#people should draw Bills weird mouth eye more often

[nestedfeathers]

Ford was a lucky guy.

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

The thrilling saga of Hanamaki, the hero of stench continued well past forty-five minutes. And if the conversation would stray away from the subject, the comments issued by those seated nearby would immediately return the group’s attention to the humorous topic. At this point, the poor male was unsure whether his ego would ever heal from the damage it sustained today. But what swelled the sense of embarrassment colouring his cheeks was the fact it was all because of a bodily reaction he could not control. Truthfully – the absence of understanding was quite rude.

Dejected, the pink haired male sunk into the leather seat, until his chin was nestled against the lower part of his neck.

“Stop that. You’re going to hurt your neck.” Iwaizumi tugged at his shirt collar to dispel the second-hand discomfort he was experiencing as Hanamaki squinted at him, refusing to budge from the stance.  

“Who needs a neck anymore. I don’t. What’s the point of going on like this? I may as well die.” The unemployed male sniffled, allowing his arms to go limp on either side of him. He was searching for sympathy and yet, all you could submit to him was your laughter. If only you could grab a photo – he could easily be turned into a meme.

“Stop being so dramatic. None of these people know you, and I doubt they will remember you after today.” Steadying his elbow against the glass table, the trainer curled his fingers into a fist then supported his cheek against it. “Sorry to break it you, but you’re not that important.”

“But I will remember.” He countered, his eyes now shifting into your direction, where you were seconds from pinching Iwaizumi’s exposed cheek. Pausing mid-motion with your finger’s inches away from his face, a sheepish smile decorated your features.

“What? Maybe this is karma for calling Tooru smelly yesterday.” While the response was clearly aimed at the sulking male, your y/e/c irises remained fixated on the one you deemed your favourite. Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow in partial interest as his attention went to your hovering hand.

“That’s funny, I don’t remember your name being karma.” A low growl rumbled inside of Hanamaki’s throat, earning him a reassuring pat from Matsukawa. He would have interjected more often if he was not preoccupied by the delicious dessert plated in front of him. Dessert took priority over drama when it was the embodiment of heaven. “Look, she’s not even paying attention me anymore!”

“Now, now children. We’re all friends here.” The funeral home attendant offered without much enthusiasm, before sticking a fork coated in cream into his mouth. “Y/n, say sorry so he won’t break his neck and die.” Upon hearing his suggestion, you jutted your bottom lip into a pout in protest.

“I don’t want an apology. How am I supposed to go celebrate with your boy-toy’s business partners smelling like mutated pig?” Despite knowing no one would notice the movement, Makki crossed his arms under the table, mimicking the stance of a stubborn child.

“I’ll buy you a new outfit, cry baby. We still have some time.” After being shot down by Iwaizumi three times, defeat was grudgingly accepted. Your reflexes were no where as cultivated as his were. “Let’s settle the bill and go shopping, boys! Your sugar mama is buying!” As the declarations registered with the boys sat around you, the napkin settled onto your nap was placed onto the table.

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass. I do need to grab something though for work, so I’ll meet you guys at the shop.” The trainer removed his wallet, then began removing some bills as the other two males celebrated your announcement by completing a high-five.

“I’m still buying something for you, Hajime. You cannot stop me if you are not there.” Tapping a single finger on the side of your head, a little ‘hmph’ was blown out.

“I won’t accept it.” He did not bother to lift his gaze, knowing well what silly expression would be adorning your visage. But what he did not account for was the threat falling from your lips.

“If you don’t, I’ll scream daddy at the top of my lungs right now.”

Matsukawa stifled his laughter at your threat, while Hanamaki finally adjusted his position on the chair, grinning ear to ear in amusement. Iwaizumi exhaled a long breath, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose. He knew that you were shameless enough to follow through with said warning.

“Fine. I’ll accept it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

**

One of the positives of being a model is that people generally trust your intuition when addressing matters of fashion. It was for this reason that both of your friends did not debate you on any purchases that were made on their behalf. Hanamaki’s only request was that you did not purchase anything Osamu would wear since the cook’s wardrobe consisted only of t-shirts and jeans. Within twenty minutes, both men were dressed in semi-formal attire, radiating a sense of prestige they would not otherwise have. You fit perfectly between them with your chosen ensemble – a black cocktail dress paired with shortcut boots. Heels may have matched far more, but the pain accompanying them was not worth it.

With an arm hooked to one best friend on either side, you felt royal even if they were not your escorts.

“What time is it now? Are we almost there?” The question was hummed out to Matsukawa, who was responsible for directing the trio. His eyes focused on the GPS on his phone before returning to the area ahead.

“It’s 7:25, y/n. We will be arriving according to the GPS at 7:29. We won’t be late… For the tenth time.” Casting a glance down at the shorter girl, he shook his head with a laugh leaving his lips. “So, you’re no longer Ariel, huh? Now you’re Cinderella.”

Hanamaki snickered at the observation, prompting you to lightly dig your nails into his arm in warning.  “I don’t want to mess up and be there late. Nakamura said to be there at 7:30 sharp. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“You’re stressing too hard for no reason. I’m sure he will be surprised if you’re there a minute late or early.” Leaning down, the funeral home attendant rested his cheek against your head in effort to sooth you. 

“You’re right…” The admission was accompanied by a weary laugh. “I just feel kinda weird in my chest. I don’t know.” Instinctively you tightened your grip on their arms, hoping to destroy the insecurities plaguing you with the warmth their bodies provided.

“I’ll text Iwa. We’ll go inside together. You’ll feel better if he’s here.” Hanamaki padded away on the screen, alerting their mutual friend that his presence was needed.

“Mm. Okay.” You were beginning to realize the negative emotions afflicting you was because you missed Oikawa. Celebrating achievements without him placed a hole deep inside of your heart – one that only he could fill with his dramatic facial reactions and goofy laughter. Little did you know the hole would only grow in size very soon. 

“Alright… So. It should be the shop right here.” Matsukawa’s voice led your attention back to the busy street. Blinking to readjust to the light, you paused when your friend did, then instinctively turned to the large windows of the shop. It was a normal reflex, one that your two friends mirrored. But none of you were mentally prepared for the scene melting into view.

Stood behind the transparent barrier was your fiancé, with three other figures. You did not pay any mind to the two men. No. Your focus was on the short blonde woman.

The same woman who was drawing your fiancé into a kiss with a fluidity that conveyed a sense of normalcy. No… She kissed him as if it were the most ordinary gesture in the world.

As if he was her lover and not yours.

Let’s do it again, shall we - human bomb

Masterlist - Previous - Next

A/N: o.o

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[thepoppypress]

The Battleline Between Good and Evil (Runs Through the Heart of Every Man)

Chapter 1: 

The sounds of hard bone hitting flesh made Peter wince as he furiously scrubbed at the now non-existent stains on the hard, polished wood of the bar. His eyes were down cast as he tried to ignore the massacre in front of him with every fiber of his being. Despite it being early in the afternoon, his shift had already started off quite eventfully, with a barroom brawl. Even now, he found it hard on himself not to intervene. However, he knew he couldn’t draw attention to himself. In this type of environment, attention was either bad or worse with no better or inbetween. It was something he couldn’t afford.

A thump in front of him drew him out of his musings, his Spidey Sense starting to tingle quite annoyingly. Whoever was in front of him was dangerous. A deep voice started to speak.

“Old fashioned,” came the demand. Peter nodded silently, willing his face to be impassive as he concentrated on making the drink for the man. When he was done, he slid the drink over to the bar counter.

“Here you go sir,” he uttered politely, glancing up and taking note of the patron. He was an older man who wore a black, fitted T-shirt that displayed his assets clearly, biceps bulging as he leaned leisurely against the counter. White hair covered his head, cut recently as the smell of fresh shampoo came off of him to reach Peter’s sensitive nose. He could also clearly see little hairs clinging to the black of his shirt. The man had an eye patch over his right eye and was huge as well.

When he finished his drink, he slid it back over to him, and stood up at his full height, towering well over Peter and the rest of the patrons in the bar. The man’s one eye glanced at him, appraising him and Peter couldn’t help but blush a bit. He looked away, but not before noticing the slight twitch of the man’s mouth as he did.

‘Fuck,’ he thought and to avoid more embarrassment, Peter glanced around the large man to look at where the brawl had gotten to now.

“You new here?” Peter’s large eyes came back up to meet the other man’s and he nodded shyly.

“Yeah, a little over a month.” Eye-Patch (as Peter has now affectionately nicknamed him) hummed and stared at Peter for a little while longer, who fidgeted uncomfortably. Even though there was plenty of noise within the mostly empty club, the silence between both men was getting to Peter, which prompted him to ask a question. “Do you come here often?” The man grinned.

“Not before.” That made Peter blink. He tilted his head in confusion. He was obviously missing something here.

“Huh?” Eye-Patch laughed, gaining the attention of several people around them.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Peter bristled a bit at the nickname, “just that you should probably expect me more.” Reaching into his pocket, Eye-Patch pulled out several hundred dollar bills and threw them towards Peter, whose eyes widened at the sight. “Just for you. Keep the change.” And he walked out the door without another word. Peter gaped at the door for a long while before looking at the neat bills on the counter.

“Weirdos,” he grumbled underneath his breath but not before pocketing the money. Another low thrum sang at the back of his head and he felt a presence sidle up beside him. He knew who it was without even looking.

“Hey Petey Boy!” Peter grabbed the glass that Eye-Patch just drank out of and began washing it.

“Hey Harley. What’s up?” The woman squealed happily, popping the gum in her mouth obnoxiously. Peter found that he quite liked Harleen Quinzel, after he worked past his first impression of her.

“Nothin’ much,” she drawled out teasingly, her blonde pigtails bouncing around her, “just wonderin’ when ya’ became such good friends with Deathstroke over there.” Peter grabbed a rag hanging on the bottom countertop and started to wipe down the glass in his hands.

“Who?” Harley giggled loudly, toying with the hem of Peter’s T-shirt as she grabbed onto one of his arms. He glanced down at her with a soft, curious look and she rolled her eyes playfully.

“Y’know, hunky Eye-Patch guy? Guy who just left?”

“Ah,” Peter realized before questioning, “his name is Deathstroke?” Harley rolled her eyes again.

“No, silly! His real name is Slade Wilson. He’s a mercenary for hire.”

‘Guess that answers that question.’ Harley blew a bubble and popped it again, winking suggestively at him, “and he was so interested in you!” Peter snorted.

“Nah. I’m new here so he was just asking. Besides, he’s a bit too old for me.” The look on Harley’s face was dubious.

“Uh-huh. Sure, honey. I’m just saying, he’s pretty hot. Also,” he felt a squeeze on his bicep, “have you been working out? You’re ripped!” Her smile became mischievous. “Trying to impress someone? Ooh! Ooh! Is it me?” Peter gave a small laugh, his curly hair bouncing as he shook his head.

“I’m always trying to impress you, Harls.” The blonde giggled and leaned over to kiss his cheek before swiping her thumb across it, wiping away the lipstick.

“Aww, you sweetie. If I didn’t have my puddin’, I would be with you in a heartbeat.” Peter forced a smile as Harley made heart eyes at the mention of her on-again-off-again boyfriend. Right now, it was decidedly on. If you asked Peter, he would say he knew the signs of an abusive relationship when he saw them. “Anyway. I just came ta tell ya’ that your shift for this afternoon ends right now and I’ll see you in a few hours!”

“Okay, thanks.” She kissed his cheek once more, not bothering to wipe away the residual lipstick before flouncing out of the bar. Peter wished she could see that she could do so much better than a man nicknamed ‘The Joker.’ Somewhere among the brawl that still had not stopped, the sound of glass shattering grabbed his attention. Peter sighed.

‘I better clean that up before I leave.’

-----

Peter walked the few blocks that it took to get to the homeless shelter where he stayed. He opened the door that housed the tens of people that wandered the streets, and closed it softly behind him. Setting towards his cot, he noticed that people were bustling around like crazy, and a nice smell was coming from the kitchen. His stomach grumbled but he willed it to stop. He needed the money to get a new place and he was a few hundred away from achieving his goal for the upfront portion. He was lucky that Harley decided to help him out and aid him in forming a bank account here. Peter reached his cot and sat down, noting that, luckily, no one had tried to steal his stuff. Again. Settling back against the pillows, Peter thought about the past couple of months.

He had first come to this world so unfamiliar to him through some sort of magical portal. God, he fucking hated magic sometimes. Mr. Stark had let him go into his lab unsupervised for the first time since the incident involving the toaster, pink glitter, and the flamethrower.

It was nice.

He was sitting at one of the tables, tinkering around with one of his web shooters, Led Zeppelin (“For the sake of America’s Ass™, Peter, it’s ACDC!”) booming in his ears when suddenly, he felt himself being pulled back, a cold feeling settling across the back of his neck and making its way to the rest of his body. Then, a weird expression came over his face as another feeling came over him, like he was being stretched thin, but it didn’t hurt. There’s a quick flash of a blinding light, causing him to shut his eyes (his overly reactive senses are a blessing and a curse) tightly and the next thing he knows, Peter hits the ground hard, his body making a soft thudding noise.

The first thing to register is the sight. It wasn’t overly bright, like the light was. In fact, it was rather dark. Brick walls surrounded him from two sides, indicating that he was in an alleyway of some sort. It wasn’t too spacious and various bags of trash were littered all over the place. Doors were lined along the brick walls, all closed and looking uninviting. Then came the smell. It was horribly pungent, probably even to the regular nose.

To Peter’s nose, however, it was hell. He could practically feel his olfactory glands swelling from the amount of stink he was admitting into his body. Gagging, he tried to stand up to get away from the smell only to stumble and nearly eat the gravel under him.

‘Parker Luck fucking sucks,’ he thinks as he collapses against one of the doors on the brick walls, then thinks groggily, ‘hey, that rhymed.’

He rested his head against the cool metal for a moment before his Spidey Sense, sensitive and overly reactive at the moment, blares a warning, making him shoot backwards. He lays on the ground for less than a second when the door he had previously rested on opened with a bang. His head pounded more than it ever did before, and the added sound of the metal banging against the brick and a high pitched voice screeching didn't help either. Peter squinted at the rather tall female figure standing in the doorway screaming obscenities into the lit room.

She screamed her last words, no response following her, and stepped outside with a huff, slamming the door behind her. Peter closed his eyes again, and laid his head against the concrete sullenly, fully expecting her to leave him. If he was a woman in a city at night, he would do that too.

“Oof, yer’ lookin’ kinda rough there buddy.” Peter’s eyes popped open in surprise. The woman was standing over him, a look of sympathy and concern displayed on her pale face. She crouched down and the closer she got, the more clearly he could see her features. She was pretty, with alabaster skin and platinum blonde hair pulled into pigtails, the ends dyed red and blue. Her bright blue eyes blinked curiously at him as he laid unmoving for a second.

“I fe’l rough’,” he croaked, his hands rubbing at his throat in an effort to ease the pain he felt as he spoke. The woman clicked her tongue and reached for his wrists, bringing them away from his neck.

“Alright, sweetie, I need you to answer every question as best as you can okay? I’m a doctor, I can help you.” Peter groaned and pointed to her, his arm bending at the elbow to raise his finger in the air.

“Wha’s yur’ name?” He managed to slur out. ‘Stranger danger Parker,’ he reminded himself in lieu of Mr. Stark. If he were here, he would be shaking his head in disappointment, Peter was sure of it.

“Ah, how rude of me! Ma names Dr. Harleen, but ya’ can call me Harley!” The hand pointing at her turned into a wave, greeting her.

“Hey,” he replied weakly, “my name’s Peter. Peter Parker.” He could hear the grin in Harley’s voice.

“Well, Peter Parker, tell me. Are ya feeling nauseous or dizzy?”

“Yes.”

“Any ringing in the ears?”

“No.”

“A headache? Are ya feeling really tired?”

“Not that bad of a headache. Tired, yes,” he sighed, fatigue heavy in his voice, “look, Doctor, I don’t have a concussion. Just feeling weird right now.”

“Ya drink before you came here or eat something weird?”

“No, I’m just weird like this.” Harley was silent for a moment.

“Do ya want me to help get you home?” Peter sighed again, pushing his arms up to help himself lift his torso so he was sitting upright.

“I, uh, don’t have a home,” he looked around the alley, his senses starting to clear (though his nose still throbbed at the smell), “where am I, by the way?” Harley leaned into his vision, a slightly incredulous look on her face.

“You don’t know where you are?” Peter shook his head, happy his headache was now subsiding. The disbelieving expression didn’t disappear from Harley’s face. “Well, you, puppy, are in Gotham, the most crime ridden city in the world.” Peter sent Harley a weird glance.

“Gotham? Like Gotham City, Batman’s Gotham City?” The second the sentence went out of his mouth, Harley covered his lips with her hand.

“Never say that name unless you’re looking for a death wish!” She hissed at him, her eyes hard. “Promise me!” Wide eyed, Peter nodded reluctantly and he was let go. It wasn’t like he read the comics or anything. He didn’t really know much about Batman. Just that he had a sidekick named Robin and they fought the Joker on a regular basis. Harley straightened, causing him to look up at her. She extended her hand which he took and he slowly stood up with her help. She dusted him off, her hands sweeping across the back of his jacket and the front of his shirt for him. He nodded in thanks.

“Do ya have your phone on ya?” He reached into his back pocket and felt that, yes, thankfully, his phone was still in his pocket. He tugged it out and unlocked it, tapping on the call icon. He goes straight to Tony’s number. A ring doesn’t even make it onto his phone before the screen says that there’s no service for his phone. He sighs forlornly. There goes trying to contact home.

“Sorry Harley, I don’t have service here.”

“So ya don’t have service, no way to contact home, and ya have no idea where ya are?” Peter shook his head. It was Harley’s turn to sigh. “Alright, puppy, yer' comin’ with me. I know a nicer homeless shelter than any of the ones they got on Grand.” She grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the alleyway onto the nearly empty street. He should’ve probably been concerned that he was heading somewhere with a random woman, granted one who had tried to help him. There was still a low thrum of danger at the back of his head, but all he could focus on was that ridiculous nickname.

“Puppy?” The blonde haired woman paused, turning back with a teasing smirk on her pretty face.

“‘Cause yer’ so cute like a puppy, with those puppy dog eyes and pouty frown. Yer’ even smaller than me!” At that point, he had taken note that she was, in fact, a full four inches taller than him. He looked at her with somewhat genuine offense.

“Hey! I’m 5’6! You’re only so much taller because you’re wearing heels!” He pointed towards the pumps that adorned her feet. Harley scoffed and took off her heel for a second, showing both of them that, even without the heels, she was still an inch taller than him. He groaned. This night was just getting worse and worse. First, he’s in an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar woman who was taller than him. Hearing Harley’s laugh though, as they walked through the streets arguing about who was really taller, made him feel at least a little better. It wasn’t much, but every little bit counts.

All that eventually led to where Peter was now, laying on a cot in the same homeless shelter that Harley had introduced him to. He had gotten a couple of jobs with the help of Harley’s shadier connections. He had realized early on that this dimension was not the same world that the comics had shown. This was somehow different. There was no one with super powers, though the monikers were still real. Batman was real, but Harley (the only person he trusted up to this point) hadn’t told him anything, and by the fifth time that he asked, he realized he wouldn’t be getting anything out of her so he stopped. He had wondered who Batman was here, and if he and Robin were still partn-

The sound of an alarm pulled him out of his thoughts, and Peter hurriedly grabbed his phone and turned it off. He saw the time and sighed.

“Time to head to work,” he muttered.

-----

“Hey Puppy!” Harley squealed as he entered the club that was now flooding with people, the lighting dim save for a few spotlights that roved over the sea of people. Peter straightened his clothes, a white button down paired with some slacks. They had been the Joker’s but, according to Harley, they didn’t fit him anymore. Peter shivered at the thought of taking something of the Joker’s, but he guessed it couldn’t be helped.

“Harley!” He yelled back in greeting and both walked over the bar. Peter quickly clocked in and set off to work, one of his coworkers behind the counter already. From there, it was quite the busy time, people requesting drinks all over the place. Peter and Harley talked from time to time as he prepared other’s drinks. It was a fairly smooth evening so far.

Of course, as soon as he thought that, trouble had to come, brewing in all its toxicity. When he had first started as a bartender for the club, he had been warned to keep an eye out for suspicious activity, just so the club doesn’t get hit with another lawsuit. Harley was fiddling with her phone in one corner of the bar, and at this point, Peter was used to the loud noise of the club, having inconspicuously stuffed his ears with ear plugs earlier. However, it didn’t completely cancel out the noise as his super hearing still noted everything within his vicinity. In the opposite corner of the bar, away from him and Harley, Peter somehow heard the soft sounds of paper being ripped, a drop of something hitting the water, and a soft fizzing noise.

His head imperceptibly turned to watch as a rather handsome man handed a tall glass of something to a beautiful blonde accompanied by a taller, equally beautiful redhead. ‘Taller than me too,’ he thought bitterly. The blonde accepted the drink as it was slid over to her and was about to lift it when Peter quickly rushed over. He leaned over the counter and subtly pressed a finger down onto the base of the glass, which was widened, using his strength to keep the glass down. He made subtle eye contact with one of the bouncers next to the door, and the man got the message pretty quickly. He started toward the bar while Peter distracted the patrons.

“Sir!” His voice still sounded somewhat soft and high pitched over the bass of the music. “I think there’s someone outside looking for you! You match the description I think!” At the odd look given to him, he continued trying to convince him, “what’s your name?!” The man’s glassy eyes roamed over Peter’s face before answering,

“Trevor!” Peter squinted, trying to sell his lie.

“Last name?!”

“McConnelly!” Peter nodded and waved over the bouncer, who lumbered over.

“Is this the Trevor McConnelly the person outside is looking for?!” A quick once over of Trevor told Peter all he needed to know about him. “Wasn’t it his girlfriend?!” Without question, the bouncer nodded. Trevor suddenly paled and rushed past the bouncer, a man named Gus, who followed him. Peter shot him a thankful look and then turned back to the two women, glancing about them awkwardly.

“Sorry, but I wouldn’t drink this if I were you. He slipped something into it.” The women, shockingly, didn’t look surprised. They only glanced at each other before turning to him with twin smiles, an unheard conversion passing between their eyes that Peter didn’t know how to interpret.

“Thanks for the assist. I really appreciate it,” the blonde purred over the music. Peter could’ve sworn the grin on her face turned sharp for a split second before it flitted away and an almost natural smile came over her face once more. Almost being the key word. A shiver crawled up Peter’s back and the thrum of Spidey Sense became nearly haywire as he stared at the expressions of the two women. They were a lot more dangerous than they appeared.

“I don’t mean to condescend, and I’m sure you’re both able to protect yourselves, but please be careful. No one deserves that to happen to them,” he said as earnestly as possible, using his large brown eyes to his advantage. That seemed to soften at least the red head as her smile started to turn a little bit more gentle. The blonde seemed a bit thrown by his honesty, but quickly recovered, and her smile too seemed a little tender.

“I appreciate it! Not a lot of people can make that statement sound nice!” He gave them a small, genuine smile before turning back to the bar and continuing with other orders. Harley was suddenly gone from her spot, and Peter furrowed his brows. ‘I hope she’s okay,’ he thinks as he starts on another drink for another patron. He quickly shoots a text in between requests and then shuts off his phone. At one point, he’s done with all his requested drinks and takes a bit of a break. He turns around again only to see the two women from earlier still at the bar, conversing quietly. They’re quite perceptive, he notes because the instant his attention turns to them, their attention turns to him and they’re locked in a staring contest. He shyly wanders over to their spots, nearly missing the slight amusement that flashed between both of their eyes.

“What’s your name?” The redhead asks as he nears them. Peter smiles innocently, trying to keep posture loose as his Spidey Sense reacts again. His hands pull at each other, something he can’t help, and something that both women definitely notice.

“I’m Peter. Peter Parker. And you?” He’s as polite as possible. Always be polite to a customer, he remembers his manager saying. The redhead speaks again.

“I’m Barbara Gordon, but my friends call me Babs. You can too.” Peter nodded, his curly down hair bouncing as he did so. The women’s eyes crinkled as they smiled, their expressions now a hundred times more genuine than before.

“Stephanie Brown, Steph. But you can call me ‘Mine,’” the blonde winked with a small and suggestive smile. Peter’s cheeks turned red at this, his pale skin flushing. Barbara and Stephanie could tell too, as they chuckled a bit at his face and Peter turned his head away in embarrassment. When he turns back a few moments later, they’re still laughing, and he pouts a bit. ‘I never know how to respond to those comments,’ he thought. As their laughter subsided, they started asking more questions. With the danger at a small vibration at the back of his mind, he felt like he was in an interrogation.

“Have you worked here long?” Stephanie asked, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder, exposing her neck and cleavage. Peter made a huge point to himself to look straight into her eyes or over her shoulder under the guise of watching someone else.

“Not really,” he replied, “Just over a month. I work at The Captain’s Bar too.” Both women perked up in interest.

“Really? We frequent but we’ve never seen you.”

“Well, I work in the mornings and afternoons on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. You guys should come by sometime when I work! It’s quieter then if you guys want to talk!” They smile at him and he feels the vibration of danger slowly slip away until it’s nearly nothing. Peter guesses he won them over.

“Sure thing! We’re free next Wednesday so expect us then!” Peter nods, his fluffy hair bouncing again. Sudden, dual beeps enter his ear canal as he hears both women’s phones go off at the same time. They glance at the texts and curse and Peter suddenly realizes he shouldn’t hear those sounds and he’s staring so he turns away, trying to find interest in something else.

Stephanie talks again, “do you have a napkin and a pen?” He searches around the bar for a pen and he grabs a napkin from the neat stack in the corner. He gives them to her and she quickly writes down two sets of numbers. “These are our numbers! Keep in touch!” With that, they’re gone. Peter takes the napkin delicately into his hand, observing Stephanie’s writing style before pocketing it carefully. He resumes his job, but it’s not five minutes later that he remembers, the thought irking him. Damn pet peeves.

“Fuck,” he curses quietly, “she took the damn pen!”

-----

It was a week later that he encountered Barbara and Stephanie again. In the meanwhile, he was added into a chat between the two women, their conversations ranging from everyday, talking-about-the-weather to absolutely ridiculous. Peter knew not to draw attention to himself but he reasoned that two more friends couldn't hurt. He rather enjoyed having more people to talk to, not that Harley was an unsatisfying friend to be around. Speaking of, he had found that Harley had left because her “puddin’” needed her. When he had called her later that night, concerned, the excuse rushed out of her lips, leaving him less than convinced, but he let it go.

She arrived at the barroom the next day with her usual smile and a bouncing ponytail and everything was back to normal. Eye-Patch came in more often, Peter noticed, leaving more and more hundred dollar bills on the counter. Peter had tried to get him to stop, only to receive a smug smile and a goodbye of ‘sweetheart,’ before he was on his way. He found that Deathstroke, Slade Wilson Peter recalled as his name, was a man of little words, but that didn’t stop him from making small conversation with Peter when he could. Harley thought that he wanted to impress Peter. Peter disagreed completely.

“I think he might be making fun of me.” Harley rolled her eyes.

“Not true. I know guys like him. He’s trying to impress you, Puppy. Don’t doubt me.” Peter, knowing that arguing with her would be fruitless, just shrugged.

“Whatever you say, Harls.”

Wednesday came, and just like they said, Stephanie and Barbara entered The Captain’s Bar near the end of his shift with dazzling smiles on their faces as they shifted the backpacks on their shoulders. Peter greeted them happily.

“Hey Babs! Hey Steph!” They greeted him, waving jovially and walked towards the bar, sitting on seats right in front of him. “How are you guys doing?” Now closer, he had more of a view to observe the two women. They had slight bags under their eyes and their skin was paler than usual. “Are you guys okay? You look tired,” Peter asked with genuine concern. Stephanie leaned forward onto her elbows, which she settled on the counter. Her neck dropped a bit and he could suddenly see the back of her collar, a small, nearly inconspicuous red stain on there. It was freshly made, the texture under the lighting still looking wet. It looked like blood, he realized. With that conclusion, the thrum of danger returned and another shiver was forced down his back. The women noticed.

Stephanie raised her eyebrow, “The question is, are you okay?” Babs’ look was no less concerned. Peter nodded shakily.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. It’s just, you got a little bit of blood on the back of your shirt. Are you hurt? Do you need first aid?” The blonde’s eyes widened a bit before her small hand clutched the back of her collar, Peter still looking at her in worry. Barbara’s jaw clenched and she plastered a fake smile onto her face.

“Steph’s fine, she just had a bit of a rough night. We’re both okay, so you don’t have to worry Peter.” He nodded reluctantly, still worried but content to take them at their word.

“Then what can I get you guys?” They rattled off their drinks and he rushed to make them, vaguely aware of the door opening to let another customer in. It wasn’t until he slid the girls’ drinks over to them did he realize that Slade had walked in. The one eyed man grinned predatorily at him before sitting down at the nearest end of the bar. Peter muttered a “be right back” to Babs and Steph before wandering over to the mercenary.

“Hey Slade.”

“Sweetheart,” the older man rumbled his greeting.

“The usual?” A short nod from the man sent Peter on his way to making an old fashioned drink for him. As he gave the man his requested beverage, Slade pointed over to the two women who were conversing softly with themselves, his one eye narrowed.

“Those two your friends?” Peter glanced at Babs and Steph and looked back at Slade, confused.

“Yeah? I mean we met like a week ago, but I guess you could call us that. Why?” Another body slumped into the chair next to Slade, slurring an order. Slade took that as a distraction for Peter and stood up.

“Because you have interesting taste in people, sweetheart.” He sauntered towards the women, his shoulders drawn tighter than Peter’s ever seen them. He watches Slade interact with the two women, watches their reactions to each other. He notices that, oddly enough, Slade is the one in the submissive position, while Stephanie and Barbara are dominant, despite their dispositions. Slade was stiff, in a combative stance while the other two were completely open, smirking and tilting their heads up at the older man. A hand snapping in front of his face brought Peter out of his thoughts.

“Hey, twink!” The man who slumped next to Slade sneered up at Peter from his position over the counter, “I told you to get me a fuckin’ drink,” he slurred loudly enough to catch the attention of those nearby. Slade, Steph and Babs turn their attention towards them.

“I’m right on it, Mr. Stanley,” Peter said politely, his hands starting to sweat, “can you repeat your order again?” The man squinted up at him for a moment, straightened up in this seat, lifted his hand and slapped Peter straight across the face. Being Spider Man, he saw it coming straight away, but had the forethought to remember not to draw much attention to himself. He tried to make it seem like the hit actually affected him a bit. So he stumbled off to the side, falling down in the process and watched as Slade stormed over to the man and proceeded to punch the drunk, living daylights out of the man. Steph and Babs went to the side of the bar where the small door separating the bar and the rest of the room was and rushed over to Peter, helping to straighten him up.

“You good Petey?” Babs voice was soft as if afraid he would spook like a cornered animal. He nodded distractedly, focusing on Slade who was now shaking the drunk man. He was knocked out instantly by the punch. He pushed himself up, looking at the other two who stood up with him. Slade noticed movement in his peripheral vision, his gaze snapping over to Peter in an instant.

“You okay, sweetheart?” The look of Peter’s reddened cheek made Slade clench his teeth.

“I’m fine, Slade,” he replied before pointing at the man that was limp in the mercenary’s arms, “let him go.” Slade blinked and looked at the man, sneering and releasing him, letting him hit the floor with a loud thump.

“With pleasure,” he smirked as Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. 'Typical Slade,' Peter thought. Only God knows how many fights that man gets into.

“Just,” Peter leaned over the counter and took note of the unconscious male, his eye well on its way to swelling to the size of a golf ball, “wait here while I go get my manager.” The brown haired boy sighed in suffering as he headed toward the back of the bar to get his manager who would no doubt fire him soon for this.

‘Fucking Parker Luck,’ he thought bitterly.

Unawares to Peter, Stephanie and Barbara joined Slade in watching over the knocked out patron, looking down at him as if he were scum underneath their shoes. Stephanie glanced at Slade, who, even though he wasn’t looking at her, knew that she required his attention. Fully aware that he was listening, Steph said,

“I assume that you won’t struggle to say yes to this mission?” He knew exactly what she was talking about.

“No problems here, blondie. I’ll even take this case pro bono if I get first shot at him.” Slade grinned at the blonde, a ruthless intent behind his expression. Steph, who mirrored this, then turned to Babs to gage her reaction.

“Count me in,” she murmured, her tone soft but firm. She was quite disgusted by the display that negatively affected their new favorite bartender, “but you do know Dick and Tim are gonna want to know why we’re doing this.” Slade stilled at the mention of his ex, and whether or not the two women noticed it, they didn’t comment. Instead, Steph hummed.

“That may be, but I think they’ll quite like Petey.” The blonde sent Babs a knowing smirk, which Babs rolled her eyes at. Secretly, however, she agreed with her friend.

‘Yeah,’ she thought as Peter came back out, his fluffy brown hair bouncing with every step and his doe brown eyes wide, ‘they’ll definitely like him. A lot.’

Previous: Synopsis 

Next: Part 2 

[enkelimagnus]

Cookbook

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1694 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky walks home from a long day of paperwork. On his path is a garage sale and a tired woman.

TW: cigarettes, smoking

Read on AO3

Part 2 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series, Part 1 here, Part 2 here

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

Bucky smokes on the way home from work.

Everything that brought some sort of pleasure was a currency back in his day. That was why they sent cigarettes to the front. It was easy to make them necessary, when you were under constant fire and needed something to keep you going. Anything that got you out of that hell was traded for, fought for. Some days, it was like nothing mattered more than the next ration shipment and its load of cigarettes, pin-up magazines and six-pence books.

In truth, he doesn’t have the habit he used to have. Hydra wouldn’t have that. Upside of brainwashing, he guesses. And it’s not like it burns the same way anymore. That’s the serum for you.

Still, sometimes, he pulls a cigarette out of its gore-decorated cardboard box, lights it and pretends it has the same effect on him now than it did back in muddy camps or candle-lit living rooms.

The day has been long. No raids, but he’d been stuck behind a desk doing fucking paperwork for the last two weeks-worth of missions. His reports are tired and concise, he hates doing them and he’s pretty sure it’s obvious to anyone who reads what he writes.

He wishes he could smoke then , at that stupid cramped desk, to make the endless signing and reading and writing easier, but you’re not allowed to smoke inside anymore. So he finds himself doodling on other pieces of paper when his mind drifts. His focus is not the best outside of missions.

He used to love writing shit. Steve had his drawings and Bucky had his words, in between everything else. They wrote stories on notes they passed in class in high school. When it got taken by the teacher, no one could understand what they were talking about. He used to make up worlds and think of men walking in space, and he wishes he could tell his 14-year-old self that there are people in the sky, and that he’ll meet them one day. That he’ll see aliens, real ones, and punch them in the face.

He would tell him all the good things about the universe, all the people in it, all about partners in crime and arms like Dugan or Morito or Jones, or Sam or Natasha, how he not only met Howard Stark but was his comrade, how Stark knew him as “Sergeant Barnes” or “Sarge”.

He’d tell him all the good, and none of the bad, none of how his dad would die in two years and he’d be leading the family in shabbos prayers at 16, none of how the people in the world could be cruel for the sake of their own fun, none of how Howard Stark said his name in shock before he punched in his skull with the metal fist that was now his left hand.

Those conversations with his younger self -- barely a man, already smart-mouthed and charming and cocky in the way teenagers are and in the way Bucky had tried to remain for as long as he could until the war drained it out of him -- evaporate in the smoke, in the cold Brooklyn air.

He doesn’t love writing anymore. His mind can’t create the worlds it used to make. He thinks in three languages on a good day, only knows how to write one of those, so whenever he tries, something’s always missing. On a bad day, he can barely string along one sentence, let alone tell a story.

And he’s got no one to tell them to, anyway.

It’s 7pm and the streets are dark and icy. In the last few weeks, the gloves he always wears to hide his left hand have not been an incongruous fashion statement.

It’s January now. There was snow last week, a soft blanket that made him fucking cry out of nowhere when he saw it through the window. It was gone soon, but it was there. And for once, it didn’t fall on Siberia. It fell on Brooklyn again. He never would have thought he’d seen snow on Brooklyn again.

That kind of shit pulls memories out of him like nothing else, and he’s thankful for them. They make it easier and harder at the same time.

He told Doctor Raynor about the shul that’s now a church, about how it was the worst pain he’d felt since he’d last been wiped. How that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to walk into Becky’s retirement home and see her as she is now. The pain of time lost is the worst one to bear.

That, and he’s pretty sure she knows what he’s done. His name and photo have been blasted on every news channel and every social media website after the UN bombing. There’s no way she wouldn’t recognize him, when he looks so similar to the brother she lost.

He has no desire to face his Becky now that he’s a murderer and a weapon of mass destruction, Hydra brainwashing or not. You don’t do that to your little sister.

Besides, she doesn’t need him. She’s got kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, and nephews and nieces and every sort of relative you can imagine except for parents and siblings. She’s taken care of, they visit her often, she doesn’t need the grief he’d bring. He can’t be selfish.

He stops to stab the butt of the cigarette into a wall but his eyes catch something else.

In the cold evening, there’s a few lights set up on the sidewalk, over some makeshift tables threatening to crumble over all the items on it. Everyday items mostly, kitchen stuff, books and a clock and some candlesticks.

