#my tongue is still numb and the back of my throat is *metal scraping noise* and my uvula is *steamboat horn*

[barkingangelbaby]

in. so. much. pain. rn.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Revision.

Commissioned by the very lovely @pyrokittyowo.

Pairing: Yandere!Simeon/Reader (Obey Me).

Word Count: 2.2k.

TW: Past Trauma, Toxic Relationships, Codependency, Infantilization, Isolation, Mentions of Physical Abuse, Manipulation, Gaslighting.

The sun never sets in the Celestial Realm.

It’s less whimsical than it sounds, to be fair. Sleep is a luxury for angels, a way to pass time for the young and the injured, but that hadn't been something Simeon thought to tell you when you first arrived, as you tried to follow his mangled, irregular cycle of rest and work. You’d gotten the hang of it with time, carved out your own routine and forced yourself to follow it, but you’d be lying if you said you were completely used to it. It was grating, if anything, just how bright all of it was, the shine only amplified by the ivory and gold angels seemed so fond of. It was overwhelming, really. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve called it unbearable.

But, you did know better. This realm was warm, but not stifling, not half as oppressive as the Devildom had been. It didn’t have the same constant chill, a pervasive darkness only made worse by the humid air and that invasive metallic scent, like stone and rock and the blood that must've been soaked into the cracks of both. The darkness was worse. All of it was worse, but you tried to keep your mind on the landscape, the starless sky, the bleakness you’d slowly grown to hate.

If you let yourself think about anything else, you’d have to think about the people you’d met, the brothers, the way they’d looked at you. You’d have to remember how tight Mammon’s grip had been, the first time he took you by the wrist rather than the hand, or how dull Beelzebub's fangs were and how much it hurt when he drove them into your skin, your chest, the sensitive area just below your collarbone that never failed to bleed, when it bit down. You’d have to think about how Lucifer’s hand felt as it wrapped around your neck, the sound of your own failing breath, the way he’d laughed as you—

You inhaled sharply, cutting yourself off before you could get any more lost in the memory.

Because that’s what it was – just a memory. Something you’d never have to worry about again, thanks to Simeon.

Still, you were allowed to complain. Even indoors, perched in one of the many bay windows spotted around Simeon’s sizable chambers, you could feel the unyielding sun, notice the light start to eat away at your vision like a hungry, gnawing parasite. There were clouds in the sky, perfect wisps of nothing, but they'd been their since the day you first arrived, fixed features on an unchanging canvas. They wouldn't move. You already knew that. Nothing moved in the Celestial Realm, not unless it had a reason to.

And yet, you found yourself opening your mouth regardless, asking the question that’d been playing on your tongue all day. You could let yourself have this. You could hope that were wrong. It wasn't like this would be the first time. “It doesn’t rain here, does it?”

Immediately, there was a hum from across the room, one of the many soft sounds Simeon seemed to be so fond of. You should’ve been glad he was there to answer at all, really. Simeon spent most of the day tending to his vague responsibilities. If he had time to sit around, pouring over a scroll in a language you couldn’t recognize, it must’ve meant it was either too early in the morning or too late at night for him to be bothered with anything else. You couldn’t be sure which, not when the two were so impossible to tell apart. “Rarely,” He replied, still distracted. “Michael tries not to leave the weather up to chance. If he needed a storm, I’d be able to tell you weeks in advance.”

You almost felt bad for him. You would’ve hated it, knowing everything long before it actually happened, but you doubted Simeon would ever let himself be so careless. “I don’t know how I’d stay sane,” You admitted, your gaze moving back to the window. A white dove had landed on the edge of Simeon’s windowsill, meticulously sorting through bleached feathers with its pointed beak, and idly, you wondered if the animals bothered to regulate themselves, too. “You wouldn't like my hometown. Couldn’t see the sky most days, and when you could, it was nearly too hot to go outside. Never stopped it from snowing a month before winter, though.” You paused, letting yourself smile at the thought. You missed it; you weren’t going to try to deny that. You were still allowed to miss things. “Luke would probably love it. Say what you want about humans, but we've never gotten a bakery wrong.”

Simeon didn’t hum, this time. The silence couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but your heart still found a way to tighten in your chest, stopping completely as you heard his chair scrape against the floor, sharp footsteps following the noise immediately. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, and he was kind enough not to force you to, brushing off your avoidance as he positioned himself on the opposite side of your small shelter. It wasn't much of an improvement, though. If he'd just let himself be a little more cruel, you might've had the pleasure of hating him for it.

“You’re thinking about the human world again.”

He was getting straight to the point. You couldn’t say you weren’t thankful.

“How can I not?” You tried to laugh, but it came out strained, out of place against his sober expression. “I haven’t been home in a year. I’m bound to want to go back, eventually.”

“You know it’s not safe.” It was a familiar mantra, one you should’ve been numb to, but it still found a way to hurt, to linger, accumulate into a small, aching knot in the back of your throat as you reminded yourself that he was only doing it because he cared. That was all – he cared. He didn’t want to see you get hurt, not again. He didn’t want to see you face anything more harmful than his clumsy comfort, even if he did have a strange way of showing it. “We’ve talked about this before, (Y/n). It’s still too early to tell if Lucifer left any lasting damage. There could still be a tracking spell I haven’t discovered yet, or worse.” There was a pause, and a gloved hand came to rest on your knee. You could’ve mouthed the words, as he said them. “I can keep you safe here, but your world is neutral territory. I might not be able to stop him, if he and his brothers tried to take you away.”

You hated the way he said it. Part of you, a persistent minority, still wanted to think this was all a misunderstanding, a result of crossed wires and mixed messages and the kind of miscommunications that only ever led to such awful things. You knew it was unhealthy, to try to tint your own memories with such a forgiving light, but that didn't help you smother the temptation to believe all the soft, pleasant encouragements Asmodeus had whispered in your ear as his brothers lived out their distorted, carnal fantasies. Whatever Simeon was trying to do, it certainly wasn’t helping, either.

“I’ll be careful,” You tried, slouching against the glass. It was warm to the touch, a feeling you savored under his cold gaze. “It’d be a day trip, at most. Just a few hours. I…” He was wearing the silk gloves, today, soft and smooth as he raised his hand, cupping your cheek without a trace of hesitation. You trailed off instantly, still unused to the gentleness. “I just want to see my family, that’s all. Even if it’s only for a few minutes.”

“You’re bored of me, now?” It was supposed to be playful, the question accompanied by a light chuckle, but you still shook your head, leaning into his palm as you went on. “I can’t say I blame you. I know I’m not one for company, but if you’re dying for entertainment, I can see what—”

“It’s not just that.” You should've let him finish, but it was already too late to stop yourself. You didn’t want to stop yourself, if you were being honest. You just wanted to go somewhere else, somewhere different, a place where the sky didn’t hurt to look at and the sun wasn’t so willing to punish you for existing. You wanted to be able to step outside without worrying whether or not your angelic hosts still thought you were worthy of their concern. You didn’t want this, anymore, even if it was the better option. “I’m just tired, Simeon. I’m tired of being here, I’m tired of running, and I just want to go home—”

There was a small huff, a sharp crack. By the time you realized what happed, by the time that sudden acidic sting faded into a steady throb, his thumb was already digging into your jaw, your head forcibly tilted back in such a way that made it so you had to look at him. You couldn’t avoid the softened anger in his eyes, or the stiffness in his posture, or that tight, unignorable scowl. He was disappointed, and he wanted you to know you were the reason why. He was mad at you, and you’d done everything to earn it.

When he spoke, he did so slowly. Like he was talking to a child who hadn’t quite come to terms with reality, just yet. “I’ve taken care of you, haven’t I?”

“You have.” There was no point trying to deny it. If it hadn’t been for Simeon, you’d still be rotting in that hellscape, subject to the whims of a family of monsters. He'd saved you. He'd helped you escape, and you had to be thankful for that. “I just don’t know if I can—”

“And you care about me, right? You don’t want to see me worry?”

You hesitated, but your answer was inevitable “Of course.”

“And you do remember the last thing Belphie said to you, don’t you? What he did to send you running to me?” He let himself smile, despite the nature of the question. “I could barely understand you back then, with the crying and all. Honestly, I almost didn't notice you were begging me to save you.” It was easy to forget how Simeon could be, when he knew he was right. Most of the time, his confidence was comforting, a gentle reminder that you could trust him, that you should trust him. Right now, it just made you feel weak. “What was it, again? C’mon, love, you can tell me, can’t you?”

You could. Objectively, you could, if you tried to. You could force your mouth to make the words, you could shut your eyes and let Simeon guide you through it, and you could tell yourself they were just memories, that you were somewhere else now, that you were somewhere better, but…

But, you really, really didn’t want to, and you couldn’t convince yourself you did.

If you did, you’d have to remember how tightly Belphegor had held your hand, as he said it, his fingers intertwined with yours and his grip strong enough to leave your palm bruised, after he pulled away. You’d have to think about the small smile he wore, the hatred in his half-lidded eyes, the chill that'd run down your spine as he hid his face in the crook of your shoulder and told you that, if you ever tried to leave him, if he ever had to share you with anyone beyond the six exceptions he was already making, he’d kill you. It was as simple as that.

If he ever saw you again, he’d kill you.

You were safe, here. You were safe in the Celestial Realm, you were safe with Simeon, but you still found yourself choking on the words, your throat going dry as your shoulders pitched forward, a bolt of something frozen striking your chest before you could ward it off. You couldn't be sure why something so distant would make you cry, but you could feel it coming on – hot tears welling in your eyes, blurring your vision, threatening to spill over and strip you of what little pride you had left, but Simeon only wiped them away, as doting as he always was. As loving as he always was, even when you took his patience for granted. Even when you hesitated to lean into him, as he pulled you into his chest, urging you to hide your face and treat him like the pillar of support he was so clearly trying to be. Even when you didn't deserve it, when you didn't deserve him, when you didn't deserve any of this, not when he was kind enough to pretend he didn't know that just as well as you.

“Poor little thing.” He was humming, now, his tone teetering on the line between carelessness and comfort. You couldn’t bring yourself to care, not in the moment, not when it was all you could do to muffle your hitched sobs into small, pathetic whimpers. “It’s nothing to blame yourself for. You just need a little help.” Another pause, elongated and purposeful. Sadistic, in only because he had to try so hard not to be. “You just need someone to protect you. It’s only human.”

It was all you could do to nod, to agree, as mindlessly as you were capable of. You didn’t want to think. You didn’t want to risk remembering something you shouldn’t.

Instead, you just focused on the sunlight streaming the nearest window, how it felt as it hit you.

How, wherever your skin made contact with Simeon’s, it seemed to grow just a little more insufferable than it had been, a second ago.

[cybertronian-cupid]

Hello! Hpoe you're both doing good! I really love the insecticons and there isn't much love for them. So could I request some tfp Hardshell x reader smut? Thank you. Have a nice day/night.

You can have all the Insecticon smut you want anon. This was a blast and a half to write ~Mila💟

We hope you enjoy it!💥 And we wish you have a good day/night as well!💞~Gregoria🏩

............................. ....................... ............................

The high-pitched shriek Hardshell aims at the approaching Insecticon causes his spike to pulse inside them. Their mouth is busy chasing after the smaller set of mandibles gripping the sides of their face, teeth weakly scraping at the metal, hips bucking ever so slightly. Their hands move from the thick neck and grab at the hinges at the back of the larger mandibles, tugging Hardshell closer with a whine.

“Stop that.”

His visor focuses on them once more, the harsh red glow of it dimming.

“I must make my claim first,” Hardshell’s helm lowers, teeth pressing against their neck in imitation of a kiss, mandibles caressing their cheeks. “Our Queen deserves only the best.”

A smile tugs at the corners of their mouth when they look up at him with big eyes, lips forming into a pout.

“And can you really say you’re the best?”

A surprised scream is torn out of them when his clawed fingers grip their waist, squeezing hard when he pushes more of himself inside of them. They can’t speak around the long tongue that forces its way down their throat. They furrow their brow at the taste of dust and the tang of energon he produced for them earlier in the day. He came with the rest of the Insecticons after their most recent mission, nearly knocking down the wall to their chambers in his hurry to attend to the needs of his Queen.

His.

Oh, the way his engine ticks and rumbles when he hisses at them makes their core throb. They can feel three clawed fingers edging closer, but this time Hardshell moved away, his wings fanning out for the challenger to see; he thrusts deeper, the lower part of his spike expanding and extending. The thin ovipositor sliding its way inside of them, penetrating as deep as possible.

His tube-like tongue withdraws and they’re left panting as a thick droplet of the sweet, pink energon slides down their chin.

“I will prove it to you, My Queen.”

They can feel the round, surprisingly cool eggs making their way inside them. Their thighs clench from the speed at which the eggs are pushed in. Just as they’re starting to adjust and enjoy the sensation, even starting to rock themself to make him feel good, Hardshell fully withdraws. They make a questioning, needy noise, and his mandibles click in amusement. The clawed fingers of the other Insecticon are already running over their chest, spike fully extended and weeping transfluid; the ovipositor bulges with the shimmering marble-looking eggs.

“I will let the rest of your hive show you how well we can please you,” and he takes the position at the door, guarding them and those he deemed worthy to be in their presence. The newcomer buzzes and whistles in inquiry, the visor half focused on Hardshell. Instead of using words, they let out a long note that without a doubt lets him know that the Queen is in need. In no time at all, the newcomer’s spike – thinner, but nearly as long as his ovipositor – starts penetrating them. His pace is shaky and barely restrained, if the claws shredding the soft material of the pillows under them is any indicator. They can feel the eggs rolling inside of them, the muffled clinking of the glasslike outer layer sending shivers down their spine.

Once again, it feels too soon for the spike to leave them. They aren’t empty for long, however, with a shorter, thicker spike taking over and setting a shallow pace; they aren’t sure at first if their walls are clenching around a spike or an oddly shaped ovipositor. It doesn’t matter in the end, as they feel hot transfluid coating their insides, turning the stretch and discomfort into heightened sensations of need and craving. Their arms turn numb, legs kicking weakly as they pant. Their eyes roll back with waves upon waves of pleasure. Vision turning blurry, they breathe short moans every time a new spike enters them, and more eggs are left inside.

The rhythm itself is almost like waves. The caress of mandibles on their body, the claws running over their hair, their lips wrapping around a tongue filling their mouth with nectar, sliding more eggs down their throat. Their knees are maneuvered so there are spikes grinding through their openings, valves riding the tops of their knees; their hands are wrapped around two other spikes, fingertips twitching against the sensitive mix of organic and metal mesh. Their upper body is lifted by the spikes of two soldiers using their armpits, the insides of the elbows, the space where their neck slumps to their shoulder, slowly rocking into any opening their Queen has to offer.

They feel their orgasm near, almost reaching its peak before they’re empty again. Their lovers change places and crowd around them, the heat of their bodies not enough to soothe the ache when there isn’t a spike stretching them.

Each time it feels like they’re left empty for too long, still not full enough of eggs to be satisfied. The hissing of the whole hive and the sensation of anticipating, excited fields bouncing against the outsides of their chamber makes their heart swell and their sex throb again, fiercer, nearly painfully when a spike exists them and there is no one next in line to fill them. Their eyes open, their mouth clicking demandingly. They feel their head being turned by a pair of scratched mandibles, a tube tongue playing at their lips. They suck at it, drinking and responding to the clicking above them with their teeth gently nibbling at the appendage in their mouth.

Once they’re done, the tongue withdraws and they look down on themself, giggles spilling from their mouth. All of their bedding and themself are drenched in a sticky mix of transfluid and nectar, valve and oral lubricants, their cum, and the aphrodisiac that the Insecticons kept pumping into them alongside the eggs. They aim a loopy grin up at Hardshell’s scarred faceplate. His visor soothingly pulses at them, prompting them to lay back down. Their face is gripped by his smaller mandibles and they open their mouth, tongue languidly licking at his fangs, insisting for them to open for more of the delicious nectar waiting inside. Instead the familiar, just right stretch of Hardshell’s spike fills them, his ovipositor doing most of the moving, prompting shaky, breathless pleas and praise from their mouth.

“Our Queen,” the metal sound of chimes and bells echo throughout their chambers as Hardshell’s faceplate nuzzles against their forehead, “half of your hive has pleased you so far.” His spike rocks into them, and they eventually register the transfluid entering them alongside the eggs. The hard glass marbles sink below the softened fertilized eggs. “Are they to your satisfaction?” He starts clicking at them, the noise urging and demanding a response.

They kiss his jaw and chirp a short command at him.

I need more.

The whole hive rumbles like distant thunder when more Insecticons displace their mass and enter the chamber.

They caress the back of Hardshell’s mandibles, tugging him closer and clicking demandingly.

Stay.

Everything afterwards is once again a blur of pleasure, never-ending waves of it, the content buzzing of their hive, all combined with the ticking and warmth of their mightiest warrior serving and tending to His Queen.

[kinglazrus]

Until Death Do We Part

Truce gift for @anthropwashere! Sorry I'm late, but I hope the wait was worth it!

Summary: For someone who fights ghosts, literal dead people, on a near-daily basis, you would think Danny could handle death better than this. He faces mortality every day, every time he goes ghost. So why can't he face this? Why is this any different than any other day? Because it was his Valerie, and he saw it, and he couldn't stop it. Because it was his fault.

(links to ffn and ao3 on my bio)

Warnings: gore and blood, panic attacks, murder

Word count: 24011

By the time the ambulance arrives, Valerie is already dead. The fight is over, Spectra and Bertrand long gone, and Danny—in human form—cradles her head in his lap. He doesn't know who called the ambulance, or when. Everything after Valerie's fall is a blur. He remembers a scream, his own most likely, and Spectra's victorious cackle, but not her retreat. The citizens had fled at some point near the start of the battle. How long was he holding her before someone returned, saw what happened?

After years of dealing with ghosts, the people of Amity Park had formed a simple routine. Run from the fight, don't get in the way or put yourself in danger, wait for the noises to end, wait a few minutes more, then trickle out of hiding once you know it's safe. The entire city knows the choreography by heart, follows every step with military precision. It's one of the main reasons no one has died during a ghost attack before. At least, until now.

The ambulance's wailing sirens cut out abruptly. Danny barely registers their absence, focused entirely on Valerie's face. If he lets himself get distracted, he might be tempted to look lower, at the wound that took her life a gaping mess of blood and shredded organs in the middle of her chest, covered by his jacket. Don't look at it. Don't think about it. Keep your eyes up.

People talk about peace in death, but he only sees agony on her face. Blood smears her lips, fills her mouth. Her wide eyes stare up at him, dull and empty. Shaking, Danny passes a hand over her eyes, trying to close them. As soon as he removes his hand, her eyelids slide back open. He tries again. They still don't close.

One of the paramedics comes up to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, kid. It's not... it's not like the movies. That's not how it works." The paramedic glances back at her partner, a helpless look passing between them.

"I called dispatch," her partner says, speaking softly, but still loud enough for Danny to hear. "Coroner's on the way."

She nods, then turns her attention back on Danny. "I'm sorry but you need to let her go."

Danny squeezes his eyes shut and sobs. Oh, god. Oh, god. He doesn't know what to do. He can't let her go, can't leave her, but she won't stop looking at him with those dead, accusing eyes. Another sob tears through him, and another, each cry ripping him to smaller and smaller pieces. He presses a hand to his mouth, clamping down hard as if he can force the sobs back down his throat if he pushes hard enough.

Belatedly, he notices the taste of copper on his tongue. Danny scrambles away from Valerie, her head dropping with a thump that makes the paramedics wince, and barely makes it two feet before his stomach heaves and he pukes in the street. A hand rubs his back; a soft voice whispers empty reassurances. When Danny finishes puking, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and gasping for breath, he leans back on his heels and looks up at a paramedic. Blinking through his tears, Danny catches her nameplate, C. Vaughan.

"Hey, you're okay," she says.

Danny stares at her incredulously. Okay? How is any of this okay? Valerie is dead. His mind is still reeling. Despite seeing it happen, some part of him can't believe it's real. Someone died during a ghost attack. Not just someone, but Valerie. And she wasn't killed by any old ghost, either. Nothing is okay, and it never will be again.

Because Danny Phantom killed Valerie Gray.

—

It takes nearly twenty minutes for the coroner to arrive. That whole time, Danny refuses to move or even talk. He doesn't approach Valerie's body again, but he can't walk away either. A handful of cops—he's not sure when they arrived—have set up a perimeter around the scene, keeping curious onlookers back. Looking over the line of people crowding against the police tape, disgust swells in Danny's gut. They're treating it like a show, pointing and whispering. Danny, grinding his teeth, glares at them, wanting nothing more than to blast them down the street.

In the throng, he catches a glimpse of Lance Thunder's perfectly coiffed hair.

The scrape of boots on asphalt pulls his gaze from the reporter, and he looks to his right. Vaughan approaches him, a water bottle and a cloth in her hand. She offers both to him. "You should get yourself cleaned up."

Danny stares at the offering blankly.

"Unless you want me to do it for you?"

At eighteen years old, Danny's entire face goes red at the thought of someone cleaning him like that. He snatches the items from Vaughan's hands, soaks the cloth in water, and scrubs at his cheeks. By now, the blood has long since dried, dark red streaks stretching across his cheeks. He remembers how warm it felt when it first splattered across his face.

Danny flinches, hands freezing. It takes him a moment to compose himself, shoving the sensation to the back of his mind, before he finishes scrubbing.

"Careful, or else you'll start peeling for skin off." Vaughan laughs weakly at her joke.

Danny doesn't even crack a smile. His face still feels dirty, but the cloth is more pink than white now, and it doesn't seem to be getting any darker, so he must have gotten all of it. Unsure of what to do with them, he offers the cloth and bottle back to Vaughan.

She takes them, then sits on the curb beside him. Her presence is neither comforting nor annoying, she's just there, a warm body next to him, soaking in his misery.

"It's never easy, finding a body," she says.

Danny holds back a snort. Right. Finding. As if he didn't watch it happen. As if it wasn’t all his fault.

"You're the Fenton boy, right?"

"One and only, last I checked."

"Marty called your parents." She nods toward the ambulance. For a second, Danny thinks she means her partner, the other paramedic, and he's confused about why they would call his parents. But then he realizes she's motioning to the cop standing beside her partner. Every few seconds, Marty the Cop glances his way. "I told him to back off for a bit, but he's gonna ask you a few questions about what happened before you can go."

Danny frowns. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you just found a dead body, and that's a horrible experience to go through, but it also means a bunch of strangers are going to ask you questions about what happened, and I think you should know what's happening before you get into it."

"I didn't find her."

Vaughan raises an eyebrow. "But dispatch said–"

"I was there. I was with her. We were friends."

Vaughan goes silent. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, letting it out slowly. "Oh," she says, packing so much emotion into one soft syllable. Pity, distress, world-weary exhaustion. A hint of anger. Hearing it makes Danny flinch, leaves him winded as if she punched him. Just another ache on top of all his growing bruises. He gets the feeling he's not the first kid she's had to deal with who watched someone die, and he probably won't be the last.

"Yeah," he says.

"Was that your jacket on her?"

Danny nods.

"That was a good thing you did. I can't imagine what's going through your head right now, but I think she would have been happy to have someone with her at the end."

Bracing his elbows on his knees, Danny clutches his head. Vaughan's trying to comfort him, but he finds no solace in her words. She has no idea what she's talking about. The look in Valerie's eyes at the end, seething even as the light drained out of them. His presence brought her no comfort, and he won't be forgetting that any time soon.

Vaughan nudges Danny. "Marty incoming."

He looks up and sees the cop approaching them, beady eyes narrowed on Danny. Marty the Cop keeps a hand on his belt, fingers drumming against his thigh. Inches away from his stun gun, Danny notes. Real quality cops in Amity Park, he thinks.

"Daniel Fenton?" Marty asks.

"No."

"Funny. I know your parents, and I hope you'll be a lot easier to deal with than they are."

"Marty!" Vaughan hisses. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Hey, just saying. You know how the Fentons are."

"Have some compassion you heathen."

Marty rolls his eyes. "Daniel. We don't have a procedure for something like this, but I'm gonna need you to come down to the station so I can get a statement. Your parents," he sneers, "will meet us there."

"But Valerie..." Danny trails off. The coroner already has her in a body bag on a stretcher. They're in the middle of loading her into the van, taking her away. Danny watches, numb. A protest nearly rises to his lips, but he holds it back. What does he think that's going to do? They can't leave her in the street, and he can't sit here forever. She's gone and nothing's going to change that.

Marty taps his foot impatiently, staring down at Danny.

Danny waits until the coroner slams the van's back door before answering. "Okay. Let's go."

—

The interrogation room is cold, the metal table raising goosebumps along Danny's arm as he leans against it. Marty brought him here "for privacy." Danny thinks the guy just hates his parents and wants to see him squirm. Danny relishes in disappointing him, far too numb to react to the sombre setting.

"Name?" Marty asks.

"Daniel James Fenton." Danny answers.

"How did you find the deceased?"

"I– I was there. I watched the fight. Um." Danny scrambles for an explanation. "I got stuck in the street, and I saw it."

"Can you describe what happened to me?"

"She and Phantom were fighting some ghosts. I didn't see exactly, but something happened, and Valerie fell off her board. And she–"

"Are you confirming the deceased's identity?"

Danny stares at Marty, confused. The cop had to see her face. She hadn't been wearing her visor when it happened, her head exposed for anyone to see. A good few seconds pass before Danny realizes his mistake. To Marty, Valerie wasn't anybody, just a face behind a mask. Only now does it dawn on him that none of those bystanders were looking at Valerie Gray, a high school student killed tragically. When they saw the body, they saw Red Huntress, a local hero brought down by a foe.

"Yeah. Her name is Valerie Gray. She's a senior at Casper High." Danny says.

Marty's eyes widen minutely. "Your relationship with her?"

Danny starts to say friends, then stops. Would she call him a friend now? He settles on, "Classmates. We were classmates."

Before Danny's eyes, Marty's whole demeanour changes. "Shit, kid," he says. He frowns and rubs his eyes, sighing in a way that makes Danny think of Vaughan. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to see that, and I shouldn't have– just, sorry. I know it must be hard, but can you tell me what happened?"

Danny spares a moment to collect himself. "She, uh. Something happened and she fell, and one of the ghosts. They, it could shapeshift. And it st–stabbed her." Danny swallows, trying to wash away the bitter taste the lie leaves in his mouth. He almost wants Marty to call him out on it, point out the way his fingers twitch or how his gaze jumps around the room as a subtle tell.

Tell me I'm lying, Danny thinks. Make me tell the truth. To his disappointment, Marty just hums and writes Danny's words in his notepad.

"I'm sorry I had to bring you down here," Marty says when he finishes. "Your parents should be here by now."

Danny nods.

Marty doesn't move, staring intently at the table.

"Are we... are we done?" Danny asks.

"Huh?" Marty looks up. "Oh. Yeah, you can go." He still doesn't move.

"Okay..." Danny stands up, shoving his chair back. The metal legs screech on the concrete floor, but Marty doesn't react beyond a reflexive wince. On his way out of the room, Danny hears Marty mutter.

"A high school senior? Damn."

Danny doesn't stick around after that, quickening his steps and hurrying out to the bullpen. As he nears, he hears a commotion, raised voices.

"Where's our son?"

"Sir, he's just being questioned right now."

"Questioned? What for? He's not a criminal."

"It's the procedure, please, sit down."

"It's ghosts is what it is, and that's our business!"

At the end of the hall, Danny lurches to a stop. "Dad!"

Jack turns toward his voice and beams. "Danny!" He puts down the cop he was harassing, setting them back on the floor. Danny's surprised no one tried to cuff his dad for that stunt. Then again, Jack is a good foot taller than the tallest person here, and at least twice as wide. He engulfs Danny in a crushing hug, thick arms wrapped around his shoulders. "They told us something happened with a ghost and the Red Huntress."

"What were you doing out of school, young man?" Maddie scolds from behind Jack. "You can't afford another tardy."

"Valerie's dead," Danny says.

Danny can't see his parent's faces, not with his own pressed against Jack's chest, but he feels Jack tense and hears Maddie gasp.

"Oh, sweetie. That poor girl." Maddie's hand finds its way to Danny's head, brushing his hair softly. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"There was a ghost–"

"A ghost!" Jack releases Danny and steps back, pumping his fists. "Damn ghosts! Which one did it? We gotta get 'em, Mads."

"Of course, dear. But perhaps we should take Danny home first?" Maddie gives Jack's arm a placating pat and tilts her head towards Danny.

"Please?" Danny's voice is soft and pleading to his ears. All he wants right now is to collapse in bed and shut everything out for a few hours. He'd take days if he could manage it, but with his family, tough luck. A part of him hopes no one tells Jazz any time soon, at least not until he's unconscious.

They head out to the RV, Maddie and Jack claiming the front seat while Danny curls up in the back, thankful for the meagre amount of solitude it provides him. His parents' murmuring voices wash over him, lulling him into a daze as they drive—Maddie at the wheel, thank god.

Danny barely believes Valerie's gone. He glances out the window, half expecting to see her streaking across the sky on her board, a blur of black and red. Not even an hour ago, they were exchanging taunts and banter as they beat Spectra and Bertrand back. Neither ghost was much of a fighter. Together, he and Valerie should have taken them, easy, but all their guns and ectoblasts couldn't stop the mental hits from catching them. Out of all his enemies, Danny's never feared anyone like he fears Spectra.

Pariah Dark and Dan? They might be three times his size and ten times as strong, but he knows how to fight ghosts like them. A well-placed hit, a lucky shot, and victory is his. But Spectra? She leaves scars so much deeper than any ecto-burn, ripping him open and dragging every flaw to the surface. Too weak, too pathetic, too confused to fight against her, she overwhelms him more often than not. And now... every taunt she's ever tossed his way comes to mind.

I'm sure you're only half the monster your parents think you are.

Everyone's afraid of being weak, but I've never seen someone meet those expectations so well!

Not everyone is cut out to be the hero.

Turns out, Spectra was right all along.

—

Maddie pulls up outside Fenton Works, idles long enough for Danny to step out of the RV, then peels out with the sound of shrieking treads. "Let's get that ghost, baby!" Jack bellows. And then they're gone, around the corner and out of sight.

Watching the dust settle over the road once more, Danny isn't sure what to feel. He's pretty sure that normal parents wouldn't just leave their freshly grieving son at home alone so they can go hunt ghosts, but when have his parents ever been normal? At this point, Danny doesn't think he could function with regular parents. Growing up, he wished Maddie and Jack were less Fenton, but after nearly two decades, Danny knows how to deal with Fentons. He knows how to be alone when his parents set out seeking vengeance on the local spectres.

Danny heads inside, kicking off his shoes at the door, and instinctively goes to set down his backpack, until he remembers it's still at school, probably in Lancer's classroom. Unless Sam or Tucker grabbed it for him. He flexes his empty hand before letting his arm drop to his side. It's Friday, anyway. He has all weekend to get his backpack back, no matter where it ends up.

Danny goes straight to his bedroom, flopping onto his bed. He should change out of his clothes, still smeared with Valerie's blood, but he doesn't have the energy for it. The thought of getting up and digging through his drawers makes his limbs heavy. But sleeping in the shirt Valerie bled out on... that thought has Danny lurching out of bed. He fumbles about in his laundry basket, grabbing a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. In seconds, he's stripped off the bloody clothes and dressed himself in, at least relatively, clean new ones.

The bloody clothes get shoved under his bed. Out of sight, out of mind. And right now he wants to be out of here. A few hours of sleep where everything else can just fade away sounds great right about now. Finally, Danny slips into bed, pulling his covers up to his chin, and lets sleep take him.

—

Snow crunches under his boots. The afternoon sun glints off the sparkling surface, nearly blinding him. He has to squint and shade his eyes to see properly. Even then, it hurts. Danny shivers, drawing his arms in close. He puffs out frosty clouds with every breath, crystals of ice hanging in the air for a moment before they melt, droplets falling to the ground.

Scanning his surroundings, he tries to find some kind of marker. A building, a sign. He'd even take a tree, anything that isn't snow. But no such luck. It's a flat white field in every direction, stretching well into the horizon.

"Great," he mutters. Of course, he's lost. He can't even remember how he got here. Flying, maybe. Chasing a ghost. Looking down at himself, he sees his familiar white and black jumpsuit, so he already went ghost.

Danny shivers again, his whole body trembling. His jumpsuit might be great against hazardous ectoplasmic materials, but the black boots and gloves, designed for lab work, provide little warmth. His fingers and toes are already numb. The heavyweight fabric making up the rest of the suit is a little better, but not much. He can't remember the last time he felt this cold. Not since before he got his ice powers, at least. Back then, it felt like a blizzard raged within him, full of furious winds and freezing air.

This feels like sinking into the bottom of a frozen lake, where there's nothing to feel but cold and crushed.

"I can't stay here," he says, receiving no answer. Not surprising. Who would answer him out here? Sighing, he gives the horizon another speculative glance and picks a random direction. No matter what way he goes, he has to find civilization eventually, especially if he flies.

Danny takes off into the air, makes it two feet up, then plummets back down and faceplants in the snow.

It takes him a moment to realize what happened. When he does, he jerks his head back, spitting out snow, and stares at the imprint of his face in the ground. Glancing at his chest, he checks again to make sure he's in ghost form. Jumpsuit? Check. Ghostly aura? He can't tell, thanks to all the snow. Even the white of his jumpsuit blends into the field. If anyone is out there, all they would see of him are the black pricks of his boots and gloves.

Pushing himself back to his feet, Danny tries again. And again. And again. Each time earns him the same result, a moment of weightlessness at the apex of his jump, followed by a lurch as he drops back down. After the fifth try, Danny finally admits it. He can't fly. If he wants to go anywhere, it has to be on foot. Dreading the trek ahead, he sets off.

With every step, the cold digs in a little more, sinking its sharp claws into his chest. Breathing hurts. Every inhale he feels ice coating his mouth. Every exhale, crystals sting as they drag across his tongue. Blood wells in his mouth, tinting the mist leaving his mouth pink.

Still, Danny presses on. He can't tell how long he walks for. The sun stays rooted to its place in the sky, almost directly above him, shining pale and blue. He's gotten used to staring at the bright snow, at least, able to keep his eyes open without them hurting, so that's a bonus. Squinting into the distance, Danny finally sees something. It glitters, bright and blue, although that might be the sunlight. Either way, it brings a relieved grin to Danny's face. Bolstered, he takes off running.

At first, it looks like a giant mass, but the closer he gets, the better he can make it out. Spires of ice, hundreds of them, protruding from the earth, like a giant's icy fingers poking through the grave. They sharpen into needle-thin claws at the tips, far above his head.

Danny slows when he reaches the first one. It's as thick as the Fenton RV and taller than any building in Amity Park. He can't help but feel awed, tipping his head back as he stares up to the top. Something tells him this isn't a natural formation. He looks at it and sees an awesome display of power.

"Jealous?" a voice whispers in his ear.

Danny spins toward the noise, but the space beside him is empty. He backs away, eyeing the open air with suspicion. "Who said that?"

Something rushes at his left side. He stumbles back, bumping against the ice, and nearly tumbles into the snow. "Who's there?"

"Imagine what you could do with this kind of strength."

Danny swings at the voice. It cackles and flies away out of reach, but not fast enough for him to miss completely. His knuckles skim something, telling him this isn't in his head. It's real. It's real and he can fight it.

"Just let it out, you'll feel better."

