#please take away my drawing tablet from me its only going to get worse

[ciph3rrr]

u are not immune to gortash's tits!!!!!!!!!

(and neither am i. take this trend with my durge before i become too insane)

bonuses:

the stupidest thing ive ever drawn ever. coping abt them through memes because if i think too hard about my durge + gortash i will pull a gale and explode on command x

[azucanela]

chapter ii

pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

warnings: cursing. mentions of a bomb.

word count: 3k

summary: the internet is enamored with the idea of y/n l/n and bakugou katsuki, two renowned pro heroes, dating. the first issue? the pair rarely interacts. the second issue? apparently, they hate each other, not that anyone knows about that bit. of course, after one night of many mistakes, the whole world knows.

series masterlist

THE MEETING WAS NOT SUCCESSFUL. AT ALL. Or at least, that’s how it seemed in Y/N’s eyes. Seeing as the only thing that had come out of it was… spending more time with Bakugou. Which was the opposite of what she wanted to do at the moment seeing as she despised him. Y/N actually had a feeling that any further interactions with Bakugou would only end in more chaos. So, Y/N decided she would set to work, as she would any other day. 

Ignore the problem until it goes away, right?

Slipping on her hero costume feels like a chore, pulling the gloves of her suit on with a grimace. They only served as a reminder of her inability to fully control her ability— though Y/N was known as someone with some of the most impressive quirk control. There was always that underlying feeling, of course that feeling never belonged to her. It had always been hard, shutting out the emotions of others, Y/N had found that those who feel the most strongly were the ones she would avoid.

Clearly she had failed.

Regardless, those emotions tended to be distracting as she went about her day. Y/N had learnt to ignore them, to block them out for periods of time, but in a career like hers it was unavoidable. The pain, the rage, the panic, the pure feeling of fear. It could get overwhelming and that often put her at a disadvantage. Emotions were viewed as a weakness, and oftentimes allowing your emotions to get the best of you resulted in unnecessary deaths. But allowing the emotions of others to do so? 

It got even worse when she actually activated her quirk to its fullest extent.  With a single touch, she could utilize the abilities of a person— all their abilities. When it came to quirks, if you controlled your quirk well, so could she. Otherwise, she would adapt the skills of a person, their intelligence, their athleticism, even their hobbies. Y/N could even the fact that she’d made it through UA to this ability. After all, she’d never been athletic, but her classmates had been. 

But her setback had always been a pain, especially in battle, Y/N felt the pain of whoever’s quirk she mimicked. If they were shot, Y/N felt it as if she had been shot as well. She’d never experienced someone dying on her. Nor did she want to. But Y/N was capable of holding as many quirks and capabilities as she could handle— and pain added up very quickly. 

It had been worse when she was younger, but Y/N had grown during her time at UA, and now she was capable of ignoring the emotions of others to an extent, and her pain tolerance had grown exponentially. 

Y/N was grateful for her success, for the agency she’d been working at. She was not grateful for the looks she got on the way there, Y/N could feel the whispers of those who watched her enter as they walked past. Though she could only hope her own staff had more respect for her. 

Her lips pressed together into a tight lipped smile as she entered, and Y/N found herself bracing for whatever could greet her. And to her delight, it appeared that everything was normal. Save for Lorelai’s presence by the entrance, her phone in hand. As though she had known Y/N had entered, the girl in question looks up from her phone before Y/N even has the chance to speak.

“We need to go over our plan, Y/N.”

In response, Y/N waves her off, continuing down the corridor. She smiles to those who greet her, mumbling back to them as Lorelai follows her. “Actually, I need to plan my first patrol of the morning.” She says, looking back to her friend momentarily.

“Then I’ll plan. And my plan includes a real nice fake dating scheme, kinda like those movies.”

Almost instantly Y/N turns around, glaring at Lorelai— who simply offers her a smile in response, clearly pleased with herself as she begins to move alongside Y/N rather than behind her. Y/N had no doubt that they would plan a fake dating scheme if it came down to it, unless she got involved that is. “So?”

“Well, the fake dating scheme was an actual option but you clearly don't like that.” Lorelai mumbles out in response, now holding a tablet as she guides them into a room. “Aside from that, basic press events together,” Lorelai looks up from her tablet pointedly, “where you actually look like you’re enjoying yourself, should amend the situation easily enough.”

Y/N raised a brow, taking a step around the long meeting table where those who worked at Hawk’s agency would soon congregate for their weekly assignments, “a little too easy if you ask me.” She looks to Lorelai, “Bakugou agreed to this?”

“I’m sure his PR team will convince him.” Came her response, shrugging as she took a seat on the table and crossed her legs. “We can do a public statement but there’s no real reason for making this a bigger thing than it already is. It would only end badly.” 

With a frown, Y/N’s eyes drift back towards the window. They’re still on the first floor so it’s not like she’s seeing much, but it’s almost astonishing, how there are people just… going about their days without a single fear in the world. All Might’s downfall had eradicated the mindset but on days like these it felt as though not a single thing had changed. As though there weren’t still dozens of underground organizations planning horrid things, and there weren’t hero agencies like her own devising ways to stop them.

Hero Society was a fragile, and corrupt thing. 

Y/N had watched as they threw children into every battle, she remembered when she’d been forced to do such things herself. She had watched her comrades, her friends, nearly die for a cause they were too young to comprehend. And she watched as civilians criticized them for not doing enough. Why did her publicity even matter? Shouldn’t that be the least of her concerns? Y/N found it funny that she needed to do well in polls to do her job well. It was the only real way to guarantee access to certain information that low ranked heroes didn’t get. 

With a sigh,Y/N turns back, brows furrowed, “so when does this start?”

Placing the tablet beside her on the table, Lorelai rests her palms against it and leans back against them, “next week probably. Haru still needs to work out the details with the rest of the PR team and Bakugou.” 

A small laugh escapes Y/N as she mumbles out, “it takes a whole team to keep that man from ruining himself.”

“Most Pro Heroes have a PR team, Y/N. You’re one of few exceptions.” Lorelai corrects, looking to her. It was true, Y/N was aware that more popular heroes often had teams of people coordinating their social media, schedules, public outings, and more. 

Y/N tilts her head at Lorelai, “why is that?” 

Lorelai raises a brow at her friend’s words, “what, you want to get rid of me?”

Y/N laughs once more, shaking her head, “no… it’s just—” She turns to face her friend, “when I hired you I couldn’t really afford anyone else. Now I can. But you do all the work by yourself.” Biting her lip, Y/N asks, “why is that? I could get you an assistant or something, easily.”

“Well you aren’t exactly the most problematic,” Lorelai responds, offering her a small smile.

Nodding, Y/N pulls out a chair at the head of the table, taking a seat, “but you also have plenty of other clients—”

The door opens, drawing their attention to the person who stands there, one of many heroes who worked at the agency., Pro Hero Telen, a simple hero name with an equally simple quirk. But his ability had saved them numerous times in battle. He pauses as he enters, “is it— is it not time for the briefing? Have I interrupted something? I apologize I can—” 

He moves to shut the door but Lorelai simply hops off the table, collecting her tablet as she heads to the door and rests a hand on his shoulder, “don’t worry— we’re done here, right Y/N?” Y/N simply nods, and Lorelai offers her a smile, “be careful today.” She mumbles out, before turning back to Telen. Y/N doesn’t know what she says, but he pales and nods before entering. Shortly after, everyone else seems to file inside, and Y/N finds herself sighing as she spins around in her chair as she waits. 

It would be a long day. A very, very, long day. 

BAKUGOU WAS TIRED. He really was. Working at Endeavor’s Agency meant long hours, endless paperwork, constant cases. And right now he was assigned to the current big thing; the Stain copycat that had yet to be caught. Unfortunately, this guy didn’t seem to be an amateur like the rest. Of course, whoever it was, they’d primarily been attacking minor Pro Heroes, until recently. 

Slowly working their way up the food chain of heroes until they ended up coming across someone who was relevant. It was inevitable, at one point whoever it was, they’d bite more than they can chew. Trying to take on a hero that surpassed their skills, whatever those skills may be— or they would slip up. Leaving behind some sort of evidence that would result in their capture. 

The only issue was, there was no telling where or when this would be. How many would have to die before they were caught? Bakugou didn’t necessarily want to know, and it was his job to make sure no one ever knew how many. 

A job he was failing. Alongside Deku, who had also been assigned to the case, it was a curious partnership but he had no choice to make it work. And his publicist had insisted that any presence with a hero like him would be good publicity. After all, most of the public knew about their little rivalry so it would make him seem diplomatic in a way. But Deku was…

“So… the gala, huh.”

Well, he was Deku.

“Shut up.” 

Thankfully, they hadn’t run into any reporters, though he was sure someone had caught pictures of them on duty together. Which was bound to end either ridiculously well for him, or incredibly poorly. It was always hit or miss with the press and Bakugou despised the entire aspect of the job. It was the one thing he could admit he was bad at. He wasn’t the most approachable, meaning it was rare for reporters to approach him in the first place due to his renowned temper.

The pair was making their way through the streets of the city, patrol was normal but they were currently on their way to the police station. They were supposed to be collaborating with the police to handle this copycat, and for some reason Deku was… panicked. It was subtle but the guy had been practically sweating bullets since Endeavor told them they’d need to work with the police. 

If Bakugou was honest this whole job was busy work. Why else would Endeavor’s agency be working on it? The Number One hero had to have better things to do. Maybe this was a punishment for what happened on the last mission they went on.

Bakugou frowns at the thought, electing to push those thoughts to the back of his mind as they come to stand in front of the Police Station. He finds himself bringing a hand to rub his temple. It was definitely going to be a long day. And he hadn’t even spoken to Haru about how the meeting with Lorelai went yet. Not that he wanted to know at this point, Bakugou had a feeling he wouldn’t be satisfied with any solution they proposed.

He really didn’t feel like dealing with any of this. So, Bakugou finds himself thinking that it might be time to use all those vacation days he’d been holding onto since he’d started working with Endeavor. They were piling up after all.

With a huff, he and Deku make their way up the steps up the police station, and Bakugou pushes the door open. It’s busy inside, as expected. A bustling atmosphere that reeks of blood, sweat, and tears, literally. There are some people seated, likely waiting to be processed, they’re handcuffed and Bakugou is fairly sure he recognizes one of them. Not that he has the time to dwell on it as they move through the police station.

One of the officers makes their way towards them, “you’re the heroes Endeavor’s agency sent?” He asks, looking to Deku, brow raised. “Welcome back.” 

Bakugou looks at Izuku incredulously as they begin to follow the man through the mess of a building, “the hell is that supposed to mean?” He hisses, but Izuku’s face has already flushed as he covers it with his hands, shaking his head.

“It was one time, how do all of you know about it!” Izuku cried out, and Bakugou finds himself glaring at his partner for the day, even without context.

The officer simply laughs, waving him off as they make their way into a room. There stands the police chief, Kenji Tsuragamae, and a few others seated at some of the many seats in the room, in front of white board that seems to be more of a mess than those around them. They look tired, exhausted even. 

Tsuragamae seems to notice their presence, clapping to garner the attention of the few inside the room, “everyone, please welcome the Pro Heroes from Endeavor’s agency. They’ll be assisting us with this case moving forwards.”

The officers seem rather unimpressed, and since Izuku still seems rather embarrassed for some reason, Bakugou finds himself stepping forwards, “what’s going on?”

With a sigh, he goes to answer. But he doesn’t get the chance as an explosion sounds and the building shakes. A siren goes off above them and suddenly the sprinklers began shooting out water as a woman entered, “sir! There’s been an explosion.”

Bakugou fights the urge to say, no shit, as he and Izuku exchange looks, “is it an attack?”

“On the police? That’s bold.” The officer from earlier comments as they all rise from their seats. But the fear in the room is abundantly evident as they all await her response, anticipation amongst them all. Because who would do such a thing, and so strategically placed on the day

The woman only shakes her head, and this time a man appears beside her, based on the way he’s dressed— Bakugou would have to guess he’s a plumber of some sort, but the man simply explains, “we think it’s an issue with the boiler room.” 

Bakugou finds himself rolling his eyes, “then why are you still here?” He turns to the rest of the room, “get on with the briefing and get the damn plumber down there.” He grumbles out, before taking a seat once more and redirecting his attention back to the chief, gesturing for him to carry on with his presentation. All the while Izuku is apologizing rather profusely for his attitude.

Now, crime had worsened exponentially after All Might’s downfall. It’s not that other heroes were suddenly less capable, although some were discouraged by the fall of the greatest hero. It’s just that All Might was a symbol. Even years after the fact, Bakugou could still see it. Things had changed. Although in recent times, crime had lessened thanks to the work of today’s Pro Heroes, there were still… issues.

Many had gone the vigilante route as a result of the League of Villains and Stain— and speaking of Stain, there had been several copycats over the years, people who agreed with his ideals and his actions. Which is what brought them here. The issue at hand was this most recent copycat was… decent. Most of the time it was amateurs who didn’t plan that far ahead, quick and easy to catch with minimal casualties, if any. 

Essentially, the police had nothing on him. Just a list of his victims and what they had in common. They were underground heroes, like that of his own teacher from UA, but something about them seemed off, different from what they’d seen in other copycats in the past. They weren’t like the flashy heroes you would find, the ones who seemed… fake. The ones most targeted because they fit Stain’s idea of a false hero.

And even then, there was no being sure which were the victims of this copycat and which were that of others. As the anniversary of Stain’s capture grew closer, more attacks were popping up. 

Shaking away these thoughts, Bakugou grimaces. All he had gotten from that briefing was that they knew nothing, had done nothing, and were going nowhere. Which wasn’t necessarily encouraging. So far, there were four confirmed victims of the copycat, and three additional deaths that were viewed as possible victims of the copycat. Technically, one of the copycats, but that wasn’t something he necessarily wanted to think about. 

Yeah, he would definitely be taking those vacation days.

[awhitehead17]

Whumptober 2020: Day 15 - Into the unknown

Prompt: Possession 

Summary: When Kon comes to the Tower for the weekend, they instantly know something isn’t right with him. After checking up on him, they soon find that the situation is worse than they imagined 

A/N: As a warning there is a bit of violence in this story. This consists of strangulation and head bashing, nothing too graphic however, I just want to warn people in case!

Enjoy! :D

By some coincidence they had all gathered into the media room over the course of the afternoon. It was only the start of the weekend but not everyone had actually arrived at the Tower yet.

Tim had been the first one to arrive from Gotham, while he could have easily spent time in his room he choose to chill in the media room instead and did some work on his laptop to pass the time. 

Cassie had joined him an hour later, followed by Bart not long after. Tim had continued on with his work while the other two watched a film. It wasn’t until Kon comes strolling into the room that he finally breaks away from his computer.

The half Kryptonian enters the room with his face scrunched up in pain and a hand on his head. He walks over and flops down onto the opposite end of the couch with a groan.

“What’s up Kon?” Bart asks eyeing him up with a frown.

Kon groans again. “My heads killing me, has been all day. No matter what pain killers I take the headache won’t shift.”

Tim shares a concerned look with the other two. He glances at Kon, “Have you had enough sleep recently? Enough food and water? Been up against any freaky crop plants in Smallville this week?”

Kon shakes his head in denial. “I’ve been fine all week until this morning. School was hell to get through today.”

“Well dinner is soon, once you’ve eaten perhaps call it an early night. You might feel better tomorrow morning after some rest.”

The Kryptonian sighs and shrugs, “Perhaps, yeah? We’ll see.”

Dinner comes by half an hour later and they all migrate to the kitchen to eat. Despite how lovely the food was, Kon had barely made a dent in his food which results in everyone giving him concerned looks.

Once the meal was over, Kon retires to his room while Tim, Cassie and Bart clear up.

“Something’s not right with him.” Cassie stats putting the plates away.

“Do you think he’s been attacked in the week and isn’t telling us?” Bart guesses as he dries off the pans.

Tim hums from his position at the sink. “I have no idea. Once we’re done here I’ll go and check on him, he may talk when it’s just one of us with him.”

As Tim said he would, he goes to Kon’s bedroom after finishing up in the kitchen. He taps on the door lightly and lets himself inside the room.

“Hey Kon, I’ve come to check on you….” Tim’s sentence trails off when he stumbles onto a scene he hadn’t been expecting.

Kon was in his room, on the floor curled up with his hands clenched in his hair. His whole posture was shaking and he was muttering something underneath his breath.

“Kon?” Tim whispers with uncertainty. While he desperately wanted to go comfort his best friend something else felt off which stopped Tim rushing to his side. “Conner?”

In that moment he’s glad he hadn’t gone ahead rushed to Kon’s side because the moment the meta looked up, it was clear that nothing was right. Kon’s head snaps up to look at him and Tim instantly sees the bright red glow of his eyes.

Tim barely gets an “oh shit” out before he was being body slammed by his best friend. The force carries him backwards and out into the hallway, Tim’s back slams against the far wall and he crumples to the ground hissing in pain. He had no armour on, meaning there was nothing to help soften the impact of the concrete wall when he slammed into it.

He didn’t have time to recover however because Kon’s suddenly standing before him and clamping a hand around his neck, lifting him up off the ground. Tim scrambles at the hold, trying to push it off him because it was hard to breathe, he knows if Kon applies anymore pressure then his windpipe will break.

“Kon… please… snap… snap out of it…” he wheezes out. His best friend wasn’t there though, only whatever was now possessing him. His eyes were still burning bright red and Tim wonders if Kon (not-Kon) will kill him by heat vision.

Black spots were now dancing in his vision and Tim was seriously struggling to breathe. He weakly pushes at Kon’s unrelenting grip, trying to get free.

“Conner!”

The scream startles him and then suddenly Kon’s hand disappeared from his neck. Tim falls to the ground and sucks in precious air through his abused neck. He wildly looks around to find Cassie and Kon engaged in some kind of spar. The two meta’s and their super-strength going against one another in the tiny alcove of the corridor. They bounce off the walls, the floor and even the ceiling when their flight abilities kick in.

While Cassie handles Kon he scrambles up to his feet and starts rushing down the corridor. Kryptonite. He has Kryptonite stored in his bedroom. While he loathes the idea of using it on Kon, it’s the only thing that’ll weaken him enough for them to get the upper hand so they could work out what’s going on.

“Tim watch out!”

He barely gets a second to comprehend the warning before something collides with his back. He falls to the ground with a grunt and cries out when a heavy pressure lands on his back. Tim knows without looking that it’s Kon. He tries to buck the meta off but fails miserably as he couldn’t barely move an inch with Kon on his back.

A fist full of his hair was grabbed and his head is yanked up. He hisses with the movement and then screams when his face is smacked into the ground. Pain explodes throughout his head it becomes difficult to think. As his head is lifted up again Tim’s able to form some words that he desperately needed to share before he couldn’t.

“My room!” He shouts, hoping one of his teammates are listening. “My desk draw! In there is krypton-“

He’s cut off when his face is slammed against the floor a second time. Pain once again explodes through his head and he cries out. He’s mildly aware of a random harsh breeze of air rushing by him as his head is lifted up yet again.

It happens a third time and Tim knows he won’t be awake for much longer. The next one will either knock him unconscious, leave him extremely concussed or it’ll simply kill him.

When Kon goes to smash his head against the floor for a fourth time, Tim barely notices the room beginning to glow green. Before he could make sense of what was happening, his head collides against the ground and everything goes dark.

-----

As Tim comes to, the brightness of the room hurts his eyes, he has an extremely bad headache and his throat is sore to hell. It takes a lot longer than what it should have but he soon realises that he’s in the medical bay in the Tower.

He also eventually notices Cassie’s frowning face above him. Tim closes his eyes and groans, “What happened?”  

Tim winces when he hears himself speak and the way his throat itches. That’s some damage done to his neck alright. Before Cassie could answer, Tim remembers everything and bolts straight up into a sitting position. He looks at her frantically. “Where’s Kon? What happened to him? Did you guys work it out?”

Cassie instantly pushes him back down onto the bed and keeps her hand on his shoulder. She gives him a stern look. “Don’t talk. You’re only going to hurt yourself.” Her gaze softens then. “He’s fine Tim, or will be fine at least.”

Doing the best he could to ignore the throbbing going on in his head, Tim stares at her, encouraging her to elaborate on what had happened once he was unconscious.

Cassie sighs and glances to the side, Tim follows her gaze and sees an unconscious Kon laid upon another bed. Bart was there too, he was currently looking at something on a tablet in his hands.

“Bart managed to get the kryptonite from your room and together we were able to knock Kon out. We’re still analysing things but we’re pretty sure it’s Luthor. Luthor had somehow mind controlled and possessed Kon into attacking us and considering it’s happened before it’s not a shock.” She tells him sullenly.

Tim frowns staring at his best friend’s unconscious body. Kon’s going to hate himself after this, he’s going to feel so guilty and they’re going to have to do a lot of convincing to stop Kon from isolating himself again like he did the first time.

Tim glances at Cassie with a raised eyebrow, hopefully she gets what he’s trying to convey without talking.

Finally letting him go, she runs a hand through her hair. “It’s getting looked into, various of league members are aware of what happened and the plan is keeping Kon sedated until some results appear because its unpredictable on how he’ll wake up. It’s not the best solution but it’s all we’ve got for now. He’ll be okay Tim and then we’ll be there to help him through it.”

Tim smiles sadly and reaches out to take her hand, giving it a squeeze in support. They’ll make sure Kon is okay no matter what.