At first glance, all of the pricier stuff has been sold already, and there’s a tired-looking middle-aged woman sitting on the stairs of the house behind the tables. She has a look on her face, heavy with emotions muddled so well they’re impossible to tell apart.

“Buy what you want,” she says. Her voice doesn’t carry. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have heard more than a mumble if his hearing wasn’t enhanced. “Pay what you want.”

How many times has she said that today?

He looks down at the items for a moment, the cheap metal candlesticks, some old plates decorated with blue flowers, a still plastic-wrapped, never used, frankly hideous challah cover, and a pile of various books. Most in English, a couple in what he assumes to be Polish, some in Yiddish. His eyes fall on one in particular, a cookbook. It looks old.

“Can I touch?” He asks, pointing at the cookbook.

The woman nods. “Yeah. Nothing very modern in there. Bubbe barely even made this anymore,” she explains. Ah. A bubbe passed and the stuff they can’t keep, they’re selling.

The cookbook’s unremarkable. It’s been used, obviously, there are stains of chocolate-covered fingerprints on some of the dessert pages as he flips through. It seems to be half in English and half in Yiddish. He reaches the page where the publication date would be. He doesn’t even know why he’s checking.

Entire Contents Copyrighted 1949 The B. Manischewitz Co. Printed in the U.S.A.

1949. It’s close enough. Really close enough.

“How much do you want?” He looks up at the mourner.

“I told ya, it’s how much you’re willing to give.”

Bucky makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. He rephrases the question. “How much do you want me to give?”

The woman makes eye contact again. She looks deeply surprised by his question. Hesitant, too. She has no idea what to reply.

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, starts going through the cash he has. He barely uses his credit card. Every month, when he gets his money from the army, he immediately withdraws most of it. It’s safer that way, and he knows how much he’s spending.

He counts out 180 dollars. It feels like a ridiculous amount for a cookbook, but the woman’s selling her bubbe’s shit like this, she’s still out at 7pm in January in Brooklyn and Bucky doesn’t have a lot of expenses anyway. He doesn’t really have expensive taste. 18’s a good number too, at least, it used to be, in his day.

“Peace be upon her,” He says quietly, when the woman opens her mouth at the bills he places in her hand. “It’s getting cold, you should go back inside,” he adds, quiet and coaxing, the tone he used to use when the neighbor’s son, Aaron, had a tantrum and sat on the stairs all evening, pretending to be mad at his parents.

Did he know the bubbe in question? Was she one of the kids from Hebrew school? It’s a little too far from his old neighborhood to be sure. He’s not going to ask.

The woman sighs a little, putting the money in her pocket when she realizes he’s not going to take any of it back.

He eyes the tables for a moment. “You need help packing up?”

She hesitates. He gets it, he’s a weird stranger who just bought an old cookbook for 180 dollars, it’s nighttime… He can’t tell her he’s not a serial killer, because he is one, and there’s going to be a moment where she remembers where she’s seen his face before. There usually is.

He holds his hands up, seemingly showing he’s harmless. It’s hilarious, really, because he’s never harmless. But contrary to Steve, he’s not massive. He’s more on the lean side of things, especially with his new arm.

“No pressure.”

She hesitates still, but he sees the exhaustion working away at her until she nods. The cookbook is put to the side and he helps her pack up the tables and the remaining things. He is careful not to display too much strength, and he’s also careful to keep his face in a neutral but positive sort of mask. His resting expression is meaner than needed.

He comes home much later than he thought he would, but he’s got a cookbook and some ideas of how to occupy his amnesia-riddled nights.

[corpse--diem]

You Better Watch Out | Dakota & Erin

TIMING: A few days after Christmas PARTIES: @dakotasgrant & @corpse–diem SUMMARY: Thanks to the town’s magic going awry, someone on the naughty list crashes Erin and Dakota’s movie and dinner date.  CONTENT WARNINGS: Teenager death, Medical blood tw (mentions)

A Nightmare Before Christmas horror movie special was most definitely up Dakota’s alley. She’d always loved horror films, even back when she was a kid and her parents fell asleep on the couch while she watched The Exorcist and shit like that. She didn’t normally like doing things with people she didn’t really know, but that’s how you make friends in the world. And who said being friends with people meant they had to be close? Regardless, it was hard for her to say no to Erin based off the horror film factor alone. Plus, well, she seemed nice enough (and also not pushy enough) to hang out with while keeping at an arm’s length. Plus the prospect of dinner after a movie with this person didn’t sound awful… Especially when she was the one who had, once again, flirted her way into this situation. So, she showed up at The Nordica, maybe a few minutes early, and waited for Erin -- and yes, yes she had ordered a large popcorn to share. With butter.

Erin never minded her own company. She’d grown up the only child of two busy morticians and entertaining herself for hours on end was just… normal. Even into adulthood. The last year had changed something about that though. Maybe it was finding some souls she didn’t mind filling some time with, the multiple near-death escapades, but here she was actively reaching out to people she didn’t even know to go see a movie. Like none of the things from this year had happened. Like she could just pick up and carry on a normal life. She had to try at least, right? Why else had she survived if not to try? Dinner and a movie. She could do this. Have herself some fun with an attractive, smart woman. That was normal and healthy. Just have fun - she was sure that’s what Marley would be suggesting after gleefully teasing her for the attempt. If they were talking, at least. Another thing she didn’t want to think about right this second.

When she approached The Nordica, she kept an eye out for the description Dakota had given her as she purchased two tickets--she’d asked her out here, after all, right? Erin glanced up to see an older couple bickering as they made their way through the lobby. It was hard to miss, or hear, rather. 

“I don’t even want to see this damn movie. What’s with you and horror movies anyway? And what the hell is a Krampus?” 

“Then just take a nap, Harold, I don’t care what you do.”

It was hard to hold back the chuckle as they passed, slipping past her into the theater. Her eyes glanced around when she made a lucky guess on a dark haired woman with a tub of popcorn. “Hi… uh, Dakota?” She asked, giving a small wave. “If you’re not Dakota, I’m so sorry but I’m Erin? Erin Nichols?” She offered, a friendly smile on her lips, holding her hand out. “Nice to finally meet you, maybe-Dakota.”

Dakota didn’t really know what she was getting herself into when it came to Erin. She seemed normal, and the concept of the night truly did sound like a typical thing to do with a friend. Watch a movie, eat some popcorn, small talk. Dinner afterwards. But Dakota was quickly realizing that the more time she spent in White Crest, and the more people she spent time with in White Crest, the more wild everybody seemed. With Marley, she’d dug herself into a shitstorm of crisis. Morgan made her question what the hell she knew about blood as well all physical, organic, biological happenings—which, that reminded her, that she should probably ask the medical examiner about what’d she’d seen. But all of that was just to say that she’d realized that whoever she talked to here in White Crest always had her confused in one way or another. She chalked it up to either everyone in this damn town was ass-backwards, or she was. Erin had approached her at just the right time, though, because the more she thought about it, the more worried she got that this woman would end up being a fucking crazy person. But the moment she thought about taking the bucket of popcorn and hightailing it back to her place, the woman appeared right in front of her. Erin. Erin Nichols.  “Oh, uh, yeah. Dakota Grant.” She’d shook her hand, and then awkwardly tilted the bucket of popcorn in her direction. “Real butter. I thought you said something about loving this place’s popcorn. Plus you bought the tickets, so.. I thought I could at least buy the snacks.” And they’d probably arm-wrestle for the bill at dinner.

“Oh, so you were listening,” Erin smirked, cheekily plucking a few popcorn kernels from the bucket. Nodded approvingly as she chewed. “Mmm, yep. Just as good as I remembered. I don’t get over this way as often as I usually like so this is a treat.” She held one in the air like a mini-toast. “Hope you enjoy,” she added and chomped on another, pulling out the tickets for the movie. It felt weird now, standing here in front of this stranger, trying to pretend she was normal. She was. In comparison to more than half of the people she knew, she was on the normal side of that sliding scale. From what she knew of Dakota so far was that she was a quirky CSI that wasn’t hard on the eyes. Maybe just her brand of weird enough to get along with. “Krampus is the only thing playing right now. Hope that’s alright with you,” she smiled and handed her the ticket. Tilted her head, nodding towards the hallway that led further into the theater. “Ready when you are?”

“Believe it or not, I’m a great listener.” Well, so far, so good, right? Dakota had to think that Erin couldn’t be all that crazy if so far all she did was eat some popcorn and ask if Krampus suited her fancy. Which.. Well, at this point in her life, she was just so happy to get out of her house and talk to someone that it didn’t matter what they watched, because Dakota would have gladly sat her ass through some sappy rom-com if it meant not having to be alone wracking her brains about a case or.. Well, worse. Truth be told, she actually really liked Erin already just based on the fact that she owned a funeral home—and, given that this get-together didn’t end in awkward words or sliced fingers—she was already planning on asking for a tour. It didn’t take them very long to find their seats and get situated. They were early enough to not miss previews, but it seemed like the place was practically dead anyways, which Dakota would prefer so she could talk a lot of shit about the movie in real-time. “So.. You’re from White Crest, then?” she asked, popping a few pieces of the buttery goodness into her mouth.

Erin slunk into her chair--outdated ones that probably hadn’t been replaced since she was in high school herself. They were tiny, only barely reclined and were more likely to be found around a stage theater than in a movie theater. “Born and raised. Pretty boring stuff,” she nodded, growing more comfortable. The theater was on the emptier side, which she had planned for. One of the perks of growing up here was that she knew exactly what times this place would be dead. “You said you recently moved here?” Propping her feet up on the empty chair in front of her, she reached into the bucket to grab a handful for herself, munching one at a time. “What in the world brought you here?” She asked, trying not to sound judgmental and held as much of a curious, getting-to-know-you vibe as possible. “I just mean, you know, I’m glad you are! There’s just... not much here, even though it feels like outsiders are rolling in by the busload. I just don’t know the draw.” That wasn’t entirely true. Erin had learned what exactly that draw was but she didn’t know if Dakota knew what it was.

Erin seemed so.. Laid back. And maybe that’s sort of what intrigued Dakota about her, because she was so fucking wound up all the time that she didn’t know what it was like to just… Lean back, eat some popcorn, and chill the fuck out for a few minutes. But, like she’d said, she was born and raised in this town, and that had to be some pretty boring stuff—although she didn’t really see how that could be boring when Dakota herself was investigating scenes left and right, yet nobody seemed to be surprised by that. But, of course, she then wanted to know what brought her to this place, of all places on the map, and the only person she’d ever told the truth to was Morgan. And, to be fair, a movie theatre didn’t seem like the best place to spill her guts. “Just needed to get out of the city. I grew up in Detroit—like you, born and raised. It’s a big city but everyone knows everything about everybody like it’s a small town. So… I picked a town that seemed the most boring, packed up all my shit, and.. Well, sayonara.” The previews were just beginning to show, and of course a lot of them were old reels that probably nobody bothered to change before showing a movie, and there was a sort of nostalgic easiness in that. “I don’t think there’s much of a draw. Maybe the schools, the cool bar scenes. Me personally? I threw a dart at a map and made the decision.” Half-truths aren’t still considered lies, are they? “So you’re telling me in all your time living here there hasn’t been one crazy thing that’s happened? Clearly it’s not all boring.”

Erin could understand that feeling--wanting to get out, get away. “Good for you. Sometimes you just need to get away from it all. You know? Start fresh. I get that. Really.” She’d almost done the same thing a year ago, when she’d gotten to the point where she thought she’d reached her breaking point. It was almost laughable how low that bar was at time. “Crazy? Here?” Erin visibly grimaced at Dakota’s last question, a hint of a smirk that let on more than she was probably willing to share at the beginning of a blossoming, normal friendship. “Well--no. Okay. It’s not all boring. It’s actually not boring at all. For small town standards, anyway. I mean, you heard about that tornado in the common the other week right? Or that huge sinkhole that swallowed up some buildings?” She popped a few more pieces into her mouth before point a very serious finger Dakota’s way. “I know I’m going to sound nuts saying this, and I hope I’m not the first person to warn you, but stay away from the mimes. They’re an actual fucking menace to this entire town. I don’t know how they’re still allowed but you’re better off walking down an alley on Amity Road alone at night than approaching one of those fuckers.”

Dakota arched her brow as Erin talked, though for the most part she was just listening. She had heard about those things—the tornado, the sinkhole. But those were natural disasters that could happen to any town. Erin did get a little intense when she started to talk about the mimes, which made Dakota laugh—actually laugh. “Nobody’s warned me about any mimes, and I’ve never seen any, but when I do, you’ll be the first person I tell. Fair?” she asked, finally relaxing into her seat a bit more and popping pieces of popcorn into her mouth. The theater was still fairly empty save for a few people scattered around, and the previews slowly came to a close as the opening scene finally started. Dakota didn’t think that this was going to be a formal movie watching event, so while her eyes were still on the screen, she kept the conversation going. “Didn’t you say your funeral home burned down or some shit? What was all that about—electrical fire? Arson?”

Erin sat up at Dakota’s laughing. Oh, no. She thought she was joking. A fair immediate assumption, she supposed. The fact that this was something she had to warn people about was reasonably humorous but the reality absolutely was not. “No, I’m serious!” Still, the infectious laugh that shook her own shoulders couldn’t be helped. “I’m serious. Okay? Just--be careful. Don’t you dare say you weren’t warned.” She didn’t know how to emphasize that anymore without making it seem even weirder than it already was. She tried, at least? Of all the phobias she thought she’d develop, this wasn’t one of them, but it still had nothing on the fear that struck her at Dakota’s last question. Dakota, the crime scene investigator. She nodded, her eyes stuck on the movie as the opening credits started. “Yeah, it did. They couldn’t determine the cause, so they had to label it as an accident. They think it was the faulty wiring. It was an old house, it makes sense, I guess.” She shrugged, trying to move past it quickly. “But it’s almost rebuilt. Thankfully the whole place didn’t go down.”

A jump scare almost got her--almost, but she played it cool, blaming the slip up on only half paying attention. Not everyone was so lucky though. The older man in front of the startled, the same one from the lobby, making good on his word on his nap. Erin didn’t pay too much attention when he muttered something to his wife, eyes wide and fearful, like he’d woken up from some sort of nightmare. “Harold, shush, it’s just a movie--” she heard his wife say, hushing him quickly, eyes never leaving the movie. He grumbled and said something else before settling back into his seat.

Her eyes flicked back to the movie--and yep, there he was. Krampus himself, ready to scoop up one of the family members. Something shadowy seemed to move behind the actual screen but she chalked it off to the old movie reel or the old theater itself. “I’m, uh--surprised you weren’t on the case for that one. You’ve been in town… how long again?” She asked, unworriedly snacking and drank a heft sip of her water to wash it down. “Do you see that?”

Well, at least Erin had warned her. It was weird, because she’d lied about never being warned before. In fact, this was probably the third or fourth person in this whole town to warn Dakota about the mimes and she still didn’t know what the problem was. The French street performers didn’t scare her, and neither did the shadow that passed in front of the projector. She thought nothing of it, and nothing of the old man muttering in his sleep. If she were being honest, Erin was probably the only person she’d laughed with so far, so she was far too busy trying to keep conversation alive to care about the shadow moving behind the movie screen.

“I could have taken it, but uh.. Ya know, I was on leave. Not.. Real leave, I guess. I just sort of shut myself out from the world for a few months, no big—” Do you see that? And Dakota did, in fact, see it. A large shadow moving behind the screen of the movie… Normally she would have brushed it off, determining some employee was back behind the screen for some reason, or a projector malfunction, but… The silhouette didn’t look.. human. “I, uh.. Yeah, what the hell is that?” She wondered, both aloud to Erin as well as to herself. It didn’t take long for shit to hit the fan, though, because there was a loud ripping noise, and when Dakota looked up, there was a giant slash in the silver screen, and a beastly looking… What the fuck is going on?

She was stunned, though. Stunned enough not to know if she should be scared or amused, or if Erin knew what the fuck was going on. But regardless, she was definitely stunned still, frozen in place. “Erin… Please tell me this is part of the movie…”

Erin would have preferred to continue the conversation--she would have preferred just about anything than what was currently unfolding in front of them. Screams ripped through the small theater, the loudest coming from the teenagers who had managed to sneak into an R-rated movie up in the front row. Christ. She couldn’t even get through one night, one night, She popped up in her seat, knocking over the popcorn between them. “I don’t know, I don’t--” A roar bellowed louder than anything in the room, followed by the slash of the staff in the thing’s hands. When her eyes adjusted, they landed on the horns sticking up from the top of his head. The movie continued to play, flickering over the behemoth in the most eerie light.

She froze when her eyes locked onto the shadowy figure. It was Krampus. The Krampus on the screen was the same one ripping through this goddamn theater. She didn’t have time to even think about the how’s or why’s of it. God damn fucking magic was the only thing that crossed her mind, over and over. Just reached into her bag for the hefty knife Nic had left her, and the same one she brought with her everywhere in this stupid town, thanks to situations like this. “We gotta go,” Erin managed, starting to guide Dakota up. And she was about to run for the exits, let someone else deal with this, when one of the teenagers let out a blood curdling scream. Krampus was going for the kids. Of course. Of course. “...Fuck,” she cursed under her breath. Glanced at the exit one more time, glanced at Dakota, then back to the violent scene at hand. Someone was already helping the teenager who had been slashed but the thing was going after someone else. “You should go,” she nodded and ran over to help.

Dakota would have preferred just about anything other than whatever the fuck was happening. She would much rather enjoy her pseudo-date with Erin rather than witnessing the traumatizing event unfolding right there in The Nordica. But she couldn’t think about what she wanted, even if it was light banter and orange chicken at The Red Dragon. Especially not when there seemed to be an actual monster standing in their presence. In her whole adult life, she’d seen a lot of horrific bullshit. Bloody scenes, cruel murders, victims practically mauled to death in front of her eyes—but nothing terrified her more than the events unfolding right here, right now, at this very moment. At first, she believed it was just some prank or some weird theatrical spin on Krampus—god, how badly she wanted to believe that still—but it was probably the way Erin tried her best to get her out of her seat, the soft-spoken We gotta go, and the blood-curdling, terrifying scream ringing in her ears that convinced her more than anything that this wasn’t a joke, nor was it a performance, and if it were, she was never speaking to this woman ever again. A critical decision had to be made, and she had about three seconds to choose between fight or flight. It was weird because she didn’t necessarily feel her legs moving, but she knew she was following Erin into the chaos unfurling. She didn’t quite know exactly what she was doing, but she knew she needed to help the kid on the floor, despite the other person being there. She tried to help stop the bleeding, she heard herself yell for more help, but it was fucking everywhere—she’d seen loads of blood before, but Jesus Christ, it was fucking everywhere. Dakota would regret what she did next for rest of her life, probably, but she left the kid with the other strangers trying their best and ended up at Erin’s side, not sure exactly what the fuck she was doing, but was ready to do what needed to be done. Amongst the mayhem, someone had pulled the fire alarm to alert authorities, and Dakota found herself fighting to be heard amidst the noise. “You gotta plan?!”

A plan? Erin’s eyebrows shot up, not just from the shock that Dakota was still here, but that she was actually looking to Erin as if she had any idea what she was doing. There was a palpable ire from the small crowd garnered from the slashing of a young teenager. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. There was enough in this town that fought the townsfolk. Eventually there became a point when people just became pissed. As Erin watched the scene unfold, it became clear this was the case. The monster was roared, only just a little louder than the cut of the staff through the air as it swung--and often hit the other patrons. Blood splattered across the ripped screen. “Don’t die?” She offered to Dakota, though immediately regretting her choice of words. Her heart clenched at the pain in the poor kid’s face. She brushed his hair back, feeling the cold sweat building on his forehead. Fuck. He wasn’t looking good at all. “Can you get him out of here?” She asked, hopeful that there was still time. That anger in the room filled her and she found herself standing, moving to join the crowd who was doing anything they could to fight back against this monster that mirrored the one still playing on the screen behind them. It would’ve been comical, with the way purses were being slung, drinks were tossed in its face, trash cans rolling under their feet, if there wasn’t a very real threat of death with every swing of its sharp staff.

The Krampus creature shrugged off the few people around them, focusing on the woman he’d slashed, now crawling away a few feet from them. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she grumbled between grit teeth. With the monster’s back to her, she gripped the knife in her hand and booked it. The staff was in the air, ready to slash the woman on the ground again when the knife dug in between it’s shoulderblades. It roared, dropping the staff, immediately jerking and throwing Erin off of it. It howled in pain, growing desperate and angry. One of the patrons managed to kick away the staff, earning a swipe from the creature that sent them into a row of seats. The knife was still sticking out of his back as he set his eyes on Erin, who was scrambling away. The other woman was bleeding but she’d managed to pull herself somewhere safe.

Fight or flight. When presented with something that instills fear, stress, anxiety, or anger, the amygdala sends a distress signal. What did Mr. Fredericksen say? Right—amygdala, hypothalamus, adrenal glands, adrenaline. The hypothalamus activates the sympathetic nervous system, and then the automatic nerves haul ass to the adrenal glands, which then respond by pumping a shitload of epinephrine—Or adrenaline—into the bloodstream. Textbook.  

At the end of the day, it was all textbook. It all boiled down to physiology—just a bodily reaction that occurs when in the presence of something that is mentally or physically terrifying. The last she checked, Dakota had never seen a fucking… Whatever the hell this thing was. And she also never stood in a crime scene before it was finished being made. So...Terrified? Understatement of the goddamn century. She tried not to think about it too much, though. The specifics of it all. What the creature was, the point of entry...because the more thought she put into it, the shakier her hands became, and it was really fucking hard to pick up some lanky teenager and drag their nearly-lifeless body somewhere relatively safer when your hands were shaky. It didn’t really matter, though, because she’d seen a pool of blood that size before, and spoiler alert—the vic’s never made it out alive.

It all just… It happened so fast. One minute she was trying to stop the bleeding, the next she was asking Erin what the plan was. In a mirage of memories, she could only assume that she’d started dragging this kid out of the way moments before the roar. She hadn’t seen, it all happened so fast. The staff, though—she heard it clang to the floor, a grunt and then a thud, and by the time she looked back, Erin was on the ground, scrambling away, just.. Jesus, they were all just fighting for their goddamn lives. Fight or flight.

She didn’t think. Dakota didn’t have the capacity to think—a trauma response working itself out in real-time. One minute the staff was on the floor, just far enough away from the beast to maybe grab, and the next it was in her hands. She let out the breath she’d been holding for what felt like an eternity, and like ripping off a band-aid, she’d charged towards the beast, using its own spear to impale him—steak right through the heart.

Erin barely rolled out of the way of the creature’s huge swipe radius in time to earn a shallow gash along her arm instead of her stomach, where the thing had originally aimed. She was waiting for the next blow, hands covering her head as if it would help--but it didn’t come. Another roar shook the small theater and when she looked up, she heard the squish of flesh and she was greeted with a gush of blood. When the creature fell, pathetically and angrily squealing on its way to the ground, she saw Dakota standing there. Had she really just delivered the killing blow? Her eyes shot up, finally realizing how hard and fast her heart was pounding in her chest. So much was happening, and still happening, that her mind was still trying to catch up. That’d just happened right? A fucking Christmas monster had just… hopped out of the screen and attacked them all, right?

A few others were poking the creature beside her, making sure the thing was finally, actually dead. Multiple prods confirmed it. “Did you--was that you?” She asked, and after a short pause, followed up with, “Are you okay?” She was a little bewildered and little something she couldn’t quite place. Impressed was a good word for it for now. She held her hand out for Dakota to help her up. “Fuck, is the kid okay?”

As soon as she’d jabbed the weapon through the beast’s flesh, Dakota stumbled backwards just a few steps, breathing heavy not so much for the effort, but more so due to the rush of it all. The commotion may have stopped once the monster had collapsed to the floor, but there was still much to process. If you would have asked her how she expected tonight to go, she couldn’t have made this shit up in her wildest nightmares.

Silence rang in her ears despite the noise happening around her. It was like white noise—she knew Erin had said something to her because she saw her lips moving, but she was crashing from the adrenaline, and shock was now beginning to sink in. Reaching down, Dakota grabbed Erin’s hand and helped her up, brushing her off and even instinctively checking her over for any more serious injuries. She came to the conclusion that she had a laceration on her arm, but the rest of the blood stat soaked her clothes and painted her face had to of been either from the kid, other people who had been harmed, or the beast’s.

The kid. That’s when her hearing tuned back in. “I.. Don’t know.” It was an honest answer to two simple questions. Was she okay? I don’t know. Was the kid okay…? “No, um.. No, he’s not. The gash was too deep. Abdominal aorta, I think...? Definitely hemorrhaging,” Jesus Christ, she just witnessed a kid die. “He was probably dead in under two minutes.”

There was silence, and then there were sirens. Officers were on their way to collect statements and paramedics were dispatched to collect the victims and tend to those needing medical attention. Looking back over at where the monster should have been laying only to see an empty space that a puddle of blood now occupied, though, forced a pit in her stomach to open up and swallow her whole. She didn’t even process the information at hand before she had mumbled something along the lines of “let’s get the fuck out of here,” grabbed Erin’s unscathed arm, and started tugging her towards the exit.

Erin felt her entire body sag at the news. The kid was dead. Fuck. It always hit a little different when there was a kid involved. More than a decade of dealing with tragedies like this never made it easy, not even for her. The thing--Krampus?--wasn’t even there anymore. It was dead presumably, gone for sure, but there wasn’t even a body anymore to vindicate the kid’s death. Magic. She didn’t know how or why this thing had suddenly appeared but the only explanation for it was fucking goddamn magic. A new surge of panic filled her when she heard the sirens in the distance. “Shit,” she muttered. The last thing she needed right about now was another unexplainable run-in with the police with another dead body. Erin nodded wordlessly, running almost solely on adrenaline and fear at this point and followed Dakota out the doors. Didn’t even feel the shallow slash on her arm, more concerned with the sirens growing louder behind them and Dakota’s state of mind. Which, from the looks of it, was frazzled at the absolute very least.

Only once they were piling out into the parking lot, the cold air was smacking them back to reality, did Erin finally take a long, wavering breath. She didn’t even know how to approach this. Usually Erin was the one getting smacked with something like this, left flabbergasted and traumatized. And while she was both of those things, she felt a little more prepared than how Dakota looked. She stood, giving Dakota another glance over--she looked fine, physically. And that’s all she could hope for either of them at the moment. Clearing her throat, she glanced back at the theater one last time and then nodded towards the other woman. “So, uh--rain check on dinner?”

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - Beauty Within the Fallen ch.V

Summary: Two misfit twins come across an enchanted castle, home of a mysterious beast, and slowly begin to form a strong bond that just might survive through anything. Even evil demons.

AU and artwork belong to the beautiful and very talented @artsycrapfromsai​. Go give her some love, guys!!!