Danny snarls and lunges after the voice. He chases it through the spires, spitting curses and swinging his fists. Every hit misses, but he gets tantalizingly close, feeling cloth and skin brush his knuckles more than once. He loses himself deeper and deeper into the maze, kicking up snow, slipping on the ice.

All the while, the voice taunts him.

"If only you had this power. No one could stand up to you, could they? But you're just so weak."

"I'm not weak!"

Stale breath wafts across his face. Danny recoils, lips curling in disgust at the smell. The figure, inches from him yet still unseen, whispers, "Then why couldn't you save her?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Leave. Me. Aloooooooooooo–" Danny's cry pierces the air. It reverberates throughout the icy maze, shaking spires and cracking the ground beneath his feet. Jagged fissures split the ice, shattering the spires into pieces. All around him, they fall in chunks, smashing against the ground.

The wail echoes long after his breath runs out and the spires have crumbled, leaving him in a field of ruin. He gasps, hungry for air, chest tight and mouth numb. Something drips off his lips. Red drops litter the snow at his feet. Reaching up, he touches his mouth and his fingers come away bloody. It spills down his chin rivulets, fills up his mouth and lungs until he's drowning in it. Choking, Danny stumbles forward. His foot catches on a chunk of ice and he falls forward, barely catching himself on his hands. Blood sprays from his mouth.

"Pathetic."

Danny raises his head. Everything's blurry, but he can just make out Spectra's dark form in front of him.

"No wonder you died," she sneers. Turning her head, she glances at something off to the side.

Danny follows her gaze and sees a single spire still standing, this one far shorter than the others were. He swallows, struggles to take a breath. It comes out raspy and wet. Pushing through the agony, he crawls forward until the spire is inches away. The white of his jumpsuit is stained red, looking more like Valerie's old suit than his. Reaching out, Danny lays his hand on the spire. His reflection doesn't reach back.

Trapped in the ice, lips blue from the cold, Valerie opens her eyes.

—

Danny's head is thrumming when he wakes. The room spins. Blood rushes in his ears. He feels his heart beating against his temple, his chest, his throat. It takes a good minute for everything to settle down, leaving him flushed and dizzy. He throws an arm over his eyes, the fading image of Valerie's glare piercing the darkness.

It was just a dream.

Danny scrubs his face and pushes himself upright, sparing a glance at his alarm clock. Nearly eight a.m. He slept through the whole afternoon and night, and yet exhaustion still drags at him. Too bad, he won't be sleeping again any time soon. Not if that's what waits for him.

As his pounding heart finally quiets, slowing to a steady pace, he hears a soft buzzing. Danny's head swivels, his gaze searching the room for the source. It must be his phone, but he left that at school with his backpack yesterday. And yet, there it is, sitting just inside his bedroom, leaning against the wall by the door. His friends must have brought it for him after all.

He grabs his backpack and digs through the main pouch, finding his phone soon enough. Sam's name appears at the top of the screen. He hesitates before hitting the answer button.

"Hey, Sam," he says.

"Danny! I wasn't sure if you'd be awake. When you didn't come back to school, we thought you had gotten hurt during your fight, and we couldn't call you to check."

"Not quite, I guess." Danny makes a noise, not quite a laugh, less than a groan.

"No one answered the door when I dropped off your bag, so I left it in the flowerbed and texted Jazz. I just found out what happened."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Um, Tucker's with me, actually. Hold on."

Sam goes silent for a moment. As she's distracted, Danny sets his backpack on the floor again and backs up to his bed, dropping on the mattress with a bounce.

"Okay, it's on speaker."

"Hey, Danny," Tucker says.

"I texted him as soon as I heard. We're on our way over now, but I thought we'd call first. See if you were, you know. Okay."

"I'm–" Danny falters. Of course he's not okay; how could Sam even ask that? What does she expect him to say? I saw Valerie die, and it's all my fault, but sure, I'm great! "No, Sam. I'm not."

"Man, I'm sorry you were alone. We should have gone with you," Tucker says.

Danny pales. "No! Oh, god, Tuck, no." He runs the scenario through his head. Sam and Tucker by his side when it happened. Sam and Tucker dead, just like Valerie. If not dead, then... witnesses to his lowest moment. He wouldn't be able to look them in the eyes if they had been there. He's not sure he can look them in the eyes now. "It's better for you that you weren't there."

"But not for you! We should have asked if you needed our help before you left. Maybe we could have–"

"No. You couldn't have known, Tuck. Look, I thought it was the Box Ghost or something, not..." Danny presses a hand to his eyes and takes a sharp breath through his nose. "It doesn't matter. It happened. She's gone."

In the silence that follows, Danny perfectly pictures Sam and Tucker trading worried looks.

"Danny." Sam takes over. "It must have been horrible."

"Yeah, it was." He can practically hear Sam grimacing at that.

"It must have been horrible," she repeats. "It shouldn't have happened. And you never should have seen it. We're still sorry we couldn't be there for you."

Danny squeezes his eyes shut. Why, why are they apologizing? Why are they being nice? They should be screaming at him for letting Valerie die. Four years of ghost fighting and he loses someone now when he's supposed to be at his best, his strongest. Not only couldn't he save her, but he's also the reason she's dead. If anything, Sam and Tucker should have been there in his place, then Valerie would have survived.

"Guys, it's... it's fine."

"No, it isn't. We can talk when we get there if you want to. It might help."

"Actually, I think I want to be alone right now." Guilt pricks Danny's heart, but he means it. He doesn't want to talk about it, and if they're just going to pity him, then he doesn't want his friends with him. At least not right now. "Maybe tomorrow or something."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I just. Need time to myself, to process," he says.

"Okay, if that's what you need."

"Just don't shut us out, okay, man?" Tucker says.

Danny nods, then remembers they can't see him and promises just as much. "I'll be okay."

Sam and Tucker say their goodbyes, neither of them sounding confident. Danny hangs up before they can apologize to him or offer any more condolences. He doesn't deserve their pity.

Tossing his phone away, he stays rooted to the spot for a moment, trying to swallow down the tightness in his throat. It doesn't help much. Instead, pressure builds behind his eyes, and no matter how much he tries to fight it, the tears come unbidden. He cries quietly, biting his tongue to stay silent, like a child fighting not to be heard. He doesn't hear the usual clangs and bangs signalling his parents' presence—perhaps they're out hunting for Valerie's killer once again, unaware he lies in their own home—but Jazz could be here; it was the weekend. He doesn't want her to hear him and come knocking on his door.

So, he turns and falls onto his side, shoving his face into his comforter, and makes as little noise as possible as his entire body shakes. Jazz says crying is supposed to make you feel better, once you're done feeling terrible. Somehow, he can't imagine any good feelings coming from this. The tears stop soon enough, leaving him with a pounding headache, puffy eyes, and, just as predicted, feeling no better than before.

As he struggles to pull himself together, rubbing the tear tracks from his face, he hears footsteps outside his door. He pauses, holding his breath, hoping they will pass by.

They don't. A light knock comes.

"Danny?" Jazz whispers, her voice soft enough that he can barely hear her through the door. For one terrifying moment, he thinks he heard her after all, but then she goes on. "Are you awake?"

He doesn't answer.

Jazz waits for another second or two, then leaves. Danny lets out the breath he was holding and sags in relief. He will have to talk to her eventually, but for now, he wants to be alone. Assured that he will get his wish, for a little while longer at least, he crawls back into bed. With the nightmare fresh on his mind, he has no plans to fall asleep again, and settles on staring at his phone, grabbing it from where he tossed it away by his pillow. Today is a day for being numb.

—

Danny stays in his room all day. At noon, Jazz comes around again, knocking on his door and asking to be let in. He turns her away.

"I just want to be by myself right now," he tells her.

She gives in easily enough. "Okay, that's fine. But don't forget to eat. I'm going to the library and I'll be back later."

"I won't forget," Danny says. And he doesn't. He thinks about it, a lot, but he doesn't have the energy to go downstairs and raid the fridge for food. There might be something in the cupboard, some crackers he can snack on with little effort, but even then, the prospect of heading all the way downstairs stops him. One day of wallowing won't hurt. He's gone longer without food the few times he's gotten stuck in the deepest parts of the Ghost Zone.

Sam and Tucker send him a few texts throughout the day. Word has spread fast about Friday's events. Practically the whole town now knows that Valerie Gray was the Red Huntress, and that Fenton boy was there when she died.

Danny doesn't like Amity's rumour mill, never has. More often than not, the churning gears spew out harsh words about his family. He's heard everything from jabs at his father's intelligence—completely incorrect, Danny would like to see anyone else design a ghost portal—to sly suggestions about Danny's parentage—thanks, Vlad, for gleefully fuelling those—to whispers about how neglectful his parents supposedly are. He can't entirely argue against that last one, but he still doesn't like to hear it.

Horror fills him at what things they might be saying on Valerie's death.

As night approaches and Jazz returns home, Danny has barely moved from his bed. He got up once to go to the bathroom and ended up huddled on the bathroom floor for a good hour, afraid to look in the mirror, plagued by visions from his nightmare. Jazz knocks on his door again, and, again, he feigns sleep, pulling the covers up over his head. Good thing, because this time, instead of walking away when he doesn't respond, she opens the door and peeks inside.

"Oh, Danny," she says. Danny struggles to keep his breathing even as she walks closer, her steps signalled only by the creaking of his floorboards. The bed dips when she sits on the other side, at his back. Her hand rests on his hair, nearly making him flinch.

"I hope you know I'm here for you. It's only been a day, but don't lock yourself away in here. It won't make you feel any better."

He wonders why she's saying all this when he's asleep, as far as she knows. If he hadn't been awake, her words would mean nothing to him. He scowls into his pillow, suddenly decided that they do mean nothing to him. If this is her version of helping, comforting him when he isn't even awake to hear it, then he doesn't want her help. Danny's glad when she leaves.

Sometime later, he's not sure how long, Maddie and Jack come home, too. They make far more noise, or Jack does, stomping around downstairs, grumbling his disappointment at catching no ghosts. They come to check on him, too, but unlike Jazz, they stay at his door, saying nothing, slipping away when they realize he's 'sleeping'.

Danny almost laughs. Sleeping, right. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Valerie falling, hears her scream. Relives the moment over and over again with Spectra's laughter echoing in his ears. If these are the kinds of things plaguing him while awake, he doesn't want to know what else lies waiting in his nightmares, especially after last night. He sits in his room, curled on his bed, and stares at nothing. More than once, he hears Jack and Maddie groaning about the ghost they failed to catch.

"We'll get them, Mads. Don't you worry. No rotten ghost can escape the Fentons for long!"

"That poor girl. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

Then why didn't you try and stop it? a traitorous part of Danny's mind whispers. If you knew, why didn't you save her?

A more rational thought breaks through the bitter hisses. And what could they have done? Hunted ghosts more than they already do? Built a permanent containment system so Danny could keep his enemies locked away forever? Put a shield around all of Amity Park to keep the ghosts out?

Yes.

Danny stairs up at his ceiling, blinking slowly as he ponders that revelation. Yes, they could have. If they thought ghosts were so dangerous, if they expected someone to die at their hands eventually, then they should have done something, anything, to stop it. Make something to ward ghosts away, arm citizens with protective gear and weapons, close the fucking portal. They had so many options and they did nothing.

Danny has never hated his parents before. Been mad at them? Yes. Embarrassed by them? Definitely. But hated them? The feeling is so foreign, yet it rushes quickly to fill his entire being, a burning rage that has him clenching and unclenching his fists, holding back a blast of ectoplasm. Furious accusations ring through his head. Why didn't you; how couldn't you; you could have stopped this!

They could have stopped it.

They could have stopped him.

Danny chokes on bitter laughter. It's not funny, but he can't help it. His parents are putting in all this effort to find Valerie's killer, but little do they know, he's living right above their heads. Maybe if they looked at him with the same accusing eye they cast on Jazz whenever she acts a little out of the ordinary, they could have prevented Valerie's death long ago.

He resists the urge to call out, "I'm here! Come get me!" As much as he wants them to turn their weapons on him, the image fills him with terror. It's bad enough staring at them from the bad end of a barrel in ghost mode, but doing it as a human? Telling them he had killed someone? He wants someone to hate him, to scream at him, but at the same time, he can't stand seeing the betrayal in their eyes, realizing that he'd been a ghost all along, the one thing they hate above all else.

Danny whimpers. This is pathetic; he's pathetic. Forget hating his parents, he doesn't think he's ever hated himself this much before. But it still doesn't matter, because it won't bring Valerie back.

—

There's a shadow in Danny's room. He finds it the second day after Valerie's death, when he's nearing forty-eight hours of no sleep. He hasn't tried since yesterday, too afraid of his nightmares, occupying himself with his phone instead. Hell, he even picked up his textbook at one point, when playing games got too boring.

He hasn't eaten yet, despite Jazz's efforts, and barely had anything to drink. Stomach cramps come and go, but the headache stays with him, a combination of dehydration and exhaustion as the fortieth hour without sleep slips by. It's no surprise, then, that he doesn't notice the shadow right away, not until it's solid enough to block out the glow-in-the-dark stars on his wall even though he stares right at it. Each cluster of stars, lovingly placed by his hand, forms a constellation. Together, they mimic the night sky, as well as plastic stars in a square room can mimic the infinite expanse of space. Danny knows the patterns by heart, can trace them with his eyes closed. When he sees two of Cepheus' stars are gone, he realizes something's wrong.

Dragging himself out of his trance, he rubs his eyes, scratchy and dry from staying open so long. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and even then, he has to strain to see... something. It doesn't look like much; a dark cloud blending into the shadows of his room. The shape isn't human, or even ghostly. Just there.

Reaching over to his bedside table, Danny switches on his lamp. Soft orange light fills the room, illuminating the corner. The shadow is still there.

"He–" Danny's voice cracks. He swallows, grimacing at how dry it is. It's been a while since he had something to drink, or eat for that matter. "Hello?" he tries again, once it doesn't hurt to talk.

Anyone else might feel ridiculous talking to a cloud, but Danny's had entire conversations with less. You get used to that sort of thing when you talk to ghosts more than living people.

The cloud doesn't respond or react in any way. Hesitantly, Danny scratches ghost off the list of possibilities. Some kind of Ghost Zone anomaly? Not impossible, considering he lives ten feet above one of the only stable ghost portals in existence. A ghost messing with him? His ghost sense didn't go off, but it only works when an actual ghost is nearby, not an offshoot of their powers.

He can only think of one thing ghost-related that might show itself to him now of all times. He doesn't want to feel hope, but it swells in his chest anyway, bubbling up his throat until a single name bursts from his lips. "Valerie?"

The shadow quivers.

Danny clambers off his bed. "Valerie? Is it really you?"

When he gets close, the temperature plummets. A shiver seizes him, cold fingers curling around his spine.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to!"

Something cracks. Danny cries out as pain shoots up his back. He crumples, falling to the floor. It burns the same way sticking your hand in a bowl of ice water burns. He thinks he might shatter any second.

The shadow drifts closer.

"Stay back!" Danny shouts. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawls away, each movement sending searing pain up his back. Fighting back gasps of pain, he manages to drag himself up with his bed and turns on the shadow, still formless, but he has no doubts about its identity now. Valerie's hateful gaze stares out from the darkness.

Danny flees. It hurts, both running from her and just running. Every step feels like someone is driving a dagger deeper and deeper into his back, but he doesn't stop. He darts down the hall to Jazz's room and bangs on her door. Going ghost doesn't even cross his mind. He just needs someone else to see, needs to know this isn't all in his head.

"Jazz!" he shouts quietly.

Jazz rips the door open, a relieved look on her face. "You're out of your room." She takes in his panicked expression and turns serious. "What happened?"

Danny grabs her hand without saying anything and drags her to his room. "Look in the corner."

Jazz stops just in front of his door, glancing back at him; Danny has to prod her back to get her to step forward. She peeks her head in first, moving slow and deliberate. A few more steps and she slips into the darkness of his room. Danny bites his lip, afraid to go after her, slumping against the wall instead. Standing up hurts. Moving hurts. Everything hurts. He tries to slide down to the floor, but that hurts, too, and he resigns himself to standing perfectly still, waiting for Jazz's reaction.

She sticks her head out of his doorway. Rather than looking shocked like he expected, she stares at him with worry. "There's nothing here."

"What?" Danny jerks forward, biting back a wince of pain. Shooing Jazz back, he takes her place, clinging to the doorframe as he leans inside. The corner of his room is empty. A quick scan reveals no shadows out of place. "But..."

"Danny, are you okay? You haven't come out of your room in two days; that's not healthy. Have you been eating?" Jazz raises a hand to his forehead, but he flinches away from her touch.

"It was Valerie. I saw Valerie's ghost."

"Did you ghost sense go off?"

"Well, no. Not really. But it was her!"

Danny hates the way Jazz stares at him, a trace of a frown on her lips, her gaze critical, judging him, analyzing every twitch.

"Danny, you're distraught."

"No shit I'm distraught! Valerie's haunting me, apparently!" And she should. She has every right.

"Is she haunting you, or are you haunted by her?" Jazz asks.

Danny reels away from her, scowling. "What?"

"You're exhausted. You haven't been eating. Have you even changed your clothes since yesterday? Of course, you're thinking about Valerie, but you need to think about yourself, too." She reaches out again.

This time, Danny slaps her hand away, staring at her in disbelief. His lips curl back in a snarl. "That's not what this is. Jazz, I killed Valerie!"

"I know it feels like that, but it's not your fault. Just because you couldn't save her doesn't mean you did it."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do, Danny. Stop shouting, you're gonna wake Mom and Dad."

"No, I'm not shouting. You're not listening to me!

"Danny!"

His chest heaves. Breathing through his nose, Danny struggles to contain himself. The hall goes deathly quiet without their voices to fill it.

Jazz's face crumples. She rubs her eyes, wet and on the verge of tears, and stretches toward him once more, but gives up. Her hand hovers for a moment, then drops limp at her side. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. But you need to sleep. You've been in her room alone for too long. Have you even talked to Sam or Tucker today?"

He meant to. He honestly did, having promised the day before to see them today. But when the time came, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He ignored their texts and calls

"Get some sleep. You'll feel better after, and then we can talk tomorrow, okay?" Jazz says.

Tomorrow. He has school tomorrow, doesn't he?

"Goodnight, Danny." But Jazz doesn't leave right away. She shuffles her feet, contemplating something. Before Danny can react, she pulls him into a hug and kisses his forehead. "I love you, little brother."

She lingers for another second, then slips by him and heads back to her room. It isn't until Danny hears the sound of her door closing that he realizes she was waiting for him to say it back. Guilt rushes through him, briefly. He could go say it now, but... he doesn't. He trudges toward his bed instead, pausing just before he reaches int. Turning his head, he peers over his shoulder. The corner is still empty. His gaze slides to the tall mirror beside his desk, leaning against the wall rather than hanging from it.

Slowly, and with shaking hands, he pulls up his hoodie to expose his lower back. There's no mark. It doesn't hurt anymore, either, stopping sometime while he was shouting at Jazz. He didn't even notice.

Danny shakes his head.  "You're just seeing things. You're tired. It's been... rough." Valerie's bloody torso flashes through his mind. He hunches forward, a shudder running through his body. "Fuck." He grabs his head, tangled hair catching on his fingers. His scalp stings as his nails dig in, but he doesn't care.

Eventually, he lays down, too tired to hold himself upright. He still tries to fight against sleep's tempting hold, gripping his arms so tight it hurts, clinging to the pain to keep him awake. No matter what, he won't let himself fall asleep.

—

Shards of ice slice his tongue and lips as he breathes. In, out, they glide across his mouth until all he can taste is blood, the shards slowly shredding his throat. He tries to grip his chest but finds a gaping wound instead, wider than his fist. Inside, his heart thumps weakly. One of his lungs, ripped open and slowly filling with blood, sags through the hole. Blood and gore spill down his chest, staining the snow all around him. All at once, he's drowning and bleeding out. Which one will kill him first? He doesn't know.

The lonely spire looms ahead of him, Valerie still trapped inside. She's wearing his jumpsuit. Looking down, Danny sees he's wearing hers. Or maybe he's Valerie, and Danny is the one caught in the ice. Drowning, bleeding, freezing to death.

"Why didn't you save me?" Valerie asks the reflection.

He gurgles in response. Unable to move, he watches, helpless, as his heart stops beating.

—

Danny jerks upright so fast that he tumbles out of bed, smacking his face on the hardwood floor. He barely registers the pain, too busy pressing his hands to his chest. The panic doesn't fade until he feels his pounding heart, strong and steady. There's no hole in his chest, no blood in his lungs. He swallows, pressing a hand against his mouth.

It was just a dream. He fell asleep on accident, that's all. He's fine. He's not hurt. There's no blood. Right as he finishes that thought, he notices the scarlet splatter on his floor.

Danny's stomach lurches. Scrambling to his feet, he rushes to the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He barely makes it to the toilet before his stomach heaves, acid burning his throat as it makes its way up. There's nothing in his stomach to throw up, but that doesn't stop the heaves from coming, dry wretches tearing at his throat. Nearly a minute passes before Danny finally stops, able to catch his breath at last. Blood and bile swirl in the water and the sight of it almost has him throwing up again. He looks away from the bowl and scoots back to the wall, unable to take the smell, but unable to stand. His legs tremble too hard.

Shaking fingers rise to his mouth and touch his lips. No ice. No cuts. The only taste on his tongue is vomit. Danny swallows, and the motion makes his nose ache. Wincing, he raises his hand a little higher. His nose is bleeding, not his mouth. He swallows again and rubs his nose on his arm, leaving a bright red streak behind.

Danny can't bear to look at it. He's used to blood, especially his own after fighting for so many years. But right now it makes his stomach churn. It makes him think of that fight, of Valerie and watching her fall. He swallows again and breathes, heavy, through his mouth. His nose feels stuffed and warm, and it's definitely still bleeding. Rather than taking care of it right away, he closes his eyes and shudders. It happened so fast. He barely had time to move, much less to try and catch her. By the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late. He saw her body plummeting, and then...

Phantom blood sprays across Danny's face, hot and thick. He jerks back, thumping his head against the wall. His cheeks grow warm. Blood drips from his nose onto his lips, and the taste of copper fills his mouth. Valerie's blood is everywhere. On the ground, on him. Soaking into his gloves and staining his face. Danny wheezes, struggling to take in air. His chest heaves, and he can feel his body going through the motions, but it's like the air disappears somewhere between his mouth and his lungs. No matter how much he gasps and gulps, it's never enough. His lungs burn. His head aches. The bathroom tiles are slick and red, and the whole room tilts around him.

Fighting back a sob, Danny crawls forward. He grabs the counter and drags himself up. His legs, quivering, barely hold him, but it's enough. He fumbles with the sink tap, twisting it hard and nearly yanking it off the faucet. Over and over, he splashes water across his face. Scrubbing around his nose hurts, but he keeps going, rubbing furiously to get rid of all the blood. He doesn't stop until the water, on the coldest setting, makes him shiver. By then, the front of his shirt is soaked, and his hair is dripping wet.

Leaning over the sink, Danny takes a moment to breathe. It comes easier now, the air finally reaching where it's supposed to go, although his face still hurts. After a moment, he looks up at his reflection. His nose is a little red, but there's no more blood on his face.

Danny's cheeks flush. It was never Valerie's blood, just his own. He feels ridiculous, embarrassed, for getting so panicked over a bloody nose. Shifting his gaze to the floor, he sees only a few small spots on the tiles, not the seeping puddle that plagued his imagination.

"You're being stupid, Fenton," Danny says. "And now you're talking to yourself. Like an idiot."

He washes his face one more time, using warmer water and less frantic movements, as if that erases the panic he felt moments ago. Cleaning up his mess doesn't take long. Wipe away the spots on the floor with a few squares of toilet paper; toss that in the toilet and flush it away, along with the vomit. A quick swipe with the hand towel takes care of the water on the counter. He squeezes out his hair and strips off his shirt, too, bundling it up in the towel, and chucks both in the hamper. He's too exhausted to clean the blood out of it now, especially with the prospect of school looming over him. Maybe he'll get to it later. Or, worse comes to worst, he can just throw it away if the blood won't come out.

Before leaving the bathroom, he presses his ear to the door, listening for movement outside. He can't hear his parents. Chances are they already left, out for ghostly blood in the pre-dawn hours. It doesn't sound like Jazz is home, either. It is Monday, and she likes to leave early for college, spending the whole day on campus to focus on her work.

Holding his breath, he eases the door open and peers into the hall. Empty. He almost smiles, thankful no one was home to hear his breakdown, and shoves the door open the rest of the way.

Jazz stands on the other side of it, arms crossed. "Danny. We need to talk."

He grimaces. "Do we?"

"I could hear." She gives the bathroom a pointed look, a flash of guilt passing over her face; it's gone soon enough, almost too fast for Danny to catch it. "Whatever you're doing to yourself, you can't keep doing it. Hiding away and keeping everything locked up won't help.

Danny opens his mouth, then closes it. What do you say to someone who heard something so private when you didn't want them to? "You were listening?" Immediately, he decides that was the wrong thing to say. As soon as the words leave his lips, Jazz's shoulders sag and she gives him a pitying smile. He should have played dumb.

"It's okay to cry. You saw something terrible, and you're hurting. I'd be more worried if you didn't cry. But don't think I forgot what happened last night.  You're allowed to be alone, of course, but shutting everyone out isn't healthy. Especially not if you're... seeing Valerie." She wrings her hands, a familiar nervous habit. She does it every time she's about to launch into one of her psycho-babble spiels and isn't sure if it's welcome or not. Well, it isn't.

Danny's eyes narrow. "Unhealthy?"

"Personal space is good, but total solitude after a traumatic experience can be damaging. I don't want you to be alone."

"Unhealthy?" he repeats. "I think ki– I think watching Val-Val-Valerie." He swallows down the stutter, cursing how much his body still shakes. His mind, a jumbled mess, can barely string two words together, much less deal with Jazz right now. "I think that watching Valerie fall. To her death. Is unhealthy. You know? I think that's a little fucked up, don't you?"

Jazz steps closer, reaching out, but seems to think better about it a second later, drawing her hands back. "Danny, just listen to yourself. If you need time, that's okay, but don't forget that I'm here for you."

"It hasn't even been two days!"

Jazz flinches away from his shout.

"I'll be fine." Danny lowers his voice but keeps the hard edge in his tone. "Just let me deal with it however I want to. If I want to talk, I'll talk to you, okay?"

"Danny, don't be like this."

"You're gonna be late for class, Jazz. And so am I." Danny turns away from her. "I have to go get ready."

She steps after him, but Danny doesn't turn back, shutting his bedroom door and locking it behind him. He hears Jazz make a distressed noise, halfway between a whine and a groan. After a moment, she thumps down the stairs. The front door doesn't open, meaning she's still in the house, but Danny will take what he can get. If he leaves quick enough, it won't matter.

He dresses fast, replacing his sweatpants with a pair of jeans, but keeps his hoodie on. He hasn't taken that off for three days, now, but it smells fine to him. And it's dark enough that you can't see the blood from his nose.

Danny scrubs his eyes. He may have preferred not sleeping at all, but he can't deny that he needed rest. Although, he at least would have liked to choose to sleep. Last, he remembers from the night before, he had no intentions of falling asleep. Danny frowns. Why didn't he want to sleep? Besides the obvious nightmares. Wasn't there another reason?

He runs his hand over his upper arm, gently brushes the bruises there, struggling to remember why he did it in the first place. He presses one of the purpling spots, wincing at the way it throbs, then freezes. The shadow.

Danny's head snaps up and he zeroes in on the corner of his room. It's empty. Cepheus' constellation meets his gaze unbroken. In an instant, he wilts with relief, shoulders slumping and head dipping down. He must have imagined the whole thing, exhausted as he was. Thank god. Now is not a good time for strange shadows in his room.

He gladly shoves the entire debacle into the back of his mind and rushes out of the house before Jazz can catch him again.

—

Danny miscalculated. Avoiding Jazz is easy, thanks to school. Not that he wants to go in the first place, but he can't afford to skip, and there's no way Jazz would protest against him going, not with his bad grades. So, school doesn't have Jazz. But school does have Sam and Tucker, who Danny has been ignoring.

Peeking at his phone, Danny winces at the overwhelming amount of missed calls and unanswered texts. He feels guilty for not answering them, but... he didn't want to. He just wanted to sit in his dark room and forget. Even now, that's all he wants. If it weren't for Jazz and his already disappointing attendance record, he would still be at Fenton Works, curled up on his bed. Which probably isn't good. His sister is a psych major, he knows harmful behaviour when he sees it. Primarily because Jazz points his harmful behaviours out all the time. You throw yourself into danger too much. You're stretching yourself too thin. You need to take a break.

He sneers at the sidewalk. Right. A break. Because that would have kept Valerie alive. Not that Danny's presence did anything to save her, either. He bites the inside of his cheek, not hard enough to draw blood—he doesn't want that taste back in his mouth for a long time—but enough to be distracting, cutting off that thought before it can go any further.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Valerie's gone and that's it. There's nothing more to it. She's gone and she's not coming back. For someone who fights ghosts, literal dead people, on a near-daily basis, you would think Danny could handle death better than this. He knows most of his enemies were once living, breathing people who died in tragic ways. Danny was once a living, breathing person who died in a tragic way. He just skipped out on the "stop breathing" part of things.

He faces mortality every day, every time he goes ghost. So why can't he face this? Why is this any different than any other day?

Because it was his friend, and he saw it, and he couldn't stop it. Because it was his fault.

Danny cups his mouth and chokes on a sob. He doesn't want to do this here, in the middle of the street. Or at all, if he could just not. But apparently, the rest of him thinks this a great time to breakdown, because the tears come unbidden, spilling over his cheeks. Ducking his head, he hurries forward. The faster he gets to school, the faster he can lock himself in the bathroom, or the janitor's closet, or anywhere without prying eyes.

The tears blur his vision, turning his feet into red smudges against the grey sidewalk. He doesn't dare lift his head, just in case anyone sees him. Thankfully, he doesn't need to watch where he's going to make his way to school. After four years, the route from Fenton Works to Casper High is firmly etched into his brain

Danny wipes some of the tears away with his sleeve when he reaches the school grounds, pausing to compose himself as much as he can. After a few deep breaths and swallowed sobs,  he feels well enough to storm the student body. With any luck, he can hold himself together long enough to make it to the bathroom.

Before he can step from the sidewalk onto the schoolyard, someone grabs Danny and pulls him aside. Stunned, it takes him a moment to realize what has happened, even as Tucker's arms wrap tightly around him.

"Dude, we've been so worried." Tucker squeezes Danny tighter. His voice is thick and watery. "Jazz said you wouldn't come out of your room, and you wouldn't answer our texts. Just– god, it must have been so awful. Man, I can't imagine."

Finally, Danny registers what's happening. Tucker's hugging him, and crying into his shoulder. This is bad. Tucker shouldn't be doing that. Tucker is... Tucker is good, and Danny did something horrible. Tucker shouldn't be comforting him.

"I­–" Danny falters. Inside, he's screaming. Say it. Say it's your fault. Make him hate you. You deserve it. "Tuck, you–"

He can't say it. Instead, Danny reaches up, grabbing Tucker's arms, and carefully pulls them off his shoulders. He steps back, squeezing Tucker's wrists once, before letting go and looking away.

"I'm okay. You, I know you liked her. And she was our friend. How are you?" Danny asks.

"Dude. You liked her too, and you were actually there. You're not okay."

Danny bites his lip, unsure how to respond to that. It's true, but he deserves this. Tucker doesn't. "But you­–"

"Guys!" Sam—when did she even get there?—cuts him off. "Just be sad together, okay?"

Danny glances at her, then away, then back again, shocked. Her eyes are red. In all the years they've known each other, he can't remember ever seeing Sam cry, even when she broke her ankle fighting Technus that one time. The most she did then was swear up a storm before punching the ghost barehanded. It didn't exactly do much to Technus, but Sam looked damn proud of herself afterward.

Right now, she looks downright distraught. Danny wonders how many of her tears were for him, and how many were for Valerie. They may not have gotten along a lot of the time, but they were still friends. He hopes she cried for Valerie more, although he'd rather she not cry at all. He doesn't know what to do when a girl cries

"But," Sam shares a glance with Tucker, one Danny doesn't like, "seriously, Danny. Are you okay? We heard how it went down."

Danny pales. Did they know? How? By the time anyone else arrived, he already had Valerie in his lap, her skin cold as ice.

"It was Spectra and Bertrand, right?" Tucker says. "They said that one of them... well, they..." He motions vaguely around his torso.

"Tucker!" Sam slaps his hands down.

Danny looks away again, hiding the relieved look on his face. They don't know. Guilt and shame quickly wash the relief away. He should tell them. Or Valerie's dad. Danny rubs his eyes, a new tension pressing down on him. He hadn't even thought of Valerie's dad.

Did Marty the Cop call him? He must have, after Danny left. By then, Mr. Gray may have already seen the news. God, that must have been horrible, turning on the TV to see Lance Thunder reporting his daughter's death before he even knew about it. Although Sam and Tucker hadn't known until the day after. Maybe Mr. Gray remained ignorant, too, until Marty could break the news gently. He hopes so.

"Danny?" Tucker reaches out and touches Danny's shoulder.

Danny steps away. For a moment, he's glad he's not looking Tucker's way. He doesn't want to see the hurt expression on his best friend's face.

"I'm okay," Danny says because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head, perhaps a little too aggressively.

"It might help," Tucker presses. "Doesn't Jazz say–"

"Fuck what Jazz says."

Tucker and Sam recoil at the harsh words. Danny feels another stab of guilt but doesn't apologize. It's only been three days and he's already such a mess. The thing in his room yesterday, the nightmare, his panic attack in the bathroom this morning. That’s what it was, wasn't it? A panic attack? He's had them before, but not like that. Usually, he feels empty and distant, like there's a gaping hole growing inside him, slowly swallowing him up. This time, Valerie's the one with the hole in her chest, and it's left Danny a shaking mess.

"You don't have to tell us anything," Sam says. Her tone is soft and understanding, as if she understands any part of what Danny's going through. "But if you ever want to talk about it, we're here for you."

"I don't," Danny says. "I can't. Just drop it, please?"

Sam and Tucker share another look, just as bad as the last, but say no more. A small mercy in Danny's eyes. He gives them an hour at most before they bring it up again, and that's being generous.

"Okay. But I'm sorry we weren't there," Tucker says.

An hour was very generous.

"It doesn't matter now. It's better you weren't there." Danny runs a hand through his hair, only able to meet Tucker's sad stare for a moment. He still wishes he had made it into the school before Sam and Tucker found him, but their little confrontation drove back his tears, at least. Now, he can't quite figure out what he's feeling. Sad? Yes. Guilty? Always. A little angry, too, but he doesn't know why. His friends haven't done anything bad.

A sourness fills Danny's mouth, making his lips pucker. Bitter feelings squirm through him, like a worm eating its way through an apple. He can't control it, but he's constantly aware of its wriggling presence. Talk about being a bad apple.

"Class is gonna start soon. Let's just go inside." Danny turns his back on them and sets off, ignoring the sting behind his eyes. The faster this day gets over with, the better. Then again, he's not looking forward to sleep tonight. He should go for a long flight instead, or maybe dip into the Ghost Zone to visit his allies, as few as they are. Anything to keep him from having more nightmares.

