#staring at this character like i am watching a car crash and i cannot look away

[potatobugz]

sleeping

[sillyrabbit81]

Hi dear

I'm a big fan of your writing, especially the way you write Sy. Love it. If you are still taking prompts, I have one.

How would Henry and his characters react to having an Erectile dysfunction?

I think that topic is not being discussed enough.

🖤🖤🖤

Thanks for the ask Anon. I was having trouble with this ask so I discussed it with @henryobsessed and we worked on it together. To be fair, she did most of it! If you haven’t read any of her work I suggest you visit her blog and take a look at her Masterlist . She is a great friend and has a wonderful perspective and a unique style. I love her!

@henryobsessed here I have to interject and have my say too, I loved this request, it was so much fun finding creative ways to discuss a delicate subject. And for the record I may have done more characters but @sillyrabbit81 wrote more words per character HAHAHA. You are a wonderful Friend and Cavill sister you inspire and push me to be myself and I cannot be more grateful. That being said have fun reading guys 😊

Summary: Situations in which Henry and his characters suffer erectile dysfunctions

Word Count: approx 3k

Warnings: smut, masturbation (m), oral sex (m and f receiving), anal play, p in v sex, bad medical advice, incorrect use of prescription medication, bodily fluids, period sex, drunk sex, Dom/sub relationship, descriptions of violence and death,

Masterlist

Erectile Dysfunction Headcanon

Henry Cavill

Henry had been filming for months and now he was headed home for a week’s break. You sat there waiting in the tinted people mover, as Henry was ushered to the car. Lights blinded you as the door opened, he climbed in, and smiling a weary grin, he pulled you into a big bear hug. He missed you so much.

That night, he fell into your arms in a passionate embrace. You had both craved each other, missing one another’s touch. As the night progressed, you noticed things were different. For the first forty minutes you were ecstatic, he had bought you to orgasm three times. Your body was super sensitive, but every time he seemed to be close himself, the phone would ring, indicating someone needed him. You had switched it off after an hour, having enough, and wanting his undivided attention.

Henry had managed to stay hard, but after an hour and a half, it was beginning to be painful for you, and he seemed no closer. Eventually, he flopped beside you, drained from the physical exertion.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s like I’m right there, but I can’t let go.”

You brought him into your arms, and caressing his back said, “Don’t worry love. It will be ok. Just give yourself a day, and maybe we can shut your phone off. I think the stress it is causing you might be a big part of the problem.”

He huffed at the thought. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe.” He sighed and soon you heard soft snores spilling from his lips.

Walter Marshall

It had been a long day, scratch that a long month. Walter had been working day and night to catch a serial killer. That night as he came home, he couldn’t forget the latest victim. What they had found had turned his stomach. In all the years he had been on the force, nothing could have prepared him for what they found that night.

Arriving home he collapsed on the bed, he was so physically exhausted, and for once sleep immediately consumed him. He woke nearly twelve hours later to the smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee. He groaned; he had forgotten it was his two-year anniversary with you. Walking into the bathroom he washed his face, staring at the blood shot eyes reflected back at him.

“Come on man, get it together. You promised her,” Walter tried to fire himself up. It was no use, he was spent. Sighing, he walked into the kitchen wrapped his arms around you and breathed in the soft floral scent in your hair. For the first time in days, he felt a spark within himself, and although the horrific images still played on his mind, he felt a slight peace. He kissed your head, relieved, something could still reach him, something was still good. “Happy anniversary, love,” he growled.

After a wonderful breakfast, Walter sat on the couch with you and the two of you cuddled while watching a movie. His eyes kept sliding shut, his exhaustion made worse by his full belly. His fatigue became even more apparent when after reaching your hand beneath the blanket, you could not bring his flaccid muscle to attention.

Normally this situation would turn heated quickly, you had a way with your tongue that often had him begging for more. But Walter couldn’t get rid of the images in his mind, the battered and dismembered bodies, and the fact they were no closer to catching the killer weighed most heavily on his thoughts.

After half an hour of you trying to arouse him, Walter said in a resigned voice, “Sorry love, I don’t think I can.” With eyes that spoke of immense pain he looked at you and asked, “Could we please just cuddle? I think I need that more than anything right now.” In that moment he knew you were the one for him. He had expected huffing or crying because you thought you weren’t good enough or you asking him to please you. Instead, you had adjusted your position, so he was tucked into your body, holding him close while your hand stroked his curls.

A calm filled his soul as you whispered, “I am here for whatever you need my love. Rest now.”

Captain Syverson

You were just about to turn the light off and go to sleep when you heard the front door open with a crash and heard a rough curse. You grin, Sy was home and wasn’t sober. You knew what that meant, rough, wild, primal fucking. You quickly turn the light off and hide under the covers, well acquainted with the game, you knew how to play your part.

“Where are ya, woman?” Sy’s voice boomed at your bedroom door. “Don’t think you can hide from me. I’m hungry!”

You peek out from under the blanket, Sy had turned the light on again and was quickly undressing. You lick your lips, watching your big furry ox as he dropped his jeans, and his cock was revealed already on its way to being hard. Turning suddenly, he saw you, and you yelped covering your face again. “I see you woman, don’t play shy!” You giggle nervously, excited, your core already dampening with arousal.

Sy pulls the covers back and smirks as he sees you’re already naked waiting for him, “You’re a cheeky little thing ain’tcha?” You bite your lip, opening your legs slightly, inviting him in. Grabbing your ankles, he pulls you down the bed and gets on his knees. A low growl emanates from his throat before he dives between your legs feasting on you with an eagerness that brings you swiftly to your peak.

Licking at his lips and sucking on his glistening whiskers, he stands up pumping his cock getting it ready. Your brows pull together, puzzled, he’s always hard when he eats you out. You don’t have time to dwell on it because he’s soon ready. Sy flips you onto your knees before he enters and begins his assault on your core.

Something is wrong though, you can feel him falling out of you. Did he cum already? Sy mumbles curses, pulling out and you turn around and see him fisting himself again as he slips his fingers inside you. In a few moments he is hard again, removing his fingers and replacing it with his cock. You sigh, relieved, as he builds his rhythm, and you hear him start to groan. But soon, it happens again, and try as he might he just can’t stay hard.

“Fuck,” Sy growls. You turn around and see the look on his face, a mix of frustration and embarrassment that melts your heart. “I think I drank too much Sugar,” he says, running his hand over his short hair. “Fuck. This hasn’t happened… Fuck!”

“Hey!” you say sharply to get his attention.

“What?” Sy replies just as sharply, but he doesn’t look at you.

“It’s fine, Baby,” you assure him. You see him jut his jaw and you reach up and cup his cheeks, making him look at you. “It’s ok. You’re just a little too drunk,” you smile and give him a soft kiss. “It happens.”

“Not to me it don’t.”

“It’s not forever,” you say. “Come on, let’s go to sleep. I’m sure it’ll be back normal in the morning.” You kiss him again and pull his head down to whisper in his ear, “maybe you could wake me up like you did last week.” You pull back and smirk raising your eyebrows.

Sy grins, still a little sheepish, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes again, “You’re a good thing, Sugar.” He kisses your forehead and says, “I love you.”

Geralt of Rivia

Geralt had never in his life had this happen before. The bar maid who had eagerly agreed to keep his bed warm on this cold winter’s night, gaped in confusion.

How could it be? She thought, All the myths about Witcher’s said they were virile and could last most of the night. She had been consumed with the thought ever since The White Wolf had arrived in the area and was quick to accept his offer to take her to his bed. She was bitterly disappointed and pouted at Geralt. Her sweet, plump lips alone should have been enough to make his cock stand, but tonight it lay unmoving, and useless.

That blasted sorcerer, it must have been him who had cast a curse on Geralt. It could be the only explanation for his inadequate showing. Looking at the poor wench beside him, Geralt pitied her. She had been most eager to satisfy his needs tonight, giving a valiant effort to arouse him. No matter, he had other ways to enjoy bringing her to the height of pleasure. Granted he didn’t normally concern himself with their needs as his own normally coincided with theirs. But tonight, his fingers, and tongue would be adequate until he broke the curse and returned to give her what she truly deserved.

Mike

The party had been epic, the drinks flowed, pot was smoked in abundance and Mike had managed to capture the attentions of a wonderful long legged blonde beauty. She helped him back to her apartment and his heart rate raised as she slowly stripped him, leaving him in all his naked glory. Laying on the bed he watched as she did a strip tease for him, her perky breasts bouncing as she jiggled her ample peach in his face.

But something was wrong, the situation was right, she was right but… he held his hand out to the two or was it three beauties before him. One took his hand as he guided her to sit in his lap. He caressed her as they kissed, his tongue violating her mouth with as much enthusiasm as his inebriated self could manage. Even with her grinding against him nothing happened.

“Shit” he swore.

The girl frowned and her lips seemed to move in twisted patterns which stilled again before she snickered. An evil cackle reverberated in her throat and her face twisted into that of a demented creature. “Can’t get it up, boy?” she taunted as she continued to laugh. She collected his clothes and managed to push him out of her bedroom and into the night. Standing in the cold with only his briefs covering his body, he stumbled as he began his walk of shame home.

August Walker

August Walker was hands down, far and away, the greatest lover you have ever had. He was the only man who had ever been able to keep up with you, your average session lasting for four hours. He was able to cum and get hard again faster than any guy you had ever been with too.

But being with August meant following The Rules. There were many Rules, rules which governed how you would dress when you saw him, how you were groomed, how you were to address him and when you could contact him. There were punishments too, but you had been a good girl, never broken any of his rules, so you never gave the punishments a thought.

One of the many Rules was absolutely no snooping. He said it was for your protection as much for his privacy. You didn’t know exactly how August made his money, but you assumed it had to be from some sort of illegal activity. So, you obeyed this rule as you did the others until one evening after a marathon session, you realised you got your period. You were shocked August hadn’t said anything, clearly he had continued to fuck you while you were bleeding. You started opening his bathroom cupboards searching for a tampon or pad or something, hoping you wouldn’t have to stuff your panties with toilet paper until you got home.

You opened the cupboard behind the mirror and were surprised to see a pill bottle with little blue tablets. You recognised them and after checking the label and confirming it you were speechless. August used Viagra? But, it didn’t seem possible that he would need it, his stamina was out of this world… unless…

“What do you think you are doing Petal?” August said from the doorway, a box of tampons and a towel was in his hands.

Quickly recovering your senses, you grabbed the box and towel out of his hands and kissed his cheek saying, “Looking for those. Thank you, August.”

Quicker than you thought possible you were bent over the counter, cheek pushed into the stone benchtop. “You found my pills,” August said coldly. Leaning his body over yours, his weight pushed down on you, holding you in place as he kicked your legs apart. You muffled a cry as you felt him hard again against your ass. “I don’t need them, for most women, Petal. But for particularly slutty, insatiable, cock hungry brats such as yourself, it’s a necessary assistance.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” you murmured, hoping he would take pity on you. Tears welled in your eyes as his finger pressed against your ass, forcing your tight muscles apart and you cried as he entered you. “I’m sorry, August.”

“My dear sweet, Pet,” August grunted as he violated you with a second finger. “If you aren’t sorry now, you will be.”

Napoleon Solo

Napoleon had been watching the siren from a distance all night. Her lithe body commanded all around to her attention. After she finished singing her call to the night goddess, he made his move. Two drinks in hand he set his sights and went in for the kill.

The two danced, drank and now were in her apartment, laid out on her bed he was happily pleasing her, mouth buried between her delicious thighs. His tongue flicked expertly over her button bringing her to climax, exciting his body, he climbed forward and for the first time that night claimed her lips. They kissed passionately until something changed, his mind grew foggy, and his cock deflated.

“Aww, is the great Casanova having trouble?” she laughed her sweet siren song changing to a bitter retort. His confused eyes tried to fix on hers as she began to distort, her last words filling his gut with fear. “Don’t worry love. I’ll take good care of you Napoleon Solo.”

Clark Kent

Clark was in college and his new friend Tommy was egging him on to take Crystal out for a date. He couldn’t understand why the cheerleader wanted to take him out. He wasn’t anything special as far as she knew, but she had been flirting with him all week.

Dinner was nice and Clark was surprised when Crystal suggested they return to her share house for dessert. Nervous as he was around her, he was pleased when after ice cream he had allowed her to talk him into a make out session in her room. They had only been in the room a few moments when he had felt strange. They had been kissing, it was enjoyable, but his stomach had begun to feel off and he felt unusually tired and weak.

The more they kissed the more frustrated he was to realise he wasn’t getting a rise out of his little friend. He noticed a pendant hanging on the wall near her bed, the green stone glowed eerily at him giving him a bad vibe. After a few more moments he politely excused himself, saying he must have eaten something off. Clarke murmured apologies and gave promises that he would call her and he left. Strangely, by the time he left her house he felt better, as if he had never felt ill at all. He was only a little upset that he had ruined his chances with Crystal, something about that pendant made him hope he would never see it again.

Charles Brandon

Charles sat in the apothecary rooms, wondering what he had gotten himself in for. The King had recommended him when Charles confided in his friend of his problem.

“So young man, why are you here?” the old man asked, his face kind but stern.

“Well, I’ve been having trouble, when I pee it burns and well, I can get an erection, but it deflates quickly and sometimes I cannot get one at all. I’m also having abdominal pain.”

The old man chuckled. After examining the affected area, he turned to his wall of potions. Pulling together some salves, and powdered herbs he turned to address the Charles. “Here, rub this on the affected area twice a day, and drink this tea three times a day.” The apothecary paused and said with a grin, “And finally, give the ladies from court a rest for a bit, you will regain your vigour again.”

Shame and chagrin filled Charles as he pulled his coverings back over his privates. Taking the medicines, he snuck out of the room trusting that no one saw him, and hoping against all hope, that this would work.

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock sits back in satisfaction, marvelling at his new invention. Based on some literature he read from the America’s he perfected the design and made it fit himself perfectly.

Having commissioned the glass tube and rubber attachments, the contraption worked by winding a small handle, creating the necessary suction to create a vacuum, pooling enough blood into his cock to make it erect. By placing a rubber ring at the base of his shaft, he found he was able to maintain an erection for approximately thirty minutes. He could even bring himself to orgasm by his own hand.

It really was a delightful invention. Now, he just had to find that little vixen of a maid and see if it worked with her too. Perhaps he should try and use her mouth first.

Tag List 1

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[jamaiskookie]

meet me in your memories (knj)

✂︎ pairing: memory traveller namjoon x gender neutral reader

✂︎ wc: 11.8k

✂︎ TW// car crash, mentions of death, crying, mental health, mental breakdowns, spoilers for frozen 1?? um, vomiting, mentions of PTSD, three seconds of family drama, memory loss

✂︎ notes: a little gift from me for being away so long <3 luv yall also ignore how short and shitty this is!!! ignore it!!!!! 

✂︎ synopsis: namjoon is a memory traveller - he is thrusted back and forth into his world and the world of his memories, forced to re-enact his past experiences. but he doesn’t recognise you, who keeps showing up in his memories. why doesn’t he remember you? why can’t he recall any of these scenes if they’re supposed to be his memories? and why does it always feel like he’s forgetting something? 

he comes to find out that he would choose you over and over again, in whatever lifetime or world he’s in. because he always returns to you. 

✂︎ fic tunes: "eight"- iu (prod. & feat. suga) but you're at your favorite secret spot after a long day by neptjoon

masterlist asks

The road is slippery and Namjoon cranes his head out to look at the window. Rain splattering everywhere, he notes worriedly. He hopes that nobody crashes. The bus driver sitting about three meters in front of him is humming a melody to a song he doesn’t know nor recognise. While listening to the poor man hum the off beat tune, Namjoon sits in silence, wondering how sad it must be to drive a bus with no passengers but himself. 

Suddenly, his stomach drops and his head spins, and this time Namjoon is certain it’s not from the rain or the driver’s subpar driving. He lurches forward, watching as the rain knocks against the window and falls in thick ribbons. 

Click. 

In an instant, Namjoon’s world collapses around him and he is thrown into his mind. 

Seoul is sweltering hot - hot like he’s never felt before. Namjoon reaches up to clutch his head, which is still spinning, and finds himself standing in a pair of light washed baggy jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt, unlike the padding coat and thick boots he had on just a moment ago. 

“Namjoon!” Someone squeals behind him and his heart jumps. He jumps around, facing you and the view of hot street food stalls and tall buildings behind you. Suddenly, his hand is reaching out to grab onto yours and you smile softly. 

He hears his own voice ring out, clear as day: “Don’t run. I was looking for you.” 

“Psh.” You wave off his concern, handing him a shiny golden hotteok. You hold an identical one in your fist, so he accepts it and murmurs his thanks, tearing apart the pancake and stuffing it into his mouth. Sweet, hot honey and small pieces of walnut flood into his mouth, and Namjoon is momentarily surprised. Science states that you cannot taste or physically feel anything in your dreams. 

But Namjoon already proved that wrong long ago. 

He takes you by hand and drags you over to a shelter, for some rest, apparently uninterested in your cries of wanting more tteokbokki or some Chinese food. He flings you over to his side and places his hand over your shoulder, while you both silently devour your hotteoks. 

“This was a nice date.” You mumble tentatively, and oh. That’s what this is? A date? He wants to turn around and ask you for your name. Where are you from? Why am I here again? He wants to scream it out until his lungs hurt and he gets an answer that makes sense, but no matter how much he tries, his throat will not allow those words to tumble out of his lips.  

Why don’t I remember you?

Instead, he replies: “Yeah, it was. This was fun.” He tilts his head down to smile at you and Namjoon finds himself nervous. Nervous enough that his hands are shaking against his will, but he tells himself that the sweat and the nervousness are all side effects of the swampy heat this summer. 

You beam at him and Namjoon thinks you’re an angel. You lean up onto his chest to place a soft kiss onto his lips and Namjoon thinks about when he’s going to be thrown back out of his head. 

“Wanna go home?” He asks, nudging at the sky, which is already filled up with first streaks of the sunset. Purple hues and pinks and blues that all blend together nicely. You watch the sky for a moment.

“Never.” You offer no explanation after that and Namjoon doesn’t pry. He feels like he understands you, which is scarier than any other encounter he’s faced, in real life and in here. You stare up at him more intensely, and a shudder of fear runs down Namjoon’s back. “I just want to stay here forever,” You enunciate, like you want him to remember this. “Just Y/N and Namjoon.” 

Something tugs in his chest and Namjoon screams in his head, no. Longer. Not now. He slips away, gone, disappeared from the world before he can even tell you how pretty your name is. And he awakens back at the bus, where the driver is shaking him and yelling at him to get out. 

Namjoon walks home in the rain, yelling out your name in happiness until his neighbours come over politely asking him to shut the fuck up. 

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N… Y/N?” He keeps repeating the name over and over again, enough to make Seokjin annoyed, who has moved away from Namjoon’s desk to the sofa in his office just to escape the random spiel that Namjoon is hurriedly rushing through. 

“I can’t find a single Y/N in here!” Namjoon cries frustratingly, and the corners of Seokjin’s eyes soften in something that is either pity or empathy. He discards his non-fiction novel about drag queens and wigs to come over and clap a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. 

“My friend, my crazy, idiotic, slightly insane friend.” Seokjin bends down. “You’ve checked all your yearbooks, social media, archives, newspapers… Have you perhaps considered that this person wasn’t that important? Just a passing stranger?”

“No.” Namjoon shoots down stubbornly. “They appear far too often for them not to be important.” So Seokjin shrugs, leaving Namjoon to, once again, search through the Facebook friends of a friend of a friend of a friend. 

But no Y/N’s pop up, and he’s wondering if Y/N was just a nickname. Was it even your real name? With a sigh and one single (rather impressive) agitated brow wave, he lets go and spills. He tells Seokjin about how he finally learned your name, about the places you’ve been together and how much you adore street food. 

He appreciates Seokjin for being a good friend, for sitting there and not interrupting to call him a crazy person, even if he is most certainly thinking about it in his head. Because Seokjin, at least, knows about a miniscule part of Namjoon’s tragic life. He doesn’t understand, but he gets it, and that’s all Namjoon needs in a friend. 

He doesn’t tell Seokjin about how soft and pillowy your lips feel against his, he doesn’t tell you how much he longs to do unspeakable things to you when you show up in those blue short shorts. He definitely doesn’t tell him how much he loves your name. 

Seokjin suggests a number of things. That perhaps you are a character from long ago, or maybe a passing stranger Namjoon once had a summer fling with. You may be someone long forgotten like a mutual friend in high school or college. He also suggests a psychiatric hospital to screw his head back on (as a joke, Namjoon’s pretty sure.) 

But none of those seem right. Namjoon does his best to explain, he really does. For an award winning journalist and aspiring writer, he does just about a terrible job of trying to string his words together. Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose and falls back onto the sofa, already spacing out. Namjoon weakly cries out that he knows you. He really does - he just doesn’t remember how, or why. 

Like a puzzle with a few missing pieces. 

He wonders when and if the missing pieces will ever make their way over to him. 

Namjoon gives up and flops down onto the sofa next to Jin, who squeaks out various protests about how heavy he is and how stupidly huge his arms have gotten after he started working out, along the lines of comparing him to Jungkook and calling him a gym rat. 

As usual, Namjoon doesn’t listen. 

It’s difficult to explain the feeling of falling to someone who hasn’t experienced it. The cursed Click echoes out and suddenly, the world spins around, the axis breaks and he’s physically thrown into another time, another place… another memory that he can’t seem to recall. His stomach lurches, his head hurts and there’s a small breeze flowing in. 

For a short moment, the loops of space and time are completely open to him. He can’t see it, but he can feel it. It flips his mind completely upside down and boom. He’s in a specific, random time and place. His body feels light, and every step he takes, he can physically feel it: He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t supposed to be here. Everything feels different. Even the air is more smoky, because something in this world is suddenly wrong, and it’s him. 

The next time he meets you, he is in just about the worst place to fall. Sitting in a press conference, his stomach drops and he’s dreading the fall. Namjoon can already hear his boss screaming at him, and he desperately tries to root himself to his seat, typing whatever the assemblyman is yapping on and on about. About farming and agriculture and tax cuts… 

Click. 

He can distantly hear the assemblyman candidate talk about corrupt government workers as he’s thrusted out of his world and into another. 

The memory he has the pleasure to be in this time is something not too unfamiliar. For a second, he thinks if this is just a normal day of him in his cramped, tiny city apartment. Until he turns around and realises you’re lying right next to him, sound asleep and nuzzling into the side of his neck. 

The air is crisp. It’s spring, not winter anymore, and he can hear the flower petals outside his apartment complex falling lightly on the ground. This, Namjoon thinks, may just be the best memory he’s been in. The press conference and his life and his boss slips his mind and he cradles you in his chest, holding you closer and closing his eyes shut. 

“Mm?” You mumble, half asleep. “You’re suffocating me.” You hoarsely call out, and Namjoon releases you with an insincere apology. He brushes the hair out of your hair and grins, framing you in his head. He reaches to his alarm clock, which is right next to his bed as it always is to check the time. 

April 1st, 2017. 

Oh god, Namjoon winces. This means he still has that god awful haircut right now. He reaches up to feel his head, and sure enough, the horrible slicked back bleached hair is still there, an unfortunate result of his friend Hoseok daring him to drunk dye his hair. 

“You’re awake?” He asks you, and you nod slowly. 

He wonders if this memory precedes or follows the one he had with you last time, and he desperately hopes things are going in chronological order. He wants to know you just as much as you know him. Namjoon naively prays to whatever deity that controls his dreamworld: Please follow things step by step, follow the clock. 

You roll around, saying something he can’t really catch. He asks you what you said and for the first time today, you peel open your eyes directly facing him. Namjoon’s heart almost falls out of his ass, seeing your eyes bore into his own. 

“Where’s my morning kiss?” You ask cutely, nudging his nose with your own button nose. 

“Right here.” He finds himself saying, leaning in to close the inches in between your two faces. You taste like hotteok, even early in the morning. You taste like a spring day and a never ending forever. As your lips capture his and his everything is consumed by thoughts of you, Namjoon begs himself to kiss you harder. 

His past self declines politely, and Namjoon thinks about whether this counts as himself being controlled if he himself is still controlling what he says and does. 

In that moment, listening to your slow breathing and someone across the street playing simple, melodic piano chords, Namjoon tells himself: Do not ever forget April 1st, 2017. You rise from the bed and some form of protest bubbles up from Namjoon’s mouth, to which you just laugh and drag him out of bed with the excuse of wanting breakfast. 

You push him into the bathroom, where he expects to meet his sad single grey towel and foggy mirror. You push him in front, and he cringes at the sight of his hair in the mirror. You sigh. 

“Calm down. The blonde looks sexy. You can dye it back black later.” He laughs, because it’s clearly not very sexy. For once, his past self is doing exactly what the current Namjoon is pleading him to do. Does it count as reliving your memories if someone else was living through them originally? But, he reminds himself while you hand him a green toothbrush and squeeze a dollop of toothpaste on both your toothbrushes, this is him. He lived through this once and he is just taking a trip down memory lane. 

The person who lived through this before was him. 

He has to remind himself many more times before it sinks in. 

You brush your teeth next to him, fluffing your hair and squinting in the mirror to wake yourself up. Without a second of hesitation, Namjoon brings the toothbrush up and starts to brush his teeth. Nothing has ever felt more domestic or right than this, despite the tentative steps and heavy lead feeling in his throat telling him he still isn’t supposed to be here. 

You spit out toothpaste in the sink to gargle your mouth and Namjoon mimics you exactly. Somehow, you find yourselves in the kitchen, giggling while making some sort of french toast with an abundance of cinnamon floating through the air. Which makes Namjoon cough and makes you laugh even harder. 

“This is a perfect morning.” You say, peering out the window to watch the city life slowly bustling to life. People scrambling out their doors, ushering their children or pets with them. People you don’t recognise going on walks or runs. Mailmen and delivery people dropping off packages and people yelling into their phones as they hurriedly walk along the sidewalk. 

And you and Namjoon, calmly staying in your pajamas while frying toast on the pan. 

“Is something burning?” You ask, sniffing the air, and Namjoon’s blood runs cold. 

“Oh, shit!” 

You smile and shake your head while Namjoon attempts to save the blackened piece of bread to no avail. He catches sight of the corners of your mouth lifting, even as you chastise him about watching the stove and ranting on about how you’re never going to trust him in the kitchen again. Namjoon watches your pink lips, stained with a brown mudge of cinnamon french toast mixture, which lifts up and your head falls back, hair flowing around your head like a halo. 

Your laugh plays out in front of him in slow motion, and absentmindedly, he thanks that deity he prayed to for slowing this moment down. Because if there’s anything he yearns most to remember, it’s the way you laugh. A chuckle makes its way out of his own throat as well, and he’s not sure who’s in control at the moment. 

Himself or himself in the past?

Either way, they both did the right thing. Namjoon forgets. He forgets the life he has back home, he forgets Seokjin’s warnings, he forgets that he has at least a hundred articles waiting for him at work to be written. He forgets that this world is nothing but a chance for him to follow the footsteps of what he once did, with no control to say or do anything he wishes to do himself. 

But, oh, he really can’t bring himself to care. 

Those piano chords from before blend together beautifully, and you scrape the black toast into the garbage can, still teasing him relentlessly, and oh. Oh, this is what it means to have a home. You made this junk of a house into a home, and he feels like he has to return here. This is where he’s meant to return to, everyday. Each time. 

You turn around after discarding the toast and with a bright smile, you ask him to kiss you again. Namjoon thinks that he doesn’t ever have the capability to deny you when you smile like that, so he complies and crashes his lips onto yours. 

The lead, heavy feeling in his throat is still weighing him down. Except Namjoon isn’t sure whether it’s weighing him down to this world or the real world.

 The cursed deity pulls him back, pulling him through the time and space back to his own responsibilities and life. His heart is wrenched out and he reaches out, trying to grasp your hand for the last time. He falls back to his own world in a hospital bed and an IV attached to his arm with half a piece of french toast dangling in his mouth and another promise he makes with himself to meet you again with a smile on his face. 

Memories… memories that he’s lived through but can’t remember. Memories he slips into to live momentarily through the actions and words of his old self. 

Somewhere along the line of diving back and forth his own life and this past one, he has forgotten which is which. 

“Most likely due to exhaustion. Lack of sleep, lack of rest. It’s quite common with working young adults, workaholics. I’m putting him on medical leave for the rest of the week. He needs a rest - He needed it yesterday. Don’t worry too much, Mrs. Kim. A long nap and a meal or two will fix him right back up.” Namjoon groggily registers the white walls and beeping noises, the chatter of doctors and nurses rushing around. 

He’s in a hospital, and a rush of fear runs straight through his blood. He sits up to eye his mother, sitting next to him and holding his hand. She shushes him, laying him back down on the bed, but all he can do is panic. 

“No, not here. Not here again.” He mumbles incoherently. His mother puts a hand over his eyes, shushing him again and telling him softly to go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to go to sleep, he wants to get out of here. But his eyelids are already feeling heavy and he weakly fights against his body, but before he can even process it, his eyes are shut and he is asleep. 