ch.IV - ch.VI

~~~~~~~~~~

When the children arrived back with the master of the castle and a pig, Soos was a horrid mess and Wendy took charge. The servants of the castle helped to bring the old beast up to the West Wing and back into his bedroom. The journal watched, uncovered by glass, and listened to the children working together to take care of Stan. Mabel was soft, Dipper was strong, and they were both kind. Once Mabel made sure Stan was comfortable in his bed, Dipper accepted the large supply of bandages and washcloths with hot water and began to work on his injuries. It turned out that Stan had several bad scratches and bites on his back as well as his arm; one bite on his right shoulder was particularly nasty and probably hurt a lot.

All while the boy cleaned the wounds, the beast growled in his throat, almost like purring from an angry cat. He tried to mask his pain, but Mabel sat by his head and held his claw, telling him that if he wanted he could squeeze her hand when he was hurt. Stan gave her a funny look as Mabel petted the back of his paw, feeling the soft texture of his gray fur and smiling. “I can take care of myself.” He growled. “I’ve been doing it this long.” “We know.” Dipper said firmly, free to roll his eyes since Stan’s back was to him. “But we kinda owe you.” “You’re darn right you do.” Stan sneered. “I’ve got a long list of disgusting chores that’ll give my face a run for its money, and it’s got your names on it.” He sighed and added in a softer tone. “Guess it’s not all your fault, though.” Mabel shook her head. “It’s okay, Monsieur Stan, we shouldn’t have come into your room. We’re sorry.” Dipper nodded. “I’ll admit, I suck at knowing when to quit.” Stan snorted a laugh. “Wanna call it even?” “Deal.” Mabel accepted happily and squeezed his paw. As Dipper continued to work, Stan’s tired old body, comforted by the girl’s petting and the boy’s care, started to lose its strength again and he soon fell asleep. Mabel giggled, listening to his deep breathing, and turned to look at the journal. It was closed, so Monsieur Ford had no way to talk if he wanted to. Pitying him, Mabel got down from Stan’s bed and went to the journal. She opened it and sat it on the table, touching as little as she could. Dipper paused bandaging an injury and watched with a skeptical look. “There you go, Monsieur Ford.” Mabel said kindly. Words soon appeared on the page. Thank you, my dear. Thank you so very much for bringing my brother home. “You’re brother?!” Mabel gasped, but then covered her mouth with both hands, afraid of waking Stan, but he was too exhausted to be stirred right now. Yes. The master of this castle, my brother Stanley. “Monsieur Ford,” Dipper said, finished helping Stan, and he walked towards the journal and his sister. “You weren’t always a journal, and Stan wasn’t always a beast, right?” And he looked back at the portrait of the twin boys. That is correct. We were once human, like you, but we were cursed. “S'il vous plaît, Monsieur.” Mabel pleaded. “Will you tell us what happened?” Since you two seem to enjoy stories, I shall. You will have to help me along, reading. Ford’s tone seemed to be warm and inviting. Despite this, Mabel’s face turned red and she rubbed an arm nervously. “I don’t read very good.” “That’s not true, Mabel.” Dipper said quickly and side-hugged her. “Don’t worry, I’ll read out-loud.” I am sure a bright girl like yourself is a fine reader, Mabel. The journal wrote. </i>You remind me so much of Stanley; he too often thought little of his intelligence, but he is way smarter than others (and he) gave him credit for.</i> Mabel smiled, still red, and sat on her knees, looking up at the book. An armchair scurried up to the kids and spoke. “AH! Mi precioso, do not sit on the cold floor! Come, come! Have a seat, both of you, and relax.” Kids, this is Abuelita, as she prefers to be called by everyone. Soos’ grandmother. Ford explained as Mabel sat in the cozy chair. “Thanks!” She said to Abuelita. Dipper joined her with the journal in his hands. He laid the book on their laps and said, “We’re ready, Monsieur Ford.” Very well. Thirty years ago, shortly after our parents’ death, we became entangled in something we shouldn’t have. It was my fault. While Stanley was as strong as five men and more witty than any professor, I excelled academically and held a lot of promise. Father and so many others unfairly showed favor in me and I was ignorant to how it must have hurt my twin. I also felt out of place, alone. Notice the six-fingered hand on the cover; as a human I have six fingers on each hand. As a child I was bullied and made fun of, but Stanley was always there and told me it made me special. It became my mark as I began to investigate the strange mysteries of the woods and the wonders of the world. Intrigued, I soon met a golden triangle with one eye and formal attire. When the words slowly disappeared, they were replaced with a drawing. The kids looked to indeed find a triangle with a top hat and a bowtie and a cane, having only one eye and two stick arms and two stick legs. Bill Cipher. A dangerous demon of nightmares and a master of the mind. Ford went on. I was a fool, blinded by his flattery and games. I was falling down a very deep hole, but I was lucky to have Stanley there, like always, and he managed to con the ultimate conman. This angered Bill, and as revenge he cursed us. “How?” Dipper asked. “What exactly did he do to you?” He turned Stanley into a beast and me into a journal, and all of the servants turned as well, as we are now. I cannot walk or talk like the staff can, only communicate through writing, and I slowly lose my pages. With each page, I lose part of my memory and a part of myself. When the last page falls, I will be nothing more than an empty shell, and everyone will remain cursed forever. “This story's so sad!” Mabel exclaimed. “There’s gotta be a way to get a happy ending!” “Mabel’s right,” Dipper said. “Is there a way to undo the curse?” The journal was blank for a moment, but then these words seeped onto the page: After he cursed us, Bill only said that when Stanley loves someone and earns their love in return can the curse be undone. Mabel lit up. “Love? We can help! There’s tons of cute single ladies in our village who would love to go out with a nice, smart, strong guy like Stan!” “I dunno, Mabel,” Dipper said hesitantly. “Everyone in our town thinks we’re weirdos and make fun of us. How do you think they’ll react to Stan?” “But once they got to know him…” Your people think you are weird? The journal wrote. How come? Dipper crossed his arms over his chest. “They think we’re ‘odd’ because Mabel’s learning how to read, I don’t wanna join the army, and we like to invent things.” They make fun of you over that? I’m sorry. I think reading and inventing is no reason to be made fun of, nor is a lack in desire to fight. “Oh, I still wanna learn how to fight, I just don’t wanna be anyone’s tool.” Dipper then suddenly turned bright red. “No offense.” Ford, however, quivered ever so slightly and big capital letters spilled over the page. HAHAHAHAHA! No offense taken, my boy! Holy Moses, I haven’t… well, I wouldn’t call that laughing, but thank you for making me almost laugh for the first time in thirty years. “Thirty years.” Mabel repeated with a small moan. “Don’t you worry, Monsieur Ford, we’ll help Stan fall in love so everyone will be free.” It is not for you to worry about. “Yes it is!” Mabel insisted. “You’re our friends. We wanna help you.” “Yeah, man,” Dipper said, actually gradually siding with Mabel on this one. “Once Fiddleford finds this place we’ll go home and help find someone for Stan.” “He’s a great guy,” Mabel said. “And I’m the best matchmaker in the world! I bet together we can end this curse and kick Bill’s butt!” “Mabel,” Dipper hushed as she became overly passionate and was a bit too loud. Your enthusiasm is greatly appreciated and valued, kids, but do not fret over it. We have time. “How much time?” Dipper asked, eyeing how many pages Ford had. If I absolutely had to make a guess of how long we have left… ten years. “Oh.” Dipper said, freed from the sense of urgency. He yawned into his hand. “Still, we’ll do what we can for you guys.” The journal was blank again, like he was doing some thinking, but then he wrote, Thank you, again, but now is not the time to worry about all that. You two should get to bed. It’s late. Mabel shook her head. “Nuh, uh. What if Stan needs our help with his boo-boos? We’ll just have a sleepover right here, won’t we, Abuelita?” “Si, niña.” The armchair said and used her unusual arms to throw a blanket over the twins. Dipper took off his hat, finding Abuelita quite comfortable, and he wrapped an arm around his sister. After the scare he had earlier, he had to admit he liked the idea of sleeping by her side tonight. “Good idea, sis.” “I’m full of good ideas.” Mabel joked. “G’night, Monsieur Ford.” Goodnight, Dipper and Mabel. Sweet dreams. Mabel hugged Dipper around his waist, his arm still around her, and she smiled as she closed her eyes. She could hear his heartbeat. It was faster than it should be for sleep. Knowing just what to do, she began to quietly sing a lullaby. “Days in the sun, though your life has barely begun, not until my own life is done will I ever leave you.” Dipper chuckled, remembering the song Fiddleford and Shermie used to sing, and he muttered sleepily, “Oh, I’ll tremble again to my dear one's gorgeous refrain. You will not forever remain out of reach of my arms.” His eyes, which had been open, found Ford’s open pages spilling a poem missing it’s tune. All those days in the sun, What I'd give to give you them all, All to my love, And sing out my call. “You know that song?” Dipper asked and Mabel opened her eyes to find it on Ford’s pages. Our mother used to sing it to us when we were children, every night. Please, continue and ignore me. “You should sleep, too, Monsieur Ford.” Mabel said sleepily. She took the journal in her arms, hugged the closed book, and held him as she leaned on her brother. Ford didn’t get a chance to explain that he did not sleep, but as he could ghostly feel the girl’s warmth, he was beyond happy to be in her embrace for the night. Dipper smiled, gave Mabel a squeeze, and closed his eyes for sleep as he uttered under his breath. “Days in the sun will return, we must believe. As lovers do, that days in the sun will come shining through.” ~~~~~~~~~~ Despite the wolves, despite the darkness, despite the freezing cold and the falling snow, Fiddleford trudged on. He held his casted, broken arm close to his chest for warmth, crushing a few inches of snow with his boots. The snow was coming down hard, blinding him and making it feel like a hundred tiny knives were cutting his face, but he forced himself to keep going. The idea of his children somewhere in this snow terrified him. “Dipper!” He called out. “Mabel!” Fiddleford brought his scarf up to his nose so his breath would warm the bottom-half of his face. The familiar scents of family and love came to his schnoz. Mabel had knitted him this green scarf. In fact, she knitted him his sweater and gloves, too, but this scarf, tangled and elementary, had been Mabel’s first scarf and once Shermie’s, but when he died and left it back to Mabel, she insisted that Fiddleford have it. Every time Fiddleford went to Paris to sell the clocks and music boxes in the past, he always asked the twins what they wanted, as a way to help handle his absence better. Every time, Dipper asked for a book everyone would want to hear him read and Mabel hesitantly asked for yarn. Yarn was usually very expensive, and she knew that, but she had a raw talent for knitting and sewing. No one had taught her how to knit or sew, but the minute the materials were in her hands, as young as four, she knew what to do. She was amazing like that. Better yet, with her gift of yarn, if lucky enough to have some, she always made clothes for others before herself, knitting Dipper, Fiddleford, and Shermie sweaters and gloves and scarfs and hats to keep them warm during long winters. The first time she surprised Fiddleford with a blue sweater, she smiled at him and said, “Now you can have me wherever you go.” Fiddleford wiped his eyes dry; he couldn’t afford to cry, his tears would freeze on his face. Mabel needed him, Dipper needed him, so he continued to call out their names as the rest of the village searched behind him, much slower than the old man. ~~~~~~~~~~ Stan woke up to the sound of giggling. He opened his eyes, facing the window and Ford’s table, and he found Mabel standing there with a quill in her hand and playing tic-tac-toe with Ford. She was Xs and Ford was Os. Most of the time Mabel won, but occasionally (whether to keep her humble or because Brainiac couldn’t help himself) Ford would win, but Mabel seemed just as delighted by Ford’s wins as her own. “Yay! Good job, Monsieur Ford! Okay, you go first.” Stan smiled and slowly sat up. Dipper was by his side and smiled. “Morning, Stan. How are you feeling?” “M’fine, kid.” Stan said, popping his old back and stretching his arms. He ruffled his fur loose and gave the boy an impressed smile. “Good job fixin’ me up, I feel good as new.” “Thanks.” Dipper said. “Monsieur Stan!” Mabel called, turning away from her game with Ford for a moment. “Did you see?! IT SNOWED! We should all play outside!” “C’mon, Mabel,” Dipper said easily. “Stan’s just a hurt old man, he should take it easy.” And he gave the beast a smirk. “Old man?!” Stan barked and stood tall and strong. “That’s it, you just earned yourself a huge snowball to the face!” “And don’t worry, Monsieur Ford,” Mabel said, setting her quill down and scooting the table with Ford on it closer to the window. “This way you can watch us. If you want to.” Thank you, Mabel. The words read. Waddles oinked happily and showed his belly to Stan, lying on the floor. He glared at the animal. “And what is that?” “That’s my pet pig, Waddles!” Mabel joyfully introduced. “He found us in the woods last night.” “No,” Stan said firmly and shook his head. “No pigs allowed in this castle. They’re nothing but fat, naked jerks.” “Aw, come on,” The girl cooed and hugged her pig with big brown eyes. “Just for a few days?” Stan winced. Sacrebleu, that girl was just very manipulated. He ignored the painful reminder that the kids were only here for a little while and growled, “Fine, just make sure he doesn’t eat any of Sixer’s pages or I’m eating him for lunch.” “Don’t worry, we keep books around him all the time.” Dipper said as he petted the pig’s head. “He knows not to bother them.” Dipper and Mabel dragged Stan out by his paws and for the outdoors. Waddles climbed up on Abuelita the armchair and curled up for a nap. The kids admired the beautiful garden covered in the late autumn snow. A soft blanket coated the whole world, fluffy but not delicate. Everyone was warmly dressed and ready to play. The twins took in deep breaths and then slowly counted to three. On three, they simultaneously jumped off the short balcony and landed on their faces. Stan watched, confused, but then they both rolled on their fronts and laughed, their breath visible, and they began to make snowangels on the ground. “Come on, Stan!” Mabel called. “Yeah, c’mon, man!” Dipper shouted happily. Stan smiled mischievously, took a step back, and then launched himself into the air. He landed with his beefy arms over each kid and his head in the middle, and when he turned on his back with the kids in his hold, all three were laughing like mad. Mabel swiftly made a snowball and threw it at Dipper’s face. He scrambled up after his running sister and threw one at her. Stan sat in the snow, watching the kids play, throwing snowballs at each other and running around the yard. His tail wagged against the sparkling snow. Dipper threw one and Mabel ran around Stan, resorting to the ball hitting him right in the face. Stan shook the snow out of his eyes as Mabel laughed and Dipper paled, but wearing a kind smirk on his face, Stan gathered a snowball in his paw and threw it at Dipper, who was hit in the chest and ran. Stan scurried to his feet and ran around with the kids, throwing slightly bigger snowballs that the kids enjoyed. Stan soon made a huge snowball with his strong arms, the ball almost as big as one child, but when Mabel threw one at Stan’s face he accidentally dropped the huge ball that was held over his head and he was covered in snow. Dipper and Mabel laughed so hard they had no choice but to stop running, leaning on each other for support. Stan found their laugh more contagious than the plague and roared with joy as he shook off the snow like a dog on all fours. Mabel ran into his arms and Dipper soon followed, hugging him to warm him up and apologize without words for winning the war. Stan was surprised by their desire to hug him, but he hugged them back gently and rubbed their backs, finding their clothes soaked. “Alright, gremlins, let’s get you dry and warm.” Stan said and picked them up to go back into the castle. “We can play again later.” “Okay,” Mabel cooed as she snuggled against Stan’s chest, holding onto his gray fur. “Hm, you’re so warm.” Stan’s own face suddenly felt a little warmer. “Yeah, well, there’s some benefits to being a big ugly monster, I guess.” That didn’t sit right with the twins. From each of his arms, they exchanged looks, but an idea came to Dipper that distracted him from Stan’s comment. “Hey, can we read with Ford while we dry off? He says he’s got lots of great stories to tell.” Stan smiled down at him. “You like him, don’t you?” “Yeah, he’s pretty cool.” Dipper said, glancing away. “I thought you would. You’re both nerds.” Stan teased. Dipper shrugged in a whatcha-gonna-do-about-it style. Mabel hopped down and said, “I’ll go get him so we can read together!” And she ran up the stairs. Dipper got down from Stan’s hold, too, and was about to go to the living room, but Stan spoke and stopped him in his tracks. “Kid, wait. You really like books, right?” Dipper turned and responded with a dip of his head. “Yeah, I do. I was pretty much the only one that read the library in town, and by library I mean one bookshelf.” Stan waved a paw towards himself. “Follow me. I got something for you.” Dipper casually followed Stan down a hallway and they stopped at the double doors. The beast turned to the boy and gave him a cunning smile. “Ah, ah. Close your eyes.” Dipper crossed his arms over his chest and sneered at him with a smile. “Is this a prank?” “No, just do it.” Stan chuckled. “It’s a surprise.” Dipper gave in and closed his eyes. After testing that he truly was blind by waving a paw in front of his face, Stan opened the doors and put a hand on his back to help him walk. “Okay, okay, here we go… okay, stop.” “Can I see?” “Hold it, squirt, gimme a sec.” Stan hurried to pull back curtains and brighten the room. Candles magically came to life. “Okay, okay… open ‘em up!” Dipper opened his eyes, blinked to adjust to the newfound light, and then his jaw dropped. Towering over him, a room arguably bigger than the ballroom held thousands if not hundreds of thousands of books. Rich mahogany desks sat filled with parchment and quills and ink, globes and atlas took up some desk space, but Dipper couldn’t tear his eyes away from all of the books. Stairways and ladders could reach the books up at the very top and giant windows seeped in beautiful sunlight to ease the eyes. “Shut. Up.” Dipper said hoarsely. “I’ve never seen so many books! Look at this place!” He went to a bookshelf and gently ran a hand over the dozens of spines exposed to him. “You like it?” Stan asked, leaning by the door with his arms crossed over his chest. “I love it!” “Then it’s all yours.” Dipper’s jaw was nearly on the floor when he turned to look at the master of the castle. “You really mean it?” “Sure do, Smart Guy.” Stan smiled at him. “Go nuts.” Dipper, trembling, ran to a shelf and began to pick books to read. Mabel came in, carrying Ford carefully like he was a baby, and she gasped joyfully. “Wowie, zowie! A whole library!” She gave Ford to Stan to hold and joined her brother, helping him by holding his stack of books. Stan smiled and opened Ford to talk to him. Immediately words appeared before him. That was ingenious, Stanley. Dipper will surely make good use out of the library. “Thanks, Sixer.” Stan watched the kids from across the vast room, his smile dropping. As a twin, he knew that it was rare to have something done only for you and not you and your twin. He wanted to do something special for each of them, but each of them separately. The library was Dipper’s, though Mabel was free to use it since she obviously liked stories (Stan noticed that Dipper liked “books” and Mabel liked “stories”), but she needed something of her own. “I wanna do something for Mabel.” He whispered. “But I know nothing about what girls like. Make-up? Dolls?” My knowledge on girls is also very limited. Ford admitted. But I do know that you should consider something that sparks her interests and not something exclusively femanine. You didn’t give Dipper a gun or a sword. Stan shrugged. “Okay, good point. So, what? What does Mabel like?” Well, I can recall her saying this morning that she loves sweaters. When I asked her about it, she said she loves to knit but could rarely afford the yarn. “That’s it!” Stan closed Ford gently and held him against his chest one-armed. “Mabel, sweetie, can you come with me? I got something for you, too.” Mabel shoved the twenty-plus books in her brother’s arms and ran up to Stan. He smiled at her huge grin and walked with her down the hall. He led her to a single door. Mabel instantly took off her pink headband and tied it over her eyes so she wouldn’t be tempted to peek. “I wanna be surprised!” She squealed. Stan chuckled. “Give me your hand, kid.” Mabel did and Stan led her into the room. He opened a curtain and let go of the girl’s little hand. “Alright, you can look now.” Mabel pulled her blindfold down onto her neck and she gasped so big her lungs filled quickly. It was like a grand supply closet. There was a wall full of rolls of different patterns of fabric and silk, figurines to make clothes on, drawers full of supplies, desks full of paints and canvases and brushes, and an odd shelf of some kind, squares that held bundles of yarn, all in rainbow order. What was better yet, this room may have been only twenty feet wide, but it was forty feet tall, like a tower, and a rolling ladder helped to reach the higher fabrics and yarns. A window as tall as the room let in bright sunlight to make crafting easy. “OH MY GOSH!” Mabel cried out and looked around the room. “It’s like arts-n’-crafts heaven!” “It was Ma’s room.” Stan shared as he chuckled over Mabel’s joy. “She used to come down here and spend hours painting and drawing and making clothes. Pa used to get on her case about it. Said she didn't give the seamstresses enough to do.” “Your dad sounds like a stupid jerk.” Mabel added quickly before resuming her cheerful attitude. “This is wonderful! I love it! LOOK at all the COLORS!” “If you like it so much, then it’s yours.” Stan said. Mabel turned and Stan was clutched to find her crying. Well, not really crying, but there were tears in her eyes and one escaped each eye, rolling down her cheeks. “THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!” Mabel cheered and ran to him. One arm busy holding Ford, Stan fell on his butt by the impact of the girl and she hugged him around his big neck, nuzzling her face into his fur. He stared ahead in astonishment and wrapped an arm around her, petting her soft brown hair and admiring her warmth. Too soon she skipped away and climbed up the ladder for some red yarn. “I’m gonna make you a sweater first! Then I’ll make Ford one, a little book-holder to keep him warm.” “I don’t think he really gets cold anymore.” Stan said as he stood again. “Well then, I’ll go ahead and make him a sweater to wear when he’s human again.” Mabel reasoned. Stan was distracted by that statement. When he was human again. When they were human again. He had lost all hope for so long of someone ever loving him that it seemed foolish to think of the curse ever being broken, but Mabel and Dipper seemed to like him, and Ford probably loved him (for some odd reason) so maybe it was possible for him to find a beautiful mademoiselle to love and have her love him back. Stan shook his train of thought away as Dipper now joined them, six books stacked in his arms and making his limbs quiver, but he didn’t seem to care. “Mabel, what’s… whoa-oh!” Dipper awed at the room. “No way! Cool art supplies.” “Thanks!” Mabel said and climbed down with red and orange yarn in her arms and she opened a drawer full of different size knitting needles and pulled out a pair she liked. “Wanna read to us by the fire?” “Sure.” In the lounge, Stan sat in front of the huge fireplace, making plenty of room for Ford to be safe. Dipper and Mabel sat in his lap, the boy at his left and the girl at his right, and Dipper opened Ford and the journal began to tell a story. Dipper read the words out-loud, occasionally having Mabel give reading a try, only needing assistance a handful of times for bigger words, but Ford seemed to purposely use smaller words when it was her turn to read. Stan, without realizing it, was purring. The children noticed, but said nothing. Mabel nuzzled closer to him, grateful for his large body and fluffy gray fur. She thought he was wonderful in every aspect and Dipper full-heartedly agreed. The biggest mystery of them all was how Dipper didn’t see this all before.

~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note: This… this is where, in my humble opinion, the story actually becomes worth reading. I feel like the patience we, the audience, must have with the BatB story - seeing the Beast as he is before his change of heart, seeing Belle run away and all the obstacles before them both - make the bonding scenes even better. Gives a FINALLY sort of feeling. I wanted to carry that over here, making the beginning a little slow (though I probably lost some readers that way), but making it even more rewarding for those who read on. Or maybe I’m just making an excuse for a suck-ish beginning. Who knows. Okay, so Waddles NOT being a footstool is so that it ties in more to the canon GF storyline. I didn’t want Waddles to be some pet Stan didn’t like and only tolerated for someone else’s sake or a farm-animal that was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Rather, I had him always be Mabel’s and I also left him at home in the beginning to better parallel the show’s canon (even though Waddles is in the intro, he isn’t introduced until S1E9). I also, mainly, just really wanted Stan to only allow Waddles in the castle to make Mabel happy, cuz Imma sap that’s why. Moving on, I put both Days in the Sun and a hint of Something There at the end. When writing the snow scene, I listened to Wolf Children’s Snow soundtrack; I personally thought it fit so well. Not much else to say except Mabel’s craft-room is my idea and I love love LOVE the library scene (both in this fic and in the animated BatB movie; the live-action movie RUINED the scene!) Thank you so much for reading, and I hope y’all enjoy it!

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/23/2019: FEMALE PRISONER SCORPION - BEAST STABLE

I’m not sure that I made the right choice by including this film in my blogtober program. A fugitive thriller with women’s prison and yakuza elements, BEAST STABLE doesn’t seem very horrific on its face. However, this third installation in the Female Prisoner Scorpion series (and the last by visionary director Shunya Ito) is also the most visceral and intimate. Its relative lack of action movie bravado shifts the focus from matters of the spirit to those of the body, the appalling details of which made me ask myself whether I didn’t consider this a horror movie after all. My conclusions are not very firm, but the debate is worth having.

During notorious convict Sasori (”Scorpion”)/Nami Matsushida’s latest escape, she runs afoul of the relentless Detective Kondo (Mikio Narita) on the subway, who no sooner cuffs her than loses his arm to her blade. This produces some of my favorite images from the whole hallucinatory series, with Matsu racing through the streets with the severed limb flailing behind her to the unforgettable sounds of star Meiko Kaji’s theme song “Urami Bushi”. In her flight to a shanty town on the outskirts of the city, she meets a young prostitute named Yuki (Yayoi Watanabe) in a most outrageous fashion. Yuki lies on her back in a cemetery, clutching bills from the john who left her there, and gazing vacantly at the stars. When a strange sound draws her attention, she finds herself locking eyes with the feral Matsu, who crouches behind a tombstone with the severed arm in her mouth, scraping away at the handcuff chain. The strange gothic horror of this scene only scratches the surface of how weird BEAST STABLE will become.

Yuki is an especially desperate character whose pitiful lot justifies the trouble that she makes for Matsu. A poor prostitute who is virtually enslaved to her brain damaged brother, she must keep his base instincts in check only by submitting to his every sexual whim. When Yuki chases after Matsu, begging to be freed from this nightmare, she unwittingly attracts the attention of the local mob, including a female pimp with a penchant for back alley abortions. The crow-obsessed crook Katsu, who might as well be a Batman villain (played by Reisen Ri, who has powerful Karen Black vibes) hatches a plot to take out Matsu, but this falls apart when Matsu starts slashing her way through the gang’s ranks. Rather than confront her, Katsu foolishly opts for the safety of prison--Matsu’s home turf, where she is able to exact a diabolical revenge that belongs more in a giallo than a standard issue women’s prison movie. 

BEAST STABLE is often as beautiful as either of its two predecessors, which are generally considered to be superior; the dreamy rain of fire produced when Yuki searches for Matsu by dropping matches into the sewer is not to be missed. Admittedly the other films have a more ethereal, allegorical quality, but BEAST STABLE holds its own in terms of being potently disturbing. Where we previously found female criminality presented in a sort of heroic light, aimed at the dissolution of the corrupt prison system and the punishment of hypocrites, here women are metaphorically imprisoned in maddeningly hopeless situations. Yuki is unable to emotionally separate herself from her rapist brother, as she is carrying his baby to term--even after being raped with a golf club by Katsu for intruding on the pimp’s territory. When one of Katsu’s colleagues sets his sights on Matsu, the thug’s distraught girlfriend kills him by virtually boiling him alive. Trapped in Katsu’s bird cage, Matsu escapes by retrieving a scalpel from the cold grip of a prostitute who died as a result of a horrifying abortion. Nowhere are the courageous, castrating antiheroes of FEMALE PRISONER 701: SCORPION or JAILHOUSE 4. In BEAST STABLE, we have only Matsu grimly following a trail of victims to the film’s hard won conclusion.

I am left trying to figure out if I can create a reasonable distinction between horror and pure exploitation, at least in this case. My first clue lies in the film’s profound sadness, which first appears in the image of the recently befouled Yuki, lying fully clothed in a cemetery like a discarded corpse. Apparently, I think that despair is an important element in horror. It would be pretty difficult for anyone other than the most serious degenerates to get it up for this movie, with its relentless agonies and heavy focus on abortion. There is no token lesbianism or nude calisthenics to brighten the mood now and again, and at that, the violence is rarely political. In the former films, Matsu and her defacto acolytes rage against authorities who would break their spirits, but in BEAST STABLE the violence is personal and intimate rather than institutional, and few characters are afforded a majestic martyrdom as a way out. SCORPION and JAILHOUSE 41 pit the anonymizing degradation of jail against the glories of anarchy and vengeance, but BEAST STABLE reaffirms that not much good awaits women beyond prison bars.

This line of thinking leads me to indulge in a personal note. I was introduced to this series while still in college, by a person who I would later categorize as a total abuser. Though he was highly intelligent and charismatic in an offbeat way, he dated exclusively much younger women--a sure sign of someone avoiding the sound judgment of his peers--and there was some evidence of his having that iffy white guy preference for asian girls. He lured in women who were too young or inexperienced to know better by flaunting his inner sensitivity and trauma, and then once he had someone (or more than one person) on the hook, he rewarded her by being relentlessly dishonest and unfaithful, as if to teach her a lesson for sympathizing with him. To my knowledge, he had not been a women’s studies major in his school days, but he might as well have been, as most of his film discussion came through a feminist filter. He analyzed sleazy genre fare to within an inch of its life, and seemed to delight in making remarks like that the infamous borderline pornographic slasher movie THE TOOLBOX MURDERS “is dangerous and should not be seen.” This all might sound like the typical calculation of a basic predator, but having been his unfortunate friend for several years, I truly believe that he believed his own bullshit. His manic depressive behavior belied little self-reflection, and he would sometimes make tearful statements that bordered on magical thinking, about how “something” unnameable about him drove women insane. He seemed genuinely affronted by his long suffering girlfriend’s suggestion that he might be a misogynist, even though he admitted to hitting her during at least one argument. (A fact that he naturally presented as something that should make me feel sorry for him, in his epic turmoil) He showed no awareness of how suspicious it might be to some people, that he voraciously took in any movie starring teenage girls or childlike women; even though I held his opinion in the highest regard for years, I had to learn to start ignoring him when he recommended these movies, because whether he was right about their actual quality was a complete crap shoot. 

The point that I’m coming to is that he was absolutely obsessed with the character of Sasori. He believed that the JAILHOUSE 41 was one of, if not The greatest movie of all time, and both his email address and user image related to her. The FEMALE PRISONER SCORPION series represented the pinnacle of his absolute favorite thing, which was raped virgins returning for revenge. Back when I knew him, I took this to be plain old good taste; today, I associate it obliquely with an attitude I sense a lot on the political right. Without giving this remotely the space that it would take more me to fully prove my point, I’ll just say that part of what motivates conservatives and bigots is the profound, primal, unconscious fear that those they have repressed will come back to avenge themselves. There’s a subaural signal in right wing rhetoric that I always hear beyond their empty circuitous logic, that simply says “We’ve done a lot of bad things to you, and by virtue of that, now we have reason to fear that you will do those same things to us, given the slightest chance.” Since that time, I have become acquainted with more men like this than I would have preferred to. Not the scheming women’s studies serial rapists, but  the sulking intellectuals whose unshakable belief in their own nobility--their certainty that they are too smart to be bigots--prevents them from fully acknowledging their abusive, misogynist, and frankly sometimes pedophilic attitudes toward women. These guys vocally obsess over the likes of Lydia Lunch and Kim Gordon and Sasha Grey and Asia Argento et al, and boast about their literacy in matters of gender and sexuality, only to routinely accumulate the most submissive and virginal partners they can find, and blame these girls for all of their personal problems for as long as they stick around. The FEMALE CONVICT SCORPION movies are great, both in terms of formal artistry and metaphor for the female experience. I would love to believe in the specialness of men who relate so openly to characters like Matsu, but because of my majority experience, I’m afraid I tend to find them all guilty until proven innocent.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Secret Santa

Summary: The reader is participating in the SPN cast & crew Secret Santa exchange for the first time when she ends up drawing Jensen’s name...

Pairing: Jensen x reader

Word Count: 4,400ish

Warnings: none

A/N: Written for a friend :) Enjoy!...

You yawned as you rested your head in your hand, watching the camera reset back into position, Jensen smiling from the other side of the table in the bunker set.

“What are you looking at goof?” you asked, smiling back at him.

“Uh, it’s the first day back from Thanksgiving break,” he said, still wearing that big charming smile.

“Yes, because we’re all overjoyed to be working a 12 hour day after having the past week off,” you teased.

“Oh, I forgot. You’re a rookie,” he teased right back.

“Rookie mistake?” asked your A camera operator.

“Rookie mistake,” said Jensen with a tsk.

“Rookie mistake, Y/L/N? I thought we knew you better than that by now,” said your B camera operator before the small crew in the bunker library was all sharing giggles.

“I hate working with all of you,” you said, biting your bottom lip when they started to laugh. “Come on, one more take and we all get to go home.”

“Rookie mistake,” said the boom guy, your jaw dropping.

“Oh, come on, Y/N. Even I know-” said Alex before Jensen held up a hand.

“Ah, ah. Don’t be spoiling nothing for the rookie, pup,” said Jensen with a smirk.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was rookie last year,” said Alex. “Also, I am so calling you old man from now on.”

“Old man can kick your ass, pup,” said Jensen. Alex opened his mouth but realized Jensen probably very well could. “Besides, let’s not ruin the surprise, hm?”

“You are such a tease. Every last one of you,” you said, pointing at them all.

“Duh. You knew what you signed up for in the spring,” said Jensen, getting a waving finger. “Yeah, yeah. Come on rookie and pup, let’s finish this up so we can get to the good stuff.”

You heard a knock at your trailer door as you finished packing up your bag to go home, slinging it over your shoulders before you pulled the door open.

“Hi,” said Jensen, standing there with a tired but friendly smile. “Heading home?”

“After the staff meeting. I don’t feel like we’ve ever gotten one at the end of a day. Is this normal?” you asked, grabbing your phone and car keys, locking up your trailer after yourself.

“It’s nothing to worry about. It’s a fun thing we do for the holidays around here is all,” he said. “I...the rookie thing wasn’t bothering you today, was it? I know we can take that stuff a bit far sometimes.”

“No,” you said, bumping his shoulder, giving him a smile. “I’m just a bit tired.”

“Tired? We just had a week off,” he said, adjusting his own backpack as you walked.

“My break wasn’t awesome. You know how family can be,” you said.

“Not particularly. My family’s always gotten along, even if we all are a bit weird and dorky,” he said. “I realize why you sounded so off in our phone calls now though.”

“I traveled all the way to Maine to deal with...sorry. We’re going to do something fun you said?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “Rookie.”

“Okay, this is technically my second season on the show so-”

“Technically it’s your first full season on the show. Guest starring end of last season don’t count. Rookie,” he teased.

“You’ll pay for that, Ackles,” you said, booping him on the nose.

“Oh will I, Y/L/N?” he said, moving his arm around to pull you in front of him, starting to give you a noogie.

“Jensen. Jensen Ross Ackles! You are at your place of work, young man!” you said, Jared snorting as you watched him walk past.

“This is the most professional he’s ever acted,” said Jared, squishing your cheeks together before he headed towards set, Jensen chuckling as he helped get most of your hair out of your face.

“Boys,” you said, grabbing Jensen’s arm when he almost tripped over a set of cables running on the ground. “Careful, Jay. It’s your turn to buy dinner.”

“Ah, I see why you keep me around,” he said, righting himself, walking a little more slowly across the lot over to the bunker set. You yawned and rocked back on your heels, ready for some dinner in Jensen’s apartment and followed by a hot soaking bath in your own before bed.

A good chunk of the cast and crew was there, everyone lining up and jotting something down on slips of paper before they tossed them in a big basket.

“Write your name down,” said Jensen when you got up there. You did as told, placing it in the basket and moving aside, the line finishing up quickly after you. Someone turned a big handle on the basket and the paper jumbled together, mixing it all up.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. The 2018 Supernatural Secret Santa has the same rules as last year. $25 dollar limit. Only one secret santa per person. Gift exchange will take place on the last day of filming this year, right before the winter break. Any questions, please contact Nina, one of our lovely costume designers or myself as we are heading up the exchange this year. Does anyone have any questions?” asked Chad. “No? Alright. Step up and pick a name. If you draw your own name, stick it back in and draw again. Alright let’s go. I got a Buffalo Bills game to get home to.”

“He’s a fan of the Bills?” you whispered to Jensen. “Seriously?”

“Take pity on him. He’s Canadian,” whispered Jensen. It took a minute to get the line going again but once it was, people were out of there, saying goodnight to each other once they got their names.

Jensen shoved his hand inside and quickly glanced at the paper he’d grabbed before shoving it in his pocket. He stepped out of the way, waiting for you. You were glad you were tired because you were pretty sure your face would have shown who you’d gotten.

Jensen Ackles

You folded the paper up and put it in your jeans, Jensen smiling when you caught up with him.

“Get someone good?” he asked. You whipped your head up, giving him a smile.

“Mhm,” you said. “You?”

“Yup,” he said, stealing your car keys out of your hand. “I drive, you run in and pick it up on the way home?”

“Did you order yet?” you asked.

“Just did,” he said, twirling your keys around. You passed Cliff and Jared on the way to your car, Jensen saying he was riding home with you. Occasionally he did get a ride in with you and sometimes he even convinced you to come in with him if you were on the same shooting schedule for the day. He didn’t often drive for you though and you wondered what was on his mind.

“Hey, Jen,” you said once your seatbelt was on. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he said with a smile. You nodded, Jensen sighing.

“Just going home for the holidays...it can be a bit lonely, you know?” he said. “My siblings all have spouses and families and I’m the one crashing in my childhood bedroom by myself having my parents convince me I’m not a lost cause.”

“You know what you need right now?” you said, Jensen turning in his seat. You reached your hand out and traced a finger under his jaw, Jensen staring to laugh as you tickled him.

“Y/N, Y/N, I need to drive!” he laughed, squirming away until you finally relented. “I’m not even ticklish there.”

“Sure, you’re not,” you teased, scratching his jaw as Jensen chuckled. “I wanted to see a smile on that face of yours.”

“You always make me feel better when I’m down,” he said, smiling at you before suddenly turning away. “We should head out.”

After dinner at Jensen’s you headed down a few floors and to the other side of the building to your place, settling into your soaking tub, playing with some bubbles while you tried to think of what to possibly get him. A gift card was easy since you knew where he shopped and ate out. But it was impersonal and Jensen was your best friend. You were planning on getting him an actual Christmas present, had gotten it already, a pair of tickets to some pro golf thing where he could basically swing around clubs with the pros for a few hours and get some pointers. It sounded expensive but once you factored in the family discount your mom had swung for you with her friend, it was practically no cost at all.

You wanted to do something like that again, something he’d really love. All you kept thinking of though was stupid crap like an extra phone charger or heaven forbid, socks. You jolted up in the tub when your phone rang, quickly climbing out and grabbing it without looking.

“Hello?” you asked.

“Hey, Y/N,” said Jensen. “Just me.”

“Oh, hey. What’s up?” you asked, throwing on your robe and undoing the tub. You walked into your bedroom, frowning at the clock. “I thought you were heading to bed early, catch up on some sleep.”

“Um...I did. I...shit, forget about it,” he said. “Night.”

He hung up and you pouted, calling him back but getting no answer.

“Ackles…” you grunted. You threw on your pajamas and grabbed your key, heading up to his apartment, knocking more than a few times before it opened up.

“What-”

“You call me like that and then don’t answer? Of course I’m coming to check on you,” you said, walking past him into the dark apartment. He sighed and closed the door, rubbing his eyes. His hair was tousled, shirt a little off. “You were asleep before.”

“Yeah. I was just about back asleep too when you showed up,” he said.

“Well why’d you call me?” you asked.

“I had a nightmare, alright?” he said, rubbing one of his arm, pulling at the sleeve of his t shirt. “I just...I’m fine. I just wanted to hear your voice for a second. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Do you want me to stay over tonight?” you asked.

“What? No, seriously, Y/N. I’m fine. I shouldn’t-”

“Jensen,” you said. “There was totally that time I freaked out over a noise and you spent the night in my apartment because I was scared.”

“That was different,” he said.

“What? Boys aren’t allowed to be scared?” you said.

“No, we are. I just…” he said, scratching his head. “You aren’t leaving, are you.”

“You have a guest room. I’ll crash here, okay? If you have another nightmare, I’ll come wake you up,” you said. He opened his mouth but you put your hands on your hips, Jensen dropping his head. You stepped over and gave him a hug, Jensen tensing at the contact for a moment before he relaxed and returned it.

“You were in an accident. I couldn’t save you,” he said quietly. You looked up at him, Jensen staring across the room, avoiding your gaze. “The nightmare.”

“I’m right here, Jay,” you said, giving him a smile, wrapping your arms even tighter before you leaned back, picking him up off the ground, and let out a whoof. “You are heavier than I thought you’d be.”

“Well put me down, goofball,” he chuckled. You shook your head and slowly waddled down the hall to his bed, Jensen laughing his ass off by the time you got there.