Danny keeps his head ducked as they walk. Sam and Tucker fall into step beside him, their elbows brushing his from time to time. He doesn't pull away, but only because the hallway is cramped and there's nowhere for him to pull away to. Eager to escape the crush of teenage bodies, he heads straight for Lancer's classroom, skipping a visit to his locker even though there are books inside that he needs. His only plans for class today are to duck his head and get through it without any more crying, and books won't help with that.

Sam and Tucker stick with him, much to his disappointment. He hoped they would break away and stop at their lockers, giving him a short reprieve from their presence. Unfortunately for him, they seem content without their books for now, or they already grabbed them before Danny arrived. The last thought doesn't sit well with him. It means they were lying in wait outside the school for his arrival. While he knows they worry about him, he doesn't enjoy falling into traps, no matter how emotionally supportive they're meant to be.

The halls are still full, thrumming with chatter, by the time they reach Lancer's classroom. It will be a good few minutes before the warning bell rings, so most students haven't bothered moving away from their lockers, instead gathering in tight-knit groups. Before stepping into the classroom, Danny pauses, lifting his hand, and gives the hall a once over. He's not surprised by what he sees. Curious, pitying eyes staring at him. Hands cupped around mouths, carrying whispers between friends. Valerie's name floats in the air.

"Did you hear­–"

"–found her­–"

"Totally gutted."

"–the Red Huntress all along."

Danny looks away all too quickly, their stares too heavy for him, and hurries into the shelter of Lancer's classroom.

Lancer looks up when they enter, his eyes widening in surprise. "Mr. Fenton?" His chair squeals when he pushes away from his desk too quickly.

"Yeah?" Danny shuffles his feet. Lancer has this way of looking at Danny like he knows much more than he should. It sets him on edge on the best days. Right now, it makes Danny's heart pound, each thump beating out a damning he-knows, he-knows, he-knows.

"You're here?"

"Uh..." Danny glances at the clock. "I know I'm earlier than usual."

"No, no, I mean." Lancer shakes his head. "Are you...?" He looks between Sam and Tucker. "May I speak to Mr. Fenton alone?"

Danny hopes his nod doesn't look as eager as it feels.

Lancer waits until Sam and Tucker leave, closing the door behind them, before turning to Danny.

"Daniel," he starts, then hesitates, which is never a good sign. "How are you?"

Danny opens his mouth, the words I'm fine already resting on his tongue. At the last moment, he pauses. Lancer looks concerned, yes, with his furrowed brows and tight frown, but it's different from how everyone else has looked at him. Not like Jazz trying to tell him how feels and what he should do. Not like Sam and Tucker pretending they understand when they don't. A far cry from his parents, who have barely spent two minutes with him since it happened.

Lancer doesn't elaborate, doesn't try to placate him. Doesn't offer shallow words of comfort. He simply asks.

"I–I'm, I'm not okay," Danny says.

Lancer nods as if he expected this. He probably did. "I saw on the news that you found her. You went through something traumatic, and I can't begin to understand that. Am I right to assume you aren't ready to talk about it?"

Words fail him, his tongue weighed down by relief. He nods vigorously instead.

"I thought as much. With that in mind, no one would fault you for not coming to school today."

Danny's mind goes blank. He stares at Lancer, blinking owlishly, as confusion fills his gaze.

"Your mental health is more important than school," Lancer goes on when Danny doesn't say anything. "I can speak to the other faculty members about your absence. And if you want to take a few more days, you can have your parents call the school. I'll make sure this doesn’t affect your grades."

Grades are the last thing on Danny's mind right now. "I can really do that?"

"After the Storm, Mr. Fenton, of course you can." Lancer sounds as surprised as Danny feels. "Mental health days are important. I've spoken to your parents about them a few times at parent-teacher conferences. Have they never mentioned it?"

"No."

Lancer frowns. "Well. You know about them now."

Danny stares down at his feet, amazed. He can just... not come to school if he isn't feeling well? And not just because he's injured or sick? And Mr. Lancer is encouraging it? Danny looks over his shoulder, catching Sam and Tucker spying through the classroom window. They offer him shaky smiles and hesitant waves.

Danny turns back to Lancer. "I really don't have to be at school today? Or tomorrow?"

"Or even the week. Not if you aren't ready for it. Some people might tell you otherwise, but as your vice principal, I fully endorse taking time off after such an experience. Should I tell the other teachers you'll be absent today?"

"Yes! Please, yes. I can't be here right now. It's... too much." Surprisingly, admitting that doesn't make Danny feel weak.

"Would you like me to call your parents to pick you up?"

"Mr. Lancer, I'm eighteen. I don't need my parents to pick me up."

"Whether you're eighteen or eight-hundred, it helps to have someone with you when you're dealing with something like this. Seeing as Jasmine should be in class, and both your friends are here, I think your parents suffice."

"Jazz is at home, actually," Danny says, leaping at the excuse. "No class today. Her professor is out. I'd rather walk home, but she'll be there, so it's okay."

Lancer purses his lips, then nods. "Alright, I'll let everyone know. Please take care of yourself, Daniel."

"Thank you, Mr. Lancer, I will." Danny rushes out of the classroom, eager to leave the school grounds before the bell rings. He brushes past Sam and Tucker on his way out.

"Hey, Danny, wait!" Tucker calls after him.

Danny doesn't want to stop, but he also doesn't want to be an ass, so he slows down instead, letting Tucker catch up. Sam stays back by Lancer's door.

"Where are you going?" Tucker asks as he falls into step with Danny.

"Home. Lancer said I could take a mental health day."

"Oh." Tucker falters. Danny doesn't wait for him, forcing Tucker to jog to catch up again. "Do you need one?"

Danny glares at him.

"Sorry, that was. Right. Yeah. Of course." Tucker flushes. "I mean, you said you were okay, and I want to believe you dude, but if you need a mental health day... Well, you know."

"Tucker." Danny finally stops, only inches from the front door. "Can you do something for me?"

"Yeah?" Tucker smiles.

"Leave me alone. No offence, but I need to be alone right now. It's hard."

Tucker's smile shatters. "Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure thing, man. I get it. Just don't take too long, okay? I'm worried."

Danny smiles, eyes empty and mouth wide. "Everyone is." With those final words, he leaves the school, and Tucker, behind.

—

Instead of going home, Danny wanders. He has no particular destination in mind, only knows he doesn't want to go home yet. Something is refreshing about walking aimlessly through Amity Park. By now, he's more used to seeing the streets from above rather than ground level. Everything looks familiar, but a little off from what he knows.

It reminds him of fourth grade when he missed the bus one day and his dad had to drive him to school. They took the most direct route, complete with hairpin turns and broken speed limits, arriving at the school well before Danny's bus did. But for Danny, the strangest thing about that day was seeing the school from a different angle.

Normally, the bus drove along the main street in front of the school, pulling into the drop-off zone by the doors. Jack drove Danny around the back, skirting around the soccer field, and pulled up alongside the school around the corner from the drop-off. That side of the school, facing the side street, was opposite the playground. As a fourth-grader, Danny had no reason to go to this side of the school. He almost didn't recognize the building when his dad pulled up, distracted by the unfamiliar windows and the narrow wedge of grass between the wall and the sidewalk.

Seeing Amity Park from the ground makes Danny think of that day. Everything is recognizable, but foreign at the same time. Outside ghost hunting, he doesn't have a reason to explore most of the city besides his usual haunts. Trying to navigate the familiar streets from an unfamiliar angle provides a welcoming distraction as he searches for landmarks he knows. Antennas on rooftops, billboards looming overhead, cornices encasing the highest floors.

Danny is eying a fresco on top of a stout three-storey building, unsure if he's seen it before or not, when his ghost sense goes off. The shiver seizes him for a moment, and he has to push down a wave of panic. He’s not sleeping, it's just a ghost. There's no reason to panic. He berates himself for being scared of something less tangible than the freaking Box Ghost. A simple nightmare is far from the scariest thing he's seen over the years; but, for some reason, it affects him in a way no ghost ever has.

Danny shakes his head. The ghost. Focus on the actual threat. A quick scan of the street to make sure no one's watching, then he dives into the closest alley, ducking behind a dumpster. Not the most glamourous place to transform, but it works.

"Going ghost!" he calls, pumping himself up. The transformation rings spark around his waist, quickly growing to their full size, and split apart with a sizzling hiss. His jumpsuit overtakes his everyday clothes as the rings spread. The rings rise above his shoulders, passing over his raised fists. Bloodstained gloves appear on his hands.

The world goes grey around him, his vision tunnelling. Danny gapes at his gloves. Blood. Valerie's blood. It's everywhere. On his gloves, his chest, his face. Seeping across the ice. Danny drops to his knees, gripping his head as the alley fades around him. Spears of ice circle him. Valerie's body lies in front of him, twitching. Blood bubbles from her mouth as she struggles to breathe, a futile effort thanks to the hole in her lungs.

Danny tries to staunch the flow, so panicked he drops his transformation, but it's not helping. The wound stretches wider than his palms. He presses too hard, his hands slipping in the blood. His palm touches something firm but it’s neither flesh nor bone. It thumps. Danny jerks back, yanking his hand out of Valerie's wound.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" he cries. His tears are lost in her blood. He never knew people had so much blood in them, but now it's everywhere, and all Danny sees is red.

He meets her dull gaze, watches her eyes fluttering. Valerie's lips move, but no sound comes out, barely even the wheeze of air. Blood bubbles at the corner of her lips. She chokes and bleeds out all at once, and Danny can't do anything but hold her.

—

Hunched over on the asphalt, Danny hacks and coughs, clutching his stomach as bile dribbles from his lips. Valerie is gone, was never there in the first place. He lets out a soft cry of pain, all thoughts of the ghost abandoned. This is all so wrong. Things were never supposed to turn out this way, and now, Danny can't even transform without panicking.

"Valerie." Danny's voice cracks as he sobs into the pavement, the rough ground pressing against his forehead. The alley reeks of garbage and vomit. His whole body hurts. It feels like he's being torn apart inside, and that's still only half the pain Valerie must have felt. She deserved so much better.

Distantly, Danny hears the wail of the Fenton RV, the sound of the rumbling engine filling up every crack and crevice of the street. His mother's voice echoes over the loudspeaker. "You ectoplasmic evil-doer! Suffer for what you did to that poor girl!"

A voice in Danny's mind hisses, I am.

He rolls onto his side, unable to stay hunched over his own sick puddle, but too weak to do anything more. A traitorous part of him thinks maybe he should have talked to Jazz after all, but a louder, more insistent part screams no. She can never know what he did. None of them can. They should hate him, but he can never tell them why. He couldn't live with himself if they knew. He can barely live with himself now.

Danny listens to his mother scream at the ghost, silently hoping that, whoever it is, they escape his parents' clutches safe and sound. He hears the boom of the Fenton bazooka, but no cries of victory or shouts of pain. Small mercies.

A shiver runs through him. Something black flickers in the corner of his vision. Danny thinks he's about to fall unconscious, familiar with the dark spots that often precede it. The flickering doesn't stop.

Danny's breath catches in his throat. Achingly slow, he turns his head to the mouth of the alley. The shadow hovers there, and it's slowly drifting closer. Danny tries to scramble back, but his trembling arms can't hold his weight. His shivers grow stronger, making his teeth chatter and his fingers go numb. He hugs himself, fighting back the chill as the shadow approaches, but it forces its way through him. A puff of glowing blue hair leaves his mouth.

"Oh, wow! The ghost boy, cowering before the power of corrugated cardboard vengeance!"

Danny starts and twists toward the intruder. The Box Ghost—of course it's the Box Ghost—is poking his head out of the wall, smiling gleefully down at Danny. He comes through all the way, revealing the Fenton RV's overhead speaker in his arms. At least that explains where his mother's voice has gone.

"That's not cardboard. And it's barely square," Danny wheezes. His gaze flickers back to the alley's entranceway. The shadow is gone.

"Well, it's mine now and you can't have it back." The Box Ghost sticks out his tongue and raises the speaker above his head. But rather than chucking it at Danny, he sets it on his shoulder and floats closer. A strange look crosses his face, one Danny can't immediately decipher. The Box Ghost's brow pinches and his eyes narrow, lips pressed into a firm line.

He's being serious, Danny realizes.

"Something awful happened, didn't it?" the Box Ghost asks.

"What?"

"Only something great and terrible could bring down the sworn enemy of me, the Box Ghost!" He lowers his voice to a more conversational volume. "And not everyone gets haunted by such twisted shadows."

Danny snorts. "That's awfully philosophic coming from you. I'm surprised you didn't squeeze a portent about the glory of boxes in there."

The Box Ghost simply frowns. "You are a strange child. I hope your shadow leaves soon so I may battle you again, at full strength! As all rivals do!"

"Wait, what?" Danny sits up. "What do you mean?"

"Farewell, weirdo!"

"Wait!" Danny shouts, but the Box Ghost is already gone. Danny stares after him, bewildered. "It's real?" The empty alley provides no answer. Danny draws his knees in close and cranes his neck, inspecting the alley. Nothing stands out. No shadows where they shouldn't be. No hidden wraiths. But the Box Ghost's words nag at him. The shadow is real after all.

One sighting he can brush off as exhaustion. Two he can blame on the mental stress. But the Box Ghost knowing it's there without seeing it? He couldn't ignore that. Maybe only real ghosts could see it, see her. She could be anywhere, and Danny wouldn't know.

He scrambles to his feet and backs against the wall. The back of his neck prickles, but he can't tell if it's real or his mind playing tricks over him, tripped into overdrive by his panic attack and the Box Ghost's unsettling words. As he scans the alley once more, something shifts in the corner of his eye. Danny peels away from the wall, jumping into a ready pose, fists raised, feet apart, fully prepared to fight.

A plastic bag. A plastic bag stuck under the dumpster, fluttering quietly in the rank alley breeze. Danny flushes and lowers his fist. If a damn grocery bag is enough to set him on edge, then he's really losing it. It's not even noon yet, but he thinks he's had enough of his walk for today. Getting some real sleep might do him some good, nightmares be damned. Or he could raid the medicine cabinet for some sleeping pills when he gets home. There might be some leftover from his dad's last prescription.

Plan set, Danny shuffles out of the alley. He barely makes it three steps along the sidewalk before the Fenton RV comes ripping around the corner. A tangle of sparking wires rests over the windshield, marking where the speaker had sat before the Box Ghost tore it out. Maddie stands on the roof, defying all laws of physics as she stays firmly rooted despite how erratic Jack drives. A Fenton Bazooka rests on her shoulder, the barrel smoking.

"We might need to circle the block again, honey. I don't see it," she shouts down to Jack.

Danny ducks behind a nearby mailbox, hoping his parents don't see him, but it's futile. From her place on the RV, Maddie has a perfect view of the street. When she turns toward Danny, he catches the exact moment she sees him, her grip on the bazooka slackening. She stomps on the roof of the RV, then braces herself as Jack slams on the brakes.

Maddie pulls her goggles down. "Danny, sweetie, what are you doing here? Don't you have school?"

"Uh, I, I'm," Danny stutters. It's the first time he's seen his parents since the police station. They look the same as ever, which he should have expected, but somehow, he thought they would be different the next time he saw them. Glaring at him from the bad end of a bazooka, perhaps. But instead of raising the gun and pointing it at him, Maddie sets the bazooka down and hops off the RV.

Danny doesn't want to tell the truth. Right now, Maddie and Jack are acting the same as they always do, and he didn't realize how much he needed that until now. When he looks at them, he sees the familiar level of parental concern they always bear, which is minimal at best. Thinking about it, that's pretty terrible, isn't it? He watched one of his friends die, and instead of staying at home and comforting him, his parents are out hunting ghosts.

Danny wavers between anger and appreciation. His parents aren't bad, but they aren't good either, are they? He doesn't want them pestering him like everyone else is, but maybe he would at least like them to try. To act as if they care. He knows they do, they do, and it's stupid being mad about something he wants, but he's mad anyway.

Maybe it's Valerie's ghost, or the two panic attacks in one day, but something makes Danny glare up at his mom and say, "Well, I've been a little fucked up since I got Valerie killed, so I decided not to go to school." Acid fills the words as he spits them out, begging for a reaction. He gets one, but not the one he wants.

Maddie steps closer and wraps her arms around Danny. "Oh, sweetie, you should have told us. Does the school know? Do we need to call them?"

Danny squirms out of his mother's grasp. "What?"

"Would helping us catch the ghost that did this make you feel better? Your father and I have been looking ever since we heard," she continues.

"Did you even hear what I said?"

"I know. We should have brought you with us from the start, but we thought you might want some time alone first. She was such a nice girl."

"Mom. I swore. I skipped school. Valerie's dead because of me!"

Maddie drags him into another hug. "Oh, sweetie. I know it feels like that, doesn't it? But just because you couldn't save her, that doesn't mean it's your fault. You were with her at the end, and that must have meant so much to her."

This time, Danny doesn't pull away, too stunned to think of moving. She should be shouting at him, scolding him, not coddling him like some kid. How can she hear him say that and think he's exaggerating?

Jack leans out the RV window, smiling sadly at the pair. "Want us to drive you home, kiddo?"

Danny bites his tongue. Briefly, he considers turning down the offer, but his legs are shaking again, and his mom's hand running through his hair brings him back to sick days in elementary school when she would sit with him all day and watch cartoons. Danny melts, although his anger doesn't disappear; it slinks away to a dark cave, giving up on the fight for now.

"I want to go home," he says.

Maddie hums, shifting her hold from a hug to an arm over his shoulder, and guides him into the RV.

"It'll get better," Jack says.

Danny doesn't answer, curling up on the backseat with his arms around his knees. When he looks out the window, he spots a blurry form in the alley. As they pull away, Danny watches the shadow until it's out of sight. A question forms in his mind.

"Mom, how long does it take for a ghost to form?"

Maddie turns in her seat. "What brought this on?"

Eyes downcast, Danny shrugs.

Maddie hums in understanding. "Well, it depends. Not everyone that dies becomes a ghost. We've done some studies of how long it takes a spectral mass to reach conscious levels after first recording its presence. So far, it can take anywhere from a few seconds to up to a week."

"And until then?" Danny presses.

"We've only managed to properly record one spectre's creation process from beginning to end. But from our notes, they appear to take a lesser non-corporeal form that barely even registers on our instruments until they're strong enough to manifest. Until then, they can't do much. We barely even saw the ghost until it manifested." Maddie smiles at Danny, in a manner that she probably meant as reassuring, but just looks sorry to him. "I hope this helped."

"Yeah." Danny nods. "Yeah, it does."

—

Danny doesn't check for the shadow when he gets home. It might be there, but he doesn't care to check. He refuses to acknowledge it. Instead, he raids his parents' medicine cabinet, finds the sleeping pills, and takes two before collapsing on his bed.

—

Valerie glares at him from within her icy prison. Danny knows it's a dream this time, and he thinks it's a little uncreative of his subconscious to give him the same one three times in a row. He doesn't think sleeping pills can affect his dreams, but he feels calmer this time. Or maybe that's just because Valerie is doing what no one else will: hate him.

"I don't want to be a ghost," she says.

"You're not. You're just dead." Lies. All lies. He knows who the shadow is, just hopes he's wrong.

"How do you know?"

Danny looks down at his lap, unsure how to answer. Ghosts exist for a lot of reasons. Not all of them were once people and not every person who dies becomes a ghost. The ones who do usually have something they wanted to live for. Fame, desire, glory. Boxes. Some part of their mind chose to stay, clinging to that one thing they wanted and couldn't get.

"You would never choose this," he finally says. "You hate ghosts. There's nothing you could want that would make you stay."

Valerie sneers. Her teeth are stained red. "What could anyone want enough for this? Why would anyone choose this?"

"I did."

"No. You didn't want to die; there's a difference. I didn't want to die either. But you took that away from me, didn't you?" Valerie looks down at Danny's hands. Following her gaze, he sees her heart resting on his palm. It beats, barely. Blood seeps from the torn aortas and soaks into his gloves. Holding a heart doesn't feel like he thought it would. Whenever Danny thinks of organs, he thinks of softy, squishy tissue, easy to pierce and crush, but Valerie's heart is a firm bundle of muscle.

Danny squeezes.

Valerie gasps, her hand shooting up to her chest, but there's nothing there, only an empty hole. She slams her fist against the ice. "Give it back!"

Danny tries, he does. His whole body shakes with effort as he tries to push his hand forward, returning what's Valerie's, but his arm won't budge. His hand squeezes tighter.

Valerie gasps and falls forward, both hands to her chest now, scratching and scraping. Her fingers hook around the hole and tug, tearing it open wider. "Stop it! Give it back!" she cries.

"I can't, I'm sorry!" Danny grabs his defiant arm in his other hand and pushes, but the frozen limb barely shakes. "I didn't mean it, Valerie. You have to believe me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

Ice creeps along Danny's arm, stretching over his fingers. Beautiful frost ferns grow across Valerie's heart, tinged pink from her blood. He tries to pull them back, shoving his core down deep inside himself where the snow and ice can't hurt anyone, but it's too late. The ice overtakes her heart. Danny's hand clenches one more time. The heart shatters.

Valerie screams. Her shriek pierces the air, shattering her prison of ice. Danny slaps his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise, but it rings inside his head, bouncing around his skull, stabbing his brain with a thousand tiny needles until blood leaks from his eyes, his nose, his ears. He screams with her, raw and hoarse until the shrieking stops and silence rings out.

—

Danny wakes up cold. Not even an hour has passed since he went to sleep. So much for the sleeping pills.

Despite wearing his warmest hoodie, he shivers. His foggy breath clouds the air in front of him, but it lacks the pale glow of his ghost sense. Instead, it's accompanied by a bone-deep chill that stings his teeth when he inhales.

In the corner of the room, the shadow hovers, darker than the previous night.

—

At sunrise, the shadow fades before Danny's eyes. It takes the pervasive cold with it, leaving him uncomfortably warm, swathed in a pile of blankets that hadn't helped fight off his chills. His eyes burn, but he has no desire to go back to sleep. Moving slowly, he climbs out of bed, stretching his cramped muscles. The blankets slide off his shoulders, leaving him in the same sweater and jeans as the previous day. The thought of changing doesn't even cross his mind.

Danny checks the back alley through his bedroom window and finds that his parents are home today. Other than mild surprise, it stirs no strong emotions in Danny.

A knock at his door pulls his attention from the alleyway. He drums his fingers on the windowsill, pursing his lips as he debates whether or not he should answer.

"Danny? Are you awake?" Jazz's voice is pitched with worry.

Sighing, Danny turns from the window, leaning back against the sill, and answers. "I'm awake."

The doorknob turns. Jazz pushes it open a crack, her bright blue eyes peering through the narrow opening. Danny jerks his head, not quite a nod, but a welcome, nonetheless. Jazz swings the door open and shuffles inside, nudging it closed behind her.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," she says. "I shouldn't have pushed you." Danny remains silent as she takes a seat on his bed. She picks at the pile of blankets, eyeing the unruffled comforter beneath them. "Did you sleep last night?"

"I was in bed," he says.

Lips pursed, Jazz scrutinizes Danny's clothes. "You wore that yesterday, too."

"It's still clean."

"Danny. I don't want to cross any boundaries–"

"Then don't."

"–but it's only been a few days, and this is concerning behaviour. I'm not expecting you to instantly bounce back, but I'd hoped you would at least come and talk to me if it was this bad."

"Jazz. Do you know how often I don't sleep because of ghosts? This isn't that different. And so what if I'm wearing the same jeans? I only have, like, three pairs that aren't ripped or stained."

Jazz starts wringing her hands. "It can take weeks to accept a traumatic event. I don't want you to lose yourself denying what happened. It was horrible, but ignoring it won't change that. Talking will. You have me, and Tucker and Sam. Letting out what you're feeling to people you trust can help. And keeping a routine! It's important to stay grounded with regular habits. Things like not sleeping, not eating, wearing the same clothes over and over. They're signs of you slipping into negative behaviour."

"God, Jazz, you make it sound like I'm some kind of drug addict or something. You want me to talk? Fine! We were fighting Spectra, and Valerie fell off her board, and she got skewered like an ecto-weenie at a bonfire. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Jazz goes completely white. "Danny, no! That's not what I meant."

"Well, it's what you're getting. I'm going to school." He strides past her.

"You can't be serious!"

"See you later, Jazz." Danny slams the front door behind him.

—

He doesn't go to school. Lancer gave him a free pass to skip and he's going to milk that for all it's worth. It's not milking it when you actually need it, his thoughts whisper. Shut up, Danny hisses back.

With yesterday's events fresh on his mind, he doesn't want to go for a walk, either. He slinks around the side of the house and crouches beside the bushes, out of sight from the street and the front door. The dirt is dry and the bushes browning even though it's not even summer yet. Danny's parents might be great at inventing things, but they're shit at taking care of their yard. Not that Danny cares. The bushes provide just enough cover for him to see without being seen, and he only plans on sitting here for a couple of minutes, or however long it takes for Jazz to leave for school.

Danny turns his phone over in his hands. It buzzes a couple of times. Probably Jazz trying to shove more of her opinions down his throat. He debates the pros and cons of checking the messages now or later. Either way, he doesn't intend to answer, so it doesn't matter. Relenting, he flips his phone over and checks the notifications.

The message isn't from Jazz, and not Sam or Tucker either. It's from Valerie.

Danny's blood runs cold. It's not possible. She's dead. She's gone. But she's not.

| Val Is this Daniel Fenton? The contact says Space Boy

Danny blinks as he reads the actual message. He nearly laughs. Space Boy? That was his name on Valerie’s phone? He wipes his thumb across the corner of his eyes before opening his phone and typing out a brief yes.

| Val This is Valerie's father. I'd like to talk to you after school if possible

Danny ducks his head, tapping the phone against his chin. He thought about talking to Mr. Gray, but he hadn't been serious. Of all the people he could see right now, Damon Gray is at the bottom of the list. But it doesn't look like Jazz is leaving any time soon, and he doesn't want to sit in the flowerbed forever.

Before he can regret it, he texts Mr. Gray back.

| You I can talk now. I'm omw

—

The bus ride from Fenton Works to the Gray's apartment in Elmerton takes twenty minutes. Danny sits at the back and stares out the window the whole time. The landscape turns grey and dusty as they cross the river into Elmerton, malls and office buildings replaced by warehouses and empty lots.

The Gray's apartment building lies on the edge of the warehouse district. Despite Mr. Gray's job prospects steadily improving over time, they never moved out of the cramped apartment that carried them through their darkest days.

Mr. Gray answers the door before Danny can even knock.

Danny lowers his raised arm. "Um, hi."

Mr. Gray looks as bad as Danny expected. He hasn't shaved in a few days, and his eyes are dry and red. Danny thinks he must have been crying before he arrived

"Hello, Danny." Mr. Gray steps aside to let Danny in.

They move to the dining room, where Mr. Gray sits at the head of the table, and Danny takes the opposite chair.

"Did Marty tell you?" Danny asks, seeking some reassurance in all this madness.

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"You were there for her."

Danny clenches his teeth and nods. He knows what Mr. Gray is about to say and looks away before he does.

"Thank you."

Danny stiffens. This is so wrong. "You shouldn't."

"I'm sorry?"

"You shouldn't thank me."

"You don't understand. I let her put on the suit every day even though I knew it was dangerous. If I ever tried to stop her, I know she would have done it behind my back. But still. I should have stopped her. I let this happen."

"No!" Danny shouts. He jumps to his feet, slamming his hands on the table. "No, you didn't. No one could stop Valerie when she wanted something, and... and it's my fault. Not yours."

Mr. Gray shakes his head, rising from his seat. "Danny, you made sure my daughter wasn't alone at the end. They told me how she died. There was nothing you could have done to save her."

"Mr. Gray, I didn't just find her. I was there. I'm–" Danny squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm Danny Phantom."

Mr. Gray doesn't answer. The only thing Danny can hear is the ticking of the clock. Eventually, Danny opens his eyes. Mr. Gray stands frozen on the other side of the table, gaping at Danny.

"You..." he falters. "You're..."

"I can't... show you. I haven't been able to transform since, well, since. But I am," Danny says.

Mr. Gray drops back into his chair. He looks up at Danny, then down, then up again. "You?" He runs a hand over his head.

"Mr. Gray?" Danny asks.

"Hold on." Mr. Gray cups his hand over his mouth, muttering under his breath, too low for Danny to hear. His wide eyes dart back and forth across the table. It looks like his whole world is falling apart before his eyes.

With nothing else to do, Danny lowers himself back into his seat. He waits, patiently, for Mr. Gray to finish processing, looking about the apartment for some kind of distraction. Nothing much has changed since the last time Danny was here, nearly a year ago. There's a picture of Valerie and her mom hanging on the wall by the clock. Both of them are smiling widely. It should be a happy picture, but all Danny sees are ghosts that will haunt Mr. Gray forever.

"She really liked you. Did you know that?" Mr. Gray asks.

It takes some effort to tear his gaze from the photo, but Danny eventually looks back to Mr. Gray. "Yeah. I really liked her, too. For a while."

"She hated you, too."

Danny nods.

Mr. Gray sighs, sounding as exhausted as Danny feels. "Being Danny Phantom doesn't make any of this your fault. She might have started ghost hunting to get you, but it ended up meaning so much to her. I'm sure that, with or without you, she would have found her way to it somehow."

Danny bites his lip. He knows what he wants to say, but once he does, there's no going back. Over Mr. Gray's shoulder, he notices a dark spot in the living room, one that wasn't there before. Valerie.

"That's not all. Mr. Gray, there's something you need to know about how Valerie died."

—

An hour later, Danny steps out of the apartment. Mr. Gray closes the door behind him without a word. By now, they've said everything they need to. Danny slumps against the wall and inhales sharply through his nose. He holds it for a second, trying to keep himself together even as the shaking starts. He only manages for a few seconds before he breaks. The tears flow freely down his face as he gasps, sinking to his knees in the middle of the hall.

Rocking back and forth, he wails into the floor. He lets out every pent up emotion in his cries; frustration, anger, sadness, guilt. They fill him up, suffocate him, steal his air, then leave in ragged gasps. He cries until his throat hurts and his tears blind him. He cries until he has no more tears left to spill.

—

Danny calls Tucker that night, around midnight. They haven't spoken since Danny ditched school, and  Tucker hasn't even sent him any texts or left any messages—although Sam had. It looks like he took Danny's request to leave him alone to heart. Danny refuses to feel guilty for it, but he also needs to talk to someone, and Tucker is always the first person he thinks of during these times.

Jazz was gone to class by the time Danny got back from Mr. Gray's, and he brushed her off when she got home earlier that evening. His parents, to Danny's complete lack of surprise, have gone back to being their usual negligent selves, putting ghost hunting before their mourning child.

Danny is constantly aware of Valerie now, finding her lurking around every corner, hovering at the edge of his vision, taunting him. He doesn't know what to do. So he calls Tucker.

"What would you do if I did something really bad?" Danny asks as soon as Tucker answers the phone.

"Hello, Danny."

"What would you do?"

Tucker sighs. "I thought you wanted me to leave you alone."

"Tucker. I'm being serious, come on."

Tucker remains silent. A day ago, it might not have bothered Danny at all, but now it makes him squirm. He needs to hear Tucker's answer.

"Okay. I'm sorry, happy?"

"No."

"Why not? I apologized."

"Because you're being a dick, Danny! You're not the only one who lost Valerie, okay? I thought you got that, but I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry I couldn't be there, and I'm sorry you had to see that, but I'm hurting too. I have no idea what's going on with you right now, but going through something shitty doesn't give you a free pass to be an asshole." Tucker's voice cracks.

Guilt twists Danny's gut. In seconds, Tucker might start crying, and it will be all his fault. But he needs to know.

"Valerie is haunting me," Danny says.

"What?"

"I've been having nightmares, and ever since she died, there's been this shadow in my room. I thought it was all in my head, but then I ran into the Box Ghost yesterday, and he mentioned something about a shadow? I asked my parents and they saw a ghost form like that once."

The line stays silent. It stretches on so long Danny thinks Tucker might have hung up, until he hears a shaky sigh.

"Are you sure?"

Danny glances at the shadow. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? Is it a ghost?"

"I don't know. I thought I was just seeing things, but then the Box Ghost, and what my mom said. I'm just, I'm stressed, man. Sleeping's hard, and it makes my ghost sense all weird."

"Weird how?"

"Like," Danny kneads his chest, grimacing, "like there's a block of ice in my chest. It's heavy and cold."

"Are you sure you aren't just... sad? And tired? I want to believe you, man, but Valerie as a ghost? And you just said you're not sleeping. Remember that one time you didn't sleep for, like, four days and you started seeing things?" Tucker dips into a whisper. "Are you sure you just don't want her to be gone?"

"Tucker, listen to me. I know I'm not seeing things. I'm looking at it right now! And the Box ghost said–."

"The Box Ghost says he'll rule the world with cardboard. Look, dude. I want to believe you, but you're not okay, man."

Danny scowls. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"So you're not denying it?"

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"Are you going to apologize?"

Danny doesn't answer.

"We just lost Valerie, man. Don't do this to us."

Danny closes his eyes as Tucker starts crying. He doesn't wail like Valerie did in Danny's nightmares, or gasp and sob like Danny so many times over the past couple of days. Tucker cries quietly, his voice wobbly, breaths short. He cries like he doesn't want anyone to see.

"I shouldn't have called."

"Dude, no. Wait. I'm sorry."

"I just made you sad. And it's not helping. I should just– never mind. I'm sorry, Tuck. I'm so sorry."

"No, you didn't do anything. I'm just sad, man. Of course, I am. But god, you. You were actually there. You’re allowed– okay, you're not allowed to be a dick, but I shouldn't be a dick either. If you just talked to us­–"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You should."

"It's fine."

"It's not. Dude, it's not okay."

"Can you just fucking drop it? Whatever, it doesn't matter. Sorry I called. I'll just deal with this on my own."

"Danny, I'm sorry. Please don't–"

Danny hangs up and tosses his phone onto the bed. Calling Tucker was a mistake. It accomplished nothing, except making Tucker mad, and cry. Danny squeezes his eyes shut, lowering his head as his throat tightens. He's so tired of crying. It's a miracle he hasn't dehydrated by now. At some point, he has to run out of tears, right? No one can cry forever. Jazz always says crying makes you feel better, once you're done feeling terrible.

He almost felt good after visiting Mr. Gray. But it didn't take long for the dark feelings to return after he left. Now, he just feels worse and worse each time.

Tipping onto his side, he buries his face in his comforter and gasps. It hurts, tears at his throats, makes the cold in his chest swell and fill his lungs. "Valerie. I'm sorry."

The room grows colder.

—

"I saw your dad." It's the first thing Danny says when he finds himself before the spire again. The snow glistens pure and wide. The ice shines untouched by blood. Valerie's so close to him now, like she's on the other side of a window. The ice warps her image, blurring her edges and tinting her blue, but still. She's almost herself.

"I know," she says.

"Were you listening?"

Valerie reaches out, laying her palm on the ice. It cracks beneath her touch. "Yes."

"And?"

"It doesn't change much, does it?"

Danny lowers his gaze. He knows what he feels, what he did, no matter what Damon says. At this point, nothing can quell the guilt that swirls in Danny's blood. It seeps through him, poisoning his every thought.

"No, it doesn't," he says.

Valerie nods, satisfied, and pulls away from the ice. "Good. As long as you know."