Seeing her son close his eyes and drift off to sleep, Mrs. Kim turns back to the doctor. 

“I’m not surprised,” She starts. “He’s always worked himself to the bone. But that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about his brain.” The doctor cocks his head and looks through the papers which are clipped to a clipboard in his arms. 

“Ah, yes. I see he was in a car accident a few years ago.” Doctors are some of the most heartless people, and you can always tell how experienced a doctor is by how much sympathy they show. This doctor shows none at all, which must mean he’s been working for a long time. 

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Kim.” The doctor continues, peering over Namjoon’s sleeping body. “I see he suffered light effects after the accident. Selective amnesia, no external damages to the skull. He didn’t suffer as much. In fact, I believe the doctor in charge believed that the amnesia was mostly due to the shock of the event. But he’s received treatment for PTSD since then, right?” 

Mrs. Kim nods. 

“Good. Doctor Park also noted at the time that his amnesia actually didn’t affect much of his memory. He couldn’t remember distant relatives or kindergarten friends, but that seemed to be the extent of his amnesia. Oh,” The doctor slipped through the clipboard. “He also couldn’t remember certain knowledge about philosophers such as Freud, which he was, quote, ‘devastated over’ un-quote.” 

Mrs. Kim stays silent. 

“So, you don’t have to worry too much. Best thing your son could do for his well being is rest. And a therapist if he has a relapse or shows some symptoms such as sleep difficulties or nightmares, or physical signs like fatigue and nausea.” 

Mrs. Kim nods. “Thank you, doctor.”

That’s it, and she turns back to her son, with her hand in his. She stays there, unmoving until he opens his eyes, mumbling incoherent questions and asking his mother why he is in the hospital again, demanding to be discharged immediately. Her heart breaks a little, small cracks form for her beloved son and she kisses him on the forehead, telling him he’d be out of here in no time. 

“What did you see?” She asks quietly, and Namjoon is surprised. She never asks him about his memory walks. It’s taboo to mention it in his household. Not even his sister is comfortable talking about it. “Anything? At all? You passed out at a rather unfortunate time, I heard.” She continues. 

“Nothing much.” Namjoon replies, lying through his teeth and trying to justify it with the sight of your laugh. He leans back and closes his eyes once more, bringing up his memories of you and your bedhead. He tries to fill the gap inside of him with thoughts of you, as if that can make up for the empty feeling that he’s forgetting something. 

In the hospital, staring at a white ceiling and glaring lights, Namjoon is left to think about what’s happening to his head. During the end of his rather short stay, he comes up with a terrifying conclusion. One that scares him more than he could imagine, but it’s the only one that makes sense. He’s falling in love with you. 

He voices out this concern to Seokjin when he visits after his mother leaves. Seokjin stays silent, mumbling out an apology that feels like the wrong thing to say. The elder boy can only look at his friend with sadness in his eyes, telling him that someone as great as Namjoon shouldn’t be suffering so much pain. Namjoon jokes that a witch must have cursed him when he was born. 

None of the two friends laugh. 

This routine continues on and on, without Namjoon dwelling too much on it. Which is so much unlike Namjoon, whose main personality trait is overthinking about the smallest things. He lets the flow of time and space take him wherever they wish to plop him down. He lets the evil deity toy with his heart and wrench him away whenever you smile the largest. 

It hurts right after he is torn away from you, but he’s filled with so much joy in the moment that he can’t bring himself to do anything else about it. Even if he wanted to do something without it, he has no idea where on earth he might start. 

Sometimes he questions the validity of his memories. What is real, what is fake? He still can’t answer, and this is what he spends most of his time wondering about. The memories he has with you don’t make sense. Those are large gaps in his life that he seems to have no recollection of. 

He goes everywhere with you. 

One day he showed up on November 5th, 2015. 

The next day he jumped to August 23rd, 2017. 

Another time, he was thrown into March 15th, 2016. 

None of it makes sense. Are they not memories? He thinks. There’s no possible way he’s spent this much of his life with you and can’t recall any of it. What is real - the world he spends with you, or the world where he always returns to by default?

And yet, nothing else can explain these short periods of blackouts. Ever since one day in some horrible hospital, he’s gone under and pulled and thrusted into some land where he has no control over his own hands. Everything else makes sense. This world, everything else is accurate from the settings to the props, with one anomaly in his memory. 

A character who goes by the name of Y/N. 

He could go the science-y logic route that he so often frequents, come up with theories that can somewhat explain these periods of time. Theories that include explanations such as hallucinations, or that Seokjin’s right and he’s finally gone crazy. You’re just a figment of his imagination, that this is all in his head and he’s out of his mind. 

But he rejects all those theories when he’s clicked into another memory. Somehow, he just understands. These are memories. These are memories he’s had with you, whether that was in a past life or in some sort of messed up alternate timeline where he’s actually happy. 

Is this a gift or another curse from this stupid deity?

He has too many questions. 

He cannot explain these memories using science, logic, common sense, or even using his own words. But in the moment, while you’re in his arms, he can feel it. He can explain it by describing the way you smell, like pancakes and fresh mint. He can explain it by describing the way you feel, like a warm marshmallow filling up his insides and consuming him. 

It’s cheesy, cringier than Seokjin’s dad jokes, but only he gets it. 

Namjoon is in his living room, switching channels on the TV and thinking about this when his stomach sinks again. He braces himself, and disappears. 

Click.

Seoul is freezing cold. The air is light and he is sitting on a bench on his college campus, rubbing his hands together and zipping up his huge jacket over his sweater. Namjoon shudders, his body not yet used to the bite of the cold compared to the warm breeze he was just enjoying. 

He sniffles, nose slightly red like some knockoff Rudolph and wanders around. His body pulls him to go to the right, despite the warm coffee shop being on the left. He shudders again and tries to protest, but his body won’t listen, standing up and walking over to the right with no particular destination in mind. Students are rushing around, complaining about the cold and talking about their next party or study session. 

Namjoon pulls himself forwards, and thank god this version of himself still has terrible tolerance for the cold, because he reaches up and pulls his beanie down over his ears, still wandering around aimlessly. Where are you going? Namjoon wants to scream out frustratingly. 

His brain doesn’t reply and Namjoon sulks. 

Eventually, he is pulled over to another bench, outside in the cold, and he sits down, deeply resenting himself and wondering why on earth he just stood up from one bench to walk to another one. If anything, it’s colder here. He watches the students that pass by for a minute or two, thinking that this is the most boring memory he’s ever been in. 

There is no snow falling, but almost everything on campus is lined with a sheet of ice or cold steam. Namjoon nuzzles deeper into his own clothes, cursing himself for not being able to go buy another sweater or something to fight the extreme cold. 

Suddenly, you appear in front of him and Namjoon perks up. There you are. He thinks. Finally. You come over and sit down, holding something in your hands. He smiles, waiting for you to speak up and greet him with a kiss that will surely warm him up, but you silently sit next to him, ignoring him. Namjoon urges himself to say something, but instead, he continues to watch the students bustling through campus grounds without looking at you. 

Are we fighting? Is Y/N mad at me? 

This is excruciatingly frustrating, Namjoon bites his tongue and thinks. Why can’t he just say something? Abruptly, something lands on his jacket with a splat and he straightens up, snapping his neck towards you, who is looking at the yogurt splat on his jacket with a look of terror. 

“Oh my gosh!” You squeak out, quickly setting your yogurt aside and reaching for some tissues in your purse. “Oh, god, oh god, I’m so sorry. Please, let me-” Namjoon frowns, taking his hands out of his pockets to thumb at his jacket, debating whether he wants to take it off or not. 

You lean over, pawing at his jacket and wiping the yogurt off of his jacket. “I’m so sorry!” 

“No, don’t worry.” Namjoon says, chuckling. He reaches for another tissue, helping you get the yogurt off of him. “It’s no big deal.” The yogurt is mostly wiped off and you side eye him with the unmistakable look of guilt filling your eyes. Namjoon laughs again. 

“It’s fine, really! No, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m literally so sorry. Do you want me to pay for dry cleaning? Laundry? I can, um, wash it for you! I’m not the best at laundry, but it’s the least I could do?” 

Namjoon briefly wonders why you’re being so polite. 

“No, it’s fine.” The words tumble out his mouth again before he can process it. “Really, this jacket is old, anyway.” Not really, Namjoon thinks. It feels really new. “But who the hell eats cold yogurt in this kind of weather?” He jokes. “You sure you’re not a demon?”

You freeze, terrified before realising he was cracking a joke. “Oh. Hah! Yeah, no, I guess I just really like yogurt.” You offer lamely, and you break out into a small giggle. “Yeah, I guess I kind of am a psycho for eating it right now. It’s freezing today.” 

“God, tell me about it.” Namjoon says, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. 

“Thanks for not going bonkers on me. This jacket looks insanely expensive.” 

“Not really.”

“I’m Y/N.” You greet, holding a hand out for him to shake. I know, Namjoon thinks with a secret smile, but everything makes sense now. You don’t know him yet. To you in this moment in time, he’s just a random stranger who didn’t blow up on you after spraying some yogurt onto you. To him, you’re… you’re… 

“Oh, um, I’m Namjoon.” He says, hurriedly taking a hand out of his pocket to shake your outstretched hand. Your fingers meet and Namjoon swears a small zap just went through his hand. 

“Namjoon. Nice to meet you, Namjoon.” You say with a small smile, yogurt already long forgotten on the bench beside you two. 

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He says in return, even though he doesn’t mean it. He already knows you, he knows you better than everyone. He knows your favourite food is Korean street food, and you always wake him up with kisses and your favourite colour is periwinkle and you absolutely hate abalone with more passion than he’s ever seen in his entire life.

But this is your first time seeing him, ever, he reminds himself. This is your meet cute. This single moment set off the events in the next god knows how many years. This is the first time he ever had your name grace his tongue. This is the first time you’ve seen him. 

Another moment to treasure. You let go of his hand, after realising you two have been shaking hands for much longer than the socially acceptable rate of hand shaking. Blushing, either from the cold or humiliation, you sit, turn back around, grabbing a hold of your yogurt once more. 

Suddenly, Namjoon finds himself blurting out: “Hey, you wanna go get some coffee?” You look over curiously, pointing to yourself like you can’t believe he’s asking you out, because you don’t know that you’re all he ever thinks about at any given moment in any given day. “You’ll probably freeze your ass off if you keep eating that yogurt.” He jokes, pretending like this is all because he’s caring about how cold you are and not how cute or incredible or kind you are. 

“Sure.” You say, nodding shyly. He stands up, leading you to walk over to the left where the campus coffee shop is. Along the way, you throw the yogurt cup in the trash. 

“You can’t bring food brought from outside into a shop, right?” You ask. 

Namjoon smiles. “Yeah.” He stays there until night takes over the sky and one single twinkling star in the sky is signalling that it’s time to go home. Possibly the longest time he’s ever spent in a memory. He keeps glancing at the clock, praying that he gets one more minute with you, one more second, one more moment. 

At any time, he could be pulled out of this world, and he needs to make the most of it. You tell him about your childhood bedroom and your major. You tell him about the love you have for pancakes, and how much you want a puppy even though it’s prohibited in the on campus dorms. He nods, pretending like this is all new information even though it’s not, and he’s known all of this for the longest time. He knows you better than you know yourself, which he keeps to himself. 

In return, he tells you about his own childhood bedroom, which was adorned with posters of western hip hop rappers. He tells you about his passions for writing and music, that if he didn’t major in journalism, he’d be studying music production in school. He tells you that he’s obsessed with philosophy, and in all honesty, is a bit of a nerd. 

Instead of laughing or pulling a face, you nod and smile, saying that you think he should tell you more about philosophy on a second date. 

You leave the coffee shop with a small goodbye, and even though he desperately wants to, Namjoon can’t kiss you. 

He gets pulled back after you disappear pass the corner of the street, and the world morphes into a huge motion blur. When he gets pulled back into his living room, the TV is playing late night TV shows already. Namjoon checks the time. He was pulled in for five hours, the longest he’s ever been in that world. 

After that, no matter how much more he prays and begs, he never stays any longer than that. 

Three days later, Namjoon suddenly pops into Hong Kong, which is hotter than anything he’s ever felt. The streets are heavy with people, squabbling in cantonese while selling raw meats in a wet market. The sun is glaringly bright, and Namjoon starts to sweat almost instantaneously. Taxis and huge buses drive past, Namjoon jumps to a side only to find a vast ocean. He’s at the harbour front. 

The smell of food, of egg tarts and pineapple buns and meat dumplings along with other Hong Kong delicacies waft through the air, combined with the salty air of the sea. It makes for a strange combination that confuses his senses but works nonetheless. 

He thought he knew a city like Seoul, but this is a true city. This is busy and fast paced like he’s never even seen before. People shove each other aside to catch the bus, dogs are yapping everywhere and he soaks it all in before the thought enters his head.

What the hell is he doing in Hong Kong?

It’s like every time he wonders aloud, you pop up. “I’ve been looking for you.” You say, echoing the words he said to you that day in the streets of Seoul. 

“I was exploring!“ He says defensively, and you roll your eyes. 

“Come on.” You say, walking along the harbour front. 

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Namjoon asks, the words spilling out and surprising himself. Are you mad at him? You’ve never been mad at him before, not in the memories he’s seen. He hasn’t ever seen you fight with him, and immediately, he wants to apologise, fix things before he’s pulled back out and he has to live with the guilt and overthinking of whether you’re still mad at him for the next week. 

“Can’t believe you’re mad at me during our vacation.” Namjoon says, and that’s why he’s in Hong Kong, he realises. He’s on vacation. How strange. Namjoon thinks back to when the last time he took a break from work and the only thing he can think of is when that doctor put him on medical leave not too long ago. Oh no, you’re mad at him on holiday?

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” You retort back, and Namjoon has never heard your voice this curt. “Just sit around pretending like everything's okay?”

“What do you want me to do?” Namjoon replies. “You act like this is my fault!” 

“It is your fault!” You cry out indignantly, and Namjoon knows that, but why? What did he do? What did you do? “Is this even a vacation?”

“Yes!” Namjoon cries out again in response, and you shake your head. 

“You promised, Namjoon.” You say like it’s a warning. 

“Yes, I know,” Namjoon says, even though he doesn’t and really, what on earth did he do? “But this is out of my hands! I can’t just say no, you’re not looking at this from my point of view.”

“You’re not looking at this from my point of view!” You argue back, and Namjoon looks around, realising that this squabble is attracting a small crowd of chinese people, gathering around to watch the free entertainment along the sidewalk of Victoria harbour. He awkwardly laughs, raising his hand and bows, a universal sign of apology, grabbing your hand and walking to the other direction. 

“Come on, I’d rather not have the whole city witness our fight.”

“Oh, so this is a fight now?” 

“What? Yes!” Namjoon says exasperatedly. “How else would you classify this argument?” 

Once he makes it to somewhere with at least a sliver of privacy, he turns around with his brows furrowed and a glare etched on his features. Why do you look so angry? Namjoon chastises himself. Just relax, relax, relax. As usual, his body doesn’t listen. 

“Why are you so mad at this?” Namjoon asks, and feels a flow of relief go down his spine. Finally. 

“It’s not just this instance, Joon. I know work is important, but sometimes it feels like you put literally anything else above me! Like last time? You bailed on our date, like, at least twice. You keep saying you can’t say no, but you can. You have that right, Namjoon.” 

Namjoon’s heart softens a little bit. His workaholic tendencies ended up biting him in the ass after all. Sighing he rubs the back of his neck, eyes glued to the floor. “I’m not prioritising work over you, baby.” He tries to explain, and tries to ignore how his heart sinks when your eyes turn stony at the sound of the pet name he often uses to address you. 

“It’s just important to me as well, okay? It’s not my fault my boss heard I was going to Hong Kong and insisted I come to interview some investors about Hong Kong’s economy.” He explains slowly. “It couldn’t take more than a single day to get everything organised and tidied up.” 

“But-!” You huff angrily, spitting out your words. “You don’t understand! You keep doing this, Namjoon. You keep working, working, working. It’s been this way since college. It’s like you’ll die if you just take a break to come talk to me. I even went over to your office to have lunch with you last week and they told me you were in a meeting.” 

“It was important!” Namjoon insists and he can feel things sinking and getting worse and worse with every word he says. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? You can’t expect me to put you in front of all of my responsibilities. I’m sure you have things you can’t give up for me too.”

Hearing that felt like a slap to the face to both you and Namjoon, and he’s screaming at himself internally, why would you say something so, so, stupid?

“Excuse me?” Your broken voice rings out and Namjoon’s accusatory finger falls. 

“Wait.” He mumbles, fumbling with his hands. “Wait, I didn’t mean that. Wait, I-” 

“Fine!” You yell angrily. “You think nothing’s more important than work? You think I haven’t given up anything for you, Kim Namjoon? Because I’d quit and give up anything for you, you asshole.” You bite out, tears desperately trying not to fall. “You fucking asshole.” You say, before turning back around to weave through the crowd. 

“No, wait, baby!” He calls out, and even he knows that he’s messed up. Messed up big time. That was more hurtful than any cuss word or insult he could’ve ever said. “Kim fucking Namjoon, you idiot.” He mumbles to himself. Seeing you cry is more painful than anything else in the world, Namjoon thinks. He’s not ever going to see that sight again if he can help it. 

He walks forward, trying to find you. Maybe you went back to the hotel, or went to look at the sea to clear your head. He thinks he sees the back of your head for a second, and he reaches forward, clutching at air. He’s about to cry, and Namjoon has never seen himself be more pathetic. 

“Oh no, where are you?” He murmurs to himself like a crazed man. What if you were hurt somewhere? He needs to know you’re safe, he needs to know you’re okay, he needs to make everything better. With each step, the lead feeling in his throat grows heavier and heavier until he feels like it’s sunk to his chest. He wants to kneel down, he wants it to stop hurting, but he can’t. 

He must aimlessly follow his shell to do whatever he is doing now. 

The lead feeling continues to grow, and Namjoon feels like he’s suffocating. He’s not supposed to be here, he reminds himself. But he has to find you first, then he can leave. Then he can go, but where are you? He wants to cry, he wants to breathe. 

Namjoon tells himself to gasp for air, but he cannot. He tells himself if this is the last time he ever sees you, he needs to see you smile. He needs to see you laugh. 

Like the pattern in the rest of his meaningless life, an evil deity always pulls him away from the ones he loves when he needs them most. He feels the lead feeling being lifted and pure panic races to Namjoon’s head. He tries to croak out no. He tries to resist, he shoves people aside and calls out your name. But no one answers him, and the cruel deity laughs at his demise. 

He is too weak, too weak to control himself. 

Namjoon is plucked out of the world and transported back to his bedroom with the threads of time slowly ravelling and tangling themselves around his neck, all while he reaches forward, only to grasp at air and pretend in his head that everything’s alright. 

When he reaches his bedroom and wakes up, he stumbles into the bathroom and vomits, all while longing for the warmth of your lips.

-

Walking around dazedly, Namjoon somehow manages to make his way to Seokjin and Jimin’s apartment, knocking and hoarsely asking them to open, open up please. Because he’s not sure he can hold on to another night alone. Jimin opens the door instantly and catches Namjoon in his arms, frantically calling for Seokjin to come fast. 

They lay him on the couch, hearts slowly breaking and trying to convince themselves their friend will be fine as they watch Namjoon whimper in his sleep. 

Namjoon wakes to the smell of breakfast, of bacon on the stove and Jimin chattering around while watering his plants. He gets up, headache pounding and throat sore. Seokjin wordlessly hands him a few pills and a glass of water, while Jimin plates up breakfast, placing the sausage, eggs and toast separately on the plate because Namjoon can’t stand it when food on his plate touches. 

Silently, the three friends eat. Nobody speaks until Namjoon clears his throat and looks up. 

“Thank you.“ He whispers. 

“What are friends for?” Jimin says. 

Namjoon wonders why he’s got such amazing friends. Jin replies that he was born perfect and God created him like this, so Namjoon shouldn’t dwell too much on it. Jimin and Namjoon both throw a spoon of scrambled eggs in his direction simultaneously, high fiving without missing a beat when Jin lets out a protest of unjust behaviour. 

 As the three friends sit quietly, Namjoon says: “I think I’m going mad.”

“I’m glad you’ve realised.” Seokjin replies offhandedly. 

“I don’t think I can keep going between these worlds. I think it’s making me lose my mind.” 

Jimin stills. Seokjin stops washing the dishes and turns off the faucet. 

“Do… do you know how to stop it?” Jimin asks hesitantly. Namjoon shakes his head, and Seokjin sighs, in deep thought, which is a strange and rare sight to see itself. 

“Well, I guess we’ll have to figure this out together.” Seokjin says casually. Jimin agrees and the faucet comes back on, Seokjin going straight back to washing the pan he used to fry up the scrambled eggs. Jimin unplugs the toaster and Namjoon sits, smiling at his beloved friends. 

“You can borrow some of my shirts.” Jimin calls from the bathroom. “You know, if you want to stay over a couple more nights. Feel free.”

“Make yourself at home and shit.” Seokjin mutters, waving his hand around sarcastically. Namjoon almost bursts out into tears of happiness, but he decides to hold it in until Seokjin doesn’t have access to his phone and won’t put Namjoon’s breakdown on instagram live. 

The next day, the entire gang comes over, all with varying degrees of understanding what the hell is going on with Namjoon. For example, Yoongi pretty much knows as much as Seokjin does, who still doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Taehyung was just told Namjoon’s been feeling down because God knows that boy has a big mouth and definitely can’t keep a secret to save his life. 

Seokjin supplies homemade snacks and burgers fresh off the grill, Yoongi brings over his unlimited Netflix and HBO account passwords he probably stole off of some innocent family member to watch Disney movies, Taehyung comes over with Yeontan clutched to his side because that’s the group's emotional support dog. Jungkook and Hoseok offer up their extensive alcohol collection and bring over some quality wines. Jimin, after a long three hours of consideration, gives up his lucky plushies and fluffy blankets to build a fort. 

For one night, the seven boys crowds around the television, watching everything from The Lorax to Tangled to Frozen and bawling their eyes out when Anna turned to ice (spoiler alert!!!) For one night, the fully grown men all turn back into their 8 year old selves, playing video games and staying up as late as they wanted even though they all had responsibilities to tend to the next day. 

When they all awake from their mega-sleepover the next morning, the remaining six friends all insist they just felt like watching Disney movies and drinking wine suddenly. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Namjoon’s been feeling a little off in the past few days. 

Absolutely not. 

Namjoon’s eyes brim with tears and he tackles all the boys to the ground in one incredibly coordinated group hug, ignoring Yoongi’s complaints of being anti-social and that his love language is not physical touch. 

“Thanks, guys.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jungkook mutters. “Now could you please get the fuck off?” 

“Never.” Namjoon says, muffled because he says it while his head is buried in Hoseok’s chest. 

“Love you.”

“... Love you too.” 

The next time he falls, Namjoon thinks he’s prepared. Ready, not to get attached, ready to make clear of what belongs in his world and what doesn’t, after lots of pep talks and therapy sessions with Seokjin and Jimin and Yoongi, who is surprisingly helpful with shooting down ideals of toxic masculinity and talking about mental health. 

He’s wrong- he’s not ready, but he doesn’t know that yet. 

Click. 

He’s come to resent that stupid sound. In an instant, he’s dropped into a car, which is strangely familiar. You are next to him, driving, and thank goodness, because everyone knows Namjoon cannot drive. If he were dropped in the driver’s seat, things may have taken a turn for the worse. 

“You want to play some music?” You ask, and Namjoon nods. 

“Yeah sure, turn up the radio.” You reach over to flip a switch and a pretty tune fills the car, echoing and bouncing off the walls of the small vessel. You bring your hand down and interlace it with Namjoon’s, who is suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings. 

“You’re driving, baby.” He says, and a great sense of relief floods back into his system when he sees you smile at the pet name. He hopes this moment is after the Hong Kong trip. He hopes he did the right thing and made up with you afterwards. 

“We always do this. When there’s not many cars around, anyway.” You hum along with the music. “Nobody’s on the road tonight.” Sure enough, there are no cars in sight and Namjoon sighs, curling his hand tight against yours. He looks out the window. 

“No stars tonight, either.” 

You snort. “There are never any stars around the city, babe.”

“Ahh.” He huffs playfully. “Fuck global warming.”

“Fuck capatalism.” You add on, and he nods, wholeheartedly agreeing. 

“I love you.” He murmurs. 

“I love you too.” You reply with a sweet smile and Namjoon just realises that no, he’s not ready to let go of you, because his heart still flips like crazy when he hears you say that. He’s so unbearably, horribly, absolutely in love with you. Not in a creepy or obsessive way like he was probably in love with you a few months ago, but so in love with you. 

He wonders why on earth he’s so drawn to you, but as usual, there’s no definite answers to his questions. Namjoon thinks about how he likes the way you cook pancakes, and how he likes the way you always reach down to pet a puppy no matter where you are or where you need to be. He loves the way you’d give up anything to defend the people you love. He admires your bravery and your courage. He admires the way you present yourself to the world. 

He loves you simply because you are who you are, unapologetically and unashamed, which is something he never had the guts to do. But he gets pretty damn near to being fully and truly himself when he’s around you, so maybe that’s why he’s so in love with you. 

Namjoon feels bad for a moment because he realises his love isn’t selfless or humble like the ones he sees on dramas and TV. His love for you is shamefully selfish, because he needs you more than anything else. He voices this out to you in a long speech while you keep your eyes on the road. 

“I need you more than you think I do, Joon.” You say, while laughing, and Namjoon doesn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved. 

“You think your love for me can trump my love for you?” He asks with his eyebrows raised.

“One hundred percent.” You drawl out, and this time, Namjoon’s offended. 

“Excuse me? Who the fuck?” He asks, sitting up. You laugh bashfully, enamoured but mostly just entertained by your needy boyfriend who is very willing to prove how much more he loves you right now. “I love you way more than you love me!” 

You laugh, your eyes still fixed on the road. “Oh no, please, we’re not arguing about this.”

“Yes we are!” Namjoon demands with a huge smile on his face. “How could you possibly think you love me more than I love you?” Your laugh only grows louder. 

“I don’t even know if you’re being serious or just joking around anymore.” You say through bit back laughter. 

“I’m being dead serious.” Namjoon softens for a bit, laying a hand on your thigh. “You’re my everything. You’re my future, you’re my present, you’re my past.” A part of you wants to tell him he’s being cheesy again, but the romantic in you who doesn’t want to hurt your boyfriend immediately shuts the realist in you up. 

“That was sweet.”

“I try my best.”

You turn your head back to the road and he keeps his eyes on you. On the hoodie you’re wearing, which definitely doesn’t belong to you and he now has a certain inkling of where his missing hoodie went. He likes how it swallows you up. He likes that you have something of his on you. 

Not as a weird mark of possession, but he likes that you’re comfortable with wearing something that essentially brands you as his. But you are his as much as he is yours and wow, Namjoon thinks in his head, is this the real Namjoon or the past Namjoon speaking? And his brain replies that it’s both. 

“I love you.” He repeats, because as much as he seems to say it, he can’t seem to express how much he loves you (hint: it’s a large amount). 

“I love you too.” You say right back. 

He wants to say it more. He wants to say it better. He wants to repeat it until you get annoyed and tell him to shut up, he wants to let you know how much he loves you. But his lips are sealed, and he can’t say another word. Instead of what he wants to say, the words that come out his mouth are, admittedly, just as true. 

“You’re pretty.” 

You giggle. “Did you just realise?” 

Namjoon shakes his head. “You’ve always been pretty. You were pretty on the day we met. You were pretty the day we fought in Hong Kong. You were pretty the first time you stayed over. You’re pretty when you cry, you’re pretty when you… I wanted to think of something that rhymes with cry, but it slipped my mind and now everything’s ruined.” 

You laugh, a real, huge one this time. He can always tell when your laugh is real or not. 

“Thank you.” You say. “For the record, you’ve always been pretty too.” 

Namjoon leans back into his seat. “Damn straight.” 

“When d’you think you first fell in love with me?” You ask, genuinely curious, and Namjoon thinks for a moment. He thinks about what the Namjoon in this moment would say, and he thinks about what the present Namjoon would say. 

If he had verbal control, what would he say? That he fell in love with you during the very first memory he was thrusted in? But that wouldn’t be true, and that wouldn’t be honest. He fell in love with you during the memory of when you met? But that wouldn’t be true either. He fell in love with you in between memories, when all he could think about was the next time you could be in his arms, or how much he longed for your touch. 

He tries to say that, he really does. 

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is: 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s a specific moment. Maybe it was that time we went to the movies and watched Coco while crying over popcorn, or maybe it was that time we went to Disneyland.” Namjoon’s heart slouches, because he doesn’t know any of those moments. He hasn’t been in any of those memories. 

