—even though you hadn’t been this close physically in years—it felt like a bottomless chasm had opened up between you.
“Yes.”
It felt uncomfortable to admit it. Neither of you had ever been much for heartfelt exchanges of sentimentality. The closest he had come to sentiment was the day you were banished. You could still recall the fervent burn in his eyes when he swore that he was going get you back no matter what.
But that was then.
Years and years of waiting and bitter longing stood between you now.
And here you both were. At the edge of the universe, reunited once again.
“What’s the deal with your new outfit?” you finally forced out, realising that he wasn’t going to say anything else. You couldn’t quite read his expression, and it felt safer to fill the silence with something. Loki always loved to talk.
“What’s the deal with your hair? It looks abysmal.”
A strangled—and dare you say it, relieved—laugh slipped past your lips, and his expression softened too, a smug grin tugging his own lips upwards. And just like that, the suffocating tension disappeared, making it easier to breathe.
This. This you had missed terribly. The easy, near antagonistic relationship between you. And the trust and the respect, and…
Perhaps just him too.
“What are you doing here, Loki? Where are the others?” you spoke, sheathing your blades, and noting that he had already put his away. Still quick with his hands too. “How did you end up in this garbage dump?”
Eyes crinkling, he approached you with that familiar swagger in his step, “They’re not here. And maybe I can’t wait any longer for them to show up, and came to take over and rule this planet myself.”
You made a thoughtful noise at the back of your throat, folding your hands over your chest, and gazing at him for a long moment. Loki always liked being clever. Always liked explaining his grand schemes and seeing how quickly you managed to catch on to all the little nuances in his plan. It had been one of his favourite games to play—aside from making Thor’s life a living misery. Once it had been harmless fun, but now…
“Well for one, you should not underestimate the Grandmaster,” you told him mildly, watching his expression sharpen with interest. A new source of information, that's what you effectively just made yourself, and this felt familiar too. How many times had you both done this routine before? Too many times to count. “He’s far smarter and ruthless than you think. Don’t let the frivolous act fool you. And taking over this world? Have you forgotten what happened in Niflheim?”
Loki’s eyes twinkled with mirth, and in that spark of life, you saw the mischievous prince you once knew so well.
“Oh, Niflheim was a delight,” he practically purred, his smile all teeth like the memory woke up something buried deep down; something dear to him.
And you could understand it. It was a simpler time then. Just you and him, with Thor and Warrior Three, sometimes joining in. The Nine Realms had seemed like your playground then. But that was a long, long time ago.
“No. Niflheim was most certainly not a delight,” you pointed out incredulously, your expression twisting in disbelief. “Did you hit your head or something? I was thrown to prison because you were a little shit and decided it was a good idea to—”
“Help me take this place,” he cut you off, grabbing you by the shoulder, and you felt the air in your lungs burn. Loki’s eyes were aflame with that familiar fire, the drive you once believed would get him the throne. You had never expected this though. “You and me, just like the old days. We take this place for ourselves and the rest of the universe can rot for all I care. Just like Niflheim,” he added, softer, and you exhaled sharply.
Niflheim held many memories for you both. But there were some that needed to stay buried.
You stared at him for a long moment, and you saw the flicker of realisation in his eyes—perhaps even disappointment—as his hand dropped from your shoulder suddenly. “You’re not going to help me,” he pointed out flatly, but much to your surprise it lacked malice.
“Loki…” you began unsurely, before you swallowed heavily, shaking your head and turning away. “Things are not what they once were. We’ve changed. Perhaps not for the better. I can’t just close my eyes and forget everything that has happened to me. I can’t just go back to the way things were between us.”
“And why not?”
Sharper, colder. This was a tone that matched the man all those rumours talked about. A maniac who tried to destroy Jotunheim. Who obeyed the order of the most hated and feared individual in the galaxy.
“Because you abandoned me,” you snapped angrily, turning to face him. A violent throb of rage and bitterness pulsed with every escalated beat of your heart, and you swallowed shakily. “Left me behind when you swore that you were going to get me back. I sacrificed my freedom, my home, so you could walk away unscathed because I cared for you. Because it was you and me against the universe, remember? I—I trusted you and you threw that trust back in my damn face.”
His face went slack at your outburst. You wished you had a moment to gloat at the fact that for once in your life, you managed to render Loki speechless, and not the other way around. But instead, the rage you had harboured for years crumbled to nothing in your chest, leaving a hollow hole in you that made you feel—
Lost, lonely, helplessly adrift.