—

Jazz knocks at his door, rapping persistently. He wonders if her knuckles ever get sore when she does that because it's been a good thirty seconds since she started. Apparently, she's resorting to the "annoying older sister" method, since the "therapist older sister" tactic didn't work so well.

Does she know about Danny's disaster of a call with Tucker last night? Danny's friends are, tentatively, Jazz's friends, too, at least when it comes to ghostly things and Danny's health. He wouldn't put it past Tucker to message Jazz, let her know what happened.

Danny swallows before calling out, "What?" His voice still comes out hoarse, probably because he hasn't had anything to drink for a good day and a half, which would explain the headache, too.  But he's very busy right now having a staring contest with the increasingly tangible figure in the corner of his room. He didn't bother sleeping last night. Between the nightmares and Valerie's ghost, he would take the ghost.

Tucker's words from last night echo through his head. Are you sure you just don't want her to be gone?

Of course, he doesn't watch Valerie to be gone. But having her ghost isn't the same as having her, and the last few days have proven Valerie's ghost is no good to Danny. Still, he watched her all night, hoping for some flicker of familiarity. A flash of her headband, the dark brown of her eyes, the soft clinking of her bracelets. Proof his dreams aren't a lie. He got nothing. He's still not sure if he wants to see something.

"Danny?"

He blinks. The corner is empty now. Danny turns his head, his stiff neck cracking, and finally notices Jazz standing inside his bedroom. He doesn't remember her entering. He stopped paying attention entirely after he answered her. Had she said anything, or did she take his question as a welcome?

Danny licks his cracked lips. "What?" he repeats.

"Tucker called me a couple of minutes ago."

Danny keeps his expression carefully blank, but inside he panics. Tucker told her. He told her everything. She's going to tell him he's seeing things again, or give him those pitying eyes, or try and tell him this is all a psychosomatic reaction to losing a dear friend.

"There's a memorial for Valerie at Casper High today. He thought you might want to go," she says.

Danny's spiralling thoughts stutter and fizzle out. "A memorial?"

"Some of your classmates wanted to pay their respects. They’ve been planning it for the past couple of days." Jazz sits down on the edge of Danny's bed. Her fingers grip the hem of her sweater, holding back from reaching out. "Do you want to go?"

Danny keeps his gaze down but thinks about the now vacant corner of his bedroom. Staring at Valerie's maybe-ghost all day can't be good for him, as much as he hates to admit it. He groans and rubs his eyes. Agreeing with Jazz is never a good sign.

"Yeah." He drags his hand down his face, letting his arm drop into his lap. Going to school won't be fun, but he will regret it if he doesn't. "I'll go."

Jazz beams. "Put on something clean and I'll drive you."

"This is clean. Relatively."

"Put on something you didn't wear yesterday. You're not getting in my car until you do."

Danny sticks his tongue out at Jazz as she leaves. He's tempted to ignore her command and roll out of bed in what he's wearing, but knowing Jazz, she meant what she said, and she will leave him at home if he doesn't change into something fresh. And Danny doesn't feel like walking to school. Before, he would have flown to school, but he doesn't even entertain the idea now.

With a weary sigh, Danny crawls out of bed and heads for his dresser.

—

The Red Huntress stares down at the auditorium from the projector screen. It's a nice shot, taken during one of her patrols. She stands straight on her board, one hand shading her eyes, the other loosely holding her blaster. Sunlight glints off her visor, masking most of her face, except the part shaded by her hand. With the visor's tint, it's near impossible to tell those are Valerie's eyes unless you know. And Danny has always known.

Even though it's just a picture, Danny can't meet her gaze for long, turning his head and staring down instead. He steps away from the auditorium doors, letting others through. A few whispers float over his head, Valerie's name paired with his, mumbles about his presence at her death, his absence at school. Maybe he should have stayed home after all.

Danny waits until the stream of students thins before raising his head and peeking into the room. About half the seats are full, most of them toward the back. Waiting might have been a mistake. Now, he can't slip unnoticed into the back row as he planned. Danny bites his lip, wondering if he could stand at the back, or if he should leave. He shuffles his feet, turning down the hall toward the entrance.

A few stranglers are still making their way toward the auditorium, some students and a handful of teachers. Lancer walks with them, nudging some freshmen along.

"We didn't know her," one of them mutters.

"I mean, she was the Red Huntress," the other says. "She was kind of badass."

"She was a student who risked her life and died tragically. Be respectful," Lancer chides. The freshmen, cowed, scurry ahead and disappear through the doorway. Lancer, pinching the bridge of his nose, shakes his head and sighs. Danny can't remember ever seeing him so weary. Lancer drops his hands and finally spots Danny.

"Mr. Fenton, you came." His smile is weak but welcoming. "How are you?"

"Not much better."

Lancer nods. "Not surprising. Am I right to assume you won't be attending class after the memorial? It only covers part of the first period."

"Actually... I think I might go." On the way over, Danny told Jazz he could walk home after, and he didn't bring his backpack with him. Until this moment, he had no intentions of sticking around longer than necessary. Ironically, at least Danny sees it that way, it's Lancer's lack of judgement that convinces him to try and stick it out for the rest of the day.

"You know, Mr. Fenton. I'm proud of you." Lancer smiles again. "Remember, you don't have to stay if it gets too much but good on you for trying."

Danny smiles back, although with far less confidence. He waits for Lancer to go on ahead before slipping into the auditorium himself. From the top of the stairs, he has a good view of the entire room. The entire student body doesn't quite fill up the seats, leaving gaps here and there between grades and friends groups. He was right that all the seats at the back are taken, for the most part. A few empty spots peek out at him, but they're all much too close to other people.

Hugging himself, he readies for the long march down the steps to the front of the room, the only place with ample seating far from anyone else. He gives the back rows one last, hopeful glance. Nearly everyone is settled, friends hunched together, trading whispers or staring at their phones, although one figure off to the left is standing. And waving their arms.

"Danny!"

And calling his name?

The dim lighting makes it hard to see, forcing Danny to squint and shuffle closer, until he finally recognizes Sam. Tucker sits to her left, a single space between them, and their backpacks occupy the seats on either side of them, creating a thin barrier between them and the next students.

Tension bleeds out of Danny's shoulders. Without a second thought, he squeezes his way down the row, using his intangibility more than once to slip through long legs and jutting knees. A few people grumble their annoyance, but otherwise, no one calls him on it.

"Jazz texted and said you were coming," Sam says when Danny's close enough.

"I didn't want to miss it." Danny slips by Sam, claiming the middle seat. "Tucker?"

Tucker only spares him a glance before looking forward again.

"Thanks for letting me know. And... sorry. About yesterday."

For one stubborn moment, Tucker says nothing, and Danny thinks it's too late, he ruined their friendship. But then Tucker beams and grabs Danny, yanking him close.

"Dude, I'm so sorry. I was a dick, too. I'm glad you came."

Danny returns the hug, wrapping his arms around Tucker's shoulders and squeezing tight. It feels good, warm. Even if it doesn't erase anything from the past few days, it's still nice to hug his best friend.

"Oh, what the hell," Sam says. She flops onto Danny's back, draping her arms around him and Tucker. "Thanks for not shutting us out, Danny."

Just like that, the good feeling vanishes. The way Sam talks, it sounds like she thinks he's going to talk now, about everything. Everyone says he should, but after his parents, he's not so sure it will go well.

"Uh, yeah. Glad to be back," Danny says. It's only a partial lie.

They separate soon enough, settling into their seats just in time for Principal Ishiyama to walk on stage. As Ishiyama approaches the podium, the auditorium falls silent. Not that there had been much noise in the first place. A few muttering voices. Whispers here and there. It seems the whole school agrees now isn't a time for idle chatter.

"Students." Ishiyama's voice echoes from the speakers. "As I'm sure you know, we've experienced a great tragedy this last week. Valerie Gray, one of your classmates, maybe even your friend, died in a ghost attack. Despite dealing with ghosts for years, we've never lost someone to them before, and her passing came as a great shock.

"None of us knew, but Ms. Gray was a hero. Only now, after her death, have we learned about how much she did for us. She put her life on the line every day to keep the city safe, fighting valiantly for us. Today, we would like to honour that with a moment of silence, and a few words from her friends."

Ishiyama bows her head, signalling the start of the silence. Around the room, a decent number of students follow her lead, but even more sink down into their seats, as if they're settling in for a nap. Danny's glare hardens when he sees this, thinking of the freshmen from before. How many people in this room actually knew Valerie? How many are mourning the Red Huntress rather than the girl behind the helmet?

He thought coming to the memorial might make him feel, well, not better, but less bad. A little closer to okay. Instead, looking out over the gathered students, his stomach twists. This is a free pass out of class for most of them. They don't care, don't know, and they don't want to. Danny seethes, grinding his teeth as hot anger builds inside him.

Ishiyama breaks the silence before he can boil over. "Thank you. Before the first student comes up here, I'd like to remind everyone that a grief counsellor will be on the premises during school hours for the next week. If you need someone to talk to, he will be here. Your teachers will be here. Valerie was a bright girl and a friend to us all. Her death is a tragedy, and it has affected many of you in different ways. Don't be afraid to seek help when you need it."

Sam nudges Danny at Ishiyama's last word, shooting him a small smile. He can't return it.

Below, Star makes her way on stage, replacing Ishiyama at the podium. Danny immediately tunes her out when she starts speaking. The longer he's here, the more he realizes this is a waste of time and he shouldn't have come at all. He grips his armrests, squeezing the hard plastic as a distraction. It doesn't help as well as he hoped. He takes to scanning the room, dragging his gaze up and down the aisles, catching every sign of disrespect. A kid on his phone. Friends with their heads pressed together, talking softly. A dark silhouette standing halfway up the stairs.

The armrests crack in Danny's grip.

"Whoa, Danny. Are you okay?" Sam asks.

Danny barely hears her, all his attention on the ghost. Valerie's ghost. It looks more like a shadow than ever, with well-defined edges a strong, humanoid figure. He can almost see Valerie in it. But it still doesn't set off his ghost sense, not properly. A pinprick of cold pierces the heat in his chest, spreading quickly. Goosebumps raise along his arms and his breath carries the faintest trace of fog.

"Hey, uh, Danny? Can you maybe stop making it cold?" Sam whispers.

"It's not me," he says.

"Dude, I don't see anyone else with ice powers here," Tucker says.

Danny risks looking away, shooting Tucker an incredulous look, and points toward the aisle. "You don't see it?"

Tucker leans forward, following Danny's finger. "No, man. See what?"

Danny looks back and nearly jumps out of the seat. She's closer, further up the staircase, standing at the end of their aisle. The numbing cold has spread through his entire body by now. He can barely feel his fingers. His teeth chatter.

The shadow leaps forward.

Danny shoots to his feet, crying out in surprise. Heads whip toward him, but he barely registers them. The shadow leaps again. Danny bolts. He books it down the row, kicking a few knees, nearly tripping several times. Indignant shouts and raised voices follow him as he bursts out of the auditorium. He doesn't check over his shoulder, just keeps running. The cold seeps through his bones, sinks into his core. He feels himself sinking deeper and deeper into an icy abyss.

Moving on instinct, he dashes through the halls until he reaches the locker room. He dives into a shower stall, nearly ripping the tap out of the wall as he turns the water on to the hottest setting. It spews from the showerhead piping-hot, turning his skin red the moment it hits. It burns but the cold still won't go away. Danny tips his head up, opens his mouth, and swallows the water. It scalds his tongue and throat, burning all the way down, but the cold overwhelms it much too quickly.

He doesn't want to step out, not when the water hasn't done its job yet, but his skin is bright red and tender, minutes away from blistering. He forces himself out of the shower without turning it off, stumbling through the door and practically throwing himself against the nearest sink. Hunched over the basin, he swallows down the bile rising in his throat. Somehow, he manages not to throw up, a small victory for a hellish day. Once he's sure he won't be puking any time soon, even though his stomach still feels queasy, he splashes water against his face and looks up.

Blue lips. Pale skin. Face bloody and full of despair. In the mirror, Valerie looms over his shoulder.

Danny whips around, shoes slipping on the wet tiles as he tries to back away. The edge of the sink digs into his back. There's nowhere for him to go, Valerie's pale shade looming inches from him. An arm, or a trail of black mist that resembles one, reaches out toward him. It touches his chest.

Nothing happens.

"You're not whole yet," Danny realizes. It's only been five days since Valerie died.

The shadow ripples. Twisted tendrils burst forth, shooting toward him. They strike his chest and disappear in puffs of smoke, able to touch him but too weak to hurt him. Valerie shrieks. Her voice scrapes against Danny's ears, filling his head and bouncing around his brain, but it doesn't hurt. The lights flicker. The mirrors shatter. The tiles under their feet crack and still, Danny remains untouched. His disappointment overwhelms his relief, crashing through him in waves.

He pushes off the sink and reaches out, stopping inches away from her. "You can't touch me. Yet."

Valerie ripples again. Her form flickers, then she's gone.

Danny runs all the way home.

—

The ice is already broken by the time Danny's dream starts. He called them nightmares at first, but now, they're more like warnings. Promises, even.

Valerie crawls closer. Danny is not afraid.

"Danny," she says, her voice soft and calm, carrying no echoes of pain. She stops in front of him and lifts a cold finger to his chin, pushing his head up.

"Yes?" Danny matches her tone, just as soft, just as smooth. He can't help it. Something about the way she looks at him, the way she speaks. It makes him think everything will be okay.

"I know why I stayed." There's no trace of forgiveness in her gaze, but for some reason, he finds it more comforting than unsettling. As if she understands what he's thinking. She's the only one who knows what he deserves.

"Why?" Danny asks, but he already knows the answer.

"Wait for me," she says.

"I will," he answers.

—

Danny does not go back to school. He locks himself in his room, turns off his phone, and refuses to let anyone in. He made a promise and he's going to keep it. It's the one thing he can do for Valerie, after all. Give her what she wants.

One sleepless night later, on the seventh day after Valerie dies, her ghost manifests in Danny's room.

—

Danny swallows a cry of pain as Bertrand smacks him into the pavement. His great bear claws leave deep gouges across Danny's chest, the wounds leaking ectoplasm. He grits his teeth but doesn't worry. With his abilities, they will be healed by the end of the fight. Which he hopes comes soon. He's missing fourth period with Lancer right now, which isn't a big deal, but he has a math test next class, and he cannot afford another zero.

"Having a little trouble, ghost boy?"

A relieved grin stretches across Danny's face at the sight of Valerie flying overhead. "I don't know, I think I've got it handled." Planting his hands on asphalt, he flips himself up and out of the way of Bertrand's next swipe.

"Doesn't look like that from up here," Valerie says.

"Well, you could always come down and help me then. Prove how much stronger you are." Danny wastes a moment to wink and nearly gets taken out for it. Bertrand roars and pounces toward him. Danny barely leaps out of the way in time.

"Geez, I know you're unbearable, but this is ridiculous."

"Not quite." Spectra's melodic voice easily carries down the street. "I think pathetic is more accurate for your display, Phantom."

Danny scowls. "Shut up, I don't care what you think!"

Valerie swoops down while Spectra's distracted, her blaster spitting bullets faster than Danny can think. Spectra's eyes widen and she drops through the pavement, intangible, to avoid the fire. Danny doesn't have time to watch for her return, trusting Valerie to keep an eye out while he tackles Bertrand again.

The stuffy butler has shifted from a bear into a snake. Venom drips from his fangs and sizzles on the pavement.

"That's not fair," Danny whines.

"Ssssso what?" Bertrand hisses. He coils then jumps.

"Whoa!" Danny grabs his head and yanks it out of Bertrand's path, his neck turning to pale vapour.

"Phantom!" Valerie shouts. "Get your head back on and fight seriously!"

"You don't think I look good like this?" Danny pouts, tossing his head from one hand to the other. Everything blurs and he stumbles. "Okay, wow. Don't do that again." He shoves his head back on, struggling to steady himself as the street spins around him.

"Phantom!" Valerie shrieks in annoyance.

"Yeah, yeah!" Danny twists away from Bertrand's sneak attack, grabbing the ghost’s fang as he shoots by. Yanking hard, Danny swings Bertrand around and slams his head into the ground. "Good snake, nice snake!"

Bertrand writhes, bucking wildly under Danny's grip. He struggles to keep a firm holds on him, but then Bertrand opens his mouth wide and snaps down. Yelping, Danny lurches away, yanking his hand back just in time. He flies up to Valerie and takes to scanning the street with her.

"No sign of Spectra?"

"I can take care of her myself," Valerie snaps.

"Sure, but a little help never hurt, right?"

Through her visor, Valerie's eyes narrowed. "Fine."

"Oh, now this is interesting."

Both ghost hunters stiffen. Danny turns, pressing his back against Valerie's, and searches for Spectra. He can't see her. Neither can Valerie, judging by the soft curses under her breath.

"You don't care what I think, but you care what she thinks, don't you?" Spectra asks.

Danny bristles. "So what?"

"Does she think you're strong? Or weak? Do you want to protect her?"

"I don't need anyone to protect me!" Valerie shouts. Under her breath, she says to Danny, "We can't stay together. We won't find her this way, and we still have her crony. You take the ground, I'll take the sky."

"Shouldn't the ghost take the sky?" Danny whispers back.

"Just do it!"

He rolls his eyes, but complies anyway, dropping back to the street.

"Back for more ssso sssoon?" Bertrand asks.

"I didn't get enough of your pretty face the first time," Danny says. "Those fangs are a real good look on you."

"Ssstop ssstalling."

"Stop being so ugly."

"Real original."

"Bertrand!" Spectra snaps. She sounds closer now, too close for Danny's liking. "Get the girl. I'll deal with our little meal."

"Um, ew?"

A bright green disk flies at Danny out of nowhere. He barely sees it before it hits, exploding against his chest and blasting him back. Danny groans when he hits the ground, carefully patting his chest for injuries. The gouges from Bertrand were nearly healed, but now they're seeping ectoplasm once again.

Above him, Bertrand has changed into a giant wasp. He zips about Valerie, trying to catch her with his stinger. She's too fast for him, but, likewise, he's too fast for her. None of their hits are landing, and they're playing an endless game of chase.

Spectra rises from the ground beside him, her hands glowing. "You might want to focus on me."

Danny scrambles back, disks of ectoplasm exploding behind him. Ectoplasm lights his fists, and he swings, aiming for Spectra's face. She ducks away cackling.

"Do you ever give up?" he shouts.

"Why would I when you make it so easy?" Spectra laughs behind her hand. "I can only think of a few things worse than an abomination like yourself."

Danny falters. Don't let her get to you, he tells himself. "Oh yeah, like what?"

"The only thing worse than an abomination is a weak one. And that's what she thinks you are, weak."

"That's a lie!"

"Really? Then why did she send you down here to take care of my little assistant, while she kept watch above, searching for me?"

Danny can't help it. He slips, falls for it, lets the ectoplasm coating his hands fizzle out as he glances up at Valerie. She's still caught in her game of cat and mouse with Bertrand, but in the midst of her fight, she keeps glancing down, at Danny and Spectra. Watching out for him? Or watching to see if he can do it? If he needs help?

"N-no, you're lying." He knows Spectra lies. She never tells the truth, always twists other people's words and actions for her own gain, but...

"Look at you!" Spectra's not even poised to fight now, standing completely relaxed with a hand on her hip. "Pathetic! You couldn't take us on your own. She had to come help you, and you still can't beat me."

"Liar!" Danny whips and ectoblast at her. It shoots through the air, a blazing green star. Spectra's quick to counter, breaking his attack with a blast of her own. They explode when they meet, a cascade of light and ectoplasm.

"See? Weak. You can't do anything with powers like this?"

"Then what about this?" Danny thrusts his arm out. Ice races across the ground, encasing Spectra's feet. It creeps up her legs until nearly her entire body is coated in it, but all she does is laugh and clap.

"Oh, that's a fun trick. But it doesn't do much, does it?" A swipe of her hand and the ice melts and cracks. She shoots into the air, her aura glowing brighter as she gathers her power. "You're only proving me right, dear. You should just give up."

"Shut up." The temperature around Danny plummets, frost creeping across the pavement. His breath fogs the air.

Spectra goes on. "You can't expect to protect anyone like this. A freak, a loser, and a joke of a hero! You've hit all three!"

Behind Spectra, far above their heads, Bertrand splits into a swarm of wasps and rushes Valerie. He knocks her off her board, and she plummets with a scream.

Danny sees. He sees but he doesn't think. Spectra's taunting words pound in his ears, fill up his head, shove all other thoughts aside and blind him.

"I said. Shut! Up!" He bellows and stomps his feet. A wave of power bursts off him, razor-sharp icicles spewing from the ground, taller than Danny. Spectra easily dodges, flying up out of harm's way as she cackles with glee.

Too late, Danny realizes his mistake.

"Valerie!" he screams, echoing her cry, as he lunges toward her, but it's too late.

An icicle rips through her with a sickening squelch. Her blood sprays across Danny's face, seeping into his eyes and mouth. It's all he can see and taste. Her body hits the ground with a thud, nearly torn in two. Her heart beats against the open air. One of her lungs lays on the ground beside her, shredded to pieces.

Danny drops to his knees. He can't breathe. He can't think. Valerie, Valerie, VALERIE! A scream of agony tears from his throat as his world shatters around him.

—

Valerie doesn't look all that different in death. She wears her Huntress suit, although ferns of frost curl along her abdomen, spewing from a gape black void in her side. Pale blue overtakes the red. Her hair glows orange. Not bad, as far as ghost forms go.

"I always knew you were bad." Her voice carries an echo that swells and fills the room. "I knew you were evil. All ghosts are. And you made me one of them. Danny," Valerie's stoic expression splinters, "how could you?"

"I'm sorry," Danny says, because there's nothing else he can say, nothing that will make up for this. He reaches out to her, but she recoils, lips curling in disgust.

"I never wanted to turn into this. It hurts." Her voice breaks. A wet sob chokes her words. Like she's still drowning in her own blood, forever.

"I know. God, I know. It never stops. It's like your broken inside." Danny grabs his hair and tugs. "There's a void and nothing ever fills it. I didn't mean it, Valerie, I didn't! But I killed you, and I­– I'm sorry! If I could take it back, if I could trade places with you, I would. You know I would."

"I know."

"If I could do anything to make better..." Danny lowers his head, shame and regret pressing him down.

Valerie reaches for him. Just like in his dream, she grabs his chin and slowly lifts his head, forcing him to look at her. "Danny."

He knows. He knows. He knows what she's going to say, what she's going to do. He's known all along, since that first nightmare. Maybe he's been ignoring it, or hoping for it. Either way, he won't stop her. He deserves it.

She lays her other hand on his chest, ice gathering in her palm. "Die for me."

—

When Mr. Gray finishes crying, he wipes his eyes and slumps into his chair. "So." The words cracks as it comes out. He pauses to swallow a few times, shuddering visibly. "So. That's how it happened."

Danny keeps his eyes downcast. He knows what's coming next. The screaming, the yelling, the accusations. He will take all of it, already agrees with Mr. Gray even though the man hasn't said a word. It's just a matter of seconds, now.

"You­–" MR. Gray starts.

Say it. Say I killed her. Call me a murderer.

"It wasn't your fault."

Danny nearly chokes on his surprise. "What?"

"It was. An accident. You were manipulated, tricked. It wasn't your fault, Danny. I don't want you to think it was."

Danny's mind reels. This can't be happening. Surely, he's hearing Mr. Gray wrong, making up a fantasy in his head, but no. Valerie's father doesn't hate him. The one person who has any right to, other than Valerie. And he... forgives Danny.

"And if I know my daughter, she wouldn't blame you either."

As Danny gets up to leave, only one thought runs through his head. Then you didn't know her very well.

—

It doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. The impact feels like a punch, a burst of searing pain, then he's gone.

And then he's not. He's in his room, floating on one side of his bed. Valerie stands across from them. Between him, his body sits, held upright by the spear of ice jutting through his chest. Valerie apparently had some shred of mercy left in her. The spear went right through Danny's heart.

The wound is still fresh, still bleeding, dripping down his body's chest. Seconds or days to manifest, Danny's mom said. Isn't he a lucky one?

Valerie eyes him over his dead body, and he follows her stare. In the middle of his chest, swirling frost creeps out of a black void. They match. How poetic.

"You're not gone," Danny says, lifting his gaze back to Valerie.

"No. And you stayed."

"Yeah."

She doesn't move away, and neither does he. They can't, not without the other following. They have haunted each other for so long, Danny stalking her in life, Valerie hunting him in death. Now, it seems, they're stuck together at a stalemate, neither one willing to move first. They're dead now, though, so that doesn't matter. They have all the time in the world.

[blushnote]

can i request vampire daddy!vernon coming home to find you touching yourself (a big no no when vernon isn't home) so he's 100% ready to pop out his fangs and take you over his knee, leading to the kinkiest sex you've ever had with him

↳ requested | 3.7k

↳ vampire!hansol smut

a/n: you have no idea how much i enjoyed writing this!! i am a HUGE FUCKING FAN of vampire!au’s lol. warnings for this fic include use of handcuffs, mouth gag, unprotected sex, and of course, mentions of blood. there’s also an instance of spitting sjsjsj sorry i had to! 

maybe you’ll regret this decision, but in the meantime, the need to touch yourself outweighs the possibility of consequence. hansol isn’t home. in fact, you have not a single clue as to where he could be. it’s very typical of him to disappear at random, for long durations that you suspect you want no part of. he’s a vampire, and vampires associate with awfully gruesome things.

it’s nighttime beyond the stillness of the house, and you lie sprawled out across the bed, staring vacantly upon the ceiling while a warm, pulsing ache flutters between your thighs. you’re hardly dressed, wearing only a small pair of baby pink underwear and a navy-blue hoodie that belongs to hansol. his scent clings strongly to the fabric, and you breathe him in generously.

you know the rule like the back of your palm: don’t touch yourself while hansol is away. of course, rules were made to be broken, which precisely corresponds to how your hand drifts beneath the pink underwear, your fingertips brushing against your slit in order to feel the insane amount of arousal that collects. you release a long, alleviated sigh at the sweet contact.

planting your feet on the mattress, your knees bend and you spread your legs apart, loving how the cool air caresses your balmy skin. pulling the hoodie above your hips, you use one hand to open your folds while the other begins massaging circles against the hood of your clit. it feels magnificent, even more so when you shut your eyes and imagine hansol’s fingers instead.

as the house in empty, you’re consequently shameless, whimpering out the boy’s name in repetitive, breathy hymns. your fingers push gently past your slit, covering them in a light coating of gloss which you use to slick your sensitive bud. applying a sterner pressure, you resume rubbing in a circular pattern, all while your hips occasionally jerk in sparks of pleasure.

“yes, j-just like that! please hansol, please make me cum, i need it so bad…”

the conversation spews from your lips, though you’re talking to nothing but empty air. for a mere instance, you imagine the sharp dagger of his fangs scraping hard against your neck, his fingers curling inside you while his thumb brushes back and forth over your sore clit. your own hand begins working faster, driving you closer toward a beautiful, much needed afterglow.

“m-more, hansol! please, please let me cum on your fingers—ff-fuck, it feels so good!”

“does it feel good, baby? does it feel good touching yourself even when i told you not to?”

immediately your eyes fly open, your fingers stop pressing down on your clit, and the tip of your climax subsides like an emptying stream. the breath gets caught in your windpipe and your legs suction shut. standing right beside the bed is none other than fucking hansol, who gauges you with a vicious glint in his eyes, which are the same colour as flame mixed with honey.

you always forget that he’s as silent as a feather. it’s something you’ve never gotten used to.

“i-i’m so s-sorry! i just—i didn’t know that—i thought you’d be home by— i’m sorry!”

it feels like someone is clamping your tongue between their fingers, enabling you from explaining yourself. you shuffle up the bed, the slippery gloss still shining on your hand while you embarrassingly fumble for any sort of coherency. hansol watches you menacingly, as though you’re a piece of prey he’s going to tear into slowly. you can only swallow and sweat.

hansol leans down, hovering close to your face, his acute senses probably allowing him to hear just how quickly your heart drums as well as intensely smell the sticky pool between your thighs. he tilts your chin up slightly with an index finger, a dangerous, inhumane smirk curling from one corner lip to the other. you anticipate you’re in for the biggest ruin of your entire life.

he then chuckles huskily, running his tongue across his pointed teeth. “oh, my pretty baby, you know i can’t forgive you, darling, hm? you know i have to punish you, make you learn your fucking lesson. you know that, sweetheart. now,” he leans in closer, “what do you say?”

hansol smiles in complete satisfaction when you gulp down the enormous lump in your throat, responding with an obedient, “i understand, daddy. i deserve to be punished.”

your compliancy delights hansol to infinite ends, though it doesn’t dilute from the fact you were unable to restrain your hedonism. an accumulation of anticipation and fear creates a torrent in your lower tummy. you’ve never broken this particular rule before. you’re clueless as to what hansol’s punishment entails, until he digs into the bedside table, revealing a pair of metal cuffs.

“get the fuck over here.” hansol commands, his eyes blazing as he takes a seat on the bed.

immediately, you rid yourself of the hoodie and position yourself across hansol’s lap, your cheek pressing against the grey comforter while your bottom pokes slightly into the air. nervously, your fingers are clasped together at your back. it isn’t long before you feel the cold metal lock around each wrist, effectively restricting your movement.

the bedroom air grazes your skin. your bare body is on complete display, your tiny, pink pair of underwear revealed, and consequently, the soaked patch to which your arousal had permeated the fabric. you can’t help but squirm and hold your breath, feeling his hands knead your ass, knowing his gaze is singeing directly into your sopped underwear.

“messy little girl, aren’t you?” hansol hums, stroking his knuckles back and forth in a delicate motion, teasing along your aching pussy. “can’t even wait, huh?” he suddenly draws his hand back, a hard, electric slap causing your body to jolt forward. “can’t even fucking wait until daddy is home to touch you.” hansol’s palm rains down again, and a cry erupts from your lips.

however, the boy doesn’t respond cordially to your noises.

“keep your mouth shut,” hansol threads his fingers through your hair, slightly pulling up on your scalp while he growls into your ear, “or i’ll gag that pretty fucking mouth of yours. understand?”

it rapidly dawns on you which type of mood hansol is in. he’s usually domineering to a certain extent, but it’s been a long while since he’s last threatened to gag you. it makes perfect sense when you then consider the fact that hansol hasn’t fed for more than a month. he only drinks from you occasionally, knowing how easy it is to take too much and make a fatal mistake.

once you nod in response, hansol releases the intense grasp on your scalp and his hand returns to gently squeezing the burning flesh of your ass. he soothes the sting for no more than a minute before his palm is again smacking down brutally, a painful wave flaring at the area in which he’d struck. you bury your face into the sheets, not wanting to release even a peep.

“daddy is so upset with you, princess,” hansol remarks in a sorrowed tone, his hand continuing to ripple hard and lightning fast against your skin, “i know how much it hurts when i’m not there to touch you, baby. i know you get restless—,” hansol hardly gives you a moment to breath before he’s striking that same sore spot, “but that’s no excuse, and you know this.”

your bottom lip is tingling and raw from your teeth biting into it so fiercely. each slap is nearly harder than its counterpart, forcing a silver lining to wet your eyes. you hate disappointing hansol, you hate knowing he’s upset with you, and you wish for nothing more than to abide by his instructions and remain silent; however, every seam inside you is slowly breaking apart.

his merciless treatment doesn’t ease your dilemma either. he keeps slapping your abused flesh, until the area becomes increasingly numb yet so sensitive to the pain that your body begins quivering across his lap. the slick between your thighs is abundantly shimmering, dripping in sweet trails and wetting hansol’s pants. his palm flies down again, and this time you erupt.

a high-pitched cry slices through the air. no matter how much you force your cheek into the mattress, you can’t sink or hide any further. hansol is rigid beneath you.

“didn’t i tell you to keep your mouth shut?” his voice comes out in a snarl.

embarrassingly, you nod your head.

“that’s the second time you broke a fucking rule.” hansol’s warm breath then tickles the cusp of your ear, “what’s wrong with you, huh? you like pissing me off, princess? you want me to punish you, fuck your tight, sweet little cunt until you can’t even walk, is that it?”

your heart is racing on pure adrenaline. severely unsure on whether to shake your head or simply bob in agreement, you accidentally release another tiny, conflicted squeak, one that rasps demurely from your lips. hansol snuffs angrily at that. before you can process what’s happening, there’s a tearing noise that has your head raising alarmingly from the bed.

the realization that hansol had just tore your underwear off doesn’t register until he’s pulling your head back with a hand wrapped firmly beneath the column of your throat. the light pink material presses into your mouth, and you’re left in a haze as the cloth effectively prohibits much noise from escaping your lips. hansol seems satisfied, his hand gently rubbing your ass.

he lends you another deep smack, scoffing at the way your fingernails scar crescent indents to the flesh of your palms, how you’re already trembling and leaving damp blotches on his jeans. in fact, as the cool air brushes against your slicked, throbbing core, you recall how your earlier orgasm had been justly purloined. you bite harshly into the fabric when hansol touches you.

“hmm, so wet, aren’t you?” the boy purrs, his tongue running along his razor-sharp teeth while he easily glides two fingers between your folds.

just for a moment, hansol massages tender circles to your clit, and your hips jerk in reaction to the new warm, embers of pleasure. he grins devilishly, “you like when daddy touches you here? right on this pretty spot?” he applies more pressure, and it feels inconceivably relieving. hansol chuckles low in his throat, “you’re shaking, sweetheart. you wanna cum all over my fingers?”

his statement isn’t far from the truth, and yet, any bliss is instantly snuffed out as hansol removes his touch, just as you could feel the liquid-heat begin to spread. you nearly mewl in frustration, though the makeshift gag in your mouth blocks the dying wisp of sound.

“not yet, angel.” hansol teases. “not until daddy fucks you apart on his cock.”

the next thing you know, hansol has you maneuvered so you’re face-down-ass-up into the pillows, the metal cuffs clinking at your spine as hansol nudges your legs further apart. you can hear him undressing, how he tosses each article onto the floor until his pale, hard body is completely bare. you squirm in anticipation, knowing how utterly helpless you remain.

however, rather than his cock at your entrance, you’re left startled and overwhelmed by pleasure as hansol leans down, instead using the tip of his tongue to lick a wet strip up your pussy. your jaw tenses around the gag, and your eyes squeeze shut upon hansol continuing to lave his slick, soft tongue against the flesh. he closes his mouth around your clit and suckles.

your hips immediately grind back against his face in utmost desperation. hansol’s brassy laugher rumbles deep into your core, just before he pulls away, not wanting to allow you more appeasement than necessary. as he gets onto one knee, a hand stroking his cock, and positions himself behind you, there’s a wicked gleam in the honeyed flame of his eyes.

“i couldn’t resist, sweetheart. the way you’re fucking dripping… just your scent is making it hard for me to contain myself.”

you already know he’s thinking about sinking his fangs deep into your tender, pliable skin.

his cock presses against your entrance. of course, hansol spends ample time teasing, simply running the swollen head between your slippery folds and tapping himself against your clit. yet, he leaves not on ounce of time for you to adjust when he finally decides to push himself inside you. immediately, he hits deep, to which you can feel his cock throbbing against your abdomen.