“We are so doing a piggyback ride next time,” you said, bonking his nose when he was set down, throwing his covers back on him, a smile on his face. “Night, Jens.”

“Night, Y/N.”

You woke up to Jensen shaking you awake, eyes flashing open.

“Morning,” he said sleepily. “You got a eight am call time. Better get downstairs if you want to be on time.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you said, stretching for a second before you rolled out of bed and stepped into your slippers. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, a bit of color in cheeks that was barely noticeable. “Thanks for last night. I mean, making sure I was okay.”

“S’never a problem, Jensen,” you said, yawning as you walked down the hall. “I’ll see you at work later.”

“Later, Y/L/N.”

You were taking a break between scenes on Tuesday, heading back to your trailer when you saw an envelope taped to the outside of it.

Your Secret Santa

“Oh, this’ll be good,” you said, ripping it off and heading into your trailer. You tore it open, pulling open a small typed out piece of paper.

Y/N,

I’m your Secret Santa. I know you’re new to set this year but I feel like you’ve been having a good time working with us all. We certainly enjoy working with you. You’re not only very talented, but kind and humble as well, something you may take for granted but I don’t, especially in this industry. Your personality has been refreshing around here and quite honestly, I look forward to the times I get to work with the cute new girl. Here’s to figuring out the perfect gift for you.

From,

Your SS

“Oh my…” you said, a knock at your door making you shriek. You heard Jensen chuckle as you called him in, Jensen laughing when you pursed your lips at him. “You startled me.”

“Scaredy cat,” he said, hopping up on your kitchen counter. “What’s that?”

“This? This is a letter from my secret santa,” you said, handing it to him.

“Letters aren’t a part of the exchange,” said Jensen reading it over. “Oh. Sounds like your secret santa has a bit of a crush on you.”

“Well that’s obvious,” you said, taking the letter back.

“Are you freaked out or…” said Jensen.

“No, no. I’m surprised is all,” you said. “What are the odds that someone who has a crush on me would be my secret santa?”

“About one in two fifty?” teased Jensen. You rolled your eyes and took a seat. “You think someone’s messing with you?”

“Jared does like to prank me,” you said.

“Yes but Jared doesn’t pull pranks like that. You got an admirer out there somewhere,” said Jensen with a smile. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah. I really need to figure out my own secret santa though before I can investigating who has a crush,” you said.

“Need any help?” asked Jensen. You laughed, shaking your head.

“No, no. I can handle it. Want to run some lines?” you asked.

“Sure thing, rookie.”

Friday afternoon you got back to your chair at the end of your filming day, cocking your head at the green envelope sat in it.

“Oh, did the secret santa strike again?” teased Jared, laughing as you whacked his arm.

“Another letter? Lucky you,” joined in Jensen, collecting his things before he ran back to his trailer to change for another scene. You shoved your phone in your pocket and headed back for your own, tearing open the letter while you walked.

Y/N,

I hope my first letter didn’t startle you. I know you’re the kind of girl that’ll put on a tough face so I really do hope I didn’t cross a line. You’ll find out who I am soon. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that whole you’re cute thing since now you’re going to know exactly who has a crush on you and I won’t be able to deny it.

Forgetting my current embarrassment and most likely future rejection for the time being, I think I’ve found the perfect gift for you.

Have a great weekend, Y/N. You absolutely killed it this week.

From,

Your SS

“Wow,” said Jared. You jumped when you felt him right behind you, reading over your shoulder. “Poor dude thinks he’s already screwed it up just by calling you cute.”

“Jare, privacy?” you asked, folding up the sheet and shoving it back in the envelope.

“Oh, alright,” said Jared with a smirk. “I’ll just go on my merry old way then…”

“You know who it is, don’t you,” you said.

“Uh, duh,” said Jared.

“Want to help a girl out then?” you asked.

“Nope. I was given full permission to reveal I know who he is though because quote, ‘he doesn’t want to seem like a weirdo creeper’ to you,” said Jared. “Trust me, he’s the exact opposite.”

“Well you can tell him it’s fine. It’s cute, like someone leaving notes in my locker in school,” you said.

“I’ll be sure to pass it along,” said Jared, ruffling your head. “I’m heading home for the weekend. See you on Monday?”

“Have a safe flight,” you said, giving him a quick hug. Back in your trailer you worked on answering a few emails before you wound up hopelessly searching for Jensen’s perfect present.

Your secret santa had a crush on you and he’d easily found one for you. How come you couldn’t do the same for Jensen? Maybe you weren’t ready to admit out loud to him that you had a crush but deep down you knew that’s what it was. It was simple though, to write it off as having a good time with your best friend and nothing more. At least that’s what you’d been telling yourself despite all of the obvious signs.

Plus with this new crush out there, maybe this was exactly what you needed. It was probably one of the new guys this year, maybe Nate in production. He’d always been a little flirty in the breakfast line in the morning, sometimes showing you around the future set builds. He knew Jared pretty well and he was sweet.

“Rookie!” you heard, a loud banging on your door. You shut your computer and pushed away the thought, opening the door to find Jensen standing there with a cocked head. “What are you still doing here?”

“I was doing some work,” you said.

“It’s like after eight, Y/N,” he said. You closed your eyes, leaning your head back as the time had gotten away from you. “You work too hard, I swear.”

“I got distracted with thinking of the secret santa stuff,” you said, rushing back inside and flipping off the lights, grabbing your bag and locking up.

“Want me to walk you to your car?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m fine. You had a long day,” you said, nodding over to where his car was waiting with Cliff. “Night.”

“Night,” he said quietly. You shoved your hands in your pockets as you started to walk, a quick rush of footsteps behind you before Jensen was at your side again. “Don’t tell me you’re fine. I know you don’t like walking alone to your car at night so I’m walking you, alright?”

“Alright. I didn’t know Cliff was teaching you to be a bodyguard, Ackles,” you said.

“Hey. I got scared the other night and you were there for me. I got your back too,” he said. “Besides, you never know what hooligan’s you’ll run into on the trek to the parking lot.”

“Oh yes. Good thing I got Dean Winchester to kick some ass for me if I need it,” you said, bumping his arm. “You heading home this weekend?”

“Yeah. I got a flight at midnight,” he said with a yawn. “Be back in Texas just before six. You doing anything fun this weekend?”

“Nope,” you said with a laugh. “Unless you count watching TV and cleaning my apartment fun.”

“Maybe you can get your secret santa shopping out of the way,” said Jensen. “I’m already done with mine.”

“Seriously? How?” you asked.

“I didn’t overthink it like a certain someone,” he said. “Just get them a gift card and be done with it.”

“Maybe. I’m sure I’ll figure something out soon.”

Two Weeks Later

It was Thursday morning, the last day on set before the break started. You’d come up with absolutely crap all for Jensen, hoping to run out at lunch and find something before you gave him his backup present, a gift card for his favorite restaurant.

Your secret santa had left you a few more sweet notes over the past weeks and you decided that, festering feelings for Jensen aside, you were going to give your secret santa at least one date to see how things went.

“Hey, Y/N,” said Jensen, walking into your trailer as you were heading out to the store at lunch. It was strange of him not to knock and the look on his face worried you more than getting him the wrong present. “Do you got a second? I need to talk to you.”

“Sure,” you said, waving him to take a seat on your couch. “You okay, Jay?”

“I...here,” he said, pulling a card out of his pocket and shoving it in your hands. It was a christmas card, one that put a smile on your face.

“Thanks, Jensen,” you said, opening it, a plane ticket falling out. You caught it in your lap, glancing at him but he was staring at his own.

Y/N,

If you haven’t figured it out by now, it’s me. Jensen. I’m your secret santa. I didn’t plan for this to happen and I was a bit shocked when I pulled out your name but I thought, hey it’s a great opportunity. I knew immediately what I wanted to give you. A plane ticket to come visit me in Austin over break. I hated when we didn’t see each other that much over summer hiatus and I thought maybe you’d want to spend a week with me.

But you’d figure out who your secret santa was if I did that. But it was what I really wanted to give you and you don’t have to come down if you don’t want. So I figured once you would eventually find out who I was, why not man up and tell you about my obnoxious school boy crush on my best friend? I know you’re fully aware that I hardly ever make the first move, but it seemed easier to say I think you’re amazing in a letter somehow. The funny thing is, all those things I’ve said in these letters, I’ve told you in person before. But I don’t think you believed me. I really do believe you’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever known. Not too many people are like you, have a goodness in them and a genuine care for other people. You take care of me, Y/N. I can be a weird goofball in front of you and it feels so comfortable. I’ve never felt that with another person outside my family, definitely not in another person that I have certain feelings for.

I hope you do decide to come visit and you’ll give me a chance.

J

You lifted your head when you finished reading, tucking the ticket back inside the card. You stood up and grabbed the envelope meant for Jensen on your table, spinning back around to crash straight into his chest, Jensen trying to make a fast break for it.

“Hey,” you said, holding up your hands, giving him the card. “I was your secret santa too.”

“Oh,” he said, opening the card. “It’s for the steakhouse. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” you said, blocking his path out of the trailer. “I was thinking maybe tonight...we could go use that gift card on a date where you can tell me all about the stuff we’re going to do in Austin.”

“Really?” he said, everything so much lighter about him as you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

“Yeah. See...I’ve had this crush on my bestie for a while too. But then this secret santa guy was sending me these sweet letters and I swore I was going to go on a date with him because he was too good to be true. But it makes perfect sense now considering it was you,” you said.

“You’re really going to come visit me?” he asked. You nodded, leaning up and pecking a kiss on his cheek.

“Sure am,” you said. Jensen smiled so hard his cheeks had to be hurting. He glanced down at your lips once before pressing his to them, landing a gentle kiss.

“Y/N you want-” said Jared, bursting in through the door, pausing on the step as you and Jensen turned to look at him. “Well. Looks like you two kids are having some fun so I’ll just grab lunch on my own.”

“You knew the whole time,” you said.

“Duh,” said Jared. “I can’t believe she never figured it out.”

“Figured it out when it mattered,” said Jensen. Jared hummed and gave you both a smile, leaving you be. “So...what time should I pick you up for our date?”

“Eight sound good to you, secret santa?” you teased.

“Sounds perfect, Y/N.”

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

13 Queliot recs 4/4

of places where you thought that love would be found by @margosfairyeye

I’m not much for soulmates, but that means that I’m often fond of stories that start off with soulmates and soulmate marks, then do something weird with it.  This is a great example of that subgenre; Quentin has a mark that’s unlike any other (a nice parallel to his canon problem of being a Nothingmancer for so much of his life); Eliot has Margo’s mark.  And yet, and yet, and yet.  Obviously this is one of those rewrite-the-stars stories; it’s not really full of surprises, but it’s lush and sensual and draws you in, laying out the longing and the edge of hopelessness and then the hope in a very visceral, intimate kind of way.  This one really could do almost anything and scrape by on sheer aesthetic quality, but I think what it does is exactly the right call.  It’s not terribly long, and I’d love to see sequels; I think it’s an interesting universe, and I’d like to see their in-universe nontraditional relationship unfold further.

* His name is Eliot, he says, and Quentin doesn’t think he knows a nicer name.  Quentin can’t stop looking at Eliot’s form, his long legs and the fabric wrapping closely against his chest; but more than that he can’t stop looking at his eyes.  Quentin remembers some cheesy quote about the eyes being the window to the soul. He thinks it might be less bullshit that he’d thought. 

Quentin watches Eliot’s eyes look him up and down, and he feels excited, and confused, and slightly nauseous.  He remembers something someone told him, recently, about how the first time they saw their soulmate, it was like being hit simultaneously with the flu and a contact high.  Quentin doesn’t feel dissimilar to that description. 

He tries to look at Eliot’s hands, his arms as they walk, but Eliot doesn’t give him a lot of time for study.  It’s presumptuous to ask someone what their soulmate mark says, most people consider it slightly personal information (with the exception of people like Julia who just give no fucks). But Quentin thinks that if Eliot has a picture, like his, he’ll be able to tell from a quick glance, and he can’t figure out a way to phrase asking that, anyway. 

He can barely contain how excited he feels as they walk, and have snippets of conversation, and his wondering grows into full-on hope.  Eliot opens a door and Quentin finally catches enough of a glimpse. It’s on the wrong side of Eliot’s arm for him to see clearly, but Quentin can definitely see a distinct letter ‘M’.  So not him, then.  *

press your love into my palm by @propinquitous

There are a lot of Mosaic stories in the fandom, many of which share the basic plot of “they have sex in the Mosaic timeline.”  And a lot of them are really good!  I picked this one because it’s a stand-out example for me; it really just picks up from the moment of That Kiss and just keeps going, so what you’re going to get is what you expect.  But I just think it’s so beautifully done, the sweet edges of humor, Quentin’s shivery, hopeful boldness, Eliot being so blown away at how much he’s sold Quentin short in his mind.  I love a story that could seamlessly be canon, and this is exactly that story -- no one can tell me it didn’t happen just like this, because I read it, and I am a believer.  Just a blue-ribbon, five-star, standing-ovation They Have Feelingsy Sex story.

* Eliot pulled him in without hesitation. In some former life he'd been embarrassed of this kind of tenderness, save for maybe with Margo. It was always in him, though, and Quentin had been tugging at its thread for years. He'd almost completely unraveled in the time they'd spent working on the mosaic; every night that Quentin spent curled against him, desperate to quell his fear and frustration, frayed his edges. By the time Quentin kissed him, Eliot felt as threadbare as the clothes he'd arrived in.

Then, after. The second kiss was less chaste, more everything else. Eliot opened his mouth against Quentin's and ran his thumb over his cheek, felt him go slack under his touch. He tested, bit at Quentin's lower lip gently and tugged at the shorter hairs toward his nape. Eliot curled his fingers over Quentin's and he could feel the slight shudder as the arm supporting Quentin buckled and threatened to give out.

"Hey," Eliot said again when he finally pulled away. He didn't sit back and he didn't take his hand from Quentin's face. Instead he breathed in Quentin's heavy exhales and leaned his forehead against his, watching and waiting until Quentin opened his eyes.

"Hey," Quentin finally whispered.

"This conversation is riveting," Eliot said. Quentin smiled then and, Eliot thought, looked almost bashful.

"Well, I mean," he managed to say before he pushed forward again and didn't stop, his mouth firm against Eliot's until he had pushed him back and straddled his lap.

"Should I keep talking?" Quentin asked, running his hands up Eliot's chest. *

Shine Through My Memory by PanBoleyn, @eidetictelekinetic

This is kind of two separate stories in one, covering all of season 4, beginning with the alternate Brian and Nigel identities as they meet and fall in love, vaguely aware that there’s more to their connection than they can make sense of, and dropping into an alternate Monster plotline.  I don’t always like s4 stories, just because -- all the reasons and all -- but this is a really good Quentin, stubborn and fierce and heartbroken, juggling for all he’s worth to keep the layered memories of Brian/Nigel and the Mosaic timeline and the current clusterfuck separate and under control before he snaps under the weight of them.  It’s a little heavy, but there’s one chapter left to go, and I’m really looking forward to the release of the ending.  You really can’t get a more balanced and sturdy combination of dark canon!fic and romantic fix-it -- it’s truly the best of both worlds.

* “Colored chalk on my hands,” Brian murmurs, tasting the vanilla-caramel-white chocolate of his latte but remembering the taste of plums instead. He doesn’t even like plums, which makes the whole thing weirder, because in this not-memory he does. “I don’t understand any of this. Tell me it’s as weird for you, because I -”  A long-fingered hand closes over his own, and Brian looks up into gold-hazel eyes that he knows/doesn’t know and sees - all of it, reflected back. “I don’t get it either,” Nigel says, voice soft. “But I think maybe I’m better at just rolling with the punches than you are, hmm?” “I don’t. Roll with, with anything,” Brian says, and his voice isn’t steady anymore. “I don’t know how, my life is a predictable bore and I like the predictable part if not the bore part. But I think you have to tolerate being bored to keep things predictable so. So I tolerate it.” Tolerates a job he hates because teaching is better than a cubicle at a 9 to 5, and because the paintings and the newly-begun manuscripts that are Brian’s only love won’t pay the bills. “I’ve dated the same woman off and on six times because neither of us care enough to say no the next time one of us is lonely enough to offer, there’s been a man or two in the off points but no one. Nothing like -”

My dreams make no sense, and I feel more in them than I’ve felt in years. It’s not something he can say out loud, though. *

Veins Fit to Bursting by @amagpie

It’s a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fusion!  It’s a REALLY GOOD SMART WONDERFUL Buffy fusion!  Everyone kind of maps onto BtVS characters in a clever way, but it’s by no means a remake -- they remain very much themselves.  BtVS is obviously deep in the DNA of The Magicians, in terms of layering worldbuilding on top of an essential bone structure of coming-of-age, and this story is just an absolute bullseye in terms of understanding that.  Quentin’s general depression encompasses but isn’t limited to his feelings of being the useless sidekick, and Eliot’s transformation from mousy nerd to the undead version of the Champagne King is not only very William/Spike, but it builds this lovely foundation of connection between him and Quentin, neither of whom are living quite the life they once imagined they would.  There’s a very quarterlife-crisis vibe to the whole thing, which is perfectly in harmony with both shows, and a light touch to the voice that suits this slightly lost Quentin perfectly -- honestly, it may be my very favorite version of Quentin’s inner voice.  It’s early days yet in this WIP, but it’s fully earned my confidence in the first few chapters, and I am 100% down for the ride.

* “Okay, so I guess you could maybe say I’m a vampire hunter. But it’s not like it’s my job or anything,” Quentin pushes out in a rush.

A slow smile spreads across Eliot’s face: scary and genuine. There seems to be real interest in his eyes. Eliot settles himself onto a bench, patting the seat next to him. Quentin settles himself on the very far end of the bench to put at least a few feet between them. He’s down for a chat, not to get murdered.

“So it’s an extracurricular?” Eliot prompts. Quentin chuckles with how close to the truth it actually is, looking away. They do have an official college club to make research sessions easier -  the Ancient Sumerian Culture Club . They have a budget and everything - which Quentin submits as treasurer - although it more often gets used for pizza and wooden pegs than flyers. 

“More like a duty. Or well, not exactly my duty.” Quentin furrows his brows. “Do you remember Julia?”

“I think so? Your friend, really tiny…?”

“Yeah, so, um, Julia is the slayer.”

Quentin looks back at Eliot to take in his reaction to the news. Eliot’s eyes widen, his hands tightening for a second on the bench beneath him. Something like pride coils up in Quentin. 

“Huh,” Eliot finally says. *

[scattered--pages]

Nothing Broken, Nothing Thrown (1/?)

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Luka Couffaine & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Characters: Luka Couffaine, Anarka Couffaine, Juleka Couffaine, Couffaine Dad, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Additional Tags: Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, character backstory, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Family Issues, Childhood Trauma, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Abuse, Family Abuse, Will be followed with lots of comfort and support by Mari as the story progresses I promise, But there's a heapload of pain and trauma in between, just as a warning

Ao3 link: here

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING !!! Unfortunately, this fic is going to get quite dark at times. It talks about how I envision the Couffaine family history. From their life with their father to how Luka and Juleka, as well as Anarka, ended up dealing with the aftermath of getting away from him. In between, there will be sweet moments of Marinette comforting Luka through each step of her finding out more and more about his past, but in between, this might get a bit too much for you if you are triggered by mentions of: family abuse, alcoholism, violence, self-harm, self-destructive behavior. Part of this was written based on some of my own painful experiences from the past.

Please everyone, stay safe and do not read this if you're worried that a mention or a description of any of these might trigger any negative feelings or responses in you.If you do decide to read through, you'll get a view into how I see what made the Couffaines what they are now, ultimately stronger, happier and more free and basically the entire last chapter will be Lukanette Hurt/Comfort fluff.

As always in my fics, music inspires a great deal of my writing and the writing of this first chapter was very much accompanied by Suzanne Vega's "My Name Is Luka", as well as Hozier's "Cherry Wine", both tragic but lovely and utterly amazing songs, and listening to them while reading might complete the experience. ♡Once more, stay safe and I love all of you. ♡

Summary:

"There is something very true about that saying that talks about how the happiest and kindest people often hurt the most inside, or how they've at the very least been through such hell that you would never guess that all of that was some time ago hidden with great effort behind the ever-smiling, protective, compassionate face that they always seem to wear flawlessly. And Marinette had no idea just how heartbreakingly this was true for the boy she cared for."

There is something very true about that saying that talks about how the happiest and kindest people often hurt the most inside, or how they've at the very least been through such hell that you would never guess that all of that was some time ago hidden with great effort behind the ever-smiling, protective, compassionate face that they always seem to wear flawlessly. And Marinette had no idea just how heartbreakingly this was true for the boy she cared for. For the happy, ever-supporting and bright boy for who she has now finally without any more hesitation started to develop incredibly strong feelings for. And she suddenly felt incredibly selfish and blind when she realized that there was a reason he was somehow always her shoulder to cry on and her biggest confidante lately, to such extents that even Alya could no longer compare. Because there was something so soothing, warm and accepting about him. Something that melted her in his hug every time, making most of her worries and troubles just naturally untangle themselves right in front of him, only for him to support and listen and hold her tight through it all. But he never did the same in return. In fact, as close as they were becoming, Marinette failed to realize how little she actually knew about a huge aspect of his life or his past. And perhaps, somewhere in the back of her mind, she just convinced herself that he just didn't have anything to let out as she did, that this was why he was as he was, it only made sense. But now, her heart shattered in face of her own ignorance. Now, this was what was suddenly obvious the entire time. The sheer amount of emotions, pain and trauma that one boy had to learn to suppress and move on from.

And how did she find out? By being too nosy for her own good and taking a peek at a tattered notebook that was hanging from the pile of things they had to move to the upper deck where a former ship drawing room was being re-modeled for a new room that he could have all for himself, much to Juleka's quite equal joy who now had the entire lower deck room for her own drawings, designs and horror posters wherever she wanted them.

But one old, tattered notebook put a sudden halt to a happy moving event on the Couffaine ship. Because, as Luka, Juleka, Anarka and a few of their other friends were helping with painting the room above, Marinette was clutching at her mouth, trying desperately not to alert attention to herself, trying desperately not to sob.

The old, tattered notebook with blue and green action heroes drawn all accross the front page – was a diary.

-------

"January 7th, 2012

Today, we went back to school. I’m kind of happy about it, though. I get to see my friends again. I get to secretly buy Juleka and me a candy bar each day on our way from school with the change money mom sneaks to us. I know dad doesn’t like us spending money when there’s not enough for all the bills, but mom convinced us it’s okay if it’s just one candy bar. That’s why I usually just buy Juleka one and maybe steal a piece. I’m worried about mom, though… Her recording studio is only booked from the end of January and dad doesn’t go on his tour til February… I hope she’ll be okay. I love mom and Juleka. I love dad, too. Even though it hurts a bit to love him in the past couple of years. But he says he loves us in spite of everything and says sorry and smiles after every time he does something bad. Mom says he just has ‘bad dad’ days and that he’ll get better once he stops taking those weird pills and drinks. I really want to become a cool musician like dad one day.

Luka”

-------

Snow was falling delicately against the cold Paris ground. The after effects of Christmas holidays could still be felt in the air all around. Most of the decorations haven’t been removed yet across the city and they made this chilly winter day enveloped in fog seem just a tad bit warmer. In one apartment, however, the interior didn’t match the fancy structures covering the modern building on the outside, nor the still-loving atmosphere left behind everywhere by Christmas and New Year’s Eve. This particular fancy apartment was a mess. Instruments and bottles laying about everywhere, even though Anarka cleaned them up just the night before. The air seemed to be icier than the one outside, even though you couldn’t feel it that way on your skin. But, all things considered, today’s dinner was going by fairly peacefully. Something she was very grateful for.

“Luka, Julie?”, Anarka’s cheery voice broke the silence, “How was your first day back at school?”

The raven haired little girl looked up behind her long bangs, but seemed to be too shy or perhaps too reluctant to speak. Her father noticed that and frowned. Immediately, Luka spoke up.

“It was fun”, he fiddled with his spoon around his plate and mustered up a small smile. “We’re having a talent show in two weeks organized at school”, his eyes carefully moved up to his dad, his smile still intact, and now quite hopeful, “I was thinking about applying as a contestant.”

Gaspard’s looked up and huffed out a chuckle. “To do what?”

The little boy’s smile dropped slowly. “To… Play guitar.”

Another grim chuckle.

“Don’t embarrass yourself, kid…”

“He won’t embarrass himself!”, Anarka interjected, her face baring anger and hurt that she’s been keeping down for so long that it was now slowly seeping through the cracks each time it rose up again. “He’s really good, Gaspard!”, she reached out across the table to place a gentle hand across Luka’s. “You’ll be as good as your dad one day, won’t you?” His mother’s proud smile lured his own back onto his face, but only for a moment.

Another snarky laugh. “Merde!”

“Gaspard! Not in front of the kids, again!”

His spoon made an angry clang against the ceramic before his fist met the table. “If you wanted a fucking sweet rural gentleman for a husband and a father of your kids, Anarka, you should have stayed in the middle of fucking nowhere by the southern coast and married a fucking fisherman!”

“Dad, NO, it’s okay, you’re right, I-I… I’m not good, it was a stupid idea, I won’t sign up for the competition…!”, Luka nodded, trying to stay calm and convincing even though, underneath the table, his hands were trembling. Juleka just kept staring at her plate, face down, long black hair hiding her from the world.

Seemingly satisfied with this outcome, Gaspard smirked and continued to calmly eat his soup, like nothing had happened.

-------  

“January 16th, 2012

I’m a bit scared of dad these days. He got angry at Julie for stepping in his way when she was playing and swung his hand over her, but I managed to run in front of it and took the blow instead. She’s much smaller than me and it would have hurt her really bad. It didn’t hurt me a lot, just that my cheek was a bit purple for a couple of days, but it would have really, really hurt her. It was better this way. Dad never hit Julie before. He hit me occasionally, when he was really, really angry or drunk, and a few times he hit mom. But never Julie. He seemed to have felt bad when he realized what he almost did, it was really obvious, and he even apologized. He seemed really shaken. He even knelt down to hug us. I think he was close to crying. I was kind of happy, it was closer to how dad was a few years ago, it’s a shame Julie doesn’t even remember that dad. The fun dad. The hopeful dad. Dad’s been really, really bad since his band reunion didn’t work out and he stopped getting revenues from their music because of some issues that I didn’t really understand… I know dad can be better, if only he can stop worrying over his producer so much and if he stopped drinking. I know it. Deep inside, he’s a good dad, he really is. He gives us toys. He’s always sorry when he hits me and mom. He’s just going through a rough time, because his band isn’t as popular anymore, that’s at least what mom says. She says he’ll get better one day. I hope so too. Because sometimes I’m worried that mom is only saying that cause she’s scared of him. And my mom is never scared of anyone else, except him. I’m a bit more scared than usual, too. I’m not being very good, because I decided I really want to sign up for that talent show anyway and I’m going to get mom to get dad there by saying it’s a teacher-parent meeting or something. Cuz I really like playing the guitar. And if I show to my dad how good I am, he’ll finally be proud of me, too.”

-------

“I will not hear any of that, last month we had enough money, what the hell are you doing anyway?!”

“I only start recording in ten days, I’ve been practicing and gathering enough songs and material until that day comes, Gaspard!”, Anarka was collecting the pile of unpaid bills that she organized on the table an hour ago in preparation to talk to her husband, although now they were thrown astray. “Gaspard, I love you, but you need to realize we’re not young anymore, both of us, we can’t afford this place, we can’t afford this whole lifestyle! We can’t afford your… y-your…”, she faltered, her lower lip quivering in regret of even letting that slip out. Because sadly, nothing good will come of it. Nothing ever does.

Her husband advanced towards her and the usually brave and bubbly woman in front of him now instinctively took a shaky step backwards.

Gaspard smiled a wicked smile, twisted in the terrified irony of him being almost happy that she was able to make him mad again. Another release, another situation to explode in order to make himself feel better. “No-no, Anarka… Sweetie… Finish that sentence…”, he cocked his head in faux inquisitiveness as he continued quite literally backing her into a corner. “My? What? My d-d-drugs…?!”, he mocked the way her mouth quivered, too terrified to know if she should speak or not. “My booze?!” His hand slammed against the wall next to her. “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?”, his voice quieted town but the venom that dripped from it now seemed thicker. His head whipped back at Juleka holding her doll and her knees against her chest on the sofa, “All of you do!!!”, he bellowed, his voice filled with rage, breath filled with gin and head filled with complete disbelief of how his entire family could be so vicious and not see that he was, in fact, the real victim here.

“You!”, he pointed at his wife, “You were just Jagged’s lost little groupie when I found you!!! ‘Nanarky’…”, he imitated Jagged’s voice like a child imitating that one kid they really didn’t like, “Give me a break! And now he is being a superstar and I’m being a failure, I’m being forgotten?!”, he laughed, but it sounded so wrong that it filled Juleka’s eyes with tears, “Were you fucking him before me, Anarka?”, he tilted her chin up, “Is that why he even placed you in his band?! You were his whore, I know you were!!!”, he was screaming again and the shaking woman in front of him was suddenly filled with gust of courage as she pushed him away, whiping the tears off of her eyes in one swift movement before she faced him again.

“I will not let you insult me or my children anymore, I will not let you talk like that again!”, she roared and, for a second, he seemed genuinely shocked by the sudden shift in the usual way she reacted to situations like this. He could usually control her, no one else could, but he could. And he really didn’t like that he didn’t succeed in doing that now. “I was a good musician, a great one, you were the one that made me leave the band, you were the one who made me believe you actually cared about me…”, the tears started rushing in again, her voice breaking but not faltering, “That you wanted a family with me, that we could do this together! YOU are the one who ruined us all!”

Suddenly, she collapsed into a chair next to her and started uncontrollably sobbing into her hands. Tired, desperate, scared, and hopeless. For a minute, there was no sound other than those heart-wrenching muffled sobs, echoing across a living room far too big for the financial status of their family lately, and the wind outside. Gaspard leaned against the table, his head in his hands. It was so quiet. Too quiet. Because it was quiet enough for one sound to finally be heard in the other end of the apartment…

His fists clenched.

“I fucking swear…”, he turned towards the hallway, “If that is a guitar I hear… That boy is dead…”

“GASPARD, NO!!! YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM, YOU WILL NOT HURT LUKA AGAIN!!!”, Anarka all but screamed as she flew after him, chasing his raging footsteps as they stormed down the hallway, grabbing at his shirt to pull him back, “You can’t be jealous at your son, Gaspard, he is your son, you can’t hurt him again, y-!” – a loud thud was heard as he flung her across the narrow space into the wall behind them and slammed open the doors to Luka’s room.

There, on the floor, sat the little shaggy haired boy, guitar in his lip, frozen in fear.

“D-Dad, I-I didn’t mean to, I-I…”

Gaspard took a deep breath and took a much calmer tone, “Give that guitar… to me, boy…”

“Dad, no! I-!”

“You will OBEY me, you little shit, or you’ll become a worthless piece of shit like your mother there!”, he pointed back at Anarka, her hands covering her mouth, eyes staring at Luka, afraid that if she moved, she would doom her son even more.

Luka stood up. Jaw trembling and eyes filling with tears, but his shoulders were straight and his head tilted up. “No.”

“Luka…”, Anarka let out a horrified whisper.

“What… did you say to me, boy?!”, the old rocker let out another one of those chilling laughs before it stopped as abruptly as it began its bellowing and in one swift step, he took a step forward, snatched the guitar roughly from his son and turned to the side, holding it by its neck and swinging it above his head.

“DAD, NO!!!”, the little boy cried out, and Anarka used the chance to run over to him and take him in her arms, “NOO, PLEASE DAD, PLEASE, I WON’T PLAY IT AGAIN!!!”, he tried in vain to try to wrestle out of his mother’s arms, “DAD, NO, PLEASE, IF YOU JUST HEAR ME, YOU’LL BE PROUD OF ME, AND IF-IF NOT I’LL NEVER TOUCH IT AGAIN JUST DON’T, DAD, PLEASE IT I-“

For a second, it seemed like everything turned completely quiet and still... Until a deafening sound broke the eerie silence, loud, sharp, violent.

Hundreds of splinters flew across the room.

CRASH.

The strings held the remains of the broken pieces, sticking at each side like ruffled hay.

CRASH!

Luka’s whole body went loose in his mother’s arms as she held him even closer to her, sobbing into the back of his head. He could feel wetness gathering in his eyes, but somehow, felt completely numb and empty in that moment. His one escape, his one love, the one thing he was good at – was destroyed.

The old rocker dropped the wooden remains and ran a finger through strands of course long, half-grey hair and left the room in silence.

And Luka playing the guitar was never mentioned again, at least not in that apartment.

 -------

“February 18th, 2012

I don't talk to dad much anymore. He doesn't like me talking much anyway, I annoy him all the time and it makes me sad that I can't do anything good enough so I kinda stopped trying for awhile. I wish we could be happy. When we were younger, Julie and I, it was better than now. Things weren't perfect, but we were kinda happy. Happier than now. Dad was happier. And mom wasn't crying all the time. I wish dad still loved mom. And mom him. I wish dad loved us. I don't really think he loves me at all. I feel really empty and sad... Teacher asked me if I'm okay because my grades aren't really okay anymore. They've been going bad for awhile now, but I actually failed a few tests lately. I begged her not to tell my mom and dad and she seemed really worried, maybe because I cried, and she promised she won't, if I try to make those grades better. She asked me if I was okay. I said I was and smiled. But really, I don't really think I am. I kind of just want to disappear all the time lately.

Luka"

-------

The once fancy and happy apartment on the second floor was more messy than usual. But not the kind of creative mess that Anarka liked. And neither did Gaspard, even though he was mainly the one who caused it, proceeding than to attack his wife for why things aren't tidier around here. However, oddly enough, the air in the apartment was a bit calmer these days, but Luka and his little sister still had trouble sleeping every night so Anarka re-started the tradition of reading them bedtime stories. They would all huddle up in Juleka's room in the evening, wrapped up in a blanket on each side of Anarka as she quietly told them stories about her hometown by the French coastline. About the ships there, about how there was a legend that it was built by pirates long ago after a very powerful and successful group plundered so much throughout their journeys that they decided to settle down here and after generations and generations, their families and descendants still live there. About how her father taught her how to tie sailor's knots and how to perch up a sail when she was about Luka's age, and about how the sea was always a place where she felt the most free and peaceful. How when you're in the middle of the blue water, lulled by the quiet murmur of the waves, you don't need lullabies or bedtime stories, it is so serene and perfect that it can ease your soul into a blissful sleep within seconds on calm, starry nights. Eventually, she started promising them how, if things ever get even worse, she would take both of them and they would sail away, like her ancestors, and they would fight and plunder evil people, overcome even the worst storms because, when the waves get so high and dark that you can already feel the salt suffocating your throat before it even hit you, than, in that moment, is when every true sailor can use their inner strength to its fullest and find a way to take control of the sea and survive. Because there is no storm that a pirate can't defeat. And they are, after all, pirates. So no storm can ever do them any harm.

A lot of the time, Luka and Juleka's father wasn't even home these days, and when he came home, he was cold as ice, but at least he was mostly quiet and unphased. He didn't like them bothering him, he didn't really even want to see them occasionally, and occasionally, Luka would even see him cry and then, for a moment, he would hope again, just briefly, that maybe, just maybe, he still cares. Maybe there's still a way to reach to him, to fix all of this. But Luka never tried, and he didn't even know how. Somehow, these moments only made him feel even more miserable afterwards. And then he would lock himself up in his room, he'd crawl under his blankets, he'd push away his action figures and notebooks and he'd cry as well. Sometimes for a very long time. Sometimes he wasn't even sure why. But he did feel a bit better, from broken to numb, when the rush of tears was over. He started re-telling their mother's stories to Juleka, convincing her that truly, one day, they really would all escape all this, sail away from Paris, and then everything would be okay. Because the sea fixes everything. And because they can beat any storm, because they're pirates, mom said so.

One of these evenings around a very tension-filled mid-February, things seemed like the usual. Or at least what 'usual' meant lately. Outside, Paris was still decked in bright, crimson colors, snow covering happy, bright Valentine's day decorations strewn across every cafe veranda and against many windows in the city centre apartments. Inside their apartment, once again, it was just cold. And not much else. This time, the chill reached both figuratively and literally into the tenants of the large apartment on the second floor of the condominium complex. They shut off their heating a few days ago because Anarka couldn't pay their heating bills anymore, but a kind neighbour borrowed them two moveable electrical radiators that they mainly used in their bedrooms and in the kitchen in the morning when she made them breakfast. It had to be plugged into electricity, which they still had, but it never went outside of Anarka's mind that next month, she won't have enough for electricity either, third month in a row, and then, she didn't know what she would do and how she would keep her children warm. But their lives now were lived day by then, built on promises of everything somehow getting better, on enduring everything like they did so far.

Gaspard, however, wasn't as happy with this. But he didn't really have enough will-power to do anything about it, which only fuelled his rage, making him spend the little they had on alcohol and colorful tablets that Luka thought looked like bonbons but he knew how dangerous they were and had to keep Juleka from accidentally eating them a few times, thinking they were candy. Because Gaspard no longer cared enough to at least hide them or keep them away at all. They were strewn all over the place, just like the bottles, clothes, dishes, and the pieces of their family that seemed to never have been quite whole at all.

One night, Anarka made sure Luka and Juleka washed their teeth and got ready for bedtime, one of the radiators, a bit old but practical and doing what they were intended to do, was buzzing idly in the bathroom as she helped Juleka get into her pyjamas. It got so cold that they all slept in one bed in her room. Gaspard usually passed out in the living room, fully clothes, wrapped in his coat, so he didn't mind anyway. Sometimes, he wouldn't even come home for days at a time. But today. He cared. Or minded, to put it better. The last resort he had to feeling alive and fine with this whole situation was an abundant combination of brandy and those colorful tablets, but there wasn't enough money left for him to steal from their savings anymore to buy as much as he needed and slowly, but dangerously, Gaspard was breaking along the edges.

"Anarka!", he bellowed from the living room, his voice laced with alcohol - 'fortunately' for him, that, was still fairly cheap to obtain, so his solution was to simply replace the role of pills in his daily concoctions by just consuming a double dosage of liquor in whichever shape or form he could find and buy it. "It is fucking FREEZING here!"

His wife adjusted her glasses shakily and peeked from the bathroom doors, gesturing for Juleka not to come outside. Luka peeked from their bedroom and instantly slid back behind the door frame as well. "We didn't have enough for heating this month, Gaspard", she said carefully, "You know that."

"How?!”

“Gaspard… There hasn’t been enough money… I got my pay for the recordings I did, but… Your revenues still haven’t started coming in again and this apartment costs a fortune just to maintain and-and…”

“Jesus fucking Christ, woman, that doesn’t answer my question!”, he spread his arms wide and turned around, looking around the place with a murky gaze, “I’m the guitarist of the world famous Dark Concords, we should be able to afford double as big of a place than this!”, he stared of into the distance, eyes focused on an unidentifiable spot on the wall. Anarka’s eyes teared up.