If nothing else, you had always had your unlikely, improbable—never should have worked in a million years but somehow did—friendship with Loki.
Even when you had nothing else—a real home, fancy titles, or riches of any kind—you had your trickster. And for so very long, it had been enough.
You were each other’s number one choice.
Loki envied and loved Thor in equal measure, but you had always known in the way you often exchanged secretive looks and unfailingly had each other’s backs, that you were irreplaceable to him.
And you were wrong.
You had been so stupidly, naively wrong, it made you feel ashamed.
“I searched for you,” Loki’s voice was low but serious, “I did not abandon you. I searched for you.”
Something that didn’t even resemble a smile twisted your mouth, “Not hard enough. Not nearly hard enough, and you know it.”
You saw his jaw clench, eyes blazing but before he could spin you another pretty lie, you reached out first. Your fingers brushed against his cheek and you felt him still under your touch. So helplessly caught in the moment, you almost forgot to speak.
“My trickster,” you addressed him quietly, and hated the note of affection that bled into your words. “I am not cruel, and I will not punish you for this. For old times’ sake, I will help you survive this place, gain a foothold too, if I can. But nothing more and nothing less. I want to be free of you after this.”
His cheek was cool when your lips brushed against it, and you felt his strangled exhale at the contact. You savoured the moment too. The last one you would ever allow yourself.
“I’m glad you live, trickster,” you told him honestly and pulled back, giving him a sad smile. “It would be an awfully boring universe without you in it.”
Loki’s lips were parted slightly, his eyes flickering quickly over your features.
“Thief…”
Your heart stuttered in your chest at the old, teasing nickname he had bestowed upon you so long ago. He rarely called you by it, but he always managed to weave some muted, teasing fondness into the word that once upon a time made you grin and shove him playfully.
Truthfully, there was nothing you would not give to go back to that time.
But you had no such power, and never would.
“We should go,” you stressed weakly, looking away from his keen gaze. “This is not the most secure location, and we have work to do.”
He grabbed your wrist before you could step around him, and when you turned to him, his gaze was gutting in its intensity. Loki had always been full of chaos and mischief; it often felt like it was in his very blood, like he was born for it, ready to unleash it upon others and revel in the chaotic mess after.
But you saw how different he now was too. It was true that some things were unchanged. But some things, you imagined, would never be truly recovered. For you or him.
“This conversation is not over,” he said easily, all matter-of-fact and so sure of himself. It almost made your heart ache. Once, you had taken so much comfort from his quiet confidence: in his plans, in himself, in you. “We will speak of this again.”
“Still a demanding princeling bastard, I see,” you replied dully, forcing the teasing tone into your words.
There was a glimmer of something like relief in his eyes, but it was a gone in a blink. “It’s king now, actually.”
“Hmm...no.”
“You would disrespect your king?”
“Sure I would.”
“Witch.”
You swallowed a sob, your grin almost pained, but it was tinged with relief too, “Bastard.”
Maybe some things could never be recovered.
But maybe better things could be built in their place.
. . .
an: I somehow wrote this whole thing in one sitting in a span of few hours, and you all know I love backstories and angst so this was my favourite type of story to write. Ahh, I might write more for it, I found this dynamic highly enjoyable. Thank you for reading! <33
#loki x reader#loki laufeyson x reader#marvel#loki laufeyson#loki laufeyson imagine#loki imagine#marvel x reader#marvel imagine#loki#loki fic#thor ragnarok#tom hiddleston#4kdrabbles#nightly drabbles
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Keys
A Resident Evil One Shot
Life After Death
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. -Kahlil Gibran
2006
The keys to the truck were the only thing in her hand.
She waited, breathing quietly, for the things to turn hot as if she'd extracted a smoldering coal from a bed of flames and placed it in the palm of her hand. The keys were quiet. The keys were the only thing left of him.
He'd dove from a window to save his partner. Like a hero in a story he'd once read to her as a girl, he'd died to spare the love of his life from her own demise. The dark fall of all that chestnut hair hid the lowered countenance of the woman in question.
She'd always been his Valentine.
He'd died to make it clear she was his heart.
The voice of the lawyer droned. Claire studied the key ring with a numb acceptance. He'd spent his life fighting. He'd spent his life pushing. He'd spent his life driving toward the end of fear.