“ff-fuck,” hansol grits between his teeth, his hands locket-tight around your hips in order to keep you in place, “fuck, your pretty cunt is s-so warm, s-so fuckin’ t-tight… g-god…”

he slurs his words like there’s nothing but alcohol thick in his veins. you feel absolutely stuffed, right to the very hilt, your pussy stretched in the most pleasurable manner around his member. it isn’t until the boy begins thrusting at a hard, thorough pace that you can’t help but whine around the pink, fabric gag, though hansol seems to allow it for the time being.

there’s an impenetrable fire in his eyes as he rams into you, the bedframe jolting against the wall each time he draws his hips out, only to slam them forward, rough and unforgivingly. a heavy furrow burns itself onto your face, an expression twisted in the carnality that consumes you whole. hansol doesn’t go any easier on you, encompassed by his own extreme lust.

his leans over top your back with his hips still desperately rutting into you, and you whimper once more around the gag as hansol licks at the juncture between your neck and shoulder. the second he curls his lips back and his canines drag toward the sensitive, inner slope of your neck, a shiver melts beneath your flesh. he has yet to bite, just scrapes at your skin with a smirk.

but you develop an earnest notion that hansol won’t be able to resist his desire. likewise, you won’t be able to hold out much longer. the head of hansol’s cock pushes firm into your golden spot, consistently and at an overwhelmingly intense pace. the drool manages to accumulate at your chin regardless of the gag, and you forget the stinging sensation of the metallic cuffs.

“s-so close, aren’t you?” hansol hisses. “mmm, t-that’s it, princess. c-cum for daddy, okay?”

as soon as hansol reaches a hand between your legs and begins rubbing his thumb across your swollen clit, you shatter into pieces, your walls immediately suctioning tight around hansol’s cock, your arousal coating him until the noises of your own slick have you mewling in a conflict embarrassment and ecstasy. your contractions force hansol to experience his own release.

however, the boy is rather intent to capitalize on the unprecedented pleasure. upon feeling his cum shoot in prolonged, creamy spurts deep inside you, hansol simultaneously digs his fangs into a rather soft portion of your neck, instantly breaking the fragile skin. you cry out through the gag, tears slipping salty and hot down your face at the painful, thrumming sensation.

though hansol’s pace slows marginally, he still continues snapping his hips into you, his cum dripping slow, sticky and warm down the back of your thighs. after removing his teeth from the puncture wounds, hansol attaches his mouth over the slits and begins suckling, the tangy, copper-like taste of your blood gushing across his tongue. your lungs shake as you try to breath.

you turn your head, your cheek sinking into the pillowcase. it doesn’t take long before you note how the bedroom colours begin sponging together, like an artist mixing paint on their easel. a fuzziness blots your mind, and ever so slightly, you begin seeing double of certain objects. the more hansol drinks, the worse your vision becomes, until your eyes unwillingly flutter shut.

a few minutes pass, and you aren’t one-hundred percent sure what’s happening. very faintly, you can feel hansol softly lick over the wound at your neck, using his unique saliva to numb your pain and close the two holes. the strict metal confining your wrists seems to disappear, and at long last, you feel the gag gently being pulled out from your mouth.

hansol’s movements are incredibly ginger. he helps you roll onto your back, and the dim lights twinkle in the blurry corners of your vision for a lingering second. eventually, everything sorts itself back into one image, and you see hansol peering down at you with a tender look in his amber eyes. he strokes your cheek slowly, rests his forehead against yours as he kisses you.

you haven’t been able to exercise your vocal cords, so you shy from speaking. instead, you allow hansol to decorate your neck with sweet, solacing nips and licks, a state of drowsiness slowly impending upon you. however, no matter how sleepy you’re becoming, you manage to dryly chirp out the boy’s name as he moves down the bed to nuzzle between your thighs.

“ah—,” hansol cuts you off, “that’s not my name, darling.”

you swallow tautly, your heart hammering as you ask, “daddy, w-what are you doing?”

hansol only smirks at you while pulling your folds apart with his thumbs, observing how the thick streams of his cum pool slowly from your swollen entrance. your fingers clasp at the bedsheets, watching intently as hansol leans in close with a glaze in his eyes. suddenly, the boy spits on your pussy, his tongue then lapping at your sensitive flesh in fervent and warm licks.

immediately, an unexpected warble uproots from your chest. you attempt to close your thighs, though hansol pries them down with his strong grip. using one hand, he gathers some of his cum that had oozed out, then pushes it back inside your entrance, slipping his digits in right until the knuckle. you tilt your head back and weep, especially as his tongue flicks your clit.

“d-ddaddy! i-i c-can’t— o-oh, f-fuck, please! please be gentle…”

“hmm…” hansol curls his fingers perfectly against your g-spot, “but this is your punishment, sweetheart. i don’t care if you’re sensitive. you’ll take what i fucking give you, pretty baby.”

at that, hansol buries his face back into your core, lathering his wet tongue across your ruined silk while his fingers unforgivingly rut into that pliant, spongey patch. everything begins blurring again. your chest arches upon feeling hansol’s fangs brush your clit, their sharp edge just grazing the sore flesh and garnering a massive sob from your chest. hansol grins.

“that’s it, sweetheart,” he mumbles into your folds, his chin and mouth glimmering with a concoction of your arousal, “you gonna let go, hm? you gonna let go from me fingering my own cum back into your precious cunt? fuck, i might have to drink from you again, baby. your blood tastes so fucking good when i already have your cum on my tongue.”

the world collapses beneath you like a house of paper cards. you practically dig up up the bedsheets from their tightly tucked crevices, attempting to withstand the force of the orgasm that ripples throughout your exhausted frame. hansol abides by his earlier testament. he sinks his razored fangs deep into the inner meat of your thigh, creating another wound.

he suckles eagerly, in unbeknownst thirst, drawing the addicting, seraphic flavour of your blood onto his tongue. there’s a tingling sensation that follows suit. you feel the pins and needles in every vein. you allow hansol to freely drink, one of your hands falling atop his head so that you can shakily stroke his black hair. he hums contentedly, sensing your thigh tremble beneath him.

by the time he’s satisfied, you’re teetering on the edge of what feels like an eternal slumber and hollowed consciousness. hansol wipes the crimson trails from the corner of his mouth. he climbs back up your body, completely spent of all energy, and says something to you, though his words sound somewhat muffled. you’re overwhelmed with the urge to fall asleep.

unable to resist the heaviness in your body, you allow yourself to fade.

the next time your eyes slowly flutter open, you note that you’re still in bed, with a distant ache echoing at the side of your neck and inner thigh. the blankets pool around your waist as you sit up, to which you note that you’re wearing a clean pair of underwear and one of hansol’s soft, patterned flannels. there’s a water glass on the bedside table, and you drink from it gratefully.

“hey.” the bedroom door squeaks open, and hansol steps inside.

you smile toward him at first, mumbling a quiet “hi” in response, though you realize you wanted to ask him a question: “did i pass out or something?”

hansol sits on the edge of the bed, his lips then pressing in a sweet, comforting kiss to your forehead. he kisses your sore wrists too, still a little chaffed from the metal cuffs, and nods empathetically. you see that his eyes are no longer an amber blaze, but their usual, mellow shade of chocolate. he replies in a gentle tone, to which you can read the apologetic, lighthearted nature that tends to warm his face after rough sex.

“you fell straight asleep. i think i was too hard on you, babe. i shouldn’t have fucking emptied you like a juice box, huh?”

laughter rumbles in your throat, and you shake your head.

“no, it was fine! i know you would never take enough to hurt me.”

hansol’s gaze seems to twinkle over with an arduous sentiment, one that makes your chest feel as though it’s made from pink cloud and stardust. you love the way he looks at you, like you’re the most important thing he’s ever known (and hansol has known many, many people in his often cold and lonesome lifetimes). he’s just thankful to have met someone like you.

“i love you.” hansol hums while soothingly tracing circles to the bitemark on your thigh.

of course, you end up pulling hansol down into the bedsheets with you to cuddle. even though the possibility lingers that you could dose off again, hansol doesn’t mind. as long as he has the opportunity to stare wonderfully at your pretty face, he wouldn’t ever have a problem with it.

[ajokeformur-ray]

Shaken to the core // J x Lilith // angst, fluff, comfort.

Summary: During the scene in which J is interrogated by Batman (the True Villain of Gotham), you protect J and end up getting punched by the Masked Coward. J goes feral but when you’re safe at home and patched up, J’s own emotional wounds come to the forefront and your bond deepens; if such a thing is even possible.

Warnings: I don’t like Batman and it shows lmao (so maybe don’t read if you like him), reader gets punched, J is scary angry, descriptions of fights and physical injury, swearing, crying, intense discussions, lots of comfort.

A personalised fic for @jokershyena​. I love you, doll, and I can’t thank you enough for letting me fully write this out for you skskskkkskk I adore our talks. I hope you like this! ^^

Word count: 3, 581 (Okay, I know you said under 1k buuuut~ a) have you met me? and b) when do I ever do what I’m told?)

Everything happened so fast.

One minute J was sat in the cold and unforgiving metal chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap in a mockery of the ‘rules’ the Commissioner had left him with, and the next were his feet suspended several inches above the floor, steel toecaps scraping across the floor, his painted face so close to Bats’ own masked one. J had been sat there teasing the Masked Coward but once again had Bats’ power and the situation at hand gone to his head. He was acting more like a villain than J was as without a word did Bats swing J around and slam him down far too harshly onto the metal table. It made J cackle and woop through his amusement as he curled his fingers up beneath his chin in a position of mock defense. “Ya’ gotta break your code,” J dropped his voice to a gravelly octave to mock Bats’ own ridiculous voice. “You know it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“I’m not gonna break my code,” You rolled your eyes at Bats’ voice - seriously, how was this dude able to talk like that for so long? Did he use something to alter his voice? - but your sarcasm quickly turned to horror when Bats lifted J up, still by his collar, and slammed him down once more against the table. How could this man call himself a hero when he was so violent with J, a man who hadn’t actually done anything in this particular case and had just been minding his own business? And why the hell had someone asked for you to be in the room, too? Ugh, you hated Batman. If anyone was the villain of Gotham, it was him.

While Bats was still holding J down by his collar, his other arm, clad in hard leather, came up, up, high above his head, his fist clenched - 

“No!” Your heart seized in your chest as panic and a fierce need to defend what is yours took you over and you flung your body forward, moving so that your back was pressed to J’s chest, your hair spilling over his abdomen and chest like a dark halo. You were leaning over him, protecting him, and you heard J growl, felt the vibration against your back as it rumbled through his chest and pushed out of his throat, the sound guttural and foreboding, as Bats’ fist connected squarely with your shoulder, and made you cry out. You slid off the table and dropped to the floor and the room. went. silent.

Pain exploded in your shoulder. Fuck, it hurt. The hard leather, Bats’ brute strength, the harsh way that Bats had let you drop, presumably shocked by the fact that he had just broken his code completely accidentally. Your entire arm was numb, pain and fear pulsating through you. You were so scared for J, you were terrified that something bad was going to happen to him. You had always been so protective of him, immensely so, and right now was no exception. You knew, even through the haze of pain, that right now J was both impressed that you had managed to get Bats to break his insanely stupid and hypocritical code but also really angry. 

Seconds ticked past, marked in silence. You weren’t sure anyone was even breathing as you each took the time to process what had just happened. Your thoughts all circled and though the words changed, the sentiment was the same every time as the reality seeped into your foggy mind. You would be lucky if you only had bruising from this. 

You had just been punched by Bats.

Bats had just broken his stupid fucking hypocritical code.

You had been protecting your J.

One thought, more important than the rest, stuck in the very forefront of your mind. So strong was it, so raw was its intensity, that it reverberated around and around inside your head, like a hurricane of beautiful devastation, once it registered in your mind. It was louder than all the other thoughts:

You had been protecting your J.

You felt proud of yourself for doing so. You were a woman of your word. You had told J once that you would be a dragon if he ever got hurt - you would defend him with your life. And right now - you had just proven yourself to be true. You were proud of yourself, immensely so, for looking after your clown. He was yours and no one hurt your J. No one.

“You really shouldn’t have done that.” J’s voice was lower than you had ever heard it before. You had known J for twelve years; you knew his every tone, his every expression, his every demeanour... but you had never heard that pitch from him before. Your head shot up as you took him all in. The ticking jaw muscle, the clenched gloved fists, the leather creaking with every flex of his fingers, his tongue prodding against the scarring on his inner cheek, first one side and then the other before the thick muscle left the warm cavern of his mouth to wet his full lips, his chin dipped, his head tilted to the side... your blood ran cold. “No one hurts my hyena.”

J was pissed, so much so that he was almost shaking with sheer unadulterated rage. In a movement so fast that your naked eyes struggled to see what was happening, and your mind, oh, it was spinning, J grabbed Bats’ head with both of his hands, raised his knee and mercilessly brought Bats’ head down. J acted with no hesitation and with brute force in a moment which reminded you of just how dangerous your chaotic clown could truly be. There was a sickening noise and Bats dropped to the concrete floor like a sack of potatoes. It was loud, undignified and he was undoubtedly out cold, but you didn’t much care. Good riddance. It was nice to see Bats get a taste of his own medicine. You had no idea where the Commissioner was or where any of the stationed police officers were but you suspected that everyone had cleared out of the vicinity once Batman had begun his portion of the ‘interrogation’ - or, as you and every other morally flexible person saw it, unwarranted aggression akin to torture. You had intervened long before Bats had truly started on J, but he never should have even been allowed to do so. He wasn’t a man of the law and as such, he had no jurisdiction here and he definitely had no right to be throwing anyone around like that. Who the fuck did he think he was??

J climbed gracelessly off the table and stepped over Bats’ body like he was nothing more than a pile of shit in the middle of the road (if the shoe fits...) and got down on his knees beside you, gently, gently, pulling you into his lap. His body was trembling, from worry or from adrenaline you knew not. “You shouldn’t have done that, doll.”

Tears came to your eyes fast now that it was all over and you sniffled. Oh, but you were in so much pain, but J was okay. Nothing more than a few scrapes or bruises. J’s okay. J’s safe, J’s okay he’s okay he’s okay... “I would never let you get hurt, J.”

“I know,” J sounded so genuine, his voice quiet and his tone soft as gloved fingers swiped your tears away. Not many fell - both of you knew that this was neither the time nor the place, no matter how much it hurt. There were no masks here, no pretenses... just you and J, as it had always been. “You’re my guard hyena, aren’t’cha?” There was untapped urgency in his words, a need to make sure that you were okay and you felt that same sense echoed within your own self, so desperate were you to ensure that your J was okay.

Your answering nod sent sharp stabbing pains shooting through your shoulder and you couldn’t have stopped the wince if you had tried. J’s gaze sharpened as he looked you over. His intense chocolate eyes were looking at you critically, his stare roaming over your body as he catalogued your body language. He was being so tender, his arms around you like the safest, warmest cage, like a heater was your clown.

Deft fingers pulled your collar aside, making you wince, and J leaned into your body, peeking into your shirt as he checked out the damage. There were no cameras in this interrogation room but even so did J not wish to expose you, to make you uncomfortable in any way. He made a soft whistling noise. Had you been anyone else, he would have been impressed with the colouring. As it was... he was enraged and trying so, so hard to keep himself from beating Batman shitless. “It’s a pretty purple ya’ gonna be wearing when this settles, Lil.” Despite his gentle teasing, J was being completely serious. It was almost scary. Almost. But you knew your J, you knew him, and you knew that he would always take care of you. Right now was no exception. “Come on, let’s get’cha home.”

There was a shakiness to J’s voice which both of you could hear but J’s ticking jaw muscles kept you from voicing your concerns as he gathered you up in his arms and carried you out of the building. Nothing had gone the way he wanted it to,  but you had always been and would always be his number one concern. Fuck the world - his hyena needed him and truthfully, he needed you, too.

Time ceased to have all meaning as J did not let you go. You remained in his arms for the few blocks that he had to walk, your face tucked into the warm crook of his neck. You littered the skin available to you with kisses, licks, nibbles, gentle bites... J had so much pent up anger and energy within him that he was almost vibrating, but he was still so gentle with you as he got you both home, holding you in such a way that you were barely jostled by his movements. Oh, but he was so strong, emotionally, physically... your clown was fierceless, unstoppable, especially in the face of one of his worst fears.

Losing you.

Without you, J would truly have nothing to lose, nothing that he could be threatened with. He got you both home safely and he carried you through to the sofa in the living room.

“J... J, you can put me down. I can walk.”

He only shushed you, somewhat roughly, and set you down on the sofa. Immediately was he gone to get the dark green first aid kit which you kept in the bathroom, and he was back just as quickly. A pocket knife slid out of his sleeve and he fingered it into position expertly, the blade balanced between two fingers as he sliced your shirt off straight up the middle and peeled it off your body as gently as he could. You made no protests. J would replace it, you knew he would, and the circumstances were such that you couldn’t bring yourself to stop J. His face was set, his eyes were somewhat misty, and his breaths were deliberately slow, deep. J was keeping calm as best as he could, and you knew that once your injury had been examined and taken care of, you would have to deal with J’s own wounds.

You almost wanted to tell him to not bother with your injury, to let you take care of him, but that would only get you scolded, so you sat tight and let J take care of you. In moments like this did the two of you not need words, so well did you know each other and so deep was your bond. Twelve years... twelve fucking years and never before had you made good on your promise to take a hit for him if you had to. J had always made sure that such a promise wasn’t even necessary but today, today there had been an opening to prove yourself, to use your body to protect J’s own, and you knew that he was more thankful for it, for you, than he knew how to say.

So he would show you, instead.

And J did... careful touches, slightly rough kisses to your forehead, to your cheeks when you hissed in air through your teeth or otherwise winced, two pairs of chocolate eyes met every time you did so, and J would either shush you or his full lips would turn downwards in genuine sympathy. You were hurt because of him. His touches were so tender as he ran fingers over the deep purple bruise which bloomed across your collarbones, the slope of your shoulder, veiny lines spreaded out like tendrils around the outside of the bruising like a border of red and purple vines... there was some blood where the skin had completely split and J mopped it up, bandaged the areas and kissed over the protective layer he had placed against your skin as if his love could seep through the barrier and heal you from the outside in; indeed, many of your emotional wounds had already been healed, or, at the very least, soothed, by his presence in your life. You were pretty messed up just from one punch, but you were infinitely grateful that J hadn’t had to take the hit. You would do, be and say anything for him if it meant keeping him safe, sane, honest.

The more J put you back together, the more unravelled he became. 

When at last you were bandaged and J had helped you to get into your pyjamas ready for sleep - you had been awake with J this entire time and neither of you had slept for more than a few hours at a time over the last few days and you were both exhausted on top of everything else - J put the first aid box back into the bathroom. He took his sweet time, his head bowed, his broad shoulders stiff. He was still on the defence. J was too calm, too quiet and you knew, you knew your J. He was barely holding it together.

As he came back into the living room, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers, his beautiful face bare and his footsteps uneven, his fists clenched, his head bowed and his slightly greasy locks framing his face, hiding himself from you, J sighed. “Best you, ah - get some rest, doll. Bed’s ready for ya’.”

“Aren’t you... aren’t you joining me, J?”

J shook his head, angling his face away from you some more as he took another step towards you. “No, no, I, ah - got some calls to make.”

Like hell he did. Not tonight. “Then I’m not sleeping.” Fire crept into your voice and you stood. Your shoulder didn’t hurt too badly. It wasn’t as bad as the pain you had felt that time you had been shot in the leg, and you knew you’d be okay. “Not without you, J, not after today.”

“Lilith - “ There was a warning in J’s tone and you went immediately to his side. You knew your clown, you knew that he had been on the edge of something ever since you had taken the hit for him, and you saw the opening that you had been waiting for, perhaps subconsciously, this entire time.

You took his hand, locked your fingers with his and you walked the both of you to the bedroom. You could almost hear J’s torment as you got into bed, easing yourself down with a wince. Lying down, it wasn’t so bad. You would be just fine within a few weeks. You had taken worse before. 

“J, don’t... don’t hide from me. Come here, sweet angel.” You kept your tone soft, warm, comforting and you used your grip on his hand to pull J towards you. He didn’t protest, he didn’t fight you, he didn’t argue or try to say that he had work to do. No, J went with you, and as he eased himself down atop you with barely any hesitation - you were always so sure of yourself and what you wanted with him and for him - he sunk into your body.

J’s strong forearms framed either side of your head, your hair once more like a dark halo; it was reminiscent of what had happened today, though this time was J protecting you, and his shaking only intensified until his entire body was shaking. J dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his slightly greasy locks tickling at the underside of your chin, your nose, and you felt the falling of one, maybe two tears.

J was shaken to his very core and you needed (and wanted) to take care of him, now.

Ignoring the screaming in your shoulder, you wrapped both of your arms around J’s broad shoulders, wrapped your legs around his waist and crossed your ankles to solidly anchor him to you. “Shh, Jack, it’s okay - it’s okay, my darling, I’m here.” J didn’t even react to the mention of his real name, he just burrowed down further into you as if he was trying to climb inside you, to hide himself from the world by literally becoming one with you so that never again could the two of you be torn asunder. You ducked your head somewhat awkwardly so that you could rain kisses down upon the top of J’s head, your lips lingering against his skin, your nose resting in his strands, which were in desperate need of a dye job as well as a wash. Normally, you would have made him shower before coming to bed, but not tonight.

Tonight, all the rules were off the table. There was only room for the two of you. The raw essence of your relationship had been exposed to reality this night and neither of you quite knew what to do about it. All you could do was just to... simply be together, to express the impossibly deep bond which the two of you shared with one another. You continued to kiss J over and over and at some point he lifted his face up so that you could reach him there, too, his bare scars receiving the most love. You adored his scars and you treasured the times he let you interact with them. 

J lifted himself up so that his nose was inches from yours. Your lips landed on his forehead next and J’s broken rasp of a voice broke the quiet stillness of the room, “He dared to touch my hyena. No one touches you, Lilith. You’re mine and… there’s no me without you. Without you, I have nothing… nothing.” As if he was distressed by words alone did he shut his eyes tightly, and you cooed as you cupped his face in your hands, your fingers stroking along his cheeks.

“No one hurts my J. Mine. I love you.” You felt like you were going to cry, so deeply and so intensely were the waves of love and affection crashing over your shores at this moment.

The answering sentimental declaration came in the form of J’s full lips crashing against your own, his lips warm but heavy against your own, his tongue hot as he commanded your full attention. J’s kiss was so thorough, his hot hands cupping your face - like a heater was he - the feeling of his heart pounding against your own... oh, but this was everything you could ever want and need. J left no room for arguments as he took from you what he needed, though in equal measures did he give you what you needed. You only needed each other, to reaffirm that the both of you were alive and safe and whole and loved, always loved, and that would always be enough to shine a light on any residual fears and anxieties lurking in the dark about each other’s continued safety.

“Mine,” J growled against your lips as he peppered your face with kisses so ferocious that they were almost bruising, “Mine, mine, mine.”

“Yes, J,” You smiled through tears you refused to let fall. Too many had been shed this night. “I’m yours. And you’re mine.”

J made a noise low in the back of his throat by way of agreement, by way of making and keeping a promise which never needed to be voiced because you both just knew as he claimed your lips with his again once more, but it was a slower, more tender expression now, more reverent and full of worship than it was of desperation, of urgency. “The hyena and her clown... the clown and his hyena. I like the sound of that, doll, don’t you?”

The smile you gave J by way of a reply was brighter than any firework, bigger than any explosion, and more commanding of J’s heart than anything else in the world.

You were his entire world, and so long as he had you and you had him, why, you both had everything.

[ruluxe]

First Line Tag Game III

Hey hey hey tagged by @gaytaiga this time, tysm my dude! (ALSO tagging you back if you want to list more!!)

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

This will likely be more finished works than wips because I deleted wattpad all other writing accounts that had wips a long time ago. I might throw in some excerpts from my unfished webcomic series though!

Tagging anyone else who wants to do this again, so make sure if you do it to tag me! 

1.  Pollution  — Character Bible Series [Christian Cavanaugh/Luca Braun wip]: The brain's ability to remember and conveniently forget is a peculiar thing. It often represses the bad memories, trauma's strange like that. Someone could live an entire lifetime without remembering anything yet the slightest sensation could trigger the worst memory locked away in the darkest depths of the psyche and worlds could come crashing down. [2019, Original Work]

2.  Pollution — Character Bible Series [Benjamin Keller/Parker Madison/Oz Hellsinger wip]: His skin is sticky beneath the mask; mouth and nose obstructed but his eyes are not. Still, it serves its purpose of concealing his identity-- or at least Benji hopes it does. The heat from his breath rises while beads of sweat swim down his brows and into his eyes so he can’t stop blinking rapidly. The contact in his right eye starts to shift and his vision is blurred momentarily before he's able to blink it back into place. Someone beside Benji urges him to hurry up. [2018-2019, Original Work]

3. (I Found You) In a Melody [galahau/abandoned]: The ivory beneath his fingertips is cool and smooth, making the stroking motion of his fingers waltzing across keys as easy of an action as breathing. Mellow notes flood the lounge as the cello kicks in, and Galahad’s eyes slide shut so he can tune into the music; the slow rattle of the snare or the bass drum kicking in at the perfect intervals, the taper of the cymbals and the resonating pluck of the cello strings. The sharps are chiming off the airwaves like dewdrops and finally the soft-silk flow of the lounge singer’s voice is the finishing touch to round off the harmony. [2015, Gangsta.]

4. Binding Patience [galahau]: Perhaps anyone with impatience wouldn't waste the time, but Hausen has all the time in the world when the end result is Galahad trembling on his knees at the edge of the bed, arms and hands bound in intricate patterns of rope behind his back, tethered and wound thick around his ankles like cast iron fetters. [2015, Gangsta.]

5. Radio Silence [galahau]: There's an audible click as the playback device ejects Doug's tag, and despite Galahad doing his best to clean off the blood, his eye still catches laces of it tarnishing the shineless metal. [2015, Gangsta.]

6. Turnabout’s Fair Play [Worick Arcangelo, character study]:  It starts with him splayed out and down on his knees, covered in the grime and filth of Ergastulum still clinging to his bruised and broken skin. He should have known better than to leave the sanctity of home by himself, but it’s getting harder and harder to look Nicolas in the face when all he sees is the shadow of his family’s blood splattered across it. [2015, Gangsta.]

7. The Aftermath [XS/1029]: Long after the chaos dies down and everyone’s left the hospital, Squalo’s not supposed to leave his bed but it doesn’t stop him from sauntering off to Xanxus’s private room. He suspects to find the other propped up against the many embroidered satin pillows he demanded from Lussuria with his brows drawn pensively, a miserable scowl on his face despite him supposed to be at peace in slumber. [2015, Katekyo Hitman Reborn!]

8. The End of Things [8059/yamagoku]: It starts with a kiss, slow and sensual, warm like the rising sun and just as bright. Yamamoto's pretty sure this will be the most memorable kiss of his life, knows it'll be the best kiss of his life, with the spicy smoke lingering off Gokudera's tongue etched into his brain; that's something he'll never forget. [2015, Katekyo Hitman Reborn!]

9.  Pyrexia [aokise]: When Kise wakes, it's to a throbbing headache and dull pain behind the eyes. His throat is burning raw and his joints ache, his muscles ache, everything is sore. He groans, feeling the heat of a fever spread through his skin like the heat of an unforgiving July sun is bearing down on him. [2015, Kuroko no Basuke]

10. Once. [deliyang]: He doesn't think before he moves, he just does. It's with snap-quick reflexes that he rips his gun from it's holster and aims it at the men in front of them. And Erica. Erica's there too... but it's not really Erica, is it. Things are never once what they seem. [2015, Alter End Series, Gangsta.]

11. Lightweight [D18/dinohiba]: It's quarter to four in the morning when Dino hears the scrape of metal against metal, the dragged out clinking of the keys against the lock. He's a little irritated, if he's being totally honest. It's not unusual for Kyoya to come home at this hour but it isn't unusual for Kyoya to not keep in contact during the day and explain himself or his whereabouts either. But perhaps there's a good reason as to why he's arriving home at four in the morning. In their line of work it's not like it isn't possible, but it had better be good if it's going to keep him in Dino's good graces. [2015, Katekyo Hitman Reborn!]

12. Mood  — Permanent Petals Epilogue [8059/yamagoku]: It isn’t that Gokudera wakes up in bad moods, in fact for the last few years waking up has been as pleasant as getting a full night’s sleep; no more shadowed insomnia plaguing the soft pale underneath his eyes, no more jittery and short cut patience – he is currently very content with his sleeping arrangements in this moment and all other moments that have passed and ones he has to look forward to in the future. [2015, Permanent Petals Gift Fic, Katekyo Hitman Reborn!]

13. Domestic [deliyang]: The house smells of eggs and rice, the heady aroma of rich-brewed coffee clings to the air. With an appreciative inhale, Delico’s lips slide into a smile easy as he makes his way downstairs.

14. : Advice [aokaga/abandoned]: Kagami isn't fond of days like these, no practise or games to keep him busy and the lack of a distraction leaves his mind to wander to thoughts that end up leaving a bad taste in his mouth.Aomine has been avoiding him lately, he's been distant and more acerbic than usual and Kagami can't bring himself to ask Aomine what the problem is. [2015, Open Spaces Series, Kuroko no Basuke]

15. When Time Stands Still [8059/yamagoku]: Sometimes you sit there for hours, your expression blank and your limbs numb and everything around you is eerily quiet but you can’t turn the volume down on the static noise that buzzes frenetically inside your head. You grit your teeth, you cover your ears but that can’t stop the sound. You get drunk, you take pills — despite your hatred for all things medicinal — but no amount of haze can muffle the shrillness. [2015, Katekyo Hitman Reborn!]

16. Broken [imahana]: It ends with Hanamiya on his knees, scuffed and scabbed and bloody and Imayoshi can’t be sorry for choosing the blacktop that’s as cracked and overused as Hanamiya is. There’s something about having him out here in the open, stripped of his clothing and dignity that sets Imayoshi’s skin on fire, gets him hot and irritated and he needs Hanamiya’s raw vulnerability to ease the itch whenever he gets it. [2014, Kuroko no Basuke]

17. Living the Dream [sourin]: Sousuke's shoulder aches and the near scalding hot water does little to soothe the pain. He's an idiot, he knows without a certain redhead having to tell him this, but determination is something that's bred into him and he just doesn't seem to know when to quit. He grits his teeth through the blinding white when he moves his shoulder just slightly and it jars him with enough force to make him nauseous. It makes him angry, makes him wish for a time machine so he can go back and do things differently. [2014, Free!]

18. Youth [S80]: It begins with standing on a ledge, too high to come off from for it's your only salvation now that you no longer have the resolve to live. But it's when the no-good boy with the large, round eyes saves you and tells you there is hope that you begin to believe. It's the smell of the baseball diamond, the warm sun and the air of dirt and sweat and perseverance that make you feel like you're where you should be. It's the fleeting feelings when you dash from base to base and slide in to home plate that make this age in time seem like an eternal stretch that you never want to leave. [2014, Katekyo Hitman Reborn!]

19. Rewind > Pause > Play [aokaga]: They had been fighting all day. Stupid, trivial, bickering arguments that had mounted into several, major shouting matches which in turn, had nearly lead to the end of their relationship. The months prior to this, Daiki thinks, should have been a warning of what was to come. [2014, 2021 REVISED, Kuroko no Basuke]

20. The Sidelines [aokaga]: Everyone thinks because you're stubborn that must make you dense. Everyone thinks because you're so self centered that all you see is you. Perhaps that were true in the later years of your Teikou run, perhaps that were true until you met him. You're curious about that enigmatic red head that has managed to surpass Kise and Midorima. You're intrigued of Tetsu's new light. When you find him out on the court that day, it isn't just coincidence. You need to know what this guy is all about. So you offer up a game of one-on-one. [2014, Kuroko no Basuke]

[regardingseas]

Title: Echoed Vexations (Part two)

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Rating: Teen and up audiences (violence warning)

AO3: here! (Full story at once)

•••

(PART ONE)

Beginning, summary, and warnings can be found there. Story continued under the cut.

•••

He regretted it instantly.

Catching sight of the white abyss behind Their eyes, the sanctions of his mind found themselves entangled in the monster's clutches. They weren't physically there, but he could feel them all the same-- tendrils like snakes burrowing into his brain, parasitic vermin that rooted themselves into his very core with a vice-like hold. He'd thrash, or fight, but that only ever ended in the pain spiking from a ten to an eleven, proven by the past, and again by Cub's screams of anguish as Scar barely bit back his sobs.

His thoughts echoed in his skull, looping over themselves as the Vex listened in like safe-crackers. He wanted not to think, not to have a single notion cross his mind, but an infinite number of processes scrambled through at once no matter what he tried.

Not being able to defend himself against such beings was humiliating in its own right. Rationally, he knew They were far more powerful than the average human, and a group of Them was nothing to sneeze at when they got serious. The Vex were a corrupt and cruel species who enjoyed little more than acquisitive riches and making others suffer, but as much as he was aware of that, it didn't make being beaten down by something an eighth of his size any less demeaning.

With that train of thought, Scar's auditory input from the outer world was replaced by ringing-- blood seeping out from his ears and from his nose not long after. The taste of copper was bitter on his tongue, mixing with the salt of tears and bile that had risen in his throat.

We're nothing but small, cruel, and materialistic? The concordats forget themselves so...

They will learn from this, mistakes make for better humans.

I think they've forgotten who they belong to.

He dared to think he didn't belong to Them, that he was his own, not even of his own accord, and still his air was cut off. His arms gave out next and he crumbled to the side, gagging on red and trembling as waves of pain crashed over his body. Scar gasped, but his lungs refused to fill, leaving him grasping at his throat and pleading internally.

Do you remember now?

One of Them, or maybe all of Them, had asked.

Do you remember our deal? Do you remember the emblem we burned into your skin when you agreed to join us?

I remember, he begged in his mind, I remember. I'm sorry. Please don't kill me, I'm so sorry. I belong to the Vex. I'm sorry.

Horrid laugher overtook his senses, and a feeble rush of air filled his chest before his consciousness began to fade.

You will never escape us.

They finalized, and his world went dark like the drawing of velvet curtains.

------

Back in the present, flashes of that day and many others raced through his head as if to mock his phobia of thinking itself. It was almost akin to watching his past unfold in third person, like he'd been detached from his body during the events. Bleary yet potent reenactments of metal patterns searing his flesh, of his bones shattering, of gashes and bruises and the life fading from his eyes. All the times he was made to expand their trade, slaving endlessly until his hands were stiff and immobile from overuse, but it still not being enough for Them. Annexing the rest of the industry, becoming number one, having two humans as their play things. Nothing was, or ever would be, enough for the Vex.

Scar's nails raked up his arms as he tried to feel anything other than Their coils invading his brain, doing all he could to reason with himself that they weren't real, for the logical part of him knew they weren't. His hands grasped for the brand ingrained into the flesh of his shoulder blade, fingers feverishly grazing over the risen tissue to find the divot and remind himself that the seal had been severed. His time with them was over. The symbol was broken.

"I'm- I'm safe..." he recited, "I'm away, I'm free, I'm okay…"

The words were more of a finding of his voice than a real reassurance, and Scar fumbled to pull his communicator from his pocket, aware of how much he needed to contact a proper support system. Tears blurred the screen, making the already jumbled letters more difficult to make out, but he managed to gather the necessary information.

He could call for Cub, but the man was away, and even if the notification were to alert him, such an event was likely to jump-start evocations of his own traumas.