[vulturhythm]

1/2 I have an angsty idea (BTW, this is Tristan and Iseult anon - I'm so flattered you wanted to give me a nickname! If you still want to, Skyleen is good since that's what I've been using on AO3). Anyway, my idea isn't too unique from what you've already posted because what you do you do so well and I like it so much). It revolves around Jaskier being horribly sick/poisoned and Geralt desperately trying to find a cure - maybe it's something specific, like a near-extinct herb or the heart of

... heart of the beast that originally poisoned him, but in any case it's really hard to get and Geralt has to go on a lot of dangerous journeys in search of it. Meaning he has leave Jaskier behind (it's a conveniently prolonged illness). And he keeps failing. He keeps going out on any tips, even the most unlikely, brutalizing himself for a few days/weeks trying to kill monsters/please mages/bribe kings/capture demons or whatever he thinks he needs to do, but he always comes home empty handed...

... and Jaskier's always sicker, weaker, worse when he comes back. He'll spend a few days with him, caring for him, loving him, pleading with him to stay strong, before preparing to head out again. And eventually Jaskier realizes nothing is going to work. Even if Geralt did find something, the illness has progressed so far it wouldn't do any good. So he asks Geralt to stop. Stop hunting, stop risking his own life, stop leaving and just stay with him until the end. And Geralt can't.

Can't give up, can't face losing Jaskier, can't accept (what he sees as) Jaskier losing faith in him. So he goes out again, and again. Eventually, the disease and despair break at Jaskier until he clings, begs Geralt not to leave him, and Geralt does anyway, using his greater strength to remove Jaskier's hands from his arms, clothes, hair, Jaskier's cries echoing worse than any curses from Blaviken. On the last trip, he finds the cure. Having lost his horse to some calamity, he *runs* back...

... to Jaskier, full tilt, past even a witcher's stamina and returns to wherever they've been holed up incoherent with exhaustion and fear. Is he too late? What do you think? (Also, thank you for writing such lovely angst! I think it's the best way to get the love out).

thank you so, so much for sending me this beautifully tragic idea! i do hope this is up to your standards.

- - - - -

i won’t let you die

sorceresses are wretched things.

this is an opinion geralt has formed over a fucking century of enduring their treachery and their torment and their taunting, all the times he’s fallen into bed with one be damned. those times were fucking meaningless when compared to the love he found in jaskier.

meaningless, worthless, pointless - and now, looking back, he fucking hates himself for them.

he hates himself, for it was a sorceress whose rage when denied geralt’s aid in the coup of a crumbling kingdom was unmatched - whose rage led her to curse the bard at geralt’s side, merely fucking standing there, not even doing a damn thing.

he wasn’t doing a goddamn thing.

geralt is snarling, spitting, cursing, demanding an explanation, a cure -

the sorceress drops dead, an arrow through her skull, shot from the ramparts of the castle ahead, and, well.

geralt knows when he isn’t welcome.

he pulls jaskier away, runs from the city square, pulls his bard along through the seething, screaming, rioting crowd.

-

at first, geralt thinks the curse was maybe just as simple as the little rash that pops up on jaskier’s skin within they hour, as they walk away and leave the kingdom behind.

(it will be decimated by week’s end.)

he learns quickly he is wrong when jaskier doubles over and vomits on the trail.

there’s blood amongst the bile.

geralt’s heart seizes.

-

he pushes roach hard, hard, hard to the next town over, one where the healer and the mage are one and the same.

“it’s a disease,” the man tells them, and there’s sympathy in his eyes and something sort of like relief in jaskier’s, but - “and it’s one that can’t be cured.”

geralt knows he can never forget the fear that crossed jaskier’s face.

worse, later, is the resignation.

“geralt - “

“i know. i won’t let you die.”

-

he goes to yennefer next, even though to see her face is to grimace inside.

it’s been a week, and the rash has spread, and jaskier complains of stomach pains daily, even when he hasn’t eaten, even hours before he vomits blood.

yennefer takes one look at geralt before her gaze slides to the bard at his side, and she sighs, and motions them inside.

they learn nothing more.

“incurable,” she says, and if geralt didn’t know full well her loathing of jaskier, he would think she sounded... apologetic. “he’s got two years at best, likely less.”

“there has to be something -“

“geralt. i can’t do a thing.”

-

“geralt, surely someone will know... a - a different sorceress, a mage...”

“i won’t let you die.”

-

they go to another mage next, one tucked away in the depths of a town from which geralt has long since been banned.

it’s here that, finally, they get something - a name, a cause.

“it’s eating away at him,” says the old mage, “from the inside out. it’s an ancient thing - dark magic, as dark as i’ve seen. they say... well.”

“what?” geralt snarls, his grip on jaskier’s arm only tightening when his bard sways closer against his side.

“dragon heart, they say. little more than theory, but - “

and just like that, geralt is out the door, jaskier close behind.

-

“you can’t go after a dragon alone - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

jaskier is weaker.

the rash has become boils here and there, on the backs of his hands and arms and shoulders, and he can no longer play the lute without pain.

as much as it tears geralt apart to leave him behind, he does.

he leaves jaskier at home in corvo bianco, begs their nearest neighbors to drop in, keep him well...

swears to come back alive.

-

“promise me you’ll come back if it’s a false lead - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

he slays the dragon, a fierce red thing far up north, slices out its heart and carries it back to blaviken tied to roach’s haunches.

the old mage is waiting, ancient tomes and tablets and scrolls open on every surface, herbs and plants and monster pieces on top of and among it all.

“if this is right,” says the mage, “it’ll be violet at the end, but, well,” he amends, as he checks a scroll, “translating these have been next to impossible,” he admits, as he slices off a section of the heart, “and it might not - “

the broiling mixture in the cauldron turns a horrid, bloody red when the heart is dropped inside.

geralt feels nothing but dread.

-

“geralt, you can’t possibly kill enough dryads in time -“

“i won’t let you die.”

-

the second time he leaves from corvo bianco, he leaves jaskier in pain.

the boils are becoming lesions, and the bloody bile is a daily occurrence, and his singing voice is all but gone.

geralt sets off for the forests, and, well...

he slays fifteen of the forest nymphs, and he feels guilt biting at the back of his throat each time he shaves bark from the dead dryads’ trees, but jaskier’s red and bleeding skin is at the forefront of his mind.

the potion goes gray this time, deep and dull and dreadful, and geralt wants to scream.

-

jaskier is coughing now.

geralt stays home for a week, mourns the loss of jaskier’s warmth in his arms, for his bard cannot bear the touch of another’s on his sore and blistering and bleeding skin.

it pains him to see, and yet...

he cannot rest.

he leaves at week’s end, the edges of the world on his mind.

-

“geralt, please, just stay - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

twenty tongues of elven warriors.

geralt sees the hatred, the betrayal, the disgust in filavandrel’s eyes as he slaughters those that remain.

he sees it tenfold when he slays the elven king where he stands.

he sees it in the surface of the river when he crouches down to wash his skin free of blood, reflected in his own eyes when he does his best to clean his own wounds.

he sees it in the washed-out green the cauldron’s contents turn.

he sees it in jaskier’s eyes when he returns home, tells him of the fall of the elves... tells him of the new scars upon his back.

-

“please, my wolf, stay behind this time...”

“i won’t let you die.”

-

fang of demon.

five new claw marks across his jaw.

jaskier cannot stand without doubling over in the worst fit of blood-splattering coughing geralt has ever witnessed.

the potion is black.

-

“geralt, it’s okay - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

flesh of the one cursed before first breath.

a night in a crypt, a broken wrist, a gash on the flank.

jaskier’s eyes are bloodshot and his voice is frail. he cannot walk alone.

the potion is teal.

-

“geralt, please, if you love me - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

eye of the beast upon the highest throne.

a king slain, a kingdom out for his blood, an arrowhead through the shoulder and a ribcage of splintered bone.

jaskier is bedridden.

the potion is gold.

-

“geralt, my love, *please,* i beg of you - “

“i won’t let you die.”

fang of the lycanthrope.

scar across the chest.

white.

-

“the cure doesn’t exist, geralt, stay home - “

“i won’t let you die.”

sting of the manticore.

wounded in the side.

bronze.

-

“it won’t ever work, my love, please let me die in your arms - “

“i won’t let you die.”

vessel of the djinn.

broken, battered, bruised.

charcoal.

-

at the end of the fifteenth month, geralt leaves his beloved behind for the last time.

he leaves jaskier coughing, choking, begging, grabbing for his arms, his hands, anything to keep him close -

grabbing for him despite the wounds geralt and the healers have done their best to keep bound -

begging for him despite the way his voice is all but gone -

sobbing for him despite the way he can barely even breathe -

but geralt draws away, shakes his head, whispers one last time, “i won’t let you die.”

he can hear his bard’s sobs well beyond the walls of their home.

-

twenty nine days.

wyvern, harpy, dwarf, virgin, cockatrice, gryphon, chimera, basilisk, leshen...

vampire, succubus, drowner, kikimora, barghest...

the monsters blur together after so long - after so much of his blood spilled.

geralt is growing weak, growing tired -

growing slow.

and then, one day -

one day, he stumbles as he walks back into the mage’s tower, stumbles and catches himself on the edge of the cauldron, and -

and his blood, the blood that’s fucking covering from melitele only knows how many fucking cuts and gashes and scrapes and gouges -

his blood drips from his palm, from his wrist, from his fingertips, and it falls into the cauldron -

and the concoction of herbs and roots and flowers and bones and brains and heartstrings and feathers and stones and blood, it -

it turns deep, vibrant violet, and -

and geralt goes still.

-

he’s never pushed roach as hard as he does that day, the next day, the next...

it’s the third day when a group of highwaymen cross his path, when they fire at him from the hillside, when a crossbow bolt strikes roach through the sockets of her eyes, and -

and geralt tears them all down without an instant of hesitation, and he pauses to mourn the loss of his cherished companion, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and geralt runs.

his legs ache and his lungs burn and his ribs feel as though they may shatter again from the strain, and he is bleeding, and he is dying, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and he loses track of the days and of how many times he trips and falls and of how many times he drops to his knees and then to the ground -

and still he runs.

-

i can’t let him die.

-

geralt feels as though he may collapse by the time he stumbles against the doors of corvo bianco, but still he moves,

still he pushes on,

pushes the door open and almost falls inside, and -

and he cannot breathe, and his vision is hazy, and he knows that he’s gone too far, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and he steps through the doors of the room they’ve shared for so many long and perfect years, and -

and he reaches into his pocket for the vial of antidote, and -

and he looks up, and he goes still.

the vial falls to the floor.

geralt lurches the few steps to the edge of the bed, drops to his knees, reaches out to touch the back of a cold, cold hand, closed tight about a scrap of parchment he can’t bring himself to acknowledge.

he lowers his edge to the mattress, and he breathes in, and he breathes out, and...

and at last, the witcher is still.

-

geralt,

my beloved, i have kept alive as long as i can. i have spent my life at your side, and there isn’t a day of it that i would have changed.

my only regret is that i did not die in your arms.

i love you.

live well.

[the--highlanders]

for the drabble game, situation 17 (because I'm predictable dklsjnb) and sentence 2, or situation 6 and sentence 28? :3 <3

“I just want to let you know that I love you. A lot. Never forget that.” 

on ao3.

“Can I see him?”

The nurse bobbed back and forth before him, dithering as if their size alone did not block his view of the door entirely. They towered over him, tall and solidly built, but the tendrils that ringed their face were twitching in alarm, waving back and forth as he tried to peer past them to catch a glimpse of the Doctor.

“I’m sorry, sir,” they were saying with the practised patience of someone who had given the same explanation a thousand times to a thousand different people. “He’s still in a fragile state. We can’t allow him to be disturbed just yet.”

Disturbed. Like he was just some interloper, come to bother the Doctor. Like he had not been the one to carry him into the hospital, cradling him in his arms, Victoria rushing ahead to push open the doors and snap at the reception staff to call for help. “I want tae see him, I’ve – I’ve got tae see him.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse said, as infuriatingly patient as before. “I simply can’t allow it.”

“Please.”

“I can’t. Unless...” The nurse’s tentacles paused in their waving, twitching in place. “Are you family?”

Wordlessly, Jamie reached inside his shirt, tugging out the chain that hung around his neck to hold it out towards the nurse in triumph. The silver of the ring that hung from it glinted in the cold, white light of the hospital, almost making him blink with the brightness of it. “Is this good enough for ye?”

“O – oh.”The nurse looked as if they wanted to ask for something more, papers or tablets or whatever ridiculous system they used to document such things on this planet, but something in Jamie’s eyes must have made them decide against it. Instead they stepped aside, flicking one hand towards the door. “Go right ahead, Mister – er -” They floundered, mind visibly ticking over. “Sir.”

It was kind of them, Jamie thought, to be letting him inside. “Not sir,” he said gently. “Jamie.”

Stepping into the doorway, he hesitated. He had stormed his way through from the reception to the Doctor’s ward – but for what? To see him lying battered and bruised in a hospital bed? To sit and hold his hand until he fell asleep over him and dreamt of how small he had looked when he had collapsed, his limbs all bent at odd angles? Could he really stomach seeing him like this?

“He still needs quiet,” the nurse was saying. “And time. I’m not sure how long it will take for him to wake up.”

“Alright.” He held his hand out to grip the door handle, but did not turn it. “Can I – can I touch him?”

“Gently. No sudden movements.”

“Alright.” Scrunching his eyes shut to brace himself, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

Closing the door to lean against it, he dared to squint out at the room before him. It was not so bad as he had feared, he supposed. The walls were painted a soft blue, and the vase beside the bed held a spray of yellow flowers. There was a low bookshelf against one wall, curtains rather than shutters over the windows to the corridor outside, and the chair in the corner was comfortably upholstered. It could almost have been called homely, he supposed, were it not for the bed itself, clothed in starched white sheets and netted in by a web of softly beeping machines. No amount of homey touches could take away from the horror of that, of seeing the Doctor curled beneath the covers, frighteningly small against a mattress designed for a far larger species.

Stepping closer, Jamie reached out to bump his fingertips against the bars at the end of the bed. He pulled his hands back as soon as he felt the shock of cold metal, looking around as if alarms might start blaring at any moment, but the quiet was unbroken. The machines kept on murmuring away, burbling out the ups and downs of the charts that snaked their way across their screens. Gripping the bars more tightly, Jamie leant forwards to examine the machines, trying to make out what they might be measuring. One of them was clearly monitoring the Doctor’s heartbeats – he had seen the same lines before, on machines hooked up to himself after he had taken one too many risks. The lines on this one were doubled, one for each heart – and wasn’t it terribly lucky, that this had happened on a planet where people knew what to do with two hearts?

Sidling around the bed, he drew the chair up to perch on the edge of it. It was as comfortable as it looked, and somehow that only made him feel worse. There was something permanent about the way the room was furnished, the threat that the Doctor would be staying here a long time woven into the very fabric of it. The Doctor had snuffled a little at the sound of the chair legs scraping against the tiled floor, but he did not wake, nor did he move. It was odd, Jamie thought, to see him sleeping so peacefully. He had always been such a restless sleeper, as busy at night as he was during the day, shuffling around the bed and snoring and occasionally muttering to himself in some incomprehensible language. To see him so still was unnerving.

He lifted one corner of the sheets, just enough to reveal the Doctor’s hand, and drew it out into the open tentatively. The Doctor gave another mumble, but his fingers did not so much as twitch.

“Hello,” Jamie said. “Erm -” What did he think he was doing, talking to someone who would not hear him?

“You’re gonnae wake up soon,” he carried on awkwardly. If talking to the Doctor felt silly, then saying something so confident felt even sillier. Like he was saying it for the benefit of a small child rather than himself. “You’re gonnae get better, aye?”

A Dhia, he hoped the Doctor really could not hear him. It would be awfully embarrassing for him to wake up and remember everything.

“Ye shouldn’t have done that, ye know,” he added, sternness creeping into his voice. That was something he wished the Doctor could hear – and that he knew he would say again, one he was recovered enough to take it. “Ye can’t just go around throwin’ yourself in front of things like that. That’s my job.” He squeezed the Doctor’s hand just a little too tight, and let go hurriedly. “I don’t know what I can do for ye if I can’t protect ye. You’ve got tae let me help ye.”

There was no use replaying the moment it had happened in his mind, he told himself. No use imagining the Doctor shoving him out of the way to take the full impact of the blast himself, the split second in which Jamie had seen him lit up with the flash of it before he crumpled to the ground. The acrid energy-weapon tang that had drowned out his normal honey smell, seeping out of his clothes and hair and skin. But when he turned the Doctor’s hand over, he found his palm bandaged, the skin around its edges still reddened from where he had thrown his arms up to shield himself. Well, he had no choice but to think about it now.

To wish that their places had been reversed.

Was that selfish of him? To wish that he was the one unconscious in a hospital bed, and the Doctor the one left to wait for him?

Maybe it wasn’t. The Doctor would surely be much more rational about the whole thing than he was. Or so he wished he could believe.

“Victoria’s been worried sick,” he carried on. “She pretends she’s not, but she is. They’re lucky she’s good at puttin’ a brave face on things, else they’d be out of tissues by now.”

They should be going home, she had told him. They should have been back at the TARDIS by now, setting off on some other adventure. Not stuck here, waiting for the Doctor to come round again. But the Doctor had made a slight miscalculation, and Jamie had been paying just a fraction less attention than he should have been, and now they all had to live with it. Victoria had not said that last part out loud, and he knew she never would – but surely it was there at the back of her mind.

“Ye know what the worst thing is,” he said flatly. “That they never even caught Wilkins. He’s gone, sure, we chased him off – but he’ll just go on tae the next place through that portal he made, an’ he closed it behind him so we couldnae see where he went. Nothin’ we did will have made any difference. It was all for nothin’, ye endin’ up like this.”

Maybe he should have thrown his knife, he thought. Or better yet, taken some sort of gun of his own, before they had left the city. If he had just thought a little more about it, then maybe he might have struck first. Wounded Wilkins before he could fire back. The Doctor would have disapproved, of course – but then, he would never have known what might have happened. Better to have him a little offended than lying in a hospital bed.

But it was not just the Doctor’s injuries on his conscience, he thought with a pang. The Doctor might have gotten the timing wrong, but it had been his own slowness that had allowed Wilkins to escape. He had run to the Doctor’s side as he collapsed, and only looked up again just as the hateful little man was vanishing through his portal, and all the evidence of his wrongdoing with him. They could have brought him back to the city, put him on trial for his experiments, called on someone to come and take care of him. As it was, he had only moved on to do the same thing somewhere else. All the destruction he could dream up next time – that was all Jamie’s fault, too.

He wondered if the Doctor ever felt the same way. He wondered how he bore it.

“I just want ye tae know -” Drawing in an unsteady breath, he scrubbed his hand over his face. His eyes were blurring with tears, and he rubbed at them until they stung. “I just wanted tae tell ye that I love ye. A lot, ye know? Don’t forget that.” He squeezed the Doctor’s hand one last time, then shoved the chair backwards to stand up. “I’ll be back. I”ll come an’ see ye tonight, aye? An’ tomorrow. Maybe I’ll bring Victoria, if she wants tae come.”

Opening the door, he threw another glance up at the machines. This ought to be the moment when the Doctor revealed that he had been awake all along, he thought. They would have a teary reunion, and Victoria would arrive, and the three of them would bundle together, and he would be able to breathe again. But the graphs were as even as ever, and the Doctor still slept soundly. He had rolled over a little, drawing his hand back into the safety of the covers, looking quite unwilling to open his eyes.

Well, then. No use waiting around and dwelling on it in here.

Jamie stepped through the door and closed it behind him with a click.

[whimperwoods]

Arms of the Enemy Repost

For some reason this post was wigging out when I tried to look at it on mobile while I was working on part 4? Sorry if you were excited for part 4, which is still in progress, but I wanted a working copy of this I could see on my phone/tablet.

Here are part 1 and part 2

Castor is a warlock, in service to the Great Old One and the Dark Emperor, in that order. Ed is a fighter, a knight and battle master in the service of the True King of Lumenea. They have always been enemies. In the space between the Old One and the Emperor, they might be able to become something else.

(Also Ed has gained the (minimal) benefits of a short rest, and Castor is beginning to realize he has, yet again, followed an impulse with more strings attached than he was fully prepared for.)

tw: blood, tw: mind control, tw: telepathy/mental voices, tw: panic, tw: flashbacks (ish), tw: torture mention

***************

When Ed came to, his head and part of his torso were resting on something soft. The air around him was cold, but the thing under him was warm, and he curled instinctively toward it, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain of moving. He groaned, turning his face into the warmth of whatever he was lying on.

“It’s alright,” an unfamiliar voice said softly, “You’re safe, now.”

Something cool and damp swept gently down the back of his neck and then continued over his shoulder blade. The hand holding the cloth was careful and It felt good where he was only bruised. Where it crossed raised welts and open cuts, it burned and stung, drawing a soft, unconscious whine from his throat. He tried to twist out of the way and only made things worse as the motion sent waves of fire shooting through the rest of his back and shoulders.

The damp cloth moved away in response to his grunt of pain.

He opened his eyes, and found himself with his head in someone’s lap, blinking in confusion.

There was a soft splashing sound behind him, close but not immediately beside him, perhaps an arm’s reach away. He tried to force his head up, finding the angle unexpectedly disorienting and twisting his head at an unnatural angle, only mostly toward the head of the person touching him. The person’s face was unreadable at this angle, only partially illuminated by a faint light off to the side.

The person’s other hand hovered beside Ed’s head for a moment, and then moved tentatively to sweep his hair back from his forehead. “You’re alright,” the voice said quietly, “I was afraid you might already be infected, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

Ed forced himself upward, getting a hand on the ground beside the stranger’s thigh and pushing himself into a half-sitting position with the full strength of his body, core muscles clenching sorely and arm shaking under him with the effort.

As soon as he was upright enough to get a look at the stranger’s face from an angle that was better lit, recognition and memory both clicked into place at once and he found himself crying out, in a harsh, frightened shout he’d never have allowed himself if he were fully awake.

Castor the Black held his hands up, palms forward, and Ed flinched, falling backward as he flung his arms over his face to protect himself from the incoming spell.