“But I don’t think falling in love is a one moment, time stops kinda thing. I was always falling in love with you. From the time you spilled yogurt on my jacket to right now, where you’re asking me when I fell in love with you. I’m going to be falling in love with you tomorrow and the day after that, until the day where we shrivel up and die from old age.”

Oh, good answer, Namjoon thinks. 

“Good answer.” You say. “I think I’d say the same thing.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Namjoon sighs out. 

Something strikes Namjoon’s heart. It’s not the lead feeling or the heavy weight he’s grown used to. It’s strange, like a wave of deja vu. And suddenly, Namjoon stops thinking. He glances over to the control board to look at the time, which proudly reads: December 3rd, 2018. 

So that’s why he’s always had the feeling that these were memories. Why he was so adamant to believe these things really had happened to him. Even more strangely, what feelings strike him then is not panic, nor fear. It’s a strange flow of calmness that rushes through his veins. He looks over at you again, driving now with both hands on the steering wheel. 

He wonders why the deity would make him witness something as cruel and horrible as this, and he gets the weird feeling that this will be one of his last memories to enter. Namjoon looks at the dark blanket covering the sky and sadly thinks that the deity could have at least placed a few stars in the sky on this night. As consolation, or perhaps an apology. 

Something is ticking in the background, and Namjoon has no idea if it’s coming from the car or if he’s imagining it. Flashing memories go through his mind, so fast he can barely register them as images or moving pictures before they are gone again. Your smile, your laugh, your first date, your second date. The day he asked you to move in, the day you told him ‘I love you’ for the first time and he literally fainted. 

The day he came to pick you up from work for the first time, the night where he first laid his hands on you and kissed all your worries away. 

It comes fast and hurtles towards the two of you, but Namjoon doesn’t even see it coming because all he is looking at is you. Your face, your lips, your eyes, trying to engrave it all in his memory. You yelp out something to him, which he doesn’t hear. Floating images spin around both your heads and a high pitched screech rings out, a spark of orange lighting up like a stack of fireworks. The dark van shoots forward and collides into the driver’s seat. 

The world collapses. It goes sideways, rotates then flips completely upside down, and the dark fog starts to eat up Namjoon’s eyesight. Oddly, nothing hurts. Perhaps because of the shock, or panic, but nothing on Namjoon’s body is in pain. Everything crashes, Namjoon’s head hits the window with force. Something breaks, glass cracks, people scream and he cannot tell which is which. Red and white flashes are all he can see before everything fades to grey and he can only reach around in the darkness, to find your hand. 

He clutches onto your unmoving, still hand desperately, trying to calm his jumping heartbeat. Are those sirens in the background he hears or is that his imagination? Is that your voice he hears or is that a hallucination? 

In the end, his final thought before leaving the world once again is a wish. A wish that he prays the deity will grant him. He hopes that in your final moments, you were not scared. 

He falls. 

When Namjoon arrives home, his entire body is numb. He doesn’t know where he is, nor what he was doing before he was clicked in. He opens his mouth and screams for a full minute without stopping. 

It feels good in a fucked up way. 

Namjoon has never been one for confrontation. Just ask his middle school bullies, who tormented him all they wanted because he wouldn’t do anything but put up with it. Just ask Mingyu from work, who keeps piling his unwanted projects and articles onto Namjoon because he never protests or complains to the higher-ups. 

But while walking towards his childhood home with the birds chirping and his hands placed casually in his pockets, confrontation is all he can think about. He lets himself in the door; his mother never locks it and walks in calmly. 

His mother is sitting on the couch, stitching up a sock which has a hole in it. 

“Mom. I’m home.” He says softly, and his mother greets him normally. Namjoon leans on the wall and his mother stares at him strangely, calling him over to sit and have some fruit. He declines, telling her he won’t be staying very long. “That car crash that happened two years ago.”

The needle in his mother’s hand stills. 

“They said I had selective amnesia, right?” 

The needle picks up speed, stitching faster and faster, his mother’s hand moving faster than light. 

“What did I forget again?” 

“What did you remember?” His mother asks, never one to beat around the bush. 

“Mom.” He says, firmly this time. “What did you do to me.”

The sock is torn apart in his mother’s hands. “Namjoon,” She starts and Namjoon already has a growing urge to shake the truth out of her. “When you got into that crash two years ago, you came out of it with very little injuries. We were all so relieved. When you woke up, you didn’t remember Y/N.” All that fills the air for another moment or two is the spongy sound of silence. 

The gap in this family became clearer than ever to Namjoon. He thinks about how everyone must have been in on the secret, even his sister. And he was left to suffer, wondering why his life seemed so empty after forgetting something he couldn’t clutch onto. 

“And what?” He demands, screaming and throwing his hands out of his pockets. “Do you think you can just keep something like that from me? The love of my life, and you just decide to erase them from my memory?” His mother stills and looks up at her son. 

“You didn’t remember Y/N. You lost contact with all your college friends, and then when I asked the doctor how selective amnesia worked,” His mother cleared her throat. “Sufferers often forget some parts of their memory. Relationships, talents, skills, certain areas or certain people.” His mother looks up directly in his eyes. “Sometimes, especially after going through a traumatic event, people forget certain parts of their memory as a coping mechanism. To erase bits of pain and regret.”

“I thought,” Her voice breaks and her face twists in regret and bad memories. “I thought maybe by forgetting her, I’d be saving you from more pain and hurt. I just wanted you to stop hurting”

Namjoon held eye contact with his mother for three full seconds before collapsing and gasping for air, lying with his head on her lap. All words of scolding, anger. All the confrontational tactics and all the accusations he’d thought of shooting towards her had gone. 

“Hurts.” He let out through large gasps of breaths. “Hurts, mom.” He lied there, with tears threatening to spill out his eyes for the rest of the night, with his mother caressing his hair and apologising to him with tears in her eyes. 

“Miss Y/N. I miss Y/N.” He hiccups out, and his mother wipes away his tears, but it feels different from when you used to do it. 

“I know, I know.” The woman looking down at her son wonders why she put him in so much pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” The night carries on like that, with the lights eventually dimming and the night covers up the light in the sky. The mother son pair repeat their grievances and apologies to each other until the sun comes back up, peeking through the curtains and extending out their warm embrace as if it wants to comfort the hurting humans. 

It doesn’t take long for Seokjin and co to come knocking on his door, sent by his mother who must have filled him in on everything, judging from the looks on their faces. It only takes one single glance at his friends, tilting their heads and all asking to come in for him to burst into tears. Ugly crying, with snot coming out of his nose and eyes bloodshot red from the nightmares. 

Jimin is the first to reach forwards and bring Namjoon into a hug. Soon after that, the six friends surrounded Namjoon, comforting him with the warmth of their arms and soft spoken words of encouragement. 

“You did well.” Someone mumbles into his hair. 

“We’re all proud of you.” Someone else says. 

Namjoon’s sweater sleeves are sopping wet with tears when he asks the boys to help him get into therapy. 

Things went on like that for another while. 

Therapy isn’t as bad as Namjoon had thought it might’ve been. He wasn’t forced to be vulnerable or open up or confront his worst fears. He certainly didn’t want to tell the truth about the world he’s thrusted in, for fear of getting thrown out of the building and into a mental institution. 

Even his mother didn’t believe him the first time he told her about it. She urged him to visit a doctor. How could a therapist who doesn’t even know him believe the nonsense he spouts? Even he himself wouldn’t believe himself if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand. Slowly, but surely, he began to open up, and to his surprise, there was no calling of hospitals or kicking him out. His therapist sat there and listened like everything he was saying was valid. 

He started eating again, mostly because of Seokjin, stuffing his creations down everyone’s throats every two seconds, claiming he needs opinions on his new recipes even though Namjoon’s fairly certain that the past three dishes of spaghetti were the exact same recipe. 

Namjoon started to workout again with Jungkook, much to the younger boy’s surprise and happiness. They talked about their own struggles while panting on the treadmill and spinner. Jungkook eventually tells him that he also has a secret he keeps from the rest of the guys, which is his high school sweetheart who broke his heart so horribly that he still feels hurt from it. 

Jungkook told him to cheer up though, because most of the pain fades away with time. It’s still there, ever as present, but other things will become more important to you and cover up a scar or a wound with blooming flowers. 

“Like us,” He said cheekily. “Your friends.” 

He talked to Yoongi most days of the week about nothing in particular. He enjoys the time with Yoongi because he’s the only one who never walks on eggshells around him. He still pelts him with pillows and roasts the outfits on Rupaul’s Drag Race with him. Taehyung and Jimin even helped him adopt a dog, an furry white Eskimo named Rap Mon which is literally now Namjoon’s entire life. 

Would likely kill all of his friends if one of them hurt his precious baby. 

Life is good, Namjoon learns. He gets better at his job. He never forgets you, but things seem to hurt less. But he gets relapses sometimes. Some days he wakes up screaming about the stupid lead filling up his throat. Sometimes he gets nightmares so intense he has to take medicine.

Therapy isn’t as bad as he painted it out to be, but recovery is ten times harder than he thought it would be. Some days all he can do is lie in bed or do nothing, thinking of you. 

His therapist tells him that his life is more than his past memories. Both Yoongi and Hoseok agree, when he pulled up a random conversation about it late at night. Hoseok says that there’s never going to be a time where he won’t think of you, or still love you. Perhaps not as much as he once did, but he’ll never forget about you. Yoongi tells him he’s healing, and that they’re all proud of him.

Namjoon meets his friends, for the first time in the two years he’s known them. Taehyung has an extraordinary and (slightly strange) obsession over art museums. He’s been to almost every single one in Korea, and he dragged Namjoon over to one an hour away in Gangnam in the summer. Jimin is an amazing dancer, which Namjoon never knew.

Until Jimin brought it up casually, looking through old footage of his dance competitions. “Nothing big,” He said. “I used to dabble.” Namjoon’s eyes bulged out of his head and he told Jimin if that was ‘dabbling’, then he was wasting away his talent. He asked Jimin why he never made a career out of dance, and Jimin replied casually:

“I feel like if I start to make money off of it, and I’ll lose my love for it. Now that I haven’t really has time for it... I dunno. I feel like I’ve lost the talent a little bit.“

Namjoon told his friend that talent is nothing but a bunch of practice and time dedicated to a certain skill. Nobody loses talent, people just get a little unfamiliar with it. Jimin turned around in deep thought and told him he may just have a point. 

Still, some days, he can do nothing but sulk around, feeling like a waste of space. Take today for an example. He walks down the street and out of the corner of his eye, he thinks, and he might be wrong, he thinks he sees you. The back of your head, anyways, but you’re wearing a red sweater with headphones over your ears and you turn around the corner. 

Namjoon panics. He drops his coffee, which splashes all over his leather shoes and runs. He runs past the corner and he doesn’t know what on earth he’s doing but all he can do is run, and the wind dries his tears faster and faster, and he forgets all over again, that you aren’t here, that there’s no way he can go back and see you unless it’s in his memories, which he doesn’t even know how to control. 

Somewhere deep in the depths of his mind, he knows something about this doesn’t seem right. That it couldn’t possibly be you, because he watched you go right in front of his eyes. He knows that in order to heal, he can’t chase after you or center his world around you. He knows all of that. But in that moment, he forgets that he still doesn’t remember everything about you. 

He forgets that you’re dead. 

And one day he’ll be free from this constant spinning. One day he won’t ever have to think twice when he cooks pancakes but that day and all that work he’s put in is the last thing on Namjoon’s mind and all he can think about is if that’s really you. 

He sprints faster and reaches out, misses your wrist by an inch and ends up clutching at nothing but air. He heaves a huge breath, about to clap his hand over your shoulder-

Click. 

tags; @jksbbyfacebunny @extremeobsessions101 @dwcljh @bishuthot @s0seo @stonyiscanon @cecedrake2217​ 

[annabethy]

under the mistletoe, watching the fire glow day 18: presents

Character A and Character B save Christmas,, percabeth

Percy has never felt as much horror as he does right now. He’s staring at the back of his closet, in complete terror, his heart dropping to the floor. He can’t breathe or hear or see because there’s supposed to be ten presents and he counts nine.

There was a doll missing. An expensive, eating, talking doll that was all his daughter wanted in life. He swears that he had gotten his daughter the present she wanted most, except apparently, he didn’t because it’s not there.

He tries to think about what to do, but the reality of the situation is he really can’t do anything. He’s pretty sure every four-year-old girl on this planet wanted the doll he thought he had sitting in the closet for Christmas. There’s approximately zero chance he’s going to be able to get his hands on it only five days before Christmas, so. He’s screwed.

Percy thinks he has to at least try anyways. He’d nearly ruined Christmas last year because he hadn’t known how to wrap presents, and his neighbor had to help him at three in the morning, which was embarrassing to say the least. He’s determined to not fail that badly this year, and that’s exactly why he’s standing back outside that same neighbor’s door after dropping his daughter off at school.

“I need help,” is the first thing he says when the door swings open.

“Good morning to you too,” Annabeth says.

“I messed up,” he breathes, but he steps forwards to plant a quick kiss on her lips. “I need your help. Desperately.”

“What did you do?”

“You know that doll that my kid’s been talking about for months?”

“The one I have sitting in the back of my car for mine, I’m sure.”

He pauses. “You have one?!”

“You don’t?”

He whines, “I thought I did but turns out I completely forgot to get it.”

She laughs in his face.

“This isn’t funny. This is a Christmas crisis.”

“Yeah. You fucked up.”

“You’re my girlfriend. Aren’t you supposed to help me?”

“Five days before Christmas?” She snorts. “Good luck.”

Percy runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated. “Our girls are at school, so I need you to go shopping with me.”

“What good am I going to be for a doll that you’re going to have to murder someone to get your hands on it?” “Well, you tend to murder people with your eyes. It used to be scary, but now it’s useful.”

“Your master plan is to unleash me in a store so I can commit homicide over a toy?”

“I don’t care what you do as long as we get that doll, so come on.” He waves his keys in her face. “Get in the car.”

She gives him a humored look and opens her door wider. “Come in. I’m going to need a minute.”

Annabeth actually ends up needing twenty minutes, something he helpfully reminds her of as she’s getting dressed. His rush definitely doesn’t stop him from enjoying the view, but the shirt that she throws at his face does.

By the time they’re finally out of the house, they are on a mission. Annabeth’s sitting in the passenger seat of the car, and as Percy rightfully predicted, she is out for blood. Her phone is in her hand as she switches from app to app in search of anyone who has the toy.

Percy’s hand grips the steering wheel tightly. Driving in New York in December is not something he’s ever enjoyed doing with the way people drive like animals, but Christmas is in the line, and he too has turned into an animal.

“Any luck?” he asks hopefully, drifting down the highway.

“A store an hour away says they have it in stock,” she says. “Only one left, so drive fast.”

“Make that twenty minutes,” he says, and then he’s stepping on the gas. It’s a lot of switching in and out of lanes because people don’t understand that he has places to be. Every two seconds, Annabeth screaming out a status update, which has startled him enough to almost crash at least twice.

“It’s still in stock!”

“Yes, thank you babe, because I was sure that it had been sold within the last thirty seconds.”

Annabeth mutters something under his breath, but there’s a faint smile on his face. Despite being as stressed as he is that he’s failed as a father for the second year in a row, he surely loves spending time with her like this. She’s such a cutthroat person, and it warms his heart.

“Oh, someone bought it.”

Percy groans. “Of course they did.”

“Keep driving this way. There’s a store thirty minutes ahead that might have it.” Another beat passes. “Never mind.”

“She’s going to hate me,” he says.

“Probably. Even I know it’s the one thing she wanted more than anything.”

“Way to rub it in.”

“I do it because I love you.”

He feels pretty upset, but the words raise his mood instantly. If his daughter disowns him, at least he has the love of his life to help him through it. “I love you too, even though you like to tease me.” “Just keeping you on your toes.” She shifts in the seat and points further down the road. “Take this exit. We’re going to do this old fashioned.”

He listens. “Old fashioned?”

She grins. “We’re going to a toy store.”

The second they walk in, Percy feels like sneezing. It’s a bit dustier than he would like, and the lightest isn’t the best, but there aren’t many people there, so he thinks he at least has a chance of finding the toy. Annabeth slides her hand into his as they stroll around, and he pulls her closer into his side. He tries to keep his eyes looking for the toy, but he quickly learns that it wasn’t going to help. The toys here didn’t seem to be the most up-to-date, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s come to terms that that toy is just not happening. He’ll probably end up compensating for it with an overload of different toys, so he uses this time instead to enjoy time alone with Annabeth. They’re usually with their kids whenever they’re together, and their girls have quickly become best friends (much to his delight — he thinks he might want to marry Annabeth), so it’s nice to be alone outside of the house.

Not that he minds being inside the house alone either, if you know what he means. He thinks there should be a healthy balance.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly, bumping his shoulder. He shrugs. “Just disappointed. She was so excited for it.”

“Let’s go try another place then,” she says, turning in his arms. He instinctively wraps his arms around her waist, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

“Let’s just go home and snuggle instead,” he says. “I don’t think we’re going to be finding that toy anytime soon.”

“I don’t mind snuggles,” she tells him, smiling. “But let’s try one more place, yeah? Or we can get something to eat?”

It’s not until she mentions food that he realizes how hungry he really is. He doesn’t remember eating at all that day, too in a rush in the morning, and the afternoon being no different. He kisses her softly again. “Let’s go on a Christmas lunch date.”

That Christmas lunch date ends up being in the front seats of his car, but he’s not picky. They’re in the parking lot of wawa, Annabeth with mac n cheese in her hands, and Percy with a cheeseburger. As she eats, Percy keeps his eyes on her. Everything she does is so cute, including eating, and he doesn’t know if it’s normal to feel this way about someone. Her cheeks are still hinted pink from when they’d been outside ten minutes prior, and she’s still wearing a knitted hat. She looks so warm that he desperately wants to pull her onto his lap and just hold her.

“What are you looking at?” she asks, spoon hovering in front of her mouth.

Percy smiles at her fondly. “You.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you,” he says. “And you’re so pretty all the time.”

“All the time?”

“All the time,” he confirms, setting his food aside so he can lean towards her, nuzzling his face in her neck. He kisses the soft skin twice. “When you wake up, and when you fall asleep, you’re always so perfect.”

“You watch me sleep?” she teases.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “You don’t stay over every night. Otherwise, I would cuddle you to sleep every day.”

“Sounds dreamy.”

“It would be.” He pulls his head off of her so he can look her in the eyes. Overwhelming love stares back at him, and for a moment, he cannot think of anything except her. She’s so beautiful and perfect, and it’s taken him this long to find her. She’s there for him, and she loves his daughter, and he loves hers. She drops everything to go on a run to save Christmas with him, and he’s in love with her.

He wants to fall asleep to her and wake up to her. Not just sometimes, but every night and every morning. He wants to wake up on Christmas morning to their kids bouncing on their bed to wake their parents up, to share a look with her that screams ‘tired but in love’ with each other and the life they’ve created.

“Move in with me,” he blurts out.

Annabeth laughs. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Let’s move in together. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of our lives together, and… I want to marry you someday.”

She blinks, and he feels panic take over for a second before she smiles again, teeth sparkling and white. “Percy… are you being serious?” He laughs. “I am.”

“You want to move in with me?”

“I do.”

Annabeth stares at him for a second, unmoving, before she’s rushing forwards, pressing her lips to his. He responds enthusiastically, his heart fluttering, having him feel lightheaded in the best way possible. “Let’s move in together,” she mutters against him, and Percy can’t stop smiling. Teeth clash, but he can’t find it in him to quell the grin.

He’s pretty sure people are walking by outside the car wondering why they’re practically making out in the car, but they stay like that anyways until they can no longer breathe.

“I love you,” he says. “Thank you for trying to help me save Christmas.”

“Help you save Christmas?”

“Mission objective failed. There’s going to be no doll under that tree.”

“Okay, so…” Annabeth’s tongue presses out slightly between her lips as she bites down to smother a smile. “What if I told you that I actually have two of them?”

“I’m sorry. You what?”

“I had a feeling you might forget, so I just got two of them.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know I’m a god.”

“I can’t believe you let me drive around the city for hours for no reason!”

“It wasn’t for no reason! I wanted to spend time with you!”

“We could have spent time together doing something more romantic than panicked Christmas shopping!”

“I didn’t want to do something else,” she says. “This was perfect. More realistic.”

“You’re a little tease, you know that?”

She pokes his cheek, and he nips lightly at her finger. “Yeah, but you still want to move in with me anyways.”

“Now that you’re going to give me the present that saves Christmas? How could I not?”

She leans across the center console so she can kiss him properly. “You could always just marry me instead.”

“The thing is I’m actually considering it,” he says playfully, though he’s telling the truth. “I could get down on one knee right now.”

She grins and kisses him again. “Next Christmas,” she says, sounding a lot like a promise. He doesn’t mind waiting until next Christmas. He has everything he needs right here in front of him. “Next Christmas, I’m going to make you my wife.”

Annabeth’s fingers run through his hair and pull him in closer. “I’ll be waiting,” she says, and Percy just knows they’re going to live an amazing life together.

The person he fell in love with is the person that helped him save Christmas, and he doesn’t mind one bit.

[bethanysnow]

Red Empress.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nKqslNcYAE&t=1762s

(Inspired by above playlist)

“-And who are you?” 

    “OH HI YOU ARE REAL!?” The ‘hero’ yelled in shock. 

“Yes, I’m real. And what do you want? You interrupted me watching British Bake off…” 

    “..wait, you’re not gonna...shoot me? With like, a freeze ray, or cut my head off. Send dogs after me, none of that?” 

“...Do you want me to hero?” 

    “NO! I uh I mean no. Ma’am-” 

“Then what the fuck do you want…I am busy.” 

The hero looked up to a woman similar to what he had expected. She had black hair, wore gold jewelry, and glasses sat on her nose. But the person in front of him? The Terror of the 9 Hells, Dante’s Apprentice, The Red Empress? Wasn’t there. She had a grey cardigan on, yoga pants. She looked down at the little hero with disdain and an air of condescension. Like he was trying to sell her girl scout cookies and doing a bad job at it. The hero looked at his research. Scribbled into a composition notebook was the address of what he thought was the evil lair to the greatest supervillain of their era.

    “I am a future hero, or I want to be-” She raised a hand, cutting him off. 

“-So you came down to my apartment, which by the way is super creepy. How you got my address I do not know. Then decide to knock on my door. Knowing who I am, you still did so. Did you think this was a good idea?” Slightly amused look fixed onto her face. 

    “No, I don’t think it was a good idea. But I need to know.” He said with all the sincerity in his heart. “My grandma, she loves you. Has some of your newspaper clippings on her wall. She won’t shut up about you. Saying ‘there weren’t any more good heroes today’. Google just showed me all your recent stuff about how bad you are. You disappeared for like...10 years. Then came back a villain.”   

She looked him over. Grabbed his notes out of his hand despite his protests. Flipping through pages she takes a red pen from behind her ear and starts writing in his book. Once she hands it back, it's annotated. Edited. Like how a teacher reviews a paper from a student. Leaning on the doorway she looks into the hall. 

“Kay-” Standing back up on her feet she opens the door all the way pushing him in. “-You get until my episode of Bake off is done. C’mon kid.” Grabbing a fistful of his hoodie she leads him to her living room. 

The apartment looked over all of Manhattan. Marble floors, red plush furniture. Bookshelves dotted with ‘souvenirs’. Some he recognized as heroes' weapons and memorabilia. A stone head looked in fear out into the room. The head was of the previous ‘supervillain’ from the 50s. A silver glove with runes carved into the surface glowed as the hero passed. A gun from the ‘Manhattan Mad Hatter’. A drugged out ultra-rich chemist who made it his mission to destroy and flatten everything from here to Tokyo in the 00’s. 

“You want to talk, kid, or do you wanna look at the knick knacks?” 

    “Right!” He blurted, going to the couch next to her. A small brown dachshund curled into a ball on her lap. “Where did you go for ten years?” 

“Rehab, Therapy for a bit. Um, Austria. Russia for a while. Went to Tasmania. Seattle. Mainly Rehab though-” 

    “-For ten years?” 

She smirked. “You try being a hero for 30 some odd years and not have a drug problem. The 60s and 70s everyone was...disposed. In something. Or someone. There was always a cult to join, doctrine to follow, party to go to. Lots of those Heroes from the glory days died from cocaine, or other drugs. The cops shot the bodies so they could report that they died in the line of fire.” A dark and far away quality clouded her eyes. “-10 years for rehab after seeing your friends, coworkers, freaks of nature you got to call family die? Sounds reasonable to me. I spent the 80s in a fog. God knows what I really did.” 

    “Oh....” 

She scoffed. “Yea- oh! They don’t tell ya that in history class do they?” 

    “No, Ma’am…” 

“Thought as much.” 

    “You were a hero though! Post WWII there were comics, radio stations, songs, all praising you. Some I saw where you punched a Nazi and went for ice cream after. Don’t take this the wrong way please. I would like to get home today, but you look like you’re in your 30s. You should be 90 somethin” 

“That I did do- but ya. And who said I wasn’t 90 somethin? You ever hear that fuckin super solider bullshit? They made Rogers and Bucky do? Where did you think the research was tested? They had to go from somewhere and I dunno...I had the day off.” She shrugged. Her face flickered with rage when mentioning the previous heroes. “And look where it got them, Steve is dead, and Bucky is off with some fuckin retirement bullshit. At least I didn’t retire! I got a job to do, I got taxes to pay.” 

    “...you pay taxes????” The boy looked at her very confused. 

“I am a villain, not an asshole.” 

She started to pet her dog, them nuzzling into her hand. 

    “So you became a villain- came back in 2000. Crashed the Met Gala. Stole the artifacts on display. Crashed a car. Set fire to buildings- why?” 

“Ah- the age old question.-” She looked at him. Took a minute of silence with her. The air slowly left the room he felt. Under the steely gaze of the most deadly woman in the world. 

“I got tired. Of being owned, propped up, posed, told what to say. The Hero's Union, a committee of people ‘sworn to protect the sanctity of Heroes’ and what they represent and fight for’ never was actually there for us. Type casted us into America's sweetheart, Funny side character. Big strong hero to save the day. Every interview I ever did as a ‘hero’ was never my actual words. I would have been a fuckin amazing actress I’ll give ya that. Smile and tell the people watching not to panic. Not to worry. Us ‘Hero’s got it handled. We were let to suffer unbeknownst to the general public. ‘Lady Justice’? She was 5 months pregnant and the Union wouldn’t let her stop the missions. She ended up having a miscarriage due to stress and what they were putting her body through. It's not just her, it's everyone.” 

    “So why not just quit? If it was that bad, go on strike or something.” 

“That's easy for you civilians to say. You can strike when you work a normal 9 to 5. You can quit your job. You can move on. But as I said, little hero. I was out there for 30 somethin years. Punching Nazis, saving people. Being a Hero. When you are made basically immortal and are a freak of nature- there are things you learn you cannot do anymore. I can’t drive a car. I can’t work out without all the machines sparking out on me and breaking. No one wants to hire a freak now do they? There is no ‘pensioners plan’ for elderly heroes.” 

    “I guess not…You don’t seem all that Villainous to me though.” He says with a giant smile on his face. Ever the optimist. 

She rolled her eyes, focusing on her show. 

He looked closer at her face. Grey eyes with blue flecks. Slightly salt and peppering at the sides. She looked strong, obvious defined biceps and calves. Her neck and arms were covered in scars. A long scar ran from her forehead down her face leading in a curve to her jaw on one side. The red pen stuck behind her ear. Big 70s aviator glasses. Before he knew what was happening his hands were bound behind his back and his face was being pressed into the cold floor. She had not changed her position. 

“You keep staring at me kid things will go badly for you.” She spoke not looking away from the TV in front of her. “-I don’t look evil, sure. But I will ask you.” 

“What does ‘Evil’ look like? I was once a hero too.”

[authortango]

“Write a story that ends with a character asking a question.” - Prompt #42

Summary: A young boy named Atlas struggles with the meaning of life due to some strange dreams he’s been having.

Song Inspiration: The Sun by Jukebox the Ghost

Genre: Speculative fiction

Word Count: 1,751 words

One bright, ninety-degree summer morning, two brothers played basketball in an apartment division basketball court. Their names were Atlas and Apollo. Their similarities only stretched to appearances; their brown curls tangled together with the antics of boyhood, their dark skin becoming darker with the heat of the sun. On a day such as this, Apollo felt light as a feather, while Atlas felt that he had the world on his shoulders.

“Apollo,” he said, holding their ball captive for a minute as he tried to get his thoughts off his chest. 

“What do you think we’re here for?”

“We’re here to play basketball dummy! Duh!” Apollo rolled his eyes, a grin of amusement spreading across his freckled face. Atlas just shook his head and tossed the ball to Apollo.

“No, no. I mean, like, what do you think we were created for? Like why are we living here on earth? What’s our purpose?” 

Apollo took the basketball and dunked it into the hoop, giving himself a moment to think.

“Those are heavy questions man. I’m not sure I have an answer. I don’t really think about time on earth and stuff. I’m just trying to live.”