Xisuma was available, but he didn't want to pester the already busy admin with his troubles anymore than he'd had to before. The kind man had already spent countless time and energy ensuring that they were all safe inside of the world barrier; a field in which no Vex could enter on Their own, nor abuse Their power if They were to be deliberately summoned by a rogue party. Admin magic, he was thankful for it to the nth degree, but he currently needed a real person in his presence more than anything.

Scar scanned the remaining names on his monitor. There was only one other Hermit who knew about what he'd been through, and he was practically imploring him to be around.

Grain.

There he was!

Scar would've sobbed in relief weren't he already weeping, left struggling to type out a private message to his friend.

<GoodTimeWithScar> Grian are you avaiavble?

<GoodTimeWithScar> i need your help, i'm at Mumbo's base

<GoodTimeWithScar> my base? i don't know, the monument

<Grian> sure am! whatcha need help with?

Scar's thumbs danced awkwardly above the keyboard, grappling with himself over what to say. It was always a struggle to express his troubles in the midst of panic, especially when doing so was a part of the problem. He knew he didn't have to go into depth with the other Hermit, however. That was another benefit of them being aware of one another's history; they didn't need to spill their guts in order to receive a helping hand.

<GoodTimeWithScar> i just need someone here

<GoodTimeWithScar> i can't seem to calm muself down right now

<GoodTimeWithScar> or type out messages poperbly it seems?

<GoodTimeWithScar> haha dang

<Grian> i'll be right there

<Grain> i'm at zedaph's cave, so the distance is a little further than usual, but you know i'm a fast flier

<Grain> so just hang tight, scar

<GoodTimeWithScar> i'm not going anjwhere

Scar dropped his hands to his side with a shaky breath, flinching when a sudden softness brushed against his hand. He glanced down only to see a concerned looking Jellie, the cat purring softly and nuzzling his arm. He cracked a feeble smile and reached out to pet behind her ear, her very presence providing a degree of comfort.

Much to his surprise, it truly wasn't long before the telltale beating of wings thumped through the air, Grain landing expertly in the grass and folding his feathered pinions snug behind his back.

"Scar?" he asked, cautiously approaching the other man.

Scar looked up to him, managing to raise a hand and wave as a greeting. Still wrought with trepidation, his shaking arms were scored with scratches he'd unconsciously inflicted while attempting to ground himself. Tear tracks lined his cheeks and his hair had become an unkempt mop, but he'd pulled through the worst of it.

"Oh, dude…" Grian said sympathetically, stepping over the rest of the way and crouching by his side. "It's alright, I'm here."

He nodded slow, "Thanks, Gri…"

The avian returned the nod and extended his hand, allowing Scar to take hold of it as a reminder of his security. "It's no problem. I see Jellie showed up to help, too."

"Yeah," Scar chuckled humourlessly, "She can always tell when I'm upset…"

"She's good like that," Grain confirmed, earning a well timed meow from the feline beside them.

They both let out a small laugh, Scar's being far weaker but present nonetheless.

"How about we get you away from all this noise and take care of those scratches?" Grain asked, and the other Hermit nodded again.

He helped Scar to his feet, leading him away from the distant thundering of the base's heart. They departed from the heights of the ruins, Grain ushering Scar to settle down against a tree once they were out of earshot of all the clamour.

"Let me see your arms, 'kay? I'll fix them right up."

Scar held out his scored arms after a moment of hesitation, finding them still stinging with the red drag of nails.

Grain produced a potion and gauze from his inventory, pouring the thick blue liquid onto the cotton before dabbing it across the irritated skin. A cool numbness spread over the area, and Scar relaxed at the alleviation of his symptoms. People often overlooked Mundane potions due to them having no official use, but anyone suffering from a mild ailment could tell stories of just how practical its effects could be. From soothing scrapes or minor burns, all the way to settling stomach aches or migraines, they could work little wonders. A Mundane potion for mundane problems.

"Better?" Grain asked.

"Much… thank you. Sorry for making you fly all the way over here."

"No, no, don't apologize, it's no big deal," he assured, motioning to brush off his concerns. "I needed to get out of that cave anyway. Not to bash on Zed's decorating skills, because the gadgetry is amazing, but the rest is all nonsense and greys and belch-- it was making my head spin."

Scar nodded, but couldn't help the guilt that crept into his chest, eyes darting to the side as if in anticipation for the hostility he sensibly knew would never come.

Grain smiled tenderly and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, "I mean it, it's no trouble. Besides, you'd do the same for me. Geez, man, you have!"

"I guess you're right," Scar agreed, turning once more to face the winged man. It wouldn't be the first time either Hermit had coaxed the other down from a panic, for not only had Grain been there for him in the past, but vice versa as well.

Most recently, he could recall, someone had led a bundle of animals into the blond's mansion as a prank. Such a feat was usually harmless fun, as was the case with the challenges they'd created wherein a herd of chickens were set loose in the same manner. The problem, however, arose when the trickster wanted to break the chain of stunts involving birds, and instead released a colony of rabbits into the manor's grounds. It was intended to be innocuous, but to say it hadn't ended well would be making a molehill out of a mountain.

Mumbo and the baffled prankster themselves had immediately volunteered to clear the animals from the house, whereas Scar stayed with Grain at the man's starter base until the mansion was deemed clear, and he was able to find resolve. It had been a long day for them all, but Grain especially. He'd mostly adapted to seeing hares in the wilderness, but finding himself in an enclosed space with dozens of the creatures sent him spiraling. Scar had been told tales of a man named Sam; a heinous individual with ears of a rabbit, who despite the innocent appearance, caused Grain immense suffering.

He's from a chapter in my story that I'd much rather leave behind, Grian once said, I have a far better future to write now, anyway.

That last line always stuck with Scar, no matter how much time passed after he heard it. There were brighter eras ahead, they just had to move forward and stick around to see them. In the end, he of all people could respect wishing to leave one's past as just that. The past. Even so, he'd probably still deck that Sam character given the chance.

"Of course I am," said Grain abruptly, and Scar blinked back to the present after an internal game of catch-up to remember what they'd been speaking of to begin with.

Nodding and smiling faintly, he asked, "So, what are you doing for the rest of your free time?"

The Brit grinned in turn and ruffled his wings, "Well, my schedule is actually rather jam-packed. I'm spending the rest of the day with a friend who's in quite the pickle."

Scar raised his eyebrows, pointing towards himself, "Is it me? Am I in the pickle?"

Grian laughed, "Yes, my briney bro, you are. And I'm determined to stay by your side until you're feeling better again."

Thankful, Scar smiled as well, knowing it would do no good to feel remorseful for taking up his companion's time, or to try and convince him he would be fine on his own.

"Thank you, Grain," he said truthfully.

"Anytime," he replied, "Now let's find something nice calm to do."

"Now those are words I never thought I'd hear you say."

The two chuckled and made their way off, ready to waste the rest of the afternoon in a mellow rhythm to starve off any further panic. Scar knew he'd likely feel off for a while, not fully himself again until at least the following day. The lingering tension of his episodes always latched to his nerves and left him on edge, but he knew the company of an understanding friend would lessen the blow. They'd spend the coming hours in a tense yet manageable tandem, and to some degree, Scar could accept that.

He was still learning to trust the fact he was safe, no matter how much he already wished to embrace his freedom with open arms. Eventually, one day, maybe, he could believe it entirely, or at least to more ample extent. Until then, it was gradual steps forward on the road to recovery.

Grain skipped beside him, cracking light-hearted jokes laced with reassuring phrases, all made to help lift Scar's aching mood.

Wherever it was that road led, however, at least he wasn't walking it alone.

[END]

Comments are always greatly appreciated! More than you could imagine, in fact! 💚

[readyplayerhann]

Ghost of Himself | Choi San

═ 1. Ghost of Himself | Choi San (Ateez) Genre • gotham!au, red hood!san, assassin!san, hurt/comfort, angst   Warnings • smut, forced entry, mentions of weapons, depiction of torture, (past) major character death Word Count • 2.1k About • San's been dead for five years, and yet this ghost of him stands in front of you with his face and his voice telling you he's alive.

Spooky SZN Masterlist > Jokes On You | Hongjoong (to be linked) 

10042020

He came in through the window, you thought, seeing as the door remained unharmed and you hadn't heard any noise coming from there either.

You know you've missed San. You have been for the past five years after his death. The use of alcohol and aimless sex hadn't let you forget the one you loved the most and you've realized early on that you never would. That didn't stop you from trying, however.

The most you've forgotten was his voice and sometimes your mind allowed you to escape his face, if you haven't taken a peek at the pictures on the wall. Your body welled up with guilt, if you'd looked too long so you'd avoid them most times. Some turned over, others discarded on the floor beneath their original hanging place.

You should've tried better investigating his death, you knew that. You should've allowed yourself to run ragged while chasing down leads while they were still scorching. Now, five years later, all the trails were freezing cold and you might get frost bite if you went digging for one.

And even as you maintain the fact that you've forgotten his voice, the intruder in front of you sounded exactly like him.

San's words were always smooth and velvet-like, even at his worst moments. Even when he bleeding to death in your arms.

"I got the best view in the world." His body was going limp, and he still managed to make you heart fluttered. The syllables glided easily over his tongue, even as blood filled his mouth.

Was your subconscious toying with you? Were you unconscious and fighting for your life in the real world, while your brain played this sick fantasy?

"Y/N?" The voice called out again and your body rattled with uncertainty. It sound exactly like him.

"No." You sounded sturdy, reliable, but your voice contradicted your frozen stature.

The masked man moved to remove his red helmet, the protective garment hissing as it disengaged from his black body armor. The helmet is pulled from his face, and this man looked exactly like him. A sharp jawline fed into smooth cheeks that held the hidden treasure that were his dimples. His eyes were dark, swirling with adoration in the pale moonlight of Gotham bleeding through the window. His hair was jet black except for the blonde tendrils at the forefront of his hairline. He was captivating, just as he was all those years ago.

Your mind wondered back to the crime scene photos that plague your mind for so long. You blinked and the stranger's face faded into one of torment and agony.

"It's me, Y/N." He took a step forward - towards you - thick black soles pelting the floor of your hardwood. The ground trembled.

You snatched your gun from the counter, quick and pointed at the impostor's face. If your hovering finger pressed down on the trigger a bullet would spiral out of the coil, slicing through the air and right between the man's eyebrows.

A smile twitched onto the intruder's lips and his hands came to hang in the air by his torso. The body armor was tight around his body, every inch dipped in inky black. The only contrast provided by his suit was the blood red bat symbol on the middle of his breastplate along with a tattered earth tone jacket hanging off his shoulders.

He looked ready to kill.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from my girl." His voice held a fondness to it and you can't stop the feeling of comfort that flooded your stiff body. His eyes were as piercing as they were dark, prodding at yours to just believe him.

He took a step forward. You took one back. Your foot hit a kitchen stool and it made a screeching sound. San's impostor flinched.

You're reminded of his cries, and the blood dribbling from his temple as he begged to be let go. Joker didn't relent though, he only swung harder, bent crow bar hitting wary skin. The video was burned into your mind and you could never unseen the brutal torture San endured.

If only you got there earlier.

Your heart jumped in your throat and you click the safety off.

"I'm not your fucking girl. You - San - is dead." Those words scraped against your teeth as they clawed their way from inside your throat and your heart ached.

The funeral echoed in your mind's eye, bring you back to that depressing day. You were the first to cover San's casket with dirt.

Your body quivered and the weapon clattered in your hands. The five year old engagement ring was secure and rutting against the metal of your gun. His gun. The one he kept for just encase.

"I'm not dead, Y/N. I'm right here." The stranger can see your hesitation, you know he can. In the way you clutched the gun or in the way your eyes flickered from his form to the door. Maybe thinking through escape routes if this situation escalates.

San won't let it escalate. He'll keep you safe.

He took another step forward. The gun pressed even harder in his direction and your trigger finger is perched on the metallic mechanism. If he took another step you'd shoot.

"Baby," His voice was tender as he caressed the two-syllable word with his tongue. Your chest tightened and your stomach coiled. Fuck.

"D-Don't." Your voice broke, crackling like a fresh record on a spin table. Your resolve broke and San was quick to pick up the pieces. Swallowing your frame in his arms, chest pressed firmly to yours, he cradled your shivering form. Like he used to.  

You both fell to the floor as a choked cry erupted from your mouth and your lips quivered. You inhaled his scent and vanilla and ash hit your nose. You pressed closer to him, nose digging at the skin of his neck. His gloved hands come to cradle the nape of your neck and your lower back.

"You died, San. I remember." Your sniffles crowded your voice, but San can understand you somehow.

When you got to the scene of torture, your core shook and anxiety swallowed you whole like a predator and you were it's prey. Panic held back, only for a bit, before spring on you from behind, mauling your body as the light from San's eyes dissipated.

"I did, but I'm back now." His breath pelted your exposed ear and you surged closer to the man. You could feel him over the body armor, crafted muscles tight and stiff.

"We had a funeral." The whole affair was somber in nature, you cried the whole day. And the following week. And the years to come sporadically.

He lowered a fleeting kiss to your temple, fingers rubbing patterns into your hips.

"I know."

"Then how are you here?" You don't know when you started believing the man in his attempts to prove to you his identity, but you supposed the road easily traveled was better in your sniveling state. So you trust him. At your own peril, you knew.

San inhaled sharply through his nose and you can feel the expansion of his chest beneath your back. His throat cleared and he whispered, "I made a deal with the devil."

It's cryptic and he knew it, but he doesn't continue and you don't press him for details. He's grateful, but he knows he'll eventually have to explain.

Right now, though, he was going to hold you for as long as you'll let him.  You missed him.

You don't ask anymore questions and just sit on the floor in his arms. He rocked your body and continued to mutter affirmations of his existence to you.

You don't know how it happened but, your lips fell on him. Needing and wanting. San responded easily.

His lips were burning as they met yours and he swept a thumb over the peak of your cheekbone. Maybe in an attempt to sooth you, you thought. Tears transferred from your cheeks to his as you kissed back, teeth knocking slightly and lips moving haphazardly against one another's.

San pressed impossibly close to you, thin sleep shirt crumbled against tough body armor. His lips released yours and you gasped for air, mouth going wide as his glided like ice across the expanse of your neck. His teeth peek through, catching on your pulse point and frost rushed up your neck. The coils in your stomach tightened and you fell closer into San's frame.

He caught you, gloves discarded and scarred hands spread wide to grasp your hips. His fingers dug deep, afraid he'd lose you if he loosen up again.

You rocked into him, needy and whining. San's grip tightened and you can feel the bruises forming as you teased him more. You don't care, though, because it's him and all you've wanted was him.

"Baby." His voice was low and grated at the edge of your nerves, frying your senses and numbing you to everything, but him.

Your nails clawed at his armor, impatiently, wanting to feel his skin on yours. San tugged your wondering hands from his chest and you pull back with a quizzical look. He flashed you a devilish grin.

San reached behind him to pull at the zipper of his body armor, before the material loosened around his frame. You helped him out of it, grasping the sleeves for him to pull out of.

His muscles rippled in the shallow light and you ghosted your fingers over them. His abdomen was inked in bruises and scars. They ate up his torso and marred his chest.

The sight pulled you from the lust clouding your mind, your fingers effortlessly finding every imperfect path of skin, red and scarred, "What happened?"

San looked away, face bathed in the dark shadows of your apartment. You rested your hands on his cheeks and pulled his gaze back to you. His eyes held a hazy glaze to them and it took him a moment to recuperate. His brown eyes eventually focused in on you, swimming in what you thought was guilt.

"I don't want to talk about it." San whispered into the cool, night air.

This time you pressed, "San-"

"I'll tell you later," He promised, lips skimming your neck, letting his tongue dip out to tease the purple and blue painting adorning your neck, "I just want you, right now"

"I want you too." But I know you're hurting, San.

You can tell he's changed. The scent of San that tickled your nose as he lavished wet kisses down the expanse of your chest isn't the same, but it still struck a cord within you. His voice was rougher, dark and restricted, but still manged to have the playful edge to it that you fell in love with. The once smooth skin of his abdomen held great stories of torture and anguish. Even though it was him, it was still not him. He's been tainted and you can see, touch, and taste the filth radiating off him in waves and all you want to do his allow that filth to taint you as well.

You allowed your body to connect with his and you felt yourself to be whole again in his presence. The ache in your chest subsided and complete and utter love bled from your heart. You're bleeding adoration, it's getting all over San and you're terrified he might drown.

But San absorbed the blistering, crimson love like a sponge and offered his body like a nurse would a band-aid. A quick fix, before lasting damage can set in. Like the infection of the soul, or the unneeded scarring of the heart.

"Please don't leave me." You grunted out as you reached your breaking point, your grip on San's neck unyielding and fierce. The coils of your stomach begged for release, just as you begged for the assassin's presence in your life.

"I won't." The words fell off his lips and spilling onto yours, heated and gentle. You and San met each other in the middle; you came crashing down and he ascended as he shot his warm load into your sopping cunt. Your walls restricted around him.

A whimper overtook your mouth and you shivered against San's huffing frame.

"I love you." His arms were warm around you.

"I love you, too." You whispered back to the ghost of San, frighten he might vanish just like he appeared.  

[one-spidey-boii]

BUMMER SUMMER || peter parker; ch twelve

read ch eleven here

masterlist

an; heya friends. i’m excited to get this chapter up!! i hope you guys are continuously staying safe while still standing up for what’s right. always know my blog is a safe space for e v e r y o n e. BLM.

warnings; mentions of battle wounds (i.e. blood/scars/etc), smut, mature language, fluff, angst, both peter and oc are 18+!!

word count; 2.7k+

edie's pov

"...edie's attackers. i found them. i found them, mr. stark."

my eyes flutter open at the sound of peter's voice. my hazy mind smiles at the soft murmur of it in my ear. that is, until i process what he said. he found them? my head spins and aches in protest as i clamber out of bed and onto my feet. i run to the lab, where i know tony will be. my feet pound on the floor and pins and needles shoot up my legs as they try to wake up along with me.

i reach the lab and throw the door open, tony shuts things down hastily and messily as he pushes past me in the doorway. i run after him, following him down the stairs and through the hallways of the vast compound. my lungs hurt as i move, faster and more energized than i've been in the last week.

"mr. stark! where are you going? is peter okay? let me come with you!" i rush out the words and scramble to keep up with his long strides. he makes it to the room where he keeps all his marks and hops into his newest creation.

"edie, come on kid, no." he says out of breath. his suit is completely assembled now, aside from his mask that's still flipped up. i clench my fists at my sides and refrain from biting my tongue until it bleeds. he continues, "this has nothing to do with you." 

i taste blood in my mouth, "it has everything to do with me!" my heart is pounding, almost as loud as my words. tony stares at me, mouth agape. 

"stay here, edie. can't you just listen to me for once?" he seethes at me through his teeth and i flinch from my spot. i put my all into standing my ground as he huffs at me and flies away through the opening hatch in the ceiling before calling out into the comm, "i'm on my way, parker. don't do anything stupid."

i watch him vanish into the night. my body feels like there are bees buzzing through my bloodstream as i stand alone in the basement of the compound. a rush of adrenaline passes through me and i turn to run back up the stairs and into my room. 

i ignore the annoying numbness in my side and shuffle through my bags for my suit. at this moment, i don't give a damn if tony doesn't want me out there. i don't care if peter doesn't want me out there. i need to go. 

my teeth ache in my mouth from gritting them so hard. i can't find my suit. i let out a frustrated groan as i tear my room apart in search of the familiar fabric. i give up and run my hand through my hair, tugging on the ends until my scalp throbs. my face burns in anger. i can't help but feel helpless. peter, the boy who i know would do anything to protect me, is out there in hot pursuit of the people who hurt me. now tony is too. the guilt fills my stomach as i picture peter hurt, laying on the ground because i couldn't get there in time. 

i throw all of my morals to the wind and strip down to my underwear. i grab a pair of black leggings and a black hoodie and throw them on. i shuffle through my weapon bag and hide three knives in my waistband, two in each leather boot, and one in each sleeve. i pull the hoodie up over my head and run for the door. 

i start to sprint down the stairs and out of the compound when i remember something i saw down in tony's mark room. i turn on my heel and head down there with long strides. 

a sleek, black motorcycle sits on the shiny marble floor. i pause and take a moment to admire the beautiful form of transportation in front of me. my feet circle it in search of keys and to my amazement, they're resting perfectly in the ignition. i scoff in disbelief at my luck and hop on. it feels sturdy and strong between my legs as i turn the keys and rev the engine. with a devilish smile, i kick up the stand and let the bike carry me away. 

- 

when i reach the city, it seems too quiet as my motorcycle is the loudest sound in miles. granted i haven't been out in days, the lack of noise still feels wrong. the chances of finding peter out here are slim with no help. i can't exactly talk to him over the comm without tony hearing me. i turn to just riding around, keeping an eye out for a certain red-and-blue-clad boy. 

my ears pick up on a familiar mechanical whirring as i drive past a dark alleyway that blends in with the rest of the city. i circle around the block and pull over to stop. tony stands over a man, who is lying on the ground. my breath catches in my throat at the sight of tony rolling him over and beginning to spray a medical webbing over his back. i hold myself back from running over to him, knowing that if mr. stark knows i've left the compound, i would be dead. 

"i knew you'd come anyways. why do you think i left the bike out?" his voice is soft, but it carries its way over to me. i jump at the sound before hopping off the bike and slowly walking up to tony. 

"i-im sorry..." i mutter, eyes not able to leave the dying man before us. tony offers me a tight-lipped smile. 

"don't be. i couldn't keep you locked up in there forever. i'm not saying i'm happy with your decision, but we can always use your help, wolfie." 

i look around the rest of the dark side street, "where's peter?" 

"after the bad guys, but i hope he's alright. he hasn't said anything in a while." he points to where his ear would be on the outside of his mask. i don't know what to do with my hands as i grow nervous and impatient, "then let's go. we have to go." i say as i walk back towards the motorcycle. 

tony stops me, "i have to help him," he gestures to the man, "i'm taking him to the hospital. you can go, just keep your wits about you." and he's off again, picking the man up by his arms and shooting up into the air. 

i let out a sigh and get back on the bike. i fly through the near-empty streets, constantly looking above my head for a swinging boy. time passes and with each second my stomach sinks lower and lower. i don't know what i would do if something happened to peter. whether it was a paper cut or a stab wound like mine- my heart shrivels at the thought. 

finally, a flash of red passes through my peripherals and i immediately change the direction of the bike, causing sparks to fly off the ground as metal scrapes against it. 

"peter? i'm here, i see you." i call into the comm. 

"e? what the hell are you doing out here? is that you on the motorcycle? damn, that's badass." he chirps through the piece of communication with ease as he continues to fly past buildings. 

"yes, it's me. you need to corner them. are they on foot?" i ask, my voice loud as i yell over the roar of the engine. it's then that i see peter is chasing after a black suv, it's screeching through the streets, weaving through the slow traffic and making any sharp turn it can, "nevermind, i see them. i'm gonna catch up." 

i twist the handlebars and the motorcycle screams beneath me, lurching forward into the dim side streets of new york. i cut corners and drive on sidewalks to avoid getting caught up in traffic. the suv is closer now, i can make out two people in the front. 

i go through my plan in my own head and try to explain it to peter as best i can, "okay, pete. when i say so, i need you to web my bike to the lamp-post down on 26th, okay?"

"what? how is that going to help?" peter questions, i ignore it and push on, "just do it, parker." 

i look at the street sign to my right, 21st street. i rev the engine again and gain on the vehicle in front of me. i could reach out and open the trunk if i wanted to. 

we pass 23rd street. the suv speeds up ahead of me, putting a few meters between us. i groan and push the bike to go faster. i'm nearing them again when i catch a glance of the driver. it's the woman who stabbed me. her eyes twinkle in the light and she smiles at me. she smiles the cruelest, most unnerving smile i've ever seen in my life. images of that night pop back into my head. images of her holding the knife covered in blood, mine of course. the knife was so rusty and old, making me shudder at the thought of it slicing through me. 

i snap out of it when i see we just passed 25th, the lamp-post is close in the distance. i push the bike to go impossible faster and i grab onto the back of the suv with a tight grip, "now peter." 

the boy who was keeping up with me from up above shoots a single web at my bike, then swings and connects the end of it to the lamp-post to the right of us. in a fraction of a second, i speed up so that the bike is even with the back right corner of the van. i let the momentum of the bike that is now stuck to the post throw the black vehicle off course as it begins to spin and get wrapped up by the web. i jump from the bike as it collides with the lamp-post after taking the suv with it. it looks like a tetherball, fully wrapped around the pole, but instead of unwinding- it's stuck there with super glue.

my body spins away from the bike, throwing me to the side in a heap of tangled limbs in the nearby alleyway. i let out a few strangled breaths before bringing my arms underneath me and pushing my body up and onto its feet. peter lands down next to me with a soft thud and his arms are immediately wrapped around my waist to help hold me up.

"you're crazy," he whispers in my ear as he leaves an awkward, mask-covered kiss to my forehead. i roll my eyes and look at him with a coy smile, "never said i wasn't." we laugh together at that. 

"oh, how nice. lou, come here, look at this. look how nice." a female voice laced with venom spits at us from a few feet away. a line of blood trickles down her forehead and into her eye, but she makes no move to wipe it away. the man stumbles from around the car. his arm hangs at an unsettling angle and he lets out a few pained groans as he moves. 

my body stiffens at the two people in front of me. peter notices and tightens his arm around my waist. the woman takes slow steps towards us, her feet colliding heavily with the concrete. the man, lou, is struggling to keep his breathing steady as he leans against the totaled vehicles. i eye both of them wearily and notice how unfazed they seem. 

peter takes a step foward, "stay back. that's close enough." 

the woman stops walking, "im sorry, little boy. i wouldn't want to upset your friend." with every word, her eyes linger on a different part of peter's body, making everyone uncomfortable. lou straightens up and clears his throat, she pays him no mind. to my relief, peter graciously ignores her stare and stands his ground, "who are you?"

"oh me? i like to stay anonymous most of the time, but for you- for you i guess i can bend the rules." she lets her eyes pass over peter again as she traces two fingers over her bottom lip seductively. i almost throw up in my mouth at her insinuation, but again- peter holds his own. lou speaks up before anyone else can. 

"enough, jai. no one wants to fuck you." his voice is tired, obviously over his partner's behavior. she snaps her head in his direction and gives him a look that makes him bite his lip and look away. she slowly turns back to peter and i, who’s still standing in front of me.

"i'm impressed by your work," she says with a sickeningly sweet smile on her face and gestures to the busted vehicles, "amazing what you can do together, disappointing what happens when you're alone." her eyes travel to me and connect with my own, "how are you holding up, little one?" she lets her gaze drift down to my side, where i unknowingly have gripped tightly with my hand. 

"leave her alone, don't even look at her." peter hisses through clenched teeth. her eyes widen and her smile turns wicked. she takes a step forward and peter takes one back, his body bumping into mine. 

"protective of this one, aren't you? i could tell when you left an innocent man to die just to run after a pair of measly criminals." her words sink into both peter and i. he takes a quick glance back at me, but i don't return the gesture. i don't know how that is supposed to make me feel. i love peter and i would do the same for him, but is it the right choice when you have to choose between him and an innocent man? i was always taught to protect the later, but my heart would never agree when it comes to peter. 

i place my hand softly on his lower back, hoping to relieve the tension rising from his body. i feel his body relax beneath my fingers, but he stiffens again at jai's words. 

"quite pathetic if you ask me. i guess you two are perfect for each other. just two little superheroes taking on the world and leaving a wave of disappointment behind every time." jai takes tentative steps towards us and pops her tongue, "but that's okay right? as long as you have each other."

peter moves his hand to grab mine and squeezes it tight, i squeeze back and step into his body so my chest is flush with his back. our bodies shiver against each other. i lay my head against his shoulder and look away from jai. this horrible stranger who insists on tormenting us is now laughing at us. her hysterical cackle jumps around in the night air. i peer to my right at lou, he's beginning to sweat underneath the dim street light. his functioning arm reaches behind his back and i see the glint of black metal before i push peter's body away from me. 

two shots are fired. peter falls to the ground to the side of me and catches himself with his arms. i collapse next to him and begin to search him for bullet wounds. he looks at me with wide eyes, "i'm okay. edie, i'm okay." i let out a breath and look around at my surroundings. 

jai and lou both lay on the ground, their bodies spazzing and seizing against the cold concrete. police sirens sound off nearby and i look back at peter confused. his eyes are trained above my head, i move to look, but a strong pair of arms grab me and hoist me up into the air. 

"that's enough fun for tonight. peter, you okay to get home on your own?" tony's voice speaks calmly from behind me as we hover in the air. peter nods his head and shakily gets onto his feet before giving me a nod and swinging away.

i crane my neck to look at tony, but he's stoic as we fly back to the compound, not one of us saying a word.

|| taglist; @my-patronus-is-mabel-pines @whycantileaveyou @lovewolfspirit @kitykatnumber @franksholland @sunflowers-and-rainy-days @thehugslut @fandom-phaser

[chibistarlyte]

some days

Most days, Shouto is fine.

But some days...

Some days, Shouto falls apart.

my eternal thanks and gratitude for kat @sunshineijirou for betaing this for me. <3

tw: suicidal thoughts/ideation, depression, dissociation, references to ptsd, unintentional self-harm

(also available here on ao3)

.

Most days, Shouto is fine.

He goes about his daily routines, attends school, pays attention in class, executes practical exercises with focus and expertise, hangs out and studies with his friends in the evenings, maintains a decent sleep schedule, visits his mother on Sundays.

He texts and video chats more with Fuyumi and Natsuo, trying to repair the threads between them that had been destroyed as soon as his Quirk manifested. They both love and support him in their own ways, and he's grateful to have his siblings back in his life. 

His Quirk training is going well, for the most part. Shouto works on his endurance during their individualized lessons and steadily builds up his tolerance to extreme and fluctuating temperatures so that he may use both halves of his Quirk at once. He hones his skills with precision attacks, betters his close-quarters combat techniques, and receives great marks for his efforts. 

He makes a point to spend time with his friends. Even when he's feeling less than social, he still curls up in the corner of a couch in the common room and allows himself to bask in the comforting sound of conversation around him. He asks Midoriya to help him practice his English by posting on popular pro hero forums and makes sure he doesn't forget to lend Sero the next volume of their favorite manga. Sometimes he goes on runs with Iida in the morning, or spars with Kirishima when they both have the free time. Shouto enjoys Yaoyorozu's company while they drink tea and chat about their days, and even finds peace sitting quietly at a table while Bakugou flits around the kitchen making various meals and largely ignoring Shouto's presence. 

All in all, Shouto is fine. A well-adjusted, studious, friendly, if not reserved, kid who has a good head on his shoulders and a bright future ahead of him.

But, some days…

Some days, Shouto falls apart.

.

Shouto wakes to the smell of burnt sheets and wet cotton. 

His chest rises and falls at much too quick a pace, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm against his ribcage almost hard enough to bruise. His left arm is littered with small-degree burns that have already begun to scab. Crystals of ice cling to snow-white eyelashes and trail down his cheek, some of them already having melted away and dripped down to soak through his pillow and his sleep shirt. The taste of ash clings to his tongue, his throat dry and scratchy when he tries to swallow it down.

Another nightmare, Shouto realizes as he flops back down on the futon with a tired sigh that runs deep into his bones.

He hates nights like these. He can never quite get back to sleep after jolting awake in terror, often spending the rest of the night watching shadows dance across his ceiling until the bleak dawn seeps through his curtains and coats the darkness in the cold light of day.

Shouto hears things in the silence of his dorm room, hears his father's booming voice in the darkened corners, and hears his mother's cries in the still night air. He hears Fuyumi's muttered reassurances on the other side of the walls where he knows his classmates are sleeping. He hears the deafening whistle of a boiling kettle as if he's lying right next to the stove. He hears the cracking of his own bones as he drops to the floor after a beating, hears his own retches in his ears as he vomits on the tatami floor of the training room.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Shouto throws the covers off and stumbles to a stand. He drags his feet to the sliding doors leading to his balcony, roughly tossing the curtains open and sliding the door with just as much careless force. The cool, late autumn breeze greets him immediately, bringing him back to himself for only a few moments. He steps outside, and the shock of cold concrete soles of his bare feet grounds him in a way nothing else ever could.

Shouto steps forward to the railing, crossing his arms and propping his chin on them and watching the city lights shine and twinkle down the hill. A gust of wind kicks up and blows his hair back from his face, stinging his skin, and for a moment, Shouto closes his eyes and imagines he's falling. Flying.

When he opens his eyes again, his head is angled downwards and his sight is trained on the ground five stories below. 

Shouto wonders, not for the first time, what it would feel like to jump.

A sigh blows past his lips, the warm puff of air lost to the chilly wind that caresses him fondly, making him shiver.

A sound from below pulls Shouto back to earth—the sound of a door sliding open then closed once again. Following that is the sound of footsteps, just a few scrapes of shoes against concrete until the noise stops again. The wind dies down just enough for Shouto to hear the static sound of music coming through a pair of headphones, though he's too far away to determine any specific tune.

His heterochromatic gaze shifts just a bit lower until the balcony below his own comes into his sight, and he sees the ash blond poof of hair that could only belong to one person. 

Oh, right. Bakugou's room is just below his. 

Shouto watches Bakugou from above, watches as his classmate goes through what seems to be a familiar routine of stretches—he pulls his arms across his chest one at a time, rolling his shoulders as he switches to the other arm. He then kicks his feet up behind him, one at a time, holding them close to stretch out his leg muscles. He does some lunges, some wrist stretches, some neck exercises, and it's all very normal and mundane, but Shouto can't stop watching. Bakugou looks good in his hoodie and joggers, and it suddenly hits Shouto that he's still in pajama pants and short sleeves despite the frigid temperature. 

Yet...he can't feel a thing. Which is fine by him. Sometimes Shouto would rather be numb than deal with the sensations of living. It's how he survived for so long, after all.

He blows out another sigh and lets the wind carry it far away. 

It's when Bakugou stretches his arms straight up and tilts his head to the sky that the blond freezes, his ruby eyes catching Shouto's own mismatched stare. Cold seeps through his veins, and Shouto can feel the icy hand of dread reach into his chest and start frosting over his skin.

A scowl immediately darkens Bakugou's handsome face and he yanks one of his earbuds out with more force than necessary. "Oi, the fuck you starin' at me for, half-n-half?" Bakugou demands in his usual grumpy tone, his eyebrows creased in irritation. "Stop being a fucking creep, jesus."

"S-sorry," Shouto stammers, though he stays completely still, like prey caught in the eyes of a predator. Bakugou just scoffs and resumes his stretches, though he leaves his earbud out for some reason. The action—or non-action, he supposes—perplexes Shouto.

He doesn't know what possesses him to start talking, but before Shouto can stop himself, the words come tumbling out. "What are you doing?"

Bakugou pauses his shoulder rotations and shoots a glare up at Shouto. "The fuck does it look like I'm doing?"

"Uh…" Shouto says eloquently, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. "I mean...that's not…"

"Spit it out, I don't have all goddamn day," Bakugou says as he lowers himself to the concrete for some pushups.

Shouto rolls the words around on his tongue before simply saying, "You're up early." It's then that Shouto realizes that he actually has no idea what time it is. He has no clue whatsoever how long he's been awake, how long he's been standing out here in the cold. He hasn't even thought about the inevitable and unstoppable passage of time until this very moment when it becomes startlingly clear that he's lost a good chunk of it to his mind being far away from his body.