He'd died clutching his greatest nemesis until the moment they'd struck the ground in an epic battle of good versus evil. There was no more Wesker. There was no more lies. There was no more evil.
There was no more Chris.
The statement echoed in her head. It rolled and stung. It clung and coveted space where happiness had once lingered.
Claire ignored the hammer of a headache beating at her temples in triumphant announcement. She stared at the keys in her palm and pictured the last time she'd seen him. He'd stood in the dying sun to show her the ring.
The little wink of sapphire and starlight white diamonds. A ring made of sea and sky to compliment the eyes and the favorite shades of his partner. He'd been so nervous. She'd never seen him nervous, but he'd been so eager.
Quietly, Claire had asked, "Does she even know you love her?"
Chris had shrugged and remarked, "Does it matter? I've waited all this time. This thing with Spencer...if he's there, Claire...the answers we'll find...it could open a door to the kind of intel that might bind us all together in a fight against bioterror. It could mean support from all sides of the globe. If we can prove that the T-Virus is just one stage of it...we can finally get the battle back in our court. Maybe..."
He'd trailed off. He'd stared into the horizon and laughed softly, "Maybe she'd like to have a couple kids with me. Maybe she'd like to...see the house Dad and Mom left us in Colorado. Maybe she'd like that."
Claire had felt her throat close up as she encouraged, "Yeah...yeah, maybe she'd like that. She's a fucking idiot if she doesn't."
"I'm gonna ask her...when we get back...I'm gonna ask."
He'd never asked.
He'd taken that ring with him to the grave.
After his funeral, she'd never found it. She had to assume it was on him when he died. She had to assume he'd died with the promise of Jill Valentine in his pocket. He'd died so she could live.
It was the only way Chris Redfield knew how to be.
Claire closed her fingers over the keys and turned away from the lawyer. She was done listening. She was done hearing. She didn't want platitudes and sympathy and courtesy offers of condolences.
She was done.
She just wanted her brother.
And he was dead.
She passed by Jill and paused. Teeth clenched, she told the brunette, "...you better be worth it."
Jill shivered in grief and murmured, "I'm not. I've never been."
"He thought you were...so get your ass out there and prove it."
Claire opened the door on the big black Dodge Ram. It was littered with his things. He had a scattering of change in the ashtray. There was a half empty bottle of Mountain Dew on the floorboard. The visor was pulled down with a pair of Oakleys in black tucked over it. A pair of boots were tossed negligently in the back seat, scuffed and well loved. Dogs tagged dangled from the rear view mirror and a lighter lay uselessly on the dash.
Claire touched the button on the glove box and wasn't failed by her brother even in death. A half smoked pack of Marlboro Reds greeted her along with a wad of papers of bills that he'd left unpaid. Claire pulled one of the carcinogenic sticks and put it between her lips. She struck it up with S.T.A.R.S. zippo on the dash and inhaled sharply.
Her gaze traveled to the center console. Her hand touched it to open it up and show a wadded up B.S.A.A. t-shirt. She pulled it free, relatively sure he'd worn it before work one day before he'd changed into his uniform. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled.
The scent of him surrounded her like a ghost. The cigarette plumbed smoke into the air as she clutched the soft fabric to her face and curled her body forward around it. She hadn't cried once since they'd put him in the ground.
Not a single tear.
The smell of him made her chest seize worse than her lungs inhaling the smoke. She made a small sound of grief and loss.
She cried clinging to the scent of her brother in the cab of the only thing in the world left that she had of him.
She would mourn him for the rest of her life.
She wasn't sure how she went on without him.
It was his heart that stopped beating, but it was hers that was in the grave beside him.
.......
"If you listen...you can hear them sometimes."
He knelt beside her as the blanket of stars twinkled happily in a velvety sky. "Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah. You don't have to use your ears, Chris. You just...you use your heart."
"My heart has ears?"
Claire giggled sweetly, "Of course it does, silly. Your heart has everything. Eyes, ears, fingers...and it remembers how they felt and how they sounded...and how they smelled...it never forgets. Your heart has a brain too."
She felt his cheek lay on the top of her head. She felt his hands tremble and his voice was hoarse as he answered, "C-Bear...you just might be the smartest girl in the world sometimes."
"I know...I get that from them too. You know what you got?"
"...black hair?"
She laughed and hugged him, "...me."
She felt the wet plop of tears on her hair as he squeezed her so tight it made her squirm a little, "Yeah, I did. Maybe they'll tell me how to make sure I never forget it."