He landed hard, jarring his shoulders and ribs and feeling old cuts split back open. He held back the cry this time, clenching his jaw and breathing hard through his nose, his core still clenched tight. He couldn’t let Castor the Black see him this way. He couldn’t.

He’d tipped instinctively forward after he landed, leaning toward the mage as he caught himself, but he couldn’t stand that, either. He forced himself to move back, putting distance between him and his enemy in halting, jerky inches.

Wriggling backward made his body shake harder, quivering with effort, but he kept going, his eyes hardening into a glare even as he knew it wouldn’t be enough to disguise his weakness.

*****

Castor sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. Sir Edmond was trying to get away from him again, and the spell he’d cast on the dungeon guards was already running out. He didn’t need this.

Lowering his hand, he watched tiredly as Sir Edmond continued to wriggle, moving in frantic little jerks away from him. If Castor had slept, if he’d even taken proper time to sit instead of putting in the effort to start on the man’s wounds while he wasn’t awake to feel them, he might have been able to do something about it.

“Will you please calm down?” he asked, “I just need you to cooperate, so we don’t get caught out here before I can get us somewhere safer.”

The knight froze, his eyes locking onto Castor’s with a wide, wild expression.

Castor tasted honey on his tongue, felt the air thickening in his mouth, and almost lost the spell, surprised to be casting it at all. He’d given this spell up, forgotten it as he learned better ways to control what happened around him than mere suggestion. But here it was, happening.

Sir Edmond’s mouth curled into an angry sneer, his eyes lighting up with a familiar battle fire for the first time since Castor scooped him up off of the dungeon floor.

He was fighting the magic. Castor’s heart raced and he felt the spell get heavier in his mouth, thicker on his tongue. “Calm down!” he ordered, pushing harder at the magic.

He could feel it starting to connect, could see the knight’s eyes widen and narrow, widen and narrow, and then - the connection snapped. He and Sir Edmond stared at each other, both breathing heavily. The magic was gone.

Shit.

He held up his hands in front of himself, palms out, but the fire in Sir Edmond’s eyes was still there, dangerous and raging. “Wait!” Castor gasped, “Wait, that one was an accident! I’m not even supposed to be able to do that spell!”

*****

Ed had pushed up onto his arms in the adrenaline rush of having to fight for his own mind, and now he was straining, his arms on the edge of giving out, and he’d overexerted himself again. He focused on breathing, taking in great gasps of air that stretched his battered ribs painfully, but kept him upright.

“I swear! I never meant to cast it!”

Ed kept himself up, kept glaring, kept holding himself stiff and upright, and was too dizzy to make sense of what the mage was trying to say.

Castor the Black took a deep breath, as if to talk, then cut himself off, sighing instead. Ed couldn’t find the words he needed, either. Not when staying up on his arms, half sitting, not letting himself collapse, took so much effort. He growled at the mage, half ashamed, and continued to glare.

Then there was a voice directly in his head, Castor the Black’s voice, but the man’s mouth wasn’t moving, which he was certain couldn’t be good.

“Look, I - shit, I wasn’t gonna do this. I’m - I’m telepathic. I’m in your head. And if you push back hard enough, you can be in mine. I genuinely don’t want to hurt you. Not any worse than you’re already hurt. Push back at me and look. I won’t resist it.”

Something about the voice, about the way it was words and not words, made sense even as Ed’s mind spun. No. No. He couldn’t have the enemy in his head. Not like this. Not literally.

“Fuck you,” he thought, hoping it would make it through, somehow, “Just kill me. I don’t want to play your twisted little games.”

Castor the Black flinched. “That’s not what I said,” he answered, his body spreading its arms wide even as its mouth continued not to move, set in a stubborn line. “It’s not what I meant. Push back at me. Come on. Look. I won’t stop you.”

Ed could feel the edge of a compulsion in it, just the barest hint, not a full spell, but a hovering threat of magic. Well. The enemy mage wasn’t to know, but he could fight fire with fire. Or he could if he weren’t so tired, so ragged and desperate after all these weeks of torture, of being beaten and starved and kept awake.

He pushed back anyway, gathering all of what he had left and forcing it into the shape of the spell his sister had taught him. “Get out.” he thought, shoving against the mage’s presence in his mind with as much force as he had.

The mage grunted, a soft little noise, half surprise and half pain, and for a brief moment, Ed was filled with the bright flash of pride.

Oh. Oh. That was what the mage had meant.

He was still breathing hard, struggling to stay up on his arms, struggling not to collapse, but he felt his face twist into a grin. Yes. He could definitely fight fire with fire. Leave it to a mage to underestimate an opponent just because they didn’t have magic.

He steeled himself again, focusing on how it had felt to force the mage’s mind back, and shoved as hard as he could, jabbing his rage toward the not-voice like a knife.

*****

Castor tried to throw his mental shields back up when Sir Edmond’s face twisted into a cruel, bloody smile, one he’d never seen from this close before.

He was too slow.

Psychic communication was never quite words, but it was usually at least close. Now - now he found himself almost knocked over with the force of open, unfettered hostility the knight flung at his mind, incoherent and angry.

He gasped and braced his hands against the ground behind him to steady himself.

“Ow! Fuck!” Pain stabbed through his head, branching like lightning from the front of his head to the back.

“Stay out of my head.” Sir Edmond practically snarled, and Castor’s heart pounded in his chest.

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice sounding more tired than he meant to let it. “Shit. I will. I’m just trying to help.”

Sir Edmond’s face was growing pale, but he was still glaring fiercely, holding himself up on arms that quivered visibly. “Why?” he demanded.

Castor ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I don’t know. Sometimes I just do things.”

Sir Edmond barked out a laugh, which turned into a cough hard enough to make his arms give out, but in spite of his instinct to reach out and try to catch him, Castor held still. It was becoming clearer and clearer that even as weak as he was, the knight wasn’t nearly as shattered as he’d seemed, or at least, something in him wasn’t.

*****

Ed could feel the energy draining from him with every cough, could feel himself weakening as he fought for breath, fought not to cry, fought to stay conscious against the pain and dizziness that almost blanked out everything else.

The mage looked rattled. He’d rattled him. He just had to keep the facade up long enough to be left here. He shouldn’t have tried to laugh. He shouldn’t have tried to play himself off so strongly, to ridicule the man when he was already so close to the edge.

But as he caught his breath, his body throbbing with pain left over from the convulsions even after they stopped, he regained what he could of his composure, focused intently on a single thought. Castor the Black was rattled, and that meant if he could feign strength for long enough, he might be able to make himself a way out.

He set his shoulder against the ground and kept his eyes locked fiercely onto the mage’s.“Why?” he asked again, gathering enough breath to spit the question out without letting it quaver.

The mage shifted uncomfortably, biting his lip. “I - what do you remember from the dungeon?”

The moment he thought of the cell he’d been left in, blood-spattered stone danced in front of his eyes, and he felt his throat threaten to close up, making it harder to breathe again. Panic filled him, electric and humming, like the moment before lightning struck on the battlefield. His throat hurt, and his chest felt constricted, but he couldn’t pass out again. He couldn’t. Not when he was so close.

He broke eye contact with the mage before the fear could become too obvious to the other man, twisting his head down and away as best he could and letting his glare relax so he could focus only on continuing to breathe, on feeling the air move around him, the grass under his hands where there used to be stone.

Was that - a threat? Or was it - guilt? Was he meant to be feeling guilt? He knew he had told his tormentors things. Things he shouldn’t have. He’d told them - oh gods - He took a deep, pained breath inward, forcing air into his lungs. That thought was dangerous. Murderous. Breath-stealing. He shoved it away. He had to keep breathing. Keep breathing. Breathe. Grass. Wind. Night. Breathing.

Ed was panting audibly now, his breaths ragged and his body half curling in on itself, the adrenaline that just moments ago had given him the strength to resist turning on him instead, threatening to make his racing heart rip itself from his body as his limbs sagged, weak and useless, on the ground.

The mage moved toward him, slowly and tentatively. He didn’t move away. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but breathe.

“Shit,” the mage whispered, maybe to himself. Ed gasped for breath, too fast, but holding on this time, forcing the air deep enough into his lungs that he didn’t pass out.

A gentle hand stroked through his hair, and Ed made a horrid, choked noise he couldn’t explain.

*****

Castor was almost surprised not to be bitten or headbutted as he ran his fingers through Sir Edmond’s hair, trying to remember what, exactly, it was that his mom had done when he was young and afraid of the dark.

The knight’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, the death glare that had looked, briefly, like the Sir Edmond he remembered gone again. The knight’s body shuddered with the effort of breathing, and all of a sudden, the man on the ground was the same helpless, broken figure Castor seen in his crystal.

“Look, I’m - I’m sorry about all of this,” he said quietly, “I know it’s - we both know what this is. The war, I mean. But I couldn’t - they’re going to beat you to death if I let you end up back in that dungeon. You’ve killed too many of the emperor’s men. Mine too, I guess, but it’s always been-”

He cut himself off. That was too much. He couldn’t tip his hand too far. Not when the real Sir Edmond was so clearly still in there, somewhere. And yet -

“It’s one thing to get you to talk. It’s another to drag your death out as long as they can. I’m - I’m going to hide you.”

That was it, wasn’t it? That was the decision he’d made back in his quarters, watching guards kick a naked, helpless thing already covered in blood, their target unable to protect itself, too weak to lift its head. He’d watched Sir Edmond fight for consciousness, fight to live through the pain. Then again, he’d seen something else, now, had seen that fight turn familiar and deadly, but he couldn’t - could he really -

No. He’d made his choice. He ran his fingers through the man’s dark, sweat-soaked hair again, studying Sir Edmond’s face as the man’s eyes fluttered open again, half-absent and staring as he continued to fight, desperate and weak and alive, hanging on by his fingernails.

Sir Edmond didn’t seem all here, caught up in a fight against his own ravaged body, but he wasn’t fighting Castor right now, so - so he wasn’t fighting Castor right now.

Castor sighed, relaxing and easing himself down to sit beside the man instead of kneeling awkwardly over him.

He ran his fingers through Sir Edmond’s hair, becoming gradually aware that not all of the dampness on his fingers was sweat. He’d have to wash the knight’s hair if he wanted to get all the blood out, but that was a problem for a whole other world, a world with time and trust and a safer place to hide.

He breathed slowly, evenly, keeping himself calm and stroking Sir Edmond’s hair, trying to keep the confusing mess of his own emotions under control. He regretted and did not regret and waited for Sir Edmond to stabilize enough to move, watching blood ooze slowly from one of the clean cuts, reopened in the violence of coughing and moving and panic.

This might be a very long night.

[ptw30]

Shiro whump baby that’s all I ever need (the team/ a specific person of your choosing helps him out) I particularly enjoy when he tries to sacrifice himself for his team please please please!

Sorry for the delay! Hope you don’t mind if I post this on Shiro’s birthday! @shiro-birthday-celebration

Fic: Assimilation

Relationships: Krolia & Shiro; can be seen as Sheith or Friendsheith. 

-----

Shiro gritted his teeth as liquid fire raced up his left side. A low hiss escaped his lips as his chest, covered only by the thin material of his under suit, heaved a quick breath. Without his top armor, it shouldn’t be that hard, but the shoulder wound from the pirate’s blaster somehow pierced his armor and sunk directly into his flesh.

“You didn’t have to come,” Krolia tsked above him, keeping consistent pressure upon Shiro’s wound. “I requested Keith’s participation in this mission.”

“And as I said, Keith is across the universe on paladin duties.” Shiro grunted when Krolia added another ripped section of her jacket to the makeshift bandages. “Calling him back would have compromised his current mission. I was free, and I-I owe you.”

She shook her head. “You owe me nothing.”

“Ulaz freed me from Zarkon’s prison.” Shiro pushed up and back to resituate himself against the cell wall, despite Krolia’s huff of disapproval. “The Blades have been our closest allies since the start of our campaign, and you—you’re Keith’s family.”

“Hm.” Krolia lifted the bandages slightly to examine Shiro’s wound, but her stern expression gave nothing away. “I do not believe I’ve heard you speak of your family, Shiro.”

Shiro held in another hiss when Krolia pressed down again. “Keith and I spent a lot of time together once he came to the garrison. Movie nights, races through the desert, camping.”

“I asked about your family, Shiro.”

“And I just told you.”

He let his dry but genuine tone convey the truth for him. There was no heat, no need to remind Krolia that he had been close to Keith long before Keith even knew her name.

Krolia blinked, looking down at Shiro’s face to study him herself. After she came to some sort of conclusion, she nodded once and added yet another bandage to his shoulder. “I see.”

“There are others now,” he said in a strained whisper. “Mitch, Sanda, the Holts, the Paladins, of course. Coran. Lotor and his generals. Kolivan and you. It’s not just me and Keith against the universe anymore.”

“No, I suppose it’s not, though I would appreciate if you did not take a blast for me again, Shiro. I would have deflected it with my blade.”

“Perhaps, but you and Keith just found each other again.”

A smirk crept upon her face. “I could say the same for you as well.”

“Touché.”

They sat in silence for a few long moments with Shiro pointedly ignoring his shoulder. Krolia eventually broke it. “Kolivan wants a kit. I personally was against the idea until recently, but I think bringing more warriors into the Blade is…naturally. Necessary.”

Shiro blinked. “Keith’s almost twenty-three. Not, uh, to be presumptuous, but can you still bear kits?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of assimilation. It’s time we put tradition behind us, and family is bound by more than just blood.”

“Makes sense. But just for the Blade? Not for you and Kolivan?”

“I know someone who has already been welcomed into our circle of trust, someone who has been welcomed into our family for some time now and woven into our very fabric.”

Shiro blinked, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t care to interpret, to hope, and then Krolia’s hand came up to cradle the side of his face. “Tell me, Shiro. How are you with blades?”

His voice was strangled by the tears. “Perficient. I’ve formed a tanto knife with the Black Bayard a few times in close quarter combat.”

Krolia leaned over to press her lips to his forehead, holding them there for a long moment like an unspoken promise. When she pulled away, her smile was nothing short of precious. “We’ll get you a longer one. Now, let’s get out of here, shall we?”

Shiro held his hand over the three bands on the outside of his thigh armor and closed his eyes, focusing on the inner most part of himself. It was there, nestled against his soul, that he found Black and through Black, the tie to his bayard.

In a flash of purple light, his bayard was in his hand.

His eyes snapped open to see Krolia’s astonished gaze. “You might want to wait by the door. Our captors will be here in a few.”

Sure enough, the space pirates opened the cell door a few moments later. From his spot on the floor opposite the door, Shiro waved weakly, showing off his glowing bayard. “Looking for this?”

One of the pirates narrowed his eyes and stalked forward. “How did you – ugh!”

Krolia pounced on him from behind while kicking the second captor. A few quick punches and well-placed kicks left them bleeding and unconscious on the floor. When Krolia turned toward Shiro, a blast of blue Altean magic zipped past her cheek and buried in a third captor’s chest. He fell out into the hallway.

Shiro’s bayard shifted into its resting form. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

“Come on.” She crouched down to throw Shiro’s good arm around her neck and over her shoulder. “We need to get to the cockpit and take out the rest of the crew before we get to our destination.”

“Go ahead without me,” Shiro said, teeth clenched in pain. “I’ll just slow you down.”

“Not an option.” With one arm gripping his wrist and the other about his waist, she heaved him to his feet. “You’re coming with me, even if I have to carry you.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “Please don’t.”

Krolia still took the brunt of his weight as they wound through the tight hallways of the space cruiser and arrived at the cockpit. Krolia leaned him against the wall, and when they hit open the doors, he laid down suppressive fire as she took out of the rest of the crew. She then brought the hanger up on the screens, finding the precious cargo still in one piece – crates of medicine that had been stolen earlier from coalition forces. The pirates even kept the packages in a refrigerated unit.

“I guess we should hail the Atlas and see what Allura – ”

“Hailing idiotic space pirates who captured a Blade and a Paladin and thought they could get away with it.” Lance’s face appeared on the screen. “Hailing idiotic space pirates. It’s in your best interest to answer before the Red Paladin gets on the line, and if that happens, you might not survive. And no, I’m not kidding.”

Krolia opened the frequency. “We’re fine, Lance. Shiro and I handled the situation and subdued the pirates. You’re welcome to come aboard.”

“Oh, good.” Lance let out a loud breath and looked visibly relieved. “Seriously, though, you do not want to get between a Galran paladin and his pack. Geez – I think he even snapped at Hunk.”

Shiro couldn’t hold back cringe. “Thanks for helping to defuse the situation, Lance.”

“Yeah, no. Nothing can defuse Keith when he’s fused. You should know that better than anyone, Shiro.”

Yeah, Shiro could attest to that.

“Shiro! Mom!” a desperate cry echoed down the hallway, and then Keith rounded the bend, right into Krolia’s awaiting arms.

Shiro smiled and leaned back against the wall, sliding down and resting his injured arm. Blood must have drew a line down the wall, but Shiro wasn’t about to turn and see. Instead, he tipped his head back and let out a sigh, finally allowing his exhaustion to creep up on him. Krolia was here. Keith and the Paladins, too. Shiro could finally relax, so he did.

Shiro returned to reality feeling numb and groggy, eyes fluttering and head spinning. When he tried to move, something clenched harder about his hand, and he cringed through the pain to look down. A familiar black braid of ruffled hair rested upon the white sheets of a hospital bed, hand clenched about Shiro’s metal one. Keith, always there, always by his side. He was dressed in pajama bottoms and one of Shiro’s T-shirts, which was two sizes too big and hung off one of his shoulders. Keith was asleep now and acted on instinct, clutching Shiro’s hand when he shifted.

A dark shadow shifted just over Keith’s head, and Shiro’s eyes followed it to Kolivan, who rose from his perch in the corner to approach the foot of Shiro’s bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asked in a soft murmur.

“I’ve been worse.” And he meant it. With a rasped whisper, Shiro added, “You don’t have to stay here.”

Kolivan moved carefully behind Keith, coming closer to the edge of the bed and running his long claws through Shiro’s fringe. “I’m right where I need to be. We all are.”

Krolia and Thace entered the room with two full trays of coffee, drawing Shiro’s attention, and only then did he see Regris, Antok, and Ulaz. Antok was sharpening his knife, while Regris fiddled with a tablet. Ulaz was checking Shiro’s chart and making thoughtful noises in the back of his throat.

“Rest,” Kolivan suggested, his hand upon Shiro’s shoulder already becoming familiar. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

And they were.

The End

[runningwithhellhounds]

Pidge is fourteen. She and Keith are pressed against the Garrison wall, both a little breathless despite not having moved for half an hour. The memoir is taking place on the other side of the wall, outside, beautiful day. They can hear everything. This is the first time she's alone with Keith. It's funny how a sentiment brings you closer instantly; a tragedy to call this all-consuming loss a sentiment.

''I could sneak you in, at the end,'' Keith offers, seventeen and blood simmering.

''No. I don't want to see his face,'' she says and immediately feels horrible.

She draws a forever sign in the dry soil and it intensifies her pure agony like she thought it would. She stretches her long socks further past her ankles, hair still long and tied into low buns. She doesn't feel like herself. Her brother was a half of her self-definition.

''It is now appropriate to pause for a moment to reflect on the huge impact the crew will continue to have on humanity’s aspirations. We extend our deepest sympathy to everyone inspired by their spirit.''

Dust is rising from where Keith is thumping his fists on the ground with a devastating frequency. His eyes are clenched.

''Hey,'' she says, lowly. Collecting ignition to continue, firestarter petroleum oozy. But Keith says, ''Yeah.''

He splays his hands on the ground. Looks up, continues looking up. It's too bright for that to be comfortable. She fixates on the bruises on his knuckles and the blood around his fingernail.

''You have blood on your fingernail,'' she says. Keith brings his hands up, stoic and turmoiling at the same time. ''Right thumb,'' she says.

They have come up with a post-mortem communication code, okay? Matt said if one of them died and became a ghost, they would knock three glasses over. It's so so horrible. Keith lays a hand atop of her head.

''Perhaps this is the nature of heroism. Striving to achieve something that is beyond our ability. Even being the best doesn’t protect you from errors. Perhaps that in itself honours space and space exploration.''

Keith clenches his fists again. He had said Shiro would never. He’s too good for errors.

''I guess,'' she swallows, ''I guess we are the only ones who—'' The only ones with this erroneous feeling. This fucking mistaken grief. ''Who believe in them more than that,'' she finishes.

''Well, that's awkward,'' Keith jokes. They smile at each other, vaporous.

''We will now play a special song – the last song recommendation Matthew Holt sent to our station on Earth. Panic Vertigo by The Wrecks.''

Oh no, she thinks. Her mind spills into a stream of no no no, when Keith growls: ''Let's get the fuck away.''

He's already dusting off. He doesn't offer a hand and Pidge is grateful.

At fourteen, the Garrison is holding a memoir for the lost crew and Pidge’s hands feel unstable when she drinks from glasses. On the way to the ceremony, she and Keith climbed off his motorbike at a gas station made for boys like Keith, rogue, creases of their jeans sharp, boots strangely clean. Keith bought them canned coke and she was grateful.

 *

 She's pulling a yellow pepper apart, thinking, quite uselessly: maybe the illusion of strength stems from weakness. She squished it until it cracked and now the seeds are falling on the counter.

She's a half of a person. But, in contrast to the missing half, an idea is forming within her. In contrast to the missing half, Enceladus is still her favourite moon. It helps her think: Keith, from whom she hasn't heard for weeks, is a cyrovolcano. And she won't remain a flyby. She'll be a rover.

She calls the Garrison three times to reach him and carries her phone as a weight in her pocket for three days before he returns the call, bleeding apprehension.

''Hello?''

''Keith,'' she says, solemn. ''Keith. Can you steal something for me?''