Bakugou grunts out as he lowers himself as far as his muscles will allow before pushing himself back up. "I'm up this early every morning, dipshit." He does a couple more pushups before continuing, "You, however, usually aren't."

The observation catches Shouto by surprise, enough that his eyes widen, and his heart stutters in his chest. He's usually flat-out ignored by Bakugou when the other teen isn't screaming in his face about rival-this and rematch-that. So the fact that Bakugou has at least paid attention to Shouto's sleeping habits has him feeling some kind of way.

Shouto should brush it off, should keep to himself, and let Bakugou think whatever he wants. But perhaps it's the unrealness, the liminal space in which early mornings exist, that prompts Shouto to confide in Bakugou. Just this once. 

"Mhm," Shouto hums in agreement, and the small noise is almost lost to the wind. "I...couldn't sleep. Nightmares."

Bakugou makes some sort of noise in acknowledgement but says nothing else.

Shouto's chest still feels heavy, and his muscles ache, though, from the cold or staying in the same position for so long, he isn't sure. He pulls himself fully upright, gripping the railing tight with his numbed hands. Sucking in a deep breath that freezes his lungs, he hoists himself up onto the railing and maneuvers to sit. His legs dangle on the outer side of the railing and looking at the ground from this high up, Shouto almost feels weightless. As if he really would fly if he just let go.

Still, he holds onto the railing as the cold metal bites into his palms.

"The fuck are you doing?" Bakugou asks, and when Shouto looks down, his eyes meet red. His classmate is standing with his arms crossed, glaring daggers up at Shouto. "You're gonna fall if you're not careful, and don't expect me to catch your sorry ass."

Shouto lets out a breath of a chuckle despite himself, noting how much the exhalation makes his body shake. "Would it be such a bad thing? If I fell," he says easily, tipping his head up to look at the sky. The city lights are too bright to see the stars, but it must be nearing dawn because he can see tiny wisps of blue spread like smoke into the inky black of the night sky.

"Of course it would be a bad thing. I can't kick your ass if you're not here," Bakugou says with a growl, and Shouto would find it heartwarming if hearing such a thing from Bakugou didn't shock him enough for his grip to falter.

"Bakugou?" he asks, wanting confirmation that what he'd just heard isn't a trick of his addled mind.

"Shut the hell up and get down from there." Bakugou's glare softens, and though a frown is still pulling at his mouth, he almost looks...concerned.

Huh. Maybe Shouto really is still dreaming.

He doesn't move, and Bakugou growls again from the floor below.

"Seriously, half-n-half, get down. No way you can hold yourself up on those shaky ass twig arms of yours."

Shouto then looks down at his arms, which are, in fact, trembling. The notion strikes him as odd because he would have been able to feel the contraction of his muscles, right? But his arms have gone numb so long ago that Shouto finds it remarkable he still has limbs left.

The logical part of his brain tells him to use his left side, to warm himself up before he freezes to death. 

But the other half of his brain asks him if such an end would be so terrible.

Shouto sighs again and his breath turns to frost in the air.

"I'm gonna fuckin’ come up there and get you myself if you don't get down," Bakugou threatens, his glare renewed, his tone brooking no argument. 

The urge to be defiant rises up in Shouto, the same kind of defiance he shows his father. But he reels himself back before anything comes of it. Bakugou is not his father. Bakugou is not asking anything unreasonable of him. Bakugou is not trying to hurt him. If anything, Bakugou is trying to help him...in his own Bakugou way.

But...Shouto doesn’t really feel like he deserves to be helped. 

In any case, he doesn’t have the energy to start a fight this early in the morning—even though he still doesn’t know what time it is—and does what Bakugou says. He curls his legs up to his chest and slowly, shakily, turns until he’s facing his balcony door. He gingerly extends his legs down, and his feet find purchase on the concrete again. Shouto almost feels disappointed.

He peers over the railing, leaning forward enough to make eye contact with Bakugou. “Happy?” he asks in a voice that sounds more petulant than he intends.

Bakugou just rolls his eyes and waves Shouto off. “Better not catch you sleeping in class, you stubborn bastard,” he says before putting his earbud in again. Shouto watches Bakugou head for his own door, and once the blond disappears, Shouto allows himself back into his room.

He lies down on the futon, watching the sun chase away the shadows on his ceiling until his alarm goes off.

.

It’s hard to focus in class.

The blank notebook page stares up at him almost mockingly, teasing him about the notes that should be there. Shouto chews on the inside of his lip and taps the tip of his pencil against the paper, not actually writing anything. He couldn’t write anything if he tried, anyway—he hasn’t heard a word of what Cementoss has said this entire class period. His gaze keeps tearing away to the window, where the dull grey clouds have blown in to cover the sun that had only shown its face for a short time that morning. He hopes for snow, but it’s not quite late enough in the season for that yet. If he’s lucky, though, maybe it’ll rain.

The lunch bell rings, and Shouto very nearly jumps in his seat, his attention snapping back to the present fast enough to give him whiplash. He looks up to see Midoriya, Iida, and Uraraka standing in a half-circle around his desk. Midoriya is the first one to speak.

"Are you okay, Todoroki-kun?" the broccoli boy asks, and Todoroki looks blearily up at his friend. He blinks his eyes a few times to get Midoriya to come into focus.

"You don't look so good," Uraraka points out, reaching her hand out to touch Shouto's forehead. Against his will, Shouto flinches away and immediately feels guilty at the hurt in Uraraka's soft brown eyes.

"I'm fine," he lies, then backpedals, because he feels awful lying to his friends, and adds, "Just...not feeling well, I suppose…"

"I can escort you to Recovery Girl if you are feeling unwell," Iida offers in that earnest way of his, and it hurts Shouto to hear his friends being so concerned for him when he really, really doesn't feel like he deserves it.

"Thank you, but I'll be okay," Shouto says and forces a smile that he knows looks fake as hell and that his friends, especially Midoriya, can see right through his ruse. "I think I might nap a little during lunch."

Midoriya looks like he's about to argue, but the boy bites his tongue and nods. "If you're sure...but, please, let us know if you need anything, okay, Todoroki-kun? We're here for you."

Normally, this would be the time when the group closes around Shouto for a hug, but the three of them hesitate to touch him. Shouto's thankful they hold back, because he's afraid he might break if they actually hug him.

"Thank you," he says again, packing up his things as he watches his friends leave the classroom. They all shoot him small smiles and waves as they depart, and Shouto manages a half-wave in return. He slides his notebooks in between the textbooks and other supplies in his bag, narrowly missing bending the cover of Sero’s manga he still has to return.

His vision swims as he stands, then zooms in and out as if he's looking at the world through a fisheye lens. He wrenches his eyes shut and takes a deep breath to steady himself before shouldering his bag.

He hears the scraping of chair legs on linoleum as he makes to leave the classroom, and against his better judgment, Shouto turns around toward the source of the noise. 

Bakugou levels him with a glare, still sitting at his desk with his chair reclined back on its two hind legs. Silence stretches between them, heated and tense, until Shouto turns the cold shoulder on Bakugou and exits the classroom. 

He finds himself up on the roof of the school, a seating area that is often used during the summer but now sits vacated as late autumn prepares to give way to winter. Shouto is grateful that he's alone, grateful he doesn't have to put up a facade and pretend he's okay today when he's really anything but. 

He allows his bag to fall off his shoulders and drop to the concrete, but the weight on his shoulders doesn't ease. He lets his feet guide him to the edge of the roof, where he sits on the stone parapet and dangles his legs over the outer side, just like he did on the railing this morning. 

The wind isn't as harsh as it was in the early hours of dawn, but it still brings a comforting and familiar chill as it blows right through him. Shouto feels empty, as if he could be carried off by too strong of a gust. He feels a few stray raindrops on his face as he tilts it toward the sky, eyes as stormy and grey as the clouds above him watching as they churn and swirl with the promise of a downpour. Shouto hopes for one—anything to help cleanse this apathy out of his system. 

He spends his entire lunch hour up on the roof and returns to class soaked to the bone and shivering.

.

Shouto is well aware of the looks he's getting from his classmates as he peels his drenched uniform off his frigid skin to change into his winter hero costume. He's aware of the hushed whispers traded back and forth behind his back, and though he can't quite make out what's being said, he knows they're talking about him. Shouto chooses to ignore it, chooses to pretend not to notice the concerned looks Midoriya and Iida throw his way, acts like he doesn't see the way Bakugou won't stop glaring at him the same way he was when Shouto left class earlier.

He shrugs his shoulders into his thermal harness, clicks the temperature regulator at his collar, pulls his sleeves down to hide the burns on his arm, and puts his wristbands on and tightens them almost enough to cut off his circulation. He slides his feet into his boots, tucking the fabric of his jumpsuit pants into the top until it’s mostly seamless. He adjusts his belt, hooking the notches into the holes and attaching his emergency canisters. Everything is done methodically, and Shouto focuses on these small, mundane actions to keep his thoughts from spiraling into much darker territory.

When Aizawa tells them the exercise for the day is going to be civilian rescue, and that Shouto is going to be one of the students acting as a victim, Shouto wants to sink into the ground right then and there. He had been hoping to be able to blow off some steam, whether it be sparring or Quirk training or something else besides this, but his teacher’s word is final and Shouto does as he’s told.

The class makes their way to Ground Beta and splits off into their separate roles. Aizawa ushers those on the hero team away so that those on the victim team can find places to hide themselves and await rescue. It’s still raining and cold, which Aizawa says will help them build up some endurance to the elements.

Shouto makes himself at home in a partially collapsed building, hiding amongst the rubble and structural damage. He lies flat on his back, feels the sharp edges of broken concrete digging into his lower back, his legs, his arms, and the discomfort grounds him. It keeps him from drifting too far off the face of the earth, keeps him from separating too far from himself. The icy raindrops falling through the gaps where the ceiling has caved in feel almost comforting as they pelt against his face.

He feels cold, but the regulator on his back prevents his body temperature from dropping too much. He feels the heat seeping through his jumpsuit as the device activates, keeping him warm. For some reason, the heat puts him on edge. 

Time suspends itself in a cloud around him. Shouto has no idea how long he stays there, letting the rain soak through his previously dampened hair when he hears the distant sounds of his classmates communicating with one another. He can make out neither individual voices nor what’s being said, but he hopes they take a while to find him. He hopes he can fade away unnoticed if only to get away from all of these ugly thoughts and feelings plaguing him today.

Shouto just wants it all to stop.

The rescue team finds him eventually, totally soaked through and shivering. He blows out a shaky sigh, his breath condensing into a white cloud as it escapes his tightening lungs. Yaoyorozu leans down next to him, placing her fingertips delicately on his forehead.

“Can you move?” she asks, as they were trained to do upon finding a civilian who needs help.

“Don’t think so,” Shouto answers, his voice raspy from cold and disuse. “Hypothermia, maybe.” He may seem like he’s playing his part well, but he really can’t feel his limbs very much. He can’t remember how long ago they started to go numb. He tries to move his fingers, but they’re almost frozen in place. They ache.

Yaoyorozu nods and lowers her head in concentration for a moment, pulling a thermal blanket out of her arm. “Why didn’t you use your Quirk?” she whispers to him as she tucks the blanket around him, concern knitting her dark brows together. “Your lips are practically blue.”

“Didn’t think of it,” Shouto answers weakly.

Yaoyorozu sighs and looks behind her to their other classmates in the rescue group. “Kirishima-san, can you carry Todoroki-san?” she asks the strong redhead. “He’s immobilized.”

“Sure thing!” Kirishima agrees readily, coming over to Shouto and Yaoyorozu. He pauses, his mouth tilting into a frown. “Uh...Todoroki?”

Shouto sighs. “I’m fine, Kirishima, just get on with the exercise,” he says a bit impatiently, wanting this whole thing to be over so he can just have five goddamn seconds to himself.

The guilt starts seeping in the second he’s propped against Kirishima’s back, as he lays his head against the rubber shoulder pauldron. Shouto’s such a piece of shit that he can’t even treat his friends right. Kirishima doesn’t deserve to be snapped at like that. Yaoyorozu doesn’t deserve to be brushed off. Midoriya, Uraraka, and Iida don’t deserve to be lied to the way Shouto did earlier.

Shouto doesn’t deserve such wonderful friends.

At the end of class, he’s the first one to leave. He says a word to no one and convinces himself the red eyes following him out the door are just an illusion.

.

“Oi! Asshole!”

Shouto looks down from where he’s sitting on the railing of his balcony, legs hanging over the outer side once again, and sees Bakugou seething at him from the balcony below. He shrugs, looking back up to the grey evening skies still spitting out sprinkles of rain. 

“Don’t fucking ignore me!” Bakugou yells, pointing an angry finger up at Shouto. The blond’s hands begin sparking in his ire. “Wanna tell me what the fuck is up with you today?”

Shouto shrugs again, still not looking at Bakugou. The magic of the morning has well worn off by this point, and he no longer feels like spilling his troubles to his classmate. What’s the point? It’s not like Bakugou can help him. It’s not like Bakugou even wants to help him.

It’s not like Shouto deserves help, anyway.

“It’s nothing,” he says simply.

“Bullshit,” Bakugou fires back immediately. “You’ve been acting like a goddamn zombie all day, and your fucking friends are worried sick about you, you fucking dickhead!”

“Why do you care?” Shouto spits, sending a heated glare down at Bakugou. The heat surging in his veins chases away the cold in his bones way too quickly, causes his grip on the railing to falter from the shock of the change in temperature. 

“...I don’t,” Bakugou says after way too long of a pause, crossing his arms in a defensive stance. “It’s just fucking annoying watching everyone mope over your moping ass!”

Shouto rolls his eyes so hard, he’s certain they’ll get stuck in the back of his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says dismissively, averting his gaze from Bakugou again but this time keeping the ground in his sight.

The wet concrete looks a little too enticing at the moment.

“Fucking try me,” Bakugou says, his voice dangerously low. “You think you’re the only one that struggles with shit? That carries a bunch of fucking baggage that’s a bitch to unpack?”

“Why don’t you try and unpack your own before rifling through mine?” Shouto says, and immediately regrets it when he sees the shadows descend over Bakugou’s face.

“The fuck did you just say? You wanna go, half-n-half?”

Shouto just shakes his head. “It’s not worth it…” he says. “I’m not worth it.”

“Fucking—cut that shit out! You’re pissing me off,” Bakugou snaps, then lets out a mix between a growl and a sigh. “Just...get down from there. Stop being an idiot.”

“Stop acting like you care when you don’t,” Shouto says without thinking, though he considers Bakugou’s words. Considers not throwing himself off the balcony, considers barfing up everything he’s been keeping bottled inside since the sound of his mother’s screams woke him up in the middle of the night, considers daring to think that maybe, maybe, he isn’t so worthless after all.

He and Bakugou hold a staring contest for what feels like forever and Shouto finally gives in with a sigh.

“Fine,” he says with resignation, shifting on shaking arms to turn himself around to face the sliding door back into his room. Shouto pauses for a moment, gripping tight enough on the railing that the metal indents his skin. He slowly slides his legs down, his bare toes touching the bottom rung of the railing. 

“Oi...what the fuck are you—”

Shouto releases a breath at the same time he releases his hands.

For a few blissful seconds, Shouto floats down towards the earth below them. But instead of allowing himself to plummet down into oblivion, he reaches his hands out and grips the rail of the balcony below his own. The metal sings as his numbed skin slaps down on its slippery surface, and he curls his fingers around the top to tighten his grip.

Suddenly, sweaty hands are gripping his arms and pulling him up.

“Jesus fucking Christ, what in the goddamn fucking hell was that?!” Bakugou yells at him as he drags Shouto over the railing none-too-gently, stumbling backward himself until he lands right on his ass with a listless Shouto in his arms.

“You told me to get down,” Shouto says, curling against Bakugou’s chest. He tucks his head in the crook of Bakugou’s neck, noting the way the other boy stiffens at the contact but can’t bring himself to do anything about it. “So I got down.”

Bakugou huffs and, surprisingly, wraps his strong arms around Shouto. It’s then that Shouto realizes just how cold he is, how cold he’s been all damn day, and how warm Bakugou is.

He realizes that warmth could be comforting, too.

“That’s not what I fucking meant and you know it,” Bakugou says, and there’s a strange softness to his usually gruff voice that Shouto can’t place.

They sit in silence for a little while, the rain coming down steadily around them. The sound of the raindrops is almost enough to lull Shouto into the sleep he’s been chasing since before dawn. Bakugou’s hand somehow ends up at the back of Shouto’s head, his rough and calloused fingers combing through Shouto’s wet, matted hair. 

“You are worth it, half-n-half,” Bakugou finally says, so quietly that Shouto can’t be sure if the other boy actually said anything. He squeezes Shouto tighter, enveloping the taller boy with his natural warmth that’s usually hidden behind a cold, barbed wire fence. “Don’t fucking let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even yourself.”

Shouto blinks his eyes open half-mast, letting Bakugou’s words sink in, past the freezing rain that has  soaked into his skin, allowing the reassurance to melt the ice in his veins and bring warmth back to his blood. His tingling fingers curl into the soft fabric of Bakugou’s hoodie, and he buries his nose against Bakugou’s neck until he can feel the other boy’s pulse fluttering against the tip.

“You’re worth it, too, Bakugou,” he says on a contented sigh.

Bakugou’s chest rumbles with a deep chuckle that barely makes it to his vocal cords. “Shut the fuck up, you idiot.” Nevertheless, his grip on Shouto tightens just the same. “Now will you let me take you inside so you don’t fucking freeze to death?”

Shouto contemplates the offer for a moment, has half a mind to decline, but. Well. He’d still have to go inside to get back to his own room, since he foolishly and impulsively jumped down to Bakugou’s balcony.

“Okay,” he agrees tiredly.

“Can you stand?” Bakugou asks, the softness of his voice still sounding out of place to Shouto’s ears.

Instead of replying verbally, Shouto reluctantly pulls himself away from Bakugou’s warmth and immediately starts shivering. He tries to force his muscles to cooperate, but the moment he attempts to stand, his legs buckle beneath him.

Luckily, Bakugou has quick reflexes and catches Shouto before he can fall.

Shouto allows Bakugou to lead him into his dorm room and doesn’t fight when the other boy forces him to sit on his bed. Mismatched eyes clouded with exhaustion watch as Bakugou digs through one of the drawers of his wardrobe. The blond lets out a little noise of success and steps over to the bed, holding out a bundle of fabric to Shouto.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” Bakugou says, not meeting Shouto’s gaze. Shouto can swear he sees pink tinting Bakugou’s cheeks. 

Gingerly, Shouto reaches out for the clothes—an oversized t-shirt with a skull on it and a pair of sweatpants—and just sits there, holding them in his lap. This all feels so...unreal to him. Maybe he really did jump off his balcony and now he’s stuck in some weird, coma-induced dream where Bakugou’s being...nice to him.

The thought also strikes him that his own room is just a floor up, and he could easily go upstairs and change into clothes of his own. But the idea of even standing up, let alone going all the way up to his room, feels like some insurmountable task and right now all Shouto wants to do is sleep.

“Well, don’t just sit there like a moron, fucking change,” Bakugou says impatiently, shoving Shouto’s foot none-too-gently with his own.

The action jolts Shouto out of his reverie and he gives Bakugou a disengaged nod. Seemingly satisfied with Shouto’s wordless answer, Bakugou busies himself with searching for something else as Shouto removes his soaked shirt. He tosses the heavy article onto the floor with little care and slips into Bakugou’s t-shirt. It hangs off his narrower shoulders but it’s warm and Shouto almost hunches down into it to chase the comfort it brings him.

Shouto’s only a few centimeters taller than Bakugou, but it’s enough of a difference that the other’s sweatpants sit high on Shouto’s ankles when he puts them on. Shouto stares blankly down at his own legs before a tiny, almost nonexistent smile makes itself known and he lets out a breath of a laugh. 

“Something funny?” Bakugou asks from the other side of the room, head tilted and one eyebrow raised as red eyes bore into him. The usual cutting edge to his voice isn’t there and Shouto blinks dumbly at him for a few moments before shaking his head.

“It’s just...your sweatpants are too short on me.”

“Well, no shit, you’re taller than me,” Bakugou says as he steps over to the bed once more, this time holding a towel. He unceremoniously drops it atop Shouto’s head. “Dry your hair,” he commands before disappearing into his bathroom, presumably to change his own clothes.

Shouto reaches up hesitantly, rubbing the towel over his drenched locks and trying to coax the moisture out. His movements feel slow, delayed, like he’s crawling through molasses and burdened down with weights attached to his limbs. He lets out a heavy sigh. He’s so tired.

Suddenly there are hands batting his own away, and Bakugou furiously scrubs at Shouto’s scalp with the towel. “Fuck’s sake, icyhot, stop dripping water all over my goddamn bed,” he chides, though once again, any kind of sharpness is absent from his tone.

With another sigh, Shouto leans toward Bakugou and finds some strange sort of comfort in his hair being pulled and twisted and roughed up.

By the time Bakugou pulls the towel away and drops it to the floor with Shouto’s discarded clothes, Shouto’s hair is a right mess. The naturally split colors of his hair blend together in a tangled amalgamation of crimson and white, almost looking pink where the strands are mixed, and Bakugou puffs out his cheeks to try and hold in a laugh.

“You look fucking ridiculous,” the blond chortles.

Despite himself, Shouto smiles a bit. “Your fault,” he accuses without any real heat, flopping down on the bed and exhaling every bit of oxygen from his body. He sinks into the comforter and whereas all day Shouto’s felt flimsier and emptier than a plastic bag, now he feels heavier than the barbells Kirishima and Midoriya deadlift during their workouts. If he’s not careful, he’ll fall asleep right here and now and he really doesn’t want to burden Bakugou any more than he already has.

The thought causes his lips to pull into a frown, guilt already creeping into his chest.

“Oi, whatever your stupid brain is thinking, stop it right the fuck now,” Bakugou says, nudging Shouto over to make room for himself on the bed. Shouto complies, rolling over onto his side and curling into himself just a bit. He has a hard time keeping his eyes open.

“How about you get under the covers instead of stupidly lying on top of them?” Bakugou asks, already pulling his comforter out from under Shouto’s deadweight and throwing it over the shivering boy.

Oh. Shouto hadn’t noticed he was shivering again. He wills his Quirk to activate, to up his body temperature and allow the warmth of his fire side to bring him back to the world of the living.

Bakugou sidles up behind Shouto and Shouto stiffens, his muscles taut and aching.

“Why are you doing this?” Shouto asks, his tongue thick in his mouth. He’s surprised he sounds anything remotely close to coherent. The care and consideration Bakugou is showing him is almost too much for Shouto to handle. Sure, Shouto thinks of them as friends, has thought of them as friends for a while, but Bakugou always makes it astoundingly clear that he sees Shouto as a rival and nothing else. The fact that Bakugou is going to all this trouble for him is...strange. Humbling. Leaving him completely floundering.

Bakugou sighs, and Shouto’s surprised to feel the puff of warm air against the back of his neck. “Do I need a reason to?” he deflects, settling his arms around Shouto and pulling the taller boy close. Shockingly, Shouto doesn’t flinch away from the touch. Rather he welcomes it, sinks into it, loses himself in it the way he’s been losing himself to his darkened thoughts all day.

“I guess not,” Shouto sighs, too tired to press the issue for now. He’ll bug Bakugou about it some other time. But for now, all Shouto can do is close his eyes and allow the comfort of the boy behind him, holding him close, to lull him into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

Shouto hides his smile and allows himself these few precious, unexpected moments of peace in Bakugou’s arms.

[sirenasinsib]

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” 

You ran through the maze of back alleys hoping that it would be too small for the large robot to follow but still it -he- was behind you. The sound of his large form crashing slightly into the buildings as he ran to you. 

You turned only to come to a dead end, your only options are to run back down the same way you came from, but you were out of breath, your body burned, or to hid behind the garbage bin and hoped that he was an older model that couldn’t scan through metal. 

“Ohhh a little human game? Hide and Seek? I like this game. Humans are adorable thinking that they can hide.” 

The quiet clang of metal on concrete slowly got louder as the robot drew closer. 

“I wonder hmmm.”

Suddenly police sirens went off near the alley and you could hear the screech of metal and could guess that the thing turned sharply to the sound. Then the clang of metal was loud before fading out quickly. Did he run? 

Slowly creeping your head from behind the garbage bin, you didn’t see him there anymore. A noticeable scrape of paint on concrete was all that remained. You put a hand to your head, tangling slightly into your hair as you gave a small laugh of relief. 

You didn’t know why he chased you, deciding to stay clear or him or any activities that might  draw him, noticeable anything with fire, but he watched you and gave chase when you panicked and ran.

It was too late before you felt the cold rubber like appended wrap around your waist as another went over your mouth. Your scream cutting off suddenly as you were pulled up before being thrown to a gravel floor and his large legs slammed over your right arm and left leg. 

He gave a laugh as the wires untangled from your body it felt all over. The blank faceplate was a dark blue as it leaned in very close.

“Did you think a few police sirens would scare me? How wrong you are.” 

“What do you want with me?” 

You growled defiantly once the wire left your mouth. His head tilted, the ear like fins flicked. 

“To study of course.”

Your stomach dropped more than you thought it could. You felt like crying, was this really it. You were gonna die to a twisted robot who wanted to study humans.

“Oh no, not like that, something more. . . intimate.”

A wire had trailed down to your pants and slithered over your hips and thighs, very close to dipping between your thighs. The sudden feeling surprised you but the more rational part did not want anything to do with this robot. 

“C’mon now. I’m told that I am very nice.” 

“Nice would be asking for a date, not chasing someone like they're an animal.”

It slammed its large hand near your side. 

“If I wanted to chase you like an animal, I would have done so.” 

If it wasn't for the fear you felt currently, that statement might have turned you on. Slowly he rose himself. The four wires snaking around your body again as it released your arm and leg. Lifted up again as the wires twisted and flipped you in the air. 

"What are you doing? We're are we going?"

The head twisted slightly to look back at you but stayed mostly forward as the wires kept you to its back.  

"Somewhere more quiet, where I can hear you scream unbothered."

You were about to yell or ask another question before a wire slid over your mouth. 

The ride to. . .wherever you were was shaky. He crawled along the walls or jumped from roof to roof. You tried breaking free a few times when the fall was safe enough but it just cooled tighter like a snake. Biting the wire in your mouth proved futile. It caused the bot to halt and purr slightly, the sound and feeling of it vibrated through your body as electricity crackled and shocked you slightly. 

Your body gradually got to a numb like state, perhaps it was the acceptance that you were stuck with this robot or due to the weather or even the electricity it seemed to send your way, you weren't sure. 

Eventually he slowed down before jumping to the ground. It walked and based on the surroundings you could only guess it was an old abandoned factory. 

A wire coiled away once inside the building and slammed the large garage door shut. The other three extended from his back and brought you towards is front and gently placed you on an old bed. 

"Unlike my attitude I don't enjoy forcing. So the faster you cooperate the faster we can both get what we want." 

His small hands petted over your hair and neck before going to your shoulders as it felt, it didn't move the jacket or shirt purposely, letting its fingers get caught on the clothes before pulling them away to pet somewhere else. 

The bigger set of hands stayed steady at your waist. Pinning you there but with the option to move slightly. The wires danced carefully along your skin, snaking into your hair to run by your ear, another from your ankle and up to your thighs before it darted to your hip and behind to your back. 

"What do you want?"

He gave a sigh. 

"Must I spell it out? And here I thought you were smart, or are the records of yours lying." 

"What happened afterwards? If I accept."

"When you accept and I get what I want I'll let you go back to your life right before I plucked you out of the city. Besides your smart enough to accept, unless you want to starve to death."

"You dont think I'll tell the cops?"

"That a human was kidnapped by a large and powerful robot, was fucked with your consent and it let you go. We both know they call you a slut. . . Is that what you are?"

It nuzzled its faceplate into your neck, mocking a kiss. It didn't seem like a bad idea, you would get screwed, no strings attached, wouldn't get killed, and hopefully not hurt, more than usual when it comes to sex and robots. 

And well when it came to robots you couldn't deny the small attraction to them. The interactive designs, the powerful builds that could crush but don't, because they know how to not do that.  

"Fine, just - just dont hurt me."

"See that's the thing that bothers me about humans."

He spoke as he slowly pushed at the jacket 

"Why do some of you want to be treated badly, what makes you love the pain, but what also brings you that spot-

A large hand had moved down and squeezed your thigh slightly, the thumb so close to just touching your center. 

"-of pleasure, of pure bliss. I want to see just how I can break you."

Your shirt was gone next, the wires and his small hands tracing gently over your skin, tapping slightly on the few bits of cybernetics. Then the wires started to latch, a sudden influx of need laced in electricity pulsed through. A sharp gasp left you from the sudden feeling and he laughed. 

"Didn't know that we could do this, that I could do this, did you?"

You didn't speak, couldn't, your tongue felt heavy in your mouth and just the constant pulse of the desire. You squirmed and he lifted you. One of the free wires plucked at the button and zipper of your pants before his hands came down to pull them and your shoes off. 

Slowly one of his smaller hands trailed along your legs before resting on your stomach, the other going up higher before a finger tapped at your lips. 

"You don't want me to hurt you."

There was humor in his voice before your lips opened and slowly the finger pushed in. It tasted like a soda can. The metal itself was rugged slightly and worn. You watched his reaction, seeing the fins flick slightly as the wires bent and swayed his other three hands pet along your thighs, hips, waist, and butt. All it did was make you warm and wet. 

Suddenly his other hand and a wire grabbed at your panties and ripped them off. The sound of protest caught in your throat from his fingers. A purr like laugh escaped him. 

He pulled his hand away, a small pop noise came out. His finger circled the nub and folds slowly, the metal may have warmed slightly from your mouth but it was still a difference in temperature. 

Slowly a finger slid in leaving you to gasp again and give a quiet moan. You could feel the purr that left him with the finger inside. Slowly he moved it forward and back as his thumb played with the nub. Then he curled his finger and you slammed a hand over your mouth to stop the moan from escaping you. 

"Now now."

He stopped moving, the pleasure from the wires on your cybernetics stopped as well and it caused a quiet whine. 

"You need to be louder than that, I want to hear you."

Slowly your hand moved away and a purr came from the large bot. 

"Good girl, now . . . speak."

The finger moved quickly, curling again, letting a shuddering moan out quickly. The bot continued his pace before slowing to ease another finger in. 

"So soft yet tight. I wonder just how much will it take to break you."

"Nnnhhh you got a thing for breaking stuff."

"Only in the most pleasurable ways."

A third finger was added and it made you hiss quietly. Slowly it drew back to only two. The fingers spread and started to scissor as they moved in and out. 

The pleasure was rising steadily now, leaving you panting and tugging at the bed to not cover your mouth. Then he pulled his fingers back, leaving a small empty feeling. 

The wires were coiled tightly around you, having not noticed from focusing on the fingers he lifted you with them, spinning you to have your back to his chest as he moved away from the bed, only to stop in front of a large mirror. 

"Oh."

Was all that came out of you, seeing your naked form, held by curling wires, your legs being spread by his own large ones. Your skin, slightly sweaty and flush. 

The small right hand trailed up before grabbing at your collar bone, more like holding then squeezing. His left rubbed along your body as his large hands went back to your thighs. Cupping from the front, the left one slid slowly before cupping your mound. 

A finger slid in easily, the second one as well. It was exotic seeing his fingers slide in and out as his other hands and wires curled around your body. You could see a small light flow through the wires, a question on your lips but it was cut off as a sudden wave of him came through. 

You could feel the fingers like it was you sliding them in and out, that it was you who was holding someone like this and screwing them in front of a mirror. 

You groaned loudly at the feeling and a third finger was added. His right hand slid over to your cunt but instead rubbed lightly at the nub. Slowly the pace increased, as did your moans and their volume. 

"Covert!"

You shouted his name, pleading to hit that edge, the wires tightened their hold as did his hands, they squeezed slightly as the pace continued. 

You spoke his name, again and again, getting the reactions stronger now till something snapped and you came with a shout. The aftershakes going through as slick dribbled out onto his hand and floor. 

You jolted slightly, feeling Covert do the same as the faceplate slowly started to gain its cyan blue color. The fins flicked repeatedly as his grip relaxed, changing the hold to something like a Bridal style as he brought you to the bed and placed you there. His body lowered, a metal clang resounding and you could only guess he was laying on the floor as his ruler body laid on the bed. 

"Rest for now, I will return you to where I first saw you later." 

The wires curled away before they grabbed the blanket and brought it over your body. The wires retreated, the only contact to the bot was the soft petting he was doing to your head, letting his fingers smooth out the knots gently. 

It wouldn't hurt to sleep for a bit. 

[slaughterjaw]

Origins: Left for the Ghouls pt. 1

Content Warning: Violence, blood, language

The elf's wrists ached from the iron bindings, and the worst was the itching--the horrible itching caused by that damn left manacle clamping on too tight. It scraped the flesh over and over until red bruising bled visible from under Celaryn's peach-colored skin. The young disgraced farstrider futilely attempted to wedge her thumb beneath the cuff, hoping to at least get at the grating itch with a muddied fingernail. 

Her pained back had been firmly tied with the rest of her torso to the rickety wooden post just outside shouting range of the squad’s encampment. Her bruised arms were extended unnaturally around the circumference of the post, shackled wrists meeting at the rear.

"Say it, Fireblood," spat out a woman's voice standing over her.

Defiance still burned in her beaten gaze as Celaryn's eye rolled painfully in its bruised lid to her unofficial jailer's silver sabaton. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but abruptly reared her head back and swallowed. The resistant young farstrider gathered what moisture remained in her parched mouth and hocked a glob of spit onto the foot, staining it with bloodied saliva.

Lieutenant Summerveil scowled. She allowed for a silent moment, an unspoken demand for her junior ranger to apologize. 

The other soldier at Summerveil's flank, Farstrider Keenfaith, winced, though he kept his hands firmly clasped behind his back. His gaze lowered to the ground, unable to meet Celaryn's nor the lieutenant's.

Celaryn coughed a dry gasp. Her cracked lips mumbled something under her breath, and the lieutenant's left ear perked as if to catch the barely-whispered words.

Summerveil leaned in, palms on her thighs as she bent her stance to match Celaryn's sitting height. "Speak up," she demanded.

"--did it," the younger ranger mumbled again, her unsteady voice grating painfully against her throat to make even the slightest noise.

"Say it again." Summerveil whistled for the other soldier to approach. There had to be another witness. Eyes flicking off to the side with a grimace, Farstrider Keenfaith stepped forward with a reluctant pace.

"I said--" The sharp sting in Celaryn's throat expelled another bloodied cough from her, staining Keenfaith's face with red flecks. "W-water," she croaked.

"Water," the lieutenant repeated to Keenfaith. This time, it was an actual order.

Keenfaith jogged a short distance back to the pitched tents, retrieving the mentioned steel flask. He reached out under Celaryn's chin, gently tilting her head up and lifting the flask to her parched lips.

She hungrily drank, downing the liquid until she felt her throat wet again. Then she sloshed it around the cuts in her mouth, moistening her tongue and lips before spitting out the bloodied water.

"That's enough." Summerveil shoved the back of her hand into Keenfaith's chest, pushing him away. "Now. Say it again, clearer this time so we can both hear it, Fireblood."