"Just use your heart...it will always remember."
"...promise me you'll do it for me if I ever forget."
Claire lifted her head. She smiled while two pairs of the same eyes held on to each other. "...I promise. Whenever you can't...I'll always remember."
..........
The field kicked up chunks of mud and snow. She whipped the wheel and plowed through the ravaged earth. The sun peaked cleanly through the winter clouds. It watched her madness with a kind of quiet judgment.
It was the same kind shared by the man who emerged from the tree line as she jerked the truck to a halt with a squeal of tires. The engine ticked as she threw open the door and climbed out. The cold slapped her face with frigid palms as she called, "What do you want, Kennedy?! You come out here looking for a truck to wreck? This ones taken."
He tilted his head at her. The navy peacoat he wore was fashionably him. It was topped by a scarf in pretty red that made his blonde hair look gold in the dim winter light. The naked trees over his shoulder highlighted the beauty of that perfect face as he mused, "Only one of us on a path of destruction here, kid. You planning to survive the fallout?"
Claire shrugged and stuck a cigarette in her mouth. "Who cares? I'm alone right? I'm repellent for anyone who matters. My parents, men, my brother...they all die and leave me...or they betray me. So will anyone even notice?"
The corner of his mouth quirked, "You been hanging around inside my head lately, CB? Those sound suspiciously like my thoughts and not yours."
She scoffed and accepted the deft flick of the zippo he pulled from his pocket. She inhaled and let him pluck the smoke from her lips to help himself to it. They shared it in silence until she mused, "You see they made Valentine a Captain?"
"...I did." Quietly. No judgment. There seldom was with Leon. He was just that guy. He didn't judge. He just listened.
Claire laughed harshly, "And they awarded my brother a Medal of Bravery. A medal...posthumously. What fucking good is a piece of useless metal? He can't wear it. He's rotting in the ground. They think I'll pin it to his bones?"
Leon shrugged a shoulder, "You do what you want with it. It's yours. It's just an honor, Claire, not an insult to his memory."
She barked out a laugh, "Honor. He dies, she lives, and she takes his command, his company, and his fucking place. He loved her. He loved her and she never loved him back! "
Softly, Leon mused, "...that's rough stuff there."
"Yeah, it is! He was so stupid! Why did he do it!? She mattered more than me!? She's fine! She's fine! But what about me!? Huh? What about me..." Her voice trailed off as the anger hummed around them, "...what about me...you son of a bitch..."
Quietly, Leon soothed, "Redfield's are pretty stupidly stubborn sometimes."
Claire laughed angrily, "No shit. Blind as he was brave."
"Hmm. I think he thought what we all do."
She turned her ravaged gaze to him, imploring, "What? What was he thinking?"
"...that you're the strongest woman he's ever known. That he'd made sure of that. That you took what he taught you and became a warrior. He knew you'd survive him, Claire, because he knew you'd never forget him."
She was so quiet watching him, that he finally added, "He knew you'd keep on living...because that's what we do."
"It's not enough. I need more than that."
His head tilted, "...what do you need?"
The wind rolled around them. It was cold and painful. It was bitter. Like she was.
Leon watched her so gently that she kinda hated him. She envied his tranquility. She wanted it. She wanted anything to alleviate the rage and the loss that ate around her belly with teeth made of regret.
She'd heard the whispers about Leon. She knew what people said. He was cold. He was cut off. He didn't get involved. He didn't date women.
But he sure did fuck them.
She'd steered clear of him all these years because she'd felt something that first night in Raccoon. She'd felt it and she'd gone after Chris and made her choice. She knew she'd burned that bridge back to him. He'd remained her friend, but the idea of lover had been crossed off the moment she'd picked family over him.
She'd heard he was a guy who was really, really good at the one night stand.
She needed anything to take the edge off the misery pooled in her heart. So, she just threw it at him like a bullet, "Take me home."
He studied her. The wind kicked up. It curled up snow around their boots. He could have said no. She had no clue where his car was. She had no idea how he'd gotten there. He could have said no.
Instead, he said, "Give me the keys."
And she gave those keys of her brother's to the only other man in her world she trusted to drive his truck.
He had a reputation for wrecking things.
She was hoping he'd wreck her.
She figured he'd come to his senses before he went through with it. After all, all these years and they'd never touched each other like that. He'd tell her no and talk her down.
He didn't.