“Please, mon cher, you’re not well, you’re not sober…”, she sniffled quietly, weary of any noise she was creating, any annoyance she may be presenting. “And you haven’t been a part of the Dar Concords for a few years now, mon cher… You know th-“

“ I was a STAR, Anarka, I was bathing in money, we had enough for CENTURIES, what did you buy, where the fuck did it disappear suddenly?!"

"It's been disappearing for awhile now, Gaspard...", still calm and cautious, she attempted to muster up a brief explanation, like she was talking to a dangerously disobedient child that she didn't want to upset again instead of to a husband who, when he was sober, already knew all of this all to well, "I didn't buy anything out of the ordinary, you know that..."

"HOW is that possible?! Where the fuck did it go then if you didn't waste it?!", he advanced towards her, arms clenching

"Gaspard, please... We-We've been over this... We'll talk about this again when you're not like th-"

"Like WHAT, Anarka?! You don't like me like this, I KNOW that, I know that you've started abandoning me ever since things went even a BIT away from picture perfect!", his eyes almost seemed teary, but the way his frame shook was so violent and terrifying that wasn't capable of awakening any sympathy. Anarka gently pushed Juleka inside the bathroom as the little girl with the long black hair scuttled behind her to peek out. Her mother made sure to quietly but securely close the door to keep her away from what was happening, again, on a night she really thought would be able to pass through without this.

"You know that's not true, Gaspard...", her voice broke, tears rolling against the corners of her lips, "You can't claim that, you know it's not true...", her voice was gentle, almost forgiving, "You know I would give everything for our family, I'm still here...", she nodded her head, "We all are... We all want you to get better and come back to us..."

"Better?", his lip quivered in a way that sent shivers down Luka's spine as he carefully watched from the barely opened door of the main bedroom. "BETTER?! After everything I've done for you, I'm still not good enough for you or the world, huh?!", his voice thundered and Anarka extended a shaky hand towards his cheek, "Gaspard, please..." -- but it was all she managed to say before her body was flung against the hallway cupboard, the side of it breaking under her as she slammed against it, blood pooling beneath the skin of her eye and cheek on the side where she was struck, blood pouring out from her nose, deep crimson as it smudged against her pale skin. Luka couldn't take it. Not anymore. No more forgiveness. No more trying. No more hoping.

"I hate you...", he hissed through clenched fists, face dark as the face of a child his age shouldn't be capable of being. "I. HATE. YOU!", the boy screamed, a second before patters of bare feet started violently running against the cold tiles in front of him as he basically charged at his father in full speed. What followed happened so fast that, within a second, an angry hand pushed back, full force as well, but this time coming from a much bigger and more dangerous source, just a small shove, a throw for the man, a movement that almost seemed easy from how quick and effortless it was, but the damage it left proved a stark, chilling contrast to this. All that could be heard in one moment was the loud, shrill smashing of broken glass of the door leading from the hallway to the living room, before a sharp metallic smell filled the air. Red soaked his teal pyjama shirt in such amount that made it quickly started cling to his skin like a wet tissue, pouring from his head, side side, his back, it was horrifyingly difficult to tell.

"LUKA!!!", the scream of a mother, broken, was shrill and so engulfed in pain that it would break even the hardest heart. Her own pain didn't matter anymore because, somehow, she was by her son's side in a flash, trying desperately to cradle him as carefully as possible in her arms, not minding the shards, but minding not to make them stick into his skin even further. "No, no, no, no, no... My baby boy... My sweet, brave little boy... My angel, no, no, no, what did you do... What did you do?!", her words were dragged along with her sobs, directed at the man now holding his hand in his hands, suddenly confused, dazed and afraid as his family had never seen him. He tried to say something, mouthing words akin to 'I'm sorry' over and over, but Anarka couldn't even look at him, she just cradled her boy and repeated the last words she said like a torn mantra a few more times, before she snatched the phone from the broken cupboard and dialled the emergency services.

Her husband didn't stay to wait for her to finish the call. He backed away into the entrance door, opened it shakily and ran outside aimlessly. In that exact moment, Juleka rushed from the bathroom, shivering as she jumped down into her mother's arms, sobbing, whimpering, stretching out a small, shaky hand to clumsily but tenderly smooth it against her brothers dark hair, wet with blood, as he mumbled out words they couldn't understand... to her? To his mother? Was he even conscious? Were they pleas for help? The sounds were so disfigured that Juleka thought her brother must have forgotten how to talk from the blow of the fall, but she still tried to make him feel better, tapping at his hair with her little hand like their mom used to do when she would put them to sleep every night. Slow, calming, humming.

It was an aching image of love, tragedy and family in the worst, most wrong way possible, hurting and seeping at the edges, tearing apart. Of three people trying to make each other safe when they couldn't even protect themselves any more at this point. And so they remained, the three of them, together, until the emergency workers tore them apart and placed Luka's screaming, desperate, terrified mother into one van, a kind nurse administering something that she kept promising would calm her down, they wrapped Juleka in a blanket and placed her beside her mother on the stretcher in the first vehicle, as they rushed Luka into another, bandages, panicked personnel and I.V. tubes blocking the view at the boy's broken frame. As Juleka watched them closed the door, for some reason, a sheer surge of terror coursed through her and she felt this incredibly strong fear that she may not see her big brother any more after this and immediately broke into tears again, this time even louder, more terrified, her quiet voice suddenly spilling into screaming, gut-wrenchingly painful sobs that out-voiced even the muffling, loud roar of the red and blue sirens of the emergency vans that were rushing them away from the hell of broken glass, broken promises and a home that seemed to have never really been a home at all...

-------

The last few pages was Luka writing up what the nurses, his sister and mother told him about the whole event after he woke up a few days later, with a lot of stitches, an arm broken in three places, hip fractured, head throbbing, his small body heavy and tired, and skin still ghostly pale and aenemic from the lack of blood that still didn't quite fix itself back to normal even after a couple of days of transfusions and I.V. treatments and horrible headaches that couldn’t pass from even the strongest medications that they were able to give him. But he was alive, and they all said it was a miracle that he was after how his tiny frame smashed through those doors. He was concussed and hurt and broken, but alive. And he will be okay. For Anarka and Juleka, this was enough, and the poor woman started yelling at the doctors when they offered to explain to Luka himself the state he was in. Instead, she was intent on somehow making her children forget all about what happened. She said one of the boats stationed at the Seine’s shores is being sold and that her family will borrow her some money to buy it. They’ll finally have their boat, they’ll finally be pirates, free and happy and away from everything bad, taking life as it is, never staying at one place for too long and never having to worry about anything. She assured them of this. And Luka thought that, perhaps, she was just trying to shelter them, or at least to distract and shelter him from remembering all that happened that night, but in fact, she didn’t even need to try too much, Luka didn't remember a single thing from that day. At least at that point when Juleka secretly told him about everything, with teary eyes and hands that clutched at his hand on the bed so tightly that he thought she would never let him go. But he didn't ask her to. If all he could do now to make her feel better was to let her hold his hand for as long as they let her, he didn't mind in the slightest. And if all that helped calm his mom down was to avoid the topic of what put them in this mess in the first place, well that wasn't a difficult task either.

Perhaps the most heartbreaking part of this particular entry though, and the conclusion of the entire journal, was the final note about how he wondered, still, after they've told him about all that transpired, if his dad will come to visit him. Because he missed him...

"Marinette...?", a soft voice with only hints of panic woke her up from her trance. It was only than that she realized she set there on the floor, the notebook in her lap - which Luka most definitely recognized - hand over her quietly sobbing mouth, tears pouring for what could have been an eternity after she finished that last page.

Hesitant and careful, Luka stood at the entrance to the room on the boat that he used to share with his sister, in times that marked the beginning of much happier years than those whose end was described in that small journal, written in that large but cold apartment further uptown in Paris. He wasn't sure how much she read of it and it was as if he didn't know how to react. Of course, deep inside, in a way, he felt exposed, embarrassed, as one would of someone, especially someone he cares about discovering a darker side of his life that he tried very hard to hide and bury deep, deep into the past, but more so than any of the self-consciousness he might have felt, he was worried at the state that diary left Marinette in.

But just as he parted his lips to say something, the small, shaken figure on the floor sprung up suddenly, closed the distance between them and leapt into his arms, holding him more tightly against her than she ever did. If this was in any other circumstance, he might have blushed, he might have chuckled, but right now, the only meaning this embrace had was a consolation and validation of how horrific the things he went through were, as well as of how, in spite of them, he was still here, someone knew about this, or at least about a part of it, and they still loved him and accepted him instead of judging him or feeling sorry for him. Because that wasn't an embrace of pity. It was of support, of love, something he never got outside from Juleka and his mother because he never dared tell anyone about this, his 'new' life completely replacing his 'old' one in a way that he didn't even dare mention it in fear of ruining everything. Maybe people would have even judged him for how broken he got after it all because maybe other people had it even worse.

But someone else knew now.

Someone finally knew, and they accepted it with love and, for the first time in forever, Luka was the one being cared for, consoled, cradled in someone's arms, instead of it always being the other way around. And he didn't mind it being the other way around, hell he made sure it was always mainly the other way around but, god. This gripped him to his core and brought him back into the state of mind and emotion of that little boy, standing at the entrance of his room, scared and excited whenever he would see his dad come home, broken and hopeful, persistent until he became angry and terrified and heartbroken and nothing more.

"Marinette...", was all he managed to whisper, voice cracking against her hair, arms wrapped around her pulling her even closer, nearer... The girl who now exposed all of his cleverly hidden and masked broken pieces while instantly managing to hold them together and patch them up, bit by bit, teardrop by teardrop as they cried in each other's arms, second by second of desperate hands clutching at each other, unwilling to part as if they were holding onto one another for dear life.

And if a single punch, a throw, could have broken him so thoroughly, physically and emotionally, as that one did more than seven years ago, than this one embrace was enough to stitch together years of suppressed pain, fears and loss, blissfully, fiercely, all at once.

“Do… Do you want to know what happened afterwards?”

Gently pulling away to look at him, Marinette blinked her tears away and nodded firmly.

“Tell me everything, please.”

[randomoranges]

i lost a friendly wager last night. we agreed to soft. then i was told historical period costumes and or baking. (because i historical period costumes are not in my drawing range.) i offered words and they were accepted. this idea sprouted.

a whole brand new au world for a friendly wager i lost.

liberties were taken.

i can chat your ear off with this dumb new au. 

@allbeendonebefore here are your winnings. 

O Come, All Ye Faithful [In Excelsis Deo]

 Edward takes out the last tray of gingerbread people from the oven and places the tray to cool. He removes his oven mitts and apron, before loading the last items into the dishwasher and then starts it. He is about to call out to his partner, to ask him where the decorating kit with the brushes are (because that’s his partner’s job – even if they always end up decorating together – because Edward likes to spend time with him,) when said partner lets out a string of curses. Amused, Edward peers into the eating area to find Étienne re-stringing the sewing machine for what must be the nineteenth time this past hour.

 Edward spares one of his gingerbread folk and plates it, before making his way to where Étienne is working, figuring he could use a break before he chucks the sewing machine and work-in-progress out their living room window.

 “Careful, dear,” He starts, putting the plate down, “The sewing machine hears you when you curse at it. I find that gentle encouragement works best.”

 Étienne grumbles something under his breath, which sounds a lot like “waste of time” and “it should know better,” before he sits up and leans away from the table. Edward takes the hint and cozies himself up on Étienne’s lap. He brushes back a long strand of curly brown hair away from Étienne’s face and tucks it behind his ear. Étienne sighs and leans into Edward’s chest, defeated.

 “Remind me again why this was a good idea,” He mumbles and Edward chuckles softly, rubbing his beau’s back.

 This is a historically accurate late nineteenth century dress, with all the intricate patterns, jewels, beads, and details that come with it (with some modern alterations, because Edward needs to be able to actually get out of the dress) that Étienne decided to make from scratch. He researched the design, stayed up late more nights than Edward is probably aware of, spent every waking moment on the garment, he even took out his grandmother’s old sewing machine for it, and all because Edward has a show at the end of the month and Edward deserves the absolute best, even if it kills him. Or so Étienne says and believes.

 Étienne is a stubborn, mule-headed idiot and Edward absolutely loves him.

 The fool.

 Edward still remembers the day they met. (Étienne always tells the story better.)

 It happened a really long time ago – it feels like it happened centuries ago, but back then, Edward’s main source of income comes from the drag shows he participates in. He enjoys the performative aspect of it, likes the fact that he can explore different facets of himself and likes how free it makes him feel. He has worked hard creating his persona, has worked hard on his performance, and even though he isn’t the Greatest Drag Queen to ever grace the planet, he is quite good, if he says so himself and he has a small following, which he thinks is endearing – when he lets himself admit to it.

 The story goes that on a dreary November evening, Étienne happened to be sitting in the small cabaret where Edward was performing that very same night. Étienne had gone there with his friends, since he did not usually frequent such places, and it actually turned out to be his very first experience assisting a drag performance.

 Then, the moment Edward (well, at the time Étienne didn’t know his name was Edward – all he knew was that this performer was Klondike Kate) stepped out on stage, in his beautiful flowing dress with the poofy sleeves, perfectly made up hair (was it real, was it a wig? It was hard to tell), outrageous, gorgeous hat, and elaborate makeup, Étienne’s heart stopped beating for a second. When the lights dimmed down low and the first few notes of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” played, Étienne’s breath stilled. And then, when Edward started singing, in that perfect voice of his, swaying gently to the music, Étienne forgot to breathe all together.

 When Étienne tells the story, he adds that after Klondike Kate’s number, he rushed out of the cabaret to find the nearest anything that would sell flowers to buy a bouquet. There was a dep across the street and Étienne swears a car almost hit him as he ran to the store. Edward is never sure if that part is true or exaggerated, but he doesn’t interrupt and lets the story go. Étienne recounts how the only flowers the dépanneur had were a sad looking bouquet with three roses that had seen better days and a few other yellow flowers he couldn’t name, but how it had to do and so he got it, using the last twenty-dollar bill he had in his pocket.

 (There is a part to this story that no one knows – not even Étienne – and that’s that Edward still has those flowers. He pressed them between the pages of an old book and he lovingly preserved them, all these years later.)

 The story ends with Étienne somehow or other making his way backstage after the show and finding the door to Klondike Kate’s dressing room. He says he didn’t have to bribe anyone, that his charms and good looks granted him passage alone and that as long as anyone acts confident and as though they know what they’re doing, it’s fine. Edward always has more questions at that part, but it’s such a good tale that he keeps his mouth shut and listens. (He’s heard the story so many times by now, but it’s his favourite.)

 Quite frankly, Edward was actually quite startled when he opened his dressing room door to find such a strapping young man standing in front of it with a partial besotted look upon him, but what had really gotten him was that this stranger had been able to just – waltz in without getting caught.

 Edward had blinked, curious, and Étienne had fumbled something about having just attended the show and how great he thought Klondike Kate had been and what a voice he (she?) had and well – he wanted to congratulate him (her?) in person and – yeah this was kind of weird, and he was not usually such a mess, but he is impulsive and so please accept these flowers as a token of congratulations.

 Before Edward even had a chance to say anything, Étienne had bolted out (in Étienne’s words, walked out quickly and obviously, smoothly), leaving one very perplexed Edward behind, flowers in hand.

 Edward thought for sure that this was the end of his strange suitor? Fan? Admirer? Crazy stalker??, but he still put the flowers in a vase, still brought them home, and still carefully dried all of them out – for some reason. (He didn’t always get flowers and not even his last boyfriend had bothered, so, really, the gesture was nice.)

 He more or less forgot about the stranger and continued living his life, preparing for his shows, but Étienne became a returning customer. He went to every show, cheered the loudest (not that Edward could tell), but he made sure to sit at the far back, away from the lights and from where Klondike Kate could see him. The plan was to keep a safe distance and admire from afar, but sometimes, the universe has strange plans.

 And so, towards the end of January, after a show, Étienne walked up to the bus stop and he was quietly smoking a cigarette, replaying his favourite parts of the show in his mind, when Edward (whose car was in the shop and who couldn’t be bothered to hail a cab when he literally had a five minute commute from here and knew the bus would be here in four minutes max) showed up in his line of sight.

 “It’s you!” Edward said and Étienne’s eyes had widened as he tried to find something intelligent to say. “You’re the flower guy!” Edward added.

 “Étienne – actually, my name is Étienne,” He tried, offering a shy, timid smile and Edward was surprised, if endeared and he laughed over the ridiculousness of the whole affair.

 “And I’m Edward, actually, my name is Edward,” He added with a smile of his own, extending his hand.

 Étienne wraps up the story at that point, usually. He says they became friends after that, before he finally found the courage to ask Edward out after a show, one day and that the rest is history. It’s mostly true. Mostly, because there’s the part where they both missed their bus stop because they were too busy talking. Mostly, because they walked all the way back to Edward’s place (Étienne didn’t want to let him go alone). Mostly, because Edward really wanted to invite him back inside afterwards for anything – even if it was just talking. Mostly, because at the time Étienne was seeing someone (even though it was complicated and mostly on its way out, but it wouldn’t be right). Mostly, because by the time Étienne was single again, Edward was seeing someone. Mostly, because even though they became fast friends and spent whatever time they had together, Étienne asked him to dinner the night Edward’s boyfriend dumped him and for the longest time, Edward thought he was using Étienne as a rebound. (And if that’s the case, then Étienne is at least a twelve year old rebound.)

 They’ve grown, since then. They own the place they live in (somehow) and they do grownup things like pay bills, talk about their mortgage, and clean out the filters of the wall unit three times a year. Étienne has a real job now. He’s not a student anymore. (Not like when they met.) Edward also has a real job now, but he still does drag every so often. He likes it. He likes being Klondike Kate. He likes mentoring the new queens. (He calls them his little princesses. They love it. Étienne thinks it’s the cutest thing ever. Étienne still goes to every show. He brings Edward a bouquet after every show. It’s a much nicer bouquet than that first one. In fact, he’s only ever missed a grand total of six shows and he hates himself for it. Edward tells him every time to chill, he had valid reasons. Étienne doesn’t want to hear a word of it. It’s infuriatingly endearing. And annoying as hell.)

 He likes the friends he’s made, the community he’s found and the sense of belonging he gets from performing. Klondike Kate can say things Edward can’t blurt out whenever and wherever. Klondike Kate can wear nice dresses, heels, makeup, and pretty gloves. Klondike Kate gets attention he never wants as Edward. Klondike Kate let’s Étienne dote on her as much as he wants. (Edward does as well, but sometimes he wants to dote on Étienne and Étienne is a stubborn old goat he loves very much.) It’s a strange dichotomy and he loves it. He loves sitting in front of his vanity and applying his makeup. He loves watching his transformation from Edward to Klondike Kate. (He loves sitting at his vanity and having Étienne gently remove the makeup from his face, transforming him back, at the end of every show. It’s a ritual. He wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.)

 The cabaret he’s been performing at for the past ten years is putting on a special show for the holiday season – something authentic and historical and the owner politely asked Edward if he would like to perform. It’s a part special, part retrospective, part throw off for the end of the decade and part whatever the queens want it to be. Edward says yes almost immediately and he then thinks of what he can do – what he can wear. He has his usual dresses and costumes – his usual numbers. His favourites and easy go-tos. But then he thinks of the meaning behind Klondike Kate – what she means to him, why he picked her name, and he figures he can really put on a show.

 It’s when Étienne comes up with the crazy idea to make him a period accurate dress.

 Edward laughs at his idea – because he thinks Étienne is joking.

 Étienne already has his sketchbook out and is looking at images on his tablet, jotting things down, saving reference photos, looking at past photos of Edward’s costumes as well. Watching Étienne work is a dizzying affair. He’s in five places at the same time. Edward knows not to kill off such creative energy, so he tells him not to get in too deep and lets him be.

 It was a mistake, obviously.

 It’s a good thing Edward wasn’t there to see him work at the library.

 It’s how nine days before the show Étienne is still fighting with the sewing machine (because Edward is the one who’s good with the sewing machine – Étienne learnt it for fun a few years back – after he brought home his grandmother’s old sewing machine) and he’s cursing about beads and jewels (because Klondike Kate deserves the greatest, poofiest dress ever). It’s not that Edward does not try to make this easier for his beau – he tries, oh he tries to get Étienne to reconsider – they could take one of Edward’s old costumes and make alterations to it, but Étienne is and always has been stubborn.

 So Étienne has hand sewn the jewels and the beads, has measured once and twice (and thrice) has cursed and pricked his fingers, has sat down with the old sewing machine and with time, the dress has slowly taken shape. Slowly.

 “You said something about wanting to make me the greatest dress ever known, dear,” He reminds Étienne, who nods sagely and picks at the sleeve he has apparently been having trouble with.

 “Yes, that’s right and you’ll look absolutely stunning in it.” He says with all the sincerity of the world.

 Edward’s cheeks pink ever so and Étienne grins. He’s ridiculous and Edward loves him so.

 “Think you’ll be done before the actual show?” He teases to regain his footing. Étienne pushes up his glasses and studies his work – the dark mauve of the fabric, the sleeves, the bodice with the lace and the jewels and the beads. He’s pensive and serious, but Edward spots a hint of a smile and knows that Étienne is messing with him now.

 “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’ll be done by this summer, you see, there’s a handsome fellow sitting on my lap and I simply cannot do anymore work,” He adds, mock serious and Edward playfully hits his arm.

 “Need I remind you that you’ve been complaining about this all day. I came to see you in your time of need to bring you comfort and joy in the form of my company and a cookie, but if this is the thanks I get...” He tries to get off, but Étienne is quicker and wraps his arms around him tightly, trapping him in place.

 “And I am ever so grateful for such an offering. With it, I’ll be able to complete this dress from hell by the end of the evening – hopefully.”

 Edward pecks his nose in thanks but remains seated on Étienne’s lap for a moment longer. He likes it here – it’s nice and comfortable.

 “Think you can model this one for me, after?” Étienne asks, looking up at him.

 Edward nuzzles their noses together and smiles, “Of course – when have I not?”

 FIN

[panda-noosh]

Night at the Opera {Hunk x Reader}{The Rockstars Series}

 The Rockstar Series: a series of fics documenting rockstar!Voltron falling in love. 

  Words: 13k 

  Summary: Hunk plays the drums for a new, young rock band called the Smokey Saturdays. When he loses his drum stick on the night of a performance, his attempts to locate it lead him directly to you. 

  Genre: fluff - angst (but its light angst for once :):):) ) 

  Warning: swearing 

  Notes: masterlist –  a new lil mini series! they’ll all be stand-alone fics, but they’ll all belong to the same series. i hope you like it :) 

  ---

    For Hunk, there was nothing more satisfying than hearing the crowd scream his name.

   Behind a closed door, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The drum sticks were heavy, held only by his index and middle finger. Despite how carefully he held them, they were an extension of his body, a part of who he was, a symbol of his identity. When people saw Hunk without his drum sticks, they got suspicious.

   The crowd screaming was what always brought him to earth. It humbled him more than most people saw possible; he was a rock star. He should have been acting like one, should have been spending his money on expensive cars that he would never learn how to drive, houses that he didn't need, clothes that would just make him look stupid in the end anyway.

    But no. The screams humbled him, because they were an audible reminder of what he was doing and how far he had come to get to this place. It reminded him of his mother, struggling to make ends meet when he was a boy, and his father who worked two jobs just so they could keep a roof over their heads. It reminded him of the time he himself had worked two jobs, grabbing at the chance to help his parents pay bills long before his time; as soon as his National Security had arrived in the mail, he was out looking for any and all jobs he could find.

    His dream was always to be here, and the crowd crying out for him was a reminder that he had made it. Through thick and thin, he and his band mates had made it.

    ---

   Allura was drunk again.

   The band hadn't even started playing, and she was already struggling to keep her head up. You had barely gotten through your first glass of vodka and coke before you were forced to abandon all ideas of getting shit-faced drunk to make sure your best friend didn't smash her nose off the curb.

   You kept one arm wrapped around her shoulders, your other hand laid on her knee in silent warning. To the untrained eye, you would have looked like nothing more than a comforting pal, making sure Allura stayed out of trouble; in reality, you were already plotting the favours Allura would owe you once you two finally got back to the dorms.

    “Have they started playing yet?” Allura asked, tilting her head to see over the crowd of bustling music-lovers.

    “No. Would you sit down? I don't trust you to stand up on your own right now.”

  Allura snorted and you frowned; she thought you were joking.

    “Allura, I'm serious. If you get any worse, I'm taking you home.”

   “Home?” she shrilled, spinning around in her chair and grabbing your chin. “Threaten me like that again, Y/N, and I'll have your wrists.”

   You rolled your eyes, swatting her hand away. “I think I need to get you some water.”

   “And a vodka,” she said, giving you a thumbs up. You didn't give it back to her, but instead got up from your stool and started towards the bar. You had come out tonight for a good time, your first night out in months. Exams had finally finished, and the idea of staying on campus for longer than necessary had been enough to drive you out of the comfort of your own home and into the first club you could find. This one seemed particularly interesting, as it promised you a live band performance from a group called Smokey Saturdays – you didn't know who they were, but anything besides stupid techno-music would have sufficed at this point.

    But, of course, things were never that simple. Allura could never let things be that simple, and you quite honestly should have known better than to trust her.

    You had a headache by the time you arrived at the bar, though it was not the alcohol-induced headache you would have preferred. The music was too loud, and the crowd was too close. Quite frankly, by the time you reached the bar and had started ordering Allura's water, you were ready to turn on your heel and go home. Walking home in the pouring rain would have been better than this.

   You sighed and slumped forward, running your hand over your forehead in any attempt to soothe the knot that had formed in your temple. Nothing worked. You could still hear the music, could still feel that one hand that tried to grope you before you flinched out of the way. People were still shoving you, and you were still sober – that was the worst of all.

    “Hi, yeah, just a Budweiser, please.”

   You glanced to the side, the presence of the man now standing beside you drawing your attention more than you cared to admit; perhaps it was because he was so tall, built unlike any other person you had seen before. He had the broadest shoulders you had ever seen, was wearing a yellow jacket and a bandanna that did little to push back his thick brown locks.

   He met your eyes, and neither of you looked away for a few seconds. If it had been any other time, you would have burned in embarrassment before quickly looking away, but your current headache and your current bad mood was making you sluggish.

    The man smiled before you could turn away, tilting his head to the side. “Hi there.”

   You smiled back. “Hello.”

    And that was the start of it. It was weird how a bit of booze and some strobe lights could make two strangers so comfortable with each other in the space of a few seconds. The man sidled over to you, sitting down on the stool by the bar before ushering for you to take the seat next to him. You hadn't even realised you had been standing, though now that the stranger had pointed it out to you, the pain stabbing through your feet became much more pronounced.

   You took the seat next to him.

    “You don't look like you're having an easy time,” the man said as a way to start the conversation. He flushed as soon as he said it, quickly looking away. “I mean, I saw you and your friend earlier on, and she didn't look – she was a little – uh-”

   “She's pissed,” you finished. “Yeah. I don't know how she manages to get herself in that state so quickly, but she's done it tonight.”

   “And you're still sober?”

   “Completely and utterly sober.”

  The man sucked in air between his teeth. “You're braver than I am.”

  “You drink often?”

   He shrugged. “It kind of comes hand-in-hand with the job.”

  Your curiosity peaked, though you bit your tongue. You didn't even know this mans name yet – what was the point in learning about his occupation if you didn't even know what he was called?

  “I'm Y/N,” you offered.

  “Hunk,” he replied, nodding at you. “Do you come to these kind of places often?”

   Your response was immediate. “No. I'm a university student – it's rare that I can actually ever afford to come to these kind of places.”

   Hunk chuckled as if you were joking. “See this is why I didn't go to university. I was working before I even left high school.”

   “Really?”

   “Mm. I really liked school, don't get me wrong. I wasn't one of these rebellious kids who think education is for pansys – I just thought my efforts would be more appreciated outside of the classroom, so that's what I did. I dropped out and went to work.”

   You pursed your lips, eyeing his side profile. He had turned back to face the bartender who was now approaching the two of you with two glasses in his hands – one filled with Budweiser, the other filled with water.

   “What are you studying?”

  The question jolted you out of your stupor. “Modern languages.” You shrugged. “I'm kind of regretting it, though.”

  “Why? That sounds like a fun thing to study.”

   “I mean, it is. I love languages, but it takes up a lot of time. It's not the kind of thing you can just . . . slack on, you know?”

   Hunk nodded. You had the vague impression that he did, in fact, not know, but was too kind to say anything.

    “I live with a guy who speaks Spanish. Maybe you two will hit it off if you ever meet.”

  “Maybe.”

    You chose to ignore the fact that you would most likely never see Hunk again after tonight, let alone his housemate. It didn't make you sad, didn't disappoint you – it was just one of those things that life did. It handed you these people for brief moments in time and then snatched them away before any kind of connection could be made – a kind of test, though you were still unsure as to what exactly the universe was testing you on.

    Hunk craned his neck, looking over your shoulder. You caught the moment his small smile slipped into a frown, the moment his eyes narrowed, and you immediately knew what was looking at.

   Because you heard her as well.

   “Where's my Y/N?” Allura called, heard over the sound of the music and crowd. “If anyone has touched my Y/N, I'll have your wrists.”

   “I think your friend is looking for you,” Hunk said, pointing. You bit your lip and turned around, catching Allura just seconds before she fell into your arms and nuzzled her head in your neck.

   “There you are! Don't run off again like that, okay? You're too drunk to be left on your own.”

   You grunted, reaching behind you and picking up the glass of water you had ordered. Allura looked at it as if you were offering her some kind of poison, her nose crinkling and her body flinching away from your own. You just barely managed to grab a hold of her before she could fully turn and escape.

   “Drink,” you demanded, pressing the rim of the cup to her mouth.

   She glared at you as you tilted the cup back and trickled the water into her mouth, though she swallowed and showed you her mouth once she was done. It reminded you of a child taking a tablet they didn't want to take – but at least she had drank it.

   You turned, ready to say your goodbyes to Hunk, only to find that the man had already turned and left. You raised a brow, glancing to and fro for any sign of him – all that was left to prove he had been there at all was his unfinished drink and a wooden drum stick.

   You turned back, wrapped an arm around Allura's shoulders and ushered her towards the lounge area, refusing to dwell too much on a man you knew you would never have any connections with in the future.

   ---

   “How did you lose it? I thought them things were sewed to your god damn hand!”

  Hunk groaned. This was definitely not what he needed to hear right now – yes, he had fucked up, but that didn't mean he wanted to dwell on it. He just wanted to get the situation sorted and move on.

   Lance groaned, mimicking Hunk in a way that made his skin bristle. “We're on in five minutes, and you've lost the one piece of equipment you need to be any use to us.”

   “Go easy, Lance,” Pidge said. “I'm sure the storage room has a spare set of drum sticks.”

   “Yeah, well, you better go and get them because we're on in-”

  “Five minutes,” Keith finished. “Yes, we heard you the first time. Honestly, Lance, the crowd out there is probably too drunk to care if we're a little late.”

   Lance scoffed, folding his skinny arms over his chest. “Attitude like that is the reason we're not playing stadiums right now.”

    “Yeah,” Keith grunted, plucking at the strings of his bass guitar. “That's the reason.”

    Lance scowled, cutting Keith with a look that could kill. He didn't even turn back to Hunk when he said, “Just go and find a pair of drum sticks. We don't have time for this.”

   Hunk didn't need to be told twice. At this point, he would have taken any and all excuses to get out of the backstage lounge, away from Lance and away from the suffocating aura of disappointment that never failed to make Hunk's limbs feel heavy.

   He headed straight for the storage room. The one good drum stick he had left felt heavy as he twirled it in his fingers; he hated playing with unfamiliar equipment. The drum sticks he used were the source of his skill, in his mind. His grandfather had carved them for him for his twelfth birthday, and Hunk had never used another set unless he desperately needed to – right now seemed like one of those desperate occasions.

   Once he gathered up an extra set of drum sticks, tested out their weight and got familiar with the length of them, he turned back and headed towards his band mates. He could hear Lance practising his vocals one final time, and then there names were being called and Hunk was forced to shove all of his doubts to the side. He instead zoned in on the sound of the crowd outside, the way they yelled his name, the way they cheered for him.

   It soothed him.

   The curtains opened, and the crowd erupted, and suddenly Hunk was sat behind a drum kit and there was music blasting out around him – familiar music. Music he and Shiro made together, music he had stressed over and created from the ground up because that was what he loved to do.

   He lost himself both in the crowds cries and his own head. Despite the unfamiliar weight of the new drum sticks in his hands, he didn't miss a single beat. His hands knew where to go. He had played this song so many times before, and each time felt like the first. He got that same shrill of excitement that he had gotten when he first played it, that undertone of nerves that never failed to spark up his spine because this was a different crowd, and different people, and different reactions were bound to be given.

   Hunk opened his eyes for the first time in the middle of the song. He hadn't even realised they had been closed. He glanced out at the crowd, flashing the boys in the front with a cheeky grin that had their eyes widening. They started shoving each other to and fro, pointing at Hunk like he was some kind of art piece in a museum.

   Hunk chuckled, averted his eyes-

   He saw you.

   He shouldn't have been surprised, to be honest. You were at the club before – he had sat down and spoke to you, had learned very little but enough to have him interested. You weren't looking back at him. You were most preoccupied with your friend, the light haired girl that Hunk had yet to see sober.

   The light haired girl had her arm wrapped around your shoulders and was singing along obnoxiously to the song. You, on the other hand, were too busy looking down at something you were holding to take much notice of the jostling girl currently swinging from your neck.

   Hunk glanced down and saw what you were holding.

   Oh, fuck.

   His drum stick. His fucking drum stick – how had you got a hold of that?

   The beat faltered for only a second, but he quickly caught himself and carried on. Lance was able to carry the mistake well, though Hunk did not miss the sly looks Keith and Pidge sent in his direction. He gave them both an apologetic smile – he could not afford to mess up even worse. Already Lance was mad at him. He would be wise to keep things as neutral as possible from here until the end of the night.

   The song came to an end. Hunk slumped back in his seat, wiping the sweat already beginning to form on his brow. Lance spoke into the microphone, but Hunk had zoned out at this point; his eyes found you again. You were still holding his drum stick, only now you were more interested in trying to keep your friend away from a complete stranger with whom she looked to have taken interest in.

   He needed to get it back. Even as the second song started up and Hunk got back to playing, he knew he needed to get it back. It was his. It was a part of him, had been since he was twelve years old.

   How difficult could it be to go up to you and ask for it?

   ---

  “I'm never letting you out of the house again.”

  “That's the drink talking,” Allura shot back, still spurred on by her idea that you were the drunk one.

   You rolled your eyes, an action you had been doing an awful lot tonight. The night was over, the bouncers coming in to announce the closing of the club. The band had been hauled off stage, and now you and Allura were stumbling outside in search of a taxi.

   It would have been easy to just call one up, but it was a Saturday night, and most of the taxi places had been booked to the hilt, meaning you had no other option than to sit Allura down on the curb, pull your phone from your back pocket and start looking through your contacts. Who were you desperate enough to wake up at this time of night for a lift home?

    “Did you see the singer?” Allura groaned, flopped back in the grass. “He was gorgeous. I would love a piece of that.”

   “What you need is a kebab, or some cold pizza,” you replied. “Your hangover is going to be hell tomorrow morning.”

   “I'm not drunk.”

  “Quite honestly, I think you deserve a bad hangover for what you put me through tonight.”

  Allura stuck her tongue out at you. You flipped her off before turning back to your phone and continuing to swipe through your contacts. You were a university student, had very little social life outside of classes and Allura – there was basically no one you trusted enough nor knew well enough to wake up and ask for a lift.

   You hollowed out your cheeks and slumped down on the curb next to your best friend. The roads were packed full of cars leaving the night club, the paths littered with drunken stumblers and people who you didn't quite trust to get home on their own.

    “I think the drummer boy liked you.”

   Your looked down. “Who?”

   “The drummer boy. The one behind the drums. You know – the badoom tsst.”

   You winced. “I don't know who he is.”

    “Did you not find him attractive?”

   “I didn't get a look at him, to be honest. I was too busy stopping you from getting drugged.”

   Allura pouted as if the idea of you not noticing an attractive male had somehow upset her. It was strange, considering men were usually the last thing on Allura's mind when she was sober. She was a valedictorian, concentrated purely on her grades when her brain was fresh and alert.

   Now, though, the alcohol had plagued her and she had little room left in her brain for anything other than the people she had seen tonight.

   As she babbled on and on about the band she had seemingly fallen in love with, you zoned out. Your sober brain could not keep up with her rantings, and so you found it easier to just ignore her. She would tire herself out eventually, and then you would try the taxi services again and see what you could do. You could hardly just stay out here all night, though you saw no other option if the-

   “Are you not freezing sitting out here?”

  You jolted upright, startled by the sudden voice ringing out behind you. For a second, you truly thought it wasn't directed at you – despite the crowd slowly clearing, there were still many people waiting on taxis, and many different slurred conversations going on.

   You turned nonetheless, eyes widening once they trained on the man standing there. It took you a minute to remember his name.

   “Hunk! You're still here!”

  He nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looked exhausted, his bandanna now lopsided on his forehead and his hair stuck to his skin by the perspiration dripping behind his ears. He still managed to look good, though your cheeks warmed at the thought. You blamed it on the tiny sip of your vodka and coke you had been able to take.

   “But are you not cold?” he pushed. “Is someone coming to pick you up?”