"I said..." Celaryn once again lifted her swollen eye to meet the lieutenant's leering face. She flashed a smile. "Eat an amani's mossy dick, you posturing pile of wyrmling shit," the younger elf cackled, leaning forward. Her arms strained against the restraints as she pushed off of her leg and shot her head up, ramming it into the lieutenant's nose. 

"I've wiped my ass with tree leaves that sting harder than your punches." Celaryn settled back down into a seat against the wood post, one leg curled under her as she cracked her neck and let the blood drip off of her forehead. "Now, if you can just get whatever the hell you need to do to assert your shitty dominance stemming from the luxury of being born into a family of privileged milksops over. It's getting late, and it's nearly your bedtime." she finished, stuffing vocal salt into the wound.

The lieutenant rammed her heel across Celaryn's jaw, dislocating it with a sickening crack. Summerveil wrenched the steel canteen away from Keenfaith, slamming it over and over into her junior's already black and blue face until Celaryn's head drooped downward, unconscious.

Fuming with heavy breaths, the lieutenant slapped the now dented canteen into Keenfaith's chest. 

The ranger's hands shook as he grasped the blood-slicked metal, looking with an agape expression as Summerveil stormed off back to the camp. He shook his head, kneeling by Celaryn's side. He raised a gentle hand under her jawline, firmly pushing the joint back into place. His hands clenched into fists as he matted them into his greaves' chainmail links. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, unsure if she could even hear him.

"We leave her for the trolls come morning. Don't waste your supplies." The lieutenant called out to Keenfaith as she drew the flap of her tent to the side and disappeared into the interior of it.

"No," he whispered back, slamming his knuckles into the mud. Keenfaith tore off a piece of his azure silk cloak and twisted open the bloodied canteen, wetting the cloth. Carefully, the ranger began to clean off the blood from Celaryn's face, both dried and new. A soft grunt mumbled from her lips as the dull pain of a reset jaw roused her from the blackout.

"Don't talk. She busted up your jaw. You'll make it worse." Keenfaith's voice was low as he wiped a cut on her cheek clean. "We'll go directly to headquarters ourselves when we get back."

"Save it," she sneered back. "This will get nipped in the bud before it even reaches one of the Windrunners' ears. Who's gonna trust us over the word of the long-lauded ranger legacy of House Summerveil?" Celaryn's tone was dunked in sarcasm and sprinkled with slow-burning hatred. "Nobility's all the same. All they care about is looking superior and politics. They won't do anything when push comes to shove. just like you."

Keenfaith's lips pressed tight. Both ears drooped as the realization of his own cowardice stabbed into his chest and twisted the knife. He squeezed his fist and clenched his teeth, sucking air through them. "I'm sorry," he admitted. "But I'll be damned if I'm not going to try and get the lieutenant court-martialed."

"She's dead set that I killed her mother by retreating from the yesterday’s attack. And now she's doubling up and wanting proof of treason against the Magistrate. Not even a slap from King Anasterian himself will change her mind."

"There were too many trolls." Keenfaith set his palm on Celaryn's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "It was an ambush, and Magistrix Summerveil demanded herself that you retreat with her own words. There was nothing any of us could have done. We were outnumbered three to... two dozen."

Celaryn scoffed, spitting another glob of blood and a broken tooth into the soil at her side. "Try telling that to the lieutenant. You'll get strapped to this post right along with me."

"I'll tell it to the courts, even the Magistrate if I have to when we're back in the city and you're snuggling up in the infirmary resting away from her damned misled vengeance," he softly assured.

"Grow some balls before you make empty promises."

Keenfaith sighed. He tilted the bloodied canteen downward again, letting the beaten ranger drink well. Once satisfied, he laid flask at her lap and circled around the wooden post.

Moments later, Celaryn felt a grinding sensation against her manacles as the unmistakable sound of metal on metal rasped in her ears.

"What are you doing?" she growled.

"Setting you free," the man answered. "Run back to the Enclave. The trolls don't patrol around until dawn. I can't go with you else the lieutenant will get suspicious."

"You'll get chewed up and spat out."

"I don't care. This isn't right--None of this is right."

Celaryn let out a relieved grunt as the manacles separated into their respective cuffs, freeing up her hands. She felt the constant pain in her shoulders subside as they returned to their natural position. The ranger rose to an unsteady stance as blood began to flow back into her legs.

"Go," Keenfaith pleaded as he circled back to face her. He began to untie the hunting knife strapped into his belt and pressed it into Celaryn's numb palms. "Go before the trolls begin hunting."

With an unstable gait, Celaryn stumbled into the dark treeline, her figure fading into the shadows of the Eversong forest. But just as she was about to disappear into the darkness, she turned, her blue eyes visible in the black. She closed her eyelids, and Keenfaith could make out a thankful nod as his eyes acclimated to the dark.

"Don’t die, Celaryn Fireblood.”

[daddyfuckinlonglegs]

What’s that, another one? Knifeplay/edge play/sensory deprivation ahoy, you’ve been warned. Nate's knees ached. His ankles ached. His back ached. His shoulders ached .His jaw ached. The floorboards under him were warm. The metal cuffs around his wrists were warm. The air in his lungs was warm, bursting from his nose in hot little puffs. The tape across his mouth was warm against his tender skin. His teeth were gritted hard against the fire in his joints. His eyes were closed against the rough cloth. His breathing was steady, focused. His dick was so fucking hard. The footsteps were muffled, but the sound of boot-heels clicking on the wooden floor made Nate tense against the wall, shoulders pressing against the cold plaster. Sit up straight. Deep breaths. Focus. A warm hand ruffled his hair, stroked blissfully down the side of his face, and he shivered. “How you holdin' up, sunshine?” Nate lifted his face towards the voice. “Shall we take this off a minute?” Hot hands around his face, fingers moving gently at the back of his head, the soft sweep of cloth as it fell from his eyes. He opened them, squinting against the dim light, blinking and turning his face downward, until the room came into focus. “There ya go, how's that?” Nate raised his head again slowly, drinking in the colours of the room – rich yellow light, the mahogany boards, the smart, bright crimson of that coat. Hancock stood straight, looking down at him, nudged Nate's knee with the toe of his boot, a jolt of pain buzzing through the joint. “Y'know how long it's been?” Nate blinked, shook his head. “Forty-five minutes. You're doing swell. Must be burnin' up in those knees though, huh? You want a little stretch out?” Nate nodded. Hancock sighed and squatted down beside him, a wicked smile playing at his lips. “Fifteen minutes, sugar. That's all. Fifteen minutes.”

He wrapped the cloth back around Nate's eyes, tugging it tight, knotting it, loose strands of hair catching in the knot, pinging sharp sensation at the back of his head. Hancock's hand trailed down along Nate's jaw, thumb swiping across the duct tape over his lips. “Y'know, I like you this way, brother. None of that smart mouth you're always runnin'. Shit, I could keep you around like this for a long time...” Hancock dropped his hands and pressed his thumbs into the muscle of Nate's thigh; he gave a sharp, muffled yelp, pain searing up his hips. Hancock smiled, standing up, trailing his hand along Nate's shoulder. “Yep. A long time.”   His footsteps receded again,and Nate sank into the blackness of his breathing, long, slow, pulls of cool air, hot streams that warmed his mouth as he exhaled. Christ, his knees fucking hurt, the bones grinding into the hard floorboards, and he squeezed his eyes shut harder, focusing on the feeling of his lungs filling, and the smooth warmth of the wood, and the hard, urgent tension in his groin. Fuck. He thought about Piper; the gentle way she stroked his skin, the playful kisses she planted in weird places (the indent in the middle of his chest, the palm of his hand, his armpits, between his shoulder blades), her hair curling around her face, brushing the tops of her shoulders, her cold skin in the rain, her hard, pink nipples, the softness of her open mouth when she sucked his cock. His stomach twitched, jerking his dick upwards, and Hancock laughed, distantly. “Thinkin' happy thoughts? Wanna be careful there sunshine; don't spill it too soon, or trust me, I will make you regret it.” His footsteps paced back across the room to Nate's side, and the cold, shivering sound of a knife being unsheathed came from his left. “Really regret it.” Nate sucked air through his nose, and Hancock pressed the point of the knife to Nate's collarbone; Nate flinched, rocking back, fat pain shooting through his legs, the knife nicking his skin. Hancock tutted. “Now look what you did. Gone and got yourself bloody.” He squatted down, trailing the point down Nate's chest, scraping the skin delicately, and back up to his neck, digging a little harder, thin red lines raising across Nate's skin. The man trembled under his hand. Shit that was hot. He pressed his mouth to the thin trickle of blood running down Nate's chest, lapping gently with his tongue, licking across his collarbone, up his neck. “You like that, brother?” he purred in Nate's ear, “You wanna bleed for me?” Nate exhaled, a muffled groan in his throat, but it was all that Hancock needed. He grinned, and twirled the knife, the point twisted a notch in Nate's pale skin, and Hancock dragged it firmly across his chest, slicing a beautiful red ribbon across his flesh, rubbing his hand along the man's thigh, achingly close to his cock. Nate squealed, sucking hard at the gag. Hancock stood up, roughly tugging the blindfold away, and tearing sharply at the tape covering Nate's mouth, pulling it away. Nate grunted, gasping at the air, his mouth raw and pink, a tiny blossom of blood forming on his lip where the skin had split. Hancock grabbed his jaw, jerking his face upward, and pressed the knife to Nate's throat, the mean edge digging below his adam's apple. “Ten minutes left. Suck my dick, pretty boy, or they'll be the hardest ten minutes of your life.” Hancock unfastened his pants roughly, and Nate bent forward, throat tightly pressed to the knife, pulse throbbing against it, mouth leaning hungrily against Hancock's soft dick. He took it in his mouth, all of it, sucking and rolling his tongue over Hancock's mottled skin, and a rush of pleasure hit him when the ghoul reached a hand into his hair, his dick hardening fast in Nate's mouth. Hancock sighed, rolling his head back to the ceiling, stepping back a little. Nate strained his neck, leaning forward, and Hancock tugged at his hair, pressing the knife harder. He stepped back again, Nate's shoulders burning with tension, and again, until Nate was on the bones of his knees, leaning all his weight on one shoulder against Hancock's thigh. Hancock pulled his hair again, fingers fisted at his crown, jerking his head up, arching his back. He stepped away, pulling out of Nate's mouth roughly, letting the knife and the hand in his hair take all the weight, and Nate yelped loudly, the muscles of his back singing in agony as he tried to keep his balance. “Almost there.” The ghoul laughed cruelly. “Wonder what happens if I let go? One wrong move and it'll be the end of you, huh?” Nate gasped and gagged, eyes screwed shut, afraid to speak, sinking deep into his mind and stinging sharply in the present all at once. He couldn't do it. He couldn't stay on his knees any longer, this was it, this was it, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! He tried to call out, but his throat was dry, a cracked groan the only noise he could make, and his knees gave way. Hancock reacted fast, jerked him roughly aside, letting him slam heavily to the floor, the impact blunt and cold and bruising, but the stinging, aching relief that sang through his legs was... oh, bliss. He lay on his back, chest heaving, arms still tight and numb behind his back, and Hancock dropped to the floor beside him, stroking the knife up his belly in long, smooth strokes, like a butcher sharpening the blade. “Close call there sunshine. Bet that adrenaline is something, huh?” Nate nodded weakly, a faint smile at the corners of his mouth. Hancock reached into his pocket, jangling the key to the cuffs and rolling Nate to his side. “Here, hold this, wouldya?” He pushed the cold blade into Nate's mouth, and Nate clamped it between his teeth, shivering as the ghoul uncuffed him. His hands were cold, purple-blue and freezing; Hancock pressed his fingers against Nate's palm. “Gimme a little squeeze, sunshine.” Nate didn't move, just breathing, deep, slowing breaths. Hancock nudged him. “Still there?” Nate squeezed the ghouls hand, firmly, and Hancock sat back, nodding, rolling Nate onto his back. He straddled his legs, pressing his ass down gently against Nate's thighs, and reached down and cupped Nate's balls, squeezing gently, rubbing his thumb in wide circles. “Y'know, you're tougher than you look. I'm a bastard, I know, but that was an hour and ten. Pushed right on through it. Special with a capital E, ain't you? Though I am looking forward to seeing you hobble outta here in the morning and try to tell your girlfriend why you're in such a state. Bruised, and bleeding, and just a little...” He bent forward, kissing Nate's slack mouth, drawing a faint, satisfied sigh. “...irradiated.” Nate's dick had softened, but the blood rushing back to his thighs - pins and needles prickling unbearably through his legs and feet as his capillaries flushed with blood again - and the ghoul's hand toying with him, and the thin weight of Hancock's dick nudging against his leg. brought him back to life. Hancock swept his hand along the shaft, slowly, slowly, tracing his nails around the head, pulling softly. Nate sighed, and Hancock brought the knife down, carefully scraping the vein on the underside of Nate's cock, up, and down, scratching maddeningly at his soft skin. He flicked the point up, tapping it gently against the sensitive spot, and Nate groaned and curled inwards, his dick twitching, cum spurting thick, across the blade, across his stomach, across Hancock's hand. He laughed, almost growling, still rubbing the blade softly against the other man, and let Nate shudder through his orgasm in a cold, sweating mess on the floorboards. He ran his fingers jaggedly down Nate's chest, nails rasping against his skin, and slid his hand under Nate's shoulder, taking the man's weight against his arm, lifting him up. “Sit up, sunshine, I still gotta take care of business.” Nate slid backwards, sitting up against the wall, hands folded limp in his lap, and Hancock tapped his cheek. “Open up. You gotta clean up this mess.” Nate opened his mouth, pushing his tongue out, and Hancock pressed the knife against his tongue, grinning. “Lick it up, sugar. Like you mean it.” Nate closed his mouth around the blade, sucking it like a cock, the metal sharp against his cheeks, the bitter, salt taste of his cum coating his mouth, and the metallic taste of the steel, like blood, stinging his tongue. He looked up into Hancock's eyes as the ghoul jacked off over his chest. “That's right, oh, that's right, you dirty fuck. Suck it, oh fuck yeah. Fuck yeah, I'm coming, open those pretty eyes for me.” Nate did as he was told, and Hancock bucked into his hand, thick, white splashes covering Nate's flushed face. Hancock grit his teeth, and groaned, sitting back on his knees and wiping his brow, sliding the knife from Nate's mouth and dropping it to the floor beside him. He tucked his cock back into his pants, looking at Nate, admiring the view – everyone's favourite do-good drifter, soiled and sated and bleeding, on his ass on the floor of the state house. He laughed. “You, sunshine, you're fucking nasty. Wish we'd gotten this little arrangement together sooner.” Nate nodded, smiling weakly, letting his eyes close. “Yeah.” He croaked, as Hancock planted himself beside him, running a hand softly through his hair. “No one kicks my ass quite like you do.”

[shushmal]

good winter, I’ll be with you Chapter 8: carry on my dear

Read it here!

There is fire licking wet across Jon’s face and chest, and he wakes with a scream. Above him, there is cursing, strong hands holding his body down as he convulses. Cherng, the wildling hag with steel eyes and white hair, fills his vision as she leans over him, wrinkling her nose as she pours more of white liquor over the open wounds on his chest.

“You’re awake,” she says over his wailing, her voice is as gnarled and aged as her wrinkled face. “Good, fool boy that you are.”

“Tormund,” Jon chokes, and she sharply tuts at him.

“Don’t go calling for your man now,” she snaps. Despite her harsh words, her fingers are incredibly gentle as she inspects the claw marks that have split open the skin of his face, from forehead to jaw. “He’s outside cursing you a storm, so let him be.”

Jon shudders and tries to hold himself still. He distantly notes several men surround him, and it’s Whitebone’s broad hands clamped over Jon’s shoulders to hold him steady.

Clucking her tongue, the hag sits back. “Damned luck that you didn’t lose an eye, Snow. You’ll need more of it though, if you’re to last the week. Shadowcat wounds are poison, and I can’t save you from the infection no matter how much good liquor I pour on you.”

Shuddering and blinking away tears, Jon nods. “Probably… deserve it,” he bites out around the pain and anguish crawling up his throat, choking him from the inside out.

A waste, he thinks, everything he’s ever done is a waste.

He can’t meet Cherng’s eyes when they soften and fill with pity. She smoothes back his sweaty hair, sopping up the blood dripping down his cheek and into his ear. “Only a direwolf could kill a shadowcat like that, alone in the darkness,” she says quietly, her voice hard and unforgiving, taking a bowl of fresh snow melt from one of the men at her side. She soaks a thick cloth in it, and lays it over Jon’s chest.

It feels like ice, so cold against Jon’s over-heated skin. The hag packs snow on top of it, her fingers tinged with blue as she works, until Jon’s body is numb with the cold, shaking. The world fades and focuses, and spins in dizzying circles.

“Drink,” another man says, tilting Jon’s head up and pouring the liquor into his mouth. Jon swallows it despite the burn.

Cherng looms over him again. She holds a knife, flaming red with heat. Hands descend upon Jon, holding him down as the snow is scraped from the top of him.

“You fought the teeth,” she says, holding the blade close to tattered flesh of Jon’s chest. “Don’t go dying by the bite.”

She presses the hot metal to Jon’s skin.

—

Everything wavers, wiggles, swims, and for a while Jon wonders if he’s under the ice again. But it’s too hot here, too many noises, and too many things touching him all at once. His throat works against the dryness in his mouth, and always there’s a hand at the back of his neck, tilting his head gently up and pressing cool water to his lips.

Sometimes he thinks he’s back in Winterfell, and Lyanna Stark is singing him a lullaby. But her voice is Sansa’s and her face is Arya’s and her hair is lit with flame. Once he thought he was talking with Grenn and Pip, only to realize that it was Mirma sitting beside him the whole time. The hag is a constant presence looming over him like a threat, waiting through the nights for him to die of infection and sepsis. She cuts open any wound that festers, and seals them back with a burning knife.

And Jon lingers on, tired of the stink of blood and fever. It smells like death, and death haunts him enough in his sleep.

Tormund is rarely there when he wakes, but there’s always the warm imprint on his palm of a large hand in his, his fingers tingling where they once were entwined with another’s.

—

It must be late the next Jon wakes, because the fire is low and the tent is filled with the sound of sleeping bodies. Cherng sits at his side, her legs crossed beneath her and her elbows resting on her knees. She regards him tiredly as he blinks up at her.

“Awake again, are you?” she says, reaching for a bowl. She tips it over his lips and he drinks greedily, the water fresh and cool. “I suppose you’ll live then.”

Jon aches from head to toe, his entire body too heavy to move. But he’s awake. Head lolling to the side, he realizes that Tormund’s at his side, his hand cradled between Tormund’s, his pale skin stark against the freckled tan of Tormund’s fingers. His face is relaxed in sleep, but Jon can see the stress and exhaustion catching tight at the corners of his eyes and his mouth.

��You owe that boy for staying by your side after you near got yourself killed,” Cherng huffs, her voice quiet in the stillness of the tent.

“I owe him for more than that,” Jon says, his voice barely a rasp and a whisper.

Cherng hums, her old bones audibly cracking as she stretches. “Heal up well then. The best repayment is your life.” She pats Jon’s shoulder before she stands. “Might s’well belong to him now.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees. He doesn’t look up as she leaves, her footfalls near silent as she goes, eyes still caught on Tormund’s sleeping face. “It does.”

—

The tent is empty, devoid of all the sounds that Jon’s grown used to: the sleeping breaths of the wildlings, Whitebone’s terrible jokes, and Mirma’s soothing voice. Instead Jon can only hear the cackle of the fire and the deafening silence as Tormund stares down at him.

“Tormund,” Jon breathes.

“You’re alive,” Tormund says, his words blunt and cold. “You better be glad, because I would have killed you twice over if you hadn’t.”

Swallowing, Jon nods. Tormund’s eyes are bright with unshed tears, and the silence between them is more painful than the slowly healing scars or the pounding of his head or the thirst in his throat. Jon helplessly searches for the words to thank Tormund, to beg his forgiveness, to ask if he can still stay. He reaches out a shaking hand, wanting even the slightest touch, his fingers brushing against the well-worn fur at Tormund’s ankle.

“Do you know you talk in your sleep?” Tormund says before Jon can gather himself.

Jon doesn’t say anything, just clutches at Tormund’s pant leg and wishing he were strong enough to stand.

“Every night that you’ve slept, ever since you came back from that fucking red city, you’ve begged me to kill you,” Tormund says. “Did you know that?”

Tears brim in the corners of Jon’s eyes. “No,” he croaks. “I didn’t.”

Tormund sighs, bows his head. When he looks once more at Jon, there are tears on his face. He reaches out, tracing the new scar across Jon’s jaw. “I know you need me right now,” Tormund says, his deep voice cracking as he face twists in grief. “But I can’t…”

And Tormund stands. And Tormund walks away.

Beneath the tattered and burned remains of Jon’s chest, his heart pounds a heavy, drumming beat, more painful than the shadowcat’s claws and teeth in his flesh. Tormund’s already at the doorway before Jon can take a breath. Desperate, he rolls himself to his knees, panting and panicking. He’ll crawl after Tormund if he has to, but he manages to push himself to his feet. Something tears along Jon’s chest, the thin skin of his wounds opening up to the sudden movement.

“Tormund,” he gasps.

Tormund turns, his face a mask of regret.

And Jon’s knees buckle beneath him before he can take one step.

Tormund is there, catching him before he hits the dirt and cursing, hands steady but gentle on Jon’s weakened body. “Why,” he hisses, livid. Anger dances in his eyes as he lays Jon back onto the bedding. “Are you such a fucking fool?”

Jon doesn’t give him another moment to curse him, finding what little strength he has left to lift his hands to Tormund’s hair, to pull him down against his lips, crashing their mouths together. Tormund growls into the kiss, fingers tightening around Jon’s arms and Jon clutches him back, doing anything he can to pull himself closer, to pull himself into some semblance of a man that can breathe in Tormund’s air, taste his warmth, feel his touch.

Grunting, Tormund presses him to the ground as he kisses Jon, his beard scratching along Jon’s mouth in a pleasant burn, and Jon can’t think past the blood zipping through his veins and the feel of Tormund above him, the expert tilt of his head and the hand that finds its way into Jon’s hair.

“Tormund,” Jon breathes into Tormund’s mouth, desperate tears on his face. “Please, Tormund.”

Tormund shushes him, his kiss turning tender and sweet, stealing Jon’s words before he can speak them until Jon falls limp into his arms, fingers still weakly grasping at Tormund’s hair.

“S’okay,” Tormund says, backing away only an inch and resting their foreheads together. He cups Jon’s face, thumbs rough against his cheeka as he wipes away Jon’s tears. “S’okay, Jon. Just give me some time.”

Jon nods, swallowing back the urge to cry as Tormund kisses him one last time, mouth soft against Jon’s lips, before he stands and walks away.

—

It’s good to be back in the familiarity of the hut, where Jon’s black cloak is still nailed over the door and Tormund’s collection of wooden carvings are scattered around, hanging from the roof as if they’re guarding their heads from the night. Ghost is curled in his corner, the large fur blanket that Jon had skinned and sewn together for the direwolf under his paws and sleeping head. Their pots and cookery are where Jon had left them last, cleaned and unused, and the fire is cackling merrily as if nothing at all has changed.

But Tormund is no where to be seen, and as Hrenna helps Jon to his bed, Jon tries not to dwell on it, tries to bite back the tears threatening to spill over.

“There you go, Snow,” Hrenna says gently as Jon settles onto his back, panting from the short walk up the hill. “Back where you belong.”

Jon nods, not trusting himself to speak. He can’t meet Hrenna’s eyes when her face turns down in sympathy.

“He’s just pissed, that Tormund.” The wildling woman, with her straw colored hair and round face downcast, pulls several blankets over Jon. “He cares a hell of a lot for you, you know. When you— Well, there’s no reason to say.”

“Tell me,” Jon croaks. Shame burns through him as tears roll down his face and into his hair. “Please.”

Hrenna sighs and runs a hand through her flyaway hair. “When you disappeared that night, no one saw you go. Still can’t figure out how you managed it, with the horse. Tormund… I think he thought you were just going on a walkabout to calm down. Said you’d fought, but then that wolf,” he nods to Ghost. “Gets up and starts snarling like nothing else.

“I thought we were under some attack when I saw him, because Tormund had blood all over his face and spitting curses, but when I got a good look at him, I realized how scared he was.”

She stops a moment, shrugs her shoulders.

“Ain’t ever seen him scared. Not like that, not proper scared. Not like his world was ending.”

Jon chokes on a sob, pressing a shaky hand over his eyes, over the raw scars across his face. Hrenna sits silent at his side, with only a comforting hand on Jon’s shoulder as he cries.

—

Jon sleeps fitfully, in and out, and Hrenna sits with him through most of it, watching silently over him. She changes his bandages, helps him up to relieve himself, feeds him and waters him as his fever comes down and finally breaks. The pain dulls, heals and itches, and Jon’s exhausted when he next wakes to find Hrenna gone and Tormund sitting at his side.

“Tormund,” Jon starts, takes a too-sharp breath that catches painfully in his lungs. He doesn’t quite know what to say, no matter how many times he's thought of it. Doesn’t know if Tormund wants him to say anything at all. “I’m—”

“Save your pretty words for someone who wants to hear them.”

Jon stops short, swallows the leaden weight that’s dropped down his throat. Tormund’s words aren’t harsh, aren’t damning. But it’s enough to make Jon hurt, fresh blood on old wounds.

“I feel like I should say them regardless,” he says, as steadily as he can. He struggles to sit up, struggles to meet Tormund’s eyes. “I know I… broke this. So I need to be the one to fix it.”

“There’s nothing to break,” Tormund says likes it’s the simplest thing in the world.

And Jon wants to cry, wants to beg.

“You’re a man of the Free Folk, Jon,” Tormund says gently, leaning over to press a whiskery kiss to Jon’s forehead. “And the Free Folk don’t break.” His touch is soft as he wipes away the wetness along Jon’s cheek, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Can you,” Jon says, swallows down the emotion reach up his throat to still his tongue. “Tormund—”

Tormund shushes him, leans over and presses another kiss to Jon’s hair. His beard tickles along Jon’s cheek, and when he draws away, Tormund is smiling. Gingerly, he eases himself by Jon’s side, careful of the still healing gashes that are more burns than anything else across Jon’s front, stretching his arm over Jon’s waist to hold him

Jon lets himself sink into Tormund’s warmth, a solid body at his side.

[awkwardbluefish]

“It’s okay.”

—

Warnings: Blood and a little violence

Summary: Damian had never thought he could hate the blood thrumming through his body. It was a sign that he was the true blood son, the true heir to his mother and father. He never thought he could despise it but he does.

A/n - I’ve been meaning to write this for a while now —.—

—

Robin scowled as Red Robin mumbles under his breath, fingers flying over the holographic keyboard. He didn’t understand why father made him patrol with this imbecile, it was a mere patrol, something Damian has done plenty of times by himself. He didn’t need his so called predecessor to tag along.

“I don’t understand why father making me work with a moron like you.” Robin exclaimed out loud, unhooking his grabble gun as Red swiped the keyboard away and did the same.

Red let out a puff of air, one that Robin knew meant he was tired. “Because,” Red started, firing his grabble, “it’s a school night and the less injuries you’ve got, the less questions.”

Robin scowled as Red’s cape whipped as he was pulled into the air, his doing the same as he followed after. He landed a second after Red Robin, boots clanking on brick silently.

“It’s none of their business about my so called injuries.” Robin stated simply, annoyance pricking at the memories of worried teachers. They didn’t know anything.

“It sort of is.” Red hummed, looking over the city for any possible crime. He strayed at the edge of the building, eyes narrowed behind the cowl and a tilt to his head. Robin huffed and walked to the right side of the building, scowling at the disgusting grime on the bricks.

“I am the son of Batman, they have no need to fret over me like a mere child. I have accomplished worse injuries then a simple broken bone.” He stated, scraping his boot against stone as he stepped in some gum. The state of this city is beyond disgusting.

“You are a child, Robin.” Red stated, fingers tapping on the side of his cowl and Robin watched the white lenses flash green. Night vision. “Besides when a kid shows up at school sporting injuries all the time, people are bound to get suspicious.”

“Like I stated before,” Robin ground out, body stiffening up as he turned to stare at the back of Red’s head. “I am the son of Batman, I needn’t be fussed over.”

Red simply hummed and Robin scowled at the lack of response. Grayson always answered back and Father would respond in some way. It was grating in his nerves at the lack of respect.

“I’m assuming they didn’t do the same for you then. You’re no blood son after all.” Robin smirked as Red’s stance subtlety went tight, muscles seizing up.

But he didn’t refute it. Robin frowned and he opened his mouth to ridicule the former Robin when a click silenced the night like thunder. Then came the bullets, slicing through the air like lightening.

Robin tensed and prepared for the flare of pain when black covered his vision and his head was forced into a Kevlar covered neck. A gloved hand was on the back of his head, a arm wrapped securely around his back as he was forced to his knees and was rolled around like a rag doll.

Robin grumbled, struggling in the hold before pushing at the chest with all his might. He un-lodged from the hold, back slamming against brick as he skidded against concrete. Pain flared at his ankle and Robin gritted his teeth as he used the adrenaline coursing through his veins to crawl the rest of the way to the metal vent.

The bullets kept coming, cracking like thunder as Robin rested his head against the cool metal, teeth clenched right. His eyes scanned for Red Robin, breath hitching at the sight.

Without a thought he crawled forward, gripping onto Red’s left wrist and pulling him behind the vent. Red let out a low groan, fingers twitching on the concrete floor.

Robin felt his heart beat speed up, fingers hastily clicking on the emergency button on his gauntlet. He turned his attention back to his brother, turning him into his back as carefully as possible.

Red let out a groan, obviously in pain as his head rolled to the side with a pained moan. Robin bit his lip, spotting four bullet wounds in the chest. Only two managed to get their way through the armour but Red was bleeding, a lot.

Robin quickly put pressure onto the wound, looking around hurriedly as the bullet came to an end. Red’s face was pale and Robin didn’t know what to do except to put pressure on the wound. He hadn’t refilled his medical kit, confident he wouldn’t need it. Robin, no, Damian was too scared to check Red’s utility belt, not wanting to release the pressure on his wounds.

A soft thud had Robins head snapping up, instantly spotting Red Hood and Nightwing. They were quick to rush forward, Hood’s hand rubbing over his arms as he was pried of his brother.

Red was being lifted away and Robin lunged forward in attempt to stop him from leaving but hands gripped at his forearms and he was yanked back.

“It’s okay, Dames.” Hood whispered and Damian wondered when his and Hoods masks were taken off. “Dickie is just taking Timmy to the cave, yeah?”

Damian’s tongue felt heavy so he forced his head to bob up and down. Todd nodded as well, hands on his shoulders and fingers massaging his skin.

“He’s going to be okay, okay?” Todd murmured, hands sliding down to grip at Damian’s shoulders. Damian nodded again, feeling numb but Todd’s eyes were comforting and warm.

“The,” Damians voice cracked and he frowned and licked his lips, trying again, “the shooter?”

Todd’s eyes turned dark, lips tugging downwards and the grip on Damian’s shoulders turned painful. “I’ve dealt with him.”

Damian nodded again. “That’s,” Damian licked his lips again and swallowed, “that’s good.”

“Yeah, it is, kiddo.” Todd mumbled. He lifted up Damian’s mask and pressed it against his face. Damian adjusted it as Todd put his hood on. “We’re going to got to the cave, yeah? Go see Timmy and give him a good ol’ teasing, yeah?”

Robin didn’t answer, tongue heavy and throat dry as he climbed onto the motorcycle behind Hood once they got onto the ground. He could still see the blood stain of when he dragged Red across the concrete in his mind.

—

Damian’s feet were glued to the floor as everyone rushed around him. He had stupidly miscalculated, not noticing the bullets that embedded themselves into Tim’s left calf and thigh. Now Drake was bleeding out on the medical bench as everyone ran around like headless chickens.

He needed a blood transfusion. Drake’s blood supply had ran out and now they needed a blood transfusion but no one here had the same type of blood except Cassandra. She was five minutes away but Drake was unstable. He looked dead with the blood coating his body, pale and damp face from sweat.

Damian hated this moment. He hated everyone in the room for having different blood, different genes. He hated the blood coursing through his veins, he despised it. His blood didn’t match Drakes and now he could die because of it. Damian has never hated the blood flowing through his body, but now he has never despised something more.

A scruff of dragging feat and Damian flinched at the hand on his shoulder. He swallowed and looked up into Grayson’s blue eyes and tired smile. Damian stayed still as Grayson kneeled, balancing himself by holding onto his shoulders.

“Go to bed, Dami. Leslie is here and Cass has just rocked up. Tim will be fine, okay?”

His voice was meant to be soothing but it just grated on Damian’s nerves for some reason. He didn’t know Drake would be fine, no one knew until after the operation.

Instead he nodded and Grayson’s smile turned just a little sadder before he pulled Damian into his chest. Damian didn’t make any moves to hug back, simply leaning into the hold but Grayson didn’t seem to mind. When Grayson pulled back and stood up with a pat on his head, Damian went to bed. He didn’t want to sleep but he did have school tomorrow and he had no choice but to go. He’s missed too many days already.

—

The house was silent when Damian snapped awake, sweat clinging to his brow and heart hammering. He breathed in slowly, getting his heart to calm down.

Eventually it did and he kicked off his blankets, sliding out of bed with ease and beginning to make his journey to the cave.

The halls were silent and his feet were cold but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t understand why he was acting like this, it wasn’t unusual for them to get hurt during patrol. It came with the job really.

Maybe it’s because Drake didn’t have any blood supply. Maybe it was because Damian should’ve been able to stop that shooter in a second but he didn’t. Maybe, maybe it was because Damian didn’t have the same blood and it nearly got Drake killed. That’s what his dreams seem to be telling him anyway.

He let out a huff, shuffling his feet into the carpet as he turned the handles of the clock. With a soft hiss it slid open and Damian was greeted with the darkness of the cave and quiet noises from the bats.

The dark didn’t bother him so he descended the stairs quietly yet quickly. The cave was empty except for the bats and Drake. Normally they would’ve put Drake in the guest room but it was too risky to move him.

Damian was quick to find his way to the medical area. The blue curtains were drawn up, to give Drake the sense of security, and Damian pushed them aside.

Drake was lying on the bed, head nestled to the side with a frown on his lips. The covers were drawn up to his shoulders and he seemed uncomfortable.

Damian was beginning to shake again, his nightmares flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked. He didn’t want to lose his family, not the one he worked so hard to gain. And maybe Damian hadn’t considered Drake as family until now but he does and he nearly lost him tonight. Damian doesn’t think he can handle loosing anyone in this family, not even Drake.

He didn’t think as he lifted up the covers, climbing in carefully. He was careful when he lied down, adjusting himself so he didn’t brush up against any of Drake’s injuries.

Eventually he found a comfortable position, his head laying on Drake’s shoulder and he could feel his breath puffing against his hair. His right arm held loosely against Drake’s left arm, fingers over his pulse. He wasn’t about to let his brother die over something stupid he told himself, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Dami?” Damian stiffened, feeling Tim’s breath against his forehead. He don’t say anything even when he knew Drake knew he was awake.

A soft sigh escaped Drake’s lips and he twisted a little. His arm escaped Damian’s grip and slid under his side to wrap around his shoulder and pull him in closer. Damian hid his face in the crook of Tim’s neck as he played with his hair.

“It’s okay.”