 *

 Pidge is fifteen and a boy called Lance makes her doubt her insight all over.

She stops in a corridor when she sees him now, well past sleep-time. Lance hovers two fingers above the skin of a girl's hand.  His eyes flicker to hers, watchful, intent.

''How does that feel?'' he mutters with a ghosting smile.

''You're not touching me,'' the girl says through the teeth of her grin. Lance smiles elastically in a way that makes Pidge feel like she can snap.

The girl clears her throat, mouth a contour of a smile, and then Lance, too, turns. The girl pulls her hair in a tail, then releases, and Pidge watches it swing behind her back.

''Hi,'' Pidge says, ''Lance.''

''Hi, Pidge.'' He grins, pulls the girl's hand behind his back and holds it there with both hands. ''Look at that. Won't tell if you won't.''

Pidge runs her fingers through the hair at her nape. She thought familiarisation would come more slowly. Not letting go of the girl's hand, Lance pulls a key ring from his pocket, spins it around his finger. It's something kitsch, lowbrow and vibrant and nostalgic. She isn't like that. He's vibrant and she compares herself to extraterrestrial objects.

''Won't tell if you won't,'' she repeats.

 *

 She can't fall asleep, just keeps thinking, defined, almost geometrical thoughts. It's often like this. She just lies frustrated.

She thought it would be easy, that she would uncover the assembly of concepts of her and re-cover them with a new sheet. Instead, she is stuck. What drives science forward is the universality of laws. Eyes open, duvet light on her chest, she is stuck. Can't go forward. She can't develop herself, no universal laws apply.

A week ago she broke a plastic fork without meaning to and didn’t know what that meant.

 *

 Lance walks into the dark dining hall where Pidge sits slouched and they both start.

''Oh, uh, hey. Pidge. Wow, right? I didn't know the dining hall was unlocked at night, but looks like you've known. What are you reading?''

She glances down at her tablet. She's coordinating outputs of Garrison detectors. The device on the backside of the tablet is reading the academy’s data analyses. Lance comes close enough for its light illuminate him and she tilts the tablet away from him, towards her stomach.

''Wikipedia,'' she lies. He grins.

''Is this referring to your, what it that, a tablet?'' he points at the special offer sticker in the corner of her tablet that she scraped from a sandwich wrapping.

''No,'' she says, ''It’s referring to me.''

''Yeah? How so?''

How funny that a person so whole is asking her this. ''You want me to tell you why I think I'm special?''

''Sure,'' Lance crosses his arms.

Her neck cracks when she tips her head up. Maybe this: she has, in a way, cracked all the joints in her body, cracked her everything, new shape recuperating under the always-loose clothes. Who is she? Primordial soup of a person. Chemically potent. An isomer inverted. And can’t stop thinking about that. The transition, the hoax, has made her the embodiment of metacognition.

''I cognise about my cognition,'' she says. Lance’s eyebrows shoot up and it makes her want to cross out her answer. ''I’ll find aliens,'' she covers up. Something less irritating, less out of reach, and no less sincere. Lance beams, whole body moving illogically with enthusiasm.

''Me too! Man,'' he says, closer now, and Pidge concludes magnetism attracts him to things, never repels. ''Please tell me you have a plan. Humanity has lived so long without aliens, it’s time.'' He straightens up with intent. ''Are you going to cognise something for the Garrison? Or, I mean, if we can reach Kerberos. I mean. Maybe we’ll have the tech to go further just when I’m allowed to fly higher than fifty thousand feet.''

''Yeah, well. Icarus only flew too close to the sun because his wings were shit.'' Lance grins, but then tilts his head.

''You look upset,'' Lance says – because he seems to live on the outside of himself. She shakes her head. Typing tempestuously from her home floorboards, she thought: the Garrison would be a she-unknown zone. She’d be a hoax, and people wouldn’t know her. But actually, no. She can give what she can give.

''Some officers don't take girls seriously,'' she says.

''Oh,'' Lance sounds surprised. ''Is there someone you like?''

''No. That girl, what's her name? Do you take her seriously?''

''The one from the hallway?'' Lance asks and it makes her feel infinitely worse. ''Whoa, dude. Yes, I take Alleine seriously. I'm not just, I don't know, playing. I have respect.''

She sweeps her electronic chips into a pile on the tabletop. She’s not trying to be inflammatory. She just feels her bedrock being attacked.

''They have internal worlds too, you know.''

''Dude. I know.'' He folds his arms and she doesn’t know what to say. He half-laughs, looking to the side, arms unfolding. Okay, adventure over for tonight. See you around. Nice talking to you, Pidge.''

''Lance,'' she calls. He turns, tilts his head a little. ''I like your confidence. Keep it up.''

''I like yours,'' Lance smiles, just by the door, when the door swings open, an officer stepping in.

''Ah,'' Lance breathes. Straightens up. ''Sir.''

''Good evening, cadets,'' an officer Pidge doesn’t know barely glances at her before settling on Lance. Crypsis, she thinks. ''McClain. Are you testing the admissions?''

Lance takes in the scattered electronics, glances at Pidge. ‘’I — Pidge was teaching me, sir. About – structural aircraft repair procedures. After today's simulation I thought I could benefit from it, and I feel – devoted—'' he stumbles over devoted three times, and she feels her body jerk. Lance looks horrified.

''Bring your devotion to class tomorrow. And don’t test academy rules. Two minutes to clear up.'' Lance keeps his eyes on him as he leaves, breathing in slowly. Shiro was a Garrison commander and she has met him twice. She’s sure Shiro would use euphemisms.

''Jesus fucking Christ,'' Lance says.

''Whatever you want to believe in,'' she replies. Lance huffs.

 *

 In her head, she once calls her inner voice her articulatory control system. Then thinks: that’s enough. Her insight told her that this person-creation would lead her further than any human has ever been. And her insight is good: she’s picking up data she doesn’t know what to do with. That’s good. Her insight was a carefully crafted thing and she absolutely loves that Matt and Keith are the two people who'd never tell her you're overthinking this. It’s for them. She doesn’t own three glasses, because she believes: in Matt, in herself.

 *

 It’s her foresight that can’t be trusted much. She talks to Lance and doesn’t feel very real. Maybe she should start listening to music.

 *

 ''Hunk,'' Lance says, back straight and voice loud, ''do you know Pidge? He's a romantic.''

''I'm not a romantic,'' she snaps, climbing carefully over the bench with her tray. Hunk is sitting opposite of Lance and now scoots along the bench and ends up in front of her. His relaxed arms, elbows on the table and hands clasped, look warm.

''Sounds like a compliment, but. Lance, you dick, what did you do?''

Lance grins while chewing. Like Michael Jackson. ''I meant it positively. But I still trade these bad boys—'' he lifts a bottle of juice, ''to compensate. Want, Pidge?''

''No. Yes,'' she snatches it Lance’s hands. She likes the knowing between him and Hunk. It’s different from her, and from Keith. They are both somehow not old enough for it, maybe; don’t have enough real niceties.

''These were out when I was a child, can’t believe I’m getting them in my dream school, too,'' Hunk says. ''Like, the smell. Smells like childhood.''

Treat and threat are such similar words, she thought while drinking coke on a curb with Keith, smelling her way into childhood. And now she thinks it again.

''Good god,'' she jerks, her fork screeching against the plate.

''Whoa. You doing okay?''

''Yeah,'' she clears her throat, a cover-up, a swallow-down. Before her insides disseminate. ''I just lost track of – time,'' she finishes lamely.

''Oh,'' Hunk says. ''Track of time is a good thing to lose. If I were to lose something,'' he smiles.

 *

 Lance chews like a Hollywood star and isn’t afraid of heights and she is volatile. But maybe she’s past the impact-heavy stage of moon formation. Pidge is fifteen, her hair is short, and she’s the first microorganisms bursting to life. She’s the detection of some geothermal activity. Still uncertain, but onto something.

 *

They are perched and tense above the extraterrestrial sample curation building. It's the most perfect of surprises. It's Shiro.

She breathes in. She sends the location to Keith, the rushed word: Shiro. Coordination and causation are her blood type, after all. It's nothing new, to be an in-group spy. An infiltrator. They all start at the explosions.

''No way,'' Lance says, strained, hype-high. ''That guy is always trying to one-up me!''

The desert-night wind cools the sweat at her hairline to a suggestion of a headache. It's all happening very fast. When she speaks, it's taut and dusty.

''Who?''

(on ao3)

[peri-2f5l-5xg]

     “... Hm.” Peridot wasn’t sure if that was a good hm or a bad hm; at the moment, everything Lapis did was setting her more on edge. She found herself fidgeting incessantly in her seat, watching and waiting to see what the eventual verdict would be. At the very least she wasn’t being restrained again, so that was a good sign, right..?

     Finally the tablet was set aside, her roommate’s sharp golden eyes flicking back to the human. The expression in them had changed; there was something a bit more conflicted, a bit less harsh and cold. Lapis seemed... Contemplative. There was a soft tap as the blue gem’s sandals touched down, hopping back out of her hammock to approach Peridot once more.

     She found herself suppressing the urge to cringe away.

     “So,” Lapis stated at last, “It sounds like Sunflower has seen this before, anyway. But before I believe all this, I want to make sure by asking you something.” Peridot straightened a bit, setting her hands in her lap to try and keep herself still. Nervous as she was, this was a breakthrough at least; it was progress, and that certainly gave her hope.

     “Okay, go for it.”

     “... Okay.” The blue gem lingered there for a moment, before finally seeming to settle herself on a topic. “If you’re really Peri, tell me something top secret. Something an imposter or a different Peridot wouldn’t know.”

     “... If I told you, then it wouldn’t be top secret anymore,” Peridot pointed out. “But! I can still tell you something that is only slightly top secret,” she amended quickly, noticing the impatient look on her roommate’s face. “Is that good enough?”

     “... Sure,” decided Lapis, clearly just wanting to get this over with.

     Peridot considered her options... There were a lot of them, but she needed something... Special. Something that nobody else would know. Something she didn’t talk about on the blog, or even with most of the Order.

      “... Okay.” She took a few breaths to steady herself; why was everything so much harder as a human? Her anxiety felt like it was trying to physically claw its way out of her chest. The little technician’s gaze lifted, hesitantly making eye contact. “When a world eater attacked the Order, I... I avoided you, afterward, because I was scared. I was scared of how I would react to you if I came back too soon, and didn’t want to hurt you like that.”

     “But... You came for me, even though I hid myself away in a panic bunker to bury myself in work and cut everyone off. You came even though you’d never even been to the Order before. I... I’m sorry you had to do that for me.”

     The last of the ice in Lapis’s expression melted away.

     “... Stars, you’re sorry? I’m the one that should be sorry!” Peridot winced at the outburst, but it seemed that the realization had broken her friend’s composure entirely. “I could have really hurt you.” The little human hopped back to her feet, quickly closing the space between them to place one hand on the gem’s arm.

     “Hey. Laz, it’s... It’s okay. I didn’t really believe it at first, either. I can’t really blame you for being skeptical.” Her grasp gave a gentle squeeze, but Lapis pulled away, turning her head to hide her expression.

     “For a moment,” she stated bitterly, “When I saw that... Fake gem, around your neck. I felt so... Angry. If I hadn’t held back and taken a closer look--”

     “But you did hold back, so it doesn’t matter--”

     “Yes, it does, Peridot!” For a moment, the air actually vibrated around them, quivering precariously. Glass rattled, the fish tank bubbled, and a sickly, uncomfortable feeling hit the newly-human like a truck. She made a small, startled whimper and recoiled, unfamiliar with the sensation. Whatever that was, it felt... Dangerous.

     That’s right, humans had a very high percentage of water in their composition. Had Lapis impulsively influenced those molecules...?

      Fortunately Lapis noticed the reaction immediately, quickly pausing to try and collect herself. For a long while, neither of them said anything; the only sound was the soft bubbling of their frog tank, deep calming breaths, and the pulse that pounded in Peridot’s head like the beat of a drum.

     “I’m sorry,” stated the gem quietly, “But it does matter. Humans don’t regenerate like gems do, and if I lashed out... You’re so much more...”

     “... Fragile,” Peridot finished for her, crossing her arms uncomfortably.

     “... Yeah.”

     Everything fell silent again, unpleasant and oddly suffocating. It wasn’t a peaceful sense of quiet, more like a wet towel had been thrown over the scene and muffled the room-- leaving each of them alone with their thoughts.

     “Peri... Are you scared of me?”

     The question caught her off-guard. She wanted to say no. And any other time, she definitely would have. Peridot wanted to say so many different things; that things were still a little fresh, she was just rattled, that it was going to get better, that they’d figure it out.

     That it wasn’t her fault, that she hadn’t done anything wrong. That it was all a mistake, a problem in her head left over from a different Lapis and a different world that had nothing to do with her at all.

     Yet, the words caught, as if she was trying to cough up wads of cotton.

      “I...” she trailed off. Why was this so hard? And more importantly, why wouldn’t her hands stop shaking? Lapis finally turned to look at her again, and the expression in her eyes broke Peridot’s heart.

     She looked so... Defeated.

     “I’m sorry,” Peridot blurted out, knowing it was the wrong answer but somehow not being able to offer any of the correct ones.

      “No, it’s.. It’s okay. I understand. I don’t blame you.” She didn’t sound angry, or upset, just terribly sad. Regretful. The sound of it was awful, setting a fire inside the technician; she hated seeing her friend like this, hated hearing her so pained and hopeless. It was familiar in all the worst ways.

      Why was it so hard to get her thoughts out of her own head?! It was like something in the path from her brain to her mouth was on the fritz, turning everything she wanted to say into indecipherable static.

      Lapis was almost to the door when something finally gave way.

      Peridot didn’t even really feel herself move; it was like one moment she was frozen in place next to the bench, the next she’d practically flung herself across the room to wrap both arms around the gem tightly, holding onto her from behind. Lapis stiffened in surprise from the contact, but didn’t pull away.

      “Please..! Don’t leave--!” Stars she was a wreck. Was that really the best she could do? The best she could say? The human wanted to scream into her hands. This was stupid, she was stupid, it was all a mess and she was making it worse--

      Lapis let out a long, heavy sigh, interrupting her thoughts.

      “Ugh.. I’m doing it again.” Peridot felt Lapis’s hands overlay her own, gently unwinding the hug-- but not entirely breaking it. Instead, she turned and bent down to return the embrace, if only for a few seconds. “I’m not leaving you behind, okay? I promised not to do that again, and I meant it.” She paused briefly, breath catching before she continued.

      “But...” There it was, the ‘but.’ Peridot felt her heart sink.

      “I need to take a step out for a bit, okay? I’ll be back soon, I just need to clear my head.” Lapis frowned, biting her lip a little as she looked Peridot over. “Will you be alright? I can drop you off at the beach house first, if you want.”

      “I.. I’ll be okay.” Peridot didn’t really want to be alone at the moment, but at the same time she was realizing she probably needed to be.

      Everything had been so much, so fast, and she still wasn’t acclimatized to it.

      She needed some time to think, and get used to her new form.

      “Okay. I’ll be back soon.” Lapis drew back, casting the human one more worried look before slipping out the door. It slid shut behind her with a soft hiss, and Peridot felt like it was the sound of air escaping a balloon; she practically deflated, slumping into the nearby hammock with a frustrated whine.

      There was absolutely no way she could have botched that worse.

      Ugh, why couldn’t I have just told her I wasn’t scared! That would have solved all of this! Yet, Peridot knew exactly why she couldn’t say that; because it wasn’t true, no matter how much she insisted to herself otherwise.

      She was scared, even though she knew she shouldn’t be.

     The memories of another sequence of events with another Lapis still clung to the edges of her mind, reaching shards and howling voices and a blade of ice that pierced her very core. That had been terrifying even when she was a step away from immortal. Now, she was rooming with someone on a similar scale of power, someone volatile and dangerous-- even if she didn’t want to be.

     Much as she hated to admit it, Lapis was right. One slip, one lapse of judgment, one moment of weakness could seriously injured her... Or worse.

     Why did things have to be so complicated?! One hand thumped against her forehead with a small grunt of frustration-- only to draw out a little annoyed complaint in turn. What was even the point of that being painful? Humans didn’t make any sense, poorly constructed and inefficient-- and now she was stuck as one. She hated it.

      And now her abdomen was producing the most annoying noises on top of it all, accompanied by a vague sense of discomfort. What does this heap of organic matter want now?! Truth be told, she felt too aggravated to try sorting that out at the moment. Peridot really hoped that wasn’t the notorious sense of ‘hunger’ she’d heard about before.

     Humans could go a while without food, right? Waiting a little wouldn’t hurt, probably. She could head to Steven’s place later, maybe...

     In the meantime, she pushed herself off the hammock and swiped up her tablet, settling on a pillow by the ladder to the second floor. Peridot was missing her powers already, it was so much easier being able to grab it from a distance.

      First things first, check the blog for any further information, then maybe frequent some of the chatrooms...

     And if that didn’t help any, maybe some Tubetube videos would.

[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.

[emetoandotherthings]

J = Jet Lag

A/N: I’ve been away at a conference and I’m just back, so I thought it’s about time for the next part the collab by @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak and me! You can find part one HERE (choking), part two HERE (drugged), part three HERE (seasick), and part four HERE (fever). We hope you enjoy this part just as much as the rest!  

McKenzie slumped back against the wall of his dorm room, ducking his head low so as to avoid banging it on the underneath of the top bunk. How he'd managed to draw the short straw here and end up with the bottom bunk, he didn't know - but he felt it ever more keenly here, in the land of the shorter stature. He'd already felt like a giant walking through the streets of Tokyo, and he was slightly worried about the rugby team they'd be playing - it was very possible they might flatten them all.

He hitched a grin onto his face as he clutched his iPad in his hands and tapped on the screen, listening as the ringing dial tone echoed about the empty room.

Bridie glared at her textbook. She had midterms coming up, and this particular module was absolutely refusing to be understood. She’d been banging her head against this chapter for the whole morning, and she still couldn’t answer the stretching questions at the end. Pulling her laptop towards her, she opened up a new page of notes, hoping that reorganising the information would make it sink in better. As she began typing, a little blue icon popped up in the corner of her screen. She clicked on it, her face lighting up as she waited for the connection to establish.

“Hey McKenzie!” She greeted enthusiastically. “How are you? How was Dubai? How’s Japan? Tell me everything!!”

“Hey!” He tried to inject a tone of cheeriness in his voice as Bridie’s picture pixeled into view. “Dubai was great! It was so hot though, I thought I was going to melt halfway through the game! How are you getting on?”

“I’ll bet!” Bridie exclaimed. “Did you win though?”

“Of course,” McKenzie puffed himself up slightly, then banged his head on the top bunk. “Ouch!” The iPad wobbled as he put one hand up to rub the top of his head.

Bridie sniggered. “You’re a melon… But Japan! I’m so jealous, I want to hear all about it.”

“It’s great,” he said, but he was struggling to keep his voice at that jaunty bouncy level as usual. “I feel like an absolute giant though… we went for a walk once we’d dropped our cases off here this morning, and it’s so so different to anywhere else I’ve been.”

“Arrghhh,” Bridie groaned frustratedly. “I want to go so bad! What else have you done today? Please tell me you’re going to go and experience stuff while you’re there, not just chuck a ball around a field…”

“Course!” He replied. “I think we’re going to some temples tomorrow after training, then… uh, I can’t really remember where else… but somewhere!” He rubbed his hand across his face, the cogs in his brain working slowly.

“That’s so cool! You have to take pictures for me!” Bridie demanded. She picked her laptop up, going to lie on her bed. “What about tonight? Not gonna lie, I didn’t think you’d have time to call with how you guys are always together.”

“You’ll have to watch - your snapchat is gonna get bombarded!” He smiled, leaning back against the wall; he felt overly tired, like his limbs were being weighed down. “The guys have gone out to a karaoke place, I think.”

“Oh fun!” Bridie grinned. “They do it different over there, like in private booths, and you can order food up and stuff, my dad told me.” She paused, peering curiously at McKenzie. He looked exhausted, which she guessed was to be expected, but she couldn’t tell if the pallor of his skin was real or just a trick of the light. “Why aren’t you with them? Is everything ok?”

“Yeah, yeah - I’m…” He tried to think of how to reply, forcing a smile back onto his face. “I’m just tired…” He finished lamely, hoping she’d believe him.

“I can imagine,” Bridie said gently. “They really work you hard, huh?”

“Yeah,” he nodded again; he felt a wave of tiredness and longing sweep through his body, and he wished he could have a hug from her. “How are you getting on?”

“Heh, you know,” she shrugged. “Exams are kicking my arse. I just want to run away to the countryside until they’re over. The usual.” She chewed her lip, a knot of concern forming in her belly. He really did seem worn out, his face drawn and his eyes tight. “Maybe you should have a nap Kenzie,” she suggested. “Or at least a lie down?”

“Well, I’ll be a distraction from studying any time you want,” he suggested kindly. “I tried to have a bit of a nap earlier, but it’s like, I’m tired, but I’m not tired tired, if you understand?”

“Mmmm,” Bridie hummed, looking unconvinced. “I guess.”

“Do you have any grand adventures planned for while I’m over here?” He asked, hoping he’d sound normal and interested.

“Not that I can think of…” She pondered for a second. “I think I might take the boat down to Loch Lomond once my exams have finished, but nothing major. What’s your schedule like when you get back? You free at all?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna have some… rest time,” McKenzie took a sharp intake of breath as his head gave an achy throb. “Recuperate, all that stuff, y’know?”

“Hey, you ok?” Bridie frowned down at her screen. McKenzie’s face had screwed up in what looked like pain - only for a second, but she was certain it had happened.

“Uh huh!” McKenzie replied, a little too quickly, his voice higher pitched than usual.