   “Not yet,” you grumbled, glancing anxiously at your phone before casting your gaze to your unconscious best friend. “But I think we'll be okay.”

  Hunk hollowed out his cheeks and kneeled down. His broad shoulder brushed against your own, and you hesitantly moved over to give him room on the curb. In one hand he held a drum stick-

   Your eyes widened. “Your drum stick! I completely forgot about that!”

  Why you had gone back for the useless wooden stick, you would forever be clueless about, but it had seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the time. You reached into your back pocket and pulled the drum stick free, and Hunk's eyes immediately softened at the sight of it.

   “Oh, thank god.”

  “It's important to you?”

   He plucked it from your hand. “My granddad made it for me ages ago. I thought I'd lost it.”

  “Nope,” you replied, popping the 'p.' “Just misplaced it. Good thing you've got a sober friend like me to keep you in check.”

 Hunk chuckled, glancing at Allura. “I don't seem to be the only one who should be grateful that you're sober.”

   You rolled your eyes, nudging Allura's leg with your own just to make sure she was indeed completely out of it. “She's going to regret it in the morning. She always does.”

   “Most people do.”

  You looked back at Hunk. “You don't look too tipsy yourself, but you've been in there a long time.”

   Hunk frowned, a look of puzzlement appearing on his face. You weren't entirely sure why – confusion wasn't exactly the emotion you would have felt at such an accusation. Nonetheless, Hunk's drawn together eyebrows and the way he pulled away a little bit spoke volumes.

   “Unless you don't drink,” you added quickly. “Actually, no. You ordered a Budweiser when you were sat with me, so what secrets are you hiding, Mr Hunk?”

   Hunk blinked. “Did you not see me up on stage?”

  You blinked back. “Sorry?”

   The frown that had pulled at his features gradually grew into an amused grin. “I'm part of Smokey Saturdays – the band that was playing tonight.”

    You burst out laughing.

    You didn't really mean to – it just kind of happened and you were too slow to stop it. In your defence, you didn't know you were being offensive – you genuinely thought he was joking, because how was he not?

   You had spoken to him only hours before, had a normal, lighthearted conversation with him. He didn't seem like some kind of rock star, but that was definitely the type of music you had heard blasting over the speakers whilst you were busy fixing Allura's dress to make sure she wasn't showing too much.

    Hunk flinched away at the sound of your laughter, his cheeks growing bright red. You hiccuped to a stop when he looked down at the ground, awkwardly glancing at his hands bundled in his lap.

   “Wait,” you drawled. “You're serious?”

  “Mhm,” he hummed. “That hard to believe, huh?”

   You paused. “Holy shit, man.” Hunk stiffened. “You were so good!”

   His head whipped round, eyes growing wide, brows shooting into his hairline. You couldn't help but giggle at this expression of shock; you nudged him.

   “I'm serious,” you said, despite him not protesting. “All of you were really good from what I was hearing. How long have you been in a band?”

   Hunk stuttered for only a second, clearly still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you had complimented his music. “Uh... It'll be four years this year.”

  “Wow,” you mused, leaning back on the grass. Allura shifted beside you. “It must be nice. You're living the dream.”

   “I'm living my dream. Your dream might be something else entirely.”

  You shrugged. “I kind of just wanna, you know, make my parents proud and all that. The basic, boring dream that teenagers with no ambition usually take on.”

 “It's not boring.” Hunk slumped down next to you, oddly comfortable for a person who hadn't even known your name at the start of the night. “I think making your parents proud is a very decent goal to have.”

   “It's kind of universal though, isn't it? Everybody wants to make their parents proud.”

   “I mean, I guess so,” Hunk mumbled. “Doesn't make it any less worth achieving. How do you think you'll make your parents proud?”

  The question struck you. You thought about your father, the business he ran and the companies he pleased. He had very rarely had time for you when you were growing up, and yet here you were – eighteen years old – trying desperately to make him see that you weren't a failure, even though you had absolutely zero proof towards the fact that he ever thought you were.

   Your mother was different. She was loving, caring, put her kids before anything else. She would tell you on a constant loop that she would be proud of you for just living, proud of you for just being you, and yet in the same breath she would gush to her friends about how her little darling was getting better and better at Mandarin, how you would be living in China in no time!

   She just wanted to make sure you knew she was proud of you for your achievements, but it put the pressure on you as well. You had wanted to stop learning Mandarin since you were eleven years old, but your mothers constant gushing about your improvements left you feeling like you had to carry on.

    “I don't know.”

  You reply was short and snappy. Hunk got the message.  

   “My parents weren't too happy when I dropped out of college, you know.”

  “You're gonna talk about this with a complete stranger?”

   He shrugged. “Do you wanna hear it?”

   You rolled over and leaned your head on the palm of your hand. “Go on.”

   Hunk chuckled. “Well, it's true – they were raging at me for backing out of my classes. They thought I was gonna go on to university, get a degree and a job and start a family. At the time, they didn't really know how much I loved music, so they never put two and two together that I wanted to be an artist.” He coughed, choking on the word as if he was embarrassed by it. “A musician, I should say.”

   “Musicians are artists.”

  “Yeah, well, they didn't think I wanted to be one of those. So whenever I dropped out of college and started working little jobs around the area, they were really confused, really disappointed.” He bit his lip and glanced up at the night sky. “They warmed up to it eventually – once they realised I was finally happy.”

  He said 'finally' as if he hadn't been happy before, and that broke your heart. You continued to stare at him, even when the conversation died and there was nothing else to say. It never failed to amaze you how two strangers could meet on a night out, and how the effects of alcohol and good music could somehow ease a tension that really should have been there. Hunk was a complete stranger currently pouring his heart out to you, and yet you felt as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

    You opened your mouth to say something – anything – but the words that rang out across the yard were not your own. They belonged to a shrill male voice, anger seeping in through every syllable.

   “Hunk Garrett, you are on your final god damn warning!”

   Hunk closed his eyes, inhaled deeply before reaching towards you and snatching his drum stick from your hand. “I think that's my cue to leave.”

   Allura stirred, groaned your name in her sleep. “Yeah. I think I've just gotten my cue, as well.”

  Hunk shot you a final, tipsy smile before he hesitantly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. You stared at it for only a second before grabbing on to what he wanted – you quickly punched your number into his contacts and watched him leave, walking towards a skinny, tanned man who didn't look far from a mental breakdown.

   Allura's head suddenly slammed down on your knee. “Are we home yet?”

   ---

   Despite exams being over, there was no sign of the work load slowing down.

    The day after the night club incident, you had been in perfect condition to pull yourself from your bed and go to class. Allura, on the other hand, did not show up for any of them. You hadn't expected anything less, and visiting her that evening gave you the answer you had known, but had wanted confirmed nonetheless.

   She was still asleep, a cup of water and a strip of paracetomal sat untouched on her bedside table.

   The days had passed slowly after that. Allura continued to scold you for letting her get so drunk, continued piecing the night together in tiny little snippets that she recalled for you to confirm; she had asked you multiple times if she had lost her earring in the girls toilets, and no matter how many times you told her that she hadn't gone to the toilets through the entire night, she refused to let the subject drop.

   The one thing she didn't ask you about was Hunk. You were certain she didn't remember, considering she had been passed out when he approached you. The fact that she didn't remember was more of a relief than anything else; you didn't really want to explain everything to her just yet. For some reason, you wanted to keep Hunk a secret, something good that you had experienced that night.

    “Studying already? Did exams not finish, like, two weeks ago?”

  You looked up, pen hanging idly from your mouth. Allura was already sitting down across from you, a flask of hot chocolate in her hand. You knew it was hot chocolate, because it was always hot chocolate.

   “Mrs Averell gave us a Spanish test,” you replied. “So if you're here to distract me, I don't have time for it.”

   “Alright, tell me how you really feel,” Allura grumbled. “I'll have you know, I just came to make sure you'd eaten. I know how you get when you're cooped up in the library all day.” She slid a pre-made chicken wrap in your direction and you smiled gratefully. “But also, I do have some questions. Bits and pieces are coming back to me, and I'd appreciate your input.”

   You groaned. “Allura-”

  “If I remember correctly, there was a really hot singer that was on stage at some point,” she pushed on, waving your groan to the side. “I want to meet up with him.”

   You raised a brow. “You want to meet up with the lead singer of a rock band you saw once when you were black out drunk?”

  “Clearly I wasn't drunk enough to forget him,” she said. “Which is a sign, I think.”

  You scoffed, ignoring your Spanish vocabulary notes to examine your friend – you just wanted to see if she was serious or not. It was one thing being in love with a singer and wanting to talk to them, but a completely different thing to think you could actually do it.

   “You're looking at me like that again,” Allura huffed. “I wish you'd have more faith in me. If I wasn't so drunk the other night, he'd have proposed to me by now.”

    “Is that right? Can you tell me his name?”

  Allura pursed her lips. “I need your help finding him so I can also find out that information.”

  “It's a fairly important detail to know.”

   “You were sober the entire time!” Allura exclaimed, slapping her hands against the table. The librarian cut a sharp glance in your direction, and Allura gave her one of her careless, charming smiles to soothe her before she got out of her seat and swatted you in the head with her newspaper.

   She span back round and lowered her voice. “If you even just remember the name of the band, we can Google it and get all the answers we need.”

   “You're starting to sound like a stalker.”

   “I don't want to track him down. I just wanna see when their next show is, and hopefully stay sober for it.”

   “Have you got the time or the money to go to another one of their shows?”

  “When did you get so fucking boring?”

   “It's not about being boring, Allura, it's the fact that the last time we went out, you basically left me for dead.” You folded your arms over your chest, tapping the pen against your chin. “And honestly, I have tests coming up, and I just don't think-”

   Your phone went off before your sentence could continue. Allura used your sudden falter in speech to barrel on with her own argument as to why she needed to go, and how you only lived once, and how tests could always be retaken but a chance to go to a concert was a once in a life time opportunity.

   You blocked her voice out when you looked down at your phone and caught sight of the text message that had just showed up on screen.

    hey! Hunk here. sorry if this is sudden. I didn't know when the right time to text you would be. was just wondering if you wanted to go for coffee sometime in the week? x

   It was the kiss that struck you.

   He put kisses at the end of his sentences. Tiny little x's, like some high school girl.

  And you smiled at it.

   Allura coughed. “Excuse me. Are you even listening to what I'm saying?”    You scooped your phone up, and tapped on his message, raising a hand in silent plead for Allura to be quiet for a second. She huffed, folding her arms over her chest, looking away as if you had insulted her.

   You quickly typed back your response.

   hola. coffee sounds fantastic. time and place?

   You debated whether or not to send a kiss back, but it seemed like too much of a lie; you never sent kisses. That was Hunk's thing, and you were happy enough to let him take that for himself.

    You looked back up at Allura and grinned. “I'll try and find out the name of that lead singer for you, alright?”

   Her eyes widened. “Wait, what? What the hell changed your mind?” She glanced at your phone and shot forward. “He isn't texting you right now, is he? How did you get his number?”

   “I don't have his number.”

  “So he has yours?”

   “If you keep talking, I'm taking my promise back.”

   Allura grinned from ear to ear, grabbed you and pressed a kiss to your cheek. You simply slumped against her, looking down at your phone as the tiny bubbles appeared, indicating Hunk was replying.

    tomorrow when you've finished with classes? x

  You replied with that sounds amazing.

   Again, you skipped the kisses.

   ---

   You skipped last class.

   You claimed it was just because there was nothing planned. You had been given no homework, had no test to study for, and so you allowed yourself a bit of a break by skipping German entirely.

    In reality, it was purely because you wanted to see Hunk a little sooner.

   As you walked down the street towards the coffee shop, you said a tiny little thank you to whoever was listening that you had stayed sober that day at the night club. Without your sobriety, you probably would have been an awkward mess right now. Meeting up with someone you had spoken to whilst in a haze caused by alcohol was risky business, and not something you were particularly fond of.

   But you had been sober, remembered Hunk's personality clear as day. He was a nice fellow, and you remembered the way the conversation had rolled so freely between you two. Sure, part of it had to do with whatever magic a night out cast upon antisocial university students like yourself, but you trusted your own intuition enough to not let such a factor bring your confidence down.

   You arrived at the coffee shop and saw him immediately. He was difficult to miss, what with his towering frame and broad shoulders. He looked cleaner now than you remembered him last, his hair washed though he still tied a bandanna around his forehead. The knot peaked out from beneath his brown mess of hair, and he fiddled with it awkwardly as he waited for his order to be made.

    You appeared beside him, not saying a word until you had examined the menu. “I think I'll have a tea.”

  Hunk jumped, swirling round at the sound of your voice. “Jesus Y/N! When did you get there?”

   “A few seconds ago,” you replied, eyes still narrowly pointed at the menu. “A tad bit offended you didn't wait on me before you ordered, but I don't want to start this off on a bad foot, so I'll let it pass.”

  Hunk scoffed, easing up at last. “The fact that you scared the shit out of me already starts this off on a bad foot.” He winced, glancing at you. “You don't mind cursing, right? 'Cause I can stop if you-”

  You waved a dismissive hand, unable to hide the amused smile forming on your features. That was such an oddly sweet thing to say – not something you expected from a man who claimed to be a rock star.

   The two of you collected your orders and made your way to a table by the window. It allowed you to look out at the passers-by, people in coats that engulfed their faces and were fighting desperately against the wind. There was an array of ear phones and stressed out university students – campus wasn't far, so you weren't surprised to see an ocean of open laptops and tired, familiar faces surrounding you.

   But Hunk was the one person you could really concentrate on.

   “So what time did you finally manage to get home at after the night club?” he asked.  

   “Shortly after three,” you replied, and he inhaled sharply. “Allura woke up not long after you left, and she was adamant that she was starving to death, so we had to stop off at McDonalds before she started throwing a tantrum.”

   “Sounds like a great time. I would have enjoyed a McDonalds after a night like that, as well.”

  You scoffed. “Your night and my night were very different experiences, pal, I can tell you that much.”

   “Not drastically different.”

   You raised a brow. “You were performing in front of the entire club, and I was trying to dodge my best friends vomit most of the night.”

  Hunk wrinkled up his nose and took a casual sip of his coffee. “I suppose that's a bit of a difference.”

  “I agree.”

  And so the conversation took off from there. It was strange how quickly the two of you were able to click, how the conversation just seemed to fall into place despite the layers upon layers of mystery this man still held. They were layers you wanted to uncover, and so you questioned him about the most trivial of things just so you could figure out a bit more about him.

    You learned that he lived with his mum and dad, but his grandmother lived with him as well, and so did his cousins and his older brothers and sisters, and his younger brothers and sisters, as well as a family dog and some guinea pigs who he gushed over for a good amount of time. You found out that he enjoyed cooking, and the only thing he really spent his small riches on was grand food and bills. You learned that he dropped out of college so he could help keep his family afloat, and it was then that the conversation took a bit of a sadder turn.

   It wasn't like you minded. You leaned forward, hand perched on your chin and eyes focused on him. Your tea had long since started going cold in the oversized mug the coffee shop always prepared for you, but you didn't care – you were grabbing on to each and every word he was saying, afraid of zoning out too long and missing a detail.

   Hunk had only just finished describing his second job before he stopped, turned to you and said, “And what about you? What's your family like?”

   You recoiled immediately.

   It wasn't like you disliked talking about your family – there was nothing wrong with them. Nothing they could change, anyway. Sure, your dad had been a little distant and you sometimes felt like second best when it came to you and your older brother, but those were delusions that had formed in your hormonal brain because that's just what happened when a person became a teenager.

    Nonetheless, the question struck you. In comparison to how Hunk had described his family – the love he held for them all, how he had risked everything just to make sure they were alright and stable – the way you would talk about your own was almost not worth it.

   You coughed and looked down into the depths of your tea; there was no special ingredients in it, nothing but classic milk and sugar. “They're busy people.”

   Hunk raised a brow, waited a moment to see if you would elaborate. When you didn't, he nodded and said, “What do they do?”

   “My dad works for some massive phone company, and my mums a nanny,” you replied. “She was a stay-at-home mum for a few years, but then I grew up and she didn't need to stay at home all the time, so she got a job as a nanny. Swapped us out, if you will.”

   You laughed at your joke, but Hunk took a minute to realise it had, in fact, been a joke. You cringed at your own humour. You often did this, laughed at your own self-depricating jokes before realising how they must have sounded to other people.

   “Of course I'm kidding,” you hastened to add. “She loves all of her kids, really.”

  Hunk nodded. “I didn't doubt that for one minute.”

   Shit. You had made it awkward. You looked around for some conversation topic to drag you out of the gutter, but the only thing that came to mind was Allura – she would be perfect in this situation, batting her eyelashes and giggling to pass off her comments as friendly jokes. She was always so good at that.

   You lurched forward. “Oh! I've been meaning to ask you!”

  Hunk reeled back. “What? What is it?”

   “Who's that singer boy who was up on stage with you at the club?”

  Hunk's face fell, forehead relaxing and eyes softening. “Oh. Lance. That was Lance.”

   “Lance.” You nodded, slowly leaning back in your chair. “Do you mind giving me his number?”

  “S-sure.”

   You grinned, taking a long sip of your tea. “You're the best.”

  ---

    Allura was waiting for you in your dorm.

   You raised a brow, letting the door swing open and bash against the wardrobe placed behind it. “What have I done to be cursed by your presence after such a peaceful day?”

  Allura threw a pillow at you. You caught it, bundled it beneath your shirt and flopped down onto the floor, groaning with exhaustion.

   “Tell me what happened then,” she pushed. “Did you find out who the singer was?”

  “Oh yeah,” you replied, pulling your phone from your back pocket. “And I got his number.”

  The silence that followed was most out of character. You glanced up to see Allura had gone pale, her eyes focused on you yet they were wide, and her eyebrows were very nearly touching her hairline.

   “Y-you what?”

  “His number,” you repeated, shaking the device in front of her. “Do you want it or not? It's taking up my contact list, and I need to delete it before-”

  Allura dived towards the end of the bed, landed on her stomach and snatched the device from your hands. You chuckled, rolling onto your back so you could watch her – she was like a child on Christmas, scrambling into a sitting position, folding her legs and grinning from ear to ear. She grabbed her own phone and punched the number into her contacts list before squealing and hugging her iPhone to her chest.

   “How did you get his fucking phone number?” she exclaimed, eyes still squeezed shut.

   “I have some contacts,” you replied as if it was no big deal, but it was. You thought of Hunk, what it felt like talking to him, how much you wanted to see him again. The coffee date had ended abruptly after you had asked for Lance's number, but you assumed it was just because Hunk had finished his coffee, and there was no point in sticking around. You would be lying to claim you weren't disappointed that the two of you hadn't gone somewhere else to talk some more, but Hunk was a musician and you were a student – you both lived hectic lives, and you needed to respect that if you wanted your friendship with him to grow further.

   “You know all them times I told you I hated you?” Allura said. “I didn't mean any of them. I love you so much. You are my moon and stars, my sun and flowers, my water and food, the light of my-”

   “Can you get out of my room now so I can get in my pyjamas and go to bed?”

  Allura raised a brow. “It's six pm.”

   “Mm.” That was the only response you needed to give. Allura rolled her eyes, pressed a kiss to your cheek before she skipped into the hallway. You heard her squealing the entire way to her room, before the slam of her door cut off the sound of her happiness.

   You grabbed your discarded phone and pulled up Hunk's contact. You had no qualms about texting a boy first, though your heart did fall a little bit at the lack of messages from him – you were hoping he was the type of boy who would ask if you got home safe or something cheesy like that.

   You guessed that was only ever in the movies and didn't let yourself feel too let down.

   You quickly typed a message to him: had a great time. would love to meet up again soon. just tell me when you're free and we can organise something :)

  A smiley face certainly wasn't a kiss, but hopefully Hunk got the message that you were getting a little bit bolder.

   ---

   The next time you saw Hunk, it wasn't on purpose.

   It wasn't exactly fate, either, considering neither of you seemed to be prepared to see the other person. You were dressed in a pair of sweats and an old, baggy t-shirt that still had pizza stains on it from your last sleepover with Allura. You were carrying an old newspaper, a crushed spider indented on the cover, and was making your way towards the bin with a pair of slippers on your feet.

   Hunk just looked startled.

   He was walking past, so there really should have been no reason for him to look so shocked. You met eyes with him, looking up at the exact same time, and he just shut down. You started to smile, as was your natural reaction to seeing the person you had wanted to see for the past week and a half, but he did not return it. His eyes widened, his mouth opening in what you hoped was a greeting-

   But then he quickened his pace, ducked his head down and tried to walk past you.

   Call you an over-achiever. Some may even go as far as to say you were desperate, but when something didn't add up, you didn't just leave it to fester in the back of your mind. You already had too much stress on your plate to afford any more over a boy – if you wanted answers, you were getting them.

   “Hey, wait. Hunk!”

   He stopped. He may have made his rush clear, but he wasn't rude enough to ignore your outward acknowledgement.

   You rushed to catch up to him, placing a hand on his arm. “Is everything okay?”

   “I've got some place to be, Y/N,” he replied. “Band practice and stuff.”

   You raised a brow, stomach churning at the clear lies he was telling. You knew they were lies, because Allura and Lance had been texting for a little over a week now, and the two of them were due to meet up in an hours time. If Hunk had band practice, Lance would be there, too.

    You swallowed thickly, letting your hand slide off his arm. “Oh, right. That sounds fun.” You couldn't think of anything else to say. Your confidence had completely diminished.

   Hunk tried for a smile, but it was forced. “I'll see you around, okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.” Hunk turned to leave when you remembered something else. “Oh, Hunk! You never answered my last text message.”

   He nodded. “I'll get on that as soon as I can. I'm an awful texter. Sorry.” And then he was scuttling off again, leaving behind no reason as to why he was lying, why he wanted to be away from you so badly, why he was completely ignoring you.

   ---

   It hurt knowing you had done something wrong, but not being able to pin point what exactly what something was.

   You sat in the library with your laptop open in front of you. A German documentary was pulled up on the screen, and you were trying so hard to listen through your headphones, but you couldn't concentrate. Your fluency was melting out of your brain, and you continued to stare aimlessly at the animals darting across the screen. The German voice-over wasn't even filtering through your brain at this point.

    The only thing you could fully concentrate on was Hunk. Hunk. Hunk Garrett. Stupid Hunk with his stupid drum sticks and his stupid bandanna and that stupid smile that had won you over one night when you were meant to be drunk but had been sober instead.

   Oh, how you wished you had been drunk.

   You shouldn't have expected anything less. In fact, you shouldn't have expected anything at all. Hunk was a rock star, was slowly making his way into the public eye with his music and his charms – you had barely finished university, couldn't even see graduation at the minute. You had a Spanish test to study for. Hunk had band practice. You had an older brother to FaceTime just to make sure he was still alive. Hunk had fans to reply to in his Instagram DM's.

    Maybe it was your fault at the end of the day. That was the most likely scenario; the one you were most scared to face usually was.  

    You screwed your eyes closed and pressed your fists into them, as if doing so would somehow push the events of the previous days back into your skull. Maybe if you closed your eyes tight enough, they would cease to exist and you could go back to normal. You could function like a normal human being who wasn't plagued with uncertainty.

    Your headphones were yanked from your head. “Y/N L/N, you've been hiding on me again!”

   “Go away, Allura.”

  She didn't.

  “Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?”

   “I had toast, actually.”

  “Aren't you special.” She sat down and placed a piece of paper on the table. “Read it and thank me immediately.”

   You glanced over at what she was trying to show you – tickets, printed on a single piece of paper. Two of them, both of them stamped with 'Backstage Pass' on the front.

    You knew what it was. You weren't stupid, and with the events of the past few weeks, there was no secret as to what band it was you were going to be spending time with backstage.

   You flicked the piece of paper back in her direction. “Can't go. Sorry.”   She spluttered, catching the tickets before they could touch the floor, as if the library carpet would somehow make them less authentic.

   “Are you serious?” she hissed. “I didn't even tell you the date yet, so you can't use the excuse that you have a test or something.”

   “I don't want to go. That's my excuse.”

  “You're having a laugh. It's not funny.”

   “I'm not kidding. Why can't you just let it drop? I'm sorry I'm not as obsessed with this new band as you are.”

   Allura scoffed. “You don't have to go for the music! I want you to go because you're my best friend, and I don't want to be stuck back stage with a bunch of sweaty guys all on my own.”

   “So you want me to suffer along with you?”

  “I want you to put your stupid pride aside and realise that you can do stuff for other people once in a while.”

   You spiralled on her. “How can you say that? Did you forget that I was the reason you didn't get drugged back at that night club the other night? I was the one who got you Lance's phone number in the first fucking place. I'm the one who paid your water bill last month, and-”

   “And here I am, thinking I'm doing something nice for you, and you're turning me down.”

 “The nice thing for you to do right now would be to let the subject drop and go on your own.”

   Allura groaned, throwing her head back. “Y/N, I want to see Lance.”

   “Then see Lance. I'm not stopping you.”

   “And Lance wants to see you.”

 You froze.

   Lance McClain, lead singer of Smokey Saturdays, voice of an angel, bilingual and dreamy in all the right ways. It was no secret as to how Allura had ended up head over heels for him – he was everything a young, impressionable rock fan would want in a boyfriend.

   So why he wanted to meet you was a complete mystery.

   Allura took your silence as a chance to push her argument further. “Now, don't get it twisted. He doesn't want to shag. He just wants to meet you, because I told him about how you got his number and everything. He said he saw you with Hunk back at the night club, and the two of you seemed to be getting on well. It would be a delight for you to go.”

    You bit your bottom lip – so Allura now knew about Hunk. She now knew that you and the drummer had some kind of relationship, no matter how small she thought it was. No matter how small it really was, because one coffee date and a few flirty text messages weren't enough for you claim that you and him had anything more than a tense back and forth.

    But then you thought of Lance, and Allura, and how much this backstage experience would mean to her. She got on your nerves. More often than not, she raked at your patience until you were snapping into genuine anger, but she was your best friend and that was just how your relationship had always been.

   You turned to look at her. For the first time in a long time, she looked genuinely desperate. She was clutching her phone in her hand, looking at you with wide eyes, her lower lip pouted because she was Allura, and there was no way she could make herself look serious for a minute too long – god forbid somebody think she was emotionally vulnerable.

   But you saw through the dramatised pouted lip and sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Fine. I'll go.”

   Her eyes widened, body lurching forward and arms wrapping around your neck. “Ayy, my hero! I knew you'd give in eventually!”

  “Watch it.”

  “We're gonna have the best time. Just you wait and see.”

  ---

   You looked at yourself in the rear view mirror as best as you could; it was pointless. You could still only get a good look at your face and neck, both of which did not look too spectacular considering you had refused to put any effort into your appearance at all.

   Allura had come wearing her flowery yellow summer dress, despite the fact that it was pitch black outside and cold enough to have frost clinging to the concrete. She drove with her back poised straight, and you winced every time she looked at herself in the rear view mirror – because she did it much too often for someone who was behind the wheel of a vehicle.

   You arrived at the venue a little earlier than you had been anticipated, but the bouncers let you in with no hassle – apparently Lance had pre-warned them of your arrival, had ordered them to send you both straight to the rehearsal room as soon as you arrived.

   Allura left your side the moment she saw Lance, despite her earlier promises to stay by you. You weren't surprised, which was why you merely rolled your eyes, tucked your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie and cowered away into the corner.

     The whole band was here. Everyone except Hunk.

  The two bassists were lounging on the sofa, legs tangled together. The girl – Pidge, you believed her name was – had no shoes on and was idly drawing letters into the other bassist – Keith's – leg. He glared at her, sent a kick to her thigh but Pidge continued.

   She pulled away, looked at him with a squinted eye and said, “Now guess what I wrote.”

  “Would you just-”

   “Everyone, stop your arguing!” Lance exclaimed, gaining the attention of the entire room. He had an arm wrapped around Allura's waist and a smile on his face that Allura mimicked – clearly they had missed each other in their disastrous week apart. “I want you all to meet Allura, the girl I was telling you about before.”

  Keith grunted. Pidge had the decency to at least raise her hand and utter a small, “Hello,” before she went back to annoying Keith.

   Allura turned to you then, reached an arm out in your direction. “And this is my friend, Y/N. I brought them along for the experience, you know.”

   “The experience of what? Watching Lance freak out about the smallest thing five minutes before the show?” Keith said.

   Pidge held up a hand. “On the bright side, Hunk got that drum stick back.”

  “And it was only because of Y/N that he did,” Lance chimed in, the perfect little diversion into your introduction. There was no backing out now; all eyes were trained on you, and you would do nothing more than make yourself look like an idiot if you were to duck away from their gazes now.

  So, you stepped out of the shadows and waved, trying to seem more confident than you felt. You expected Hunk to walk through the door at any moment now, and the thought was more terrifying than you cared to admit or acknowledge; it was stupid. Hunk wouldn't do anything. He was a nice bloke. Even when it was clear that he was mad at you – for whatever reason – he still tried to be civil. He still lied through his teeth just to stop you from losing your head.

   “Evening,” you muttered.

   “So this is the Y/N Hunk was telling me about,” Pidge spoke up. “The one he was telling us all about.”

   “Oh, really?” you said, glancing over at Allura in desperation. You needed her to get the memo, to understand that you wanted to leave.

   She was too busy looking at Lance, swiping her thumb across his bottom lip and pretend-scolding him for having garlic mayo on his face.

   “Yeah, really,” replied Pidge. “He should be around here somewhere. Last I checked, he went to go and make sure the peddles for the drum kit were adjusted right.”

   “He doesn't need to rush himself if he doesn't want to. I can – uh – I actually need to go to the-” Your attempt at an escape was cut short when the door behind you was pushed open.

   You didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

    “There he is!” Pidge exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. “Hunk, look who came to visit!”

  Hunk was silent. You didn't turn to look at him, because you were too afraid of what you would see. It was one thing seeing him in passing on the street, catching a tiny glimpse of his anger, but it was different when you had nowhere to escape to and still no answers to confide in. You weren't sure you would be able to sit down with him and pretend like nothing had happened.

    “Y/N,” Hunk said after realising that he had an audience. “Who gave you a backstage pass?”

  “Me, you idiot, and it really shouldn't have been,” Lance scolded. “If you wanted to see them so badly, you should have been giving them a backstage pass. I had to take matters into my own hands.”

   “Honestly, there's no need for-”

   Hunk cut you off. “Yeah, sorry. That was my fault, but I guess they liked the gift from you.”

  The words sounded cold, though you couldn't quite pinpoint why. You risked a glance over your shoulder, watching the way Hunk angrily stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat – he had dressed up nice for todays show, rocking a black blazer with a white shirt beneath it, the first few buttons undone to reveal chest hair you hadn't noticed before.

     He just looked mad, and it was frustrating you to no ends that you couldn't figure out why. It was clearly because of you. He wasn't making that a secret. He was taking the passive-aggressive route rather than outwardly scolding you, but you weren't stupid and you could see when someone was mad at you.

   You gritted your teeth and turned back to Allura and Lance. The two of them were dangerously close to kissing, but Allura's eyes snapped round to your own when she noticed you staring at her.

   “I'm going to the bathroom.”

  You didn't wait for someone to stop you. You darted off towards the back door, pushing past Keith's feet and closing the door fiercely behind you. Pidge's voice echoed behind you, asking what was wrong with you, but you didn't wait around to hear a response. You headed directly for the bathrooms, following signs that were hung up from the roof.

   You leaned over the sink and looked up at your reflection; fuck him. Fuck him, and fuck feelings and fuck everything. The night was turning out to be just like the night at the club – you had come out wanting to have a good time, that small flicker of hope keeping you on your toes, but you had been proven foolish by something as small and simple as Hunk Garrett. A man who had been in your life for only two months, who had texted you and flirted with you and made his feelings towards you so obvious for the first few days, only to completely backtrack for a reason you were still unsure of.

  You were proud of yourself for keeping it together. It would have been easy to spin on him and demand answers then and there, and god you wanted to, but you bit your tongue because that was what the others in the room deserved. It was what Allura deserved.  

    And so, you continued to do just that. You pressed some water into your face, closed your eyes and waited it out, hoping that the bathroom would be a good enough hiding place for you to stay in until you could leave and go home.

   ---

   Hunk blinked, watching the door swing closed behind you.

   Fuck, you were beautiful.

   That was the first thought that had come to his mind when he saw you standing there. Your back was to him, but he remembered your face almost instantly because it was the only thing he thought about. Your smile, and the way you had constantly raised your brows at him and questioned him on everything he said – you had been so interested in everything he told you, and he felt so good just spilling his entire life story to somebody who seemed to genuinely care.

   You were beautiful, even when you were angry at him, and he hated that that was the one thing he could think of because it drove him further into his own head and made him question his own actions even further.

   “What the hell is wrong with them?” Pidge asked as the door slammed closed, but nobody replied. Keith's mouth was opening and closing like a fish out of water. Lance and Allura were sharing a glance between each other, though neither of them moved to go after you.

   That made Hunk mad. Why was no one going after you?

  He stepped forward, made towards the door but Keith kicked a foot out before he could get very far.

   “Not so fast, big guy,” he said. “It sounded like your little friend was mad at you. I don't know if they want to see you right now.”

   Hunk gritted his teeth. “Someone needs to make sure they're alright.”

  “Y/N will do fine on their own,” said Allura. “But please inform me on what happened, because I feel like shit right now.” She turned to Lance. “I made them come here even though they didn't want to.”

  Hunk closed his eyes, let out a shaky breath he forget he had inhaled in the first place. It was no secret to him why you hadn't wanted to go – he had been a douchebag, but he had his reasons.

   “I think they're mad at me because I ghosted them a little while back,” Hunk said.

   The room fell quiet, waiting for him to elaborate.

  He sighed, ran his hands through his hair. “They wanted Lance's number, for crying out loud! What was I supposed to do?”

   Again, his comment was followed by silence.

  He looked around, feeling his cheeks grow warm with the attention. “What?”

  “What does Y/N wanting Lance's number have to do with anything?” Keith asked.

   Hunk blinked. “Well, it was obvious they were more interested in Lance than me...”

   Allura spluttered, lurching forward. Lance's grip visibly tightened on her waist to stop her from throwing herself at Hunk entirely. “No way.”

   “What? What's wrong?” Lance asked.

  Allura shook her head, swatting Lance's hands away. Her eyes continued to bore into Hunk's, wide and unreadable. “You're having a laugh.”

   Hunk awkwardly shuffled. “I'm confused...”

  “Y/N was asking you for Lance's number because I asked them to get it for me.”

   Hunk blinked. Surely he had heard her wrong.

  Allura continued shaking her head, now weasling her way out of Lance's grip and coming to stand next to Hunk. She was half his size, but that didn't mean the smack she sent to his arm hurt any less. He flinched away from her, eyes wide. Keith burst out laughing whilst Pidge was still looking between him and the door as if she couldn't quite believe the drama unfolding before her.

   “You ghosted my best friend because you thought they were interested in my boyfriend?” Allura shrilled. “God, can boys get any stupider?”

    Pidge raised her hands above her head. “This is the question I've been asking for years.”

  Hunk shook his head, too busy focusing on what had just been revealed to care about the fact he'd just been called stupid. “They didn't want to date Lance?”

  “Of course not! Y/N went out for coffee with you, you idiot, not Lance.”

   Hunk was already making his way towards the door. “Jesus christ. I messed up. I messed up big time. I need to – Did they go to the bathrooms?”

   “I think so,” Keith replied. “Go get 'em, Prince Charming.”

   Hunk rushed down the hall, not caring that the show was starting in nine minutes.

   ---

    The bathroom door opened, and you were not prepared to see Hunk standing there.

   You jolted upright, struggling to wipe the tears from your face before he saw them. “Christ, Hunk! Give a person a little bit of privacy, will you?”    He didn't answer. He simply shook his head, closed the door and walked over to you. You shied away from him, still trying desperately to make it seem like you hadn't been shamefully sobbing over a boy for the past ten minutes – that would look stupid, would make you look weak, and you did not want that.

   Not whenever the boy who had made you weak was standing right there.

  “What do you want?” you asked. “You have a show soon.”

   Hunk slid down the wall and sat next to you. “I don't care.”

   “Is that rock star speak for 'I've been sacked?'”

   “It means, I don't care.” He fixed his eyes on the side of your head. “You could have told me the reason why you asked for Lance's phone number, you know.”

  You froze. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I thought you were asking for Lance because you were interested in him. That was why I got so hostile all of a sudden.”

    Aaaaaand, it all clicked into place.

   Your eyes snapped open, the tear stains now forgotten as you trained your gaze on Hunk. He smiled shyly, nodded as if to say I know right. It was that simple this entire time.

   “No,” you spluttered out. “Hunk, tell me you're joking.”

   He winced, drawing his shoulders up around his chin. “I wish I was-”

   You burst out laughing before he could get another word out, throwing yourself into his side and grasping for his jacket to keep yourself stable. Hunk grunted, but his fingers wrapped around your wrist nonetheless.

    “Awk, that's adorable!” you exclaimed. “You thought I liked Lance!”

   “Well, you didn't exactly lead me to believe any differently!”

  “Was me agreeing to your cute little coffee date not enough to get my point across?”

  Hunk flushed, looking away as he mumbled, “It wasn't really a date...”

  “It could have been a date,” you said, tugging on the lapels of his blazer. “If you hadn't gotten so pressed and cut it short.”

   Hunk rolled his eyes, but you saw the smile taking over his features, and it warmed your heart in a way that both terrified you and excited you at the same time. You had never felt like it before, but you had read about it in books, seen it in movies. It always seemed so far-fetched, but you were beginning to understand it now.

   Maybe it was mixed in with the relief. It had to be. Relief that Hunk had finally seen the truth, relief that he had come after you at all, because he very easily could have got his point across by just leaving you to rot in the bathroom until the show was over.

   But he hadn't. He was sat beside you right now with his fingers wrapped around your wrist and his shoulder pressed against yours, and he was smiling because you had made him smile and perhaps that was the most accomplishing thing you had done in a long time.

   You slowly pulled away from him, releasing his jacket despite him not yet releasing your hands. He kept them pressed to his chest, his eyes moving with you as you leaned back against the wall.

   “So what now then?” you asked, voice quieter than you had meant it to be but it felt like you couldn't help it.