She tossed Chris' keys on the table in the living room and backed into her bedroom. He followed her, a predator, shedding clothes as he walked. Her heart, aching like it had been, started to pound painfully behind her breast.
She whispered, "Where do you want me?"
He tilted his head. She licked her dry lips and cleared her throat. She tossed her clothing as she turned on the shower and joined him again in the bedroom. All she wore now was her undershirt and panties.
Naked, he was somehow more beautiful than clothed. She warned, hoarsely, "You aren't gonna tell me I'm grieving?"
"...no."
"You think this is a mistake?"
His head tilted again, "Do you?"
"...fuck no."
"Then tell me how you want it."
Claire felt her breath hitch and her body go wet just waiting for him. "...take me."
"...and?"
"Make it hurt."
"My pleasure."
He came toward her like a lion stalking a gazelle.
The shower was pumping steam into the quiet room. His hands tossed her over his shoulder like she was nothing. He walked them both into it while quaked above him.
What words were there in this moment?
He almost threw her against the wall to kiss her. She grabbed handfuls of his ass to rub him against her belly like a pervert.
He grunted with pleasure and ripped the tiny shirt she wore. He ripped it, right down the middle like it was nothing, it came apart in his hands like flimsy paper. She started to bicycle her legs to get her panties off and he didn't bother to wait for her to finish, he speared his hand into her panties and crudely thrust two fingers into her. She was ready but not ready. Her body clamped around his invading digits even after a cry ripped from her throat in surprise.
He didn't give her a chance to say no, to fight him off, to do anything. He finger fucked her so mercilessly as she tried to get her panties off her lower legs but they were wet and stuck to her ankles like glue. She grabbed at his arms to try to hold herself up? To try to make him wait until she was ready? She had no fucking idea what was happening. She knew only that he drove those fingers into her, cupping his palm against her groin, his thumb shifting to sweep between the damp lips of her sex and brush back and forth over the apex of her body.
His free hand lifted to settle around her throat, his thumb driving against the soft underside of her chin, angling her face back to take more of his tongue. She couldn't get her eyes to close, they were rapturously fastened to his face as he slammed her against the tiled wall and forced himself on her. Forced? No. Force implied a lack of want on her part. She'd not only wanted him, she was dying with it. He simple poured that desperate passion over the top of the both of them until they were drowning.
He ruthlessly drove her body to the peak of pleasure and just when she was about to go over, he shifted. His hand grabbed at her hips and jerked. Her lower body humped forward from the force of it.
He dropped to his knees in the humid, heated, wonderful water. She couldn't think, didn't think. He put his mouth to her and she tried to fall down. He didn't let her, he shifted both her thighs until they were over his shoulders. Her hands scrambled to find something to grab above her and settled on the shelf where the shampoo set.
It fell with a clatter to the ground as she knocked it down in her haste. He jerked her groin to him and feasted on her. Undone she could do nothing but hold on to that shelf and cum. She came, bowing, bucking against his face. His left hand was at her breasts, mounding and taunting, pulling and teasing and taking. His mouth was merciless; it joined his right hand in thrusting into her, over her, through her. Her thighs quivered, pressed against the sides of his head while he ripped her apart one clever, wonderful thrust and bite at a time.
She came screaming while he drowned them both in need.
She could barely stand as he rose. Her thighs tried to snap together and he turned her, roughly, forcing her hands to splay on the wet tile. Her clothes were ripped and useless on her skin. The undershirt still around her shoulders like some kind of flimsy jacket. Her hand snapped back behind her to join his on the length of his dick as he smeared it over her back almost playfully.
He set his teeth into her shoulder as he moved behind her and ran the hard, aching length of himself over the curve of her ass. She shuddered, threw the other hand back and drove her nails into his flank, encouraging him.
His voice was rough, "Condom?"
She shook her head desperately, "No. No. God, no. Just like that. I wanna feel it."
He grunted, "Put me in you, Claire."
She obeyed, angling him into the needy oval of her body as the thunderous spill of water cocooned them.
Christ..how long had they waited?
Too long.
Why hadn't she fucked him after Raccoon? She couldn't think. She couldn't feel anything but the want he shoved into her like he'd shove his dick.
She made a small sound of want and gasped, "Use me. Ok? Use me."
Bracing both hands on the wall beside her, he pushed himself into her body. She gasped, bowed against him, and he sheathed himself into the heat of her to the hilt. He held himself there, spitting her on his body while he gained enough control to not pound her to death against the wall.