“Just trying to live…” Atlas repeated, becoming lost in thought as though he were making a note of Apollo’s answer. Apollo, uncomfortable with thinking so existentially, tried to change the course of the topic.

“Why are you thinking about all this anyway?” Atlas looked into his brother’s eyes, gauging how much he should tell. He loved Apollo, but you never know when a sibling is going to tease you for something you take seriously. At this moment, however, he decided to trust his brother. His thoughts were still too heavy anyway.

“I keep having this dream. I see waves, like, skyscrapers knee-deep in waves. And then like, I’m standing on one of the skyscrapers, and this window, or maybe a door, of light appears before me. I hear a voice, but I don’t understand it. The door starts to open… and then the dream ends.” Apollo whistled to release the breath he had been holding in.

“That is… quite the dream brother. And you think maybe this has to do with… the meaning of life?”

“The dream has happened for the past two weeks now. If it’s not about life, what is it about? Either way, I feel like something big is coming. And I feel like I need to figure some things out before it does.” Apollo gave the ball back to Atlas and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“I think it’s gonna be okay man, whatever it is. You’ll figure it out.” Atlas started to dribble the ball again, feeling a little better already. He started to smile and do tricks with the basketball, his previous worries falling away. 

“Thanks for listening man. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah yeah. Who knows? Maybe your dream won’t happen again now that you’ve talked about it. That’s a thing, right?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Apollo replied, putting the dream in the backburner of his mind. He wanted to try and enjoy the day before he continued to worry about the night.

[Line Breaker]

Atlas, unfortunately, did have the dream again, despite Apollo’s prediction. He tossed and turned in his sleep as Apollo slept peacefully in the bed next to him. Atlas’ vision filled with waves, his sight in the dream feeling like a camera panning into landscape view. He saw the water come up halfway to some of the skyscrapers in view, just like he had described to Apollo. His vision zoomed in onto one skyscraper, following the windows up to the top until he realized he was once again standing on it. 

For the first time in his dream, Atlas realized that he felt more freedom of movement now than he had in previous dreams. On instinct, he looked down into the city below, into the waves, and saw that smaller buildings had been swallowed by the new sea before him. There were no cars, or other people though, like one might expect. Instead, the only life Atlas could see were these strange fish. They were bright, vibrant colors, and had weird appendages like antennae along with long, elegant fins, like that of a coy fish. It seemed like they came from a different world entirely.

Atlas then heard a noise, like the dinging of an elevator door as it arrives on a floor, and turned his attention upwards. There was an outline of light not two feet from Atlas’ face, and he stepped back from the side of the skyscraper to give the door some room. His breath caught in his chest, preparing to wake up as soon as the door opened, and for once hoping that he could just sleep a little longer to find out the answers to his questions about his peculiar dream. 

Atlas watched wide-eyed as the door of light opened up, and to his delight he didn’t wake up. Perhaps he would find the answers to his dream after all! His body clenched in anticipation as the door slowly opened. He felt a light breeze blow through his hair and rustle his clothes, and he had to squint as the light became brighter. The doorway became so bright, he had to shield his face with his hand, but he could still see through his fingers a staircase descending from the mouth of the open door.

Suddenly, the light vanished, and as Atlas blinked back into focus, he saw a tall, obsidian colored being, who’s body seemed to twinkle with swirls of stardust. Their eyes were the same type of light that had just blinded Atlas for a moment, and as Atlas peeked behind the being he saw that the doorway had now turned into a window to the universe, the stars and galaxies swirling in the same way as the mixture of the being’s skin. Atlas, now fixated on the new figure before him, asked shakily,

“Who are you?” The being regarded Atlas with something close to warmth. They had all the features of a human man, but it was difficult to distinguish their emotions through features alone.

“I am called Onyx.” They said simply, sweeping their arms in a gesture of presentation. Atlas, still sensing a general kindness about this being, became less cautious, and more curious. 

“Are you an angel? Are you sending me these dreams for a reason?” Onyx laughed, their teeth pearly white and the sound of their voice making the entire skyscraper rumble. The waves sloshed below them as if pleased by the turn of events, trying to get closer to this ethereal being.

“I would not call myself an angel, but if it helps you to describe me, it would suit me fine all the same.” They replied, their tone a low, comforting rumble. 

“I understand that these dreams have caused you to have some weighty thoughts about your place in the universe. I cannot give you all the answers right now, but I can do my best to help you understand.” Onyx kneeled on one knee and beckoned for Atlas.

“Please, come closer.” Atlas approached gravely, humbled and awed by this great being. As he stepped nearer to Onyx, he felt increasingly warm, as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud. He felt in his heart that, somehow, this being was the universe, and it cared about him very, very much.

“I have a gift for you, young Atlas, so that you may one day find some of the answers you are looking for. Please, hold out your hands.” Atlas did as he was told, and Onyx placed two things in Atlas’ hands; a small sphere, covered in engravings that he didn’t understand, and a small pocket telescope, with the names of planets and constellations Atlas had never heard of engraved into the covering. Atlas held the things to his chest protectively, and looked back up and the being with curiosity in his eyes and a thousand questions on his lips. Onyx simply shook their head, but their expression remained jovial and caring.

“I hope to see you again in the future, Atlas. Change is coming. I have faith you will adapt well.”

And as Onyx tussled Atlas’ already messy hair, and the breeze picked up and the waves crashed below…

Atlas woke up. The sun shone on his face with warm rosy fingers. His mother must have opened the curtains to wake him and Apollo up. The window was also open, the wind playfully breezing through the curtains and caressing his warm face. His hair was stuck to his forehead, and as he reached up to push it away, something fell from his hand with a thump into his lap. Looking down, he saw the sphere that the being, Onyx had given him. And still clutched in his left hand, pressed into his chest, was the telescope. Both items looked a little more tarnished then they had in his dream, but he was too awed to care. He was surprised to see that they were even real, his heart racing as he remembered his dream and its implications.

Footsteps called loudly from the stairs as Apollo bounded up them, two by two. He caught himself on the doorframe to their bedroom and hollered,

“Atlas! Breakfast is ready! Mom told me to come get you.” He beamed at Atlas, before noticing that his brother was fixated on some weird bronze cylinder in his hand, and a sphere in the other. His attention swiveled back in forth between the two objects, as if he had never seen them before.

“What are those?” Apollo asked, walking towards Atlas and sitting on his bed. Atlas looked up at him, a far off expression on his face.

“This… this… angel gave them to me. They said maybe it would help answer my questions.”

“Well that’s… neat. And frankly strange. If they’re dream things, how are they here?”

“I don’t know.” Atlas whispered, staring again at the objects now in his possession. Apollo stared too, for a moment, before asking absent-mindedly,

“So do you have a guess as to what we’re created for? You were talking about it yesterday, in relation to your dream.”

Atlas, lost in thought by his brother’s question, opened the telescope fully, and ran his fingers across the faded engravings of constellations from another world.

“What if…” he said softly, almost to himself. 

“What if we were created to gaze at the stars up above?”

[tamorasky]

Rise to Me Chapter 12 - August 1943

Summary: 1947. It had been nearly four years since she had received a letter from her sister. Now with the end of the war and her impending wedding, Anna Rendelle is more determined than ever to find her sister.

1943. All her life Elsa Rendelle had been told to be good, know her place and to marry well. When an opportunity arises to make something of herself, finding herself in Occupied France as a part of a larger network of secret agents.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Anna/Kristoff, Elsa/Honeymaren, Anna/Hans (Briefly)

AO3

She feels sick to her stomach as she and Yelana walk down the hall of the barracks, neither of them speak as they push through the door. Outside, a black car sits outside of the building. Elsa follows Yelana towards the vehicle. Both of the women climb into the back of the car.

“Remember the curfew in Arras has been changed to nine-thirty.” The older woman reiterates as they drive through the dark military base.

Elsa nods in response, tucking her hands into the pockets of a coat that isn’t hers; pulling out a cinema stub and a bus ticket from Givenchy to Arras, both printed in French. Things created to make her character more authentic; more so than Elsa has been in her entire life.

“This is for you.” Yelana passes Elsa a small leather purse. The younger woman takes it, glancing into the bag. It contains a compact, lipstick and wallet. These were all seeming toiletries but were in fact essential tools for her in the field; things she saw at her training at Rhubana lodge.

They pass an RAF guard holding a lantern and stop on the edge of the aerodrome. Elsa emerges from the car and walks towards the driver, who was unloading bags from the back of the vehicle. She grabs the case which contains her radio, but Yelana reaches forward to stop her.

“A-am I not supposed to?”

“The radio is too heavy for the Lysander. It will be dropped separately.”

“Oh…” Elsa stares at the suitcase, somewhat dismayed that she was departing with the radio that had been by her side over the past months. With much hesitancy she lets of the radio, glancing to the tarmac at the tiny Lysander. Her heart pounds in her chest at the thought that her wireless was too heavy to be transported on the plane but could carry her.

“It will be delivered to you,” Yelana explains. “Don’t worry. They’re very good.”

Though the older woman’s words were meant to reassure her, they don’t. Elsa doesn’t even know who these people are, how is she expected to trust them or believe Yelana’s words.

They stand on the edge of the airfield, the damp air chilling Elsa to the bone. Yelana turns to the young woman, grabbing her cuffs to ensure they are folded just so. As usual, the grey-haired woman is emotionless, but Elsa notices the way her hands tremble.

That is when her chest grows cold. Seeing Yelana’s fear sparks Elsa’s own. Yelana stares at her, giving her a nod before leading her towards the plane. The words Batting Order chalked on the side of the plane, followed by names she didn’t know.

“What are those?” She asks.

“It’s the priority of persons to be rescued if they are at the landing site. The plane only fits three people and can’t wait for more than a minute for passengers.” Yelana explains. Elsa nods, wondering why she is going overseas willingly while there are countless others trying to escape the continent. She wonders if she’ll ever be on a plane home to Anna. She hopes she will be.

“Your money.” Yelana hands her a neat stack of francs, wrapped in a rubber band. “Half your pay comes in cash when you’re in the field to use for things you need. The rest will be paid to you in pounds upon your return home. And this is for you.”

Much to Elsa’s surprise, Yelana hands her a necklace with a small silver snowflake charm. It is not a gift. Yelana unscrews the pendant next to the charm to reveal a small cyanide capsule.

“The final friend.” The older woman states. “Germans know the smell and will try to make you spit it out. So you’ll need to chew it quickly.”

Elsa takes it from Yelana with a nod. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me by getting the job done.” Yelana takes Elsa’s hand, squeezing it for slightly too long. She then turns and stalks across the field towards the waiting car without another word.

With shaking hands Elsa approaches the plane. She has never flown before and the small plane in front of her brought no comfort, it is intimidating.

A man sits in the cockpit, waving for her to come aboard rather impatiently. She wastes no time in entering the plane, settling herself in a narrow seat behind the pilot. Within moments the crew close the doors, sealing Elsa’s fate.

She had expected her pilot to be a military pilot, but his red hair is longer than military standard just barely touching the sherpa of his leather bomber jacket. Elsa can’t believe that the stubbled man in front of her is flying her to France. Hoping to god he is experienced enough to land her safely in France.

“There has been a change of plans.” He announces, revealing himself to be Irish.

“Oh?” Elsa inquires, trying to retain her composure as her stomach flips violently.

The pilot nods curtly. “You’ll be landing blind.”

She watches as the man turn back towards the control, pressing buttons and gauges she doesn’t recognize. Looking up from her lap, Elsa sees the propeller on the plane’s nose turn through the windshield.

The plane rolls forward, jostling her as it rolls along the uneven earth. The sound of the propeller and engine resounding loudly in her ears as they increase pace. Elsa takes deeps breaths, trying not to panic and convince herself that this is the right decision for her. There is no backing down from this. Landing blind. No one is coming for her when she lands, it is up to her to find her point when arriving in France.

She cries out as the ground slips out from underneath her. It is strange to the young woman, her hand pressed against the cold metal side of the plane. Taking a deep breath, she looks out of the small window; hoping to catch the sight of Yelana and the car, but they had already left.

Her eyes squeeze shut as the plane shoots up at a steep angle. Her stomach-dropping, she leans forward, her forearms resting on her knees, her head dropping between her legs. She felt as if she might be sick. Taking shallow breaths as they had been instructed to fight off nausea as they had been instructed. She cannot throw up in the plane.

The wave subsides, allowing Elsa to slowly raise herself from between her legs. Deciding to look out of the window as the pilot had stopped talking to her; not that they could hear one another over the engine.

She can’t see any houses below, even though she knew there were. The mandatory blackouts had managed to turn the entire countryside dark. Elsa stares at the countryside, her heart aching at the thought of her sister. Wishing that she could see London and at least imagine Anna walking down the street in that damn reefer coat.

Her hand clutches the jacket as the plane drops and turns sharply to the left. She places her free hand on the seat to avoid being sent forward by the jolt trying not to panic at the turbulence.

“Is something wrong?” She calls loudly to be heard over the deafening roar of the engine. The pilot shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder briefly to the woman.

“No, everything it fine. You just feel everything flying in this thing. God knows the Lysander isn’t the best, I mean the Germans could take this thing down with a rock.” He comments, spiking Elsa’s anxiety. “But I can put her down in any condition and quickly.”

He eases on the throttle as they reach the French coast, lowering the plane into a thick fog to encircle the plane. The pilot glances out of the window, trying to get a better view of the ground below.

“We may have to turn back.” He announces.

“We can’t wait till it clears?” Elsa inquires. Knowing that if they turned back, she wouldn’t get back into this plane.

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. We need to be back in ally airspace by daylight. We won’t be able to fly fast or high enough to escape enemy fire.”

Elsa’s arm hairs stand on end as fear slowly creeps under her skin as it occurs to her, she could die even before landing in France. “A-are we turning back?”

“I think I can manage it. Seems like we’re close enough to the right spot. I’m going to make a go at it.” He states, his deep voice confident.

“That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.” She laughs nervously.

He turns to her with a smirk, shaking his head. “You’re going to want to hold on tight. This is going to be rough.”

The plane drops without much notice, causing Elsa to grip the seat once again as the plane shoots in a downward spiral. Her heart pounds in her ears, trying to convince herself that they are not crashing, just that the pilot might be a maniac. She closes her eyes, taking shallows breaths again as her nausea returns.

The hard jolt vibrates through Elsa’s body as the plane hits the ground, she hadn’t braced as she trained for although it only caused an initial shot of pain in her lower back. The plane glides along the ground, both the pilot and Elsa feeling every bump outside of the plane.

The plane jerks to a stop with the brakes squeaking loudly, Elsa wonders if someone could have heard them. The pilot stands, opening the door to glance outside of the plane. “As I thought, no one for return.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Elsa inquires, grabbing her purse, which had fallen on the ground from their journey.  

“It could mean a lot of things. But yeah, they might have been captured.” The pilot sighs. “Alright, head east for the train station. You need to keep low and move quickly through the trees. There should be a blue bicycle behind the station. There should be further instructions upon your arrival.”

“S-should?” Elsa stutters, her blood running cold. “A-and if there isn’t?”

“It’s Sylvestre’s circuit. Everything will be in order.” The man reassures her.

Elsa nods as the pilot watches her, waiting for her to leave the plane. He clears his throat, his gaze darting at the door and back to the young woman. With her heart pounding, Elsa has no other option. She has to leave the plane.

He watches the young woman as she stands shakily, offering her a sympathetic smile. “I’d come with you if I could. But I can’t leave the Lysander.”

“Oh, of course. No, I understand. Thank you for everything.” Elsa nods as she climbs out of the plane.

“Good luck.” He states. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

Elsa narrows her eyes at him, wondering if this was a test. “Marguerite.”

“I’m Will.” The pilot smiles at her with a nod. “But you best be off.”

“Of course.” She turns from the plane, feeling his gaze on her as she stalks away from the landing site. While inching closer to the treeline, Elsa glances over her shoulder to see the door to the Lysander closed. The engine revs and the plane begins to roll forward, picking up speed.

Elsa turns away before it takes off from the ground. She is totally alone now, stepping into the unknown. She walks across the field in complete darkness, searching for the cover of the trees.

The smell of lavender envelops her scent as if she stepped back into her childhood; of summers spent in Île de Ré. Running through fields on the coast at her grand-mère’s cottage on the isle. Elsa used to sit in the field of lavender outside of the house, while Anna ran around her in circles calling out for her; the very reason why she and Anna were often sent outside by their mother and grand-mère.

She finds the tree cover, standing among the dogwoods and pine trees, trying to recall what way Will had pointed when he directed her to go east. Reaching for her purse, Elsa slips her hand into the bag to find the makeup compact equipped with a compass. She squints trying to read the compass by the light of the moon.

Orienting herself east, Elsa meanders through the trees. She trips on a rock, landing on the forest floor hard. The wind becomes knocked out of her as she falls, a pain throbbing through her ankle. Sitting up, she thinks back to her first morning at Rhubana lodge, wishing now more than ever that Honeymaren would be by her side. With a huff Elsa stands from the dirt, wincing with her first step but the pain subsiding as she continues.

“Arrêt!” A voice orders. Elsa freezes, her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t believe it she had already been caught. On her first night, not even an hour into her mission. There is no way of telling if it is the Germans or French police; either way, she had failed.

Her hand flies to the necklace, her fingers brushing over the snowflake and her mother’s locket as she wonders if she should take the cyanide now. She never thought she would need it so soon.

She turns to see a tall, imposing man standing behind her in the dark. Her breath stops as his gun is levelled at her.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a fool.” The man growls in English. “You never listen to them, you either run or fight. But never obey!”

“I…uh…” She stammers. But without another word he grabs her by the elbow, leading her roughly through the wood. Instinctively she pulls away from the stranger, unable to stand his touch.

Her feet drag against the cold tile of the building, four hands holding her up as they dragged her back to her shared room, having no strength to stand on her own. Her head lulled up at the bright lights of the building as screams echoed through the hall. This had been all her fault.

“Come on!” He takes her arm again with a growl as if trying to lead a stubborn mule. “Unless you want to be found by the Milice!”

She hesitates, having no information about anyone she is to meet in this whole racket. According to the pilot, no one is meeting her at all. The young woman wonders as she is dragged through the forest if this man is actually one of them.

With no choice, Elsa follows after him as he urges her on. They walk through the forest, remaining completely silent as the moon shines down on them.

It could all be a trap, a member of the Milice dragging her through this forest to her death. Or worse to be tortured into giving information. She isn’t even sure if she had any information to give up to the Germans at this point. Her radio hadn’t come with her so there was no ability to use the wireless to contact the SOE, nor did she know anyone within the circuit.

They reach a clearing, with what must be farmland. The silhouette of the farmhouse noticeable in the distance. On the edge of the land stands a small windowless shed.

“You are to stay here tonight.” The stranger states, pulling her towards the structure.

“What? No.” Elsa objects, shaking her head. “I’m supposed to be at a train station and find a bike for my circuit.”

“Be quiet!” He snaps harshly, causing the blonde to shrink into herself. “You should never mention anything about a circuit! Never mention any names to anyone.”

“What about my wireless?” Elsa questions, insisting on answers. She isn’t used to this; she is used to Yelana standing by her side answering the questions.

“Follow orders and stay here.” He opens the shed, struggling with the lock. “Someone will be here to collect you in the morning.”

He opens the door, letting her into the structure. There is no light and the air musky, warm air. She steps inside as though having no choice, the smell of manure overtaking her senses with no bed or toilet.

Without any warning, the door to the shed closes loudly, the sound of a key turning in the lock echoing through the small shed. Elsa rushes towards the door, her hand clasps on the handle and attempts to turn only for it not to turn. She couldn’t believe there were locking her in, she can’t even believe what is happening.

Footsteps outside of the shed disappear with a loud huff, leaving Elsa in silence. She turns from the door at the sound of something scurrying across the ground. Either a mouse or a rat. Elsa didn’t care to know at this point; her bones aching and her skin crawling.

She sinks to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees as tries to calm herself in the dark. Her back resting against the wooden frame as her head hits against it with an audible thud.

Listening to the mouse or the rat scuttling, Elsa smiles thinking back to training. In which she had nearly destroyed the decoy set upon the woman by the instructor.

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

They had been standing around in the lodge, listening to the instructor about various explosives. The next thing she knew, several women were screaming and scampering away from the animal in the middle of the floor.  

Elsa didn’t hesitate as she stepped towards the rat, ready to kill it in a second.  But stopped as she noticed something different with this one. She leaned over picking it up to see it was an obvious fake.

She held it up to the professor with a questioning gaze. The professor smiled at her, taking the rat from her hand.

“This!” He held it up to show the class. “Is a decoy

The girls gathered around their teacher, inspecting the decoy with interest as he further explained “The Germans will think it’s a dead rat until they get close.”

He walked away from the girls to the opposite field without another word, before rejoining them as he instructed them to step back. He pressed a button on a detonator held in his hand and without any other warning the rat exploded. Causing a series of gasps to erupt among the women.

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

Elsa smiles at the memory. She and Honeymaren had sat on one of their beds that night, laughing at how most women scattered at the sight and how Elsa had been ready to destroy it without a second thought.

She wishes Maren would be with her now, there would be an arm draped over her shoulder and whispers of reassurance throughout the shed. At least with Honeymaren by her side, Elsa would have some confidence that she hadn’t fucked this entire mission up on her first night.

[lvlyhao]

「PART THREE: FAMILIARITY」

HUMANITY SERIES; Q.K

A/N: guess who forgot to update lol they’re whipped i just— also two surprise appearances hehfjfhsjh

important: i can’t think of anything??? the general warnings are in the masterlist if you wanna be sure none of them is a trigger for you!

word count: 2.8K

pairing: qian kun x reader

disclaimer: the characters in the story below do not reflect real people or present real facts. this is purely fictional, and you may not copy, change, translate or repost my work in any way. all rights reserved © cherry-hyejin 2021.

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Cussing like a sailor, you trudge towards the man, who's catching his breath by the sidewalk. His glance instantly darts to your face, about to say something. You cut him short, though, too disturbed by the fear that still clouds your every action.

“We have to leave while we can. Like right now.”

“H-how do you know I’m not infected?”, he asks, abruptly realizing something even more critical. "How do I know you are not infected?"

He backs away, then, gorgeous features closing off in hesitance. While he stares at you, you think his voice is much, much more angelic than you thought. It drips with uncertainty but is beautiful enough to make you forget how to speak for a minute.

"Uhm”, you clear your throat, now looking for your weapons. It's a good attempt at escaping his piercing eyes, but it dawns on you. He has quite literally no reasons to agree with what you were planning.

"I'm immune, actually. My DNA has some mutation that I honestly cannot explain that well. You", you pause, scanning his defensive form before going back to putting away your knives. "You are definitely clean. It's been over 15 minutes since I arrived: no walker bit you or you would have, at least, screamed. If by some chance it happened and I was not aware of it, I would have seen it in your eyes by now. It's the first part of the process", you grimace.

The guy stays silent while you speak, taking everything you say into consideration. You find it makes sense to him if his relaxed posture is anything to go by.

Finishing up with your arrows, you promptly head back to where you came from, assuming your companion is close behind.

“Wait!”, he trots, halting in front of you. “I… I don’t think I can go with you.”

You could say it's the dumbest thing you have ever heard, but your yell from earlier begs to differ.

“I can see you don't trust me, and you have no reasons to, but this is how rescue missions go. I see someone in danger, I do my best to get them away, and we go to my settlement, where we can hopefully be stronger by numbers. We can get there if we run." Your voice is borderline dull, almost like you have made that same speech 500 times in the past few days. It would have made him laugh, under different circumstances. Yet, he plainly breathes, running a grimy hand through his hair. 

“It’s not that”, he peers around, lost. “I came to the pharmacy for medical supplies for one boy in my own settlement. He needs them as soon as possible, or I’m not sure I’ll be able to help him at all. Besides”, he tentatively lifts your dominant arm by the sleeve of your jacket, careful not to touch you. “We should clean that and put some bandages around it, even if I don’t have the time to stitch it up.”

You are not sure what part of his speech you should pay attention to first.

“You have a settlement?” The question bursts its way out of your mouth before you can think better, but he doesn't seem to mind. Lips curling into a proud smile, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Yeah, I’m currently the father of 6 children from the college I used to attend”, he snorts.

“That’s amazing! I’ve been mapping this area for some weeks now, and I never found anyone”, you smile. “I’m currently the parent of”, stopping, you count the names in your not-chewed fingers. “16 children? Around that. I swear there's a new name every time we make the roll call."

Studying his kind expression, warm under the red sunlight, you feel as if you could talk to him for hours. I'd never get bored. Your situation seems small, squeezed all the way in the back of your mind. It's clearly much less important than your attractive stranger.

Gasping quietly in realization, he sobers up. He pulls you by your jacket once more, just as delicately, and keeps you close.

“Listen, I understand you have people to take care of, but you said you could get there in time if you run. My boys are not too far from here. I think it would be safer for you to come with me for now, at least wait until morning. Otherwise", he gulps, "we will both be in more danger."

You reflect his words guardedly. You are painfully aware that the clock is ticking and each second spent here makes it a bit worse. When the sun goes down is when things get seriously nasty. The night would swallow you whole before you could get to the campus, and then your eyes would be useless. You wouldn't be able to see any walkers or even traps you came across. You'd be a sitting duck. 

Sighing, you know your decision has been made.

I can only hope Taeyong forgives me for this.

With a curt nod, your free hand gestures for him to lead the way. He seems awed by how fast you agreed but decides against mentioning it. Instead, he gives you a gracious smile and goes on. He stands just past the crushed glass, where you can now see a coffee-coloured messenger bag on the once-white floor. Something seems to be fidgeting inside of it, and you stiffen.

Before you can ask about it, he drops your wrist. Picking up the bag gently, he cradles it to his chest and looks at the inside softly. He coos, speaking in a language you know to be Mandarin. That’s when it pushes out—the little, furry snout of a puppy, licking his hand and whimpering. 

It's like your systems just crashed.

“You have a dog in your bag?”

Laughing briefly, he turns to you again. Cosy inside of the leather is a tiny Beagle, looking at you with bright eyes. You can't help but think it's ridiculously adorable.

“Well, not at all times. I found her wandering around here, but one of her ears was bleeding and she’s limping”, his voice lowers to a whisper, watching her with concern. “One of my boys is a vet student. I thought maybe we could help her.”

Choosing not to question it, you simply nod. The bleeding ear would explain why she stayed here even with the noise. Her hearing must be quite damaged.

“And I’m assuming the medicine or whatever you needed is also in there?”

He's serious once again, reminded of the primary reason for his trip.

“Yes, I placed it in separate pockets and smaller bags. We are good to go.”

A breeze swiftly races inside the barely lit building. It’s a warning of how fast the twilight is coming, and he takes it. His quick steps sound first, light on the ground, and he checks to see if you are coming. Understanding of his rush, you jog along.

“I didn’t forget about your hand, by the way. I know a safe spot close to here where we can stop for me to treat it.”

Staring at his broad shoulders, your breathing hitches as the throbbing in your fingers come back. Treatment would be useful before you have to amputate it, but...

“Do you know how to do that? Not to doubt your capacities or anything, but I can just clean it with some water later.”

Running to come up to his side, he playfully eyes you. He is moving so naturally along the streets you imagine he must know this route well.

“I am a med student. Uh, was, I guess.”

His striking traits are highlighted by the blue hour, hues of periwinkle ghosting over his nose, forehead, cheekbones and lips. He chuckles airily, and you are conscious of how surprised you must look.

“A med student. That’s pretty helpful, huh? I’m sure you care very well for your friends."

From the corner of your eye, you see pink spread over his face. He glances up to the sky, lost in his own head.

“I try to. Our youngest has just turned 20. I can’t imagine what it must be like to go through this at that age.”

You hum.

“I know how you feel. I’m watching over an 18-year-old”, sighing, you think back to the freshman dance student at the settlement. You pray he doesn't feel your absence so strongly, familiar to his tendency to cry.

Comfort sparks in the way your companion bumps his shoulders into yours, drawing you out of foggy thoughts. When your heart suddenly tries to break free from your ribcage, you swallow dry. Could I not find a worse moment to develop a crush?

Beating yourself over your feelings, you travel silently, sometimes admiring the starry skies. It feels nice to be like this, almost… at peace. Funny how you can feel that way around someone you barely know while touring a town full of bloodthirsty beasts.

“Ah”, he breaks the silence awkwardly. “I still don’t know your name.”

You wince at that, realizing you were forgetting about it. It's like I've known him for ages.

“Sorry. I’m Y/N”, your voice is soft, rivalling the autumn winds.

“Y/N... That’s a beautiful name”, he compliments, eyes finding yours. “You can call me Kun.”

You say his name out loud, testing it, and giggle. It feels nice in your lips.

---

The trip to the first hiding spot was fast, just a matter of minutes cruising under the starlight. The place is a dainty, small wooden cabin, right at the foot of the mountains that surround the city. All around you are bushes and fireflies, that blink over stray pieces of cars. How they got to here, in the forest, is a mystery to you, but then again, a lot of things do not make sense anymore. It's simpler to overlook it and get inside, plopping down on a rusty chair as Kun grabs a flashlight from a corner.