“Hey, no. Don't do that!” Bridie ordered sharply.

“What?” McKenzie’s eyes went wide, uncertain about being reprimanded.

“Just tell me what's wrong,” she wheedled. “You're clearly not quite right.”

“I - I…” McKenzie started, then he sighed heavily. “I don’t know…”

Bridie ran a hand through her hair. He looked really rather dejected, and she had the sudden urge to wrap her arms round him and not let go until he cheered up. Or rub his back until he fell asleep. Or… She really wasn’t sure where this was coming from - she wasn’t at all used to worrying this much. But he was six thousand miles away, and there was so little she could actually do for him. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not mad, I’m just worried. You’re looking a little peaky. If it’s not that you’re tired, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“I’ve felt kinda funny since the flight…” He admitted, biting his lip. “I’ve never really done long-haul before, and I just feel like I’ve been run over.”

“Ohh…,” she trailed off, unsure what to say that wouldn’t sound patronising or insincere. “Could be jet lag? Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Not… not really?” McKenzie cast his mind back to the night before; everything was such a blur, from them playing on the pitch in sweltering heat, then scrambling to get all their stuff into bags and to the airport for their onward flight to Japan. “I kinda catnapped on the plane for a bit… but we were on a bit of a high.”

“Hmmm… And you’re what, nine hours ahead? So still…-” She paused, having to count on her fingers. “Still a whole five hours ahead of Dubai I think. I’m not surprised you feel a bit run down.”

“Is it common like?” He asked. “I’d always kinda thought jet lag was a bit of a joke…”

Bridie tapped away at her keyboard, searching up the term. “Yeah, um, it’s a legit thing. For some people it’s worse than others I think, but especially bad if you travel east. Ah, here. It says: ‘Jet lag is a temporary sleep disorder that occurs when your body's biological clock is not in sync with the local time zone you are in.” So basically like, your body still thinks you’re here, and that might be what’s making you feel bad…”

McKenzie frowned slightly. “So it’s to do with sleep?” He said. “So it wouldn’t account for feeling… anything else?”

She glanced up from website she was reading. “Well, it’s not just sleep. If your...everything’s a bit out wack, so it can make you feel physically unwell too. Why?”

“It’s just…” McKenzie took a slow breath in, a cold shiver running through his body, as he looked down at the image of Bridie. “I don’t feel that great really…” He replied vaguely.

“Oh hun…” Bridie’s brow wrinkled sadly. “I’m sorry, that’s rubbish.”

McKenzie sighed, nodding his head slightly, drawing his knees up slightly closer to his chest. “I wish you were here.”

A bashful smile tugged at Bridie’s lips, and she turned away slightly, her hair obscuring her face. “Alright big guy, here’s what we’re going to do. It’s a semi-reasonable time to go to sleep over there, right?”

“Well, yeah…” McKenzie nodded again.

“Ok. Go and get yourself a glass of water, get into something comfy, and have a lie down. I’ll be right here, so if you can’t sleep it’s not a problem we can just talk, but I think you should at least give yourself a chance - and give your body a rest.”

“I’m - kinda already in my pyjamas,” McKenzie admitted, his cheeks going a little pink.

“Brilliant.” She smiled encouragingly. “Looks like we’re on the same page here then. Come on, you can’t be comfortable all hunched over like that.”

“Okay…” McKenzie tried to prop his tablet upright, so he could lie on his side and still be able to see her.

“Hey, water first,” she reminded him softly. “Even if you don’t drink the whole thing. Or you’ll wake up feeling horrible - planes really dry you out.”

“Okay bossy boots,” McKenzie chuckled slightly, reaching down the side of his bed and bringing up a water bottle, which he shook gently at the camera, before taking a swig. “Happy?”

“Yeah. Yeah I am actually. Thank you,” Bridie teased, shifting her screen so that she could revise some flashcards while they talked. “Alright, try to look a bit more like you might actually try to sleep instead of like you’re lying down because I told you to, that’d be great.”

“Why don’t you tell me about what you’re studying?” He suggested quietly. “Teach me, via face call.”

“Aha, if you want. I guarantee you’ll find it boring.” She picked the first card off the top of the pile. “So, sustainable building is important because our buildings consume up to 50% of the physical resources in their environment. Once built, they continue to be a direct cause of pollution because of the emissions produced in them or their impact on the ground.” She paused, studying his face on her screen. His eyes were drooping closed, and she felt a slight ache in her chest just looking at him; it must be so awful to be sick and so very far from home. She plucked up the next card. “Sustainable building materials must be highly durable and can incorporate different technologies, such as capturing carbon dioxide. There are other original techniques, such manufacturing concrete with recycled tyre rubber; using the mud from sewage plants for making bricks; reusing industrial waste materials such as rock, ash, mud…”

Bridie was brought out of talking by the rustle of sound, looking up at her screen she saw McKenzie had taken hold of his tablet and sat up on his bed again.

“You can’t sleep sitting up, hun,” she joked, although she felt a slight sense of consternation now that his too-pale face was more in the light. “Everything ok?”

“No,” McKenzie mumbled, wrapping his free arm around his midriff and leaning forwards slightly; he took a couple of slow deep breaths in and trying to convince himself that the burn in his chest wasn't the creep of stomach acid. “I can't lie down…”

“What’s wrong?” She pressed softly. “Can I help at all?”

“I feel…” He stifled a hiccup into his hand. “Really sick…”

“Awwh babe, I’m so sorry,” Bridie sighed. “Try to relax, I know it’s not nice.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I'm - I'm sorry…” He stifled another hiccup into his hand. “Maybe I should go - let you study.”

Bridie looked doubtful. “Is there anyone there with you?”

“Nah, they've all gone out…” He shook his head minutely, and that small action seemed to compound the way he was feeling. He clapped his hand to his mouth as his stomach gave a little lurch, and he forced himself to swallow hard.

“I’m not letting you go through this by yourself,” Bridie said adamantly. “It’s bad enough that you’re so far away. Studying can wait.”

“You're… you're so lovely, y'know?” McKenzie told her, now massaging his stomach with his free hand.

“Yeah, yeah.” She brushed him off. “You’ve done this for me how many times?”

“I think - hic! - we're even…” McKenzie answered, then groaned as his stomach cramped again.

“Yeah.” Bridie replied. “Exactly.” McKenzie’s face twisted, and she felt her hands twitching; the need to make sure he was alright was like an itch under her skin. “Deep breaths Kenzie, you’re alright. You feeling really rough?”

“Yeah…” He sniffed, he could feel hot tears burning at the back of his eyes, but he didn't want to let them spill out - this was bad enough without him crying too.

“Oh Kenzie…,” she consoled him gently. “It’ll be okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

“This is a nightmare…” McKenzie muttered, shifting his leg from underneath him as it had gone to sleep.

“You’ll be fine in a couple of days,” Bridie said, uncertain whether that would be helpful to him at all. In reality, it could be over a week until he felt better, but she was sure that he wouldn’t want to hear that.

“I've got training…” He said mournfully.

“Usually people don’t get sick from jet lag, so I doubt this’ll last that long,” Bridie reassured him, although she found it a little ridiculous that he was thinking about training when he was feeling so unwell. She wondered if he’d be feeling this anxious about it if he’d come down with food poisoning or a virus. “As long as you get a good sleep tonight, it shouldn’t put a spanner in your training schedule…”

“I'll do my best…” He replied. “I am tired… just don't feel like sleeping is an option yet.”

“Are you actually going to be sick d’you think, or are you maybe just nauseous?” Bridie asked tentatively. “Because you know like, sometimes it can mess with your belly just when you’re too tired.”

“I keep getting like… weird spasms,” McKenzie said, “I don't know. I feel pretty bad…”

“Alright,” Bridie said soothingly. “We’ll see how you go then, hm? How can I help? Distraction? Bit o’ quiet?”

“I like hearing you talk…” McKenzie admitted, feeling his cheeks pinken slightly. “Just about anything…”

“Okay…,” Bridie hesitated momentarily. “Have I ever told you about the time my dad took my friends camping and Seamus got stuck up a tree?”

“No, you've not!” McKenzie replied, settling back so he was leaning against the wall again.

“Alright, so me and my dad, we used to go camping a lot,” Bridie began, settling in for a potential long afternoon of storytelling, “and a lot of my friends never really left Belfast. So when I was about seven, for my birthday, I demanded that we take them with us. Just so it wasn’t so weird that we did it, and because it was my favourite thing, I don’t know. And I think he was worried about being the only adult in charge of so many kids, but I was absolutely set on it, and he’s never really been very good at saying no to me. So he packed six of us into the car and took us out of the city to this place we used to go all the time. It had everything you know? I think that’s why we went so often. Like, there were nice places to walk, and a reservoir nearby, and a rope swing over a stream not too far out, and my personal favourite - the climbing tree.”

“I used to have a climbing tree as a kid…” McKenzie mumbled, smiling as she spoke.

“Yeah?” Bridie grinned. “Aren’t they the best?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed. There was something soothing about the rhythm of Bridie's voice.

“Yeah, so there’s this tree. And I’ve been climbing it since I could walk basically, but the boys being boys didn't believe me.” She continued her story, sensing that McKenzie wasn’t really up for much conversation. “So the little idiots decided we’d have a competition to see who could get up and down fastest.”

“Mmhmm? I tried to do that with my brother once,” McKenzie mumbled.

“Did that work out for you?” She asked drily. “Cos it definitely didn’t for them.”

“No, it didn't…”

She chuckled. “You’ll have to tell me about it sometime! Anyways, Darragh went first and he went up really fast, but coming down was harder and Orlaith cried the whole time, she was so scared. And then it was Seamus’ turn. And he went up OK, until he got nearly to the top and looked down.”

“I - um - sorry!” McKenzie had sat bolt upright; he could feel sweat trickling down the side of his face as though he’d been running at full pelt.

“Hey, you're alright,” Bridie soothed softly. “What's wrong?”

“I - I…” McKenzie bit his lip as the tears that he'd tried to hold back spilled out onto his face. “Ugh, this is so stupid.”

“Oh Kenzie…” Bridie chewed her lip, trying to find a way to comfort him and coming up empty. She was feeling a little useless, sat there on the wrong end of the call.

“Sorry, sorry,” he swiped furiously at his eyes again. “I’m sorry about this… I just don't know what to do!”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Bridie said insistently. “Sometimes you need to have a good cry, especially if you’re feeling lousy.”

“Yeah, it's just…” McKenzie sniffed. “I feel so far away.”

“I know, but I’m sure you’ll feel better soon and then you’ll enjoy being so far away! And then you’ll be home before you know it and you’ll wish you weren’t,” Bridie smiled encouragingly.

“I won't,” McKenzie said stubbornly.

“Oh you will.” Bridie rolled her eyes. “When you come back to this weather you really will.”

“I’ll get to be with you though,” he mumbled.

“You’re a sap,” Bridie chuckled. “I promise I’ll stay right here as long as you need…”

“You’re so good to me…” He smiled, then his stomach cramped again and he doubled forwards, pressing his hand to his belly. “Ugh…”

“Think I’m just about average to you to be honest,” Bridie muttered, slightly at a loss as the image in the screen bounced about with a clatter, until she was just looking at the slats of the top bunk. “You’re ok Kenzie.” She raised her voice, hoping he could still hear her. “Take some nice deep breaths for me, yeah?”

“Oouuhh…” She heard him groan. “Brrruuuaaarrpp!” The belch was low and loud across the speakers of the tablet, but it was still facing the ceiling. She winced. She really hated that he was having to deal with this by himself - that none of his teammates had stayed around or checked on him.

“Oh hun, that sounds rough,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry…”

The tablet moved, and McKenzie picked it up again, he was trembling slightly as he brought it back up. “I - I think ‘m gonna lie down again…”

Bridie nodded. She’d travelled a lot, and though she’d never had jet lag this bad - had never even met anyone who got jet lag to this extent - she was fairly certain that some rest would do him good. “Alright babe,” she said gently, pausing as it suddenly occurred to her that that wasn’t a word she’d used often. “If you can, I think it’s a good idea.”

“Yeah…” He groaned slightly as he lay down on his side, holding the tablet so half of his face was in view. “Will you still talk to me?”

“Of course! Whatever you need.”

“Thank you…” He spoke softly. “Tell me ‘bout your climbing tree?”

Bridie smiled pensively. “Okay,” she began. “Storytime. Are you sitting comfortably?” She waggled her eyebrows as she asked the question.

“As much as I can be,” he answered back, his body felt heavy as he lay there.

“Alright, where was I?” Bridie mused, trying to remember where she’d left off. “Oh yeah, Seamus. So Seamus got to near the top much quicker than Darragh, but once you get up high the branches are much thinner. And I think he must have been trying to work out whether he could get away with stopping where he was and coming back down from there, or he wanted to see how far he’d come, I don’t know to be honest. But either way, he got up there and he looked down. And then he just...froze. Like a cat. And we couldn’t see his face because he was so far away, but we could hear this noise, and we eventually realised he was crying, and being the mean kids that we were, obviously, we started poking fun. And then I guess eventually we realised he was actually stuck and we started trying to help - like, give instructions and stuff.”

“Mmmhmm?” McKenzie sniffed a little, tears were still periodically leaking out of his eyes as he listened.

“Yeah, so we’re like shouting up to him where he can put his feet, trying to get him to come down, and he just won’t move, he’s petrified. So I went up cos I knew the tree best, and I got to just underneath him and I pulled on a branch and the tree kinda swayed. Like I said, we were high up and it was all getting thinner. So the tree moves and he screams bloody murder, and the first thing he says since he got stuck there is telling me not to come higher. So I’m trying to persuade him to just move his feet down, cos it’s perfectly safe like, I do it all the time, don’t be such a baby. And I was so tempted to just grab his ankle and pull to get him moving, which in hindsight was a terrible idea and I’m glad I didn’t go through with it.”

McKenzie’s eyelids were heavy, and he struggled to keep them open as he listened to Bridie’s soothing voice; he positioned his head so his ears were free so he could hear, and he allowed his eyes to close.

Bridie smiled sympathetically as she watched him curl into his pillow, and lowered her voice slightly so that she wouldn’t keep him awake. “Well, we’re up there a bit, and at some point someone went to fetch my dad - probably Orlaith, because she’s a big sister and was responsible even back then. So my dad rocks up, and demands I come down. And then he climbed this tree, but because he was a lot bigger than any of us, he couldn’t get anywhere near Seamus because the branches wouldn’t take his weight…” She trailed off, watching McKenzie’s face closely. His eyes had drifted shut and his jaw had slackened, his lips parting slightly so that she could hear the slow, gentle puffs of air that escaped them. He looked...really young, and really vulnerable, neither of which were words she associated with him. She waited a little, just in case he wasn’t properly asleep, but he didn’t seem to notice that she’d stopped talking.

“Sleep well McKenzie,” she whispered, as she reached out to end the call.

[thegreenfairy13]

Dog Sitter - Prologue

I wrote another Gobblepot fic because it seems I have zero self-restraint. It will be mostly fluffy, maybe a bit cracky too. Hope you enjoy! You can also read it on Ao3.

“You did what?!”

Oswald Cobblepot’s high-pitched voice cuts through the silence like a knife. He’s standing in the middle of the Iceberg Lounge, exactly where its centerpiece - a frozen Edward Nygma - once used to be, a quivering employee kneeling at his feet.

If the situation wouldn’t be so serious it would almost be amusing. Once again, the Penguin finds himself in the situation of shouting frantically for his Edward to be returned to him immediately. Once again, he’s worried sick, half out of his mind from fear for his best friend in the world.

A twisted sense déjà vu creeps up Oswald’s spine as he’s losing his patience. His composure is - even on good days - at best tenuous. And today is decidedly not a good day.

The young man in front of him is shaking like a leaf on a stormy day, expecting imminent death.

“Where exactly did you see him last?” Grabbing the young man’s lapels forcefully, the kingpin starts shaking his subordinate like a ragdoll, doing an impressive imitation of the good Captain Gordon in the process.

“I...I...I don’t know,” the thin boy stammers out, brown eyes darting across the room pleadingly. “I only turned around for a second and then he was gone.”

“You had one duty!” the crime lord hollers, right hand already tightening around the kid’s throat. “And you failed me!” he screeches, slamming the lad’s face against the counter.

“How hard can it be to keep an eye on my dyspneic, short-legged, docile friend!” he screams, slapping the useless fool forcefully.

“It’s mating season for badgers and foxes,” Zsasz supplies unhelpfully from the door. “Makes the little fellows go crazy,” he adds, an evil little smile playing around his lips as he approaches his boss and the unfortunate child sprawled out over the counter.

“He could also have been kidnapped,” Butch chimes in, entering the room one step behind the bald-headed assassin.

“Mr. Cobblepot, Oswald, Mr. Penguin, Sir!” the boy screams frantically. “Please! It was only a dog, I’m sure…”

The boy has no chance of finishing his sentence before the King of Gotham knocks him out cold.

“Zsasz,” the Penguin snarls, wiping a drop of blood from his paper-white cheek, “Show Michael to the door and make sure he never finds a job in Gotham again.”

Turning on his heel he leaves it to Butch to clean up the blood. Flopping down on a sofa in his private rooms, he starts chewing his fingernails frantically.

It’s happening all over again. Once again, he’s losing what’s most important to him. Once again, he has failed to keep a cherished being safe and sound. The Penguin might be able to build an empire from the ashes time and time again, but when it comes to protecting his beloved ones, he’s utterly useless.

It doesn’t matter that his entire army of hired muscle, goons and thugs combs through the city in search for Edward. He’s already sure they’ll come back empty-handed or worse: with only a bloody collar.

And what if Butch had been right? What if Edward had been kidnapped for ransom? Or for more devious plans? His empire might be in danger again. What if, whoever has Edward, threatens to torture him? And who would be as barbarous as to torture a dog?

Oswald starts hyperventilating as his mind conjures one horrible scenario after another in which his dog is being held captive in a cold, dark room without food or water. In the more favorable settings, Ed is roaming the streets of Gotham, confused and scared while being hunted by dog-catchers.

With trembling fingers, he picks up his phone and starts calling each and every dog shelter in Gotham himself. He’s describing Ed over and over again, trying to be thorough and objective and failing miserably. When calling the seventh shelter he already sounds like a raging lunatic and can’t even blame the lady on the other end of the line for hanging up on him.

Needless to say, he doesn’t get much sleep that night. He misses his furry friend deeply as he twists and turns in his empty bed, unable to close his eyes. Edward had always been there for him.

Whenever Oswald would feel sad or agitated, the little guy would shuffle closer, nudge him with his cold nose and draw his attention towards him. Whenever he would get a cramp in his bad leg, he would lay down on it and keep it warm until the pain became bearable again.

In the morning, he would wake him up and force him to get out of bed, uncaring how bad his previous day might have been. During meetings, Ed would lay at his feet, keeping him grounded and preventing him from leashing out. Ed doesn’t like it when Oswald is shouting.

And now the only true friend he ever had is gone too. Just like his parents. Just like his boy Martin. Everyone always seems to leave Oswald or is being ripped forcibly from him.

Curling in on himself, the crime lord cries himself to sleep. He should have killed that stupid kid for daring to tell him Ed was only a dog when in fact he was so much more.

Despite offering a tremendous reward, it takes his men an entire week before relocating his beloved pet. And to his utter surprise, it’s Gabe - stupid, thickheaded, recently revived Gabe - of all people, who makes the breakthrough.

“And you are sure it’s not another imposter?” Oswald demands to know carefully. After the reward managing to attract all kinds of scammers taking complete collections of bulldogs to his home, the kingpin has become wary and doesn’t try getting his hopes up too high.

“There’s a website for people who found all kinds of pets,” Gabe elaborates proudly while pushing a tablet into his employer's impatient hands. “See, there,” he carries on while showing the Penguin various photos of a dog that is without a single doubt Edward.

For a moment, the Penguin is rendered speechless and immobile from joy.

Ed looks healthy on every single picture. He can’t make out any injuries, his fur is clean and he’s lying on a seemingly comfortable, yet cheap, pillow. On another picture, he’s playing with a ball on a lawn, looking happy and relaxed.

Whoever has found his dog, must have taken good care of him. Oswald vows to pay the reward even if the person in possession of his Ed obviously has no idea about it.

When checking the date on which the ad had been placed, the crime lord groans in frustration. He could have found Ed not even five hours after losing him had he just discovered this webpage earlier.

Snapping out of his stupor, he turns towards Gabe. The man is still hovering above him, a goofy grin plastered all over his face.

“What are you still doing here?” Oswald grumbles. “Go fetch my dog!” he adds, already reaching for his cane. It’s the one made of ebony, decorated with a penguin’s head and one his least threatening looking devices - just in case the lucky finder is a nice, elderly lady.

From the corner of his eye, the mobster can see his thug’s smile fading and his shoulders slumping slightly. An uneasiness creeps into the once self-pleased posture when Gabe takes the tablet from him again. The man starts fidgeting with his collar as he looks over his shoulder at Zsasz who, to Oswald’s endless displeasure, looks incredibly amused.

“What?” he grumbles, looking at his men. “Gabe, I swear, if we aren’t on our merry way to retrieve Ed in five minutes, I won’t hesitate to stab you 48 times again!” he growls menacingly, meaning each and every word.

After all, killing your staff isn’t a big deal in Gotham. Once you get sentimental, there’s always a possibility for revival. Well, if the person in question has been bad enough during his lifetime. For whatever reason, it doesn’t seem to work on the pure and innocent.

Arching his eyebrow expectantly he waits for Gabe and Zsasz to jump action, yet neither of them seems able or willing to move.

Finally, Zsasz clears his throat only to reveal with barely masked glee, “your dog has been found by the good Captain of the GCPD.” The Hitman then grins wickedly when what little color Oswald possess drains from his already pale face.