   “Whatever you want,” he replied, as if it was that simple.

   “I'm not good at responsibility, Hunk. You shouldn't leave that kind of question to me.”

  “I don't want to shoulder it, either.”

   You flicked your gaze up at him. “How about you think it over during your show, and I'll do the same. After your performance, we'll reconcile back at camp and see what we've decided.”

  Hunk looked back at you. “What if we disagree?”

  “Then we'll have our answer, won't we?”

   ---

   The show was magnificent, as you had expected.

   Allura was crying by the third song, because the second song was a ballad that Lance sang entirely staring at her. You had rolled your eyes, looked up at Hunk to see he was giving Lance the exact same disgusted look you had given Allura a few seconds prior.

    By the end of the set, though, you were fairly certain you had shed a few cheeky tears as well, but you covered them up better than Allura did. Allura wasn't one for subtlety, and Lance hadn't even fully gotten off the stage before Allura was crashing into him and hugging him as if he was about to go off to war.

   You were the first one in the backstage room. Allura and Lance had disappeared – you didn't even want to guess where to – and nobody else had bothered to come and collect their things just yet. You assumed they were all going to celebrate – maybe Hunk had gone with them. You wouldn't blame him. The show had been incredible, and it was what he deserved. Nonetheless, you couldn't dispel the slight disappointment in the pit of your stomach at the idea that maybe he had forgotten about your little deal. Or worse. Maybe he just knew the two of you would disagree, and that was that. He didn't even want to see you to confirm it, so he had-

   The door to the backstage room opened, and Hunk entered.

  He was dripping in sweat, and his bandanna was gross, and his hair was gross and his clothes were gross, but he looked perfect for a reason you couldn't pinpoint. You could imagine your mother now, scolding you for going after the shabby bad boys who she always steered you away from when you would walk through the estate.

   But you didn't care now. Your mother wasn't here to tell you off.

   Hunk looked up and met your eyes, smiled nervously. You smiled back, folding your hands in front of yourself just for something to do.

   He took one step into the room, set his jacket on the back of the sofa and said, “Well?”

   You knew what he meant immediately. “I want to hear your decision first.”

   “You know what my decision is.”

   “Do I?”

   Hunk rubbed the back of his neck. His hand came away shiny, slick with sweat. “Please don't make me wait. I need a shower desperately.”

   You grinned and walked over to him. There was no jumping, no diving into his arms, no squealing and yelling and exclamations of love – you two hadn't got to that point yet, but you had great faith in the idea of one day.

   For now, though, you sufficed for bundling your hands in his white shirt and pulling him down to kiss you.

    His hands rested on your hips. Your shirt had ridden up, and his rings nipped at the flesh. Your hands stayed bundled in his shirt, too grossed out by his sweat to travel anywhere else, but you needed to touch him in some form. You needed to feel something of his beneath your hands, and apparently his lips alone would not suffice.

   He groaned low in his throat and pulled away, gasping for air you hadn't realised you had been taking from him. The kiss felt like only a peck, but your breathing was laboured and Hunk's face was bright red. He nipped your hips a little tighter, causing you to squeal and lurch into him; he grinned, burying his face in the crook of your neck now that he had the chance.

   You groaned, but didn't shove him away. “I was trying to avoid your sweat that entire time.”

  “That's not fair. Let me give you the whole package or not at all.”

  You pulled away, raising a brow. Hunk flushed, seeming to realise what he had just said and just what he was implying.

   “Don't take that the wrong way, or I swear to-”

  “Was that a promise, Hunk Garrett?”

  He rolled his eyes, pressed a hand to the back of your head and kissed you – yes, it was a promise.

[blinkandrevile]

I meet my doppelganger by chance when I'm on my way back from therapy. The clinic is in the middle of the city, so it's only about fifteen minutes away by bus and the buildings around it are relatively fancy. The waiting room is a mishmash of businesslike types who're clearly there because it's right next to their offices, and people like me who are broke and can't afford to pay full price for a doctor so we go to the doctors that bulk bill and try our best to get decent medical treatment out of it. The therapist there doesn't bulk bill, but if you get a doctor's referral she only charges $40 each for six sessions. We've discussed a recent diagnosis, but before I could really get into how it's been affecting me it's 11:30 and I'm gently ushered out of the hall. I hear her talking to her next patient as she leads them back through. I pay my $40 and I wish I had enough money to get food. I leave and head back through the city to the bus station. I can see someone walking up the path in my direction. I'm surprised how much he looks like me. He looks surprised too. He's several meters away by the time I realize that we're the same.

He's in a button-down and slacks. Under his expression of surprise is one of permanent stress and exhaustion etched into his face. What surprises me is that he's as big as I am, round-faced with thick limbs. I feel guilty for noticing it. I feel guilty for being that way. I can see on his face that he feels guilty, too.

Our paths aren't diverging. I have to go to the bus station. I want to go home. He's got a coffee in his hand and he looks like he wants to get back to work. With opposite paths we're being pulled together and my heart races with nerves as he draws near. People talk a lot about what you'd do if you met your doppelganger. They tend either towards fucking or killing them, with some gentler types noting that they'd hug and befriend that mirror of the self. The possibilities flash through my mind as the distance between us closes begrudgingly, but all of them make me want to throw up, even the thought of talking to him. I don't want to see this, I realize, don't want to meet his eye when he gets close enough for me to see the colour of them. He drops his gaze a second before I drop mine and we push our bodies to opposite extremes of the sidewalk, my shoulder almost grazing against storefronts in my urgent need to stay clear of him. I don't see what he does but I can tell he's doing it. I can see the wide-eyed panic on his face before it glazes over into dissociation. I can feel it on mine. I'm glad I couldn't afford food. I'm not sure I would've eaten it. I think it might have gotten tainted.

I take the bus home and I'm relieved when I reach the normalcy of my bedroom. The dishes on the drawers are as comforting as always. It's too hot to be under the blankets but I crawl under anyway and I don't know what to do and I can't sleep and I wonder if he sleeps better than me and I play a game on my phone until I'm distracted enough to breathe again. As soon as I stop, I wonder if his dad's in jail and how much he eats and why he doesn't seem like he's disabled and I'm suddenly enraged that there might be a version of me out there that actually got a fighting chance at life and my stupid phone game stops working for me so I get up to make some bread. An hour later I've convinced myself that it was just psychosis rearing its ugly head again, and I resolve to talk to my boyfriend about it and what it might mean, and within a week I'm pretty much okay. I don't book another appointment with that therapist. It was my fifth session anyway. I know I won't have another $40 next week. The electricity bill's coming in soon. You have to have priorities.

It gets worse after a month. The avoidance starts to spread. It's another patch of the sprawling capital that I can't go. First it's just the area straight up from the bus station into the main CBD. Then I figure he must go shopping often there if he has a fancy desk job, so I start avoiding the shops. He probably has the same taste as me, so I keep the same clothes I've always had and hope this coming summer isn't too hot. I get on the bus to visit a friend one day and the two-minute stop in the station makes my skin crawl. On the trip back home I feel like I'm burning alive. I resent him for taking the city away from me. I'm struggling to leave the house. I live so close to the city. It's too close for comfort. I buy a plane ticket.

My boyfriend is understanding. He lives in another country, so as long as I have a reliable internet connection he moves where I move. In the airport, I don't feel as excited as I feel like I should. All of my trauma is anchoring me here, and I'm relieved to be getting out, but I feel like a dog on a chain. Still, it's better than staying. The flight doesn't take long. I'm comfortable. It stops off in Sydney, then we fly over the strait and land in the Hobart airport. Everything goes smoothly. I get off the plane and go to baggage collection.

There's someone there dressed like me, and I swear to god if it's that fucking guy again I am going to be absolutely humiliated. I squint at him - he hasn't seen me, I think - and sure enough, it's me again. He's wearing a T-shirt and jeans. It's a stupid shirt with a picture of a wolf on it. I don't own it, but god, I wish I did. It rules. I'm completely miserable about it. 

You can usually feel it when someone's watching you, and yeah, he feels it. He looks up from his phone and glances at me then does a double take, and it's incredibly embarrassing to see. I wonder if it's as embarrassing to see how shocked I am to see him. The chagrin on his face is making me want to scream. The baggage is moving so slowly. It's so slow. I rip my eyes from him and we pointedly avoid looking at each other while constantly shooting looks at each other to check if one of us has moved or done anything. I decide as soon as I see my baggage that this isn't going to work and I blow the rest of my savings on the soonest flight back to Perth that I can get. I ask my best friend if I can stay with them and they're confused but fine with it. I call my boyfriend and he's worried for me. I understand. Things are weird right now, but things with him are fine. I love him. I'm back home two days later and I sleep for 18 hours in my best friend's spare room. They live a little further out of the city. I'm comforted by that. I'm pretty sure my doppelganger is the kind of person to stay in Tasmania. Better prospects, I'd guess. That comforts me, too.

A year later, my boyfriend moves here to be with me, and we relocate about forty minutes north of the river. I don't know that my doppelganger thought I was going to stay in Tasmania and moved back here too, back to his career in architecture and what ends up being three dogs in his unit south of the river. We don't end up crossing paths. I don't need to go to the city anymore, and if I ever go further south than that, I'm always driving and I never happen to go exploring down there. I have everything I need. Several years pass.

I'm off to the shops. My husband is at work, and my freelance work isn't due for another week, so I figure I can have the day off. The small local supermarket that I grew up with has been converted into a gargantuan mall over the past thirty years. Whenever I walk through it I feel strange. The very middle of it is exactly the same; a heart of cream and turquoise with polished white linoleum floors. I remember how it echoed one Thursday night when I was fifteen and shopping for school shoes and I sang and yelled and laughed until I realized there were a few other stray shoppers and shut my mouth up very, very tight. It could never echo now. Even at 6am, the whole place is packed. I wouldn't come here, except that Lush has announced that one of my favourite soaps is being discontinued, and I want to go to the store here to stock up before it's gone forever.

I'm dismayed upon arrival to find that what once was a towering stack of yellow and gold marbled soap is now a nearly empty display. There's just one chunk of soap left, and it's relatively small. Probably won't last me more than a few months. My disappointment quickly makes way for relief as I dodge my way through swaths of excited teenagers to get into the store, making a beeline for the last of the soap. Hurrying and bumping people on my way, I finally get to the display. With a sigh of relief, I reach my hand out - but quickly draw it back as it brushes against the hand of another. He has a small white circle of a scar on his left thumb. I look up in alarm and my doppelganger stares astonished back at me. 

We look at each other for a very long time. Some teenage hand winds between us and takes its prize. I'm starting to become aware of the looks the staff members are giving us. The doppelganger is, too. His eyes are grey. I've seen that look before, when I catch myself in the mirror when I don't expect it. The whites of my eyes shine back at me like glossy eggshells. Both of us are as terrified as each other. It doesn't make it better.

The intense anxiety of the outside eyes upon us breaks the spell, and in an instant the both of us are marching shakily out of the store and in opposite directions. I'm heading out to my car. I don't know where he's going. I don't want to. All I know, all that can calm me right now, is that I could tell from his expression that this was not where he usually conducted his shopping trips. I knew what he'd wanted was the same as me. I wonder if his dad is dead. I leave the mall empty-handed.

I don't go to there anymore.

[huangfilms]

Barista!Johnny

summary: i come to this cafe often and by often i mean pretty much everyday and i know all the workers except for you cause youre new and oh youre really handsome

requested by: @sofiafabulousphan (thank u love!!)

(A/N) in all honesty,,, i dont really know how johnny would b as a barista but lets see!!! also!!! thank u so much for requesting this!!! i hope this is what youve asked for and im s o r r y if it isnt as good as youd like it to be!! but anyway !! pls send some feedback and i hope you enjoy! thank you for waiting patiently!!  (also excuse my summary I Don’t Even Know Anymore) (ps, she wasn’t edited)

hm hm hm hm

where to start Ladies,,, idk where to start!! okay anyway

so you always go into this Specific cafe

like all times of the day, every day

but not twice in one day u kno???

and so u obvi know all of the workers if you go there All Of The Time

and one day you walk in while getting out your wallet

and when u look up ur all like: That’s Not Ten

but its this guy,, a really tall one too,,, and hes--

hes pretty cute--

and then without any thought you blurt out, ‘are you a new worker?’

and then u snap your mouth shut because,,,, LMAO  SIS

but all he does is greet you with a smile and he shyly says yes,,, omg uwu

ad then hes just like ‘what can i get you?’ and hes s o cheery omg its adorable skfdskdjf

barista!johnny?? more like abby uwus her way through this headcannon

and so you just say your order and hes just smiling the whole time and at one point he looks up at you and then he turns red and then he asks for a name

and you say, OH right its y/n

and he just says ‘pretty name for a pretty person’

speechless is what u are LMAOOO

and hes just casually entering your order in like he didnt j u s t say that 

‘your total is $3.97 please’ 

you just like come back to reality cause you were still speechless

and so u give him like a $5 dollar bill or whatever and tell him to keep the change and then u leave

u sit down and u Think About That for a lil

okay but johnny would be the kind of person to bring your drink to you if the customer sat down cause he doesnt want to inconvenience them

LIKE HE DOESNT WANT THEM TO STAND UP AND THEN SIT AGAIN A WHOLE SWEETHEART

so he brings your drink to you and then you get startled Cause That Has Never Happened Before

and ur just— wow i Love This Song Cafe

and so you hang around for a bit and ogle the cutie barista and u text ur bestie like: AYO B!!! I JUST MET THE CUTEST BIH EVER !!!

and you’re just tapping rapidly on your phone johnny is just questioning and wondering if you’re okay HAHAHA

then u feel that its time to go and hope that tomorrow u see him again

u see him sooner than you thought you would

cause you go out after you’ve left the cafe and it’s like what,,,, 10 PM???

and you see johnny in your apartment complex

and he lives in the same floor as you,,,

and you know this cause u arrived on the floor as he was unlocking his apartment

u kno what u did? you mf ZOOTED 

ur pretty sure he didnt see you but he did

and so you wait like five seconds and before you go to your home

anyway!! you go into ur home and ur Surprised cause wow,,, the cute new barista lives a few doors away from you,,, wtf,,,,,

and u just sleep on it cause youre Too Tired u have morning classes s o

time skip to the next day!! you wake up bright and early ready to get ur coffee fix

so you just get ready and youre dreading the day caus e your bed??? comf y

when you leave your apartment, coincidentally johnny does too!! your heart !! soaring because he remembers your name!!!

‘oh y/n! i didnt know you lived here!!’ and hes just his happy self and youre wondering how he can be this happy this early in the morning

and you can’t talk,,,,,u just can’t for some reason so u just awkwardly wave at him

and then when you d o speak its like five minutes after u guys just starring at each other

‘are you headed to work? cause im on my way there to get some coffee and was wondering if you wanted to walk together?’ AND U INTERNALLY SCREAM CAUSE

where did that come from big OOF

johnny doesnt mind,,, hes just smiling and he nods at you and he gestures for you to leave first

and so u guys are in the elevator and you guys talk amongst urselves

while walking to the cafe you guys are just chatting away and laughing and getting to know each other

you guys arrive at the place and johnny opens the door for you GENTLEMAN I AM T E L L I N G YOU

and he changes quickly so he can input your order since he r emembers

and this time you wanted a cute lil mug so u can just hang around for a while

and when johnny calls you up,,, it has a heart drawn in there!! cute??? wtfdfhlsak

johnny really out here being such a cutie 👏🏼

so time skip !! few months

u and johnny always leave ur apartments at the same time and u guys walk to the cafe

he ALWAYS draws the heart in ur coffee

and you guys become : SO CLOSE LIKE U GUYS ARE BASICALLY ATTACHED AT THE HIP

people r always saying and asking if u guys are a thing and ur always blush cause PFfTTt no???

we r just friends ok sweetie keep telling urself that!

theyre always telling you ‘do u see how he looks at u!!! ur so lucky to have a mans like that!!’ and ur stuttering like

o-oh no!! we r jJUstTtT FRIENDS— but its too late to change their judgement cause they lef t

LMAOOO

and so u start to wonder if johnny likes u like that cause honestly??? u like him like that

whats there not to like???????? a whole Man

but u dont wanna tell him that cause it will probably!! ruin ur friendship!!!

CAUSE WHAT IF HE DONT LIKE U LIKE THAT!! sis just ask him and Go Home

so u keep to urself but u act normal cause ignoring him would succ so u dont do that

and the rest of the day youre in calss, you just think about johnny and your feelings that u caught

googles: how to uncatch feelings

anyway 

johnny notices that you’ve been acting just a tad bit weird, like you’re always nervous or something which u r ahhahdhsjd

and then he questions u abt it during his break when u visit after classes

‘me?? actin g weird??? hahahdhjsjs’

and johnny is just skeptical but he has a surprise for u so he doesn’t pry or anything

‘well ok,,, but if you aren’t busy, you wanna go to the park with me tonight?’

‘UhHHhH sure! what time??’

‘i’ll meet you back at your apartment at 6 tonight!! bye y/n!’

and ur just like haha what happened??

but you wave him goodbye and then go home cause it’s like 4:30

and u just chill for a bit and then decide you should get ready

when its 6, johnny knocks right as the clock turns and you get Nervous

but you suck it up and then open the door!!! and there he is!! why is he so cute uwu

so then you both walk to the park and when you arrive he tells u to close ur eyes

and then u just freeze cause Why Tho

but u do it anyway cause!! it’s johnny ur bestie so u don’t really question it

you can feel his hands go to your waist to guide you and you just Blush Tomato Red and pray that he can’t see u

he does but he doesnt say anything

and when you tells you to open your eyes

you see all of these fairy lights and little paper hearts all hung up on this Big Tree

where did u get the outlet johnny this place is like in the middle of the park

and ur sqeualing because!! this for you??????

and you look at him and he’s so Shy wow cu te i--

johnny just says that he likes u a lot but he’s noticed you acting a little weird so he just says that if u don’t like him that way then its fine and that he understands and then goes into this long rant--

but then u kiss his cheek and then he shuts up

‘i like you too, johnny, i think i have for a while now’

and you’re both grinning and johnny whips out this picnic basket from behind the tree and you guys are just star gazing

and when it’s time to go home, you guys are just giggling the whole time and holding hands

this is So Soft i feel So Soft

and so next day!! you guys leave ur apartments at the same time again

and johnny is just grinning at you and you have the Hugest smile on your face

and you guys walk hand in hand to the cafe

when you two walk in, ten is shouting ’Freaking Finally!!! im pretty sure everyone was sick of watching u two pine’

johnny draws not one, but TWO hearts in ur coffee!!

and life is good

johnny: a whole Man give him love

send him love everyone

but anyway!! end!!! 

Masterlist

[ladylynse]

Crossroads: Part II

A Gravity Falls/Over the Garden Wall fanfiction

Happy birthday, @paperhoodie! Thanks again for drawing this lovely cover (also on deviantart).

Part I: Mabel and Dipper have dealt with a demon before, so when they wind up lost in the woods and are given two choices by a creepy kid with a lantern, they make sure to pick the third option—but every choice has consequences, even when you don’t play by the rules.

Part II: How much do you dare trust something that might not even be real? Memories, people...even reality itself?  (FFnet | AO3)

He became aware of the steady beeping first, and then aware of the fact that he was aware of it. More sounds and sensations swirled over him—the high-pitched whine of machinery, a firm mattress beneath him, the sharp smell of some sort of antiseptic, inconsistent waves of suffocating heat, a mouth that seemed completely deprived of saliva, and—childish babble?

Greg?

Greg!

Wirt tried to say something. He tried to move. He didn’t manage either. Not coherently, anyway. He managed to pry open his eyes—why was it so bright?—and lift a finger, but he felt stiff and exhausted. He wasn’t entirely sure he had actually managed to make a sound, either. If he had, it hadn’t been heard over Greg.

Greg was perched on the end of his bed in the hospital room—when had he ended up in the hospital?—and Wirt could feel the steady swinging of Greg’s feet through the mattress. Greg didn’t notice that he was awake; instead, Greg stared up at the ceiling, counting the dots on the tiles.

Greg’s voice—every sound, really—was distorted, as if Wirt were listening to it from underwater, but he could still make out the words. “Six hundred and forty-two, six hundred and forty-three, six hundred—”

A shrill series of beeps went off elsewhere, an alarm, but Greg continued unfazed.

The hum in the background grew louder, like someone had turned downed the volume on the rest of the world so that only the hum remained. Wirt shut his eyes again and tried to focus solely on Greg’s voice, but it was getting harder and harder to make out. He needed something to ground him. He needed…he needed….

The next time Wirt woke, Greg was gone. There was a nurse, doing…something…. Why couldn’t he think clearly? A syringe and an IV and—was that connected to his arm?

He tried to say something again and managed a sort of grunt that caught her attention. She smiled at him and said something, but there was water rushing in his ears, and he was just so tired….

Wirt lost track of time. Even once he became more lucid, everything seemed to blur together. Nothing made any sense, ether.

Greg came by daily, sometimes on his own but usually with at least one of their parents in tow. A couple of his friends stopped in, but never for very long; they’d all try to make small talk and then, when uncomfortable silence swelled too often for too long, invent an excuse to leave. No one really knew what to say.

He’d been in the hospital. He knew that much. He still wasn’t sure why. Until he’d caught sight of green leaves on the trees outside, he’d feared that it had never been summer at all, that it was still shortly after Halloween, that he’d never woken up until now and that everything he remembered—because he did still remember that, at least most of it—was just something invented by his subconscious.

Greg was the one who finally told him the story. No months’ long coma or anything terrible like that, just a horrible fever. Admittedly, it had been a fever that had stubbornly stayed upwards of a hundred and three for days, and with him eating nothing and sweating out or vomiting the little he did drink, his parents had bundled him up and taken him in, and there he had stayed.

Wirt remembered none of that.

“You weren’t acting like yourself,” Greg informed him the night Wirt was finally released. He sat on his bed, swinging his legs much like he had at the hospital; Wirt stood in front of him, desperate for answers. He had thought it was safer to ask questions in Greg’s room than in his; in here, their parents might think they were merely playing and not bother to listen in. “You kept saying weird things. Mom says you were delicious.”

Wirt frowned. “You mean delirious?”

Greg hummed and nodded. “But then the fever broke and you got better. I think it was because Jason Funderburker kissed you.” Wirt stared at him, but as Greg continued, blithely unaware of Wirt’s unease, Wirt realized he had been talking about his frog. “I wasn’t supposed to bring him in but he wanted to come visit you, too.”

Wirt swallowed and glanced at the table where the pet frog’s giant habitat sat, but it was empty. “I’ll have to thank him, then. Where is he?”

“In your room. He missed you.”

Right. He should have guessed. “How long was I gone?”

Greg’s legs stopped swinging. “Forever,” he said. Somehow, it didn’t sound like an exaggeration. “I’m glad you’re back now. Promise not to leave again?”

Wirt forced a smile on his face. “What makes you think I’m going to leave?” he asked instead, reaching over to ruffle Greg’s hair and diving to tickle him as he dodged.

The distraction worked. Wirt was glad; he couldn’t make that promise. Not yet. He didn’t think he could keep it yet.

It hadn’t been delirium. It hadn’t been a dream. It had been too real for that.

Mabel and Dipper, whoever they were, had helped him. Had freed him. He had to at least try to help them in return. He wasn’t sure how yet, wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to find them, but he was going to try.

“What are you doing?”

Oh, no. He’d hoped to get away before Greg found him. He turned as Greg trotted into his room and smiled. He didn’t want to lie to his brother; Greg didn’t deserve that. “I need to help a couple of friends.”

Greg was silent for a few seconds, taking in the duffel bag that was already stuffed full of clothes and toiletries and survival supplies and everything else Wirt thought he might need. Wirt braced himself for the inevitable questions: Why are you leaving? Where are you going?

Instead, he got, “Why are you packing your Halloween costume?”

“Because Summerween’s next week,” Wirt answered automatically, but even as he said it, he didn’t know if that was true. It was practically next week already, and he wasn’t sure when he’d met the twins (he was convinced they were twins, not just siblings). Time in the Unknown was different than it was here. Days there could be minutes here, so days here…. Mabel and Dipper were probably home by now.

Or they might never have made it back.

Then again, if time did pass so differently, it didn’t make sense that he’d lived two lives. Even if he couldn’t remember any more of his time in the Unknown than when he’d been with the twins, the lantern had been burning brightly; he’d been there for a while, or at least regularly. There wouldn’t have been time for years to pass between his visits. Something didn’t add up.

But they had been real. He knew that. He’d even gone to the library to do as much research on them and the little he knew about them as he could. He could recall everything from then clearly, much more vividly than if it had just been a dream. The names they had given him were Dipper and Mabel. They had a pet pig named Waddles and great-uncles named Stan and Ford. They had fought someone called Bill Cipher.

The names hadn’t proven useful, especially when the only one with a last name he knew was supposed to be a demon. But some of the other odd things they’d mentioned—Summerween and Weirdmageddon—had helped him narrow it down. He wasn’t sure how reliable the information was, of course, but every mention of those words—however sketchy—seemed to lead him to one place, and by combing through online newspapers, he’d been able to put some people with those names in that town.

It was a crazy idea, but he didn’t know what else to do.

So he was packing a bag, and he’d used his money to buy a bus ticket to Gravity Falls, and he hoped his parents wouldn’t kill him once they read the note he was planning to leave behind.

He had twenty minutes.

“That sounds fun. I’ll pack mine, too.”

“You’re not coming, Greg.”

“Why not?”

Wirt’s hands shook, so he stuffed the old army cloak into his suitcase to cover up his body’s betrayal. “Because I won’t be able to protect you.”

“Well, maybe I can protect you.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. Wirt didn’t want Greg to try to sacrifice himself like that again. He took a slow breath. “I need you to take care of Mom and Dad.”

“They can take care of themselves. They have each other. Who will you have if you don’t have me?”

Wirt dearly hoped the answer to that question wasn’t the Beast or any other demon, including this Bill Cipher, but he couldn’t explain anything. He couldn’t explain how he had seemingly been in two places at once, living two different lives. He couldn’t explain his lost time there or even his lost time here. What if none of it been real after all, and he’d simply imagined meeting Dipper and Mabel and pulled out some tidbits of information from his subconscious while in a feverish state?

Or was this the life which wasn’t real?

Wirt swallowed. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure who he could trust. If that had been real and this wasn’t….

Nice illusions make the best traps. That’s what Mabel had said. And wasn’t she right?

You can be shown what you want to see. If you think everything is fine, you’re never going to fight it. How was he supposed to know what this was if illusions could be so convincing?

No. He had to trust that it was all real, somehow. As real as his previous trip over the garden wall and into those woods with Greg on Halloween. He didn’t have Dipper’s apparent understanding of deals with demons, but he could understand the gist of it. If Dipper had been right—partially right, considering this life was real, too—and he had still belonged to the Beast, then maybe he had been more useful to the Beast as a puppet. And maybe he had stopped the Woodsman from blowing out the lantern. But maybe he had still followed Greg back to this world, had still been able to live his life here….

Until the Beast needed him again. Until he was called back. To guard the woods. Keep watch for lost souls. Ferry people across the lake.

Keep the lantern burning.

And as long as that happened, the Beast didn’t need him the entire time. The lantern could have burned without its guardian in that quiet corner of the woods as long as he returned regularly to harvest Edelwood to feed it—and to keep children from finding their way out of the woods so that their souls could be claimed by the Beast, too.

He couldn’t remember falling ill at all this year, didn’t know if it had happened with any regularity or if this last fever had been mere coincidence. He doubted it, though. Fever, flame…. It had to be connected.

Especially since he couldn’t remember what had happened before he’d woken in the hospital.

Not really.

Dipper had said something about keeping the lantern lit, about being more useful as a puppet than as a tree, and then….

And then nothing, not even a blur or the vague sense of a fading dream.

That scared him.

Even more terrifying was the fact that he didn’t know if it was over.

This was the first time he was aware of it, but that was because Mabel and Dipper had snapped him out of it while he’d still been there. That didn’t mean he was free. It didn’t mean the Beast was gone, that the lantern had gone out, or even that Dipper had been right in thinking it a loophole. It didn’t mean the Beast couldn’t pull him back there and use him again.

“Wirt?”

He couldn’t remember what Greg had said, if he’d even asked a question.

“I’m going to go pack. You need me.”

Wirt turned, but Greg was already disappearing. No, he wanted to say. Don’t. What if I can’t protect you? I don’t want you mixed up in this. Not again. Please, just stay here.

But the words didn’t come. Greg was right: Wirt did need him. He was terrified. He didn’t know what he was getting into. Having Greg’s unshakable faith by his side would be a comfort.

But losing it, and knowing it was his fault? Could he really risk that? Again?

Wirt sighed, pulled out his wallet, and began counting his money; if this was going to be a trip for two, he needed to make sure he had enough to cover everything. Greg was not going to suffer because of him. Not again. Not in this. “I’m going to protect you, Greg. I swear, this time, I’ll keep you safe.”

The bus stop in Gravity Falls was nothing more than a sign and a bench on the outskirts of town. Wirt stepped off the bus and looked around uncertainly, carrying both his bag and Greg’s. Greg was humming as he followed Wirt. He didn’t feel…whatever this was. If he did, it didn’t bother him.

It wasn’t something Wirt could put his finger on. It felt like he’d stepped into an electrical field, like the hairs on his arms should be standing up even though they lay flat. He couldn’t hear anything, but there was still…something. Not a hum, exactly, but a…a….

There was a small pop. Wirt turned, spotting the redheaded girl leaning against a tree on the other side of the road as she asked, “So, who are you two attached to?”

“Um….”

“I’m Greg,” Greg said, bounding across the road to the girl as she blew another pink bubble. “That’s my brother, Wirt. We’re on an adventure!”

The girl popped this bubble, too, and cracked a smile. She uncrossed her arms and crouched down to Greg’s level. “Nice to meet ya, Greg. Now, what makes you think you and Wirt are going to find an adventure in boring old Gravity Falls?”

“Not sure I’d call it boring,” Wirt muttered, because if this place had demons, too, it couldn’t be. And Mabel may not have explained what she meant by Weirdmageddon, but if half of what he’d found online had even a smidgeon of truth….

The girl’s eyebrows shot up and she looked over at Wirt. “Sounds like you’d enjoy a trip to the Mystery Shack.”

“What’s the Mystery Shack?” Greg asked.

“Exactly what it sounds like.” The girl winked. “It also happens to be where I’m headed; my break’s over. I brought the golf cart if you’d care for a ride. I’m Wendy, by the way.”

Wirt had no idea where he should start looking, and he vaguely recalled something about the Mystery Shack, so he smiled. “That would be nice, thanks.”

“Follow me. I’m just parked over here,” Wendy said, pointing, “and it’s not far. If Greg doesn’t mind squishing in the middle or sitting on your lap, Wirt, you can toss your bags into the back.”

“What brings you out here if you’re just on your break?” Wirt asked, glancing over at Wendy. She looked like she was about his age, but she didn’t seem the type to just hang out at a bus stop for no reason. “You can’t have very long.”

He saw the smile drop from her face, and her expression became more guarded. “I like the fresh air,” was all she said. He couldn’t bring himself to believe her, but he didn’t push it.

Once they were all settled in the golf cart, their luggage safely stowed in the rack at the back, the trip wasn’t very long. Wirt suspected Wendy had driven carefully for Greg’s sake, and he was grateful for that; the cart certainly looked battered enough to have been rolled at some point. He was already regretting allowing Greg to come along. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here anymore.

Wendy stopped around back and told them they were free to bring their bags inside for now—“Safer than leaving them out in the open.”—although Wirt had no idea who would steal their luggage here. He wasn’t even sure they had followed a road into the place; the main road looked to come from the other direction.

That’s not to say the trail wasn’t well signed; it seemed like every few trees, there was a sign declaring the Mystery Shack, with an arrow pointing the way. But he couldn’t understand why these people would be advertising for it from anywhere but the main road. No one would be coming towards it from the woods.

Granted, from the looks of the place, he wasn’t sure too many people would be coming towards it from the road, either. It looked barely a step above the place where Lorna and Auntie Whispers had lived. Ramshackle, though not abandoned. Falling apart despite a patchwork of repairs, though clean enough to be loved.

The chime above the door went as Wendy led them in, and Wirt heard, “Wendy, did they c— Oh, welcome, newcomers! Behold the Mystery Shack, where all—”

The spiel continued, but Wirt stopped listening in favour of staring. He’d had his doubts just seeing this place from the outside, but now…. It was all so obviously fake. He could see the stitches holding the mermaid together, the antlers on that jackalope were much too large to even be plausible, the merchandise looked cheap and corny…. The missing S from the giant sign on the roof seemed to make the name true. This was more hack than anything else. Why else would there a wax head of Larry King just sitting on a shelf, glaring at them all from behind the counter? This place was one which was too confusing for people to make sense of it, not somewhere that offered a real sense of mystery.

“Wirt, Wirt, look at this! It’s just like that painting at Unkie Endicott’s! Of the ghost lady who wasn’t a ghost! And I think her eyes are moving.” Greg was grinning as he walked back and forth in front of the painting, staring at the canvas.

“You’ll have to pay if you want to see more than just the shop,” Wendy added as she plucked their bags from Wirt’s grip and slid behind the counter with them. “We might have a new Mr. Mystery, but the rules of the business haven’t changed.”

Mr. Mystery smiled rather sheepishly. “We have added a family discount now.”

“They got off the bus themselves,” Wendy said before Wirt could come up with some excuse as to why their parents weren’t around. “Apparently, they’re looking for an adventure. I figured this would be a good place to start.”

“Come on, Wirt.” Greg tugged on his arm. “Let’s go inside!”

“I don’t think….” This was the wrong place to start, but Greg was looking at him that way, and how much could he deny him? He was only here because of Wirt. He’d volunteered to go headlong into danger because of Wirt. Didn’t he deserve a bit of fun before that? “Um, you can go ahead of me, okay?”

He expected Greg to say something in protest, but he just chirped, “Okay!” and bounded through the door to the rest of the building. (Wirt wasn’t sure if it could properly be called a museum when it just looked like a tourist trap.) Mr. Mystery laughed and followed him, presumably to give whatever passed as a tour or maybe to make sure Greg didn’t break anything, which left Wirt with Wendy.

“Five bucks for kids,” she said. “Are you going in, too?”

“Um.” Wirt fumbled with his wallet for a moment before pulling out a bill and passing it to Wendy. “No. I can’t. I…geez, I didn’t think this through enough. Is there a good hotel in town? Or any hotel in town?” Now that he’d seen the size of this place—or rather, the size of the bus stop and one of the main tourist attractions—he was beginning to understand why there had been so little information about it in general. “I need to figure out where we’re going to stay.”

Wendy blew another bubble of gum and managed to answer without popping it. “Hotel’s not rebuilt yet. It wasn’t a priority, I guess; we don’t get a lot of people through here. But I can put in a good word with the guy who lives alone in the mansion on the hill if you don’t mind doing a few chores to earn your keep. That’ll mean more to him than money.”

Wirt was in no position to be picky, and it couldn’t be worse than what they’d encountered in the Unknown. “That would be great.”

Wendy sucked the bubble back into her mouth and then put her hands on the counter and leaned across towards him. “Consider it done, then. But really, Wirt, you wanna tell me why you’re here?”

He offered her a smile, though it probably wasn’t very believable. “We’re going on an adventure.”

“In Gravity Falls?”

He’d expected her to question why he and Greg were alone, not doubt their choice of destination. “Yes?” It came out sounding like a question, even to his ears.

“Why here?”

Wirt swallowed. “Why does the hotel need to be rebuilt?”

“Burned down,” Wendy answered without missing a beat. “But you, you’re here for a reason, aren’t you? Gravity Falls isn’t exactly a place you’d just pick off a map. So why come here?”

The truth was crazy. Wendy might have lived crazy, too, but Wirt didn’t know that for sure, so he settled on a piece of it. “A friend told me about it. She was going to be visiting here, too. She’s looking forward to Summerween.”

Wendy raised her eyebrows. “Summerween’s tonight,” she said, “and you can’t really expect me to believe that you’re following a girl out here when you came with your little brother.”

“It’s not like that,” Wirt insisted, his cheeks burning as if to give lie to his statement. He was kinda sorta dating Sara, if he could believe the life he’d been living here, and he hardly even knew Mabel. “I just owe her and her brother a favour.” They’d saved him, but Wendy wasn’t going to understand that, and saying it would invite more questions than he could answer. He was having enough trouble with this impromptu interrogation as it was.

Wendy’s eyes narrowed, but the next second, she was leaning back in her chair as if nothing was wrong. “Maybe I can help you then, kid. Who are you looking for?”

“Mabel,” Wirt answered, a little annoyed at being called a kid (he wasn’t even that much shorter than her; she didn’t need to treat him like he was Greg’s age) but not annoyed enough to make a big deal out of it when he could use her help.

Wendy sat up. “Mabel. You’re looking for Mabel? Mabel Pines?”

Pines sounded right, but he’d never been sure if that really was her last name. “Mabel and Dipper.” Wendy could take it as either confirmation or denial, depending on the truth. “They helped me with something.”

“When?”

The question was earnest, but Wirt wasn’t entirely sure why it mattered. “Last week.”

“Last Tuesday?”

That was oddly specific. “I don’t remember.”

Wendy sighed. “Look, I’ll be honest with you here, okay? You’re right. Mabel and Dipper are supposed to be here. But they’re not. They’ve gone missing. Their parents thought they might have run away to come here a bit early, but they never turned up, and if it’s a kidnapping, there’s been no ransom. When Stan and Ford caught wind of this, they started searching everywhere, but even they can’t find them.” She said this as if Stan and Ford were far more likely to find the twins than the police, who were undoubtedly also looking for them if they were missing.

But maybe they weren’t really missing.

He’d met them in the Unknown, after all.

Except that didn’t make sense. No matter how many times he tried to reconcile it, it didn’t add up. He and Greg had hardly been gone any time at all. They’d returned the same night despite spending more than one night in the Unknown. But then he’d woken up in the hospital again after being back in the Unknown. He remembered months of this reality, months he wasn’t even sure he’d really lived if he’d been in the Unknown all along. But it was summer now, just as it should be, and it had been summer for Mabel and Dipper, too…. But then again, the lantern had been burning brightly, the same lantern that the Woodsman had worked so tirelessly to keep lit. Left alone for too long, it should have gone out.

Something wasn’t right.

Something wasn’t real.

Or something was blurring the lines.

“I know that look.” Wendy again. “You know something. Please, tell me. They’re my friends, too.”

Why put signs in the woods, advertising where there was no road for them to be seen?

Wirt took a step back.

He never should have let Greg go off on his own. The Mystery Shack was small; that was to his advantage. If he yelled, Greg would hear him. But if he yelled, they would know—

Wendy vaulted over the counter, somehow easily clearing the various knickknacks and the jar of fake eyeballs for sale on the side. Her feet hit the floor with a thud. A hollow thud. There was a basement under here. He wondered whether this place, with all its fake attractions, hid its secrets below or above or in plain sight.

“Wirt. What do you know? Tell me. It’s important.”

Always doing what you’re told. Beatrice’s voice, sounding through his head. He hadn’t imagined meeting her any more than he had imagined meeting the twins, but if this wasn’t imagination, either….

If neither was imagination, then something was fabrication, and he didn’t know which. Not the twins, surely, if Wendy seemed to know them, but….

“Darkened dreams where demons run,” Wirt whispered as he took another step back, “twisting truth till all is done.”

Nice illusions make the best traps.

Just because he was free of the Unknown, it didn’t mean he was free of the Beast. This might be a trick, part of some plan he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what had happened. Dipper and Mabel must have done something, but what if he wasn’t really back? What if this was just the dream world? Did that mean that the Beast was controlling him back in the Unknown?

He stepped back against something—the vending machine, his memory supplied—and Wendy’s hand shot out to catch his arm. “Wirt! What’s going on? What demons are running around?”