His hands work quickly, and with confidence, like medicine is in his blood. It's impressive, but, most of all, painless. His touch is even gentler than Tyong’s and feels warm against your cool skin. A tiny smile plays on your lips the entire time, watching him and the sleeping puppy discreetly.

After that, your wounded hand is snug against the white bandages and the sting lessened. You feel like you could go on for miles, but Kun only laughs and tells you to calm down. No way you two are running uphill to his house.

“Wait, you mean you guys live… up there?”, you point, and he follows your finger, contemplating the towering trees of the forest nonchalantly.

Seeing your dubious expression makes his heart crack a little. He understands how intimidating it is: the dark, unknown forest. Who could guess what lurks between the twigs, spying on the few, brave souls that dare cross their territory?

“I know hiding from zombies in the woods sounds a bit weird, but I promise it’s safe. They have a hard time traversing the trees because they’re so closely set. Also”, he studies the grass beneath his feet, feeling a mix of shame and hesitance himself. “We might have planted a few landmines around the perimeter.”

The sound you make then is something between a wheeze and a gasp.

“How did you…?”

“I preferred to not question when Yukhei showed up with them”, he breathes, sounding like a tired father. “There’s a protected path we’ll follow, though!” He makes a face at how he saved the most important detail for last. I have no idea what is wrong with me today.

But, Kun thinks, secretly relishing on the way you shine under the moon, if you’re scared, I’ll hold your hand.

---

The journey to his house is more serene than you guessed. There are no walkers you perceive. It's almost like this place is completely cut off from the world, far away from real danger. Although maybe that is just Kun's effect on you. You have not failed to notice how tranquillity seems to flow out of him in waves, wordlessly comforting your wild heart. It's nothing like you have ever felt.

I met him two hours ago.

Once again shaking off your feelings, you try to focus on the other things that surround you. The crickets, the faint crunch of the grass and fallen leaves, an owl, how smooth his skin could feel under your fingertips...

Oh my god, you cringe.

As you steady yourself against the trunk of an oak, your shoulders finally loosen. Not too far ahead, you can see something that resembles a ski cabin, surrounded by barbed wire, and with orange light pouring from the windows. The path you walk on is surrounded by sharp wooden stakes from both sides, but the place still feels homier than the campus. 

You don't notice your grin until he smiles back, taking your hand in his and continuing the walk. You remain quiet until the ground changes from grass, pebbles and mud to beaten earth, and you stand right outside the fence. It's far taller than you, with the metal glittering intimidatingly. If the landmines had not made you feel safe, this definitely has. 

Kun, still grasping your hand delicately, surrounds the house with an attentive look. He searches for something and stops a few meters from where you were. It’s always simple to find—the crossing point—and he spins to face you.

“If you don’t mind holding the bag, I can cross over first and then help you. Is that okay?”, he asks, looking for approval in your eyes.

Warmth takes over your heart at his caring nature, knowing he could have just gotten in and expected you to not hurt yourself.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” 

With no other words, you reach for the bag, and hug it against your chest, observing the sleeping dog in your arms. While you are distracted, Kun steps on the lower row of wire and carefully places his hands on the upper one, creating a space he can shimmy through. 

He pays close attention to where the barbs were, but does it calmly, and gets to the other side with a small sigh. He then gestures to the bag, stepping on the wire once again, and passing it over with even more care than he had for himself. 

The moment he takes the bag from you, you feel your fingers brushing. While you both pretend not to notice, the heat rushing to your cheeks speaks for itself. Neither one of you mention it.

Then, it's time for you to get in. You can admit you are a bit apprehensive. Kun’s frame is sturdier than yours, in general, and he was just fine, but the idea of sneaking through sharp thorns is not exactly exciting.

Kun seems to know what you feel, and gives you a sweet smile, hoping to calm your nerves. He places the bag on the ground gently, trying to keep the puppy asleep. The process, then, starts over. 

One foot over the first wire, a hand on the upper one and the other stretched out for you to grab. The wind picks up abruptly, and you can't tell if you shiver from it or from the grip of his fingers on yours.

“No need to hurry”, Kun whispers, eyes trained on where your body is concerning the barbs. He, time or another, tells you to bend a little lower or higher, and pulls more at the cable. To your relief, though, all is well. After a minute of wiggling, you touch the other side of the fence and allow yourself to rest. 

“You did good”, he praises, patting your hair kindly. You sort of feel like a kid, but maybe not in an unpleasant way. 

Tardily letting the tiredness from the day catch up to you, your brain slows down, and your limbs ache. You had not noticed Kun was already up on his feet with the bag until a hand shows up before your eyes, a silent offer. You take it without a second thought, letting him pull you up. 

From then on, your mind gave up on processing a lot of what you did. You were nearly sure you went up a row of stairs to a wooden deck, the floor squeaking under your boots. Your new friend still holds your hand securely, which you are thankful for when you trip on a loose board. His eyes examine you for a second, making sure you're alright before he turns to the door.

It is also made of wood but painted red and unyielding. Letting go of your fingers, he knocks 3 times, waits a couple seconds, and then 4 others. The house, so far still, erupts into hushed cheers and shouts. Kun can only shake his head, holding in a smile, and look up when the door flies open, candlelight spilling out. The slim figure that appears nearly throws himself in Kun’s arms, but freezes when he sees you and the bag.

“Y/N?!”

“Hendery?!”

“...You two know each other?”

---

final notes: don’t question the way the virus works. just don’t, ok

[amethystunarmed]

Is Heavy, So Few Men Can Carry It

Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Dabi/Hawks

Warnings: Manga Spoilers, Implied Child Abuse

Word Count:  2278

Part of the Truth Series Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

AO3 Link (Links will be added in a reblog)

~~~~~

Koharu Mukai more or less enjoyed being an EMT. Her quirk was certainly suited for it. The ability to see heartbeats through even dense piles of rubble certainly came in handy during earthquakes and large scale building destruction. It helped in grimmer situations too, like letting her know when there’s no need to rush at the scene of a car crash. Those days were the worst. Sometimes, she had nightmares about silent cityscapes where she can’t see a heartbeat at all.

Where she’s utterly alone.

Maybe that’s part of what influenced her career decisions. When Koharu’s quirk first manifested, her parents had nudged her to the life of a hero. It was never anything overt, never openly stated, but Koharu knew. They weren’t exactly subtle. They entered her into judo lessons the moment she could walk, gushed when rescue heroes like Thirteen and Uwabami were on the news. During her last year of middle school, a brochure for UA appeared on her desk. Again, not subtle.

But... Koharu didn’t want to be a hero. Didn’t want to fight and train for combat with villains. Didn’t want to risk seeing those heartbeats stutter out as a result of her actions.

But she did want to save people.

So, she trained to be an EMT, and she was a damn good one too. And she loved it, she really did.

Except for when it came to dealing with heroes.

Koharu couldn’t say she didn’t get it. Ranking was everything for heroes, and more than half of it relied on reputation and public opinion. She had witnessed a hero from her hometown drop thirty spots in rank after a reporter broadcast him being taken away in an ambulance.

She got it.

But it didn’t mean they needed to be such assholes about it. Attempting to treat a hero after a fight could get you scolded like a child at best, and reported on as incompetent by the media at worst. One of her friends had tried to bandage a seven-inch gash on Endeavor’s arm, and ended up with second degree burns on her hands. So when she pulled the short straw and was sent to look over Hawks, she only really felt a pang of resigned dread.

Honestly, she’d heard good things about Hawks. Every EMT who spoke of him recounted him as polite, cheerful, and actually willing to comply with basic check-ups. Koharu finds all of this to be true. He obeys her every request, even as he repeatedly checked the time on his phone. He starts anxiously tapping his foot, and she takes pity on him.

“You seem alright, Hawks,” Koharu says, as she finishes checking for a concussion. “Not even a scrape.” She’d be surprised at the lack of injuries if she hadn’t seen the current state of the villains. All nine completely immobilized and unharmed. After treating some of the perps Endeavor has brought in, she’s honestly surprised Hawks isn’t Number One. His care and efficiency are unmatched. “Anything else happen that I should know about?”

“I mean, I think one of the villains hit me with her quirk,” he says with no regard to how worrying that statement is. He blinks and startles, almost as though coming back to himself. He looks at her with a large smile, but she can see his heartbeat kickstart with adrenaline. “But it didn’t do anything, I feel perfectly fine.”

Bullshit.

Still maybe she can coax him into actually taking care of himself.

“Even so, it would be best for you to go to the hospital. We can monitor you for any changes.” His smile widens but she sees his eye twitch with annoyance. She holds back a groan and waits for the meaningless platitudes to begin.

“I’m not allowed to go to the hospital.”

Koharu has to admit, her jaw drops. All the training classes, all the years experience, everything she’s ever learned just flies out of her head.

She stares at him, silently, like an idiot.

“I r-really need to go,” Hawks stammers. He looks scared. He looks like he’s about to cry. And suddenly, Koharu remembers that Hawks is a couple years younger than her baby sister. “I just broke like, 8 NDAs by telling you that.”

He’s trying to get away from her, she can see his wings flapping. He is biting his lip, hard, like he is trying to keep himself quiet.

Koharu remembers the words of one of the officers first on the scene. He’d told her to stay away from one of the villains, because of her quirk...

Her eyes widen. She reaches forward to Hawks, unsure if touch will calm him, or just make him more upset. Given the way he flinches, she guesses the latter. She keeps her words calm and level, trying to ease his rapidly increasing heartbeat.

“Hawks, one of the villains is registered as having a truth quirk. I think you’ve been affected–”

“I have to go,” Hawks yells, so loudly it startles her, “I’m terrified of telling you something that will get you killed.”

Koharu gasps, body nearly going limp in shock.

Why would something like this put her in danger?

Could this endanger her family?

What is happening?  

By the time she thinks to ask, Hawks is soaring far above her. She watches until the skyline swallows him.

~~~~~

That night, when she gets home, Aimi is waiting for her. Her eyes light up when Koharu enters, but freeze over when she registers Koharu’s expression. Koharu longs to give in and tell her everything, let go of the terrible knowledge bubbling inside her. She opens her mouth to speak and chokes. I’m terrified of telling you something that will get you killed. She clamps her jaw shut and launches herself forward into Aimi’s arms, and muffles her sobs in her chest. To Aimi’s credit, she never tries to ask what happened. She only strokes Koharu’s hair and hums.

~~~~~

That night, long after her wife had fallen asleep on her chest, Koharu lay awake, staring at nonsense pictures in the ceiling spackle. She thinks of that strange admission—I’m not allowed to go to the hospital—and ponders endlessly of what he could have possibly meant in fractal conspiracy theories. Over and over again, she hears his panicked stammers, those words—I’m terrified of telling you something that will get you killed—echoed around her. He had looked at her with the same terror held by those in the midst of a disaster; the horrific certainty of life crashing down around you.

I should have done something.

I should have said something.

But she hadn’t. And even now, she cannot fathom what would have been the right words to say. She closes her eyes and tries to sleep.

The after-image of his frantic heart beats against her eyelids.

~~~~~

Two days later, in the hospital lobby, she spots a TV news report about the disappearance of the Number Two Hero, Hawks. She drops a stack of forms and they coat the hallway floor like snowfall.

~~~~~

Later that week, Koharu is called into the office of the Hero Public Safety Commission. They didn’t tell her what for, but she knew. Considering the timeline the news had constructed, Koharu would have been one of the last people to see Hawks before his disappearance, if not the last. Though Koharu can’t help but wonder what they could possibly expect her to know. Furthermore, she has no idea what to do with what she does know.

Aimi is nervous. She continually fidgets with the hem of the suit jacket Koharu hasn’t worn since her last job interview. She claims she is just straightening it, but each touch of the fabric evolves into a hand around her waist, a brush against her wrist. Aimi is touching her like she is saying goodbye. Koharu kisses her gently, attempting to comfort her, but can’t help but wonder if she will disappear too.

~~~~~

The office of the Hero Commission Director is blank, white, and boring. The photos on the wall are close ups of calla lilies Koharu expects were in the frames in the store. The desk is black, with stainless steel dressings, and is wide enough that Koharu feels the urge to shout so the Director can hear her. The room makes her feel small, like an outsider, and Koharu can’t help but wonder if that was the goal when the Director smiles at her.

“Welcome, Mukai-san, thank you for coming in,” she says, and Koharu robotically complies.

“H-Hello,” she stutters, and curses herself. The Director chuckles, though not unkindly.

“No need to be so nervous,” she assures. “I just want to know if Hawks said anything to you before he left the scene that day, or if you can recall anything out of the ordinary. You’re not in any trouble.”

“Sorry,” she says, “I just... didn’t expect to meet with you. I thought an assistant would take my statement, or something.”

The Director purses her lips, and looks at her with mournful eyes. “We took Hawks in when he was no more than a toddler,” she tells her, voice heavy with nostalgic grief. “I helped raise him. So of course, I am doing everything in my power to find him.” She reaches forward, takes Koharu's hand in his own, like a man begging for a pardon. “So please, tell me, do you remember anything from that day that could help us find him?”

She remembers I’m not allowed to go to the hospital.

She remembers the way Hawks cowered from her raised hand.

She remembers his heartbeat.