Barely withholding a crude curse, Oswald rises from his seat. Of all people in Gotham, it had to be Jim Gordon who found Ed.

Who else indeed, the kingpin thinks, almost chuckling hysterically when processing the news. It seems, there’s one cosmic joke the mob boss isn’t in on. However hard he tries staying away from the unruly detective, some kind of wicked karma forces him back on the other man’s path and vice-versa.

But here goes nothing. Retrieving Ed and taking him to safety is his first priority - even if it means dealing with James Gordon all over again.

[shidiand]

How do you imagine Tenco's Story ending in your head?

that is a GREAT but UNEXPECTED QUESTION freshlybaked "spider" bread and i'm really happy to have the opportunity to try and answer this ageless question that has burned within all of us in the tenco's story iv waiting room community since 2013. it is an incredible coincidence (or is it? 👀) that i was just talking to Risa about tenco's this (edit: yesterday) morning so i am extra double super in the mood to talk about Tenco's Story today. so excellent of a coincidence is this that i am tempted to refer you to them in case you wanted to hear their thoughts on the matter that would probably turn out super cool, but that is neither here nor there; let us talk Tenco's Story.

i of course must mention my unadvertised and modestly detailed commentary on tenco's i-iii at https://shidiand.tumblr.com/tencos, presenting slightly interesting facts in an unwieldy and difficult-to-use format, but as it dates back to june 2017, i want to take some time to understand my feelings about the series once more.

tenco's story is a series that has a lot of meaning to me.

i took on my current name of shidiand in november of 2013. i was still in 11th grade at the time, 4th year of high school, and a very socially isolated person. i should say i was introduced to touhou in 7th grade, 2010, so i was still working through a 3 years-strong phase of trying to simultaneously both find an outlet for and bottle up an endless wellspring of awkward weeaboo-gamer nerd energy at the time.

i had my first real foray onto the internet in 2010, tried out twitter, followed some RPers and other people who had Cool Touhou Usernames. didn't really go anywhere. i had maybe 50 followers, i dont really know the count but it was definitely a) double digits and b) pretty low. didn't know what to tweet about. didn't know how to hit it off with others. i think there was basically maybe only 3 other people i ever properly interacted with. oh shit i was playing league of legends at the time. oh my god. i really did play league of .. oh my god. let's move on.

aw shit im super digressing amn't i. well.

this is just how it goes when i write essays on tumblr.com.

i'm afraid you're just along for the ride at this point so please do your best to enjoy it.

i got kind of tired of twitter at the time because i didnt know what to do with it. didnt know how to interact with people and didnt find the people i was following interesting, so i ghosted on out of there by the end of 2012. didnt deactivate it until like 2015 but at that point that was just burning away my dark history. anyways. november 2013.

--im taking a lot of time here trawling through old files on my computer, my tumblr blog, notification emails still lying around in my gmail inbox from twitter, the dropbox i didn't actually use but it had several tenco's story pictures on it but i deleted them so this was useless, ... to trace the timeline of this story and im really seeing a lot of remnants of dark history here you know? did you know i wrote a letter to a girl i had a crush on valentine's day 2014, slipped it into her locker, and anxiously hung around nearby at lunchtime to see how she reacted at lunchtime? i certainly didn't, or at least i made darn ass sure to forget about this incredible virgin incident and not remember it, ever, until i came across the records of it that i thoughtfully preserved for the me of 5 years later today. ok well now i have to read the letter to see if it was as bad as it just sounded there brb

ok so the good news is that it was actually very focused on being positive and full of admiration for the cool things she did instead of being a confession letter so i am very glad i was able to be a respectful chad 5 years ago, but the bad news is that the jokes, the actual sentences i put together. oh my god. but i mean. well. at least i got the spirit. its certainly a step up from this other person in my grade, WEEABOO ANDREW, YOU MAY RECALL THIS STORY AND HIS NAME FROM PREVIOUS STORYTIMES, THE MAN THE MYTH THE LEGEND who came to school on halloween once cosplaying kirito from sword art online and got very possessive about people asking if they could hold his black replica plastic sword, and probably worse, dropped a "will you be my girlfriend" letter into the locker of my homie and fellow trombonist samantha, who was a little bit nerdy, hung out with the anime-likers who were actually sociable and fun to be around so you can imagine why weeaboo andrew was into her, which had i) a direct quotation from SAO chapter 16.5 (origin of the famous "glopping noise" line), and ii) a condom. jesus christ. i dont want to talk about this any more. next topic.

i also put this drawing of iku nagae and her skarmory (actually an albinoss from 18 DRAGONS) on the other side of the letter because it was the coolest thing i could think of drawing at the time. and i completely agree with 2014 me because it IS super fucking cool. hell fuckin yeah

https://shidiand.tumblr.com/post/76301993387/iku-nagae-ft-that-thing-that-supposedly-is-a

alright that was a fun little trip down memory lane but lets get back on track. november 2013. i started anew as shidiand. still awkward, still learning how to express myself and looking for my place among others. i followed some touhou bloggers, hung around r/touhou a lot as well. in december i got my first tablet for christmas, a wacom bamboo splash. i still use this thing! the usb cable disconnects if you bump it so i have to find just the perfect position to sit in whenever i want to draw, but its served me well. anyways. i was just starting to play around with digital art but i remember, probably just before new years, for some reason i wanted to find out more about tenshi hinanawi (i don't remember why. tenshi wasn't even one of my favourite characters at the time) so i went googling and right there on zerochan i found this:

https://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=23525572

this was during my dark souls phase so i just went BANANAS at the sight of this. this was literally the coolest image i had ever seen in my internet life. That image alone made me want to draw in hopes that I could make something as cool as that someday.

it wasn't immediately after but i soon discovered tenco's story, and it was love. kannnu was my very first artistic inspiration, and for a long time, my only one. i absolutely idolized them at the time. since then, ive found other artists to look up to, in a more healthy manner, but to this day i still look up to kannnu, still admire their work a lot.

i played around with drawing, followed the lives of people on tumblr, started reading touhou fanfiction, made a new twitter. i met a lot of new people along the way. some people i havent stuck with, some i cut ties with, and some people i still keep in contact with today. over those long 5 years of being shidiand, i found a name (i used to use shidian and then shid, but someone called me shidi once and i realized that was a lot better), how to reach out to others, how to express myself, places that i could feel included in. this is why i owe a blood debt to evelyn, who permitted me to kneel at her throne and was like "yea ok you can join my discord server u seem cool". evelyn, if you were confused by me ominously mentioning this blood debt/blood oath in a tumblr reply 1-2 years ago, this is the context. those 5 years were like a coming of age of sorts, that i never had when i was in high school.

and my love for tenco's story, that inspired me to draw that day, has been with me since almost the very beginning of my time as shidiand. from the beginning, i have always encouraged people to READ TENCO'S STORY, like the kin of those who cry PLAY MELTY or WATCH SYMPHOGEAR. i think my very first sidebar description was something akin to a prayer, written in very choral language, hoping for the day tenco's story iv was completed, ..., "meanwhile, furious shitposting". kannnu's work, finding delight in whatever they chose to draw, has been at my side, all along. my true mentor, my guiding moonlight...

so that's why i still to this day love tenco's story so much.

let's talk about tenco's story.

tenco's story is a story told through single pictures. the plot is vague, and details are sparse. dialogue is rare. we only know what has happened; we seldom know why. furthermore, there are many gaps between scenes that the reader is left to fill in for themselves; we see only snapshots that form an hazy outline of the events that occurred, and must imagine the rest. motivations and explanations fail me. but even with a barebones plot, tenco's story has themes, and if nothing else, those have to be carried through.

the main theme, of course, is journey and travel, but there are also other ideas, too. i actually think they start to change as the series goes on:

book i, where tenshi runs away from home, is about striking out on your own. it's a very fun and unpredictable journey, together with a friend.

book ii, where tenshi and iku are separated, forces tenshi to find and rely on companions of her own even more. but they do so, and they are able overcome hardships, and there is food and festival.

book iii marks a climax, reasserting tenshi's goal of finding the sword of hisou. i feel like the journey shifts from a travel (visiting) to a path forwards (making your way through). perhaps this is just something i get from knowing the locations from dark souls (Anor Londo, New Londo Ruins, the Great Hollow), but the locations start to give more of a sense of verticality, like they're emphasizing tenshi's climb to the summit. the hardships and enemies are the greatest they've been yet, and right when they near the top, tenshi and iku start to bleed. the book ends on an uncertain note.

if i had to describe the type of journey and travel that tenshi and iku undertake, there's this sense of wonder at discovering new places, wandering from vista to vista in delight, but also a sense of conquering, making it through a difficult patch. the sequence from pages 2-44 to 2-51, taken together, convey this sense of overcoming the best. it's one of my favourite parts. again, although the tone definitely starts to lean towards struggle in book iii, i think tenco's sense of wonder really is the heart of the series. there's no map of the world, no predicting where tenshi and iku will end up next. and through their travels, though they come across many enemies, they also find friends -- places of refuge, places full of life, people who will look after them for a few days, companions who will stay with them for the rest of the journey. at the end of book iii, we see a long haired tenshi with purple hair being impaled by the sword of hisou (3-33, see also this extra illustration that risa pointed out to me http://sinnnkai.blog.fc2.com/blog-entry-195.html), and regular short haired tenshi continuing on her journey (3-42). if we ignore the out-of-story images where tenshi has the sword of hisou, tenshi has actually only ever used her sunlight blade (2-24, 3-26, etc), so i think that the long haired tenshi on 3-33 is a different person altogether. (if i had to guess, she might be the purple haired woman in the top left of https://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=35443328 as we have never seen that woman appear anywhere.) she probably has something to do with the flashbacks at the end of book ii and she might somehow be short-haired tenshi at the same time, but this is just speculation.

however, in 3-43, tenshi's hair is rather blue, so i don't know if this is the purple haired woman or not. if it is, tenshi is probably still fine and closing in on the summit, but if it isn't, then it's very worrying to see a picture of tenshi without any of her companions. it's very ominous.

meanwhile, iku, while climbing the red carpeted corridor, is stabbed, and disappears for a few pages. there's a black page, a shot of a shrine that strongly resembles the hakurei shrine, and a picture of iku standing behind someone in a tux, with the line "In the past, I was saved by the lady I was serving, you see?". and then iku wakes up in a field of flowers.

i think what this scene makes clear is a theme that has continued to appear and reappear throughout every book of "being saved, being aided by someone's kindness".

i think another theme that is implied and has to be addressed by this story of running away from home is "return". something im imagining is that the reason tenshi makes finding the sword of hisou her goal is because she wants to have something to prove herself with, to vindicate her when she comes home. but i don't think she needs to prove anything, and i ultimately think that she would be happier spending the rest of her life exploring.

so i think this should be what happens in the ending.

open on iku's journey, and give her a long sequence of travel without seeing tenshi. underline her newfound resolve. she climbs to the summit with albinoss, and finds the rest of tenshi's companions fallen. and in the last room is sword of hisou tenshi, who has lost herself, and it comes down to iku to bring her back. after a difficult battle, when both of them are on their last legs, iku is unable to stand any longer. but at this moment tenshi sees her companions struggling to get back up and reach her, and that's what brings her to her senses. and iku gets to see how many friends tenshi's been able to make on her own, and they finally and properly reunite. together, tenshi and iku carry each other out of the last room.

i don't think it's necessary to return to heaven. as a conclusion, dedicate some time to tenshi and iku travelling together. they're on their way back, revisiting old friends who helped them along the way, enjoying the journey. their last stop is the house of the elderly nawis (1-42). tenshi shows off the sword of hisou; she decided to keep it not as a trophy to show her family but as proof of the bonds of her companions. surrounded by friends, tenshi and iku decide to part ways with each other, knowing that the other will be alright. iku drifts among the clouds once more, and tenshi sets off for the horizon.

that's the plot that i'd write/just wrote. i don't really expect tenco's story iv to ever come out, though. i mentioned my first sidebar description earlier in this essay, but of course, you can see that it's been changed. 2 years ago, i read my hopeful prayer once more and was struck with a terrible melancholy, so now it reads this: "having come to terms with the fact that tenco's story iv will never be released, i can still live, knowing that the spirit of the journey will live on through kannnu's original works [...] meanwhile, furious shitposting".

on one level, tenco's story is a story, but in the process of following it, i came to think of the work itself as a journey too. you can constantly see kannnu's improvement between and even within each book. they have always drawn whatever they liked; what plot matters in the face of "I wanted to draw a beautiful sky." "I wanted to draw a fantastic battle." "I wanted to draw Dark Souls and Monster Hunter and Pokemon and Brave Fencer Musashi and Bokura no Taiyou and Touhou."

its not really kannnu's style to go back and tie up old ends. they just draw whatever makes them happy. so as i watch them continue to draw beautiful places and fantastic creatures, new characters heading out on journeys of their own or just enjoying their everyday lives, it's as if tenco's story never ended. the limits and consistency of that world ignored, and a new one springs up; in a way, the world of tenco's, which had such thin boundaries, just gets bigger.

but even so, having said all that, i still see them draw that short-haired tenshi from time to time. it makes me happy to see them remember tenco's story with such fondness. often crossing over with orion or roar or elweiss, you can see tenshi on another journey.

[wumpusandzandii]

Dissonance: Part Two

Human!AU TMNT One Shot for Raph x Stacey

TW: content involving abuse 

Glad for the distraction of inventory for once, Stacey hummed along to the music in the shop, piped in from her phone. It was louder than she usually kept it, but it was nearing midday on a Wednesday, which was one of their slowest times. That, and loud music rarely offended those who frequented bike shops, so she wasn’t concerned about it in the least. Having familiar music and the tedious task of doing the inventory required to shelve new product was enough to keep her mind busy. At least busy enough to keep her overwhelming fears and anxiety at bay. When she was done, she might even prop the door to the shop open and see if they needed an extra hand with any of the bikes they were currently working on. That required even more focus and attention.

Deep back in the shelves, she barely heard the jingle of the bells on the door over the electric guitar riff of the current song. Pausing for a moment as she lifted a set of mufflers to the shelf, she raised an eyebrow, wondering if she heard them at all. “I’ll be up in a minute,” she called out, sliding the box onto the shelf and marking the inventory list on her tablet. Face down, scrolling through the list to see how much more she had to go through, she wandered the familiar shelving aisles out of memory, not looking up until the last one dumped her out at the front desk.

“You keep your hands where I can see ‘em, and your bitch mouth shut.”

Gripping the tablet tightly, the breath went straight out of her chest. She knew she needed her fighting face on that day, but needing it to deal with her father was not what she had intended. The whole day had to be some kind of joke, but it really wasn’t funny. Maybe a nightmare. Maybe it was another nightmare and she’d wake up sweaty with her heart pounding, next to Raph, who would help calm her down and make her feel safe enough to fall back asleep into dreamless dreams. Only she stayed right there, eyes fixed on the balding, snarling man in front of her. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” she rasped, hating how her throat dried out and betrayed her emotions. She was a grown-ass woman, she shouldn’t be afraid of her father.

“Middle of the damn day,” Eli answered, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. “I can do as I fucking please. Last I checked that fucker that was there last time was the ‘nightwatcher,’ not the ‘daywatcher.’ Maybe I’m just looking for parts.”

Squaring her shoulders, Stacey did everything she could to keep her breathing even. She learned at a very young age that showing any weakness only encouraged him… although any response did, to be true. If she acted like she didn’t care, if she acted apologetic for whatever imagined fault, if she was defensive, if she yelled back… it didn’t matter. The end game had always been the same, just varying degrees. She was left battered, bruised, bloody and broken. A small terror clawed its way up her throat, one that hadn’t been a factor before. It wasn’t just her that could get hurt that time. “You need to leave,” she tried to say, but it came out as a meek whisper. Slowly she reached for the phone on the counter, but stopped the instant one of his hands pulled out of his pocket just enough to show the dark black metal of a gun in his grip.

“I wouldn’t do that, Rue, come on. I know you’re stupid, but how many times we gotta go through the fact that you don’t call the cops?” He moved menacingly towards the counter, shaking his head. His inflection on the words brought at least a dozen memories bubbling out of the depths of her mind, where she had stashed them, trying to forget them. She hadn’t heard her middle name since the last time he had addressed her by it, forever amused with how clever he felt for having given her the moniker, for ruing the day she had been born.

Finding herself subconsciously covering her stomach with the tablet, like it was some kind of shield, gave her a moment of pause. Surely, a baby scared her, but not more than the situation in front of her. She had no idea what she was going to do, keep it or not, but she knew damn well that she wouldn’t let Eli take that choice away from her. He had taken enough from her. “Why are you here?” she asked, trying to do anything to stall the inevitable, draw out conversation for the hopes maybe one of the guys would come in from the garage. How would that go, though, really? One of them might get themselves shot, and she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to forgive herself if it was Jax.

“We got shit to settle, little girl,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Your friend put me in the hospital for a while. My head ain’t been right since.”

“I don’t even know the Nightwatcher, but I doubt he did that much damage,” she answered, her own eyes narrowing in response. Protective hackles up, she couldn’t help herself from continuing. “Your head has never been right, can’t blame that on a vigilante.”

Slapping his free hand on the counter, the glass shuddered and she couldn’t help but avert her eyes momentarily. The old “give a penny - take a penny” cup rattled, the loose coins jostling from the impact. She forced her eyes back up, up to the reddening face that was a tell-tale sign that conversation was almost over and time to move to stage two, his favorite. His nose, bloated and pock-marked from years of alcohol abuse crinkled and purpled as he replied. “You never could learn to watch your mouth, could you? Always lippin’ off, gettin’ yourself in trouble. Well, there ain’t no big burly fucker lurking in the shadows this time, is there? You’re gonna pay for humiliating me, making me look like a pussy at that hospital. All the fucking bills that came for that shit.”

“If it’s money you want, fucking take it,” she snapped, her rage and fear hitting a boiling point. Rage at the situation, and fear because he was right. Raph wasn’t there, couldn’t always be there. Eli would always be the one lurking in her shadows, the one skeleton that refused to stay in its closet. “Take the entire till, I don’t care.”

“I don’t want your fucking money,” he snarled, the point of the pistol forcing an outline against the fabric of his jacket as he pushed it forward. He began moving around the counter, and Stacey instinctively pivoted to keep facing him, but tried to move backwards as well. “Money can’t fix what you did. You did this to me. You made people laugh at me. You disrespected me.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Stacey argued, hoping, willing someone to walk into the shop. Wondering how long he had been watching her to figure out the best time to hit the shop, or if it had just been blind luck that seemed to ever-favor him? “You ruin your own life, Eli. I’ve been out of it for over ten years.”

“You!” he snapped, finally pulling the gun entirely out of his pocket and jabbing it in her direction. Nausea gripped her, scared and hating herself for being scared both at the same time. It was an escalation for him to come at her with a weapon other than his hands or whatever he could get his hands on. He had thought this out, and why, why did it have to be that day of all days? Why the day she knew she had another life inside of her, that she was responsible for? A life that was just barely in existence and already subject to the abuse and fear she had known since she herself was a baby? “It’s always been you, my life was great before you came along and ruined it! And then you dragged in that… that… piece of shit to hurt me!”

“I don’t know who that was!” she lied, but her anger was true. It reached a boiling point, forgetting any plan of trying to calm him down. “It was the Nightwatcher and he was your karma! Karma for all the years of you beating the shit out of me! You deserved it!”

“You little bitch,” he snarled, backing her against the wall and lifting the gun in a backhand gesture. “You earned all those. I shoulda fucked you up worse, look how you turned out.”

“I wish he’d killed you!” she snapped, feeling like she was fifteen again, full of rage, fear and cornered like an animal. She had stood up to him then, and it had almost cost her life. There was so much more for her to live for now, even more fight balling her hands into tight fists.

“You never learn, Rue,” he said in a shaky whisper, tinged with something that sounded like macabre disappointment. His face reddening, she anticipated what was next, and readied herself. Over the years she had taken a few self defense classes, but it just never seemed to be the information she was looking for. She had needed to know how to fight, and that had come along with Raphael. He had helped her some, but struggled to some degree when it came to application. Forever concerned with hurting her, he had deferred to his father once she was ready to test her skills. Raph and Splinter had been excellent teachers, even if she paled in comparison to the boys. She simply couldn’t fail them in that moment.

As he swung the gun down towards her, she stepped forward, startling him in that she didn’t flinch away. Blocking his forearm with her own forearm, she struck out straight, aiming for his throat. She hit true, even if it wasn’t as solid as she would’ve liked due to him stumbling backwards a little. Moving in close again, she kept the space tight, knowing it made aiming the gun more difficult, and that was her best defense. She had very little chance of wrestling it from him grip successfully.

Eli tried bringing the gun up again, and she threw her weight into slamming that arm against the wall. It worked, but at a cost. While she directed her attention at the gun, he was more focused on disabling her, and brought a knee up hard into her stomach. She tried to ignore the fear that bubbled inside of her, quelling the anxiety that came with it. That wasn’t something she could spend focus on, and just as she started to try and get herself upright again, Eli brought an elbow down on her upper back. A fierce cry of frustration wrenched out of her, and she used all the energy she could find into shoving him.

The training had been useless. He was still going to win. He always won, always got his way. Only this time he wouldn’t settle for almost killing her.

Just as panic started to grip her, there was a loud impact from the front of the store, followed by a violent jingling of the bells tied to the door. Wide-eyed, she failed her training again, allowing her attention to be drawn to the source of the commotion just as the glass door swung completely wide and past its hinge stops, shattering in a burst of glistening light. To the side of it was a raging man, his boot coming down from kicking the door in. While it was physically the man she loved, his face was twisted into a blind fury, eyes far gone from those with which he looked at her. Shirtless, in only sweatpants and boots, each muscle in his body flexed, coiled and taut as he stomped through the threshold.