He shook his head even as her grip tightened. That was just a snatch of poetry that seemed to fit his situation. Everything felt twisted, sculpted to suit the Beast, and he didn’t know—

Wendy pulled him up by his shirt and looked him in the eye. “Spill,” she hissed as he yelped and then found himself struggling for air, feet kicking uselessly against smooth plastic in an effort to find purchase and maybe help him get free. “Now. Dipper and Mabel are in trouble, and if you don’t tell me what you know—”

“Wirt!” came Greg’s cry, barely overrode by Mr. Mystery’s, “Wendy, what are you doing?”

Wendy dropped him, but one hand was closed around his wrist before he could run. “Soos, he knows what happened to Dipper and Mabel.”

Mr. Mystery—Soos—looked startled and put one of his hands on Greg’s head. It was meant to keep him from running as much as to calm him, Wirt suspected bitterly. “How could they know?”

“Don’t know. The squirt might be clueless, but this one definitely isn’t.”

“Wirt?” Greg asked slowly, giving truth to Wendy’s words. “What is she talking about?”

Wirt, not convinced he could break free of Wendy’s grip, just shook his head.

“I thought we came here for an adventure,” Greg said. “To help your friends. Like we helped Beatrice and she helped us.”

Wirt closed his eyes. “I wasn’t lying. I am trying to help them. But I need to figure out how first.” He looked at Greg, knowing he was the only one who was going to understand the significance of the next statement. “I met them in the Unknown.”

Wirt saw Soos and Wendy exchange glances as Greg tilted his head. “I don’t remember them.”

“That’s because you weren’t there.”

“But we got back together.”

Wirt shook his head again. “No. We didn’t. Or maybe we did and I…. I don’t know. I just know I was back there. And they helped me get back here. I think. I don’t know. I don’t know anything for sure. I can’t remember exactly what happened.” He turned to Wendy. “I think they might still be there.”

“And where exactly is there?” demanded Wendy.

“The Unknown,” Wirt repeated, knowing from Wendy’s narrowed eyes that she wasn’t impressed with that answer. “It’s…. I don’t know. It’s another place. People can get lost there, but things aren’t…. It’s not like here.”

“Another dimension?” asked Soos.

Wirt shrugged helplessly, but Wendy must have agreed because she finally released him. “Sounds like it. So how do we go there and bring them back?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you said—”

“I don’t know! I can’t remember. When I was with Greg, we got lost trying to find our way back to the main road. We didn’t even realize we’d crossed anything, let alone ended up in a different dimension if that’s really what it is.”

“Then how did you get out of there?”

Wirt hesitated, not sure how much he could trust his memories, and Greg said, “I just remember being cold and wet. Was that from the snow?”

“No, we’d fallen into the water. I managed to get us ashore.” If that memory was real. Maybe it had just been the snow. Or maybe…. But he didn’t want to think that this world was the fabrication. “That’s not what happened to me last time. I don’t know how I got back here. I didn’t even realize I’d left here and was back in the Unknown until I met Mabel and Dipper. I…. It’s like I woke up and they were there.”

Wendy crossed her arms. “So what do you know?”

Wirt spread his hands. “I don’t know how much of this is accurate. The Beast…. The Beast is a demon, I guess. He haunts the forest and feeds on lost souls, and he was….” Wirt stopped. There was no good way to say this. “Dipper thought the Beast had been controlling me—”

“But he had to let you go!” Greg cried. “He promised. You could go home if I stayed with him instead.”

Wirt’s chest tightened as Greg confirmed the twins’ theory. He hadn’t wanted that part to be right. He didn’t want to think that Greg would ever feel obliged to give up so much for him. He was the little brother; it was Wirt’s job to protect him, not the other way around. He’d done a terrible job of it.

“You’re not there now, kiddo,” Wendy said, “which might explain some of this.” She had taken up a defensive stance and didn’t take her eyes off Wirt.

Soos held up one finger. “Um, quick thing, but had been controlling you? As in not any longer or not currently? That seems like an important distinction.”

Wirt sighed. “I’m not sure about that, either,” he admitted. “Dipper thought he could find a loophole so that it would be over, and maybe that’s what happened. Maybe that’s why I’m back here now.” Hopefully.

“But you never left,” Greg said in a small voice.

Wirt swallowed. “I was in the hospital last Tuesday, wasn’t I?”

Greg nodded. “The fever wouldn’t break. Mom took you in the night before.”

Wendy looked from Wirt to Greg and back again before stating the obvious. “So you don’t know if you’re really safe. All you know is that you’re back here. Without the Beast, as far as you can tell.” From her tone, she could guess a number of the things he hadn’t explicitly said. Wirt nodded anyway. “And he’s haunting your dreams?”

“Not…. Well, maybe? I…. I’m not actually sure. It’s complicated. I think…. I think he’s been pulling me back into the Unknown somehow.” It made his stomach twist to think about it. If neither world was a fabrication, then maybe he had been living in two different realities. Maybe the reason he never seemed to lose much time was because he was back under the Beast’s control whenever he was close enough to the In Between for the Beast to reach out and pull him through to the Unknown.

Whenever he slept. Whenever he dreamed. If he’d left a piece of himself back in the Unknown—

“Is this my fault?” whispered Greg.

“No, it’s not.” Wirt stared at Wendy, daring her to contradict him. She didn’t. Maybe she had a little brother, too. He hesitated and looked over at Greg. “You escaped. You’re free. That’s the important part. So try not to blame yourself for my mistakes. Can you do that?”

Greg nodded.

Wirt bit his lip. “I wish I understood this better. I’d give anythi—”

Wendy’s hand was suddenly clamped over his mouth. “Don’t finish that thought. Don’t even think it. That’s too dangerous, even in here. He’s too close.”

Who’s too close? But Wirt knew the answer to that, now that he knew the Beast wasn’t the only demon to roam the realms. Mabel and Dipper had been worried about Bill Cipher. He, too, was supposed to be gone, just like the Beast, but—

It’s usually not that easy to get rid of a demon.

Since Dipper had evidently been talking from experience, he should know. But they wouldn’t have told Wirt about their demon unless they suspected he could still get to them despite whatever they had done. Hadn’t they thought this Bill Cipher was the one who had trapped them in the Unknown? Maybe demons liked deals enough to strike them with each other and this one ensured the Pines twins were lost in the woods so the Beast could claim them.

In all fairness, Wirt wasn’t exactly sure someone like Mabel could ever be claimed by the Beast—she was entirely too much like Greg for that to happen any way but deliberately—but it wasn’t likely that demons actually struck fair deals.

Whatever had been between him and the Beast…. He had to hope that it was over, that Dipper had successfully found a loophole. Except it couldn’t be over, not if Mabel and Dipper were still in there. He’d…he’d have to find a way back. Not with Greg; he wouldn’t risk Greg again. And he might not know Wendy or Soos, but he didn’t really want to risk them, either.

If…if he didn’t come back, someone would have to see Greg home, and Wirt was sure they’d do that.

“I’m calling Stan,” Wendy said, putting her cell phone up to her ear. “He and Ford need to hear everything you can tell them. Until they get here, stay at Old Man McGucket’s. No exploring. We can’t risk that.”

“Risk what?” Greg asked, looking up at Soos.

No one answered.

Wirt had no idea where Stan and Ford had been coming from, but the Pines brothers arrived at Gravity Falls within two hours. Wendy had insisted on babysitting them in the meantime, even though Greg had spent much of that time happily chatting with Fiddleford McGucket, the man who owned the mansion Wendy had mentioned. Wirt wasn’t entirely sure how someone like Fiddleford could afford to live here, but he knew better than to ask. He was just grateful to have a roof over their heads while they were here.

Wirt had half-hoped that Greg would set off exploring the mansion before everyone else arrived, but he listened very attentively as Wirt recounted what he remembered. Soos had closed up shop for the occasion, but even with Greg counting among Wirt’s audience of six, it felt like there were too many people here. This was his story. His mistake. Did they really all need to bear witness to it?

Wirt knew that was silly; it just meant he had six more people who could help him figure this out. And as reluctant as he had been to involve Greg, having his brother here helped to ground him. Of course, Greg would occasionally chime in with questions Wirt couldn’t answer—Was the lake near where we took the ferry to Adelaide’s? So what happened to the Woodsman? Couldn’t you have wished on a star and visited Cloud City, too?—which invariably led to a discussion of the first time they’d ended up in the Unknown. Greg remembered that time with far more fondness than Wirt did. To him, it really had just been an adventure.

Not a nightmare.

The discussion invariably turned to ways to get Dipper and Mabel back safely. While the others started arguing over different tactics and possible strategies, Ford pulled Wirt into another room. Wirt might not have been able to figure out who was who right after meeting Stan and Ford, but it became very clear that Ford was the more serious of the two, for all that everyone seemed to care deeply about the younger Pines twins. Stan liked to joke, coming up with crazy ideas that must have some hope of working since they weren’t immediately dismissed by the others, while Ford….

Ford had a look in his eye Wirt recognized from the face that had been haunting him in the mirror since he’d woken up in that hospital room. There was grim determination in there, sure, but it was touched by fear. Not just fear of the unknown, of not knowing what had happened, but fear born of the intimate knowledge of what may have happened.

It made Wirt think there had been far more going on in this town than the newspapers had ever reported, even the columns that seemed at first glance to be fanciful stories written merely for entertainment.

The door shut on the others, closing them off, and Ford turned to Wirt. “I’m not going to leave those kids to the mercy of another demon,” he said quietly, “but I’m not about to dismiss the possibility that this is a trick, either. I’ve been tricked too many times to blindly believe anything anymore.”

Wirt didn’t know what to say to that—he still didn’t know if this was a trick, either—so he just nodded.

“If Dipper was right, and I have no reason to believe he wasn’t, you were possessed by the Beast. Whether or not Dipper truly found a loophole in your deal with him is a moot point as long as that connection is still there. We’ll need to break that to prevent further interpretations of your contract, especially if you aren’t sure of the terms.”

Wirt opened his mouth to ask how he was supposed to do that when Ford added, “But until then, we can use that connection to our advantage.”

“How?”

Ford smiled, but it was far from reassuring. “Meet me at the Mystery Shack in three hours, and I’ll show you.”

Soos apparently had to go out for a family dinner at the local café—Wirt didn’t ask, though there was obviously more to the story judging by the looks he’d received—and Stan had muttered about seeing to a few things so they could mount the rescue mission. Fiddleford had gotten excited about this prospect and stuck to Stan like glue, which he hadn’t looked thrilled about. Ford had obviously been expected to join them, but he’d said something about splitting up in order to have enough time to cover everything. The argument had still been going on when Wendy had pulled them away and told them to find costumes to wear.

She had agreed to take them out for Summerween before she met up with her friends, though she did say it would be fine if they decided to stick around. When Wendy had handed them both pails for candy, Wirt hadn’t argued. He didn’t mind the implication that he needed a babysitter this time; now, it worked to his advantage. It meant he could be sure Greg was sufficiently distracted.

Ford had never told him to come alone, but if Wirt was going to keep Greg out of this, he had to be sneaky about it. When they were passing the edge of town nearest the Mystery Shack, Wirt bent down to tie his shoe and waved the others ahead, promising that he’d catch up soon. By some stroke of luck, Greg believed him, and Wendy—if she had any doubts—didn’t call him on it.

Wirt fiddled with his shoelace for a few moments, waiting for them to get farther ahead before running into the woods. This time, the random signage was to his advantage, and he’d smuggled a flashlight along with a first aid kit under his cloak, so he could see where he was going without depending on the light of the (admittedly waxing) moon now that the sun had set.

Despite that, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice said, “That disguise won’t fool anyone.”

Wirt scrambled for the fallen flashlight before climbing back to his feet and brushing at his clothes. He swung the flashlight around wildly, looking for the source of the voice. The beam bounced off tree trunks and broken branches, leafy shrubs and spider webs, but nothing— “Who’s there?”

“Little lower there, Stretch. We ain’t all as tall as you.”

Wirt swallowed but lowered the flashlight. If he weren’t already acquainted with talking frogs, pumpkin-wearing skeletons, or bluebirds that had once been people, he would have found the idea of gnomes more disconcerting. Self-consciously, he straightened his hat. “Um…can I help you?”

“More me that’s helping you, unless you’re going to take over my post. I pulled the short straw when Shmebulock overindulged again.” The gnome squinted at Wirt and scratched at his grey beard. “No, you’re not from here. You’re one of those that’ve been drawn here.”

Wirt blinked. “What?”

The gnome pointed in the direction Wirt had been running. “The statue. It calls some of ‘em. Like you. ‘Smy job to make sure you don’t get where you’re going. So turn around or I’ll raise the alarm.”

“What?”

“Go on. Turn. Go back wherever you came from.”

“But…. I can’t.”

“Suit yourself,” said the gnome, and then he whistled, a shrill piercing thing that had Wirt wincing and reaching to cover his ears.

The whistle cut off abruptly. Wirt lowered his hands slowly, noticing an increased rustling in the underbrush that he wasn’t naïve enough to attribute to wind or the usual forest wildlife. And then his sweeping flashlight beam caught a second gnome, and a third, and then he started seeing them by the dozens.

He took a step back. “You don’t understand.”

“We understand plenty,” the first gnome said, grinning in a feral way that showed off rows of sharp teeth. He didn’t advance, but Wirt had no illusions about what would happen if he tried to continue in this direction. He didn’t want to get mobbed.

Wirt took another step back and shook his head, for all the good that would do. “I don’t care about whatever statue thing you’re talking about. I just need to get to the Mystery Shack.”

More gnomes had appeared, every eye tracking him. It was unnerving.

Wirt didn’t know what else to do, so he kept talking. “I’m—I’m trying to help my friends. Maybe you know them. Mabel and Dipper Pines?”

The hushed silence erupted into chatter, and finally a different gnome stepped forward, this one looking younger than most of the others. “You are acting on behalf of Mabel?”

“Um…I guess?”

“Or for Mabel?”

“Uh.” Wirt didn’t know why this mattered. “For her? She and Dipper—”

“We could tie him up,” a third gnome suggested.

“Throw him in the lake,” said another.

“—gag him—”

“—leave ‘im for the Manotaurs—”

“—the Multi-Bear—”

Wirt didn’t understand half of the snippets of conversation he caught, but he didn’t need to. “She needs my help!” he yelled over the din. “They both do. And they won’t get that if I can’t get to the Mystery Shack.”

The gnome who had been questioning him held up a hand, and with some grumblings, the others quieted. “Carson, escort him to the Mystery Shack. Don’t show him any mercy if he tries to lose you and double back. Steve and Jason, take his shift. Looks like this is an extra security night.” There were a few more mutterings, but no one challenged the arrangement, and Wirt soon found himself with the first gnome as his escort.

The others—except, presumably, for Steve and Jason, and the brown-bearded one who had been giving orders—vanished with unsettling stealth, quite different from the show they’d made in appearing.

Wirt, happy enough to leave behind whatever that had been, followed Carson in silence for a moment before finally asking, “What statue?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

“But I don’t know what it is!”

“That’s the way to keep it.”

“But what did you mean when you said I was drawn to it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But—”

“No one’ll tell you differently.” Carson picked up his pace, moving much faster than something with such short legs should. Wirt ended up practically jogging after him and spending all his energy trying to keep the gnome in sight and not eating a mouthful of dirt, which effectively put an end to the questioning.

He panicked when he finally lost sight of Carson entirely, only to hear, “Thanks for the candy, Stretch!” and realize that he could see the Mystery Shack through the trees—and remember that his candy pail had been left behind in the forest.

It was a good trade, as far as Wirt was concerned. He would’ve ended up giving most of his candy to Greg anyway.

Barring a few flickering lights, the Mystery Shack was mostly dark when Wirt approached. The steps creaked under his weight, and he suddenly found its name much more fitting in this atmosphere. He knocked twice and tried the door. It was unlocked, but all he saw inside was a lava lamp set up on the counter by the cash register and the glow of the vending machine on the opposite wall.

“You sure you know what you’re getting into?”

Wirt shrieked and spun. That hadn’t been Carson’s voice, nor Ford’s. It had almost sounded like—

His flashlight beam caught the wax head of Larry King.

It winked at him.

He turned away quickly, sliding down to sit with his back against the counter. Maybe this was all a mistake. Surely this place was just proof that he wasn’t really back in the real world yet, that this was all just another fabrication—

The vending machine’s buttons suddenly lit up in a particular pattern. As he watched, it silently swung forward as if it were on a hinge to reveal a gaping hole. Somewhere below, light pulsed. Wirt could just make out stairs before darkness ate away at them again.

In for a penny, in for a pound?

He climbed back to his feet and aimed his flashlight at the stairs. They looked sturdy enough, and obviously someone was already down there….

He went carefully, keeping one hand along the wall above what looked to be the remains of a missing railing. The other hand held the flashlight so it illuminated both his feet and the stairs before him. Very quickly, however, he didn’t need it; the light from below grew stronger, and as he put his flashlight away, he found himself in a laboratory of some sort.

Correction: what had once been a laboratory of some sort and had since been abandoned.

Wirt’s eyes swept over a number of exposed wires and clearly cobbled-together circuitry that were visible under the flickering lights. More than one screen had odd stripes of colour across it, and a couple were even cracked. He bit his lip and edged away from the nearest shower of sparks coming from a thick cable connected to a lever sticking out of the floor. The movement didn’t take him any nearer Ford, who was bending over some kind of key panel. “Is this…safe?”

Ford didn’t even turn around. “No.”

“Then why are we even down here? This place looks like a fire waiting to happen!”

This time, Ford did look at Wirt. “We don’t have a choice. We need to rip a hole into another dimension. I’ve done what repairs I can in the time we have, but I don’t want to leave Dipper and Mabel in another nightmare for any longer than I have to. Now come here. I need to analyze your brainwaves if I’m going to find the right dimension.”

“You…what?”

Ford sighed. “That Unknown of yours isn’t the only dimension. If the Beast is tied to it and you’re tied to the Beast, then you’re the best option for finding the right place. We’re much safer if we aren’t doing this blind, and from the sounds of it, you’ve been there frequently.” He held up his hands, which contained what looked like suction cups on the end of wires. “Come here.”

Wirt swallowed but allowed Ford to attach him to the machine. “What happens if this goes wrong?”

“Depending on what happens, you might not even know.”

“Comforting,” Wirt muttered. His fingers tightened their grip on his hat and twisted. “What, uh, are you hoping is going to happen?”

“Something I never wanted to see again.” Ford handed him a length of rope and a clip, pointed to a metal grip attached to the console, and added, “Tie yourself on.”

Wirt did as he was told, trying his best to mimic Ford’s own makeshift harness as the man fiddled with something on the console. The numbers on the nearest screen looked specific, but they weren’t coordinates. If it was part of a code, it seemed too complicated to be easily broken, even by someone like Ford who talked as if he’d done this sort of thing before. The numbers changed even when Ford seemed to barely touch a dial, and it all looked a little too much like guesswork for Wirt’s comfort. Needing a rope didn’t exactly fill him with confidence, either. “What’s this for?”

In answer, Ford walked over to a giant lever on the floor and threw his weight into pushing it forward.

Light exploded.

Wirt squawked and instinctively closed his eyes, but it wasn’t enough. Colours danced against his eyelids, red shining through, and then—

Darkness began eating away at the light, a tiny solar eclipse.

Gravity decided to stop working properly.

Wirt’s hat was torn from his grip. He saw it fly through the portal, there and gone in the blink of an eye. He was already feet first towards it, so he twisted in a futile attempt to reach the tiny metal handle he’d attached himself to. He could see the knot of his harness slipping, weaker than the pull of the portal.

The wires tore loose from his head.

Behind him, the portal flickered.

“Just hold on!” Ford yelled. “I’m going to bring them back.” He was reaching to unclip his own harness, to let the portal drag him in. “Just keep the doorway open!”

The knot worked itself free.

Rope burned through his grip as he flew backwards.

Wirt’s scream was torn from his throat, and then the lab—Ford—everything—was gone.

Next or see more fics

[wolfpackofmyown]

A/n: Gonna be straight up, I’m only posting this so it’s not sitting in my drafts forever. This is porn with basically no plot simply because these two heathens were bound to want to fuck at some point. Based in my Fae verse (aka @tellurianwitch and all her assorted lovelies). Warning for rough sex, some blood, one night stand, etc. 

She didn’t go to bars very often. In fact she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been since she left her pack. But something drew her here, as she wandered into the darkly lit room. It smelled like people and alcohol and sweat. But she also smelled another wolf, an unfamiliar wolf that certainly wasn’t from her own pack. As she drew closer to him, she realized that he also smelled...much like Devon.

In the same way she imagine she smelled like Devon after she’d stayed with him. As she found the man who was giving off these scents, that thought made her flush down to her collar. Did Devon like men? Had he...?

Down, girl. She tried to force the thought of the two...very tall men together out of her head as she sidled up to the bar beside him. She first turned her attention to the bartender, though she could see through her peripheral that he was gazing at her curiously. Ordering a long island, she turned to look at him. His eyes glimmered as she met his gaze. She wanted to say something, but he interrupted before she could by placing a large hand at the back of her neck and pulled her closer. He was slow in the motion, not entirely forceful - if she wanted to pull away she could have - as he brought her mouth to his.

Abi squeaked, easily melting against him as he pulled her a little bit closer. He tasted of whiskey and warmth and it sent a jolt straight down her back. He pulled back with a slow, lazy grin, and leaned in to her ear. “My name’s Liam, and you smell like you have something very particular on your mind.” She blushed a deep red once more. It had been long enough that she forgot that other wolves could easily smell her arousal.

“You, ahh, smell like a friend of mine,” She admitted with a quiet laugh. “And I started thinking about...things.” At one point, she might’ve been even more shy, but something about him made her comfortable. Just like something about her was drawing out a side of him he had yet to fully address.

He chuckled low and released her, Abi stepping back and leaning against the bar as the bar tender returned with her drink. Pulling it to her, she glanced at him as she stirred it, a smile pulling at her lips. “I’m Abigail, by the way. Abi, if you’d like.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Abi.” he turned to nurse the glass before him and let out a low hum. She shifted and eyed him curiously, biting at her lip. Underneath that smell of lingering evergreen, he smelled warm. Like summer and sand and wild. Like he came from the south.

“Far from home?” She mused, drawing his gaze again. He grinned, tipping his head in affirmation. “What brings you all the way up here?”

“Running,” He answered bluntly, though that wasn’t entirely the truth. If he were running he wouldn’t bother settling until he got to where he was running to. But he was restless, and he knew if he stayed home he’d be far too tempted to head for Texas before they were ready. So he’d wandered north.

And landed himself next to a pureblood omega that reeked of fae and sex. He had to bite back a sound at the thought, as it woke something in his core that had never properly risen its head before. He turned to see how she would take that answer, and was surprised to see sadness in her eyes.

“Me too.” She offered after a moment. Well, she wasn’t running anymore, but it was what had brought her away from the coast and here to this town. Not that it was all bad; she had met Devon here after all, and through him some other very nice friends. And who knew... maybe she’d be home sooner than she thought.

Liam reached over to tuck a finger beneath her chin and turn her gaze more intently to his, studying her expression. There was a story there that he imagined was not something she wanted to think about, if she was wandering into a bar and ordering that. Let alone thinking about her... whatever they were, and a complete stranger.

So he flashed her a slow, wolfish grin and drew his thumb over her lip. “Sometimes it’s more fun to run with others.” The low pitch of his voice made heat spark in Abi’s stomach, her eyes darkening just slightly. She pulled her chin free with a small, playful little smile and turned her attention back to her drink.

“Sometimes it is.” Even though she tried to be coy, she knew well enough that he could probably smell the effect it had on her. Usually if she went out looking for a hook-up - something she didn’t do very often anymore, mostly because Devon kept her quite satisfied more often than not - she had a game she’d play. Feign disinterest with just enough attention offered to keep them advancing, pretend she was unimpressed by the often lewd things they would murmur in her ear. The shy routine - not entirely a routine, but still a lot more of it was played up to mirror more human behavior. She couldn’t pull that with someone who’s senses were as sharp as hers.

Which was why Liam was up against her back after a moment, bold despite the fact they were in a bar. She hadn’t even heard him slip off his chair. She flushed pink, feeling the large expanse of his chest at her back as he leaned into her ear. Trying desperately to focus on her drink instead of the heat coming off of him, she toyed with the straw absently.

“Will you run with me?” His voice had somehow pitched lower still, all but vibrating to her very core. She couldn’t even pretend not to acknowledge the heat that was pooling between her thighs as she took a large gulp off her drink, whimpering faintly and making him chuckle. After she’d taken another, smaller drink to try and cool herself - not exactly the best idea when she was drinking one of the strongest drinks in the world - she looked up at him, taking in his upside down smirk and the fire burning in his eyes she hadn’t seen in a very long time. Of course. His behavior made sense.

She nodded her head slowly, untrusting of her voice, and his grin widened while he pulled a few bills out of his pocket and set them on the bar without addressing the bartender, who was watching them with an air of fascination. She was also watching Abi very closely to make sure she was okay. He reached around Abi to nudge her drink lightly, indicating that if she wanted to finish it she should.

And she did, picking it up and draining it. She hadn’t eaten much today - hadn’t been around anyone that would remind her, and had too much else on her mind to remember herself - and it wasn’t the best idea to down a long island like that. Even with a body that usually burned alcohol off quickly she was feeling that. She would’ve wobbled as she got up from her chair, had he not had a hand out to steady her.

“I’ll follow you,” He murmured with a slow smile. She grinned up at him, shyness dissipating as she started for the door. Liam followed her with an easy, relaxed gait, smirking to himself. This part he was used to; random hook-ups were normal for him, leaving a bar with a partner eager to get to privacy. What he wasn’t used to was the itch beneath his skin, an itch he’d only really felt once before. He wanted to chase her. Wanted to chase that scent coming off of her in waves.

Everyone that looked his way knew what was on his mind as they left the bar.

The night air, despite it being summer, was chilly as they stepped outside. Abi contributed it to the alcohol warming her up. Liam contributed it to the fact that his body was humming with energy and excitement. Without really thinking, Abi began leading him towards the trees. After all, it wouldn’t be weird to another werewolf that she lived out in the woods, right?

While Liam fought to control that feeling of wanting to hunt, Abi felt a stir in her stomach as adrenaline built in her system. She recognized it, where Liam did not; there had only been one alpha-type in her generation, someone who would either work with Morrigan to learn what it meant to lead and go off to have his own pack, or who would be there in case something happened, to help. But she’d been through this song and dance before. Liam may not know the alpha blood in him, may not recognize it, but she could smell it on him.

He was an alpha - or at least as close to one as he could be - and she was an omega. She brought out of him the desire to claim. A very rough desire when it came to wolves. A desire that, to a point, she was more than willing to indulge. She would not leave this without a good amount of bruising and minor scarring. And it thrilled her.

As they reached the treeline, she turned to him, grinning as he stopped just short of running into her. Her eyes were bright and playful. She leaned up, sliding her hands beneath the leather jacket draped loosely on him, to use his shoulders to pull her up and whisper to against his ear.

“Race ya.”

In a flash, she was gone, but Liam didn’t even blink. Immediately he was after her, ducking and dodging through the trees, following her scent as she bolted through the woods. He growled, wild and primal in a way that made Abi shiver despite the heat her body was giving off. Her heart hammered wildly and she couldn’t help but give a gleeful laugh, listening to him give chase.

At their speed it didn’t take long to reach her home. The wide clearing, with her little camp made up near the stream that cut through, was bathed in the light of the waning crescent moon. The light almost felt cool against her skin, though she’d always thought that a mental reaction more than physical.

Abigail didn’t plan to stop here. She hopped the stream, intending to lead him on a chase through the woods, but she underestimated his speed. The world tipped as his weight crashed into her back, and spun as he rolled them so that he took the fall, before immediately rolling them back over and pinning her on her belly to the ground.

The two wolves panted, breathing hard, Liam’s breath hot against her shoulder. His weight was nearly crushing, but she wasn’t going to complain. His lips found her neck and he growled against her, biting down at the place her neck and shoulder met, drawing a low cry from her throat.

“Exactly how attached to these clothes are you?” Liam asked in that rumbling bass, unable to fight a grin when she pressed up against him in response. Her fingers curled against the grass beneath her and she let out a shakey breath.

“Not particularly,” She gasped, shifting and squirming beneath him. Straddling her hips and putting enough weight to keep her from getting up, a grin on his lips as she squirmed and ground her hips up against him, Liam curled his fingers into the cloth at the back of her neck and pulled, hard. The sound of tearing fabric echoed off the trees and she gasped out a swear, biting her lip hard.

He pulled the ruined fabric out from beneath her, tossing it away and keeping her pressed into the cold grass. One hand clasped to her shoulder, keeping her pinned, he trailed the fingertips of his other down her spine, earning himself a whimper and a shudder through her small frame. He was tempted to show her shorts the same attention, but they were denim - not harder to rip, exactly, but worth a lot more than the flimsy tanktop.

So instead, he shifted off of her, keeping her upper body pinned, while using his knee to coax her up onto hers, pushing her hips into the air. He roughly worked her shorts down to her knees, doing away with her underwear in one quick tear, leaving tattered fabric to hang loosely at her hips.

Her breathing was quick and short, her fingers pulling at the grass as she fought lightly against his pin, only to feel his strength press down on her more firmly. She shifted her legs slightly, unable to pull them apart thanks to her shorts. She felt exposed and vulnerable and she loved it. He slid his free hand down her back again, over her ass, to run his fingers along her entrance. She was already slick enough that he could press two fingers into her, making her back arch and her muscles tense around them.

“What a good bitch,” he murmured, and the way he said it briefly took her breath way. It wasn’t biting and harsh, the way human men often used it - as an insult, or some way of thinking lesser of her. It was soft, almost reverent, the way her people used it. As praise, gentle and sweet, an acknowledgement of her place in the hierarchy, a place that was a important as any other. For a very brief moment, it made her chest ache, missing how things had been with her pack - softer, gentler in a way (emotionally, mind) than the human world was. Of course, his fingers quickly brought her back to there, as he curled them against her walls and began thrusting them.

Moaning softly, she squirmed and pressed back into his hand, gasping as he set a fairly quick pace with his fingers. He smirked as he watched her wriggle, kneading his other hand against her shoulder. She struggled slightly, wanting to spread her legs and anchor herself but kept in place by her shorts that she couldn’t currently squirm out of. He chuckled quietly.

“I’ll take those off for you, but I want you to stay like this,” He squeezed her shoulder, indicating she keep her lower body flush to the ground. “Got it?” She nodded eagerly, and he let out a low hum and a murmured ‘good girl’ before he released her, pulling his hand back from her core and carefully shimmying her shorts off her legs. She settled once they were off, knees apart and her hips still up, keeping her on display.

Liam licked his lips, a low growl rolling through him. For the first time in memory, he wanted nothing more than to just get started. Of course, he would still make sure she came far more than he did, but he wanted to be buried inside her now.

Instead, he shifted to lay on his back and move up between her legs. Abi shifted, moving to push herself up so she could look down at him as he positioned himself, only to receive a sharp slap to the inside of her thigh. She yelped, her thigh quivering, but settled again with a compliant little whimper. Large hands all but engulfed her hips as he pulled her down, forcing her to spread her legs further and straighten them slightly, until he could reach her.

He had no patience for slow, despite denying himself for the time being. His teeth briefly scraped her clit, before he buried his tongue into her, effectively fucking her with it. She cried out, her eyes going wide as he devoured her, hips jerking. Despite his order, and the reprimand he’d given her only moments ago, she pushed herself up until she was almost entirely upright, burying her fingers into his hair. His fingers dug harshly into her hips, and his eyes gleamed, psuedo-dangerous. She looked back at him, face contorted with pleasure as he did not stop, but eyes glittering with defiance. He growled, the sound vibrating against her, and redoubled his efforts.

She rolled her hips, pulling at his hair as he ate her out, riding his tongue eagerly, earning herself more and more of those growls. Grinding against his face, she trembled, her body tensing as his tongue found that one little spot that had her seeing stars - moreso than was already in the sky. She jerked and folded in on herself slightly, one hand laying flat on the ground while the other gripped tight at his hair as he brought her through an orgasm.

Her body wanted to flinch away as he continued to assault that place with his tongue, but he held her firmly in place. A high-pitched keen escaped as she realized he had no intention of giving her time. Before she could even recover from the high, she felt the coil in her start to tighten again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” She wailed, jerking, writhing, struggling to get away while simultaneously grinding down into his mouth. She was quick to a second peak, straightening again, long hair whipping against Liam’s stomach as she threw her head back, moaning loudly and desperately, hips writhing. This time, his hands loosened on her hips, and she rolled off of him, landing heavily and curling in on herself, panting for breath as her body continued to twitch.

Liam sat up slowly, wiping his mouth and chin with a predatory smirk, giving her a few moments to recover. Then he got up onto his knees, looming over her and arching a brow as she looked up at him slowly, silent, knowing full well she’d disobeyed an order and that there would be a consequence. He reached up, thumb brushing over her lower lip to stop her biting it, humming thoughtfully.

“Back in position,” He ordered; there was no questioning him, nor denying him. Abi shivered at the command in his voice as she carefully shifted onto her front, chest flush to the ground and ass up. Liam knelt next to her, running a hand slowly from the back of her neck, down her spine to her lower back, before sliding over her ass. “Abigail.” She turned her head to show he had her attention. “What did I tell you explicitly to do?”

“To stay like this,” She answered breathlessly, trembling as his fingers teased at her sensitive folds for a moment. She could’ve been cheeky, said that she’d done what he told her by getting into this position, but something told her that smartmouthing a very large, clearly eager alpha was best left for softer places. She liked having sex out in the forest, but hard ground was punishing with even gentler lovers.

“And you ignored that command. You understand there are consequences?” She nodded, nervously. She wasn’t exactly scared. Even with his rough treatment he didn’t strike her as someone who would actually harm her. But still, the anticipation was there, a twist in her stomach that could’ve been excitement or nervousness alike.

He let that anticipation hang in the air for a moment, his hand returning to her ass, kneading and rubbing one cheek slowly. Then he pulled his hand back, bringing it down with a resounding smack. She yelped, back arching and her eyes closing, but quickly rightened herself, while Liam’s hand soothed over her skin. He brought his hand back, and back down onto the other cheek, earning another cry. Tears stung at her eyes already, and yet... Liam could swear her scent was stronger.

He repeated the process a few more times, until her skin was a nice, bright red. Then his fingers found her core again. She was dripping. He let out a low chuckle. “You liked that, huh?” He murmured. Abi replied with a quiet whimper, squirming and shifting her hips about. Liam let out a low sound, sliding his fingers down to tease at her clit for a moment, watching her thighs tremble in response. He slipped his leather jacket off, pulling his shirt up and off after. “Lift your knees up.”

She did as she was told, raising her ass up a little higher in the process. He folded both articles of clothing and leaned down, putting them beneath her knees to offer a bit of protection now. Before she could rest, he snaked an arm under her, the other hand grabbing her leg. Leaning close, he bit down on her thigh, drawing out a surprised yip. She tensed as he applied more pressure, half expecting him to draw blood - not that she cared. This was a kind of pain she liked. He didn’t, however, pulling back just shy of it. Leaving an angry red bite mark that would definitely bruise.

Then he carefully let her back to her knees and stood up just long enough to strip himself of his boots, jeans and boxers. He was achingly hard, but held himself back for just a moment more to truly admire the site while she was in the pure moonlight, without his shadow to obstruct her. Ass glowing red, her excitement dripping down her legs, the quick forming bruises on her hips and thigh.

He needed to add more.

Returning to his knees behind her, he took his cock in hand and teased the head against her, listening as her breath caught. He pressed against her clit, sliding over her hole, and back, not quite pressing in as he passed. Abi let out a plaintive little whimper, trying to press back on him but he leaned back as well.

“What do you want, little one?” He asked in a drawl, resuming his teasing. She quivered, and even like this he could feel her muscles flex. Her fingers curled into the grass, breathing quick and her eyes closed.

“Fuck me, please.”

“Louder.”

“Fuck me!”

“Come on, kitten, I know you can be louder than that, I heard it.” He pressed in just slightly before pulling back and she wailed.

“Please, Liam, fuck --me!” As she said the word ‘me’, he buried in to the hilt, making her scream. The sound itself sent a shiver down his back, no need to mention how she clenched down on him. He was not gentle nor slow. Immediately, his pace was bruising. 

Abi’s eyes went wide, fingers ripping into the grass beneath her, unable to find purchase as every thrust jolted her forward, his hands pulling her back. His hips smacked into her sore ass relentlessly, bringing yet more tears, though they were of overwhelming pleasure more than pain. ...Well, maybe a little bit of both.

She was so sensitive, so wound up it only took a few moments before she was twitching and bucking, coming hard. Again he offered no reprieve, only fucking her harder. Her cries were louder and louder, her voice would be sore in the morning. His hand slid up her back, nails digging into her skin enough to leave thin trails of blood, as he continued to pound her, fingers slipping into her hair and clenching into a fist. He pulled upper body towards him, drawing out a whimper though she moved with him. Once she was mostly upright, he wrapped his arm around her to support her, the other hand loosening from her hair to slide down her front and start rubbing her clit.

Now, she sobbed. Tears welled in her eyes from the overwhelming sensation as she came again, twitching and helpless in this position to do anything but take it. He leaned down, biting into her shoulder, showing little restraint this time and drawing blood. It was not unusual to her, when having sex with another wolf, so she didn’t seem to mind.

Then again, she couldn’t think much on it if she tried. His other hand was digging into her hip, leaving more bruises, while his thrusting never slowed. She lost count of how many times she hit her peak before he leaned over her, pushing her back down into the grass, though he kept his chest to her back and ground his hips against her, burying deep as he came. She could feel every throb, making her tremble harder still as her muscles twitched around him.

But finally, he was still. The air was full of low, rumbling growls, whimpers, panting breath. Abi’s entire frame hurt and Gods she loved it. After a few moments of catching his breath, he pulled back. She was gripping him so tightly, it took a lot out of him not to start right back on her, the friction maddening.

He refraned, shifting to flop into the grass beside her. Before she could collapse down, he pulled her over so that she was laying on his chest, and she nuzzled into him gratefully. His hand soothed over the cuts on her back, down over her bruised asscheek, and back up, petting her slowly. They lay there for a while like that, silent, soaking in the afterglow and the dim moonlight.

After a few long moments, her fingers tracing over some of the tattoos on his chest, Abi looked up at him. “What’re you running from?” She asked softly, her voice hoarse. He looked down, taking a moment to realize what she meant, and let out a quiet, dark laugh.

“My past.”

She was silent for a moment, before humming, pressing her lips to his collarbone. “Me too.” Lone wolves had too many unpleasant things in common, she thought.

There was that sadness tinging her voice again. The sadness that had essentially drawn him out here in the first place. He looked down at her again and let out a low, rumbling sound. Rolling, he set her lightly on her back, looming over her, and leaned down to claim her mouth in a slow, intimate kiss. The first, he realized, since she’d first approached him earlier that night. Using his knees to nudge hers apart, he settled between her thighs with a slow smile, a certain gentleness about him now.

“Then lets keep running for a while.”