“No,” she tells him, “Nothing.”

~~~~~

Weeks pass. The Commission doesn’t reach out to her again. She breathes a sigh of relief and puts the whole business out of her mind. (Every night she lies awake and hopes that Hawks isn’t found.)

The next time she sees Hawks, he’s on the news.

It was after her shift. For the first time in weeks, she’d agreed to join the rest of her squad at a local bar for some beers. The night had been going better than she expected, at least, until the bulletin happened.

“Breaking News,” The anchor said, nervous voice a poor attempt at remaining neutral, “Former Number Two Hero Hawks has teamed up with the League of Villains in an ongoing heist.” Gasps filled the bar, including Koharu’s own. Someone turned off the music, with the report acting as their only soundtrack. They cut to video of the attack. It was blurry, taken on a phone by someone who absolutely should have been running away, but that is not why Koharu nearly doesn’t recognize him.

Hawks is different. Feathers sprout from his hair and trail down to the nape of his neck. His hands are uncovered, and spout deadly claws. He’s bare-foot, so she can see just how inhuman his legs are, clearly meant to perch and kill. She’s certain the talons on them are at least the size of her hand.

Despite all this, the strangest sight is his expression. Koharu had seen Hawks smile. Honestly, between the TV interviews and billboard ads, it was hard not to. Hawks was known for lighting up the room, making girls literally scream with his dashing looks. Hawks’s smile is like the sunset, constant yet endlessly alluring.

But Koharu realizes, as she watches him grin as he carries the scarred villain from a burning roof, she has never seen Hawks happy until just this moment.

The people in the bar are screaming with anger and betrayal. Someone throws a beer bottle and it shatters against the TV.

On screen, Hawks  croons, and nuzzles his cheek with the man he’s carrying, and something in Koharu’s chest shatters.

Tears drip down her cheeks, and though she is not the only one crying, she is alone in her sobs of joy.

“Fly,” she whispers, words trampled by the jeers and wails of the crowd. “Go far from this place.”

And though he cannot hear her, Hawks sails away, far out of reach.

She does not need to see his heart to know it beats free.

[imtryingmyfuckingbe]

And If This Is It

Third chapter in a short series.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Mentions: Jess, Sam, Charlie, Cas, Gabriel, Jo, Jules (OC)

Trigger warnings: Excessive alcohol consumption; puking

I am the sole author and reserve the rights to my work. However, I am not the owner of Supernatural as a franchise, or the characters including, but not limited to: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Jo, Jess, or Charlie.

CHAPTER THREE:

“Shots?!” Jules shouts over the deafening music.

He passes a tiny glass of clear alcohol to Y/N and Charlie. At this point, neither know if it’s tequila, gin, or vodka. At this point, neither truly care.

Carter’s, the hole-in-the-wall dive tucked between a pawn shop and convenience store, housed the trio every Wednesday night. When unable to convene outside of work any other time of the week, they at least have their sticky booth and cheap booze to fall back upon. If Y/N had half the mind to care, she could bet the shady owner had an unsavory side business that allowed for such decently priced alcohol. But she doesn’t have half the mind. The sharp air intoxicates her even before the first drink, drawing her attention elsewhere. Plus, Jules always arrives first to claim their usual seats, a round of drinks at the ready. Tonight, he focuses on shots.

They clink their glasses together, slam them on the grimy counter, and tip them back. Charlie cheers, her flushed cheeks pushed back in a sloppy, wide grin. Her laughter bellows into Y/N’s chest, forcing her to join in. The tribulations of the past seven days wash away with each new shot. Her mind only wanders as far as Jules across the table and Charlie next to her. Nothing mattered right now, not unrequited love or shitty jobs.

“So! So! Then I said, I said! I don’t care what those bitches think. I’m— I’m a good server, ya know? And I told James— “

“—Jason,” Jules supplies.

“—Yeah, that one. I told Jason to stick it!” Charlie slurs, recounting her meeting with their boss.

Y/N cocks her head at Charlie, who white knuckles the table to stay steady. “Did you really?” She speaks slowly, the words catching on her heavy tongue.

“No. But I thought it. So it counts.”

Jules and Y/N share a look. “Sure it does.”

Out of the three of them, Jules holds his liquor the best. He drinks anyone under the table, and still gets up for work without a grueling hangover. Y/N took Thursdays out of her availability because she doesn’t have his stamina. It took only two shifts filled with headaches and poor service for her to realize she cannot power through the dehydration and pain. Wednesday nights take it out of her, and the following morning includes a date with her toilet and a bottle of Pedialyte. Trying to keep up with Jules, which she foolishly does, is a signed, sealed, delivered death sentence.

She happily accepts it, for it means quality time with her friends.

“Listen, missy. You listen here! You don’t get to talk about— about thinking things and not saying them!” Charlie accuses. Y/N holds up a hand in protest. “No! I don’ wanna h-hear it.”

In just a few words, the thoughtless cocoon Y/N made shelter in crashes to the ground, bringing up debris and Dean’s face. His freckles. His lips. The things she wishes she could say— I love you, I want you, I need you— taunt her, dancing across her mind and scuffing up the floors. “Yeah? Well I don’t wanna talk about it!” She all but shouts.

Charlie huffs. “Fine.”

Jules says nothing, simply peering at his two best friends with mild concern in his glossed over eyes. Y/N avoids his gaze, instead choosing to watch the desolate street through the frosty glass. Charlie waves her hand to the waiter to call for another round.

With new shots in front of the respective drinkers, the tense silence dissipates quickly, easy conversation about what each other missed taking its place. Jules relays the details of his third date with Alice, a girl he served once. She left her number and on a whim he decided to text her. The thirty percent tip she left helped her case, too. The two get along great, from what he says. They share similar interests, including early morning trips to the gym and pretty much any physical activity. At the thought, Y/N shudders. She reserves her mornings for her bed and coffee.

As Jules carries on about the lovely Alice, Y/N finds herself thinking down a stark path. It travels away from Carter’s worn booths and blaring music, finding solace in scratching concrete and big hands. Some days, she truly wishes she could call Him her boyfriend. Some days, she only wishes to be near Him. Right now, it’s the latter. The too-loud conversations around her, the thick air, the heavy warmth in her belly; it makes breathing a chore.

Charlie grabs her wrist, pulling her over-worked thumb from her teeth. The crevice between her nail and skin bleeds. Out of her head now, she realizes her friends stare at her, conversation ceased. Jules’ eyes bore into hers, and she can feel Charlie staring at the side of her head.

She doesn’t have to ask what crosses their minds. Their faces paint light worry and their questions clearly. Y/N sighs, head dipping to focus on the empty glass before her. Neither of her friends say anything, allowing her to trudge through her hazy thoughts.

“I…” she starts, but shakes her head. Needing a something to center her, she throws back her head and swallows another shot. It burns, but it reminds her she is alive and well. Well enough, at least.

Charlie only knows what an inebriated Y/N shared once, and she assumes Charlie happily passed on the message. Even still, the words halt in her throat. Charlie interlocks their fingers, giving a squeeze. It’s okay, Y/N knows she wants to say. “I need some air.”

Not awaiting a response, she drops Charlie’s hand and alights from the booth. Concentrating on walking, Y/N works her way through the crowd to the door. The cooling air of the night caresses her cheeks, relieving some of the heat from her skin. The car-lined road before her, adorned by dim streetlights and neon store signs, appears in double. Cigarette smoke wafts to her nose.

She turns towards the scent. Sober Y/N would never smoke. The taste lingers on her tongue days after, plaguing anything she drinks or eats. However, Drunk Y/N, riddled with anxiety and one too many shots, craves it.

A woman clad in little clothing leans against the worn brick, cigarette balanced between her fore- and middle finger. Y/N stumbles the few feet to her, her body moving before her thoughts. The lady looks up. Her tired eyes trail over Y/N’s body, taking in the sight, ending at her face. Y/N tries to imagine how she looks.

“Can I bum a smoke?”

Wordless, the woman passes Y/N her pack of menthol and a lighter. Nodding in thanks, she lights the cigarette and draws a deep breath in. Sweet relief. She sighs contentedly, handing the pack and lighter back. In silence, Y/N joins the stranger in leaning against the wall. Drunken camaraderie over a bad habit makes the world feel smaller; friendlier.

Here she stands, a mess. And here some straggler stands, someone she’s never met, probably going through her own shit. People are small, in the grand scheme of things. The big picture. Everything feels silly, like a cosmic prank, wherein God will jump from the sky and yell, “Hahahah! Happiness is not a by product of existence, you simple minded fucks. I made you to suffer.”

She wouldn’t be surprised, not anymore. Some days, her heavy bones and even heavier head weigh her down so much, all she can do is suffer. Suffer through schooling; a dead end job; a wistful love; a bleak future. Perhaps God created her as suffering; not a person who could, but a person who is.

A long drag from the cigarette clears her mind. She reminds herself that her sidewalk existential philosophy is only wise by proxy of this night’s poison.

Flicking the cigarette, she nods her head in thanks. With a clearer head, the double vision subsides. Still, she sways as she walks back to the door of the bar. Bracing herself, she pushes it open. Music, this time a familiar song she can’t place, wraps its comforting fingers around her heart. This is where she is meant to be: sandwiched between the tacky wall and Charlie, sat across from Jules.

Charlie stands as Y/N comes into view, allowing her to take her seat once more. The conversation continues seamlessly, as if  Y/N never left. Jules and Charlie keep the side glances to minimum, instead focusing on another round— this time paired with glasses of water— and what Jules’ should do next with Alice. Deciding to solely focus on her friends before her, Y/N utilizes her remaining energy on keeping up with the conversation.

“I mean… she seems to like you a lot, dude. Who the hell… else would get up at five to go on hikes?” Y/N slurs, raising her voice.

“A crazy, person! She’s crazy.” Charlie whispers with a shake of her head.

Y/N laughs, downing another shot. “Yeah, well, either way, she likes it, ya’know? She likes it!”

They dissolve into a fit of body-rocking, soul-shaking laughter. As it peters out, the energy follows suit. Y/N hits a wall, her shoulders sagging with a sigh. “I’m— I’m gotta go, guys. My eyes are gonna fall out.”

“Wait! Just one more shot. C’mon, Y/N/N! One for the road,” implores Jules.

Ever the bad influence, Y/N agrees. In the back of her head, she hears her sober-self admonish her. She pushes it away while Jules waves his pointer finger for another round. Grace, the waitress, already has three ready. Used to their antics as their usual server, she also drops the bill.

Clink, slam, gulp.

Y/N slaps a twenty on the bill, knowing it covers her portion of drinks. Charlie scoots out of the booth again, staying standing to wrap Y/N in a bone-crushing hug. The scent of vodka and Daisy fills Y/N’s nose, covering every piece of her in Charlie. Jules envelopes her next. Her cheek rests against his chest, and he sets his chin on her head. They hold each other for a moment before pulling back.

Y/N leaves her friends to settle the rest of the bill. Escaping into the night, she embraces the cool air. However much she finds solace in Carter’s, the stuffy heat paired with the little room to move constricts her. Even on the now empty street, her chest refuses to loosen. The returned double vision surely doesn’t help.

“Walk,” she mumbles, commanding herself to just fucking go.

Normally, she would call a ride service right about now; or she’d stick around with Jules and Charlie to ride with them. But right now she needs the freedom of the seedy side streets and open sky above her. Four doors and a short roof would only further agitate her.

So, for the sake of her sanity, she makes her way down the street. Having walked these streets many times, Y/N’s feet carry her, rather than she commanding them. As she works her way towards the main road, the lights become brighter and cleaner; trash slowly dwindles in the gutters until they’re as clean as they can get in this part of the city.

At the intersection of Boulder and Hamilton, she stops. Going left would lead her home, a destination twenty minutes away. Going right would take her to Dean. Her body decides before her mind. Five minutes and a few turns, she stands on Dean’s stoop.

Her heavy fist raps against the wood while she leans her forehead against the cool service. Eyes closed, Y/N focuses on slowing her breathing. The edges of a panic attack creep into her mind. Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I—

The door opens, taking from Y/N her support. Without it, she falls forward, preparing to meet the unfriendly catching of the floor. Instead, warm, bare arms wrap around her waist. “Y/N?” Dean asks in his deep, gruff tone.

God, I love your voice. The thought crosses her mind before she can stop it.

“Oh, do you, now?” Dean teases, righting her on her feet but keeping his hands on her shoulders.

Fuck.

“Shuddap,” she scolds.

“What are you doing here, Y/N/N?” He moves a hand from her shoulder to grasp her chin, pointing her face to look at him.

She leans into it. “Drunk.”

Dean chuckles, a warm sound that pushes any anxiety out of her mind. He has that way about him. “I can see that. Here, come inside so I can close the door.” She does as he asks, still leaning into his touch. He leads her to his couch, guiding her gently down onto the cushion. Resting on his knees in between her legs, he examines her face again.

She tries to look him in the eyes, she truly tries, but their overwhelming jade and the smell of his shampoo and his hands and that little grin and— and— and. The list goes on forever. In the dim room, lit by the outside lights and the paused TV, she wants to fall into him. Her fingers itch to grab his stupid stubbled cheeks and bring his stupid plump lips to her own. Her heart threatens to jump straight from her chest and into his hands. Her skin prickles where his forefinger and thumb hold her chin.

“Traitors,” she mumbles.

“Hm?”

Y/N shakes her head, causing Dean to release her chin. Dammit. “Nothing. I’m just— I’m so drunk, dude.”

He laughs again, sending a wave of peace over her body. “Yes, I know. Let’s get some water in you.”

Water sounds like a great idea, just the mention causes Y/N’s mouth to dry, readying for the coolness to coat her throat and fill her stomach. While Dean pours her a glass, she better settles against the sofa, shifting until her back rests against the arm and her legs splay out before her. The cold of the leather raises goosebumps, but it grounds her.

Dean returns with a stainless steel tumbler, placing it on the cushion by her hip. He lifts her legs and rests them upon his thighs as he too settles into the couch. Arm rested on the top of the couch and eyes caressing her flushed cheeks, he awaits for her to speak.

Every thought racing through her mind pleads to blurt out “I love you!” in some form or another. Taking a long, refreshing sip, she swallows the water and her heart. The hand gently kneading her calf provides almost enough courage to cast aside her inhibitions, but instead she listens to the voice in the back of her head. Why ruin something great? Why risk it?

Pussy, her warring side jabs.

Shaking her head, she removes her gaze from his and unto the television. “Die Hard?”

He waits a beat before he speaks, “Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Like there’s two John… John McClanes on the TV, which means two Hans Gru—bers, and I… I dunno if I can watch that.”

Glorious, golden, all-compassing laughter. “Well, I’m sure the McClanes will be fine; twice the firepower.”

Y/N can’t stop herself from returning to gazing at Dean. The lights from the kitchen silhouette his face, but she sees it, nonetheless. Knows it like its her own, for she sure has stared at him long enough. His seemingly perpetual little grin pushes his cheeks up the slightest bit. He looks so young.

With little thought or permission, she reaches a hand out to brush against his cheek. The barely present beard tickles her palm. Dean’s eyes flutter shut, and he nuzzles further into her hand. If only she could stay like this, legs across Dean’s, hand on his cheek, eyes closed.

“Dean…” she whispers, mostly for herself. Her heart will never get used to sitting so close to him, a beacon on her worst of days and a partner on her best.

“Hm?” he asks, still leaning into her touch.

It takes everything from her, her willpower, her bones, her chest, her lungs. She can’t stop herself for much longer, she knows. And, the thing is, her traitorous body doesn’t protest. Nothing in her says to stop; everything in her begs— no, screams at— her to grab him and hold him tight. To never let go.

As she leans forward, her left hand reaching for his other cheek, the tumbler clatters to the floor with an unforgiving clang. They both startle back, Y/N drawing her legs from his lap and Dean finally opening his eyes. The withering stare she casts at the stupid bottle should shatter it. Instead, it stays whole and mocking. She reaches down to right it, her knuckles white as she harshly slams it onto the floor.

The lights seem to bright, now. The throbbing in her head makes its presence better known, pulsing the picture of John McClane leaning over a sniper rifle. Bile rises in her throat.

“Fuck,” she barely gets out before bolting from her seat and running for the bathroom. Way to ruin the moment, you monkey.

Y/N grabs the edge of the toilet with one hand, gathering her hair into a mock ponytail with the other. At the sight of the bowl, her stomach instantly lurches. With the little she had to eat, mostly burning alcohol makes a return, accompanied by some nachos and fries.

A set of hands replace her’s in her hair, allowing her to better grasp the toilet. Dean settles behind her, bracing her sides with his thighs and whispering unintelligible comforting words in her ear. With his free hand he rubs her back, up and down her shoulder blades to her lower back.

No longer retching, she wipes her mouth toilet paper. Her body still shakes, skin clammy and hot. She crosses her arms over the seat, resting her forehead against her forearms. Dean continues to massage circles into her skin. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, to the bowl and to Dean.

He releases her hair, instead choosing to pull her from the toilet and into his chest. Together, limbs wrapped endlessly, Dean leans against the wall and she leans against Dean. “Nothing to be sorry for, Y/N/N. C’mon, you’ve seen me completely plastered.”

She tips her head to the side, resting it against his shoulder. “It’s gross. Not cute. At all.”

His chuckle rumbles against her back. “Nah, you’re always cute.” It’s barely a whisper, if she weren’t next to his mouth she’s sure she wouldn’t have heard it.

They sit in silence, breathing against each other. Y/N revels in the coolness of the ground and his arms around her waist.

“Why’d you drink so much, Y/N/N?”

Her sighs heaves her shoulders. “I dunno. Why do you drink, Dean?”

“Sometimes to forget things.” He keeps his voice level, but Y/N knows him well enough to see he worries for her. The implications of his statement do not go unnoticed.  

She shakes her head. “I just have a lot going on. Plus, it’s Wednesday. You know that’s my night with Jules and Charlie. We drink. It’s what we do.”

“Okay. Just checking. Let’s get you to bed, kid.”

[bitter-sweet-farmgirl]

Modern Writing Prompts

This is just a compiled list of prompts I’ve collected from Pinterest and other random places, but really only work in modern contexts.  I have other prompt lists that get more specific or more vague as well.  If you want to use one in a request to me, just use the following ‘Character Name and Prompt No. 35 from the Modern Prompt list’ for example + some details if you’d like.

There’s quite a bit on this list, so be wary....  I mean, it’s only like 130 prompts...  Also, I did not organize it.

Key:  

‘*’ Denotes something that could be used as dialogue.

[*] Denotes a swear word that I removed.

"If I was your boyfriend, I'd pepper you with kisses and spoil you so bad."

"My family thinks we're dating."

"It wasn't meant to go this far, I swear."

"You were ready to leave me for her."

"There is no us.  There never was."

"Don't leave me.  Don't you dare leave me."

"You know for a [*] fact that wasn't supposed to happen."

"Sort yourself out first."

"Leave.  Before we wake up regretting what we've done."

"All he ever did was use you?  Why can't you see that?"

"You think this will make me stay?"

"You thought this was real?"

"My mum asked about you again."

"He already knows."

"Can you please come and get me?"

"I'm at the hospital."

"I don't know where I am, help me."

OTP on a hammock together.  Person B is asleep on Person A's chest while Person A keeps one foot on the floor so they can rock the hammock in hopes of Person B remaining asleep.

"It's three in the morning."

"You're my regret."

Take me laser-tagging and then push me into a corner and kiss me.  Then shoot me and walk away.

"Smiles are contagious."  "Don't worry, I'm vaccinated."

"Did it hurt?"  *Rolls eyes "Let me guess, when I fell from Heaven?"  "No."  "What?"  "When you fell for me."  *Grins*

"So...  What's our plan for tonight?"  "We do not have a plan--"  "Well, let's make one."  "--I have my own plans that don't include you."  "I thought we were a team!"  "We are.  Which is why I need a break."  "You need a break from me?"  "Yes...   So I'll still like you in the morning."  "Wow.  I'm that bad, huh?"

Which person of your OTP furiously does push-ups while the other sits on their back and reads a magazine.

He found her sobbing in the stairwell at work.

As teenagers, a boy and a girl agree to marry if neither have by their 35th birthday.  Follow the boy as he attempts to sabotage every relationship the girl has till then.

"I don't care where I'm sleeping as long as it's with you."

As she walked towards the exit of her favourite coffee shop, she glanced down at her cup.  "You're beautiful."  Was written in place of her name.  She glanced back and their eyes met.

She opened her apartment door to hundreds of roses.  She knew they were from him;

he'd found her.

"I've had a rough day and honestly all I want right now is a drink and someone to cuddle with."

"No, you can't get up!  You're my prisoner for today."

"Shh...  It was just a bad dream.  Just a dream, okay?  None of it was real."

"You.  Cuddle.  Me.  Now."

"Baby, you'll never know me."

"I don't give a damn."  "You give so many damns they're visible from SPACE."

She gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady her hands.  "One last time."  She whispered to herself.  One.  Last.  Time.

"Keep looking at me like that," he warned, leaning casually on into the counter and sipping his coffee.  "And see what happens."

She looked up at him, tears filling her already swollen eyes.  "But why?  Why would you love me?"  He tightened his grip, pulling her more snugly into his embrace.  "Because you bug me, weirdo.  Duh."

"Just relax, I'll wash your hair for you."

"I'm not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention."

"Are you wearing my shirt?"

"You are ridiculously comfortable..."

"You know how to unlock handcuffs with a paperclip?  Teach me!"  "Absolutely not."

"I've never been so scared in my life."  "It was a bubble..."

He was leaning against the wall trying to support his own bodyweight, and his gasps of pain were like music to her ears.

Your date drops you off.  A few minutes later they return to your door sopping wet from the storm because their car broke down.

The phone rings.  The voice on the other end says, "We need you again."  Then hangs up.

A boy and a girl were part of the same team for their high school sports camp.  The girl had a crush on him for a very long time, but was not sure how to say it to him.  In spite of that she mustered some courage and casually said, "hey...  You know what?"  "What?"  "You have the prettiest smile I have ever seen."  The boy's eyes glittered and he replied, "you know what?"  "What?"  "That smile exists only because of you!"

"Did you get my note?"  "Of course I got it.  You taped it to my forehead while I was sleeping."

"It's not my birthday."  "It's definitely your birthday."  "Give me a calendar.  It's not and I will prove it to--Oh.  Never mind.  Happy birthday to me."

As she stepped on the train, I fought ever urge to climb on after her.

"C'mere, you can sit on my lap until I'm done working."

"Just pretend to be my date."

"Handsome, broken, and a mistake from the beginning.  Are you sure you're comfortable with this?"

"Are you decent?"  "Not morally, but I'm wearing pants if that's what you're asking."

He was bad.  He smoked, he broke the law, he drove too fast for his own good.  He

didn't care because nobody taught him how to.  But when it came to her, he wanted to be the best man.  He couldn't bare the thought of her being hurt by him... Or anyone else.  He would kill to protect her, the girl who cared about someone as worthless as him in all her perfection.

"I want to take a shower, so you should probably join me.  It'll save water."

"It's midnight!  Where the hell were you?"

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I might have slept with your [clothing article] when you were gone."

"No one has to know about us, I know this could ruin you."

"Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you've been dying to ask me?"

"You said I'd get to have you all weekend.  Why can't you just tell them you can't go?"  "Because it's my job and it's important."  "And I'm not?"

"You can call me whenever you want...  Even if you don't have a reason to."

"I'm bad at texting first, so I always end up hoping you will."

"This movie is really scary, but you're into it so I'm trying not to cover my face the whole time, but--WHAT IS THAT?!"

"Wait, don't pull away...  Not yet."

"You look really cute in that sweater."

"No, like...  It's just, I can't believe you're actually wearing my clothes."

"You know I hear you talking, but I still don't have my coffee."

"Did you think I really cared about you?"

"It's too late to go back."

"I'm sorry this had to go down like this."

"That's right, I lied."

"Just so you know... I don't regret anything."

"You will no longer love me if you see who I truly am."

"But I did all this for you...?"

Person A wins a big stuffed animal for Person B at an amusement park and offers to carry it for them.  Person B says they'll carry it themself, and carries it around smuggly.

While on a date, Person A very shyly touches Person B's hand and Person B reassuringly (and tightly) holds Person A's hand.

"Please get home safely."

"I've got you, baby."

"Man, I can't pay attention to anything else but you."

"Baby, I'm right here.  Shh.. I'm here."

Person A: *does something stupid* Person B:  "....Why are you like this?"  Person A:  "Aww, come on!  You know you love me!"  Person B:  "...Where did you get that idea?" *Joking*  *Silence* Person A:  *Sniffles* Person B "WAIT I'M SORRY I DIDN'T MEAN IT, I LOVE YOU!"

She was the broken and battered girl who longed to be loved.  He was the misunderstood boy who only wanted to love.  She had never paid him any attention until today, when she bumped into him at her locker, causing everyone to stop and stare.

"I'm coming to get you, stay there."

"Are you safe?"  "I don't know."

"Can I at least buy you a coffee?  For old times sake?"

"Don't talk to me.  It's 6 AM and I haven't had coffee yet, so anything I do or say cannot be held against me."

"Dude, that jacket is mine, give it back!"

"YOU USED MY TOWEL?!"

"They're going to love you, don't worry!"

"Stop hogging all the blankets!"

"Wait, when did I take off my clothes?"

"I'm fully convinced you never graduated kindergarten."

"You have no idea how to make toast?!"

"I haven't showered in four days."

"You're more zombie than human."

 "I can't believe I got the first date, let alone a year."

 "Wanna, like--I mean if you're not busy...  We could get lunch?  Or even just coffee if you don't have a lot of time."

 "So I was driving past a pet store and I couldn't help but wonder how cute an animal would be in our home."

 "It's midnight!  Where the hell were you?"

 "I wish I had a camera."

 He/She crashed through the doors of the police station and slammed his/her hands against the steal counter.  "Give me back my wife/husband!"

 The rain came down in heavy sheets.  He pulled his soaked [type of hat] down to protect his eyes and moved forward.  Where was she?  Would he find her in time?  A darp shape against the bridge railing caught his eye when the lightning flashed.  He rushed forward and grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him.  He couldn't tell for the rain if she was crying or not, droplets streamed down her face.  Her mouth opened to let out a cry, but when she saw it was him, she pleaded with her eyes.  He only nodded and put his arm around her.  He'd protect her.

 "It's me!  It's me!  Calm down, baby, please."

 "Is the movie too scary?  I can stop it if you want and we could watch something else."

 "Watch, this is the best part!"

 I chose that part in the play only so that I could kiss her.  I hadn't thought about the acting pact, the prancing onstage before a packed audience, or about the make up.  All I wanted was to finally touch her face, kiss those lips, have my moment, even if that was all I ever had.

 It's not like she meant to trip and spill coffee all over him.  It was just the way of her people.

 I woke up, to find a boy's arms wrapped tightly around my waist.  "What are you doing here?  I thought I told you to sleep on the couch!"  I was in disbelief.  I pried his hands off me and it was only then that he stirred.  "Huh?  Oh.  I um....  You had a nightmare."  He face was suddenly serious.  "Who's [guy name]?"

 Person A and Person B share an apartment but have separate rooms.  Person B has a nightmare one night and is really rattled by it.  They get out of bed and walk down the hallway to knock on Person A's door.  The door is already open and Person B walks into the room silently.  They go up to Person A's bed to find that they're already awake.  Person B tells Person A that they had a nightmare.  Person A scoots over in the bed and lets Person B curl up with them and they fall asleep together.

 Person A and Person B are in the kitchen.  Person A is short while Person B is slightly taller.  Person A:  *Struggles to retrieve items from top shelf*  Person B:  "Do you need me to get it for you?"  Person A:  *Gasps*  "How dare you insult the vertically challenged!"  Person B:  *Laughs* "Okay then..."  Person A:  (Moments later) *Defeated sigh* "Help meeeee...."

 Person A:  *Completely serious*  "I have to get something off my chest."  Person B:  *Fingers crossed* "I hope it's your shirt, please..."

 Person A is noticeably disheveled as they enter the room.  "Sorry I'm late, I was doing stuff."  Person B, also disheveled and grinning smugly follows behind.  "I'm stuff."

 Person A has an online business meeting with someone important who lives across the world so they have to stay up late for the meeting.  Person B doesn't want to leave Person A alone so they grab a pillow and lay in Person A's lap as they attend their meeting.  Bonus points if Person B accidentally smacks Person A in the face in their sleep and everyone laughs and calls them cute.

 Imagine you've been stood up by your boyfriend on date night and the waitress keeps asking if you're ready to order, but you keep asking for more time, hoping he's just late.  People are starting to look at you with those apologetic looks like they know and you start to feel worse and worse about the whole situation, but just as you get up to leave, this boy you've never seen before sits down explaining loudly, "sorry I'm so late, Babe.  Traffic is crazy right now."  And he quietly adds, "I'm [NAME].  Just go with it, yeah?  Whoever didn't bother to show up is a jerk."  And you do go with it because he's being sweet and trying to save you, (plus he's super cute), and as you're leaving the restaurant after the best non-planned date ever, he asks you out for real this time.

 "That has got to be the lamest pick up line in existence."  "Don't worry that's just Plan A."  "So what's Plan B?"  "To take you hostage."

 "I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don't trust your cooking.  Stay out of my kitchen."

 Person B dancing around their home, headphones in, eyes closed, singing as loudly as they please to their favourite song while Person A stands in the doorway watching their oblivious partner with a loving smile on their face.

  Person A walked into the house, threw their bag on a chair and laid down on the carpet with an air of defeat.  Person B walked in a few hours later, saw Person A on the ground and set to work.  They picked up a few blankets and a couple of pillows.  Then Person B walked over to Person A, laid everything out, and proceeded to lay down with Person A.  Person A slowly curled up to Person B and fell into a restful sleep.  Five hours later, they're still there, just soaking in each other's presence.

 Person A was sitting up in bed, headphones on and staring intensely at their Ipad

screen, which flickered brightly in the dim room.  Person B rolled over and slowly sat up, glancing at the clock and seeing it was well past 2 AM.  Person B leaned up against Person A, eyes still closed and asked why Person A was still up.  Person A popped out an earbud and quickly [states reason] and then turned their attention back to the screen.  Person B yawned loudly, grabbed the device and tossed it off the bed.  Right before Person A could protest, Person B curled an arm around them and forced Person A to lay down.  Person A fell asleep within minutes, tucked securely within  Person B's arms.

 Imagine your OTP getting ready for bed, and Person A is sitting on the bed.  Person B tries to sneak up on them with a hug or a kiss, but Person A has quick reflexes and thinks they're being attacked.  So they accidentally hit Person B in the face and they fall back onto the bed.  Person A quickly realizes who it was then and keeps saying sorry really fast and hugs them and kisses where it hurts.

 Person A has finals coming up and Person B has already finished theirs.  Person A is stressed over the finals and breaks down one night lamenting their ability to do anything right.  Person B calmly picks them up, brings them to bed and cuddles with them, cooing to them and telling them all the wonderful things Person B loves about Person A.

 Imagine Person A walking into the kitchen, only to find Person B in tears.  Person A immediately rushes over to Person B's side, fretting over them, consoling, and asking what happened.  Surprised, Person B explains they were simply cutting onions.

 Person A is baking cookies and has to split their attention between watching the timer and fighting off Person B, who keeps trying to steal cookie dough from the bowl.

 Imagine your OTP making out on a couch, but then one of them accidentally rolls off and the other is either frantically asking if they're okay, or laughing their head off.

 Imagine your OTP ice skating and one of them falls.  The other tries to help them up but they lose their balance and fall on top of the other.

 You were studying for your exams in a few weeks, your boyfriend was sitting opposite you, simply staring.  You couldn't concentrate and were getting frustrated.  "Stop it!"  You yelled, slamming your pencil on your book.  "Stop what?"  He asks, smiling innocently up at you.  "Stop staring, stop making me want you, stop making me feel--argh just st--"  He shut you up, placing his soft lips on yours, letting all the stress wear out.  "Stop stressing babe, it won't do you any good."  He mumbled, placing his forehead onto yours.  "Come here."  He insisted, patting his lap.  You happily accepted, moving over to him and plunking yourself down.  He wrapped his arms around you and you rested your head on his chest, hearing his heart beat.  "That's enough studying for today, babe.  You'll ace that test, okay?"  He kissed your forehead, rubbing your arms.  You nodded and rested in his arms, feeling safe and sound.

 What if he held you tightly in his arms as you lay on his chest, drifting into sleep by the sound of his steady heartbeat.  Feeling the slight vibration of his lungs as he hummed softly.  His hands brushing lightly in your hair as his lips pressed against the top of your head, but stayed there for awhile.  Then he let out a faint sigh, taking his lips away, seeming to be deep in thought.

 You shift around in bed, trying to find a comfortable position.  No success.  You hear your boyfriend stretching.  "Can't sleep, babe?"  He asks, letting out a sleepy sigh.  

"Come here," he whispers.  You move over to him and he snakes an arm around your waist and wraps his leg around yours as you rest your head on his bare chest.

 As you lay in bed alone, struggling with reaching sleep, you toss and turn before huffing out in annoyance at still being awake.  A small fraction of light creeps into your room until the door closes and the edge of your bed dips down underneath his weight.  He carefully climbs under the covers, reaching an arm out for you, pulling you closer to his body with your back to his front.  "You can sleep now, baby.  I'm home.  I love you."  He gently whispers in your ear, lightly kissing your cheek then laying his head on the pillow next to you to fall into a dream-filled sleep of your boy being home.

[scrappydooisfoundaliveinnebraska]

Nobody Had to Die: [Batman The Brave and Bold Fanfic]

            To me, the saddest thing about ‘Mitefall’ isn’t that the show got cancelled.  The saddest thing was that nobody had to die. 

            “POWER TO THE PUPPY!” Punchichi yells.

            Bat-Mite giggles. “Sound familiar?” 

            He’s not talking to me. He doesn’t know that I’m here, yet. He’s just doing it for himself.

            All the same, I answer him.            

            “It does,” I admit softly.

              I’ve been watching this episode, and the more I watch it, the more unsettled I get.  

            And not for reasons that Bat-Mite seems to expect.  

            And I’ve finally had enough.

            He’s not exactly unhappy to see me. He’s having too much of a blast to be bubble-burst that easily. 

            “Hello, stranger!” He says. “I don’t remember creating you! Are you Punchichi’s hip new babysitter?! Cousin Olive to his Cousin Oliver?!” 

            I don’t react for a moment.

            Then I take a step forward. 

            Bat-Mite, intimidated, tries to zap away, only to find he can’t. 

            He is a reality warper, but I am the narrator. 

            I have the high ground. 

            He can’t escape. 

            We have to settle this.

            “I remember Cousin Oliver,” I snap, as he stares at me, helpless with shock. “I remember learning his story when I was searching for Punchichi’s doppelganger,”

“And don’t tell me. You’re the one fan of him, a loon to be taken down. Well, I’m feeling merciful today, so allow me to teach you a little lesson.” 

He snaps his fingers, and a small boy appears.  The child is clearly very young, and he’s definitely from an era long past-with his long, pale blonde hair and bangs, and his round spectacles, he looks like a baby John Lennon, a figure that I’m a bit more familiar with thanks to my father’s musical taste.

“Welcome to the Cousin Oliver show!” He chirps at me. “Want to watch me forever?”

“Are you OK?” I ask him quietly. 

Bat-Mite clearly expected either over the top cheering or over the top disgust, not quiet sympathy. 