However, her attention had been distracted too long. Her arm was grabbed, and she was swung violently into hold. Eli twisted her arm up behind her back, yanking upward with enough force that there was a sickening pop, and Stacey couldn’t help but cry out. The pain was excruciating, and would’ve dropped her if Eli hadn’t maintained such a forceful grip. He had dislocated her shoulder, but she tried to retain focus on the situation, especially as she felt the cold barrel tip of the pistol press underneath her jaw.

“Not another step!” he yelled at Raph, who acquiesced, but not without visible restraint. His chest heaved, his shoulders were bound up and fists balled tightly and shaking. Eyes unblinking, fixed solely on Eli, his nose and lip were curled in fury and disgust.

“Let her fuckin’ go,” he snarled, his voice expressing no mercy, no hesitation. It was cold, devoid of any of the kindness she heard in it. A wise man would’ve obeyed instantly, seeing his fate as clearly as if it had been spelled out in front of him. Eli was not a wise man though, and made no motion in response. “NOW!”

The door from the garage banged open, a bewildered and furious Jackson attached to the doorknob, followed by one of the mechanics. For a brief second, his face went white as a sheet as he saw Stacey’s position within Eli’s grip, but his color came back when he saw Raphael just beyond the doorway. He stepped more in front of the young mechanic, blocking him. “Yer outnumbered, Eli. Let ‘er go and ya might live.”

“Not before I fuckin’ kill her, you useless piece of shit old man!” Eli yelled, but Stacey was watching Raph. Eli had evidently let his own attention be diverted by Jax, and Raph moved almost too quickly to see in response. Snatching a large piece of glass from the doorframe, he flicked it exactly like she had seen him use shuriken in training. Even knowing his aim was precise, she couldn’t help but flinch her eyes closed as it flashed towards her. The gun dropped away from her jaw at the same time Eli let out a yell, bouncing off her hip before clattering to the floor. Opening her eyes, she briefly saw the jagged glass sticking out of his wrist before doing her best to move away from him, turning in a motion that untwisted her arm and shot bolts of pain back through it. Yelling at the wall, she had no fear of the man now behind her, only trying to give him room to do what he needed to do.

There was only a roar of rage in response before two loud boot strides. Eli still held her arm and tried to pull her back, unwilling to give up his hostage. His grip went slack as the two boots came flying over the counter, connecting with his chest, the entire weight and kinetic motion of the man behind them plowing him against the wall. Staggering out the rest of the way from behind the counter, she made her way to a nearby stock shelf and sagged against it, but turned herself to watch.

“Girl!” Jax addressed her in a harsh whisper, coming up beside her. “Are you-”

Knowing the questioning that would start, Stacey waved him silent, she didn’t have the focus or energy to talk about it or move away. She was transfixed on Raph, who had somehow fluidly landed in a way that kept him from hitting his back on the counter. He stooped and picked up Eli roughly by the front of his jacket, slamming him against the wall hard enough to create an inward dent in the wall, breaking the drywall. “Never touch her!” he seethed, his fist connecting with Eli’s face, his jaw moving at an unnatural angle to his face. “Never!”

“Call the cops,” Stacey whispered, immobilized. It was like watching a train wreck long-coming, like her entire life had been hurtling towards that very moment, it had always been escapable. There were flashes in her mind, remembering the dark night Raph had also come to her aid, though he had been the Nightwatcher, then. Something about him standing in her shop, literally stripped down of his gear made it all that much more realistic. There was no dim light, concussion or dark visors to add surreal effect. Raph stood before her, Eli held in his death grip, fist pulled back for another hit. “He’s gonna kill him.”

“Already had Thomas call,” Jax whispered, just as stunned at the scene in front of him. “Come on, let’s get you in the garage, look you over…”

“No,” she resisted bluntly, hardly blinking and supporting her right arm, trying to keep the weight of it from pulling on the tendons and ligaments. She was at war within herself, part of her wanting nothing more but to watch Raph pummel him into non-existence, bringing his plague on her life to a final end. There would be no self-defense plea with that, however, and there was no jury in New York that would show forgiveness to a hulking black man that beat another man to death with his bare hands. He’d be put away forever, emotional duress wouldn’t even be a blip on their radar. That was only saved for rich, young, “troubled” white men. “I have to stay.”

In between hits, Eli made a feeble attempt at a swing towards Raph with the arm that still had glass sticking out of it. Grabbing the hand and stretching it above Eli, he used his other hand to pinch the glass and shove it the rest of the way through his wrist, yanking roughly out the other side. A cry that was equal parts pain and guttural retching ripped out of Eli. Blood streamed out of his arm, dark and glistening as it dropped to the ground.

How many times had that been her own blood? How many times had she been retching, crying, broken and bleeding at his hands? Watching with fury that raised her to a level of emotional detachment, she didn’t flinch as Raph twisted and rammed him headfirst into the counter, letting him drop to the ground. There was no doubt inside her that he deserved the punishment, earned all the pain numerous times over. Something about Raph cracking his neck as he looked down at the pathetic man sent her crashing back down into emotions, the familiarity reminding her of the risks, exactly what was at stake. Yet her voice strangled and stopped in her throat, unable to call out to him, unable to make him stop. Was Eli being out of her life more important than what made her life worth living?

“Raph!” a familiar voice came from the doorway, calling his attention like she couldn’t. Donatello skidded through the door and over the glass, his eyes rapidly taking in the entire scene around him. He didn’t have the dedication Raph had coming through the door, and his eyes rested on her, wincing painfully before settling back on his brother. “Raph, you have to disengage, police are en route.”

“Better be bringin’ a body bag,” Raph grunted, grabbing up Eli off the floor again by the scruff, giving him solid kicks to the ribs and gut before dragging him over to the glass.

Panic etched lines clearly over Donnie’s face, and he took one step towards Raph before the pure hatred on the face looking back at him made him stop in his tracks. “You can’t,” Donnie implored, his voice quiet.

“I can,” Raph snapped, heaving Eli up higher before throwing him down onto the glass, hard. “And I will.”

Looking up, Donnie locked eyes with Stacey, pleading and apologetic. It was no secret amongst the family that she was generally the most effective at calming him down, and no doubt the same chain of events she feared if Raph did kill Eli was running through his head, just with millions of other possibilities that hadn’t even occurred to her yet. She looked back hopelessly, unsure of how to stop the freight train he had become, not entirely sure if he'd even see her through the red haze of righteous punishment. Giving him a little shake of her head, unable to shrug, she turned and looked at Jax.

“Aww hell, girl,” he sighed, shaking his own head down at his boots. “This is gonna hurt tomorrow.” Walking slowly over to Donnie, he scratched at his silver beard as Raph stomped and rolled Eli into the shattered glass. He gave Donnie a nod, his posture giving certainty of support.

“Raph, enough, you need to take a step-”

“Enough?!” Raph snapped, glass crumbling under his boot hell as he pivoted to look at his brother. “No! Enough was a long fuckin’ time ago. He had his fuckin’ chance before he… before he…” Unable to even finish his sentence, Raph kicked the man on the floor again.

“Enough for you,” Donnie pleaded, hands together. “Don't do this to yourself. Stacey’s hurt and needs-”

“Then check her!” Raph was beyond reason, a man drop kicked past his breaking point and unable to see his way back. She didn't take it personally, his faltering at not being able to even mention what happened showed his true emotion, blanketed by rage. “I ain't doin’ shit to myself but makin’ sure this piece of fuckin’ shit never breathes the same air as her again!”

As he stooped to grab up Eli again, Donnie nodded at Jax and they both rushed forward, each grabbing an arm and hauling Raphael backwards as abruptly as they could. He immediately struggled back up to his feet, but before he could lash out at them for their perceived betrayal, Stacey stepped in front of him, blocking most of his view of Eli. He still fought to release their grips, however the majority of his attention was focused on her. “Get away from him. Move, Stacey.”

“No,” she said simply, unblinking. Her calm voice belied the maelstrom of emotions within her. “You've done enough.”

“How could you… but he… he was…” Raph stammered angrily, words getting jumbled and difficult for him as they tended to when he was emotional. He yanked his arm free from Jax and shot a glare at Donnie before looking back at her. His teeth were clenched tightly, jaw muscle flexing. “You hafta understand.”

Taking a deep breath, she turned and looked at the bloody mess on the floor behind her. Eli was still breathing, but long past consciousness. A large portion of her wanted to agree and step aside, the vindictive part of her that knew no matter how much pain he felt, he'd never understand how much he inflicted. He wasn't fixable, long past any hope of saving as a person, if he ever had been. That death right then and there would be better than he deserved… but maybe that was it. That was the thought that formed into how to reason with Raph, to make him see.

“I do understand, and I want to just let you fucking wreck him,” she started, her own nose curling into something of a snarl, letting the depth of her anger show to him. “I want him to die. I want him to suffer. I want him to die and be brought back just to fucking die again.” Keeping her eyes on him, she saw the conflict of emotions in his face. He was averting his eyes, and to most people he would’ve just looked like an angry, caged animal. But she had never spoken like that to him, generally his voice of calm and reason; yet this time, she was mirroring his own thoughts, his own anger. That alone gave him pause, and was likely one of the few things from keeping him from pushing past her to finish what he started. “But he doesn’t deserve death. He deserves to live through the pain and fucking agony that healing up from this is going to cause.”

Turning away from him, she faced her father, lying facedown on the ground in front of her. A role reversal that got her ire back up, her nails digging into her palms as her hands flexed into tight fists, letting the pain in her right arm fuel her fire. Knowing what Raph didn’t know, that he had risked the life of his unborn, and for all she knew, the impact to her abdomen had ruined. The thought made her anger flare, and she grit her teeth. His arm had come to rest at an odd angle, his wrist bent so his hand was folded under it. Stepping forward in the glass, she stared at him, her pulse racing. “He deserves to suffer!” Raising a foot, she stomped down on his forearm, bones in his own arm making the unmistakable crack of breaking. “He doesn’t deserve to make you go to jail! He doesn’t get to take everything I’ve worked for!”

Once she released her anger, there was no reining it back in. Everything came out in a flood, each point physically made with a stomp to his body, grinding the glass deeper into his flesh. “He has no right! He doesn’t get to take you from me! He doesn’t get to ruin my life, over over and fucking over! He has to live with what he’s fucking done! He has to see! He doesn’t get the easy way out! HE HAS TO FUCKING PAY!” Her dialogue turned into raging growls, her temper past forming words as she kicked and stomped.

The world around her blurred, and she was vaguely aware of a restraining hand on her good arm, which she tried to yank away from. “No! No! He deserves to dig every piece of this glass out of his body!” It was getting harder to stomp on Eli, and she noticed he somehow seemed to be getting farther away. Scowling she tried to concentrate, only to realize it was herself being slowly, gently moved backward. Lunging forward against the grip, she tried kicking again, only to find herself lifted off the ground, a firm arm wrapped around her hips. Letting out a strangled cry of anguish, she struggled futilely as she was carried away into the stock area, the shelves blocking her view from the target of her rage.

“Stacey, you gotta calm down,” came Raph’s low voice, still holding her off the ground. “Come on.”

“Put me down!” she insisted, pressing down on his arm with her left hand, though it held tight with no give. “Let me go!”

“I can’t do that,” he answered, his voice close behind her and obviously forced calm. “Not until you calm down. You’re gonna hurt yourself more.”

The shelves around her blurred, and she tried leaning forward, away from Raph and felt heavy drops of tears fall from her face. She had no idea how long she had been crying, and she grabbed her right arm as the shifting gravity pulled on the joint, causing more pain. “I don’t care! I don’t care!...” she repeated over and over, the words turning into sobs that racked her body.

Slowly she was lowered to the floor, and her knees buckled under her, yet she was held steady. “But I do, I do… come on, it’s gonna be okay…” Raph assured her quietly, repeating himself as she sobbed. When words failed her again and all the strength left her body, the flood receding as quickly as it had taken over her, he turned her carefully, pulling her into his chest and holding her protectively. Crying against his skin, she let herself sink into the feeling, his hand stroking her hair and rubbing her back. “You’re gonna be okay, it’s okay, I’m here…”

As her anger ebbed, the pain swept back in, only adding to her tears. She was grateful for his strength, otherwise she was positive she’d just let herself fall to the floor, wishing everything away. It didn’t escape her the mental strength it must’ve taken him to quell his own anger and see to her. Guilt crept in all over, guilt for not calming him like she had meant to, guilt for bringing him into the mess, guilt for him not knowing the stakes and not having the strength to tell him, guilt for everything. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t you be,” he asserted, shushing her quietly, continuing to hold her, he cheek against the top of her head.

“The police are here,” Donnie said from the front of the store where he’d been quietly discussing things with Jax.

She felt Raph’s posture change, his face lifting to look down the stock shelves. “We’re staying here.”

“Already accounted for, we’ve got this,” Donnie answered, before clearing his throat as the officers walked up to the doorway, their radios announcing their presence. “Hello officers, you’re going to have to call in for two ambulances, one for the perp here and the other for the victim.”

“What in the hell happened here?” one officer asked as the other radioed in the requested EMT support.

“He fell through the door,” Jax answered confidently.

There was a long pause, followed by footsteps crinkling in the glass before the officer answered. “How many times?”

“A few,” Jax said with a sniff, and Stacey knew he was shrugging differentially as he was wont to do when he figured someone had gotten what they deserved. “Clumsy guy, that one. His gun is behind the counter over there, he came after Stacey with it. She’s over in back, calmin’ down.”

“We’re going to need to talk to her,” the officer insisted, getting a wry chuckle out of the old man.

“Good luck with that.”

***

Donnie walked over to the ambulance, sitting with a stubborn Stacey perched at the end of a gurney, wrapped in a blanket. One hand held it, the other tucked into a temporary sling, the paramedics had seen to resetting her shoulder at her insistence. Raph was busy giving his statement to the police, still inside the buildings office where it could be completed in privacy. Leaning his shoulder against the back edge of the rig, he nodded at the EMTs, who moved off to work on entering information into the computer and talking to each other to give them some amount of privacy.

“You still trying to insist you don’t need to go in?” he asked, well aware of the difficulty she’d been giving the paramedics. She sure could be an awful lot like his brother at times, he thought idly, but was still shocked at her reaction to Eli. He’d never seen her lose it like that before, and certainly never to a point that she fought Raph when he tried to calm her down. It was a role reversal, for sure.

“I don’t,” Stacey sniffed, rubbing at a puffy eye with the edge of the blanket. Her voice was raspy and quiet, and she wouldn’t make eye contact with him. “I’ve had worse. My arm is back in. The rest is just bruising. Some ibuprofen and rest for a few days and I’ll be fine.”

“You should really let them scan the shoulder, make sure there isn’t any ligament tearing,” Donnie encouraged, knowing she’d just refuse his advice as much as the EMTs. If anyone had a chance of convincing her, it was Raph, and he wasn’t on hand. “And ibuprofen… Stacey, you’re going to need anti-inflammatories, but did you… did you get that test? I hate asking, but you can’t take ibuprofen if you’re…”

Stacey groaned, burying her face in her free hand, cloaking her face with the blanket. “I can’t… Donnie… he kicked me in the stomach. What if… what the hell do I do?” Her voice was breaking and muffled by the blanket, but he heard enough to understand. Definitely to understand the excess of her emotional reaction beyond her norm. He really wasn’t sure how to answer, rolling over the basic facts he knew off the top of his head, which wasn’t close to as much as he wished he did. Early on, risk of miscarriage depended on the woman, it could be higher or lower. If the impact did cause a miscarriage, there wasn’t much they could do to let her know one way or another, it was too early to check with a scan. On the other hand, he really did feel it was best that she get her arm checked and some appropriate medication for inflammation.

“They’d be able to give you medication for the inflammation and check your arm,” he said, mirroring his thoughts. “But there wouldn’t be much else they can do.”

“Then I’m not going,” she answered stubbornly, without hesitation. “I’ll just ice it. It’ll be fine.”

“Stacey,” he implored, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. “You’re going to have to tell him.”

“If I’m losing it, I’m not saying anything,” she answered in a harsh whisper. “Not a damn word. He’d kill Eli, and he just barely stopped me from doing it just now. Let me deal with it.”

“What are you two on about now?” Raph asked, walking up behind Donnie with purposeful strides. Looking up at Stacey with concern, he shot daggers briefly at Donnie before looking back to her.

“I’m trying to talk her into going to the hospital,” Donnie answered with a heavy sigh, ruffling his hair in frustration. He hated secrets in any scenario, but keeping something that big from Raph was like carrying a bomb. If he got any inclination that he had known and not told him, he’d kill him, or at the very least, make him wish that he were dead. “Unsuccessfully.”

With a frown, Raph stepped up onto the back of the ambulance, crouching and hunching to fit in the small space. Resting a hand on her thigh, he tried to catch her eyes with his, and frowned harder when she avoided him. “Angel, if Donnie thinks you should go, maybe it’d be good,” he said, as gently as he could, with a small tinge in his voice making it evident that he was aware he sounded hypocritical.

Rubbing her face against the blanket edge again, she peeked in his general direction, but still not meeting his eyes. She let the fabric go to play with a strand of his hair, focusing on it rather than his face. “I really don’t think I need to. My shoulder is as good as it can be, we can just go home and ice it, okay? If it isn’t healing right, then I’ll go to the doctor.”

Donnie shifted away uncomfortably, the moment between the two of them becoming personal enough that he felt more like a third wheel than usual. Wishing he had his holo to look at, checking her stats for himself, and able to look up information he didn’t have, he settled on kicking some gravel around. He’d gotten himself into the middle of a mess, that was for sure, and with two of the most stubborn people in the family, to boot. Not that Stacey was, technically or legally, but for all intents and purposes she was. Either way, being stuck between her and his brother was a nightmare.

“You sure you don’t need to just go get checked out? For everything? I mean, that was…”

“I’m sure. It’s just fucking Eli, Raph. Not my first rodeo. I just want to go home.” He heard Raph sigh heavily, knowing his brother was likely struggling with making her happy and doing what he felt was right. “Please?”

“Alright… alright. But if Donnie says you gotta go in to get checked, you gotta go, okay?” Raph relented after a long pause. “Right, Donnie?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Donnie responded, rubbing the back of his neck and glad his face was turned away.

“Okay. I promise.” Stacey’s voice was small and vulnerable, and it caused him true pain that she wouldn’t just tell Raph why. But it wasn’t his problem, not his choice. That was hers and hers alone to make.

[waywardnerd67]

The Family Business School: Chap. 1 - Acceptance Letter

Summary: (Y/N) receives a letter that she has been accepted to The Family Business School. Meeting a few of the staff before school starts she gets a taste of how her days may be there as her past is brought up. Characters: Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Charlie Bradbury, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Reader Pairing: No pairing Warnings: Fluff/Slight Angst Word Count: 2361 A/N: I hope you all enjoy the letter and supply list pictures in this chapter. I designed them myself and think I did an okay job. As always this is unbeta so all mistakes are mine. Likes, comments and reblogs are splendid and I will love you doubly for them! Enjoy!

(Y/N) stared at her computer screen not believing she was accepted the exclusive school for hunters. She had applied on a whim thinking there was no way they would accept her. Everyone, who wanted to be a hunter knew her story and now she lived alone in a cabin for away from society. If she happened to hear of a case nearby she would anonymously submit a post on the Hunter Forum a social media page for Hunters. (Y/N) reread her letter and supply list one more time making sure it was really meant for her.

She immediately replied back to the school’s general email confirming she would be there on October 11th. Most of the items she already had on the Supply List but a few clothing items she would need to get before going Lebanon, Kansas. She had read all kinds of stories about the Men of Letter’s Bunker that Professors Sam and Dean Winchester inherited from their grandfather being a part of the organization. She could just imagine what it will be like to live there for a few months while training to become a hunter. She closed her laptop and looked over to the picture of on her bookcase. The only picture she had of her parents was taken a little over a year ago. Now they were both dead and (Y/N) was alone.

“I promise, I will make you proud. I will not follow in the footsteps of my father.” She whispered getting up and heading into her bed room for the night.

The next several of months she worked as much as she could to put in her savings for when she would leave for Kansas. She was taking an extended leave of absence from her book editing job in order to go to school. She was assured that her position would still be there once she came back. A few days before she was set to leave, someone came knocking on her door. (Y/N) grabbed her shotgun and cautiously looked through the peep hole seeing a scrawny man standing on her porch.

“What do you want?” She called out through the door.

The man chuckled, “Bobby said you might be a little jumpy. I’m Garth Fitzgerald IV and Bobby Singer sent me to help you get whatever you may need for school.”

(Y/N) opened her door peeking around it as he smiled and waved at her. “Hi there, I promise I’m not here to hurt you. You can put the shotgun away.”

She opened the door wide enough for him to come in and set her gun back in its place by the door. “Why did the Head Hunter send someone to escort me to school?” She asked.

“Well, probably given your history there will be a little drama on your first day. As much as he comes off as a mean old grump he truly cares about every student coming and leaving the school.” Garth flopped onto her couch.

“Professor, would you like something to drink?” She asked as she walked into her small kitchen.

She heard him chuckle, “Some water would be great, thank you. By the way, I’m not a Professor at the school. I’m the Curator for the building and surrounding area. I also help out Bobby whenever he needs me.”

She handed him a bottle of water and sat down in her oversized chair, “Oh. Okay then.” She wanted to ask more about the school, the professors and the classes. She thought it was best she kept her mouth shut and found out for herself in a few days.

“Are there any items you still need to get?” he asked as his phone started buzzing, “Sorry, give me just one second.”

He got up walking to the other side of her cabin answering his phone, “Hey Dean. What’s going on?”