She felt him put his forehead against the place where her neck and shoulder met, felt him gather his resolve. Claire turned her head, nuzzled at his face, and took his mouth in a long, wet, tongue thrusting kiss. She rocked back against him, encouraging. She didn't think she'd ever know anything more wonderful than what it felt to feel him thick and deep inside her.
She moved her hips and pulled herself nearly off before pushing herself back on him. His hands moved down and jerked her hips back. He lifted her to her tip toes, angled himself better, and rode her. It was slow and torturous. He went out, he rode in, he caused them both to nearly die with the aching slowness of it.
She humped back against him, desperate. He shook his head and kept the pace slow and steady. She was nearly undone when she pulled away from him. She turned and leaped on him. He caught her, easily, and she took his face and raped his mouth with hers. He was laughing delightedly at her as he pressed her back against the wall and speared her with himself.
They clashed together now, desperate and fast. They ended up across the floor of the shower with her atop him and the water trying to drown them both. She stole his sanity, blanketed them both in that humbling, skin stealing, soul raping rush of greed she felt for him. She held him down now with his arms over his head as she fucked him, forcing his body into hers fast and deep and constant. He was making some sound in his throat, trapped beneath her; a willing victim. He felt her tighten, felt her orgasm as it ripped through her body, and out of her mouth in a desperate cry.
He lifted his upper body off the ground and wrapped his arms around her waist. He surged twice more against her and pressed their mouths together hard enough to bruise if she didn't open for him. She did and his tongue surged inside. He filled her mouth with his desperate gasp and jerked her hard down on him. The slap of skin was musical in the pounding water.
Her wet clothing slapped obscenely.
It felt like they'd waited a life time for a handful of moments together.
It felt like her heart could hear the life inside of both of them.
She wasn't dead. She was just dying and Kennedy was a hero. He saved girls.
He was saving her by fucking her back to life.
........
The keys in her hand were heavy. She clenched her palm around them as the nurse gave her a beautiful smile.
"Is that to your truck?"
Quietly, Claire whispered, "My brother's...my brother's truck...well...I guess it's mine now."
The nurse smiled happily, "Well, I sure hope it has a back seat."
Claire nodded numbly, "...I-yes. Yes it does...yes."
"Good. It's not safe to put a baby seat in the front...the air bags, ya know? Dangerous."
Claire stared at the thing in her other hand beside the keys. The little blob of white on a black background. The nurse leaned over and touched the picture, "See that? That's the heart. You can see it beating."
The heart. The heart beating.
The heart of her baby.
She touched the tiny white blob and clutched the keys.
She'd always wanted children. Always. The timing had never been right. The world...it hadn't allowed it. She'd always wanted them. She'd nursed baby dolls while other girls had planned their weddings.
She'd never needed a man...but she'd always wanted a child. She'd tell Leon. If he didn't want...well...that didn't matter either. She wanted. She wanted him and this baby...but she'd survive if he didn't feel the same.
She'd carry her child in her brother's truck. The only thing in the world that mattered inside the only thing in the world she had left of the man who'd been her world once. Her world inside her world...inside her womb.
Jesus.
The heart never forgot.
And neither would the baby she'd raise to remember.
She paused on the steps of the hospital with the truck waiting for her to drive it and remember.
Leon Kennedy waited in that coat in the cold. He tilted his head at the picture in her hand. "...what do you need, kid?"
Claire clutched the keys in her fist and smiled, shakily, "...I don't wanna be blind anymore. You sure you wanna take me on?"
His teeth flashed, "You're the one who left that night...all you had to do was look back once..."
"And?"
"...and I'd have gone out a window for you."
Her heart stuttered. She felt her eyes swim with tears. "I wanna name him Chris."
Leon heaved out a heavy breath and a laugh, "...god help us all. The Redfield lineage continues."
She clutched her keys so tight she was afraid they'd pierce her palm. "Yeah...it and never forgets."
She came down the stairs. She climbed into her brother's truck beside the man who'd climbed into a nightmare beside her. She took his hand to place it on her belly as she drove.
Chris' shirt was folded in the back seat. His dog tags jingled on the rearview mirror. He was all around her. Him, their parents, their love...it was all pieces of her she'd never forget.
With the man beside her and that hope inside her, it was the first time since Raccoon City she knew there was life after death.
All because he'd given her the keys to his truck...and allowed her drive into her future.
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