As a result of his surprise, Oliver spasms, and his round face is filled with pain. 

“Do you really expect me to demonize this child?” I ask Bat-Mite. “He’s only eight.”

“Nobody knows, nobody cares,” Bat-Mite sings.

I step closer to Oliver, my hands stretched out to shield him from any horrible plan Bat-Mite has for him. 

Oliver, for his part, just stares  into space, grinning hugely. 

My heart twists. It’s not right. 

Bat-Mite rolls his eyes at my emotion. “Oh, still going all sympy-wympy on Cousin Oliver, are we?!” He grins like a loon. “Well then! now you can be stuck with him forever!”

I feel chains clasp around my wrists and ankles, as Bat-Mite forces my body into my chair. Less than a foot away, on a stage, is Oliver, but he’s changed.

Oliver’s face distorts and he begins to grow more deformed. He begins to sing about 

Throwing money at the corporate executives. He’s on the part about money when I lift my hand a bit. 

“Bat-Mite?”

“Yeah?” He snickers.

“Can you lengthen the chains on my arm a bit? And bring Oliver closer to me.”

Bat-Mite smirks. He thinks he knows what I’m going to do.

“Oliver! Your audience has a surprise for you!” 

Oliver makes a noise that sounds like a dying bear and a lunatic before shambling to me.

I do something he doesn’t expect.

I place my hand on his shoulder. I was supposed to just watch him. Or, as Bat-Mite appears to hoped, punch him in the face.

He looks at me in surprise, but he doesn’t shake away my touch.

“I never knew Cousin Oliver.” I whisper. “I was born long after he was gone.”

“Well, if you think that we were wrong about him,” Bat-Mite cackles from somewhere nearby, “Then you’re in for a surprise!” 

If he expected me to cringe and back away in fear, he’s dreadfully mistaken. I stand my ground and close my eyes.

“I don’t know much about the brady bunch, Oliver,” I whisper. “But I know that it was about a family of ordinary people. And I know that family is always changing. You’re just an ordinary kid, aren’t you, Oliver?”

Oliver nods quietly. He begins to return to himself, as he truly was.

The bubble bursts. I always had the power to escape, but that would mean leaving Oliver with his tormentor, which is unacceptable. 

Oliver looks dazed, but his eerie robotic effect is gone. The ordinary little boy I knew he was is here. 

Oliver looks around. “Wh-where am I?!”

“Oliver,” I say softly, trying to get his attention.

He squirms back. 

“Ahh! Stranger Danger! Who are you?!” He screams, as he looks around at 2011

Malibu, as far from a fifties suburb as they come.

The eight year old boy begins to sob in confusion, as only eight year old children can.

I kneel down infront of him.

  “I can help you,” I explain. I’m vaguely aware of Bat-Mite dropping a hydrogen bomb on us, but without even turning around, I turn it into a pomegranate  and chuck it into the ocean.  

“I want my mommy,” He whimpers. 

“Ssshhhh,” I whisper. “Don’t worry. Just let me help you,”

“Take me to mommy,”

“Soon,” I answer, as soothingly as I can. “Soon, kid. Don’t worry.”

He buries his head into my stomach. I think about how much of an ordinary child he is, how he was always intended to be, regardless of the show or where or when he was added. I think about how much I want to protect him. 

A bubble forms around him. “Trust me, OK?” I say. He nods. Between me and Bat-Mite, there is little conflict in his choice.

With Oliver safe for the time being, I turn back to Bat-Mite, who is just in the middle 

of preparing to slam a chainsaw on my head. Since I’m really sick of this, I just poof it away

without ceremony.

“BATMITE! You have to stop this, NOW!” I yell. “I may not know Oliver enough to be a fan of him, but I know from the bottom of my heart that I am NOT a fan of murdering innocent children because some immature adults decided to blame them for everything they went wrong! Oliver Tyler died in a car-crash,” (I make sure the bubble around Oliver becomes soundproof, so he doesn’t have to hear) “And that nobody saved him because of you!  You turned his family against him! People like you ostracised him! A little boy! Introduced in the middle of a season with the fate of the show set!”

“They weren’t his family! He wasn’t real!”

“If he’s NOT REAL, THEN WHY DOES HIS PAINFUl, LONELY DEMISE MATTER SO MUCH TO YOU!?”

Bat-Mite just stares at me. He’s completely at a loss. 

I finally have him on the ropes.  But I can’t rest now. I have to drive it home, before he bounces back. 

“If they weren’t his family, then how do you know that Batman is your hero?” I say. “You’re a fictional character too.”

“That’s different! I am a well accepted part of the canon!”

“Well, even if he’s not, he looks, talks, and acts like a kid to me,” I say, pointing at him. “I could argue that Batman is secretly just a loon in a mental hospital and that every single story is just through his eyes of madness. Would that become the truth, if everyone believed it?”

“NOBODY WOULD BELIEVE IT!!!” Bat-Mite screams at me. “DESECRATOR!”

“How do you know that Batman isn’t just a man with a wonderful wife and daughter who he loves, and that this cold world where children and young women being murdered is celebrated-”

“THEY’RE NOT CHILDREN!” Bat-Mite screams. He is ripping the world apart, through the reality-warping equivalent of a massive temper tantrum. 

But I keep a little piece safe, and the people of this world float and forget this strange twisting of dimensions.

Because I am the one telling this story. I cannot be touched if I don’t let him. And the little boy in my care won’t be, either. Or the ones whose heads Batman is messing with. Because I can NEVER let a child be hurt. This is more important then TV.

“I MADE THEM!” Bat-Mite cries, one last desperate plea to convince me to leave them to suffer at his hands.   “Oh, you did, did you? They don’t seem to know you even exist.”

“They couldn’t! I needed to keep absolute secrecy-oooohhh...” He turns away in a gesture of petulant defeat.

I don’t fully trust him, no matter what his motives are at this point, so I don’t lower any boundaries.

Knock, Knock. I turn and see Oliver trying to get my attention, politely knocking on the bubble’s shield like the relic of a bygone era.

I let him out into my bigger bubble. 

He skids up to me. “Miss? Can I go home now?”

I look at him, and I feel sad, because none of this needed to happen.

 None of this was his fault; not in the past, and not in the present. 

And even if it was, taking it all out on him wouldn’t do jack. 

“Please Miss,” Oliver says, mistaking my hesitation for refusal. “You said you would help me. And I really want to go home.”

My eyes sting. “Of course you do, Oliver. Of course you do,”

I close my eyes, and, far away from Bat-Mite’s prying eyes, he’s home, with family who will truly take care of him. His parents came home.

Bat-Mite howls. His favorite punching bag of all is gone. He’ll never find him. I’ll never let him find him, not when he has murder and hate on his mind, when he seeks to blame an innocent instead of growing up and seeing the flipside.

The world of storytelling can be hard to define. What’s popular is not always right. What’s right is not always popular. Sometimes the crowd refuses to accept a bit of cannon, sometimes reality just clashes to hard, sometimes-and sometimes there is just far too much at stake to not stand firm for your own beliefs. 

“No more dead kids,” I whisper.

Bat-Mite blows a raspberry at me.

  I grab Punchichi just before Batman deals the final reality wiping blow. He’s here with me. 

“Put ‘em up!” He yells. “I can take you!”

I reach into my pocket and throw a white hankie into the air; a sign of surrender. Then I kneel down and smile at him. “Hi, Punchichi,” I say.

He stares up at me. “Who are you?” 

So sweet. So happy. Bat-Mite was counting on everyone being too wrapped up in themselves to see the character for who he was made to be.

“Don’t worry, Punchichi,” I tell him. “It’ll be OK. I just really wanted to meet you. You look so much like someone I know. I love him so much. I love how happy and noble and brave he was. I know you’ll be a great hero. I know you have the right heart.” 

I touch his forehead, remembering every time Scrappy did something like crash through a solid wall or something noble or a heart-melting moment with him and Scooby. Now he has the puppy power too.

And then I bring in Kiki Wayne and Helen Wayne to my safe, safe bubble where nobody has to get hurt. 

“This is Kiki,” I tell him.

The two children squeal at the sight of eachother.

“A puppy?!” Kiki exclaims.

“A neighbor?!” 

And just like that, they’re friends. 

I smile. It’s nothing like the Batman that anyone knows, but it’s beautiful in its own way to me. Innocent and joyful and full of so much potential. Not worth being created only to be thrown away. “Have fun, you two,”

They both grin at me. Bat-Mite thought of them, but he didn’t care about them. I won’t let him hurt them.

Next is Batman’s wife. 

 “Thank you for existing,” I say. “Thanks for being a good mom and a good companion to Batman. You must have done something right for him to develop as a character.” 

She just looks at me. Oliver, Kiki, and Punchichi, with the child-like innocence, accepted me and thus, I could reach them.

“Who are you?” She asks. She has taken a fighting stance. She need not be worried. I’ll be brief.

“A friend,” I close my eyes. She’s not gone. She’s safe, where she can raise her cherished daughter in peace. 

Punchichi and Ace are there too. Children do make a difference. But they are also the future. And no child should be treated as a tool of destruction. 

“C’mon, I needed the realism,” Bat-Mite pleads. Given his nature, he heard my inner musings. “If I had just made them into empty minions, then nobody would’ve hated them. It takes a brave soul to take down a child who needs to-”

“No! Nobody in their right mind kills children! Nobody! Zilch! Zap!” I say. “And you know, Bat-Mite, I didn’t ruin anything. The show was already ending. This was the finale. The fate of this show was already set in stone when you started work on it. Even if you hadn’t played any of your mind games with Batman, then the show still would have been cancelled. The cancellation was part of the story too. You didn’t actually break the fourth wall at all.”

“WHHA?! NO!!-So what was the point of this?!” Bat-Mite demands.

I give him a bittersweet smile. 

“Zilch.” I say.  “Zippo. Goose egg. Just writers messing around.”

He gawks at me, and I need to do one last thing. I send Bat-Mite somewhere, anywhere, I don’t care, I just don’t want him to be able to hurt anybody anymore.

I only have one thing left to settle.

Later, somewhere else 

“Batman.” I say. “I saw the show. I know it was  already ending. The family you were given was a red herring, the writers knew the show was ending.  I don’t know if Ambush Bug was lying to you, or if he was just another tool. But I know how happy you were to have a daughter. And I know that I don’t want you to be the kind of person who kills people for no reason. Even if you do it without guns.” 

He gives me a long look, trying to place my face, and when he realizes he can’t, I’ve already made a nice tough force field. Being the narrator can do a lot of things, but it can’t give me the skills to believably beat Batman in a one-on-one.

So he just continues to look at me.

 “Your daughter gave you the will to protect Gotham,” I said. “How do you know that wasn’t real?”

“She wasn’t mine,” “What about your wife? Did you even try to figure out if she was lying to you, or just as clueless a pawn as you were?”

“Was she?” Batman is quick to ask.

“No. She wasn’t. She was too kind to really be just a mindless puppet. Plus Bat-Mite is too lazy to actually put that much work into an illusion.” On this, Batman needs no convincing.

“Plus Bat-Mite is kinda messed up, so I don’t think that he could convincingly fake such well-adjusted individuals,” 

Batman nods. “He would know what they looked like, though…”

“So he could copy the inner workings, and let them be real, to trick you better,” I press.

“Batman, is your job to protect Gotham, or be a star on a TV show?” “But all of this is a TV show!” Batman said. “If that’s the only thing I can count on, then that should be the only thing that matters.”

“......Batman, hit me,”

“...No.”

“Because if you did, then I would crumple like a paper tiger, and that would be bad for me.” I smile at him. “None of that would matter if we weren’t real,” “...So, am I real?” “Your story is real. Just think about everything. It doesn’t have to go dark. The story goes on even when nobody’s looking. It lives on in time and fate. It lives on in the words and drawings that remain, even when nobody pays any attention to them. It lives on in the seeds of fate woven in the narrative, that softly point to the future. If you pander to people who willingly kill children, you are no better then if you mindlessly plow on for the sake of money.” 

“Batman, think about what it was like with your wife and your daughter. Don’t think about what the people watching felt, think about how you felt.” I’ve seen the episode. He loved them. He loved having worked past enough of his issues to have someone to protect. Punchichi’s skill with the surfboard and his companionship for Kiki was something any father and hero would want in a friend or a sidekick. And who cares how

flashy the new equipment is as long as it helps you do your job and protect them?

Batman gulps. “Helen...Kiki...can I get them back?”

“They’re both A-OK.”

Batman is quiet for a long time. “Can they ever forgive me?” “There’s only one way to find out,” I whisper. 

“Thank you…”

He’s not a puppet for fans of the corporation. He’s a fleshed out character who wants his family back, after having an established bond with them.

And now, he has some fences to mend. Choices to make.

I know no matter what happens, no matter what Mrs. Wayne chooses, everything will be OK. 

The kids are alright. Kiki will have her mom and Punchichi. Batman will not kill because random people tell him the fate of the world depends on it.

 And best of all, nobody had to die. 

Batman’s story lives on, maybe not in a way that makes the viewers happy, but in a way where Batman can grow, and isn’t just a toy in the hands of megafans. Oliver is reunited with his parents, the ones who truly cared about him.

It’s the best ending for me, and right now the story’s in my hands.

I feel happy.

And based on that, I can finally say, and they all lived happily ever after. 

[recentanimenews]

ESSAY: Recovery is on the Board in The Queen’s Gambit and March Comes in Like a Lion

Image via Netflix

  It wasn’t totally planned that I would watch The Queen’s Gambit so soon after I finished March Comes in Like a Lion. While I was still coming off the high of watching March (a series, in retrospect, I should have added to my Best of the Decade list), it’s not like I needed another tabletop game drama to watch. But Gambit’s buzz was beginning to stick in a way that I couldn’t ignore. What I was not expecting when I started was just how similar and emotionally resonant The Queen’s Gambit is to March Comes in Like a Lion, and how much I would find a personal bridge between the two.

    Before I see the comments: Yes, I know traditional chess and shogi are very different, both in their play style and the structure of their leagues. The two shows are also very different outlets, with March being a 44 episode series based on an ongoing manga where Gambit is a seven-episode series based on a singular novel. 

  However, within the first minutes of Gambit, I couldn’t ignore the similarities: Beth Harmon and Rei Kiriyama, both orphans who lose their families in a car crash, come to their respective games at a very young age, and find they have a particular knack for them. As they grow older, they are ostracized for their skills and backgrounds but still play the game for both a sense of accomplishment and, eventually, a way to pay the bills. They also both hold an incredible amount of trauma and a mental illness that impacts their daily lives. For Rei it’s depression, whereas for Beth it’s a drug and alcohol addiction.

While Beth and Rei struggle with their mental illnesses on separate levels, I have actually experienced them both — and in a more complementary way. I am now two years sober, but I have struggled with depression all my life, where alcohol acted as an accelerant device that fed the machine. Now, I’m not talented in anything like Rei and Beth, but their struggles were all so familiar: Rei waking up to mornings questioning himself what purpose there was to get up. Beth’s very early, illusionary support with alcohol. Even across shows and surface-level similarities, it all connected and hit closer to home more than I could have ever imagined.

  Image via Netflix

  Every sports-related show is about what each player brings to the game, but for Gambit and March, the matches on the board always seem much more intimate. As each game gives the characters a lot of time to just sit and think, they still need to use an incredible amount of mental power to focus on what’s going on in front of them as opposed to within themselves. 

  With Rei that weight comes from trying to carry on a notable Shogi family name, while also living on his own and continuing to be resented by the family’s children for taking their presumed mantles. Beth must support herself and her adoptive mother while managing her mom’s alcoholism, as well as her developing addiction. When each sits down for matches, it’s not just about climbing the ladder and wanting to become the best; It’s about actual survival and being able to put food on the table.

However, as both of them put so much on the line every time they play, that extended effort fuels their distinctive illnesses. Rei feels as though if Shogi is not in his life, there is not much else to keep him around, where Beth acts as though drugs and alcohol are the only substances that are keeping her skills up. That pressure builds up and often finds itself in the form of water, particularly in March. As the Shogi players stare at the board, they find themselves crashing against the waves and sinking down, with Rei at one point using a Shogi board as a buoy. Beth usually tries to find the bottom of a bottle.

    The characters around them are not immune to these behaviors and are often the catalysts for Rei and Beth to recognize them in the first place. And it’s particularly through their fellow players that Rei and Beth begin to gather a found family; Whether that’s Harunobu Nikaido, Rei’s self-proclaimed rival, calling out Rei’s early reckless playstyle and telling him to take care of himself or Harry Melling, Beth’s former competitor and on-and-off mentor (among other things), telling her the story of another young chess player who lived too fast while putting down the bottle of pills he found. 

  The two gather a community amongst those who share the passion for the game and their well-being. “You wanna know how the Russians are so good?” Benny Watts, a top chess player, asks Beth rhetorically. “It’s because they play together as a team.”

  Once they both find these support systems, it’s so incredibly valuable to how they carry themselves and their play. The Kawamoto sisters take in Rei as someone no different than a family member and nurture him through his highs and lows of the professional Shogi world, as well as Rei’s teacher Takashi Hayashida creating a Shogi club to show Rei how people are incredibly appreciative of his presence. Through Beth’s climb from Kentucky state to US champion, she goes through rounds of different perspectives and mentors, who all eventually help her strategize in her match against one of the best players in the world. 

  Chess and Shogi may be more isolated games once you sit down, but you still carry the thoughts and feelings of everyone who got you to the table.

    And as someone who is recovering, I cannot tell you how powerful it is to see that path as accomplishable. I know I cannot be “cured” of my depression, but seeing Rei finding his own ways, even slowly and subtlety, to manage his own illness and accepting that there is a future where he can be happy is invaluable. “Don’t tell me you haven’t accomplished anything,” Hayashida tells Rei. “You did your best! I saw it!”

  Beth, who has most of her life used substances as a crutch, is able to turn to the people who value her for that more solid support. Many times it comes as direct intervention, but it also appears through the saved newspaper clippings of her accomplishments, as well as previously lost connections. “I’m here because you need me to be here,” Jolene, Beth’s first friend at the orphanage, tells her. “Someday I might need you.” 

In the last episode of Gambit, Beth finds herself eating breakfast in a Russian hotel when a boy appears with a bottle and asks if she would like any vodka. And for the first time in a long while, she turns it down. She watches him walk away, slowly digesting that something has changed within her. Watching Beth refuse a drink for the first time after being offered is a feeling I remember well, and it’s a sense of accomplishment that’s hard to put into words.

  Image via Netflix

  While these stories may take place on separate sides of the planet, playing different games with two different people, both provide a commonality of recovery and what that future can look like. While I can’t claim that there is a “correct” path, it’s knowing that recovery, and bettering yourself, is achievable in the first place makes watching both of these shows such a valuable experience.

  There are many variations in the moves one can do in their respective games, but there is also one core mechanic: you keep moving the pieces forward. There may be times when you have to retreat, go a way you were not intending, or even think about your next move. But the optimal path is forward. Piece by piece. Step by step.

    Kyle Cardine is an Editor for Crunchyroll. You can find his Twitter here.

By: news+feed@crunchyroll.com

[fyeahwildfire]

Spirit Bound

Summary: Five years after, December 1991, you and Tony were left alone while Howard and Maria prepared to go away for a few days. Sadly, they died in a “car crash” in Long Island, leading you and Tony to grieve over their deaths. Sometime later, Jarvis also died, leaving you and Tony alone.

A few months later, Tony inherited Stark Industries and became the youngest CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Tony built a custom mansion for the both of you. With Tony making billions of dollars and living the playboy lifestyle, he spent less time with you.

Another five years later, you leave Tony and the mansion to pursue a life of your own. You traveled the world to train in the many forms of martial arts, even training in gymnastics, parkour, sword-fighting, and stealth. At the age of 19, through your martial arts training, you have become an expert on virtually all types of weaponry. You even became an expert markswoman, tracker, and hunter.

Pairing: Mortal Kombat x reader; Bucky x reader

Warning: swearing, time travel,

Character Powers: Telepathy and Telekinesis

A/N: Sorry for the long summary, but it was needed for the time jump. Also I rewrote this chapter. I hope you like it! 

Chapter 2

Bucky Pov

He felt your fear before. Heard your screams. Your nightmare pulsed into him, pulling him out of his own unconscious body. Images...yours, not his. The sound of bullets ringing. The sight of blood coating your fingers. It was all to vivid. Too real. Until the Winter Soldier reminded himself that it wasn’t his dream. He can’t dream in cryostasis.

All he can do is watch as you reminisce the death of your mother. He didn’t know why or how he was able to see inside your nightmares and reality. Some part of him wanted to reach out and comfort you, but he didn’t think you would be able to feel him. So instead he just watches, hoping you would wake.

“You aren’t there anymore.” Winter Soldiers whispers, as he has seen this nightmare before.

He noticed your frantic breathing had slowed. Did you hear him? This is the first time he had said anything.

“Wake up.” He tested.

Suddenly, your eyes fluttered open and all he could see was darkness. He saw you reach for the lamp on your nightstand, it glowed dimly. He could make out a dresser, mirror, closet, and a chair across the room. He felt your emotions calm down.

You rose from your bed and made your way to the bathroom. Turning on the light, he studied you. He sighed with relief as your color had returned.

He had become concerned with your well-being a few months ago, as you were paler and dark circles hung under your eyes. You also had multiple bruises, which caught his attention.

Curiously, he found out that you were obsessed with finding the Red Dragon clan, more importantly Daegon. He watched as you traveled all around the world, fueled by the loss of your parents. 

He saw you in Tibet, where you trained in many forms of martial arts under Shaolin monks. He saw you training in sword fighting, gymnastics and parkour. He saw you training stealth by a master in the Hida Mountains, in Japan.

All of this he had seen behind your eyes. He knew what you were doing. You were using your pain as a motivator. You were preparing yourself to go against the clan that murder your mother. If he could stop you, he would. He didn’t want you to commit murder. He didn’t want you to taint your soul.

Looking into the mirror, you squinted your eyes as if you noticed something within your eyes. He was here. You could always feel him within you. This was however the first time you had ever heard his voice.

He watched as you stared at your right forearm, written on your inner forearm was the name James Buchanan Barnes. He wondered who he was to you? Was he your lover? He didn’t know or understand what this fiery feeling that burned through his veins was.

“Soulmate or not. It’s not fair that you can pry into my life.” You shook your head.

He remained silent as he didn’t know what to say. Soulmate? What did you mean by that? Was he yours? That couldn’t be possible since, he was a weapon…a soldier of Hydra. There were no soulmates, where he came from. Were there?

Images…not yours, but his. He’s remembering little pieces of his old life.

He remembers his mother telling him a story about soulmates. Soulmates were known to be sacred. His mother would tell him that he was lucky to have a soulmate as not many people did. 

He had not one, but two soulmates. She told him that the two special people written on his arms was solely his from the moment they were born until their dying breath. 

Steven Grant Rogers and Y/n L/n.

Before he even knew it, he was slipping from your mind. He tried grasping onto you as he was afraid to return to his unconscious body. You made him feel safe. His memories just started coming back, he didn’t want to forget Steven and Y/n. He continued to struggle, but it was useless as his consciousness was slowly being swallowed by darkness.

1 year later...

You had fallen asleep as soon as your head hit the pillows on your bed. You had a long day of training with Maseo, a man who taught you how to fight with the soultaker sword. 

You came into possession of it a month ago, you searched high and low to find the weapon that everyone desired. The weapon that was the cause of your families destruction. 

Anyone sane would have left it buried where it was but you, you were not like anyone. It called to you and bonded with you unlike your predecessors.

This was your way of life now. Far away from home and your brother Tony. Not like he cared as he was too preoccupied living his playboy lifestyle. 

You remember a time where he actually genuinely cared, played with you, and taught you all about robotics. You missed those days. You missed him.

You drift off into a deep sleep and don’t even notice that you were enveloped into a portal. It didn’t take long for you to realize you were no longer in your bed. You opened your eyes and immediately went into a fighting stance. You looked around and found yourself standing before the Elder Gods. However, you had no knowledge as to who they were.

You look down to find yourself in a white sheer dress with a double slit, underneath was a nude bra and panty. You don’t remember wearing this outfit in particular. You remember wearing a sweater and sweat pants as it was cold in the Himalayas. 

“What the hell…Where am I?” You asked, as you looked around and used your telepathic ability to sense if you were still on Earth. Nope. Apparently not since you can’t seem to read anything. Not even the freaky people looking down at you. “Who are you? Why am I here?”

“We are the Elder Gods, child. We have summoned you, daughter of Y/M/N, because we need your help or rather Raiden needs your help.” The female Elder God replied calmly.

Raiden. You heard that name before. That was a long time ago though. Your mother had told you stories about Raiden, he was supposedly a thunder god. Which you found humorous as Thor was known to be God of Thunder, but then again he was probably a myth. 

You couldn’t understand why Raiden needed you and how did these Elder gods know your mother? Where were they when you were both attacked by Red Dragon clan? Why didn’t they help your mother?

“Raiden? Why would he need my help?” You take a step forward and clench you fists. “You know what. Screw you. I’m not helping. Where were you and Raiden when my mother was attacked?”

“Unfortunately, we cannot interfere. Raiden has been tasked in keeping Earthrealm safe from Outworld attacks. Your mother was a great warrior, who carried the weight and burden of the Soultaker’s location. Now that it is your possession, you must uplift your families sacred duty to protect it from those corrupted and evil.” Another Elder God speaks, his voice sounds light.

“Earthrealm is in grave danger. Raiden is the last defense in keeping Shao Kahn out of Earthrealm.”

The Elder gods show you an image of failed Earthrealm warriors, there were so many corpses scattered across the once sacred grounds. Limbs hanging from various places and blood staining the Earth. Vultures feeding from the deceased.

 At the top, Raiden is fighting against the evil ruler Shao Kahn, but you can see he is failing. Raiden sits in a kneeling position in front of Shao Kahn, he’s clutching his shattered amulet.

“Yes, pray to the worms, Raiden.” Shao Kahn mocks.

You see Raiden starting to chant, “Elder Gods, please hear me. I beseech you give us another chance! A chance to change this fate! Send us an aid.”

You see Shao Kahn bring down his war hammer to kill Raiden. Raiden lifts his head, lightning sparks envelop his body. “He must win.” Are his last words.

You close your eyes, not being able to witness such a death.

“Shao Kahn plans to move his forces to take over Earthrealm. If he succeeds we will not be able to save your people. Many will die.”

“Then why haven’t you intervened?” You cross your arms and raise your brow.

“Shao Kahn has not violated the rules of Mortal Kombat.”

“What? Are you blind? You just showed me that he’s invading Earth! He just killed Raiden!” You shift and look around the many faces of Elder Gods.

“Invasion is not itself a transgression. It is the merger of realms that is proscribed.”

You throw your hands in the air, “Are you kidding me? It’s the same damn thing. People will die!”

“It is regrettable. But the Mortal Kombat tournaments are not intended to prevent certain outcomes. They are intended only to maintain balance among the realms.”

You place your hand on your forehead, frustrated by these so called Gods. How could they think Earth was not worth saving? Regrettable, my ass. You thought. If you could, you would punch them in their uptight faces.

You take a deep breath to calm your anger, “Then what the hell do you expect me to do? How can I help Raiden? I’m not a hero. I’m not a god.”

“You will be sent back in time to help Raiden and the Earthrealm warriors.”

“And do what? Use my telekinesis to take Shao Kahn’s head out of his ass.” You paced around the floor, getting more irritated with these gods. You silently thank these were not the gods you prayed to.

“You will help guide them into making the right choices.”

You drop your head, thinking how ridiculous and vexing they were. How were you going to help them in making the right choices? You were still trying to figure your life out. Hell, you made a few horrible decision in the past and learned to not make those same mistakes.

“And if I fail?”

The female Elder God showed you another image, your world in ruins. Earth has returned to the dark ages. People run for their lives as others are murdered by Outworld people. You gasp as you see your brother Tony being outnumbered and murdered in front of your eyes. Tears stream down your face. This wasn’t real. Was it?

“This isn’t real. My brother isn’t dead.”

“No. At least not yet. You can still stop this from happening. You have the chance to save those you love.” The female Elder spoke softly.

There was no other choice, you had to save Tony or at least die trying. He was the only family you had left aside from your other two brother’s whom you had never met.

“Alright, fine. I’ll do it.”

“Tell Raiden, “The Grand Champion of Mortal Kombat shall be Earthrealms salvation or the cause of its destruction.”

“Do you understand?”

You nod which causes the Elder Gods to smile.

“You are their last hope, Y/N L/n-Stark.” The female Elder God used her powers to send you back in time.

Lui Kang and Raiden had arrived on the island, they quickly notice a bright light coming from the woods. Curious they both check to see where the light came from. 

They were met with a sight of you floating in the air, completely unconscious. Gently you were lowered down to the ground by an invisible force. 

Lui Kang and Raiden rush over to your aid.

“Who is she? What is she doing out here, Lord Raiden?” Lui Kang knelt by your side.

His eyes roamed your body, inspecting to see if you were wounded. He was relieved to see you had no wounds. However, he noticed the soulmate tattoo on your forearm. James Buchanan Barnes. He averted his eyes from your inner forearm as it was private and intimate. 

He immediately blushes as the sheer white dress gave a good glimpse of your athletic body. He averts his eyes quickly before you wake.

You open your eyes and groan in discomfort, “I hate time traveling. I think I’m going to be sick.”

You suppress the vomit rising from your throat as you notice you are not alone. You whirl around to meet the faces of two unfamiliar people. 

One wears a white robe and a blue vest, his face shadowed by a straw hat. The other was bare chested, had red and black pants, Kung Fu slippers, shaggy black hair, and a red headband.

“Are you alright?” Raiden asks, while he sees you slowly rising onto your feet.

You tilt your head and look at the both of them. You use your telepathy to figure out who these two strangers were. Lui Kang and Raiden. 

You take a deep breath, “The Grand Champion of Mortal Kombat shall be Earthrealms salvation or the cause of its destruction.”

Both of them look at each other and then you.

“I was told by the Elder Gods to give you this message.” You shrug as you look around the woods. How far back in the past were you? 

You look down to see if you were still wearing that ridiculous dress. Damn it. You were gonna need to change clothes and soon.  

“So you are the aid the Elder Gods have sent.” Raiden says, he remembers a vision his future-self had sent him. He had asked for aid to help them defeat Shao Kahn.

“Lord Raiden who is this girl?” Lui Kang asked from beside, his eyes remained locked on your face. He dare not look anywhere else, in fear you would scold him.

“My name is Y/N L/N-Stark. I am the daughter of Y/M/N, a former Earthrealm warrior of Mortal Kombat.” You place your hands together and bow slightly to show respect. “I am from the future.”

Lui Kang eyes widen in shock, “The future?”

You nod, “I know it’s a bit complicated.”

“So, what you told me is true.” Lui Kang looked to Raiden.

“Yes, the Elder Gods have given us a hero to help guide us.”

Hero? No. That’s not exactly who you were. You were just someone who was willing to protect her own brother from his fate, you couldn’t lose Tony. Despite being at odds with him, you still loved him. He was your family after all. But… you would happily take the title.

[blancheludis]

Tagging: @tokky231

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 20/?, Words: 110.711

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

—

Sticking to his notes during a press conference is all nice and good, but that is not enough to prevent further disasters if they allow questions from the audience after the actual statement is over. It does not matter how clever Tony twists his words or how vague he keeps his answers, someone will always get under his skin. And if it is not a single voice in the crowd, it is the thundering mass of them, full of comments and questions cutting enough to topple empires.

Tony endured his first interview when he was only four years old. He has learned to navigate them. That does not mean he will ever get used to them either.

This conference was supposed to be about the new directions they are taking Stark Industries. About their communication program with the plan to develop their own smartphone, and the vague idea of going into green energy.

They all soak that up happily, speculating about the continued stock crash or whether Tony, as the former wunderkind, can pull off another miracle. That is not why they are here, though, why they are watching him with gleaming eyes. They do not want feasible business plans or promises for new jobs. They are simply here for Tony’s personal tragedy.

“We are making advances in green energy because even as my father started this company, human lives have been important,” Tony says, keeping his tone firm and serious as if all of this is already a done deal. “Back then, weapons were needed, but today, we hope to walk into a brighter future together.”

He barely hears the smattering of applause, too busy searching for the trouble makers, the faces twisted with the anticipation of causing mayhem, while hoping to see him flinch.

“Mr. Stark,” a man close to the front is calling out. “What about the rumours that your CFO, Obadiah Stane, has been selling weapons to terrorists?”

It does not surprise Tony that the entire world knows about this business by now. There is no such thing as a quiet scandal, not with the FBI swarming his tower. Everybody has been looking at them closely ever since he announced the end of their weapons manufacturing.

“I cannot comment on a running investigation, and Mr. Stane is currently unavailable.” That earns him a few laughs, although there is no mistaking the hunger behind them. “I can assure you, however, that Stark Industries is doing everything in its power to make sure none of our products are given or remain in the hands of enemies of the state.”

Too late, he notices that is as good as an admission of guilt. He rolls with it, keeping his head high and his expression clear.

“Do you really want to pretend you had nothing to do with Stark Industries’ crooked deals?” a woman shouts. He knows her. Christine Everhart. Likes to hit where it hurts. She looks hungry in a way that tells Tony it does not matter what he answers her. She has her mind made up and he will always be the villain in it.

“I did not know and I still do not the extent of any such possible dealing,” Tony says anyway, looking her right in the eyes, cataloguing every frown and scoff. “I am sure that there is not just a single perpetrator, but I would have never abided with a scheme that goes so fundamentally against the company policy that my father instated when he founded Stark Industries.”

Howard, despite his many flaws, has been a patriot. Even if Tony’s entire world has been turned upside down, he is not going to believe anyone telling him his father knew about this and let it happen.

Everhart apparently wants to see him bleed for she leans forward, preparing for another question. “Mr. Stane is your godfather. Do you –”

“Let me stop you right there,” Tony cuts her off unapologetically. “If the allegations against Mr. Stane are proven to be true, he is not considered family anymore by me or anyone working with Stark Industries.”

That if, of course, is purely for the public’s benefit. Despite his own warring thoughts where it comes to Obadiah, Tony does not think of him as family anymore already. How could he, when everything Obadiah has ever done was lie to him?

The excited murmur of the crowd and the flashing of cameras in front of him suddenly become too much. He is used to this, he should be able to handle a press conference full of hurtful questions without losing any sleep over it. He cannot, however. Not today. Not with how badly he is sleeping. Not with Obadiah still on the run and Tony seeing him lurking in every shadow.