The mention of Dean Winchester’s name made her heart race. Anyone who knew about the supernatural knew Sam and Dean Winchester. They were legendary hunters having saved the world time and time again. Like a lot of female hunters, (Y/N) found Dean incredibly attractive. He was known for being a love ‘em and leave ‘em but any woman who had been with him said the one night was worth it. Garth’s raspy voice brought her out of her thoughts.

“Yes, I’m at (Y/N)’s now.” He paused for a moment listening. “Okay. Will do Dean.” He hung up the phone turning around to face her. “You should go ahead and pack so we can hit the road.”

(Y/N) got up nodding silently as she went into her room and grabbed the bags she had packed weeks ago. Garth laughed as he opened the door and took one her bags from her.

Shopping with Garth was a lot of fun. (Y/N) had almost forgot what it was like to hang out with a friend. She picked out a couple of pant suits and a comfortable pair of knee high boots. Then Garth took her to an army supply shop for a few of the other clothing items she needed. Their last stop was to a bookstore so she could pick up ‘The Big Book of Urban Legends’ and a journal. Garth had a handful of comics when he found her looking through the journals.

“Can’t decide?” he asked as he flipped open one of his comics.

(Y/N) shook her head looking at all of them. Some were snap closures, no closures, leather, hardback, but none of them stood out to her. Then she saw it. Olive green softbound leather and tie closure called her. She picked it up running her fingers over it and knowing that journal was meant to be hers.

Garth clicked his tongue, “I would get a brown or black one. That way it never draws attention if someone should see it who’s not supposed to.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right, but I never completely play by the rules. This journal is meant to be mine.” She said smiling up at him.

He laughed clapping a hand down on her back, “I like your spunk. Though you know Dean will give you all kinds of trouble for that bright green journal.”

She shrugged, “Let him, I’ve been given trouble by far worse people.” Garth nodded as he grabbed the journal and book out of her hands.

“This is on me. A welcome to our school present.” He said as they walked up to the counter to pay.

Once on the road, Garth started blaring ridiculous 80’s R&B and rap music singing to the top of his lungs. She slipped her earbuds in and her favorite playlist soothed her onslaught of nerves flipping her insides around. The next thing she knew Garth was shaking her awake.

“(Y/N), welcome to The Family Business School of Saving People and Hunting Things.” He said proudly as he pulled into an underground garage.

As he parked his car she immediately saw the famous 1967 Chevy Impala. Her mouth slacked opened slightly seeing just how beautiful it was in person. Garth helped carry her bags through corridors that lead into a large library. “Ho-ly crap.” She whispered.

Garth chuckled, “I know it’s pretty amazing in here. Now you wait here while I go see what room Charlie has assigned you.” He walked off down another corridor.

(Y/N) started looking at the books in the library seeing some titles she had never heard before. She was so focused on the books in front of her that she did not hear the footsteps approaching her. She felt the end of a gun pressed against her back and her head shot up.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” said a deep husky voice.

Her first instinct was to disarm him like she had seen online but opted for talking. “I’m a new student here. My name is (Y/N) and Garth just brought me here.”

She felt the gun lower off her back and she turned around slowly. Looking up she was met with the incredibly olive eyes of Dean Winchester who was pursing his lips together in disapproval. Garth and a bouncy red-head with a funny t-shirt on coming running up.

“Whoa, Dean! She’s a student.” Garth called out as Dean turned his attention to him.

“What is she doing here early? She almost got herself shot.” He said placing his gun at the small of his back.

“Dean, I told Garth to go get her. Now, could you refrain from shooting her until this new class of cadets starts.” They all turned to see Bobby Singer standing there.

Dean sighed, “Sorry Bobby, but she was just standing there alone. I thought someone had broken in.”

“That’s my fault since Garth had to come get me. Also,” Charlies stopped and hit Dean in the shoulder, “how dare you doubt my security system.”

Dean rubbed his arm as Bobby approached (Y/N), “I’m Bobby Singer and I’m in charge of all these idjits. It is nice to finally meet you, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

She shook his hand as Dean’s head snapped up, “Wait, you’re...” she nodded as he looked up to Bobby with a confused look. “I thought we decided not –”

Bobby held up his hand to Dean, “We can discuss this later. For now, Charlie please show (Y/N) to her room so she can get settled in. You will have a roommate once the other cadets arrive. Welcome to our school.” Bobby smiled warmly at her and then motioned for Dean to follow him.

Charlie hooked her arm with (Y/N)’s smiling brightly, “Well come on, let me give you the tour.” She said.

Garth and Charlie both showed her around the Men of Letters Bunker. She made notes in her small notebook of where the kitchen, bathroom/shower rooms and the stairs leading to the garage. Just down the hall from the kitchen Charlie opened door 24 and revealed a bedroom with two twin size beds, two desks and two small dressers.

“Here is your room. Take your time settling in and one of us will come get you when dinner is ready. No matter what grumpy Dean says please feel free to roam around. Do you have your laptop or tablet?” Charlie asked as Garth set her bags down on one of the beds.

(Y/N) nodded handing her both, “Oh, nice choices. I love my Surface Pro. I’m just going to put some software on these and get them back to you asap.” Charlie turned to leave and immediately turned back around. “Oh, and here, this is your new cellphone. See you later.”

(Y/N) setup her new iPhone and downloaded a few apps to get started with. She turned on her Spotify playlist and began unpacking her things. She was almost done, when she heard voices just down the hall from her room.

“Bobby, how do we know she won’t go evil on us?” she heard Dean said his voice full of concern.

Bobby grunted, “For the last time Dean, I decided to take a chance on her. Jack has turned out to be one of the best hunters we have. I think (Y/N) will follow in his footsteps.”

Dean sighed heavily, “Jack had Kelly and Castiel to guide him before he was born. Then he had Sam and eventually me after a while. Has this check had any support what-so-ever? No, she hasn’t. What she has is a murky past with Lucifer. Which brings up another point, don’t you think she is going to have trouble being around the guy who killed her father?”

(Y/N) had heard enough and walked out into the hallway, “If I did have a problem with you then you wouldn’t have kept that pretty gun of yours when you had it against my back. You know nothing about me or my life after Lucifer. All you know is some hunters’ tales that have been blown out of proportion over the years driving me into seclusion. Before you judge and make assumptions about me why don’t get check your facts! I hear your brother Sam is the best Lore and Research teacher in the country why don’t you sit in on his class and take a few pointers.”

Bobby was smiling from ear to ear as Dean looked at her dumbfounded. She turned to go back into her room and as she was shutting her door she heard Bobby said to Dean, “I like her. I think she will fit in here just fine.”

(Y/N) spent the next couple of days avoiding Dean at all possible cost and staying in her room. Garth and Charlie would stop by to check in on her. Charlie would come by to binge watch superhero shows with her and Garth had brought her a few lore books from his personal collection for her to read. She found out that Sam Winchester no longer lived in the Bunker but just a few miles away with his wife, Eileen, who was a bit legendary herself as a hunter. She had hoped to meet him before him before school since she admired him a lot. Lore and research was (Y/N)’s niche and the whole reason she wanted to come to The Family Business School was to learn everything she could in order to write lore books to help Hunters all over the country.

The morning the other students were arriving Charlie had come to get her so she could be outside when they all arrived. Her stomach tightened at the thought of being around so many people. She kept reminding herself that this was her chance to show people she was not her father. She was nothing like Lucifer. Garth pulled up in to the front entrance of the Bunker in a small bus with ten people on it. (Y/N) watched as the all filed out of the bus and stood in front of all the experienced hunters who would be teaching them.

Dean stepped forward to speak, but before he could a man slightly older than (Y/N) pointed to her, “What the hell is the daughter of the devil doing here?”

So, originally I was going to make this into a one shot but as I was writing this first part I realized there is just too much greatness for a one shot. I decided to make it a four part series. I hope you all enjoyed the first part :)

My Nerd Herd: @waywardbaby @waywardrose13 @carryonmywaywardcaptain @anotherwaywardsister @ladywinchester1967 @dwgrl1903 @akshi8278 @ericaprice2008 @mirandaaustin93 @spnbaby-67 @time-travel-bouqet @1967-essentialghoul @weirdoblogger69 @dean-winchesters-bacon @jensenyourdeanisshowing @destielhoneybee @-lovepeacenhope- @destiel745 @carribear31

[nerdy-flower]

@sinunamor here it is! This is part 1 of a 3-part headcanon I’ve had for a while, I really hope you like it! Sorry it took forever ;^;

Hugo knows change has come to roost when Ernest's dinnertime debriefs turn from reluctant, barely-there details to soap-opera recaps with all the accompanying comedy and tragedy.

“-and I didn't even know this, but Mackenzie told me later, that they were dating before he even dumped Emily, which is like- come <i>on,</i> dude. Did you look at all your options and pick the douchiest possible one?”

“That is very selfish,” Hugo says, frowning around a mouthful of chicken. “I always thought Pat was a nice young man.”

“So did I!” Ernest snorts, stabbing at his rice and sending some spilling over the side. “He's literally the only reason I've been hanging out with the theatre kids. The rest of them are so-”

Damien cuts in as Ernest briefly flails, searching for a word. “Dramatic?”

“Weak,” Ernest pulls a face, seemingly physically pained by the quality of the dad-joke, while Damien appears rather pleased with himself, chuckling into his hand. “Anyway, so Mackenzie said that Pat told her he was just going to keep it on the downlow, basically, until summer because Emily's moving, right? It won't be as awkward then. Except I guess they kind of forgot that their Insta accounts aren't private? So now everyone knows, and Emily has to stage manage her ex-boyfriend while he has a romantic subplot with her former rugby teammate. Because that's not going to go terribly at all.”

“Good heavens,” Damien replies after a moment, dabbing his lips with a cloth napkin. “I don't recall any tales so tangled from my youth, but then, perhaps I've repressed all that nonsense.”

“Didn't they get voted 'cutest couple' in the yearbook?” Hugo cringes as Ernest enthusiastically nods, kindly not answering with his mouth full. “Oh god, and that just went to the printers- No wonder Ms. Lee had aspirin with her lunch today.”

“Yeah, it's all like ten levels of stupid,” Ernest grumbles, not even distracted by Duchess' damp nose nudging at his lap. “I swear, I'm gonna have like no friends by graduation because I can't deal with everybody acting like they've found their soulmate and then dumping them in two weeks. No one our age is gonna get married until our thirties, anyway, shit's expensive.”

“Language,” Hugo chimes in, met with the usual roll of the eyes and offended huff.

“One's youth can be rather fraught and strained,” Damien adds with a knowing grimace, their cutlery clinking audibly against their plates in the quiet coziness of Hugo's dining room. “But you'll find people who don't engage with those sorts of theatrics. And besides, those who do will soon grow out of it.”

“Yeah right, I've heard that one before,” Ernest scoffs, returning to his food. He's quiet for the rest of the meal, and their walk through the park at dusk, Duchess and her boy running ahead. Damien's fingers find Hugo's after sending a quick check-in text to Lucien, and he feels a tentative kind of bliss run through him in the warmth of the setting sun.

***

Hugo's deep-down, etched-on-his-bones love for his job keeps him motivated through all the obnoxious students, righteously indignant parents, and illogical funding cuts, but he does keep a small, hate-fuelled torch burning for outdoor supervision. It's especially hard not to envision his student loan payments going up in smoke while breaking up fights, confiscating cigarettes, or discovering another hopelessly unoriginal piece of lewd graffiti.

Today has been blissfully quiet, if blanketed by damp warmth. He wipes sweat from his brow as he continues his circle around the middle school building. A new fast food joint had recently opened down the street and the promise of buy-one-get-one fries had draw most of the troublemakers away. With the bell approaching, he turns to head in and spots a familiar orange hoodie near the emergency exit ramp behind the library and sighs. No one is ever up to anything good behind the library.

He's still a good thirty feet away, obscured by the parked rustbucket cars in the student lot when he glimpses a shock of pink hair attached to one of his Comp Lit students from Ernest's grade. Tahereh is her name and she's giggling, along with his son, and leaning in awfully close- Nope.

Nope, nope, nope. He turns on his heel and walks away as quickly and quietly as he can. His son deserves privacy, and he had mentioned being paired on a geography project with that girl-

Hugo blows out a sigh, purposefully forgetting the follies of his own adolescence before he gets himself worked up over nothing.

***

A lengthy text conversation with Nick is an unusual relief. He would have preferred to do it by phone, but the man is in England of all places on a work trip. Besides, it's a little more private should Ernest come strolling in.

HV: You're sure you're okay with me taking the helm on this one?

NH: Oh yeah, I'm not worried. You're better at this kinda stuff than I am.

NH: I'll be home in a couple days so I can run recon if things go south lol

Hugo does manage to chuckle at that. Nick instructs him to break a leg and says he's turning in but to text if need be. A lengthy message pops in from Damien, having been Hugo's confidante the previous day, reminding him that his own similar chat with Lucien a few years prior was awkward at the time, but went a long way in maintaining good communication. As well as reassurance that Hugo is a wonderful father with no reason to doubt himself, and this is another prime example of it.

The usual expressions of affection at the close never fail to make Hugo smile. He types a slightly longer than necessary reply and pushes his glasses up. With a silent pep talk, he heads upstairs. It's not like he's going in blind. They've had plenty of very open talks since Ernest was small. About bodies and boundaries and babies. This topic isn't inherently uncomfortable, it's on him to shake that mindset.

Ernest's room is in its usual disarray, but he beckons him in quickly and takes his earbuds out. Flat on his back with his tablet held overhead. As good a start as any.

He assumes the best non-threatening parental figure pose, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees. Ernest is way too clever to fall for the small-talk nonsense so he skips to the point. “I hope you're not upset by this, but I saw you and Tahereh behind the school last-”

“What the hell?” Ernest bites back, anger narrowing his eyes as he drops his tablet and sits up fully. “You're spying on me now?”

“Of course not!” Hugo answers, quick and even with hands held up. “I was on yard duty, I turned right around. The only reason I'm bringing it up is-”

“She's not my girlfriend,” Ernest spits back, blushing and running hot. He draws his knees up and hugs them, a habit leftover from his toddling years. “We just kissed because we're cool like that. It was whatever. Don't make a big deal out of it.”

“I'm not, I promise,” Hugo says, confused and not entirely convinced but trying not to let on. “But say you did find someone you liked and wanted to start dating them, your Pop and I wouldn't be opposed at all. I only wanted to check in with you about er, safety and-”

“Oh my god,” Ernest covers his face, dragging the last word out into a strangled note of exasperation. “I've had sex ed like five times already, I don't need this. Please just shut up.”

Hugo decides admonishing him via their no 'shut up' rule would only make things worse. “I know you have all the basics covered. I just need you to know that you can always come to me or Pop for anything, okay? Don't ever feel embarrassed.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, takes a deep breath, and removes the small cardboard container, pushing it across the comforter towards his son. “And if you need these at any point, don't-”

“Oh my god, no,” Ernest's scowl deepens, the blush creeping down his neck as he explodes in frustration. “No, no, <i>no</i>! I'm never gonna need those, so just get the hell out of here!”

Hugo feels the wrinkles crease on his face as he struggles to say the right thing. Had the divorce put him off the idea of relationships entirely? God, he's too young to be thinking that way, isn't he? “I just want you to have these in case, you know, you meet someone and you want-”

“I don't 'want,' I never have and I'm never going to!” Ernest throws his hands up, eyes still flashing. “I'm a fucking freak, are you happy now? Get <i>out!</i>”

Hugo does not, merely stills as Ernest mashes his face into his knees, actually vibrating from anger, sadness, or both. It nearly does him in, there's nothing that hurts him more than seeing his son in pain. Thankfully, he had said just enough for the puzzle pieces to snap together in Hugo's head.

When the boy's breathing evens out, Hugo dares to inch closer, the mattress sagging with his weight. “Ernest, you're not a freak. There's lots of asexual people in the world and-”

“Name one.” The snappish tone is muffled by denim and knobby knees.

“Well, I mean, I don't know any personally,” Hugo says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But they do exist, they're not unicorns.”

“Unicorns don't exist? This entire day sucks.” They both laugh hesitantly at that, a sigh resounding from under the orange hoodie. “Mrs. Finn said in health that people who say they're asexual are just dealing with like, trauma or whatever. We're all driven to make more people, so it makes no sense scientifically.”

Hugo silently counts to three in his head. “Have you ever been hurt?”

That finally picks his head up, glaring at his father again. “No!”

“Then clearly that's not true. Ca- Mrs. Finn is sadly misinformed.” And would be told as much, without directly mentioning Ernest. Seniority be damned, he was going to have words with the Board that's what it takes. He manages a small smile for Ernest. “If sex is only about reproduction, how do you account for gay people?”

“Gay people can still like- do what's necessary to make a kid.” Ernest waves a hand towards himself. “C'est voila, or whatever.”

Hugo snort-laughs at that, he does admire his son's wit even in serious moments. “Well, so can ace people. There's lots of ways to make a family.” Ernest merely grumbles in reply and looks away. “And- I know it really doesn't seem that way sometimes, but there's a lot more to relationships than the physical bits. They're important to some people, but not everyone, and not in the same way.”

Ernest stays resolutely silent, staring at a fraying movie poster on the wall. “You will find someone who loves you, mijo. It might take time, but you'll find them.”

“Yeah, when I'm finally old enough to join Virgin4Virgin dot net.” Ernest only slightly resists his dad's chastising ruffle of his hair, glancing down at the box of condoms with moderate disgust. “Can you throw those out and we pretend this never happened?”

“I'll put them in the bathroom cupboard. I'm not saying you will, but if you ever did want to be with someone that way-” Hugo tucks the box in his pocket as Ernest's pained groan cuts him off. “Listen, this could have been much worse. Before I went to my first party, your Abuela made me sit at the dining room table and wouldn't let me leave until I correctly put a condom on a banana.”

“You're lying,” Ernest replies blankly, only for his eyes to bug out at Hugo's unfailing stare. “You're serious? Oh my god, that's- I can't believe Abuela is capable of such savagery.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Hugo chuckles darkly, then carefully touches Ernest's shoulder. “Hey, I'm really glad you told me. I won't tell Pop, that's your conversation to have with him.”

“Thanks,” Ernest glances down, frowning and fidgeting in place. “Can I like, go now? I promised Carmensita I'd help her set up for open mic night.”

Hugo smiles stiffly, moving out of his son's way. “Yeah, you can go now. Text me when you're there, alright?”

Ernest makes a non-committal noise and hurries down the stairs, drawing the attention of Duchess. Hugo shuts the bedroom door behind him with a small sigh.

***

Carmensita's dad comes with the most fringe benefits by far. Not only are they allowed 'backstage' provided they help out and don't cause trouble (Ernest never has, something about how calm Mat is kinda intimidates him to be honest, it's the ones with the longest fuses that you have to watch out for), they get to enjoy the whole show for free and eat/drink anything leftover at the end of the night. Even if some of the acts are a little weird, it's still way cooler than sitting around watching TV.

“Hugo knows he's picking you up, right?” Lucien asks over the roof of his secondhand car, keys in his hand. “I've got plans after.”

Ernest grins wide. “Man, don't ask him out if you can't even say his name right.”

Lucien somewhat-gently shoves him as they cross the small parking lot. “Hey, have you ever heard about shut the hell up?”

He disappears into the crowd and Ernest soon finds Carmensita. He's been spending way more time with her lately. Girls aren't gross about sex like all his guy friends are now, making “that's what she said” jokes literally every five seconds. She's also one of the last vestiges of sanity in his grade, as off-put by the constant dating drama as he is. They sit in the back kitchen, chatting with the younger, more anxious performers and talking about 'Hamilton' between sets.

“I'm pretty sure I'm gonna listen to the cast album once a week for the rest of my life,” she says, cheek full of Right Said Banana Bread, or whatever it's called this week. “And I'm totally okay with that.”

“Oh, once a week minimum,” Ernest nods eagerly, leaning out to watch some college kid plunk away on an acoustic guitar. Bo-ring. “I would straight up sell my soul to write that good. Like, find me one lyric that doesn't land. One, I dare you.”

“It doesn't exist,” she concurs, picking a crumb out of her front braces. “Oh! You'll never guess who's finally putting out a new album!”

“Who?”

And on and on it goes. Even though the linoleum hurts his butt, chilling with Carmensita is his favourite part of the week. No fighting, no bullshit, just goofs and talking about whatever. She's basically the funniest person he knows, doing an impression of Damien that has him choking on his own spit. It makes him forget everything else. Well, almost.

Once everyone files out, they pick up their brooms and try to clean up quickly while Mat counts the money. He heads into the back to put a bank bag together and leaves them jamming to the music still playing over the speakers.

Ernest stops polishing the counter to the beat, his curiosity getting the best of him. “Hey, 'Sita?”

Carmensita glances up, still doing something between the mashed potato and the tootsie roll while sweeping, not in the least caring about the backlit glass storefront behind her. He wishes he were that cool. “Yeah?”

“Do you think asexuality's like, a thing?”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Carmensita replies, knocking a couple muffin wrappers from beneath a table like she's going for the slapshot. “Why?”

“Eh, no reason.” Ernest shrugs and keep polishing. “Just seems kinda weird to me, is all?”

“Not really though,” Carmensita pushes her pink glasses back up, tucking the broom under her arm to gesture. “It's like that thing in that Bruce Willis superhero movie. If there's someone at one end of the spectrum, there's gotta be someone else at the other end, plus all the people in the middle, right?”

Ernest makes a considering noise, pitching his scrubber into the sink. “Yeah, you're right.”

Mat returns and they lock up, Hugo's car humming in the empty street. Ernest fist-bumps Carmensita as she heads off with her dad. “We're still on for the fair next Saturday right? I'm retaking my skee ball title this year!”

“In your dreams,” she sticks her tongue out and waves to him. “Don't get grounded, okay?”

“I won't!” Ernest grins, turning and shuffling towards the hopefully not-awkward, air-conditioned comfort of his dad's car.