“We are taking no further questions,” Tony says and takes an abrupt step backwards to underline his point.

He watches the group of reporters move like a hungry beast in front of him, rearing its head in disappointment at being denied its prey. Some of them will want to strike nonetheless, always out for blood.

Thor comes up next to him and escorts Tony off the stage, ignoring the cacophony of calls and questions behind them. He cannot make out any details but there is a recurring choir of How and Stane and accusations. He does not need to hear the exact wording for them to cut deep.

He is tired. These things used to be easier when he did not give a damn, when he flashed smiles and nodded all their outrageous questions away, not ashamed of his entire life being a scandal. That was when he was out drinking all night, being seen with new people hanging off his arm every day. That was when he did not have bigger things to worry about than his own amusement.

As soon as he is inside the car and the noise cuts off, Tony sighs in relief. A headache is building that he just knows he is not going to be able to avoid.

His phone buzzes, but Tony does not want to know who it is. Probably Pepper asking about why he has bowed out so quickly. She might be concerned about the company, but she worries about him too. Perhaps it is more bad news, though, and Tony could really do without that.

When it buzzes again, he pulls it out of his pocket and throws it carelessly on the seat next to him, staring resolutely in the other direction. Whatever it is, it can wait until he has gotten his breath back.

A moment later, Thor slides into the driver’s seat but turns around to Tony before he starts the engine.

“Are you all right?”

That is a question Tony has a definite answer to, but one he cannot possibly say out loud without ruining whatever composure he is still clinging to. A simple press conference should not hit him so hard. These people and their opinions mean nothing to him. Yet, their collective readiness to condemn him is like a festering wound he cannot top prodding.

It reminds him that he is not free of Obadiah, and perhaps never will be. He cannot simply cut out a part of his life just because it hurts. He cannot forget the years of trusting a man who was holding a knife behind his back all this time.

Instead of answering, Tony says, “I need a cheeseburger.”

He is not sure where that comes from, but his entire body reacts to the very thought of it. His stomach, which was until now occupied with fighting nausea, growls in sudden interest. Cheeseburgers remind him of college, of going out with Rhodey when they both needed a break from studying, of greasy fingers and happier days.

“We can order something in when we’re back at the tower,” Thor replies and Tony does not need to look up to know he is frowning.

“No,” he decides firmly, against all logic. “I don’t want to hide away in my penthouse while the police tear apart my company some floors down. I want to sit down on a sticky plastic bench in a rundown diner and eat an honest-to-god American cheeseburger.”

What he truly wants is to not be himself for a few hours. And slipping on sunglasses and tipping some lucky waiter an enormous amount of money so they will treat him like any other customer is the closest he can get to that at the moment.

“Since I am responsible for your safety, I must advise against that,” Thor says. He has still not started the car which Tony counts as a victory for some reason.  

“Since I’m your employer, I get veto power,” Tony counters, managing a light tone that he hopes does not convey how very desperate he is to not return to the tower right now.

Looking sternly at him through the back mirror is apparently not enough anymore, so Thor turns around and studies him for a long moment. Tony does not want to know what he sees. Make-up that does not cover his exhaustion from this close. The rough patches where he has bitten his lips bloody again and again over the past days.

Whatever it is, Thor gives in with a sigh. “As long as you don’t tell Pepper.”

It is an illusion that she will not find out, of course, but Tony simply nods happily. Nothing matters as long as he gets away for a few hours.

---

They choose a random diner, out of their way, with no prior connection to Tony. That is the compromise on which Thor allows them to stop. They do not make a Google search, they do not ask for directions. It is just a random stop on a random route. Nobody could know where they are. Nobody could have prepared for this. Despite Thor’s grumbling, they are going to be safe. Killing a man while he is eating a cheeseburger is most likely high treason, anyway.

Thor circles the block another time to make sure they were not followed before he parks the nondescript car, having refused to take any of Tony’s flashier ones.

When Tony opens the car door, he can almost smell the cheeseburger in the air already and feels the tension drain out of him in anticipation. They have not made a single step towards the door of the diner, when Thor perks up and then moves faster than Tony can react, pulling them both down to the ground.

That is when the first shot rings through the air.

Tony ducks behind the car, clinging to the arm Thor is holding before his chest for a moment. With his back pressed against the metal, he breathes, trying to dissuade whether his heart is racing too loudly or whether they are still getting shot at. Pieces of glass surround him that originate from the know broken car window right above him. If they had shot a moment earlier or aimed a little more carefully, Tony might already be dead.

How could they have known? Surely, Thor would have noticed if someone had come after them, which means they must have tracked Tony somehow.

Next to him, Thor moves to peer up over the car, which is followed by another gunshot. Tony flinches violently. He cannot believe his life has turned into this.

“We need to get out of here,” Tony hisses, his voice comically high. He feels panic settling in, grabbing for his heart with an icy hand, squeezing until his breath is shallow and too fast.

Thor shifts, turning his attention mostly on Tony for a second. “You need to stay low.” He looks so calm, Tony is profoundly glad to have someone that familiar close-by. At the same time, it does not help at all to see Thor handling this as if it happens every day, while he is losing his mind.

They need to alert someone, need to call the police. Tony reaches for his phone but finds his pockets empty. Of course, he left it in the car because he wanted to be unavailable for a few short hours. He wanted to avoid being alerted of any new emergencies. Fate must be laughing at him right now.

All is silent for a few precious seconds, in which Thor gets out his gun. The click when he releases the safety is almost as deafening as another shot. Mostly without looking where he is aiming at, Thor fires once himself, then chances another look. His expression, when he sits down again, is grim.

Tony’s brain, which is slowly regaining the ability to think instead of simply cowering, calculates the odds of Thor being able to keep whoever has been following them off with just the few bullets in that gun and no real vantage point. Their chances are not looking so good.

“Nothing is keeping them from closing in on us if they think we can’t defend us,” Tony says, trying to come up with a way they can get at least to the diner without being riddled with bullets on their way there. Although that would put civilians in danger, and Tony is not ready to add that to his conscience.

Thor does not pay him attention as he is trying to adjust the side mirror of the car to help him see what is going on. “And we can’t defend us if we don’t have cover.”

That is true to a certain point. One car, while being sturdy and at least bigger than Tony’s usual vehicle choices, will not keep them safe for long.

When his eyes fall on the way Thor’s fingers curl almost elegantly around his weapon, with nothing of the urgency Tony feels, he has an idea.

“Do you have another gun?” he blurts. Another magazine or two would be helpful too. He wonders whether there is a bodyguard protocol for being ambushed in a parking lot with an employer. If so, he would love to be clued in on it.

“What?” Thor abandons the mirror and looks at Tony, his gaze heavy but at the same time reassuring enough that Tony can take a deep breath and calm himself into thinking more rationally.

“Another gun,” he repeats with some urgency. “I used to make them, remember? I know how to use them too.”

Howard thought it would be a proper bonding experience to take his five-year-old son to the shooting range. While it did not help their relationship at all, it helped take Tony’s fear of the weapons they were building. He has shot at targets plenty of times. This is different, of course, but he will feel much safer with the means to defend himself.

“Have you ever shot at someone?” Thor asks. It does not sound like it is meant to discourage, just like he is carefully calculating whether the risk of getting another gun will be worth the benefit.  

It is questionable whether they will even see more than shadows shooting at them, so the chances of Tony actually hitting something are rather low.

“I’ll schedule my moral crisis for later,” Tony replies. His tone is just a little shaky.

Relief floods him when Thor nods. “It’s under the backseat. Stay where you are and take mine for the time being.”

Within nary a second, Thor hands his gun over to Tony, which weighs more than it has any right to, more than it ever did on the range, Scolding himself for his reaction, he tightens his grip around it, carefully angling it away from himself, ready to turn around and use it.

Meanwhile, Thor moves closer to Tony to be able to open the backdoor. Instead of just reaching in, it looks like he is about to climb into the car. Tony’s hand shoots out and holds him back, gripping the fabric of Thor’s shirt hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“You can’t go into the car,” he says. It is a hiss more than a tempered argument- Even the few feet it would take Thor away from Tony and further within reach of the attackers are too much.

As if in answer, more shots ring out, making Tony flinch.

With a patience that does not fit their situation, Thor faces Tony. “I can’t hold them off on my own either.”

There is nothing Tony can say to that. It was his idea, but Thor has obviously come to the same conclusion that only one gun and no way to properly aim at whoever has come for them are far from ideal circumstances.

Tony nods tersely and watches as Thor slowly moves into the car while trying to not expose himself. He thinks about simply shooting over the car, but does not want to startle Thor or waste their precious bullets, so he stays quiet, waiting for some kind of resolution for this.

“Get my phone too,” he tells Thor in an urgent whisper as if their attackers are going to hear.

With his phone, he can call JARVIS who will send help and maybe find out more about who is pinning them down. If there is a camera nearby, he could even find out where they are. That would probably take too long, but Tony can dream of being helpful in any way while cowering against the side of his car, while waiting for Thor to emerge from it again.

It is taking too long. Looking at the gun in his hand, Tony attempts to calm his shaking fingers. Then he glances around the side of the car, too quickly to offer a good target. He does not see anything either, but another shot rips through the air. The bullet hits the pavement a few feet to Tony’s side but he knows how to take a warning. He stares at the hole it has left, unable to tear his eyes away.

Finally, Thor comes back out, clutching a gun and a full magazine in one hand and Tony’s phone in the other. He leaves the phone at Tony side before settling back against the car. He breathes more heavily than that manoeuvre warrants, especially since he still seems too calm. Only now does Tony notice that Thor moves strangely carefully like he has bruises. Beneath the suit jacket, he catches a hint of red.

“You’re bleeding,” Tony says, the words leaving his mouth before their meaning catches up with him.

Red means blood means Thor has been shot. He is going to have to watch a friend die right next to him before Obadiah’s men inevitably take him or kill him too.

“It’s nothing,” Thor says, although he does not quite manage to keep his tone even. “I’m not going to pass out on you.”

That does not help to calm Tony down at all. His mind turns from blank and frightened to racing and terrified. Thor is bleeding and there is nothing Tony can do. They are pinned down and exposed.

“You were shot,” Tony says, high-pitched and not even trying to stay calm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Now that he has seen it, Tony cannot look away from the spot of read spreading over Thor’s side. Shifting, Thor tucks his jacket over it, but Tony does not think he will ever get that red out of his vision again.

“We’re a bit preoccupied at the moment if you hadn’t noticed,” Thor says, an urgency in his tone that finally reaches Tony.

No time to panic, Tony tells himself, even while his breathing turns shallow and his knuckles turn white around his phone and the gun. He needs to think of something. Something that will get them out of here and Thor into a hospital. Something that will end this.

He exhales, glances up at the splintered car windows as if he needs the reminder that this is real.

“All right,” Tony then says, much calmer than he feels. He turns to Thor, carefully keeping his eyes away from the wound. “Shoot at them. Don’t show yourself and you don’t need to be too accurate about it. I need a few moments.”

“What?”

Thor is not going to like this plan. Tony does not like it himself, but Thor’s wound does not leave them with many options. They definitely do not have the time to argue about it.

“Just do it,” Tony says and gets to work.

With practised movements, Tony takes his phone apart and gets out the sim card before putting it back together. He really should have invested in a portable panic button, but for now, this will have to do. Pulling off his left shoe, he hides the card inside his sock. It is far from a good hiding place but he does not have a fake tooth at hand or time to sew the card into his clothes.

He slides the phone over to Thor before looking up at him. This plan, he knows, is pure madness, but the occasional shot is not going to keep the bad guys from closing in much longer. The police might be right around the corner – someone has hopefully alerted them by now – but they do not have time. Thor is bleeding but alive for now. Tony wants to keep it that way.

“I need you to play dead,” Tony says, his voice a careful monotone. He keeps his eyes on his phone for a moment longer, unable to meet Thor’s gaze.  

“What are you talking about?” Thor asks, his incredulity mixed with just a hint of pain. That only reassures Tony that this has to be done.

Taking a deep breath, he elaborates. “I’m going to surrender and –”

“Like hell you will,” Thor cuts him off. The sharpness of his voice mollifies Tony somewhat, even if it does not actually make him reconsider. “This is what you hired me for. We won’t have to hold out for much longer.”

Tony refrains from asking how much longer Thor can hold out, Already, his mind is throwing numbers about gunshot wounds at him. Also, he does not think for a moment that their attackers do not know too that help must be on the way. They will hardly wait that long.

“I don’t think they want to kill me right here.” They could have thrown a small grenade or taken a higher calibre to shoot right through the car. Obadiah will not profit from a public execution and he has shown that he does not care for casualties. At least that is what Tony has to believe to get his legs to work.

“I have the chip, so JARVIS can track me. If you play dead, they should leave you alone. And then they’ll lead you right to Obadiah.”

As far as plans go, this has more holes than their car at the moment. Despite the risk, Tony needs to get Thor out of here. He does not care whether he hired Thor as his bodyguard, whether he should be the one that gets protected here. Thor is a friend, and he is Bruce’s soulmate, and he deserves better than to die for Obadiah’s stupid vendetta against Tony.

“You can’t –” Thor says, but Tony does not let him get any farther.

“Thank you, Thor.” Tony manages a smile, glad that this horrible situation at least gave him another friend. “Don’t let them shoot you again.”

Not wasting any more time, Tony holds up the hand with the gun, biting his lip as he waits for the inevitable bullet. Nothing happens, so he raises the other one and then, slowly, gets to his feet.

“Tony,” Thor hisses but stays down. “Stop this madness.”

“I surrender,” Tony calls out instead of answering. He does not have to put any effort in sounding shaken. He steps to the side, fully exposing himself. The hand with the gun trembles terribly as he puts it down on the ground for everyone watching to see.

For a long moment, nothing happens and Tony is sure he has miscalculated. They might line up the perfect shot to take him out at once. Then, someone moves out from behind a car on the other side of the street. They are masked and clad in dark clothes. It is not Obadiah.

“Tell your little friend to come out too,” the man calls, sounding cocky and cruel in a way that promises nothing good for Tony’s immediate future.

“He’s –” Tony looks to the side but aborts the movement halfway through. He feels Thor’s glare bearing into him, but Tony guesses he is going to follow the plan since he remains quiet. “He’s stopped moving.”

The man contemplates that for a moment before he nods. He has likely realized that they will be able to take Thor out no matter what.

“Come over here.”

Tony does. It might be the stupidest thing he has ever done but he is still not hearing any sirens and he feels like Obadiah is within reach for the first time in weeks. He just wants all of this to be over.

He walks. Small steps. He is barely able to feel the ground beneath his feet, but he sets one foot in front of the other towards the man who has a gun pointed at him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see more movement now, more people coming out from behind cover. It looks like they really wanted to get him this time.

When Tony has almost reached his destination, he sees a sudden movement but by then it is too late to move out of the way. Something hits him in his upper arm. It was not a bullet, there is too little pain for that. Before he can reach up or take a step back, he feels his thoughts growing heavy and uncoordinated. Darkness wells up in front of his eyes. Then he is falling.  

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

A Girl’s Best Friend (Peter Parker x OC) - Part 19

Synopsis: Diamonds are man’s best friend- or dogs are girls’ best friends, wait… how does the saying go again?

Warnings: Family issues; Peter has a crush and it’s complicated; mention of assault; good dogs; College AU; aged up! characters; TONY STARK IS ALIVE AND WE ALL LIVE IN A HAPPY PLACE CALLED DENIAL

Word count: 3.8k

Part 18 <<< >>> Part 20

MASTERLIST

               He landed on the floor next to a screaming Emmeline; she fumbled around to try and see where he had been shot but the blood was flowing out, making his sweater stick to his skin.

“No, no, no, no,” she began chanting. “Peter, oh, my God. Peter, what do I do? Tell me what to do, oh, my God…” she rambled on, her eyes searching for something, anything she could use to press onto the wound to stop the bleeding. In the end, she used her own scarf. The silk immediately soaked up the blood. “Peter, talk to me!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he tried to reassure her, looking at his own side to evaluate the severity of the damage.

               Fuck, it hurt. It hurt like a real bitch! He couldn’t let it show though, because Emmeline’s level of panic entirely depended on his.

               The other two men began to yell things about this not being part of the plan, that no one was supposed to get shot. The shooter didn’t seem to mind much; in fact, he seemed to be the head of their little squad. The sirens sounded a lot closer already, and they were packing up. The man Peter had taken a bullet for was now huddled in a corner, pants wet.

               The police burst through the doors before the last of the men could escape through the back, but Emmeline was too focused on Peter to pay attention to their surroundings at this point.

“Hold on, kid,” a police officer told them. “An ambulance is on its way.”

               Peter froze, eyes wide staring into Emmeline’s.

“No, no Em, listen, I can’t go to the hospital!” he told her, sounding like he was the one panicking now that they were mostly out of danger. He tightened his grip on her hand to gain her attention. “I can’t.”

“You have a bullet in your stomach!” she almost shouted back, still very much in shock. “Where else would you have them take you?!”

“Yes, I know! I felt it, thank you very much!” he snapped back, letting her panic get to him too. “It’s not the stomach by the way.”

“It damn well looks like it to me!”

“Listen, I can’t go there. I can’t, do you hear me?”

               The paramedics would soon swarm this place to check on the people who had been trapped inside the store during the robbery, and then take Peter into the ambulance. There was no time. Emmeline sensed the urgency in Peter’s voice and leaned in.

“I know I’ve been shot but trust me when I say I cannot go to the hospital!” he whispered in a rapid-fire speech to ensure no one else could hear.

“But you-“

“Please, Em. I need your help for this,” he begged her.

               She closed her mouth, lips pinched in a thin line. She needed to think. How were they supposed to get out and away from a crime scene filled with policemen? Their options were pretty limited, but she had to find a way. Peter never asked anything of her, never asked for favors, but this sounded important.

               He must have a reason for not wanting to go to the hospital, and she trusted it was more serious than a debilitating fear of needles or doctors.

“Fuck! Alright, let’s do this,” she swore, already helping Peter up while the officer from earlier checked on the other people present, especially the man who had pissed himself and now resumed his panicked behavior.

               She hoisted Peter up with a muffled grunt and he bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from groaning in pain as she led it towards the back, where no police car awaited them if their made a quick escape. She felt like she was the criminal fleeing from the crime scene.

“Wait,” she said, making him stop walking so she could grab the coat hanging from the back of a chair in the back office. “You’ll need this to hide the wound.”

               Before continuing, she pushed open the emergency exist to check it the back alley wasn’t swarmed in policemen, or worse, the robbers.

“Coast seems clear, but we should hurry. Someone must have noticed our disappearance already. It’s not like a pool of blood on the marble stone will look inconspicuous.”

               The walk around the building to a nearby street free of cops wasn’t long, but Emmeline felt as though she had run a marathon when they finally reached an avenue. While holding his coat closed to prevent people from seeing all the blood, Peter and Emmeline went to stand at the road and hailed a cab.

               It was a miracle the driver didn’t see the sweat trickling on Peter’s forehead, and his sickly pallor. Emmeline climbed in after him and gave her address. The ride never felt longer.

“Peter,” she whispered, more to make sure he wasn’t fainting on the backseat of the cab than to make actual conversation. “Peter!”

“Mmh?” he hummed, eyes closing lazily. Emmeline smacked him in the head and he sat straighter. “I’m awake, I’m awake!” he told her.

“Peter, we just fled from a crime scene. We’ll get in so much trouble, this was a terrible, horrible, disastrous idea!”

“You know a lot of synonyms,” he chuckled. “Yeah, alright, it’s bad, I know,” he added when he saw her jaw clench. “But it would have been worse if we’d stayed there. I can never go to a hospital, I’d be found out immediately.”

“Why? Do you have six other legs I don’t know about?” Emmeline snapped. “I’m very serious, Peter! What if they think we were a part of this robbery? What if we get arrested?”

               She scoffed, not convinced, still shaken up and a little paranoid about being arrested.

“I heal too fast, it won’t be good if I arrived at the ER with a bullet wound that looks weeks old.”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Emmeline sighed, finally seeing her building down the road. “Right now, the idiot you took a bullet for must have told everyone I was there. My face is going to be all over the news in no time, I hate it. Most of all, I hate that you got hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, the grunt that followed not working in his favor. “It’s nobody’s fault, even if I had it with me, I can’t always sneak off to change into my suit. Sometimes I have to improvise. I’m not usually inside the premises when there’s a robbery, this is a bit new.”

“Don’t make me laugh, I’m supposed to be upset,” Emmeline told him, repressing a smile.

               Peter grinned boyishly.

“We’re here,” she announced.

               She tipped the driver and pulled Peter out of the cab with as much care as possible, still hiding his wound and the blood-soaked sweater underneath the coat she stole.

               The cab ride might have given Emmeline the opportunity to calm down a bit, but as soon as they reached her bathroom, and Peter’s coat was discarded, her eyes went wide in alarm upon seeing the sheer amount of blood he had lost.

“You shouldn’t even be conscious anymore!” she exclaimed although she had no notion of how much blood an adult male could lose before losing consciousness. “Tell me truthfully, have you ever had this kind of injury before? Or are you bullshitting me to stop me from freaking the fuck out? Which I am about to do, by the way.”

               Emmeline was not believing him when he assured her that it was nothing and she kept saying to herself that this was a mad, reckless idea, and now Peter was going to die in her apartment, and she would have to move out again because of the trauma.

“Okay, okay, I can do this,” she told herself in an attempt to gather her wits. Now wasn’t the time to give in to panic, that was too easy. Peter was badly hurt and he needed her to keep it together. “It still looks really, really bad, Peter.” It was downplaying it, but she tried her best.

               He rolled his eyes and sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

“See?” He pulled his sweater up, showing the wound and subsequently making Emmeline go several shades paler. “It’s not as bad as it looks with all the blood,” he promised her.

“What the fuck? What the actual fuck?” Emmeline whispered to herself, eyes not darting away from the oozing blood – it was impossible to look anywhere else; it was morbidly fascinating to watch Peter’s body reject the bullet and try to heal the wound at an abnormal speed.

               After wiping away the blood that had already dried on his stomach, it did look less like he was going to kick the bucket tonight but it was still a bullet wound and Emmeline was in no way, shape, or form ready to stitch Peter up after this entire traumatic endeavor.

“Look!” He pointed at the entrance hole. “The bullet is already coming out.”

“Oh, my God!” she swore, hiding her face in her hands. This was exactly the kind of freaky stuff she never thought she would see outside of a movie theater in her life. “Why did I look?”

               Just as she said this, she opened her eyes to have another peek through her fingers, unable to stop herself. It was like a car crash – she couldn’t stop looking at it. In any other circumstances she might have teased Peter about his abs, but she wasn’t in the mood to ogle him right now.

               He pressed his fingers on the skin each side of the wound to push the bullet out, and soon enough it was there. Emmeline didn’t know how she managed not to faint when she saw the bullet come out, making a disgusting sound, and hit the tiling in a clatter of metal, sending droplets of blood on her immaculate floor.

“Hey, hey!” Peter called her name, his hand shooting out to hold her steady. “Stay with me, Em. Where do you keep your first aid kit?”

“A first aid-kit?” she squeaked out and shook her head to shake off her parasite thoughts. Now wasn’t an appropriate time to daydream. “You need a doctor, Peter. I don’t think a Spidey band aid will do the trick.”

               He paused to look at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Do you have one?”

“No!” she exclaimed, now giving him an exasperated look. “Beside the point, dumbass! What I mean is you probably need stitches!”

“Some gaze will do, don’t worry. See? The bleeding has stopped, and the wound will be closed by tomorrow. I won’t even have a scar by the end of the week.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am totally serious. Look-“

“No, I’m not looking anymore!”

“Emmeline,” Peter started, using her full name. “Please, just see for yourself.”

               His tone had grown much lower, steadier. She didn’t like this in the least but thought she could trust him, and while she did not look forward to taking yet another lingering look at his bullet wound, she complied.

               Much to her bafflement, it did look much smaller already. Her mouth opened slightly but she didn’t say anything. In fact, she reached out, fingers stopping only an inch before touching the entry hole.

“It can’t be possible,” she murmured, barely believing her eyes. “It was so… it was… there was so much blood…”

               Her shoulders slumped in the faintest of ways, and only Peter, who had spent more time studying her than he would care to admit, would have noticed. She was obviously still upset and emotional because of what happened, but at least seeing with her own eyes that he hadn’t been lying about his fast healing seemed to have put a full stop to her panic.

“No need to worry, Em. I’ll be as good as new in no time, okay?” He took a hold of her wrist and she finally detached her eyes from his stomach to look into his eyes instead. “Better me than the other guy.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that,” she countered, clicking her tongue against the inside of her cheek and crossing her arms over her chest.

               She stood up now that the crisis was over. The adrenaline was coming down too.

“He might be dead,” Peter pointed out.

               She knew he was trying to appeal to her good nature, but after today’s events, she wasn’t so sure she still had enough of it to care about that cowardly man who put all of them in danger and so easily discarded her life.

“He will be if I ever see him again,” she snapped back. “He’s the reason why you got shot! Sure, I spat in our attacker’s face, but I got my own souvenir for it.”

               She pointed at the left side of her face, which was very sore and would no doubt sport a beautiful purple bruise tomorrow morning.

“You could have gotten more backlash for that, you know? I’m sorry I let the situation escalate so much.” Peter stood up, right in Emmeline’s face since she didn’t step back. He was a little taller than her, which always made him smirk a little when he thought about it. “I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I should have protected you.”

               Her expression softened and her arms fell back to her sides.

“And you did, Peter. The second he lifted a hand on me you were there,” she reminded him, but Peter shook his head. He was obviously disappointed in himself, and nothing she could say would make him feel better about what went down. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. Come now, you’re not fully healed yet and I intend to watch over you like a hawk until you are. You need rest.”

“What- no, please, don’t make me,” Peter whined when she began to walked out of the bathroom, holding him by the arm.

“Don’t be difficult!”

               He might be serious about his fast healing, and Emmeline might have slowly calmed down when she realized that he was telling the truth and he really wasn’t in danger, but she still felt entitled to fuss over him.

               When she ordered him to lie on the bed, Peter refused.

“It’s only half past six, what am I supposed to do in bed?” he argued.

               Emmeline didn’t say anything but the devious grin painted on her face spoke for itself and Peter regretted asking as soon as he spotted it.

“Alright,” Peter agreed, electing to put an end to his own misery since he wasn’t going to win this argument. He let his tired body fall onto her bed but just when Emmeline smiled in victory, he pulled her down with him. “But I’m not lying all alone in your bed and staring at the ceiling while you go about your day.”

               Emmeline gasped when she fell heavily on him, trying to absorb the shock with her arms but barely managing.

               They laid very still, chest to chest on her bed, and she wasn’t pale in the face anymore – not in the least. Peter hadn’t taken the full measure of what he was doing when he pulled her with him, but he wasn’t complaining about the result. Maybe it was the adrenaline speaking, but he thought this was quite an improvement from their usual careful distance.

“Gottcha,” he told her, easing himself on her pillow and wrapping his arms around her to prevent her from getting up. “You’re my hostage now.”

“Oh, too soon,” Emmeline grumbled, yet couldn’t hide the laughter in her eyes when she looked up.

“Sorry. I must be more shaken up than I thought. Maybe you could cuddle me better?” he suggested quite boldly, earning a frank laugh in response but no resistance.

“Alright, you win.” She tapped out and Peter opened his arms. “Let me get my shoes off at least.”

               Pretending to think about it, Peter hummed thoughtfully, but Emmeline only swatted his shoulder and sat on the bed to take off her shoes and bits of jewelry that she set aside on her nightstand. She typed something on her phone and then it joined the rest of her items. Just when Peter was about to start whining about her taking too long, she climbed on the bed, taking care to lie on the side he wasn’t hurt.

“Mmh, I feel better already,” Peter hummed and closed his eyes, welcoming Emmeline’s embrace and wrapping his arm around her shoulders when she delicately placed her head on his chest.

               It made his heart fluffer like a bird’s wings, feeling her so close. For a moment, however short, the distance between them shrunk to nothing at all. Maybe she could hear his heart beating wildly against his ribcage, and so what?

               It might tell her what Peter had failed to do, so far. Maybe she would be able to read his heartbeat like she could a piano sheet – understand it and hear its music. If she rubbed her thumb against his chest on purpose or not was hard to tell, but it soothed Peter. He relaxed enough to slow down his frantic heartbeat and enjoy the appeasing presence of Emmeline, snuggled into his side.

“We still haven’t found May’s birthday present,” Emmeline said after a while, turning her head to prop it up on her other hand and meet Peter’s eyes.

               A long groan answered her.

“You’re right,” Peter eventually said. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Almost forgot.”

“Let’s forget about the jewelry,” Emmeline decided, surely done with jewelry stores for a long time now. “We should do something simple – a homecooked dinner, good wine, a bouquet of her favorite flowers… something cozy.”

               While Emmeline didn’t know May all that well, she had her in a nutshell when she talked about giving her something simpler but more personal for her birthday. He had only meant for Em to help him choose a gift, but if she offered to come and give a hand, he wasn’t going to turn her down. He had a feeling May really liked her.

“Yeah, sounds nice. But I can’t cook. Do you know how to cook? I’ve never seen you cook.”

“Of course, I know how to cook! I wasn’t counting on your cooking skills to make this dinner happen,” she teased him, sniggering lightly and scrunching up her nose at him.

“That’s what I thought,” Peter laughed too, agreeing with her. “By the way, I was meaning to ask you… why did you spit in the guy’s face earlier? That was a pretty stupid thing to do given the situation.”

               The mood shifted just then and Emmeline stirred a little bit until he released her from his hold. She sat up then, facing Peter and but looking mightily embarrassed – a rare occurrence for Emmeline Gerard. A strand of hair fell in front of her face when she lowered her eyes to stare at her hands.

“He called me ‘princess’,” she admitted, eyes looking into her lap.

               Peter frowned a little, confusion taking over his features as he pulled himself up and leaned against the bedframe to face Emmeline. Why should she be ashamed to tell him this? He didn’t know what to make of her reaction.

“But I’ve called you ‘princess’ before. You didn’t seem to mind back then,” he pointed out, not understand why she would react so violently for a pet name.

               The situation had called for cooperation, not deliberate provocation. Then again, he never called her ‘princess’ as Peter Parker, maybe it was different when Spider-Man did it. Maybe she liked it… This perspective dampened Peter’s mood quite a bit but he tried not to let it show.

“Yes. Exactly,” she quipped, looking up shyly. “You can call me that. No one else.”

               Awestruck, Peter remained quiet for a heartbeat too long, probably leading her to think he thought it was an idiotic reason for putting them all in danger. Her stray strand of hair swung in front of her eyes when she looked down into her lap again, and this time he couldn’t help it anymore and reached out. When he tucked it behind her ear, they both froze, realizing their sudden proximity.

               Their thighs touched; they couldn’t possibly sit closer to each other unless Emmeline decided to sit on his lap – which Peter would allow with great pleasure. His hand was still on his cheek, he hadn’t withdrawn it, and Emmeline leaned in ever so slowly, almost against her better judgement. The moment seemed to last forever as they both understood what was going to happen if they didn’t snap out of it.

               Did they want to snap out of it? Not really. Should they? That was an entirely different matter.

               He wanted to touch her so badly – not just her cheek, not just to tuck her hair behind her ear, not just to innocently cuddle her. Peter wanted to hold Emmeline against him and never let go, he wanted to finally know what it felt like to kiss her, and make love to her. Every last cell in his body ached for a kind of intimacy he hadn’t really thought about until she came into his life.

               Their foreheads touched and he let out a sharp breath. Could he hear the hammering on her heart from where he was, or was it his own that thrummed loudly in his temples?

               Bella’s loud bark followed by her dash across the apartment put a tragic end to the moment they were having, and Emmeline jumped back, getting off the bed and to the door.

“Must be the food I ordered,” she grumbled, obviously not happy about the interruption.

“When did you order food?” Peter asked from the bed, slowly getting up without reopening his wound.

               It was just his luck – finally about to take this step with the girl he’s like for months, only to be interrupted in the middle of their moment. By her own dog no less.

“When you decided I should cuddle with you instead of letting me do the cooking,” she chuckled, looking through her judas. Bella was still barking and pawing at the door like mad, until Em shooed her off, telling her to go to Peter.

               When the pit came to sit in front of Peter in the kitchen while he took out plates and cutlery, Peter narrowed his eyes at her.

“I thought we were friends!” he whisper-shouted at the dog. “Friends don’t cockblock each other.”

               Bella only tilted her head to the right, moving her ears in a curious way. It was dinner time for Bella too, so he filled her bowl with the usual, watching her get excited when he opened the fridge. She wagged her tails and ran around Peter until he set down the bowl and she could start her feast.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Peter sighed, turning away from the dog.

               Better luck next time.

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